Absolution (Part One of Five)

[sonora_coneja]

Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.

Prompt inspired by the following movie quote:

"Colonel, I've been around a long time. Seen units like your's. They're outlaws. Units like that pose a direct threat to the fabric and fundamentals of our military."

I don't know if something like this already exists (and if it does please let me know!) but I'd love to see an AU where Face, BA, and Murdock were pulled together to form an elite A-Team unit without Hannibal's involvement. Maybe Hannibal was offered the opportunity to be apart of and head this 'A-Team' but he declined for personal reasons (failed marriage, recent trauma, about to take on a personal assignment/covert operation that might get him dishonorably discharged, or he's retiring, whatever you want).

Under different leadership I would like to see this version of the A-Team to be more similiar to what the quote described. They're considered a ragtag group of outlaws within their own military and they only take jobs that their boss/colonel hand picks (and maybe they're not always for the most patriotic of reasons). They are not the team we know and love and maybe they aren't ever really that close to each other, or they don't function as effectively as they could meaning that while they have an impress record things don't always go according to plan. Face is too reckless, BA too angry, Murdock too crazy/disconnected/whatever but under their boss doesn't see these things as problems and actually capitalizes on them during missions.

So I'd love to see Hannibal meet this dysfunctional version of the A-team. Like maybe he's in Mexico for whatever reasons and meets Face (aka the job at the beginning of the movie). Or maybe its on different mission. Or not a mission at all. But basically Hannibal meets this A-Team for whatever reason and by the end of it he thinks that these men could be doing better for themselves and others even if they don't necessarily believe it themselves. The of course cue showdown between the A-teams boss and Hannibal...

And wow, long prompt was long ^^;

Hannibal’s not sure what to expect when he finally has to come back to the States, as commander of the Second Ranger Brigade up at Fort Lewis. But when a drunken hook-up turns into so much more, he finds himself involved in trying to bring down one very corrupt Major Pike while coping for his feelings for Lieutenant Peck...



Hannibal wakes in the morning with a pounding headache and a fuzzy feeling in the back of his throat. His eyes aren’t quite working yet, and he doesn’t quite remember where he is or how he got here, but he can make out a window fan and greasy glass under heavy, dated drapes, and that odor, that odor is unmistakably of sex. A lot of sex. And not just last night, either. That’s a baked-in, been-here-for-years kind of smell.

A cheap American motel, Hannibal tells himself, remembering the love hotels on Okinawa with a sudden, irrational fondness. He rolls over on his side, blinking his bleary eyes at the clock on the broken-down little bedside stand.

0924. Bright red letters that seem inappropriately cheery as his hangover starts throbbing in his temples.

Bits and pieces of last night start to coalesce through waves of dull pain. Slamming his partner against the wall, unzipping tight jeans, hot heavy flesh in his mouth, sucking on a sweating shoulder, worrying the skin lightly with his teeth, getting a wanton little moan in return...and why would, Hannibal wonders, he remember a lovebite that clearly and everything else so dimly?

The lieutenant colonel groans and scrubs a hand across his face.

It doesn’t really matter.

He’s been stateside exactly, oh fuck, seventy-four hours and fifty-two minutes at this point. Three days, and he’s already managed to find himself back here, in the same damn place he’s spent the last three years. Oh sure, the furniture’s different and there’s no vending machine selling sex toys in the lobby of wherever the fuck he is or a Philipino contractor in the bed next to him or the bad taste of sojuu in his mouth or any of that other shit that marked his assignment history on the Pacific Rim, but it’s all basically the same thing.

It’s enough to make him wish he was waking up next to a woman.

Rolling over the other way, though, Hannibal realizes he’s alone. That his partner, whoever the fuck the man was, has either left or...or not, not left, because a pair of jeans that are definitely too skinny to be his are thrown careless over the back of a nearby chair. Possibly by him. He can’t really remember that.

There was a bar. He remembers that. One of the gay bars here in Seattle. Hannibal hadn’t been to a gay bar here in the States before, and he’d been worried about trying. Maggie used to say that he was handsome, strong, striking, everything she thought a man should be, but that hadn’t stopped her from cheating on him. Hadn’t stopped her from sending him divorce papers while he was deployed. Or cleaning out the house while he was gone, the only thing left in the entire place her birth control pills in the master bathroom cabinet.

He never had any problem picking up guys in Asia, though, when the memories of her made women too painful, and the aggression of his first male encounter left him hungry for more. Always had his pick of anything and anybody he wanted over there, especially at Diego Garcia, where he’d developed a bit of a reputation with the like-minded sections of the installation population. But he’d kept hearing about how the gay scene here, in America, was younger, hotter, and he’d been worried.

But then he figures, wondering if he’s got any Percocets in his jeans for that fucking headache, if last night was his first attempt and it worked...

Hannibal hears the toilet flush and the sink run, and sits up against the wall just as the partner in question comes sauntering out of the bathroom.

And, damn, if his mouth hadn’t been dry before...

The man’s beautiful. That’s the first word that comes to mind. Beautiful. Nothing less will fit. Because he is.

Young, very young, but almost as tall as him, lean fighting muscle beneath creamy tan skin, hair dark with damp, an oddly intense expression on that fine-boned face, in those keen blue eyes, as he pads naked over for his jeans. There’s something familiar about him, too, something that extends beyond the sudden memory of seeing him at the bar last night, flirting with the bartender to get his drink comped. No, there’s something else, something Hannibal can’t quite reach...

“Mornin’,” he tries experimentally.

That beautiful kid starts a little, and almost drops his jeans.

“Jesus,” he grumbles, and his voice is just as beautiful as the rest of him, if a little hoarse. Those blue eyes rise to meet his, challenging and playful at the same time, and the grin he gives is a pure con. He’s nervous, underneath that carefully cultivated bravado, but why, Hannibal can’t tell. “Thought you were still asleep.”

The colonel shrugs, and tosses a smile back. “Just woke up, kid. You sneaking out on me?”

“Why? You want another go?” The kid asks, glaring, shaking his pants out and pulling them on.

