What He Could Have - Part One of Two
May. 28th, 2011 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of attempted suicide
Summary: Part one of two for this:
I wrote this fill over on the last meme for a Sosa/Face relationship fic where Sosa is still a virgin when she meets Face but he doesn't know it...
Anyway, I got this request in the final comments:
You know what tho... I'd LOVE to read this from Face's view now!! So much angst, and the way she ripped his heart out... why (after the general 'Face sleeps with ya once and never calls') he gives her a second smile, what's so special about Sosa in the beginning... and then (of course) the fallout, and Hannibal's part in that... especially when Sosa breaks his heart.
Face finds Sosa. But isn’t Hannibal the one he really wants?
The first thing Face does when he wakes up that morning is reach over.
And...
Motherfucker.
Why is she gone?
The lieutenant moans a little and sits up, swinging his naked body out from under the covers and padding into the main living room of his little apartment. Maybe she was just making coffee or something, he thinks, like he’ll find her in one of his PT shirts, dark hair mussed and those eyes, sparkling for him...
But no. Her clothes are gone. Her purse is gone. Her shoes are gone. Her scent lingers, the perfume and the sweet sweat off her skin, clinging to his, hanging in the still air of his place, a reminder of how goddamn good last night was.
The lieutenant knew her friend, the one she was sitting next to at the O-Club bar. Sarah Greene, a nurse from the medical brigade who was equal parts endearing and obnoxious, one of those girls who’d sought him out because of the rep. That fucking reputation of his. Face thought sometimes that there was some kind of award the girls at this post handed out for fucking him. And they all wanted something kinky, rough and hard or strange, dragging it out, crying out too loud to be believed as they came.
But not that girl, not Charisa. She’d known who he was - he’d seen that much in her eyes as she’d ordered her beer and said hello. But there was so much more going on there than alcohol-fueled lust when she’d finally looked at him. Something... almost like the first time Hannibal had looked at him, actually.
The way his stomach had flip-flopped.
The way he’d thought no way can I make this work.
How he’d desperately, desperately needed it to.
She’d smiled, though. She’d laughed. She’d agreed. Hadn’t thrown herself at him. He’d actually had to ask, ask, if she wanted to come home with him. And she’d smiled again, not quite drunk.
“Dude, Murdock,” he’d asked, the pilot not three feet away from him and chatting something up with Hannibal. “Had too many. Need you to drive.”
The pilot had looked, craning his neck around the crowd. “Ooh, she’s cute, Faceman,” he’d giggled, but the boss had looked less than impressed. Or something. The colonel was the only man Face was never able to read.
“You aren’t... you aren’t coming back with us?” Hannibal had asked, stopping Face cold. It was one of their unit nights. One of their pregame-at-the-Club, get-wasted-at-Hannibal’s nights. The boss never minded him crashing on the sofa. It was definitely a crash-drunk-on-Hannibal’s sofa night.
Or had been.
“Boss, come on, look at her,” he’d pleaded. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, but I really... I mean, look at her...”
“Always thinking with your dick, kid,” Hannibal grunted, and took a huge mouthful of whiskey.
Murdock had clapped him on the shoulder and Face had handed him his car keys and she’d just smiled over at him.
Charisa.
Her name was Charisa, the girl he’d brought home last night. All long legs and dark hair, flashing eyes, athletic and lean. She hadn’t jumped him or asked him to take her bareback or if he really could make anal good.
No, she hadn’t wanted anything like that.
So he’d gotten to seduce her. Really seduce a woman, like he hasn’t gotten to in at least a year, and never as Faceman Peck. Kiss her and carry her and take her, slow and easy, everything soft and gentle. Nothing but the smooth curves of her body, the rise of her breasts, sweet gasps as her fingers dug into his back. Everything a woman should be and so seldom are anymore. So beautiful. So perfect.
There was something about her, he’d thought. Something special. Something to hold on to.
But she’s gone now.
And he doesn’t have her phone number.
He’s reminded of this now because his phone rings, and he runs back into his bedroom to fish it out of his jeans pocket. Fuck, Face notices as he kneels down, grabbing blindly, he smells like alcohol. Damn. He’s going to have to go for a run...
“Kid? You there?”
“Yeah boss, what is it?”
“Did you... you still coming over for lunch and the game with the rest of the guys? Murdock’s got about fifteen pounds of steak here...”
The lieutenant groans internally. He’d forgotten about that. “Yeah, of course,” he lies, knowing Hannibal knows. “Be over around noon?”
“Better move your ass then, el-tee,” Hannibal jokes back. “It’s almost eleven-thirty now.”
Face makes some obligatory smart-ass remark, about how early old people get up and Hannibal teases him about going through some adolescent growth spurt. He hangs up, still thinking about Charisa.
Still smelling her on his skin. In his bed, as he pulls the sheets back into order.
There’s really no help for it, he knows as he suds himself up under his shower’s pounding spray. She’s an officer. He’ll see her again, he tells himself, around post or something. What was it that Father Magill always used to say? If it’s meant to be, Templeton...
Face feels his grin falter, just for a moment. Like it was meant to be with Hannibal. Like he’d thought, hoped... but the boss was the boss. He’d made that very clear. Issues with the man-sex thing aside. They couldn’t. They absolutely weren’t going to. It would never be brought up again.
No rules like that with Charisa, though, the lieutenant tells himself, and back that smile comes.
so on Thursday, when Hannibal’s got him on some bullshit errand at the BX, when he’s walking through the food court and sees a dark bun, narrow shoulders, sitting alone in the Starbucks, he can’t help but walk up behind and murmur hey, gorgeous in an ear.
Because, hell, maybe Father Magill was right.
Maybe something he wants can work out after all.
Something he could have. Something that could be really, really good.
Even if he did just make he spill her coffee.
+++++
The first Saturday, right before he calls, Face is nervous.
Really, really nervous.
She’d found him, though, ran into him again at the Starbucks at his usual time, some lame excuse escaping her about how funny it was they just ran into each other again. Clearly looking for him, and maybe she’d liked last Friday too. Or maybe she liked him.
Fuck, he hopes that’s the case.
He really likes her.
“Booty call! Booty call!” Murdock shouts happily, grabbing for cell phone in Face’s sweaty hand.
“It’s not a booty call!”
At that Murdock stops, and grins, all lopsided and knowing. “Ooh, you askin’ her on a date, Face?”
“Look, I’ve dated before...” he says lamely, trying to keep his cell phone out of reach. Christ on a stick, Murdock’s fast when he’s determined.
“Yeah? Who was the first girl you dated?”
“Shit, Murdock, come on, I was like seventeen...”
“You give her your letterman jacket, you big sexy hunk, you?”
And Face is about to say something about the way Murdock’s waggling his eyebrows like that, but mercifully, the entire stupid argument’s undercut by Hannibal’s nonchalant appearance in his living room doorway.
“What’s going on, boys?” the colonel asks in that fond weariness he always uses when he thinks they’re up to no good.
“Nothing, boss...”
“Faceman’s calling that girl!” Murdock crows.
Face can’t meet his commander’s eyes, shrugs and stares at his cell phone. “Charisa,” he adds lamely. “Her name’s Charisa.”
“You’re calling her?” Hannibal asks incredulously. “You’re actually calling something you already slept with?”
“I told you, boss, she left before I woke up...”
“You don’t do booty calls, kid. What, did every bar in Atlanta close tonight?”
Murdock’s laughing, and Face is beginning to feel a little self-conscious about this whole thing now. It’s true, sure it’s true, but what the fuck does that matter? He’s allowed to go on dates... and he tries his classic diversionary tactic, smarmy jest. “Yeah, well, you’d want this girl again, too, boss. Legs fucking up to her ears...”
Hannibal just rolls his eyes and makes a come hither gesture at Murdock. “Come on, captain, let’s leave the boy to his delusions.”
“Boss,” Face can hear as the two of them walk off, “you think Face would call me if I had legs up to there?”
“I think Face would fuck anything that moves, Murdock...”
The lieutenant frowns. That’s a little... mean.
He hits the dial button for the new contact he just got this Thursday.
And doesn’t quite breath as it rings. Again. Again. Again. What if she wasn’t serious? What if it’s a fake number? What if she thought he was... “hello?”
Ohthankgod, Face thinks, and stretches out a little on the couch. “Hey beautiful,” he teases. “What are you up to tonight?”
“I’m... wait, Face?”
“One and the same, Charisa.”
She giggles a little, almost shyly, almost... nervous. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe she likes him, too. And Face wants to hit himself for even thinking something that fifth-grade. “So, Face, err, what’s... up?”
He wants to punch the air. Giggly, awkward phone conversation. That’s a good thing. “Well,” he drawls, “I’m downtown at one of those clubs right now, you know, VIP room and all that, but none of the dozens of women throwing themselves at me...”
“Ooh, that must be horrible for you, Peck...”
“It really is, Sosa. Because none of them are quite as gorgeous as you...”
Another of those nervous giggles, and then she really starts laughing. “You know, Face, you don’t have to, you know, to get me to come over.”
“I don’t?” he asks innocently.
“No.” And she pauses on the other end of the line. Enough time for Face to watch Hannibal slip back in the room and head over to wear his current book is resting on the arm of his favorite chair. The boss looks like he’s reading, but Face fucking knows that he’s listening, and he can’t quite figure out why that bothers him. He’s allowed to do this kind of stuff, see the same person more than once. If he wants to. Right? It’s not like Hannibal’s got any claim to his ass... and he goes red as Charisa starts talking again. “I’m... I can, if you’d like.”
“Love it, Charisa.”
“Give me half an hour?”
Just enough time to get back, he knows, and smiles. “See you then.”
“Yeah... see you then.”
He hangs up, irrationally wanting to cheer again, and catches Hannibal, staring at him as he stands and stuffs his wallet back into his pocket. Grabs his keys. “She amiable to that incredibly juvenile offer, kid?”
