sonora_coneja (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sonora_coneja) wrote2010-10-29 10:34 pm
sonora_coneja) wrote2010-10-29 10:34 pm
Better Circumstances
Pairing: Face/Lynch, Face/Hannibal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
I'd like Face being required to seduce the bad guy (who's psychotically dangerous)as part of the plan, and not knowing how far he'll have to take it. Hannibal hates this plan, but for whatever reason -maybe there's a life at stake - they have to go ahead with it, and now he's concerned that Face will hesitate at the wrong moment, endangering himself and the op. So as a preventative measure, Hannibal decides to give Face some hands-on instructions on how to sex-up a guy.
If you can include Face having to seduce the bad guy - as far as you want to take it, anon, while a seriously unhappy Hannibal can only sit and wait (or if the rooms bugged, listen in!), that'd be the icing on the cake :) First time H/F or even gen if you want to really put a twist on it. Lots of angst and h/c. Movie-verse please.
The CIA approaches Hannibal to help them out with a sting to capture Lynch. The plan involves Face, and Hannibal wants to make sure he survives the encounter. Face doesn’t want this Lynch to be his first time with a man. Angst ensues.
Supposedly, this job isn’t supposed to include sex. Hannibal can still hear the voice in his head, a smooth, easy, unconcerned voice, telling him that. “We know he’s a bit of a weird-o...”
“Pervert...”
“Use your word, I’m fine with that Just find him and keep him busy long enough for us to pinpoint the location.”
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
“I don’t really care. You know what he’s up to. Besides,” and this was the part where Face put a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder to stop him from getting out of his chair, “I’d hate to have to turn you boys into the authorities.”
And that was the part where Face agreed to do it.
The CIA was kind enough to provide a goodie bag of tech. A bug, encased to look like that molar Face lost when he was a kid, a GPS tracker shot between the flesh of his toes, stuff that goes cold and passive during scans so they don’t find it on Face when the grab him from a hotel lobby, just like Hannibal had planned.
This plan makes him sick.
Over the mic, he can hear everything. BA told him not to listen, but Hannibal can’t help himself. He can’t let his man, his boy, his Face, be out there, alone, dealing with this, alone. The little pants and gasps and moans come through with shocking clarity.
“We need you to maintain positive control of the fugitive. It may take us a few days, but we’ll be there. Keep him interested, or he’ll just shoot you.”
“I suppose that isn’t a problem for you guys.”
“Tracker keeps working if he’s dead. But dead people can’t follow their mark, so we’d prefer that not happen.”
Face is doing a good job of keeping himself in the game. Hannibal just wants to shoot the guy. Whatever the CIA has in mind for their escapee, it better be good.
“Shh, Peck, you’re doing great. Always suspected you had a bit of an authority kink, the way Hannibal bossed you around.”
“Fuck you.”
There’s hard, resounding contact of flesh, and Hannibal winces. Face probably just struck on the face. “You’re doing a great job of that already. Tell me you don’t like it.”
Another crash, like Face has been flipped and hit the desk. “Tell me you don’t like it,” that too-familiar voice insists, and an absolutely wanton moan erupts from Face.
Hannibal slides the headphones off his ears, letting them dangle around his neck. His forehead hits the desk. He’d heard that himself, before the CIA had caught up to them in Thailand, before they’d gotten shanghaied into this mission, before Face had grimly drunk himself into a stupor in that lobby.
After the agent had left, Hannibal ordered Murdock and BA out of the hotel room. The room was huge, a suite on top of the hotel, overlooking the bright lights of Bangkok. The kind of place they could never scam. It was an expense. Classy location to ask for such a thing as they had.
“I’m doing this, Hannibal,” Face had said.
“We’ve gotten away from them before.”
“We’ve gotten away from the military before,” the conman corrected. “The CIA’s a different story, and we both know that.”
“There’s got to be another way...”
“Lynch has what, how many millions invested in the black market down here? We need to stop him.”
“Not like this.”
“Those guns are used to kill kids, Hannibal!”
They stared at each other across the gleaming tile for a minute, and then Hannibal had fallen into a chair. “You’ve never done before, have you kid?”
“I’ve been with guys,” Face said, looking a little jolted by the question.
“Not some damn handjob in basic training, kid. You ever been fucked?”