“Do you?”

“You want it, you gotta pay for it,” the kid snaps back, and Hannibal feels something catch in his chest. The aggression in those words...and then he wonders, for a split second, if he’d picked up a hooker. The kid’s pretty enough for it...

Then that hard look in those eyes softens a bit, and the kid bites his lip. “Fuck, I didn’t...I mean, the place is by the hour, you know? I think we only paid through ten...I was gonna wake you up on my way out.”

“Uh huh,” Hannibal says, deciding that whatever he was thinking of here, talking instead of just getting the hell out, is a really bad idea. He stands, steadying himself on the wall as his head swims at the change in angle. “In Japan, they’ve got people who come around and tell you to leave.”

“Japan?” the kid asks, buttoning the top button of his jeans.

“Lived out there for a year,” Hannibal says distractedly. Where the hell did his khakis go? His shirt’s tangled in the sheets, though, so he pulls that out and pulls it on first.

“Camp Zama?”

“No,” Hannibal replies, a bit confused that this kid knows about that place. “Kadena, some joint assignment, fucking staff job, but Okinawa’s nice...”

“Catch,” the kid says. Hannibal looks up just in time to see his pants flying at him, barely catching them, and then he sees the tattoo on the kid’s arm.

Ranger. Like his.

Fuck.

The young man catches him looking at it, and smiles ruefully, rubbing the ink lightly before jamming a pale blue t-shirt on over his head. “Yeah, I know,” he says, a bit muffled by the fabric. “I didn’t notice until this morning, either. I just...you’re not like some new sergeant or something, are you? I haven’t seen you around Fort Lewis, and I was maybe worried that...”

So the kid’s a CGO, or a younger NCO, and Hannibal groans internally at either possibility. He's always been so careful about that. “Just made O-5,” he tells him, and finds his underwear on the floor. Considering the floor, he leave them there and goes for just his pants instead. “PCS’ed in from Diego on Thursday.”

“Diego...like, Diego Garcia? That fucking atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Fuck,” the kid says appreciatively, and whistles. He leans back, hands behind him, against that chair, pulling that shirt tight across his chest. “No wonder you were so horny last night.”

Hannibal smiles to himself. If the kid only knew... “There’s a pretty healthy, err, community on the island. Most of the contractors from the Philippines are gay, and they tend to hire guys like them, so if you head down to their housing area pretty much any night of the week...”

His partner from the night before really laughs at that, and sits down on the edge of the rumpled bed to pull on his shoes. “You are full of shit.”

“It’s true. And then you get the British navy in sometimes, so there’s that...” Hannibal begins, and trails off, thinking about it.

He shouldn’t have gone to Diego. It was a shit staff assignment, nothing but discipline cases, trying to manage garbage shipments, making sure the airstrip got back open after storms. He’d averaged four hours in the office, tops, and spent the rest of his time drink or fucking or fishing. For fifteen months, following that year at Kadena and a short tour at Red Cloud in Korea.

It had all been terrible for his career, nothing a Ranger should have been doing, but after Maggie had left him, the only thing on his mind had been getting out of the country and staying overseas for as long as possible. Hell, Russ had offered him an Alpha Team, practically begged him to take it, but he couldn’t even stomach the thought. He just wanted to escape, so Asia it was.

He’d probably still be over there somewhere, honestly, but they’d promoted him. And the conditions on those silver oak leaves was coming back to the Rangers, coming back home. He’d fought it, but only half-heartedly; Hannibal was actually looking forward to getting back into the operational side of things. The pain over losing Maggie had dulled from that old cutting agony to a faint ache that only came when he thought about it too long. It had been time to come back. But at least he wasn’t in Georgia, where she was...

“Uhh, well, sir, this has been fun and all,” the kid says, rising, an awkward hand rubbing across his stubbled chin, “but I really need to get goin’. The boss needs me in the office this afternoon, and this is kind of weird...”

“Not every day you accidently fuck a colonel, kid?” he asks, trying to make it light and failing. That face really is familiar. He wonders, has he seen it in the last few days, or somewhere else, like maybe when the kid was going through training, or...

The kid shrugs, looks away. “Look, if we...if we see each other around post or something, can it not be, like, weird? I don’t need any more trouble...”

“Sure,” Hannibal says, and means it. “What kind of trouble are you currently in?”

That gets him a smile, and a shake of that head, and then the kid’s by the door. Nervous again, Hannibal realizes, and feels slightly bad.

“Can we just...I don’t know, forget this ever happened? I mean, I know your cock’s...but like I said...”

Hannibal nods. He gets that. “Never happened.”

“Thanks, sir,” he says, the door snicks open, and he’s gone.

Shirt half-buttoned, fingers stilled for the moment, the colonel finds himself staring at where the kid just disappeared from.

Wondering.

There was a point, maybe the second or third time he slept with another man, that he wondered if it was maybe some mid-life crisis or some reaction to being dumped. But then he figured out that it was more than that, wondered if Maggie had known he was gay before he did and that’s why she found it necessary to cheat on him. Something...well, not normal, but understandable.

But this kid, last night...more of it’s coming back now. The way the younger Ranger had bucked into him, how he’d begged, how it had been violent and predatory and pleading and desperate, like he needed something... And for that young man to go out and sleep around with men, if he’s worried about something with his career, his very, very Army career... it’s all a kind of recklessness that Hannibal can’t quite understand.

It bothers him. It bothers him a lot. All weekend, it nags at him, why it bothers him so much. And he can’t quite put his finger on why.

Until he gets into work on Monday, and realizes why the kid seemed so damn familiar.

+++++

Templeton Arthur Peck.

That’s the kid’s name.

Three hours into his in-brief, two days removed from that weird morning at that shitty motel, and Hannibal finally remembers. The answer stares back up at him from the unit’s manning roster, the one that the superintendent’s going over with him right now.

“...technically, sir, the alpha teams aren’t really ours. It’s just ADCON, so you’ll be signing performance reports and so on, but the various FGOs have operational control, and they report direct to somebody at Benning, not to you, so...”