“She’s on hear way over to my place, dad,” Face shoots back, and winks, jingling his car keys, thinking about the smooth curves of her body, the rich, sweet smell of her hair, how good it's going to feel to slip into her, soft and feminine and everything he likes. Everything he's allowed to like. “See you tomorrow.”
“Brat,” Hannibal grumbles to himself, and Face can feel those eyes following him all the way out of the room.
+++++
Everything is easy with Charisa.
Everything.
The girl loves to laugh, and he loves making her laugh, loves that sound, melodic and just low enough. And she always smiles when she laughs, that big, bright, welcoming smile, always just a little surprised, and he finds that all fascinating. Like the way she is in the bedroom, or the couch, or the floor, or wherever the hell they decide to fuck that night because she was a girl who liked to fuck. Like she’s never had it before. Like she was making up for lost time. Which is insane, how she looks, how good at it she is. Sweet and enthusiastic and eager and focused. Strong enough to keep up, too, challenge him a bit, which was something he always liked about men, and found himself less excited about hitting the gay bars. Because while he liked both, both so nice, he was starting to think he really had something with this girl.
Like he really could have something here.
Maybe.
Possibly.
It’d be nice.
They’ve had a couple of tentative, well, not dates. Almost dates. Sort of. Cuddling up and watching TV. Going out to dinner and a movie, that one time, when she wore a dress and he found himself feeling lightheaded through the whole meal.
He worries, one Saturday night when she comes over, a little tired, a little sad. Saying tickling’s not going to help.
“Well, beautiful lady, I am all out of ideas,” he tells her, wrapping up behind her and taking a deep breath of her hair. It’s kinked, from where she has to keep it up in a bun all day. She says she’s thinking of cutting it all off. He keeps telling her it’d be a shame to waste it all like that. “How in the hell am I supposed to make you smile for me if I can’t tickle you?”
“Look Face, I’m... it was a long week at work and I’m not really in the mood...”
Hmm? “Why’d you...”
“Thought it was kind of... kind of a standing... thing, at this point.”
He runs a hand through that silken waterfall of dark hair she’s got. it snags a little on the callouses he can’t quite smooth away, no matter what kind of hand cream he uses. The ladies usually seem to mind. And Hannibal teases him about it sometimes... “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he tells her, swaying a little and taking her body with him. “We could, I don’t know, do anything you wanted. Watch a movie, have a beer, go to bed...”
“I just said I didn’t want to fuck tonight.”
No, she didn’t, he wants to point out, and this is what he doesn’t like about women. He usually knows what they want to do, but he rarely can tell what they want. “Just sleeping, Charisa, baby. I promise.”
“You and your libido aren’t going to try to jump me in the middle of the night?”
“Cross my heart,” he tells her, trying to rub some of the tension out of her, and then she’s smiling again and they’re kissing again and it feels amazing.
It’s the first time she’s still been there in the morning, the very first time, and there’s something different in her eyes now, as she slides on top of him, letting his morning wood slide up right into that wonderful place, and she’s wet, ready for him, wanting to go, wanting it too.
And how fucking wonderful is it to find a girl who’s in to the morning sex?
“You’ve been holding back on me, Charisa,” he murmurs in her ear when they’re done, after she’s panting next to him, when he’s playing lazily with one of her hard little nipples.
Something dark flashes through her eyes, hidden well enough that most people, most people who haven’t made a life on reading people, wouldn’t pick up on it. Then she hides it behind a smile and climbs over him. “Last one to the shower has to soap the other one up!”
He loiters, grinning.
Whatever it is, he’s going to figure it out. He will.
So, things have been really good for a while.
But now they’re getting deployed, sent out, the first time since he’s met her, and Face knows how women, even their own Army women, can be about these things.
Apparently, Hannibal does too.
“How’d you two leave it?” he growls around the end of the cigar he’s trying to light. They’re sitting on the half-down tail of a C-17, watching the Air Force boys trying to get the k-loader into position and laughing a little about how long it’s taking, some green lieutenant trying it out. Hannibal’s not really allowed to be smoking on the flightline, but it’s wearing into hour three of this little exercise and nobody's going to argue it.
Hannibal really doesn’t care about Rules. Face knows this. Which is what makes this whole thing harder. The boss probably wouldn’t give a shit about frat, about DADT.
Which means he’s really not interested. Which means he’s not making a move because he’s not into men. Doesn’t want Face that way. Won’t ever return those feelings...
But he still, still, won’t let this whole Charisa thing go.
“You two decide call it off?”
Like that.
“She said she was cool with it.”
“Cool with it?” Hannibal, frustrated, flicks another match away. “Fucking...”
“Here,” Face says, tugging the matches out of the colonel’s hands. He’s a big-picture guy, the boss. Grand strategy. Overarching goals. He doesn’t worry about the details. It’s Face’s job to figure out the details. Like this, right here, how to shield a match just so to give the boss enough time to get that cigar lit. “That better?”
Hannibal grunts, but he’s happy. Face can always tell when Hannibal’s happy. And right now, with the cigar going, it’s going to be at least ten minutes before he starts beating up the aircrew about why this is taking so fucking long. So, happy.
“So, this girl of yours, she’s going to wait for you to get back?”
“She said she would.”
“You been sleeping around on her, Face?”
“What?” he sputters. “No, fuck, I think... I mean... we’re kind of dating at this point, right?” And he grins, gets a little quiet, just for effect. “And she’s not exactly the kind of girl you have to fuck around on on the side. I mean, she’s...”
“She’s what, Face?”
The lieutenant does not like the way Hannibal’s looking at him right now. At all. And fuck him anyway. He’s had his chance. He doesn’t want anything. He’s made that clear, Face tells himself. And has to repeat it. Hannibal doesn’t fucking want you. So he just goes for it. “She really likes to fuck, boss.”
Hannibal grunts again. Not a happy grunt. And he blows something that’s almost a smoke ring, doesn’t look over, as he asks, “so, you haven’t been going to the gay bars in Atlanta on Fridays anymore?”
What? Fucking... what? How does Hannibal know about that? “I don’t go to gay bars, boss. You know me...”
“...yeah, fuck anything that moves, kid, I know...’
“Hey, boss, that is... why the hell do you think I go to gay bars? Come on, why would I...”
“Probably because you like to fuck men, Face.” A hand settles on his shoulder. “I’m not worried about it, kid, not an issue, as far as I’m concerned.” Fingers squeeze, gentle, and the lieutenant feels his heart start to soar a little bit. “But I’m not condoning it, you understand? Bad enough as it is, Face, the way you are. You don’t need to make it any worse by getting caught with a guy.”
“By the military?”
“Your, err, girlfriend there, she know you’re bi?”
Face flails around for an answer, a snarky come-back, but... “how’d you know?” comes out instead, making him sound like a petulant five year old. Damn.
Hannibal’s got his knees in front of him, long legs pulled up in the civilian work boots, denim shirt on, shoulder holster, for no reason really . Looking out over the endless expanse of tarmac. Distant. And he looks... “You did come on to me that one time, Face.”
“Hey, I apologized for that...”
“Never asked for an apology, kid,” Hannibal says, and the fucking maintenance noobie lieutenant almost hits the plane with the k-loader again. The boss’ smoking style can only be described as impassive. “Long as you understand how all this works.”
Fuck, Face thinks to himself. There are days he fucking hates the military.
+++++
She’s all he can think about.
That entire mission.
All Face can think about. That smile, the laugh, the way her hair smells, how she shudders against him when she comes, like it’s a surprise, every time the whole thing new and shiny.
He doesn’t think about Hannibal, the man fighting next to him, the man who smiles at them all over whatever-the-fuck they’re eating that night, the man who shares his sleeping bag when it gets cold under the desert stars. The one who looks at him sometimes, right before BA kicks in that door to that goatshack they’re cleaning out today, every like it’s the last. Like he’ll never get to look again. The man who pats him on the shoulder and tugs a little at his scarf and laughs that wonderful laugh...
But Face never thinks about his colonel like that. Not allowed. Not able. And it’s just too fucking hard thinking about what he’s not allowed to have. What he can’t want.
But he does genuinely want Charisa, and he can have her, all for his own, and it’s really enough to keep his dreams from straying to the memories of his Friday nights back home, of the older men, of the shitty hotel rooms and the feel of fingers, sliding in...
So when he sees her at the air terminal, in that one floral skirt she owns, a light cardigan, looking every inch the gorgeous woman she is, he drops his pack and rushes over to her, grabbing her up around the waist and cradling her head and bringing her in for a breath-stealing kiss. Hard. Putting everything he wants to feel with her into it.
“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs against her warm skin, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck.
“Hi,” she replies, eyes wide. “We got the report, in the shop, that you guys were coming home. Hope it’s okay if I...”
“Fucking perfect, sweetheart,” he tells her, setting her back down and pulling her close. “It’s awesome.”
“Sweetheart, huh?” she asks, teasing.
“What, should I go back to calling you Sosa?”
“No,” and she bites her lip, smiling a little. Like it’s new. Like it’s amazing. He loves that he has this effect on her. That she has this effect on him. “It’s good.”
“Hey! Sugar pie! Come get your fucking bag!”
And that’s BA, down by the doors. Face flashes her an apologetic smile and a whispered, I’ll be right back, sprints down there himself. He gets his ruck into the big guy’s van in record time and winks at Murdock as he turns to head back inside the terminal, where Charisa’s waiting.
And Hannibal stops him.
“Where you going, kid?” he asks. Not quite mad. Just... confused. Long legs all tucked up into the front passenger seat of BA’s van, one foot hanging out just so. “We were going to grab some food together.”
Face hasn’t quite heard this voice from the boss before. It’s almost, well, it’s almost sad. Murdock and Ba are looking at him. But...
“Come on, man, I didn’t know she was going to be here. What am I supposed to say?”