A small tube of slick had been pressed into Hannibal’s hand, part of Face’s ever-ready supply. “Why don’t you show me, boss?”
“Kid...”
Face had straddled his lap, let one hand slide down under Hannibal’s shirt, just below the bellybutton, where that light trail of silvery hair began. The other arm he laid on the colonel’s shoulder, wrapping around his head and pulling him close. He’d brushed his lips, light and uncertain, over the older man’s, and that light bit of friction nearly undid him completely. “Hannibal, I need to know what I’m doing. Please don’t let him be my first go at this.”
It was so unfair. So unfair that it had to be like this, that something he’d wanted for so long had to come at this price, and probably never again, after this. So unfair that he can still taste Face on his lips, still feel his mouth down there, the tremble in his shoulders as he fought against his body to follow the simple, whispered instructions. So unfair that Face had born the stretching and the penatration with his cheek resting on his palms, stoic, fighting his responses until Hannibal ordered him to let himself go.
Hannibal wants to undo Face, wants to make every nerve sing, take him higher than thought could follow, make him forget everything but Hannibal’s name. Wants to give the kid everything. But instead, here he is, in a ratty apartment across the street from Lynch’s safehouse, listening as the kid let the crazed ex-agent bring him to orgasm. Again.
It’s been keeping Lynch interested.
He was good. Hannibal had shown the kid how to fuck. Women, a long time ago. Men, last week. But soon enough, Hannibal promises himself as he slips the headphones back on, he’ll teach Face everything he knows about how to make love.
“Good boy,” Lynch is crooning.
Soon enough. It can’t come soon enough.
Face didn’t want it to be this way. Not like this, forced and sweating, Hannibal almost afraid to touch him, afraid to not. He wanted nips and little, knowing brushes of skin, hands along his scalp, guiding him home. He lied; he’s never really done this before.
He’s never met another man who measured up, and there was always too much to lose before; commission, team, Hannibal himself. Hannibal was the only one he'd ever wanted. Nobody else was worth it.
The way things are going now, Face wishes he’d said something sooner.
Hannibal is good at this, little throaty whispers guiding Face’s hands and tongue, reassurance as he explains all the right places, all the little buttons to push. There’s a certain degree of fear to the older man’s ministrations, and Face know that he’s thinking about what could happen.
That if this doesn’t work, if Face can’t make it worth it, Lynch will just put a bullet in his brain and weigh his body down in the Chao Phraya River and that’s the end of Faceman Peck.
The show’s as good as the tell, and Face is a quick study. It doesn’t take long before Hannibal’s slicking a finger up into him.
“This is probably going to hurt a lot more,” Hannibal says apologetically, moving around. It’s an interesting feeling.
Face can see the Bangkok nightline outside the vast wall of windows. “Then make it hurt.”
“Don’t ask me to do that, kid.”
But the finger comes out, brushing the prostate, sad and slow, and then there’s a sensation of filling, hard and hot and a little uncomfortable. Still. It’s Hannibal. Inside him. It takes all of Face’s willpower not to buck up into that, fill that need smoldering ever since he pushed the lube into Hannibal’s hand. Before.
“Move, kid. Make him think that your mind is fighting your own body.”
It’s more like the opposite, Face thinks, his body not wanting something his heart desperately does. “Don’t pull out until you’re done, boss.”
“Face...”
When it’s over, neither one of them really know what to do.
it’s as good a time as any to hit the specified bar and get this over with. Hannibal gives Face the address after he showers. Mostly to get the smell off. It’s so humid outside he’s going to be dripping wet again in no time. “You don’t have to do this, Face.”
“Thanks for the tutorial, boss,” Face replies, and heads out into the night.
+++++
Hannibal wasn’t rough enough, it turns out. Not nearly rough enough. It was probably an unfair thing to ask of him, anyway.
Lynch is intrigued. That’s good, right? “After your little container trick, Face, I think you’d be harder to catch than this.”
“Up yours, asshole.”
The guy’s paid thugs dragged Face back here, and he’s trussed up in a corner, hands tied to his ankles behind his back, completely naked. Lynch doesn’t say anything.
Face recognizes the tactics. Army Field Manual? Fucking fairytale. The CIA never followed that thing; they’re capable of much worse, and much of it isn’t physical. Being naked’s supposed to make him nervous. And from him, from 1LT Templeton Peck, Lynch will expect defiance. It’s not hard to fake.