“General Morrison, Chief. It’s General Morrison.”

The sergeant looks at him over the top of his grudgingly worn reading glasses, smiling a little. He’s one of those guys who’s been in forever, probably broken in half a dozen new commanders over the past ten years. Hannibal can tell he’s about to dive into what has to be an endless well of patience to deliver some patronizing comment to his dumbass baby colonel who thinks rattling off the name of some general buddy’s somehow important right now.

Hannibal sighs - he had wanted to get this off on the right foot - and taps the paper. There are four teams here, but his finger lands on the first, under some Major Pike.

Bosco Baracus.

HM Murdock.

Templeton Peck.

“General Morrison offered me this one three years ago,” he tells his superintendent, hoping this makes him sound like less of a child with the right answer in class. “Back when I was at Benning. He wanted me to pick it up.”

The chief master sergeant’s smirk fades a little, down to something like genuine interest. “You were offered an alpha team and you turned it down, sir? Why? I thought those were fucking gold...”

“I was going through a divorce,” Hannibal says with a shrug, still amazed at how horrible a thing can be condensed to so small a word. “Wasn’t a good time.”

“My wife left me ten years back. Fuckin’ awful,” the Chief replies, nodding his head like he understands, and goes back to the paper. “Anyway, boss, we’ve also got...”

But Hannibal isn’t listening. No, Hannibal can’t think of anything but that morning in Russ’ office, the way his friend had shoved the folder under his nose, how he’d shoved it right back.

”I’m not doing it, Russ. I’m not.”

“Hannibal, be reasonable. I’m offering you a huge opportunity here.”

“Russ, this thing with Maggie...it’s...”

“You can’t let it keep destroying you like this, John. She ain’t worth that. Come on, just take a look.”

The file was thin, a preliminary connection of service record one-sheets and mission profiles. A choice of men, about ten in all. He flips through, disinterested, and for some reason he didn’t understand at the time, stopped at one Templeton Arthur Peck, aka Faceman.

Age, 24. Race, Caucasian. Weight, 185 pounds. Eyes, blue. Rated 2+ in Spanish, French and Russian on the language exams. Graduated Ranger School 1998, less than a year in the 75th, no field experience. A photo with the file, of a young man in his service-As, handsome, eager, smiling the way guys never did in these photos.

Hannibal felt something deep stir in him, looking at that kid, and slammed down the cover on the folder, pushing it back, not wanting any of it. “I want that position in Okinawa, Russ. Not this.”

“Don’t run away from something good, just because of her.”

“Russ, I...I can’t. I just can’t.”

“You wanna stop, boss? I know I’m blasting you with all of this...”

Hannibal blinks, pulling out of the memory, and glances at his watch as a cover. Not late enough for lunch. But the Chief’s watching him with an amused smile on his face, twirling his reading glasses by the arm. “Ten minute break,” the colonel tells him. “I’m going to get coffee.”

The break room’s just down the hall, a ten second walk at most, and mostly empty, except for a short, stocky, dark-haired guy waiting by the microwave. Hannibal, pouring himself a cup of coffee into what is hopefully a clean mug, doesn’t really pay attention to him, until he sees the nametag on his right breast.

Pike.

And then, irrationally, he’s interested.

“Major Pike?” he asks, taking note of the gold oak leaf on Pike’s collar. “Heard we’ll be working together.”

The short man turns, a smirk on his face, and Hannibal can’t help but think to himself, eyebrows! The microwave’s got thirty seconds left on it, and he’s tapping a plastic fork against his hand rhythmically. “You must be Colonel Smith,” the other officer says.

“Most everybody calls me Hannibal,” he says, and holds out a hand. The one with his West Point class ring that he wore to work today, just to make a fucking point with anybody who wants to get into his qualifications, being out of the Rangers for the past three years. One of those stupid political things, but Pike’s eyes definitely flick down to it. “Nice to meet you.”

Pike raises one of those eyebrows, but shakes his hand in a crushing grip. “Brock Pike. Nice to meet you, too, Hannibal.” Sarcastic. He lets go, and glances back at the microwave. “Heard the boys here were getting a new commander. I guess congratulations are in order?”

Hannibal shrugs, trying to get a read on the man. “They tell me this is the pinnacle of anyone’s military career.”

“Yeah, sure, command,” and that smirk turns into something closer to a sneer. “At least I get to throw you most of my paperwork while I get to go out and blow shit up.”

“You’re one of the alpha unit commanders, then?” he replies, feigning ignorance, just in case.

“Hell yeah I’ve got my own a-team.” The microwave beeps and as Pike opens it, the smell of a very, very good curry fills the air. “So we won’t be working together so much as you’ll be staying out of my way, and I’ll be having all the fun.”

“That so?”

“That’s exactly so. I get my pick of missions, straight from the brass at Benning, anywhere in the world, the choice of any resources I need to do it, and no questions asked about how the job gets done.” He jams his fork in the curry. It really does smell good, real, like whoever made it took the time to actually grind all the spices and saute the paste and do it right. Interesting, Hannibal thinks. Pike doesn’t seem like the cooking type, and he’s not wearing a wedding ring. Live-in girlfriend, maybe? Hannibal had plenty of friends in Kadena with Thai girlfriends... “Beats command by a mile.”

Hannibal stares back at him, remembering again how nervous the kid, Peck, had been about this guy. So he throws something out there. “Well, it’s all about taking care of the men at this point now, isn’t it?” He taps the rank on his collar.

Pike shrugs, and the indifference in that little gesture, for some reason, chills Hannibal to the core. “Sure it is, when you get promoted out of the field,” he laughs and forks up a big bite of curry. “What the fuck else do you have to keep you busy?”

Hannibal resists the sudden urge to hit him. He hates officers who ignore that part of their job, who are only interested in the power or in praise from their higher-ups, in their next promotion. But he’s got the feeling, the very clear and distinct feeling, looking at the slightly sick expression hiding in the major’s eyes, that look that’s very similar to the one addicts wear, that he enjoys the killing.