“You’ve got a debriefing to do, see her tomorrow?” Hannibal suggests, rummaging through the glovebox, probably looking for a cigar, and Face sighs. Leans in a little and goes for the place under the owner’s manual. Hands the silver tube to the boss. Watches those long fingers kind of recoil as they take it from him. “Kid. You’ve got...”
“I really like this girl, Hannibal,” Face pleads, hating the fact that he has to explain this. That Hannibal can’t just be happy for him. That’s he’s found somebody, maybe, that he could have a future with her. Maybe. Hopefully. “Please? We’re not even going to start the report until tomorrow anyway, and it’s been a month and...”
“Zero-eight-hundred, kid, no later,” Hannibal practically growls, and slams the door.
Later.
He can do later.
Later, Face has Charisa up against the wall in her apartment, that lovely a-line skirt hiked up, her panties completely destroyed, neither of them able to wait for the trip to the bedroom. Later, he’s buried in her, that wet, grasping warmth. Later, she’s moaning and begging and shuddering, just like she always does.
Later, they’re collapsing in a pile, laughing and kissing and touching.
Later, after rounds two and three, he’s gotten them tucked into bed, Charisa snuggled easy against him.
Later, Face is not thinking about that sleeping bag. Or the way Hannibal looked at him when he didn’t get in the van. Or how he killed four people in the past month, three heads exploding in his scope, one heart spraying his knife with arterial blood. How he can’t tell that to this woman, even if he was allowed, for fear of what she might think of him. How Hannibal knows, and Hannibal’s opinion of him, belief in him, has never once wavered.
Later, she stirs and he presses his lips to her cheek and can’t fall asleep.
He makes the 0800 meeting with plenty of time to spare.
“Never do this to me again, Face,” Hannibal tells him. He’s stil in kind of a pissy mood. Evidently. But he still remembers how many teaspoons of sugar the lieutenant always takes in a coffee cup of the size that’s slid across the counter to him. BA and Murdock aren’t here yet. Or they’re still asleep. “Never. You understand?”
Hannibal’s got a nice house. A big house. A house, he says, good for the unit’s use. Good for his boys to use, when they need to. And Face feels a pang of guilt, thinking about it. Normally, after a mission, he comes over, they drink, he crashes in one of the spare bedrooms. The boss never minds.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess...”
“You can’t just run out on me like that, Face! On us! After a mission like that? We needed to talk...”
“About the mission, boss? You seriously wanted to talk about the mission last night?” he says, pushing back.
But the colonel’s having none of it and leans forward against it. “I didn’t want my lieutenant running after some piece of ass...”
“Jesus, boss!” Face sputters, half standing off his stool, staring at the man impassively smoking a cigar in front of him. “Charisa is not some piece of a...”
“What’s the appeal, kid? Explain it to me. Why this one? Why her?”
“i think I love her, Hannibal,” he says softly and sips, concentrating very, very hard on that cup of coffee. “I really do. I mean, there’s something there. And I keep thinking this is my chance for, you know...”
“A family?” Hannibal asks, his voice shaking a little but his hand steady on that cigar. “Is that what you’re thinking, Face? Is that what you’re wanting?”
“Well, yeah. Some kids...”
“Face,” and Hannibal actually touches his hand as he says this, “giving kids a... giving kids a home won’t make up for what you went through as a...”
“What the fuck is this!?” he snaps, pissed now. “Come, I’m not allowed to want something normal, something good? A family, a...a wife, I can’t want that? What the fuck?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer, so Face tries something a little different.
“Come on, boss. Didn’t you ever want kids?”
“Sure I did. Once. Before I realized I couldn’t have that,” the colonel replied, terse and tight. “So I have you boys instead. All of you. And I don’t want to see you hurt, Templeton, I truly don’t...”
And the use of his name, his real name, snaps Face out of anything else he might have wanted to say to this man. So he does want he really wants to do. Turns up his hand, knuckles to the granite, cool, palm to sweaty palm. Holds. “Is that what I am to you, John? A son?”
Hannibal’s looking at him, looking at him the same way he looked at him in the van yesterday, and when he speaks, it’s desperate. “You’re all my boys...”
Desperate enough to spark some of that old hope up in Face. So he takes a chance, he really does. “Is that all I am, just one of your boys?” And he reaches up for Hannibal’s face as he says it, suddenly filled with a need to touch. A need to know. A desire for...
Hannibal catches it, that questing hand, but doesn’t move it away. Doesn’t move at all. “You’re my boy, too, Face, you’re...”
“I’m what?” he begs, and somehow, in some wonderful way, he thinks they’re almost, almost just...
And then Murdock waltzes into the room, singing some made-up sea shanty at the top of his lungs, and the moment’s lost.
Face looks at the boss helplessly as the colonel peels away, going to the fridge.
“I can’t have your... girlfriend coming between the op and the team and everything else, you understand me?” Hannibal asks, a carton of eggs appearing from out of the appliance’s depths. “Not now. Not ever again. There’ll be consequences next time, Face.”
He sighs. It’s all gone again. And he tries to think about Charisa, her laugh, her smile...
But right now, it’s not really working for him.
Motherfucker, Face thinks, and goes back to his coffee.
+++++
Face knows Hannibal has issues with Charisa. He knows it. And some days he’s willing to tell that not-insignificant corner of his mind, the one that his commander inhabits, to fuck right off, he’ll do what he wants.
And some days, he can’t help but listen to it.
Like tonight, when he tries to tell her he loves her. The night after Hannibal’s burger burn.
He’d been so excited. He’d been so happy. He’d been very, very nervous. This was the first time the two of them were going to meet.
And you’ll see, Murdock, he’ll love her. He’ll understand, he’d told the pilot that morning, when they were at the damn Whole Foods buying thirty pounds of organic, grass-fed ground chuck and every braut the place had, a purchase that was going to take almost every cent out of the unit snack fund. Not to mention the beer, which Hannibal had asked for and some bullshit pencil-pusher down at Finance refused to front money for the alcohol, citing regs like the asshole he clearly was. But he could probably scam that. It was just a lot of meat. And he’d had plans for the snack fund.
“Understand what, Faceman?” the captain had asked, leaning hard on the cart handle as the tattooed butcher handed over another massive brown package of meat. So much meat. Eight goddamn dollars a pound. But Murdock refused to buy anything that was kept in a cage its whole life, and coming from a ranch in Texas, Face figured he could respect that.
“Understand, man, what she means to me. What she is...”
Another bundle of meat. The last one. The butcher looked grateful, and they headed away, around the perimeter of the store, over to the registers. “What is she?”
He looked around, furtive, unnecessarily furtive, and leaned forward. “I’m going to ask he to marry me.”
Murdock’s face has scrunched up a little, like there was a bad taste in his mouth. “Why would’ja wanna do that?”
“Look, man, not all of us have something going on with a certain smoking hot corporal who happens to be a...”
“We gonna get the cheese here, too, Face?” Murdock had asked quickly, jerking the cart to a stop in front of that cooler. And what the fuck kind of place, Face wanted to ask, carried soy milk cheese? What was the point? “We’re gonna need more singles...”
“Fuck the unit, I’m not paying for cheese here too. You okay buying milk from non-organic cows?”
“Face, I...”
“Because if you let me, I could have scammed all of this from the comissary...”
“Face, I don’t mean you shouldn’t, you know, have a girl or whatever. And I know you want the boss to sign off on it. But think about this,” Murdock had said, picking up the pace again. “Hannibal ain’t gonna do that for you.”
“Why not?” he’d asked.
“You ever, you think there might be som’thin’ goin’ on with the boss and...”
“And what, buddy?”
He hadn’t gotten an answer. Murdock turned them down the dog food aisle and started asking Face about if Billy might like the organic, free-range, hand-massaged shrimp and beef options instead of his usual kibble, and the subject had been dropped.
And then later, after they gotten the kegs filled and the condiments acquired at the O-Club, for the nominal fee of Face flirting with the female bartender, after they’d gotten the whole lot to Hannibal’s, after a run to Walmart to buy more goddamn cheese and twelve more bags of buns, after Murdock started mixing up his spice rub and boiling the brauts in some of that beer, afetr BA and him had one of their usual arguments that would inevitably lead to strange noises coming from the garage, after all of that, Face got his chance to talk to Hannibal about it.
“Why the fuck do you have a teddy bear?” Hannibal had asked impassively, letting his cigar dangle on the edge of the decking rail, barely held in his fingers, body loose, relaxed, casual. Face had to bite back the thought of it, how sexy this man was when he wasn’t even trying to be. “Tell me Murdock didn’t win that out of one of those claw vending machines.”
“What? No.” And he’d waggled it. “This is a really expensive little bear, boss. One of those Ben Bridge bears.”
Hannibal hadn’t reacted at all to that. “Jewelry store? You buy yourself a watch or something?”
“No. I bought a ring, boss,” he’d said, holding up the little plush thing, careful not to let it touch anything. It was adorable, white and soft, a big red bow, and its stomach had a little compartment in it. Just big enough for a jewelry box. Which he’d taken out, opened up. “Canadian diamond, from one of those mines that’s only open in the winter, so it’s not from anywhere we’ve worked in Africa. Internally flawless, white, square cut, silver setting, just like she likes...”
Hannibal had just stood there, not moving, not talking, and then he’d reached out, his hand almost shaking as he took the little velvet box, looked at the ring inside. “How, how much did this cost you, Face?”
“Who gives a shit, boss? She’s worth it.”
He’d turned it, holding it up to the light, the colors refracting, dancing through the stone. Snapped the box shut and handed it back to Face. “It’s...” he’d said, and his voice had cracked. Then he’d gone back to his cigar, puffing away like a chimney.
“Boss?”
“It’s beautiful, Face. She’s a lucky woman,” and those piercing blue eyes swept over the lieutenant, just once. “Getting you...”