And a memory of that motel room surfaces suddenly, of Peck panting into him after they’d finished, of clinging to him, face in his chest, the way he’d sighed when Hannibal had petted his hair in response. Hannibal wonders what a boy like that thinks about that kind of philosophy.

“I am going to see your men at commander’s calls and at mandatory briefings, the O-Club for events, that sort of thing,” he says neutrally, going for the coffee pot to keep his hands occupied, out of fists.

Pike blows on another bite of curry. “I don’t usually attend brigade functions...”

“I’m not asking,” Hannibal tells him flatly. And sure, normally he wouldn’t ask a tenant unit, like the alpha teams, to attend brigade events, nobody would, but he’s got a niggling feeling that it’d probably be good to bring this team into the military fold a bit more, and he wonders if the rest of the alpha team leads are this fucked up. It's going to be a huge problem, if so. Bad leadership leads to personnel problems, every fucking time...

With a shake of his head, hoping like hell he doesn’t have a huge mess on his hands here, dumps fifty cents in the snack bar money box that’s sitting open next to the coffee maker. He’s got his mug of coffee, he can go now, the break’s turned out to be more stressful than the briefing.

Pike laughs at that. “You know, you own this unit, you don’t gotta pay for coffee.”

Hannibal smiles and folds his arms. “I’ll have a policy letter on tenant unit participation drafted up and in your inbox by the end of the week. We’re having an O-Call on Friday. I’ll expect your boys to be there.”

Pike smiles back, but there’s anger there, under the surface. “I’ll have to take that to Benning.”

“Try it,” Hannibal says flatly, and starts to leave, tossing back over his shoulder. “I’m drinking buddies with General Morrison up there!”

The superintendent’s rearranged his notes by the time Hannibal gets back to his office, and he can’t help but smile when he notices that the armory inventory’s been moved to the top of the stack. The Chief’s definitely broken in new commanders before, and as much as it makes Hannibal feel like he’s a third grader again, being lectured by the wise and all-knowing teacher, he appreciates the consideration to make this proceeding a bit more interesting.

“Find the coffee okay, sir?”

“No problem at all, Chief,” he says, settling back in. “Before we get started again, can we make sure we have an Officers’ Call on Friday? Make sure everybody shows?”

The sergeant grins. “I’ll make the arrangements, boss, but you should probably put some money on the bar if you want everybody there.”

“Five hundred enough?”

That grin widens. “That’ll probably do the trick,” he says, and spreads out the armory reports. “So, Colonel, if you will, I thought we’d change the pace here for a minute or two...”

But Hannibal can’t really pay attention. He keeps thinking about Peck, and those other two, the ones he can’t put faces to yet. Because Pike’s a bastard - doesn’t take much more than that little conversation to convince the colonel of that - and for the first time since telling Russ to shove that fucking assignment, he feels a pang of guilt for his own anger, his own weakness, for his refusal to take it on. Take them on.

Baracus, Murdock, and Peck.

What the hell did he do to those boys?

And something, something he doesn’t like at all, that little voice that doesn’t often speak but is very often right, is telling him that this could be very, very bad indeed.

+++++

Hannibal’s got close to seventy officers, in the Club, he’s already upped his tab to an thousand dollar limit, and they’re almost all the way through Roll Call by the time Pike finally makes his presence known on Friday.

At first, Hannibal isn’t too worried about it when Major Pike stands up, beer in hand, right in line after Company C’s Major Fisher wraps it up. The new colonel’s a bit overwhelmed; he can’t remember the last time he had to attend one of these things, much less officiate, and it’s a hell of a lot more work than he’d thought. One of the boys from the HHQ, a jovial captain with four kids and a miraculously un-ruined marriage, put the whole thing together for him, and everybody’s getting drunk, which helps tremendously, but still.

Hannibal’s a bit nervous about what he’s going to say to everybody when it comes time for his remarks - the obvious looking forward to working with you men doesn’t seem like the right way to go - and some of the other traditions that the 2nd Battalion has he isn’t familiar with, so he’s having to reference a note card in his pocket for the order of events.

But the dynamics are always instructive to watch. He’s gotten to feel out most of his commanders, how they interact with their men in this kind of environment, what they will and won’t say, who’s got a sense of humor and who’s tight-laced, who’s popular and who’s not...

He wonders which this major is. Liked, or hated, or ignored.

Pike smiles, beer in hand, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Waves to everyone. Clears his throat loudly. Starts talking. “Hello, everyone. Been a while, hasn’t it? But the new boss here, Colonel Smith,” and he tips that bottle, “requested that we show tonight. Why, I don’t know, maybe to show the rest of you shmucks what real fighters look like...”

This gets catcalls and a few good-natured insults hurtled at Pike from various corners of the room, and Hannibal folds his arms, taking it in, wondering where Pike’s going to go with this.

“...anyway,” Pike continues, waving off the yelling, sarcasm lurking in his body language, “I run Alpha Team Bravo here, y’all know that, and I’ve got no hails or farewells, although I just got my pilot back from another sleepover at the looney bin, so we’re gonna have to tell the Air Force boys next door to lock their precious planes up again...”

Hannibal’s not sure what the reference is about a pilot and the clinic’s psyche ward, but the comment about the Air Force has the boys clapping.

Pike goes to sit down, and then stops, looks at Hannibal, and winks. “And my lesson learned for this month is that you suck enough cock, you get anything you want, but that don’t make it a dignified way to go about things.”

That gets roars of laughter - everybody’s on at least their third round at this point, and anything with a gay reference is automatically going to be a hit - but Hannibal feels cold inside, sick. Fuck. That kid, Peck, did he... and then he shoves it aside. No, no, Pike was just taking a stab at his calling General Morrison to ask for back-up on this O-Call thing, not...not that.

The rest of the alpha team leads are far more enthusiastic about this whole thing, bantering back and forth with some of the other ranking guys in the room, in-jokes and mission references flying fast and thick, and Hannibal makes a mental note to pick up on as much of that as possible, as fast as possible.