“I need to know that this is okay, Hannibal.”
And he’d laughed. “Typically you ask the bride to be’s parents about that kind of thing.”
“No, I mean, I need this to be okay with you, Hannibal,” and Face had tucked the box back in the bear and the bear under his arm. Leaned up against the rail and tried to look the older man in the face. Hannibal wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I need to know that this won’t change anything between us.”
Hannibal had laughed again. “What would it change, kid?”
“You don’t seem very happy about her...”
“I don’t run your life, Face.” He bit down on the cigar, chewing. “No matter what everybody seems to think.”
“I want your opinion.”
“My opinion?”
“Your honest fucking opinion, boss.”
Hannibal had looked at him then. “I... I think you should wait.”
“What am I waiting for?”
And the colonel had touched his shoulder, rubbing a little. “Don’t want to see you hurt, Temp. In any way.”
“What’s going to hurt me, Hannibal?” he’d said, softer, very soft, not daring to ask it louder, not daring to let himself answer it, even in the silence of his head. Not having... No. Not that.
Never that.
And Hannibal seemed to feel the same way about it, because he'd just flicked his cigar off into the grass, which was something he never, ever did, and he was gone. No answers. Never any answers with that man...
And now here he was, in bed with the woman of his dreams, when he dreamed about women, which he was doing more and more lately. Just her, those flashing dark eyes and wide smile and sweet smell. Trying work up the courage to tell her he loved her. That was the first step. That was the step along the road that would take them home together. He hoped. He has so many hopes with her...a real home, a real family, all those things within reach for the first goddamn time...
But she’s upset about the picnic. About the way Hannibal was treating him.
“...he’s crazy,” she’s saying, flailing a little. “He made you go get him a cigar. What the fuck was that about?”
Face sighs. Yeah, that had been a little weird. But the boss wanted some alone time with her, and he’d been happy to give it. Let them get to know each other. But, obviously, it hadn’t gone well. “Are we going to fight about this?”
“No, I just mean, it’s kind of weird, isn’t it? Fetching stuff, ordering you around. You’re a lieutenant in his unit, not his house boy or something like that...”
“Charisa, stop. Just stop!” he says, louder than he means to, harsher. And yeah, it snaps something in him, hearing that. He’s heard it his whole fucking time with the man, the whispers in the shadows, behind him back, sneaking to the furthest corners of whatever base they’re at that year. Hannibal’s fucking his lieutenant, Peck takes it up the ass from his commander, the two of them, fags... and every time he hears it, he wants to scream.
Because Hannibal won’t fuck him. Never has, never will.
And it makes him want to scream.
But he’s got his hand on her throat now, some kind of automatic reflex or something, and her eyes are wide, scared, he thinks, and moves. Shoves in closer, almost kissing her ear, stroking her fine cheekbone, whispering to her, “Charisa, baby, don’t be angry with me. Whatever it was, look, I'm sorry. It’s you, sweetheart, I love you...”
Her eyes stay wide.
He knows he’s trying to convince himself as he says it, knows it in that back part of his mind where Hannibal’s voice follows him into those dreams he doesn’t have anymore, but he’s not trying to convince her. He does love her. He does. He feels... and Face needs her to say it, needs her to acknowledge it back, needs to hear...
“I...wow, Face, I mean...wow. I...I feel the same, I...” She smiles. “Nobody’s ever said that to me...”
He kisses her then, relief flooding through him as she melts into him. “Love you, Charisa, fuck, I love you, I love you, I’ve never loved anybody before...”
She touches his face, hand tender, soothing away all the confusion from earlier in the day, when Hannibal...said what he said. “Baby...”
And as they roll around each other, laughter turning to gasps of pleasure, she spreads and he enters, as they move together in the half light of the room, listening to their shared cries of passion, all Face can hear is that voice in the back of his mind saying liar, liar, liar...
+++++
Things are good for a while.
Face doesn’t give Charisa the ring.
Not yet. No, not yet. He can’t. He has to be sure. Hannibal told him to wait, so he has to be sure. Has to know what that means first. Has to know.
Has to be sure.
Nothing's sure, though. Nothing.
So maybe...maybe things aren’t good.
Things between him and Hannibal, tense and tight in places where they used to be so open, so free. He’d never kept anything from the boss, and never would, but now he feels like he has to. Has to tell him lies, about himself, about her. Has to smile and say everything’s fine but nothing more. Because the boss doesn’t want to hear any of it. None. He leaves the room if Murdock tries to ask about her.
Face makes sure she doesn’t meet him again after a mission. And she won’t go to another event at the boss’ place. It’s ripping his life in half, long days with Hannibal, long nights with Charisa, neither wanting to acknowledge the other exists. In no way do those two halves overlap anymore.
He suspects, Face does, he really fucking does, that there’s something going on with Hannibal. That Hannibal’s not telling him something. Not telling him a very important something. And he think that, just maybe, he might know what that important thing is. Like, just maybe...
Doesn’t matter.
This is about Charisa.
And he doesn’t know what to do.
It’s not like he can’t tell.
I don’t know, maybe I’m not cut out to be with one person the rest of my life he wants to say to her some days. Or maybe I need to get fucked sometimes, too. But Charisa’s not the kind of girl who’s going to take to a threesome, or pegging, or anything like that. She’s been sleeping more lately and he can feel her pulling away from him.
It scares the shit out of him.
If he loses her, somebody he loves, loves, loses that, he’ll never get it back. Because the only other person he’s ever felt that way about won’t look at him, won’t see him, won’t be with him.
And...if he falls, will Hannibal be there to pick him up again, as he has so many times before? Will Hannibal be there at all? Or has he lost that, too?
That’s so terrifying that he can barely formulate it into coherent thought. So it sits in the back of his mind, knawing away at the foundations of the life he’s hoped he could have, tearing it down. Tearing him apart.
It’s distracting him in planning sessions. Like today. So distracted that Hannibal actually yells at him in front of one of the other LTs, throws him out, tells him to go home and sleep whatever the fuck it is off.
He doesn’t go home, though, and he doesn't go hang with the team and he sure as fuck doesn’t go see Charisa. He couldn’t stand to hear her almost-smug words about how Colonel Smith is no good for you, baby right now. Can’t handle it.
So he goes to Atlanta instead.
To that bar he likes. The good place, the one that’s good for one thing, the one thing he needs right now, and as his cheek slams into the anonymous sheets of some hotel room, over and over and over again, Face knows it’s not helping.
But he doesn’t know what else to do.
So fuck, he thinks, as the door opens and footsteps echo out into the hall, maybe he should just man up and propose.
And then the next night, she leaves him.
Some bullshit about his job.
Some more bullshit about wanting her own life.
Talking me in to marrying you isn’t really the same thing as me saying yes, now, is it?
It’s the last thing she says. The very last thing, before she walks out on him. Before she walks out of his life. Tearing a hole in the universe, Murdock might say. Acting like a damn fool, BA might opine. Like I knew she would, Hannibal will probably smugly state, and order Face to go get him a cigar.
The lieutenant’s not ready to hear any of that.
He can’t. Not now. Not ever, maybe. Probably. Definitely.
Nobody he can go to. Nobody he can talk to. Nobody who he can bear to have talk to him.
Charisa's gone.
He's alone again. Back to his natural state. The universe reordered to the way it's supposed to be. This last year some abhorrent afront to the proper order of things.
He doesn't know if he's upset about that. Somehow, the lieutenant feels like he doesn't have a right to be.
He knows, he fucking knows, there was never any hope of this working out.
So, calm and collected, Face pays the bill and asks them to cap up the cabernet, the waiter giving him a sympathetic look and charging him for none of it, and that’s about the last thing he remembers before waking up the next day around noon. Empty bottles, beer, that wine, the last half of a handle of Jack’s he’s been meaning to finish up. Face stares at it for a moment, eye level with him on the living room floor, and spends the next four hours puking, off and on, in his cramped little bathroom.
It smells of her perfume.
It’s Sunday, so at least Face has a day to figure this thing out before he has to face everybody in the unit. Before he has to face Hannibal.
He’s got no idea what he’s going to say.
Absolutely no idea at all.
He lays on the floor after the last round of throwing up leaves him too shaky to walk, staring up at the bathroom wall, the old truths hitting him hard.
I'm supposed to be alone.
Charisa doesn’t want him. Hannibal doesn’t want him. Father Magill talked him out of joining the priesthood. His parents never wanted him, no father ever, his mother abandoning him away at four years old, leaving him with a nun at church, one last little kiss his only memory of her now.
All the people who he’s ever loved. The people who said they cared.
Who didn’t, don’t, never will, have any use for him. Not beyond their own.
Face hears the clear ring of his cell phone. He lets it go.
He’s busy. Trying to answer for what the fuck happened last night.
Trying to figure out what Charisa wanted.
As the phone rings for a second time, ten minutes later, the truth hits him like a freight train.
Sex, that little voice in the back of his mind says, speaking in Hannibal’s own deep tones. She was after sex, Face, just like every other girl you’ve ever...
No.
No.
That can’t be true. It can’t be. She...she wasn’t like that. She isn’t like that. She was so sweet, so open and earnest and hesitant and bold...
It’s true, kid. I saw it and I didn’t tell you...
The phone rings again.
Fuck that phone call. Whoever the fuck it is.
She never loved you, I never loved you, nobody ever will...
Face can't deny it, can't retreat from it, can't hide from what can’t be avoided.
You know sex is all you're good for...
He’s so, so tired of being used, of living out of a backpack, of being at the mercy of others, of always being scared of when something good is going to collapse, when the lights are going to go out again. When the darkness will resume. Of never having a home, never having anybody to belong to. Trying to hold on to something he can’t have, trying to have something he can’t hold onto...what’s been the point?
What’s ever been the point?
Come on, Templeton, what's the point now...
And it doesn't even scare him, that he doesn't have an answer for that.
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of attempted suicide
Summary: Part one of two for this:
I wrote this fill over on the last meme for a Sosa/Face relationship fic where Sosa is still a virgin when she meets Face but he doesn't know it...
Anyway, I got this request in the final comments:
You know what tho... I'd LOVE to read this from Face's view now!! So much angst, and the way she ripped his heart out... why (after the general 'Face sleeps with ya once and never calls') he gives her a second smile, what's so special about Sosa in the beginning... and then (of course) the fallout, and Hannibal's part in that... especially when Sosa breaks his heart.
Face finds Sosa. But isn’t Hannibal the one he really wants?
The first thing Face does when he wakes up that morning is reach over.
And...
Motherfucker.
Why is she gone?
The lieutenant moans a little and sits up, swinging his naked body out from under the covers and padding into the main living room of his little apartment. Maybe she was just making coffee or something, he thinks, like he’ll find her in one of his PT shirts, dark hair mussed and those eyes, sparkling for him...
But no. Her clothes are gone. Her purse is gone. Her shoes are gone. Her scent lingers, the perfume and the sweet sweat off her skin, clinging to his, hanging in the still air of his place, a reminder of how goddamn good last night was.
The lieutenant knew her friend, the one she was sitting next to at the O-Club bar. Sarah Greene, a nurse from the medical brigade who was equal parts endearing and obnoxious, one of those girls who’d sought him out because of the rep. That fucking reputation of his. Face thought sometimes that there was some kind of award the girls at this post handed out for fucking him. And they all wanted something kinky, rough and hard or strange, dragging it out, crying out too loud to be believed as they came.
But not that girl, not Charisa. She’d known who he was - he’d seen that much in her eyes as she’d ordered her beer and said hello. But there was so much more going on there than alcohol-fueled lust when she’d finally looked at him. Something... almost like the first time Hannibal had looked at him, actually.
The way his stomach had flip-flopped.
The way he’d thought no way can I make this work.
How he’d desperately, desperately needed it to.
She’d smiled, though. She’d laughed. She’d agreed. Hadn’t thrown herself at him. He’d actually had to ask, ask, if she wanted to come home with him. And she’d smiled again, not quite drunk.
“Dude, Murdock,” he’d asked, the pilot not three feet away from him and chatting something up with Hannibal. “Had too many. Need you to drive.”
The pilot had looked, craning his neck around the crowd. “Ooh, she’s cute, Faceman,” he’d giggled, but the boss had looked less than impressed. Or something. The colonel was the only man Face was never able to read.
“You aren’t... you aren’t coming back with us?” Hannibal had asked, stopping Face cold. It was one of their unit nights. One of their pregame-at-the-Club, get-wasted-at-Hannibal’s nights. The boss never minded him crashing on the sofa. It was definitely a crash-drunk-on-Hannibal’s sofa night.
Or had been.
“Boss, come on, look at her,” he’d pleaded. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow, but I really... I mean, look at her...”
“Always thinking with your dick, kid,” Hannibal grunted, and took a huge mouthful of whiskey.
Murdock had clapped him on the shoulder and Face had handed him his car keys and she’d just smiled over at him.
Charisa.
Her name was Charisa, the girl he’d brought home last night. All long legs and dark hair, flashing eyes, athletic and lean. She hadn’t jumped him or asked him to take her bareback or if he really could make anal good.
No, she hadn’t wanted anything like that.
So he’d gotten to seduce her. Really seduce a woman, like he hasn’t gotten to in at least a year, and never as Faceman Peck. Kiss her and carry her and take her, slow and easy, everything soft and gentle. Nothing but the smooth curves of her body, the rise of her breasts, sweet gasps as her fingers dug into his back. Everything a woman should be and so seldom are anymore. So beautiful. So perfect.
There was something about her, he’d thought. Something special. Something to hold on to.
But she’s gone now.
And he doesn’t have her phone number.
He’s reminded of this now because his phone rings, and he runs back into his bedroom to fish it out of his jeans pocket. Fuck, Face notices as he kneels down, grabbing blindly, he smells like alcohol. Damn. He’s going to have to go for a run...
“Kid? You there?”
“Yeah boss, what is it?”
“Did you... you still coming over for lunch and the game with the rest of the guys? Murdock’s got about fifteen pounds of steak here...”
The lieutenant groans internally. He’d forgotten about that. “Yeah, of course,” he lies, knowing Hannibal knows. “Be over around noon?”
“Better move your ass then, el-tee,” Hannibal jokes back. “It’s almost eleven-thirty now.”
Face makes some obligatory smart-ass remark, about how early old people get up and Hannibal teases him about going through some adolescent growth spurt. He hangs up, still thinking about Charisa.
Still smelling her on his skin. In his bed, as he pulls the sheets back into order.
There’s really no help for it, he knows as he suds himself up under his shower’s pounding spray. She’s an officer. He’ll see her again, he tells himself, around post or something. What was it that Father Magill always used to say? If it’s meant to be, Templeton...
Face feels his grin falter, just for a moment. Like it was meant to be with Hannibal. Like he’d thought, hoped... but the boss was the boss. He’d made that very clear. Issues with the man-sex thing aside. They couldn’t. They absolutely weren’t going to. It would never be brought up again.
No rules like that with Charisa, though, the lieutenant tells himself, and back that smile comes.
so on Thursday, when Hannibal’s got him on some bullshit errand at the BX, when he’s walking through the food court and sees a dark bun, narrow shoulders, sitting alone in the Starbucks, he can’t help but walk up behind and murmur hey, gorgeous in an ear.
Because, hell, maybe Father Magill was right.
Maybe something he wants can work out after all.
Something he could have. Something that could be really, really good.
Even if he did just make he spill her coffee.
+++++
The first Saturday, right before he calls, Face is nervous.
Really, really nervous.
She’d found him, though, ran into him again at the Starbucks at his usual time, some lame excuse escaping her about how funny it was they just ran into each other again. Clearly looking for him, and maybe she’d liked last Friday too. Or maybe she liked him.
Fuck, he hopes that’s the case.
He really likes her.
“Booty call! Booty call!” Murdock shouts happily, grabbing for cell phone in Face’s sweaty hand.
“It’s not a booty call!”
At that Murdock stops, and grins, all lopsided and knowing. “Ooh, you askin’ her on a date, Face?”
“Look, I’ve dated before...” he says lamely, trying to keep his cell phone out of reach. Christ on a stick, Murdock’s fast when he’s determined.
“Yeah? Who was the first girl you dated?”
“Shit, Murdock, come on, I was like seventeen...”
“You give her your letterman jacket, you big sexy hunk, you?”
And Face is about to say something about the way Murdock’s waggling his eyebrows like that, but mercifully, the entire stupid argument’s undercut by Hannibal’s nonchalant appearance in his living room doorway.
“What’s going on, boys?” the colonel asks in that fond weariness he always uses when he thinks they’re up to no good.
“Nothing, boss...”
“Faceman’s calling that girl!” Murdock crows.
Face can’t meet his commander’s eyes, shrugs and stares at his cell phone. “Charisa,” he adds lamely. “Her name’s Charisa.”
“You’re calling her?” Hannibal asks incredulously. “You’re actually calling something you already slept with?”
“I told you, boss, she left before I woke up...”
“You don’t do booty calls, kid. What, did every bar in Atlanta close tonight?”
Murdock’s laughing, and Face is beginning to feel a little self-conscious about this whole thing now. It’s true, sure it’s true, but what the fuck does that matter? He’s allowed to go on dates... and he tries his classic diversionary tactic, smarmy jest. “Yeah, well, you’d want this girl again, too, boss. Legs fucking up to her ears...”
Hannibal just rolls his eyes and makes a come hither gesture at Murdock. “Come on, captain, let’s leave the boy to his delusions.”
“Boss,” Face can hear as the two of them walk off, “you think Face would call me if I had legs up to there?”
“I think Face would fuck anything that moves, Murdock...”
The lieutenant frowns. That’s a little... mean.
He hits the dial button for the new contact he just got this Thursday.
And doesn’t quite breath as it rings. Again. Again. Again. What if she wasn’t serious? What if it’s a fake number? What if she thought he was... “hello?”
Ohthankgod, Face thinks, and stretches out a little on the couch. “Hey beautiful,” he teases. “What are you up to tonight?”
“I’m... wait, Face?”
“One and the same, Charisa.”
She giggles a little, almost shyly, almost... nervous. That’s a good thing, right? Maybe she likes him, too. And Face wants to hit himself for even thinking something that fifth-grade. “So, Face, err, what’s... up?”
He wants to punch the air. Giggly, awkward phone conversation. That’s a good thing. “Well,” he drawls, “I’m downtown at one of those clubs right now, you know, VIP room and all that, but none of the dozens of women throwing themselves at me...”
“Ooh, that must be horrible for you, Peck...”
“It really is, Sosa. Because none of them are quite as gorgeous as you...”
Another of those nervous giggles, and then she really starts laughing. “You know, Face, you don’t have to, you know, to get me to come over.”
“I don’t?” he asks innocently.
“No.” And she pauses on the other end of the line. Enough time for Face to watch Hannibal slip back in the room and head over to wear his current book is resting on the arm of his favorite chair. The boss looks like he’s reading, but Face fucking knows that he’s listening, and he can’t quite figure out why that bothers him. He’s allowed to do this kind of stuff, see the same person more than once. If he wants to. Right? It’s not like Hannibal’s got any claim to his ass... and he goes red as Charisa starts talking again. “I’m... I can, if you’d like.”
“Love it, Charisa.”
“Give me half an hour?”
Just enough time to get back, he knows, and smiles. “See you then.”
“Yeah... see you then.”
He hangs up, irrationally wanting to cheer again, and catches Hannibal, staring at him as he stands and stuffs his wallet back into his pocket. Grabs his keys. “She amiable to that incredibly juvenile offer, kid?”