And things flow on. The waitresses come around and distribute more long-necks. More good-natured insults are hurtled. The deputy gets up with announcements and a list of things he never wants to see in mission reports again - “if one of you motherfuckers ever puts the words titties on paper again and it gets to me, I’m gonna kill all y’all” - and judging from the way the men are laughing along, he’s a fairly popular figure around here.

Hannibal’s eye keeps going back to Pike, though. Pike, who’s sitting in the back of the room with Lt Peck and some other guy in a Hawaiian shirt and baseball cap, who keeps flicking sugar packets at him. Peck’s trying to grab his hands, unsuccessfully, and then Hawaiian shirt jerks, like he’s just been kicked under the table.

Then, before Hannibal realizes it, the deputy’s staring at him and one of the captains is holding out the mic the deputy was just using and there’s a kind of expectant silence in the room. His turn. Fuck, he almost missed it.

Hannibal covers with an exaggerated yawn and an overloud “done? You were putting me to sleep there, Jim” that gets chuckles from the front few rows of tables, and he gets up, hoping like hell he’s not going to embarrass himself on this.

“As you all know by now, I’m your new commander, Lieutenant Colonel John Smith. Feel free to call me Hannibal downrange, I usually...”

“Elephants!” It’s screamed from somewhere in the room, joyous and happy, like a kid finding out the state fair had pony rides. “We gettin’ elephants now, bossman?”

There’s some laughter and some grumbling, but more of the former, since everybody’s on their third round by now, and Hannibal laughs along with it, wondering who said it. “I think you’ll find, soldier, that I’m willing to use almost anything to get the job done, so if that’s going to be elephants sometime...”

“Take ‘em over the Alps! Proficiscor trans Rubicon. Proficiscor in Rome!”

More laughter, and Hannibal, feeling strangely better despite the sheer oddness of the Latin being screamed out in the middle of the Club, keeps going. But as he does, he realizes that voice came from the Hawaiian shirt next to Pike, and wonders if maybe that isn’t the pilot he was talking about.

When he concludes, everybody applauds because now they can get to the serious drinking. Hannibal just lights up a cigar and turns to his deputy.

“That guy, the one who was yelling in Latin...something I need to be worried about?”

The deputy raises an eyebrow. “Murdock? He’s fuckin’ crazy, but he’s supposed to be a genius pilot. That’s what Pike likes to say about him.”

Murdock. Right. The captain. Hannibal nods, and rolls his cigar thoughtfully between his fingers. “And what would you say about Pike?”

“What anybody around here would. He’s an asshole, but he gets results, can’t argue with that.” The deputy shrugs, and squints at his beer. “Christ, getting low. You need another one, boss?”

Truth be told, he hasn’t finished his first yet. “I’ll get it myself,” Hannibal replies, and wonders how long it’s going to take him to get over to Pike’s team.

There aer a lot of hands to shake, though, to get to that side of the room. A lot of upstanding Rangers who want to shake his hand and know if the stories about him are true, if he really spent the last three years on black-ops missions in Burma or if that one thing in Desert Storm that won him the Medal of Honor really was that bad-ass. He smiles and laughs and asks wives’ names and claps them on the back and keeps moving. It feels good, it really does, being back in the Rangers, being back in a proper O-Club again, being in charge of something, a mission, a unit, a group of men, that really matters again.

And he forgets all about Pike, and Peck, and Murdock, until the sound of shattering glass pulls everyone’s attention to the bar.

Hannibal has the advantage of height, so even from across the packed room, he can see the female bartender flattened back against the coolers on the wall as Converse sneakers kick out, inches from her face. It’s the captain in the Hawaiian shirt, Murdock, sprawled out on the bar top, flailing, screaming in some Middle Eastern language Hannibal doesn't speak, but recognizes. It sounds like the man's terrified.

Nobody's helping, which is bizarre. They're all watching, like they expect this or something. Like it's normal. But at least that kid, Peck, is already on it, bodily dragging him off, hands under his armpits, half-holding him as he hauls the man from the room. Hannibal can’t quite tell, but he thinks the pilot’s singing in German, or something like that.

The scene gets a few shrugs and the hole that Peck’s departure left in the crowd fills back up almost instantly. Hannibal shoves forward, making for the spot, everyone moving out of his way automatically, but his gaze fixes on Pike, who’s a few seats down at the counter, drinking and laughing with one of the other officers.

“Aren’t those your boys?” Hannibal snaps, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction where Peck and Murdock disappeared.

Pike shrugs, like it doesn’t fucking matter. “The asshole just got out of the clinic, it happens. Face’s got it handled.”

“Face?” Hannibal asks, feeling his ire starting to rise.

“Oh, excuse me, Colonel. Lieutenant Peck,” the major replies sarcastically, and goes back to whoever he was talking to.

Hannibal rolls his eyes, but doesn’t push it. It’s not going to get him anywhere, and besides, right now, for all he knows, the pilot could be having a psychotic episode in the parking lot.

So he heads out.

Hannibal doesn’t find them right away. The Club parking lot is filled to capacity, and people had been parking on the street. Cars stretch down both sides of the street, in both directions, and Hannibal stares down the curb, trying to spot them.

In the end, it’s not what he sees, but what he hears, that pulls his attention. It’s not quite talking, not quite yelling, not quite crying. It sounds, if he’s being honest, like some child having a fit.

Close enough.

As he heads in the directions of those big, gulping sobs, Hannibal has to choke down the sudden lance of memory that simple analogy brings to mind for him. Maggie, a doctor, never had time for kids. Sure, she said she’d wanted them at first, and then there was med school when they were dating and residency after they got married and then she was pulling graveyard shifts in the ER for a year, and he got sent to Columbia after that, and at some point in that sordid twelve year relationship they stopped having sex, then stopped sleeping in the same bed, then... and then there was no chance for kids. At all. Ever again.

And Hannibal had wanted children. Really wanted them. Wanted everything that came with them, all those diapers and first steps and awkward school plays and runny noses and skinned knees, wanted to teach his son how to hunt, wanted to tell his daughter her clothes were complete age inappropriate, wanted to watch them graduate high school and send them to some overpriced college and hold Maggie’s hand at their weddings...he’d wanted it all so bad it hurts to think about it now...