“She’s on hear way over to my place, dad,” Face shoots back, and winks, jingling his car keys, thinking about the smooth curves of her body, the rich, sweet smell of her hair, how good it's going to feel to slip into her, soft and feminine and everything he likes. Everything he's allowed to like. “See you tomorrow.”
“Brat,” Hannibal grumbles to himself, and Face can feel those eyes following him all the way out of the room.
+++++
Everything is easy with Charisa.
Everything.
The girl loves to laugh, and he loves making her laugh, loves that sound, melodic and just low enough. And she always smiles when she laughs, that big, bright, welcoming smile, always just a little surprised, and he finds that all fascinating. Like the way she is in the bedroom, or the couch, or the floor, or wherever the hell they decide to fuck that night because she was a girl who liked to fuck. Like she’s never had it before. Like she was making up for lost time. Which is insane, how she looks, how good at it she is. Sweet and enthusiastic and eager and focused. Strong enough to keep up, too, challenge him a bit, which was something he always liked about men, and found himself less excited about hitting the gay bars. Because while he liked both, both so nice, he was starting to think he really had something with this girl.
Like he really could have something here.
Maybe.
Possibly.
It’d be nice.
They’ve had a couple of tentative, well, not dates. Almost dates. Sort of. Cuddling up and watching TV. Going out to dinner and a movie, that one time, when she wore a dress and he found himself feeling lightheaded through the whole meal.
He worries, one Saturday night when she comes over, a little tired, a little sad. Saying tickling’s not going to help.
“Well, beautiful lady, I am all out of ideas,” he tells her, wrapping up behind her and taking a deep breath of her hair. It’s kinked, from where she has to keep it up in a bun all day. She says she’s thinking of cutting it all off. He keeps telling her it’d be a shame to waste it all like that. “How in the hell am I supposed to make you smile for me if I can’t tickle you?”
“Look Face, I’m... it was a long week at work and I’m not really in the mood...”
Hmm? “Why’d you...”
“Thought it was kind of... kind of a standing... thing, at this point.”
He runs a hand through that silken waterfall of dark hair she’s got. it snags a little on the callouses he can’t quite smooth away, no matter what kind of hand cream he uses. The ladies usually seem to mind. And Hannibal teases him about it sometimes... “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he tells her, swaying a little and taking her body with him. “We could, I don’t know, do anything you wanted. Watch a movie, have a beer, go to bed...”
“I just said I didn’t want to fuck tonight.”
No, she didn’t, he wants to point out, and this is what he doesn’t like about women. He usually knows what they want to do, but he rarely can tell what they want. “Just sleeping, Charisa, baby. I promise.”
“You and your libido aren’t going to try to jump me in the middle of the night?”
“Cross my heart,” he tells her, trying to rub some of the tension out of her, and then she’s smiling again and they’re kissing again and it feels amazing.
It’s the first time she’s still been there in the morning, the very first time, and there’s something different in her eyes now, as she slides on top of him, letting his morning wood slide up right into that wonderful place, and she’s wet, ready for him, wanting to go, wanting it too.
And how fucking wonderful is it to find a girl who’s in to the morning sex?
“You’ve been holding back on me, Charisa,” he murmurs in her ear when they’re done, after she’s panting next to him, when he’s playing lazily with one of her hard little nipples.
Something dark flashes through her eyes, hidden well enough that most people, most people who haven’t made a life on reading people, wouldn’t pick up on it. Then she hides it behind a smile and climbs over him. “Last one to the shower has to soap the other one up!”
He loiters, grinning.
Whatever it is, he’s going to figure it out. He will.
So, things have been really good for a while.
But now they’re getting deployed, sent out, the first time since he’s met her, and Face knows how women, even their own Army women, can be about these things.
Apparently, Hannibal does too.
“How’d you two leave it?” he growls around the end of the cigar he’s trying to light. They’re sitting on the half-down tail of a C-17, watching the Air Force boys trying to get the k-loader into position and laughing a little about how long it’s taking, some green lieutenant trying it out. Hannibal’s not really allowed to be smoking on the flightline, but it’s wearing into hour three of this little exercise and nobody's going to argue it.
Hannibal really doesn’t care about Rules. Face knows this. Which is what makes this whole thing harder. The boss probably wouldn’t give a shit about frat, about DADT.
Which means he’s really not interested. Which means he’s not making a move because he’s not into men. Doesn’t want Face that way. Won’t ever return those feelings...
But he still, still, won’t let this whole Charisa thing go.
“You two decide call it off?”
Like that.
“She said she was cool with it.”
“Cool with it?” Hannibal, frustrated, flicks another match away. “Fucking...”
“Here,” Face says, tugging the matches out of the colonel’s hands. He’s a big-picture guy, the boss. Grand strategy. Overarching goals. He doesn’t worry about the details. It’s Face’s job to figure out the details. Like this, right here, how to shield a match just so to give the boss enough time to get that cigar lit. “That better?”
Hannibal grunts, but he’s happy. Face can always tell when Hannibal’s happy. And right now, with the cigar going, it’s going to be at least ten minutes before he starts beating up the aircrew about why this is taking so fucking long. So, happy.
“So, this girl of yours, she’s going to wait for you to get back?”
“She said she would.”
“You been sleeping around on her, Face?”
“What?” he sputters. “No, fuck, I think... I mean... we’re kind of dating at this point, right?” And he grins, gets a little quiet, just for effect. “And she’s not exactly the kind of girl you have to fuck around on on the side. I mean, she’s...”
“She’s what, Face?”
The lieutenant does not like the way Hannibal’s looking at him right now. At all. And fuck him anyway. He’s had his chance. He doesn’t want anything. He’s made that clear, Face tells himself. And has to repeat it. Hannibal doesn’t fucking want you. So he just goes for it. “She really likes to fuck, boss.”
Hannibal grunts again. Not a happy grunt. And he blows something that’s almost a smoke ring, doesn’t look over, as he asks, “so, you haven’t been going to the gay bars in Atlanta on Fridays anymore?”
What? Fucking... what? How does Hannibal know about that? “I don’t go to gay bars, boss. You know me...”
“...yeah, fuck anything that moves, kid, I know...’
“Hey, boss, that is... why the hell do you think I go to gay bars? Come on, why would I...”
“Probably because you like to fuck men, Face.” A hand settles on his shoulder. “I’m not worried about it, kid, not an issue, as far as I’m concerned.” Fingers squeeze, gentle, and the lieutenant feels his heart start to soar a little bit. “But I’m not condoning it, you understand? Bad enough as it is, Face, the way you are. You don’t need to make it any worse by getting caught with a guy.”
“By the military?”
“Your, err, girlfriend there, she know you’re bi?”
Face flails around for an answer, a snarky come-back, but... “how’d you know?” comes out instead, making him sound like a petulant five year old. Damn.
Hannibal’s got his knees in front of him, long legs pulled up in the civilian work boots, denim shirt on, shoulder holster, for no reason really . Looking out over the endless expanse of tarmac. Distant. And he looks... “You did come on to me that one time, Face.”
“Hey, I apologized for that...”
“Never asked for an apology, kid,” Hannibal says, and the fucking maintenance noobie lieutenant almost hits the plane with the k-loader again. The boss’ smoking style can only be described as impassive. “Long as you understand how all this works.”
Fuck, Face thinks to himself. There are days he fucking hates the military.
+++++
She’s all he can think about.
That entire mission.
All Face can think about. That smile, the laugh, the way her hair smells, how she shudders against him when she comes, like it’s a surprise, every time the whole thing new and shiny.
He doesn’t think about Hannibal, the man fighting next to him, the man who smiles at them all over whatever-the-fuck they’re eating that night, the man who shares his sleeping bag when it gets cold under the desert stars. The one who looks at him sometimes, right before BA kicks in that door to that goatshack they’re cleaning out today, every like it’s the last. Like he’ll never get to look again. The man who pats him on the shoulder and tugs a little at his scarf and laughs that wonderful laugh...
But Face never thinks about his colonel like that. Not allowed. Not able. And it’s just too fucking hard thinking about what he’s not allowed to have. What he can’t want.
But he does genuinely want Charisa, and he can have her, all for his own, and it’s really enough to keep his dreams from straying to the memories of his Friday nights back home, of the older men, of the shitty hotel rooms and the feel of fingers, sliding in...
So when he sees her at the air terminal, in that one floral skirt she owns, a light cardigan, looking every inch the gorgeous woman she is, he drops his pack and rushes over to her, grabbing her up around the waist and cradling her head and bringing her in for a breath-stealing kiss. Hard. Putting everything he wants to feel with her into it.
“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs against her warm skin, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck.
“Hi,” she replies, eyes wide. “We got the report, in the shop, that you guys were coming home. Hope it’s okay if I...”
“Fucking perfect, sweetheart,” he tells her, setting her back down and pulling her close. “It’s awesome.”
“Sweetheart, huh?” she asks, teasing.
“What, should I go back to calling you Sosa?”
“No,” and she bites her lip, smiling a little. Like it’s new. Like it’s amazing. He loves that he has this effect on her. That she has this effect on him. “It’s good.”
“Hey! Sugar pie! Come get your fucking bag!”
And that’s BA, down by the doors. Face flashes her an apologetic smile and a whispered, I’ll be right back, sprints down there himself. He gets his ruck into the big guy’s van in record time and winks at Murdock as he turns to head back inside the terminal, where Charisa’s waiting.
And Hannibal stops him.
“Where you going, kid?” he asks. Not quite mad. Just... confused. Long legs all tucked up into the front passenger seat of BA’s van, one foot hanging out just so. “We were going to grab some food together.”
Face hasn’t quite heard this voice from the boss before. It’s almost, well, it’s almost sad. Murdock and Ba are looking at him. But...
“Come on, man, I didn’t know she was going to be here. What am I supposed to say?”