So he doesn’t. Hannibal wipes the beading moisture off his lashes and pulls his rank back around him and finds a mess that’s much worse than whatever hollow regrets he’s feeling at the moment.

A little ways beyond the nearest street light, Peck has Murdock up against the side of a car, pinning him down by the shoulders, knee jammed between his legs, trying to keep him still, talking low in his ear. The pilot’s fighting him, squirming and struggling, trying to push him off, babbling at him in half a dozen languages, spitting in his face, and Hannibal hurries towards it.

“Lieutenant!” he barks, and even in this light, he can see those beautiful blue eyes snap up to meet him, confused. “Lieutenant, stand down!”

Wordlessly, Peck peels back and Murdock literally shoots forward, as if loosed from a catapult, something manic in his expression, and Hannibal catches him before he can take off, holding him tight. Murdock’s half yelling in what sounds like Urdu, and he’s thrashing, but Hannibal doesn’t let go. Lays a hand on his head, cradling him into his shoulder, stroking lightly through messy black locks with his figners. “Shh, calm down, captain, it’s okay,” he whispers in the man’s ear, taking a wild stab at what the problem might be and what might fix it. “You’re safe. You aren’t back there. You’re at Fort Lewis, you’re safe, it’s okay...”

He keeps up the mantra for a while longer, watching Peck out of the corner of his eye as he does it. The kid’s taken up position against the car, leaning in on a shoulder, head cocked. Almost jealous, it seems, but Hannibal tells himself he’s just imagining things. It was one fucking night.

Eventually, Murdock lets out a little moan and sags, going as limp as a ragdoll in Hannibal’s arms. He’s still whimpering, but he’s stopped fighting. If Hannibal didn’t know better, he’d say he was asleep.

“How the fuck did you do that?” the kid asks, curious. “Crazy here usually doesn’t stop unless I sedate him...”

“That your solution to the problem?” Hannibal asks, sharper than he meant to.

That curiosity fades. “Pike’s, cause, you know, field...”

The colonel feels his blood heat. The Army has doctors, good doctors, who specialize in PTSD and, hopefully, whatever the hell else is wrong with Murdock. Why hasn’t anybody gotten him the help he actually needs? But he can talk to Russ about that particular problem later. He looks over at Peck and kicks over at the door panel of the car. “This yours?”

“Yeah...”

“Then let’s get him home. Can we do that?”

Those blue eyes flick down to Murdock, who’s gone from sagging to clinging, and then back up to Hannibal. “You comin’, sir? Cause I’m really not...”

Hannibal holds up a hand. “Don’t finish that sentence, Peck. He’s in your unit. Where the fuck’s your sense of responsibility for a brother Ranger?”

A second of hesitation, and then the kid snaps at him with an uncertain little, “I’m out here with him, aren’t I?” and unlocks the doors.

Hannibal eases the pilot into the back seat and slides in next to him. Upon getting horizontal, Murdock curls up, head in the colonel’s lap, one hand clenching at his thigh, the other kneading, like a cat trying to calm itself, and doesn’t let up for the entirety of the twenty minute drive. Peck doesn’t talk at all. The atmosphere in the beater vehicle is oppressive, uncomfortable, stifled. It’s the most unpleasant ride Hannibal can remember having in a long, long time, and he's glad when they finally pull into the garage of a big house in a decent subdivision.

"It's nice," Hannibal comments as Peck helps him ease the pilot out of the back seat. "Does Captain Murdock have a big family, then?"

The lieutenant gives him a look like he's insane for even suggesting such a thing. "It's Pike's place. But it's, ahh, it's cheaper for us all to live here with him...”

Cheaper? Hannibal repeats to himself in the silence of his head. Since when the fuck does that have anything to do with anything? “What’s the real reason, Peck?”

Blue eyes are worried now, and Peck shakes his head. “Come on, let’s get him inside.”

There’s no them on the effort, though. The lieutenant skips ahead, leaving the inside door open. Hannibal carries Murdock as far as the living room, up the garage steps into the house. Somebody who lives here works on cars, judging by the toolsets, and judging from the fact that all those chests are locked and bolted to the wall, Hannibal’s willing to wager they aren’t Pike’s. The cookware in the sink in the kitchen looks to be the good stuff, loveingly cared for, but he’s pretty sure Pike’s not the one who cooks here. And the furniture doesn’t really match the major, either; it’s a bachelor pad, but tasteful and understated, and expensive, and remarkably neat. It’s all very odd, which means it has to be a reflection of the other men who actually live here...

As Hannibal settles the captain down on a couch, figuring that’s good enough, he hears the stairs creak, and finally sees the fourth member of this strange little team.

A big black guy, muscled arms buldging with tattoos, crossed across his chest, watching. “What you want, fool?” he grunts.

Peck comes out of the kitchen, a six-pack of beer in hand, and tosses the big guy a can of Coors. “Colonel Smith, meet Corporal Baracus. BA, Hannibal. Be nice to him, would ya? He got Murdock to calm down without drugging him up.”

The big guy grunts again, and stomps right back up the stairs. The lieutenant’s shoulders sag a bit, and he goes back in the kitchen.

On the couch, Murdock stirs, cracks an eye. Looks right at Hannibal, real fear in his eyes, and moans, dragging a pillow down over his face. Hannibal just pats his hand and stands, almost bumping into Peck, who has a glass of water and a palmful of pills in his hand. He yanks the pillow away and none too gently prods Murdock up into a seated position. Pills and water exchange hands.

Hannibal can’t help but be struck by how fucking miserable they both look.

What the hell is going on here?

“Come on, sir,” Peck sighs, and brandishes his car keys over his shoulder as he walks back towards the garage. “I’ll take you back to your party.”

Peck pulls up at the curb a ways down from the Club entrance, in the dark between the street lights. Hannibal can see the parking lot. Same cars, different cars...some of the Rangers are gone, then, the rest of the base coming in for the night. Full house, probably. Hannibal’ll be expected. He knows this. It’s how it works. He remembers that. He remembers how all of this works...