“You’ve got a debriefing to do, see her tomorrow?” Hannibal suggests, rummaging through the glovebox, probably looking for a cigar, and Face sighs. Leans in a little and goes for the place under the owner’s manual. Hands the silver tube to the boss. Watches those long fingers kind of recoil as they take it from him. “Kid. You’ve got...”
“I really like this girl, Hannibal,” Face pleads, hating the fact that he has to explain this. That Hannibal can’t just be happy for him. That’s he’s found somebody, maybe, that he could have a future with her. Maybe. Hopefully. “Please? We’re not even going to start the report until tomorrow anyway, and it’s been a month and...”
“Zero-eight-hundred, kid, no later,” Hannibal practically growls, and slams the door.
Later.
He can do later.
Later, Face has Charisa up against the wall in her apartment, that lovely a-line skirt hiked up, her panties completely destroyed, neither of them able to wait for the trip to the bedroom. Later, he’s buried in her, that wet, grasping warmth. Later, she’s moaning and begging and shuddering, just like she always does.
Later, they’re collapsing in a pile, laughing and kissing and touching.
Later, after rounds two and three, he’s gotten them tucked into bed, Charisa snuggled easy against him.
Later, Face is not thinking about that sleeping bag. Or the way Hannibal looked at him when he didn’t get in the van. Or how he killed four people in the past month, three heads exploding in his scope, one heart spraying his knife with arterial blood. How he can’t tell that to this woman, even if he was allowed, for fear of what she might think of him. How Hannibal knows, and Hannibal’s opinion of him, belief in him, has never once wavered.
Later, she stirs and he presses his lips to her cheek and can’t fall asleep.
He makes the 0800 meeting with plenty of time to spare.
“Never do this to me again, Face,” Hannibal tells him. He’s stil in kind of a pissy mood. Evidently. But he still remembers how many teaspoons of sugar the lieutenant always takes in a coffee cup of the size that’s slid across the counter to him. BA and Murdock aren’t here yet. Or they’re still asleep. “Never. You understand?”
Hannibal’s got a nice house. A big house. A house, he says, good for the unit’s use. Good for his boys to use, when they need to. And Face feels a pang of guilt, thinking about it. Normally, after a mission, he comes over, they drink, he crashes in one of the spare bedrooms. The boss never minds.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I guess...”
“You can’t just run out on me like that, Face! On us! After a mission like that? We needed to talk...”
“About the mission, boss? You seriously wanted to talk about the mission last night?” he says, pushing back.
But the colonel’s having none of it and leans forward against it. “I didn’t want my lieutenant running after some piece of ass...”
“Jesus, boss!” Face sputters, half standing off his stool, staring at the man impassively smoking a cigar in front of him. “Charisa is not some piece of a...”
“What’s the appeal, kid? Explain it to me. Why this one? Why her?”
“i think I love her, Hannibal,” he says softly and sips, concentrating very, very hard on that cup of coffee. “I really do. I mean, there’s something there. And I keep thinking this is my chance for, you know...”
“A family?” Hannibal asks, his voice shaking a little but his hand steady on that cigar. “Is that what you’re thinking, Face? Is that what you’re wanting?”
“Well, yeah. Some kids...”
“Face,” and Hannibal actually touches his hand as he says this, “giving kids a... giving kids a home won’t make up for what you went through as a...”
“What the fuck is this!?” he snaps, pissed now. “Come, I’m not allowed to want something normal, something good? A family, a...a wife, I can’t want that? What the fuck?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer, so Face tries something a little different.
“Come on, boss. Didn’t you ever want kids?”
“Sure I did. Once. Before I realized I couldn’t have that,” the colonel replied, terse and tight. “So I have you boys instead. All of you. And I don’t want to see you hurt, Templeton, I truly don’t...”
And the use of his name, his real name, snaps Face out of anything else he might have wanted to say to this man. So he does want he really wants to do. Turns up his hand, knuckles to the granite, cool, palm to sweaty palm. Holds. “Is that what I am to you, John? A son?”
Hannibal’s looking at him, looking at him the same way he looked at him in the van yesterday, and when he speaks, it’s desperate. “You’re all my boys...”
Desperate enough to spark some of that old hope up in Face. So he takes a chance, he really does. “Is that all I am, just one of your boys?” And he reaches up for Hannibal’s face as he says it, suddenly filled with a need to touch. A need to know. A desire for...
Hannibal catches it, that questing hand, but doesn’t move it away. Doesn’t move at all. “You’re my boy, too, Face, you’re...”
“I’m what?” he begs, and somehow, in some wonderful way, he thinks they’re almost, almost just...
And then Murdock waltzes into the room, singing some made-up sea shanty at the top of his lungs, and the moment’s lost.
Face looks at the boss helplessly as the colonel peels away, going to the fridge.
“I can’t have your... girlfriend coming between the op and the team and everything else, you understand me?” Hannibal asks, a carton of eggs appearing from out of the appliance’s depths. “Not now. Not ever again. There’ll be consequences next time, Face.”
He sighs. It’s all gone again. And he tries to think about Charisa, her laugh, her smile...
But right now, it’s not really working for him.
Motherfucker, Face thinks, and goes back to his coffee.
+++++
Face knows Hannibal has issues with Charisa. He knows it. And some days he’s willing to tell that not-insignificant corner of his mind, the one that his commander inhabits, to fuck right off, he’ll do what he wants.
And some days, he can’t help but listen to it.
Like tonight, when he tries to tell her he loves her. The night after Hannibal’s burger burn.
He’d been so excited. He’d been so happy. He’d been very, very nervous. This was the first time the two of them were going to meet.
And you’ll see, Murdock, he’ll love her. He’ll understand, he’d told the pilot that morning, when they were at the damn Whole Foods buying thirty pounds of organic, grass-fed ground chuck and every braut the place had, a purchase that was going to take almost every cent out of the unit snack fund. Not to mention the beer, which Hannibal had asked for and some bullshit pencil-pusher down at Finance refused to front money for the alcohol, citing regs like the asshole he clearly was. But he could probably scam that. It was just a lot of meat. And he’d had plans for the snack fund.
“Understand what, Faceman?” the captain had asked, leaning hard on the cart handle as the tattooed butcher handed over another massive brown package of meat. So much meat. Eight goddamn dollars a pound. But Murdock refused to buy anything that was kept in a cage its whole life, and coming from a ranch in Texas, Face figured he could respect that.
“Understand, man, what she means to me. What she is...”
Another bundle of meat. The last one. The butcher looked grateful, and they headed away, around the perimeter of the store, over to the registers. “What is she?”
He looked around, furtive, unnecessarily furtive, and leaned forward. “I’m going to ask he to marry me.”
Murdock’s face has scrunched up a little, like there was a bad taste in his mouth. “Why would’ja wanna do that?”
“Look, man, not all of us have something going on with a certain smoking hot corporal who happens to be a...”
“We gonna get the cheese here, too, Face?” Murdock had asked quickly, jerking the cart to a stop in front of that cooler. And what the fuck kind of place, Face wanted to ask, carried soy milk cheese? What was the point? “We’re gonna need more singles...”
“Fuck the unit, I’m not paying for cheese here too. You okay buying milk from non-organic cows?”
“Face, I...”
“Because if you let me, I could have scammed all of this from the comissary...”
“Face, I don’t mean you shouldn’t, you know, have a girl or whatever. And I know you want the boss to sign off on it. But think about this,” Murdock had said, picking up the pace again. “Hannibal ain’t gonna do that for you.”
“Why not?” he’d asked.
“You ever, you think there might be som’thin’ goin’ on with the boss and...”
“And what, buddy?”
He hadn’t gotten an answer. Murdock turned them down the dog food aisle and started asking Face about if Billy might like the organic, free-range, hand-massaged shrimp and beef options instead of his usual kibble, and the subject had been dropped.
And then later, after they gotten the kegs filled and the condiments acquired at the O-Club, for the nominal fee of Face flirting with the female bartender, after they’d gotten the whole lot to Hannibal’s, after a run to Walmart to buy more goddamn cheese and twelve more bags of buns, after Murdock started mixing up his spice rub and boiling the brauts in some of that beer, afetr BA and him had one of their usual arguments that would inevitably lead to strange noises coming from the garage, after all of that, Face got his chance to talk to Hannibal about it.
“Why the fuck do you have a teddy bear?” Hannibal had asked impassively, letting his cigar dangle on the edge of the decking rail, barely held in his fingers, body loose, relaxed, casual. Face had to bite back the thought of it, how sexy this man was when he wasn’t even trying to be. “Tell me Murdock didn’t win that out of one of those claw vending machines.”
“What? No.” And he’d waggled it. “This is a really expensive little bear, boss. One of those Ben Bridge bears.”
Hannibal hadn’t reacted at all to that. “Jewelry store? You buy yourself a watch or something?”
“No. I bought a ring, boss,” he’d said, holding up the little plush thing, careful not to let it touch anything. It was adorable, white and soft, a big red bow, and its stomach had a little compartment in it. Just big enough for a jewelry box. Which he’d taken out, opened up. “Canadian diamond, from one of those mines that’s only open in the winter, so it’s not from anywhere we’ve worked in Africa. Internally flawless, white, square cut, silver setting, just like she likes...”
Hannibal had just stood there, not moving, not talking, and then he’d reached out, his hand almost shaking as he took the little velvet box, looked at the ring inside. “How, how much did this cost you, Face?”
“Who gives a shit, boss? She’s worth it.”
He’d turned it, holding it up to the light, the colors refracting, dancing through the stone. Snapped the box shut and handed it back to Face. “It’s...” he’d said, and his voice had cracked. Then he’d gone back to his cigar, puffing away like a chimney.
“Boss?”
“It’s beautiful, Face. She’s a lucky woman,” and those piercing blue eyes swept over the lieutenant, just once. “Getting you...”