It takes Peck a couple of tries to get the shifter into first, a grinding noise Hannibal can almost feel coming up from the gearbox, and finally, the lieutenant just gives up, throws it in neutral and pulls the parking brake instead. “Your stop, sir,” he drawls.

Hannibal wonders why the kid drive such a piece of shit, but doesn’t think it’s a good time to ask. There are a lot of things going through his mind that probably aren’t the best of topics to bring up right now. “Thanks,” he says instead, sticking with something simple and obvious.

It still gets Peck’s eyes narrowing at him, like he can’t figure out why he’s being thanked. “How’d you know how to do that with Murdock?”

“I’ve seen it before,” Hannibal tells him slowly, remembering the visits to Walter Reid he used to make with Maggie. “He’s obviously suffering some kind of PTSD, kid. Reliving events, seeing things that aren’t there... how’d he get like that, anyway?”

And that gets him a shrug. “Before my time,” Peck replies. “He was like that when he got him, fresh out of a Mexico asylum.”

“Mexico?” Hannibal asks, startled. “What was he...”

“How the fuck should I know? I just have to deal with the fucking mess that’s there. He won’t talk to me about it, so...”

It’s bitter and harsh and pained and naked, so goddamn naked, that Hannibal finds himself laying his hand over Peck’s, where it’s gripping the shifter so hard his knuckles are going white.

Peck looks up at him, distrust on that handsome face, and something else underneath it, something so, so lost, so depressed, so sad, and all too terribly familiar for Hannibal to stand. He holds those eyes with his, brushes fingertips up the younger man’s arm, shoulder, neck, and then he’s cupping that fine chin with his own palm, Peck leaning forward into him, that sadness in his eyes starting to shift, become something...

And then the kid’s cell phone rings, loud and harsh and jerking them apart. “Fuck,” Peck mutters, so close Hannibal can almost taste the words, and fumbles his cell out of his pocket. “Lieutenant Peck. What can I do for you, sir?”

Hannibal sighs, and falls back against the collapsed passenger seat, just listening, heart sinking a little more with each passing word.

“No, major, I’m out... yeah, out, it’s fucking Friday, what do you think I’d be doing...yeah, getting my dick sucked, I’ll get there...no, I’ve got no idea where BA went, he was home when I dropped Murdock off...do you want me to fucking call him...no? Why the fuck are you in my face about it...”

It goes on like that for a little while longer, until Peck finally shuts the phone and tosses it in the back seat, staring down at the wheel for a moment before shaking himself and smiling over at Hannibal.

“So, uh,” he says, biting his lip a little in a way that goes straight to Hannibal’s cock, “you still want to go back to the party, sir?”

Hannibal stares back at that fake smile, all the strength the kid’s trying to project, the way he’s crumbling underneath. And no, the though of dealing with all that crowd, all the revelrie in the Club, after the sad scene at Pike’s house, after that fucking one-sided conversation, is more than the colonel can bear at the moment.

He knows he should walk away from this, though. From this POS car, from Peck, from everything the kid’s offering right now. It’s a terrible idea. Truly, truly terrible. He just needs sex tonight, that voice tells him. He’s trying to get you right now because he needs sex and here you are. He only wants sex, there's nothing here, he doesn't give a damn about you...

But that's okay.

Because there’s something nice about being needed. Something nice about being able to give another human being something they need. Hannibal remembers that. Maggie used to need him, need what he could do for her, once upon a time, back when she was too tired from school to stay awake in the shower. When he’d hold her up, kiss her as she arched sleepily into his hands, slip gentle fingers into her silky heat, feel her shiver with pleasure in his arms...

“I’m in base housing,” he replies now, trying not to think about Maggie. He hasn’t thought about Maggie in months. Why is it all assaulting him like this now, anyway? “You got a place off-post in mind, kid?”

That gets him a grin, a wide one, shaded with honest excitement. “It’s Face, and fuck yes I do,” he says, and grinds the car back into motion.

Later, as Hannibal’s got the kid - Face, and doesn’t that nickname suit him to a fucking T? - shoved against the wall in some other, less crappy motel, pants around their ankles, thrusting up into him, listening to him gasp, holding his hands to the dirty wallpaper, nose buried in that strong neck, the colonel tries to tell himself again. It doesn’t mean anything, the kid doesn’t trust him, the kid probably doesn’t even like him.

He doesn’t care, though. There’s something broken in this sarcastic, deceptive, beautiful young man, something broken in his life, something broken but salvageable, something Hannibal needs to save, needs to uncover and nurture and...

As Face shudders apart in his hands, as that sweet body clamps down around his cock, buried deep inside, Hannibal comes harder than he ever did in the shower with Maggie. They collapse in a pile to the floor, panting against each other's skin, the younger man asking how long it'll be before they can go again, and Hannibal realizes he needs this every bit as much as Face.

+++++

They’re laying in bed together, the younger man’s head on Hannibal’s belly, ragged exhalations blowing warm air across the older man’s spent, spit-slick cock, the evidence of the kid’s third orgasm cast in thick, caking strands on the sheets below, Hannibal’s second just dribbling from the edges of that sweet, half-closed mouth, hands soft in Hannibal’s lap. He’s basically comatose, or asleep, or else he doesn’t want to talk, but he hasn’t moved in nearly ten minutes.

For his part, Hannibal’s stroking his fingers through the short strands of that beautiful hair, wishing there was more for him to hold onto, feeling the sweat beaded up on the back of that elegant neck, wondering about him. Why he doesn’t have somebody in his life. Why he drives a shit car like that. Why he let his commander order him into a living situation like that. Why he’s so miserable and why he hasn’t done anything about it.

Why he picked him out at the club last week.

Why he himself cares about this boy, or Pike, or that team, or any of it.

Sure, there’s an element of his rank and position involved in all of this; one of the things that’s been beaten into him since the first day of Beast at West Point was the responsibility of officers to take care of their men. It’s lesson number one. The only one that really matters. If your men respect you, if your men know you’re going to back them up, if they know they can trust you, if they love you...what was that Sun Tzu quote? Treat your men as you would your beloved children, and they will follow you into the deepest battles, or something like that.

Hannibal, back before he got out of the field, saw that a dozen times over. His men always loved him, he always loved his men, and they always came out victorious. And it extends past the battlefield, out into very simple things, the simplest of things, into every aspect of life in the Army. It’s instinct at this point, however dormant it’s been for the past three years, however he’s been able to hide away in staff jobs where he had nobody under him, nobody who relied on him for leadership. You fucking take care of your men, end of story. The thought of somebody abusing their rank, their power, twisting that most important relationship into something ugly and cruel, like Pike obviously has with these boys, makes his blood boil.

But it’s more than that, isn’t it? that voice asks him as he watches Face’s chest rise and fall more steadily now. It’s more than just responsibility, because if you were responsible, you would have sent the kid home...

Maybe it is more, or just more, in a different way, because he wants to wrap this boy up in his arms, wrap him up and hold him and keep him safe from everything that’s wrong in his life...that could just be that, right? It doesn’t have to be more. It can’t be more. It...

But the harsh ring of his cell phone cuts through his thoughts, and Hannibal groans at the sound of it. It has to be past midnight. What could that possibly...and then he remembers. He’s the commander now. One of his boys is probably in trouble now.

Fuck.

He scoots up, trying to roll Face off of him as gently as possible, but the boy just grabs for his thigh instead, holding on, making a little disgruntled noise in protest. It’s so pure that Hannibal has to chuckle at it. He bends down and kisses the soft skin behind one fine ear before he realizes what he’s doing.

“Gotta get up, kid,” he murmurs. “It’s probably a problem.”

“Fuck the military,” the kid grunts back, and clings tighter.

It’s innocent, really, but the smile on Hannibal’s lips fades as he hears it. “I still gotta get it,” he tells him, and slides out of that warm grasp, going for his jeans.

Hannibal grabs his cell - the number on caller ID comes up as Command Post and the time reads 0215 - and flips it open, holding it up to his ear. “Colonel Smith,” he answers, yawning a bit. “What’s going on?”

“Colonel Smith, sir, this is Sergeant Meglio from the Fort Lewis Command Post, and I’m calling you to inform you, sir, that one of your men is in lock-up downtown.”

Hannibal huffs. “Who is it, sergeant?”

“A Corporal Bosco Baracus. Seattle PD called it into us about ten minutes ago. He’s down at the Thirty-Third Precinct...” and he starts rattling off an address and bail figures and details. Hannibal listens, and nods to himself, even though this doesn’t make any sense. Baracus? He was at home not five hours ago, wasn’t he? He catches Face’s eye, mouths BA at him, and the kid rolls his eyes. Well...

“Have you notified Major Pike of this, sergeant?”

“No sir, not yet. You’re the first person on the roster, so...”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, thanks for the information. Make sure you pass it along to Major Pike. It’s one of his boys, I’m sure he’ll want to handle it himself.”

“Roger that, sir,” the sergeant on the other end says. “Sorry for the wake-up.”

“No problem, Sergeant Meglio,” Hannibal replies, and snaps the phone shut.

And looks over at Face.

“Your corporal’s in jail downtown for fighting. Guess he broke a guy’s arm in some bar?”

Face sighs, forcing himself up into a sitting position. He grabs the phone, tosses it away again, smiles that devious little smile of his. “Well, since we’re both awake again now, wanna see if I can go it a fourth time?” His hand sneaks down between Hannibal’s legs, brushing the top of his cock.

But as tempting as that offer is, Hannibal can’t take it right now. He grabs that hand and tugs Face around, so they’re facing each other. “Is this some kind of habit with him?” he asks, unable to resist touching again.

Face shivers as a big hand runs down his spine, and he shakes his head in response. “Fighting or getting arrested?”

“Both. Either.”

“Look, Hannibal, I don’t really give a shit what he does in his off time...”

Hannibal cups his ass and pulls him close, not really sure if he’s trying to manipulate the kid, or if he really just wants to say... “Templeton, come on, tell me.”

The kid’s eyes flick up to meet his, confused, worried, very much surprised at hearing his given name, but it works. Sucking that lower lip in again, Face nods. “He’s into...you know MMA? Mixed martial arts? BA’s into that. I think there’s a gym or something he likes to go to...”

“You think?”

“It’s not exactly like we’re buddies! I just see the membership bills that come in the mail!” the kid snaps defensively, and then looks away. “Anyway, there’s this whole culture that comes along with it or something, they fight too much and drink too much and fuck biker girls, shit like that. So sometimes he gets in barfights.”

Bar fights? That just pisses Hannibal off. What kind of self-respecting Ranger goes out and gets into bar fights?

What kind of self-respecting Ranger spends years fucking men over in Asia? that taunting voice shoots back, and the colonel realizes the kids staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Pike gonna get him out?”

Face snorts derisively, and leans in, plastering his body to Hannibal’s, hand seeking out his cock once again. “Come on, Hannibal, please? I’d bet you anything I can get one more out of you tonight...”

Hannibal allows himself to be pressed back down to the bed, lets Face start kissing a hot, wet line down his chest. He can’t resist, he just has to run his hands back through that hair.

“You like my hair, Hannibal, hmm?” Face purrs, looking up at him as his fingers caress one of the colonel’s nipples. “You keep touching it.”

“You should grow it out,” he rumbles back.

That gets his nipple pinched. “Kinky bastard,” the kid laughs.

Both of them dark in the darkness of the motel room, Hannibal wonders what the hell is wrong with him. And then those talented lips just barely touch the head of his cock, and, breathing deep, Hannibal figures whatever he’s going to to about this Baracus situation, he can do it tomorrow.

But when he shows up at the precinct jail the next morning, 0800 sharp, freshly showered and scrubbed clean of all evidence of the night’s activities, staring through the bars of the crowded hold cell as the trooper hollers for Bosco Baracus, Hannibal wishes he’d shoved the kid off of him and come here direct.

More regrets.

God, the last thing he needs are more regrets.