“I need to know that this is okay, Hannibal.”
And he’d laughed. “Typically you ask the bride to be’s parents about that kind of thing.”
“No, I mean, I need this to be okay with you, Hannibal,” and Face had tucked the box back in the bear and the bear under his arm. Leaned up against the rail and tried to look the older man in the face. Hannibal wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I need to know that this won’t change anything between us.”
Hannibal had laughed again. “What would it change, kid?”
“You don’t seem very happy about her...”
“I don’t run your life, Face.” He bit down on the cigar, chewing. “No matter what everybody seems to think.”
“I want your opinion.”
“My opinion?”
“Your honest fucking opinion, boss.”
Hannibal had looked at him then. “I... I think you should wait.”
“What am I waiting for?”
And the colonel had touched his shoulder, rubbing a little. “Don’t want to see you hurt, Temp. In any way.”
“What’s going to hurt me, Hannibal?” he’d said, softer, very soft, not daring to ask it louder, not daring to let himself answer it, even in the silence of his head. Not having... No. Not that.
Never that.
And Hannibal seemed to feel the same way about it, because he'd just flicked his cigar off into the grass, which was something he never, ever did, and he was gone. No answers. Never any answers with that man...
And now here he was, in bed with the woman of his dreams, when he dreamed about women, which he was doing more and more lately. Just her, those flashing dark eyes and wide smile and sweet smell. Trying work up the courage to tell her he loved her. That was the first step. That was the step along the road that would take them home together. He hoped. He has so many hopes with her...a real home, a real family, all those things within reach for the first goddamn time...
But she’s upset about the picnic. About the way Hannibal was treating him.
“...he’s crazy,” she’s saying, flailing a little. “He made you go get him a cigar. What the fuck was that about?”
Face sighs. Yeah, that had been a little weird. But the boss wanted some alone time with her, and he’d been happy to give it. Let them get to know each other. But, obviously, it hadn’t gone well. “Are we going to fight about this?”
“No, I just mean, it’s kind of weird, isn’t it? Fetching stuff, ordering you around. You’re a lieutenant in his unit, not his house boy or something like that...”
“Charisa, stop. Just stop!” he says, louder than he means to, harsher. And yeah, it snaps something in him, hearing that. He’s heard it his whole fucking time with the man, the whispers in the shadows, behind him back, sneaking to the furthest corners of whatever base they’re at that year. Hannibal’s fucking his lieutenant, Peck takes it up the ass from his commander, the two of them, fags... and every time he hears it, he wants to scream.
Because Hannibal won’t fuck him. Never has, never will.
And it makes him want to scream.
But he’s got his hand on her throat now, some kind of automatic reflex or something, and her eyes are wide, scared, he thinks, and moves. Shoves in closer, almost kissing her ear, stroking her fine cheekbone, whispering to her, “Charisa, baby, don’t be angry with me. Whatever it was, look, I'm sorry. It’s you, sweetheart, I love you...”
Her eyes stay wide.
He knows he’s trying to convince himself as he says it, knows it in that back part of his mind where Hannibal’s voice follows him into those dreams he doesn’t have anymore, but he’s not trying to convince her. He does love her. He does. He feels... and Face needs her to say it, needs her to acknowledge it back, needs to hear...
“I...wow, Face, I mean...wow. I...I feel the same, I...” She smiles. “Nobody’s ever said that to me...”
He kisses her then, relief flooding through him as she melts into him. “Love you, Charisa, fuck, I love you, I love you, I’ve never loved anybody before...”
She touches his face, hand tender, soothing away all the confusion from earlier in the day, when Hannibal...said what he said. “Baby...”
And as they roll around each other, laughter turning to gasps of pleasure, she spreads and he enters, as they move together in the half light of the room, listening to their shared cries of passion, all Face can hear is that voice in the back of his mind saying liar, liar, liar...
+++++
Things are good for a while.
Face doesn’t give Charisa the ring.
Not yet. No, not yet. He can’t. He has to be sure. Hannibal told him to wait, so he has to be sure. Has to know what that means first. Has to know.
Has to be sure.
Nothing's sure, though. Nothing.
So maybe...maybe things aren’t good.
Things between him and Hannibal, tense and tight in places where they used to be so open, so free. He’d never kept anything from the boss, and never would, but now he feels like he has to. Has to tell him lies, about himself, about her. Has to smile and say everything’s fine but nothing more. Because the boss doesn’t want to hear any of it. None. He leaves the room if Murdock tries to ask about her.
Face makes sure she doesn’t meet him again after a mission. And she won’t go to another event at the boss’ place. It’s ripping his life in half, long days with Hannibal, long nights with Charisa, neither wanting to acknowledge the other exists. In no way do those two halves overlap anymore.
He suspects, Face does, he really fucking does, that there’s something going on with Hannibal. That Hannibal’s not telling him something. Not telling him a very important something. And he think that, just maybe, he might know what that important thing is. Like, just maybe...
Doesn’t matter.
This is about Charisa.
And he doesn’t know what to do.
It’s not like he can’t tell.
I don’t know, maybe I’m not cut out to be with one person the rest of my life he wants to say to her some days. Or maybe I need to get fucked sometimes, too. But Charisa’s not the kind of girl who’s going to take to a threesome, or pegging, or anything like that. She’s been sleeping more lately and he can feel her pulling away from him.
It scares the shit out of him.
If he loses her, somebody he loves, loves, loses that, he’ll never get it back. Because the only other person he’s ever felt that way about won’t look at him, won’t see him, won’t be with him.
And...if he falls, will Hannibal be there to pick him up again, as he has so many times before? Will Hannibal be there at all? Or has he lost that, too?
That’s so terrifying that he can barely formulate it into coherent thought. So it sits in the back of his mind, knawing away at the foundations of the life he’s hoped he could have, tearing it down. Tearing him apart.
It’s distracting him in planning sessions. Like today. So distracted that Hannibal actually yells at him in front of one of the other LTs, throws him out, tells him to go home and sleep whatever the fuck it is off.
He doesn’t go home, though, and he doesn't go hang with the team and he sure as fuck doesn’t go see Charisa. He couldn’t stand to hear her almost-smug words about how Colonel Smith is no good for you, baby right now. Can’t handle it.
So he goes to Atlanta instead.
To that bar he likes. The good place, the one that’s good for one thing, the one thing he needs right now, and as his cheek slams into the anonymous sheets of some hotel room, over and over and over again, Face knows it’s not helping.
But he doesn’t know what else to do.
So fuck, he thinks, as the door opens and footsteps echo out into the hall, maybe he should just man up and propose.
And then the next night, she leaves him.
Some bullshit about his job.
Some more bullshit about wanting her own life.
Talking me in to marrying you isn’t really the same thing as me saying yes, now, is it?
It’s the last thing she says. The very last thing, before she walks out on him. Before she walks out of his life. Tearing a hole in the universe, Murdock might say. Acting like a damn fool, BA might opine. Like I knew she would, Hannibal will probably smugly state, and order Face to go get him a cigar.
The lieutenant’s not ready to hear any of that.
He can’t. Not now. Not ever, maybe. Probably. Definitely.
Nobody he can go to. Nobody he can talk to. Nobody who he can bear to have talk to him.
Charisa's gone.
He's alone again. Back to his natural state. The universe reordered to the way it's supposed to be. This last year some abhorrent afront to the proper order of things.
He doesn't know if he's upset about that. Somehow, the lieutenant feels like he doesn't have a right to be.
He knows, he fucking knows, there was never any hope of this working out.
So, calm and collected, Face pays the bill and asks them to cap up the cabernet, the waiter giving him a sympathetic look and charging him for none of it, and that’s about the last thing he remembers before waking up the next day around noon. Empty bottles, beer, that wine, the last half of a handle of Jack’s he’s been meaning to finish up. Face stares at it for a moment, eye level with him on the living room floor, and spends the next four hours puking, off and on, in his cramped little bathroom.
It smells of her perfume.
It’s Sunday, so at least Face has a day to figure this thing out before he has to face everybody in the unit. Before he has to face Hannibal.
He’s got no idea what he’s going to say.
Absolutely no idea at all.
He lays on the floor after the last round of throwing up leaves him too shaky to walk, staring up at the bathroom wall, the old truths hitting him hard.
I'm supposed to be alone.
Charisa doesn’t want him. Hannibal doesn’t want him. Father Magill talked him out of joining the priesthood. His parents never wanted him, no father ever, his mother abandoning him away at four years old, leaving him with a nun at church, one last little kiss his only memory of her now.
All the people who he’s ever loved. The people who said they cared.
Who didn’t, don’t, never will, have any use for him. Not beyond their own.
Face hears the clear ring of his cell phone. He lets it go.
He’s busy. Trying to answer for what the fuck happened last night.
Trying to figure out what Charisa wanted.
As the phone rings for a second time, ten minutes later, the truth hits him like a freight train.
Sex, that little voice in the back of his mind says, speaking in Hannibal’s own deep tones. She was after sex, Face, just like every other girl you’ve ever...
No.
No.
That can’t be true. It can’t be. She...she wasn’t like that. She isn’t like that. She was so sweet, so open and earnest and hesitant and bold...
It’s true, kid. I saw it and I didn’t tell you...
The phone rings again.
Fuck that phone call. Whoever the fuck it is.
She never loved you, I never loved you, nobody ever will...
Face can't deny it, can't retreat from it, can't hide from what can’t be avoided.
You know sex is all you're good for...
He’s so, so tired of being used, of living out of a backpack, of being at the mercy of others, of always being scared of when something good is going to collapse, when the lights are going to go out again. When the darkness will resume. Of never having a home, never having anybody to belong to. Trying to hold on to something he can’t have, trying to have something he can’t hold onto...what’s been the point?
What’s ever been the point?
Come on, Templeton, what's the point now...
And it doesn't even scare him, that he doesn't have an answer for that.