But the ex-agent just squats down on his heels, his .308 in hand. He forces up Face’s chin with the gun. “I don’t think I’m the one who’s had something up his ass tonight, lieutenant. What, you and Hannibal get in a lovers’ spat?”
Responding wouldn’t be good. Let him work himself up. Let him get interested.
“I knew you two were up to something. That wasn’t exactly a father-son vibe I was picking up. So, you guys keep it exclusive?”
“He gave me a promise ring last week,” Face snarks. He wonders if Hannibal can hear him, if Hannibal’s listening, like he promised he would. He’d never doubt the boss. But this, this has to be hard to hear.
“Yeah, those Bangkok hookers’ll do it every time. You should get tested when you get home.”
“Fuck you.” He pitches his voice perfectly.
“I swear, Face, you are giving me so many ideas right now. You’re just so cute like that.”
Hook, line and sinker.
Six, maybe seven nights. There are millions of apartments in Bangkok, it seems, and Lynch has a key to every one of them. They move two or three times. When Lynch isn’t fucking him, he’s blindfolded, gagged and bound, earplugs jammed into his ears. It’s a weird way to pass a week.
Face doesn’t trust the CIA. He never did. They’re playing a game with his team. He’s convinced of that. It doesn’t bother him, though. Lynch is an evil bastard, to which Face’s ass and the raw skin, elbows to wrist, can attest. Face confirmed the gun-running thing. The bastard deserves to die.
Things aren’t great. Bearable, and barely that. But Face has had a lifetime of experience in compartmentalizing. It’s no big thing to lock himself away as the man ruts into him, remembering the almost shy touches, the hesitation, the consideration that Hannibal had shown, the way he wasn’t rough. The way he couldn’t be. How much Face trusts him
He does trust Hannibal. That’s the thread he clings to, the one he climbs back up to reach the surface where Lynch slaps him and calls him a whore. And it’s Hannibal in the end who saves him, the night Lynch breaks out the knife.
+++++
Hannibal doesn’t give a shit about the CIA’s plans. About what they want Lynch for. About anything but getting to Face after he hears the laugh on the radio.
BA’s not quick enough to stop him. Murdock doesn't try. They’re only two floors down, and remembering it later, Hannibal will swear his vision goes red, and he doesn’t remember climbing the crumbling concrete flights. It doesn’t clear until his gun fires its third shot and the body hits the ground.
“A little help here, boss?” Face asks, a little breathless. He’s pushed himself up against the wall, a single shallow cut leaking red from armpit to sternum, feet bound, and he’s got an unsteady smile playing on his lips.
The most fucking gorgeous thing on the planet.
Hannibal holsters the weapon against his thigh, and he’s pulling Face to his feet, holding him as the younger man’s fists ball into his shirt, the blood flowing a little bit faster, tears just starting. Hannibal can’t take that.
"You okay?"
"Fucker didn't even try the crying baby bullshit. Amateur."
His thumb rubs across Face’s chin. “We’re done here.”
“Should have let me shoot him,” Face grumbles as he’s pulled from the room, but Hannibal had more of a claim on that. He doesn’t let anyone touch what’s his.
Hotels are pretty cheap in Bangkok, even the good ones, and the staff’s used to seeing all sorts of bizarre things. Hannibal points this out. Murdock and BA are upstairs, waiting for them.
“Still, don’t you find it kind of funny none of them stopped us?” Face laughs weakly as Hannibal bundles him through the lobby of the Hilton, and into the waiting elevator.
“We should take you to a hospital,” Hannibal says.
“In this country? You have got to be shitting me.”
“You might need stitches.” And not for the chest wound, which is already closing.
Face leans his forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Take me home, boss.”
He gets the younger man cleaned up and in bed. Leaving instructions with BA, he take Murdock with him on a fifty minute cab ride to a pay phone in a different neighborhood and makes a couple of calls.
He’s got that agent at the Siam Square Starbucks the next morning.
“It was good work, nice grouping on your shots,” the man tells him, sipping on a latte. "Clearly not losing your touch."
"An untraceable kill." Hannibal leans forward a little, shifting into threat mode. “You played me.”
“Lynch is dead, which we like, your man’s okay, which you like. What’s the problem?”
The former colonel tosses his coffee in the trash on his way out.
Everything’s fine. Face doesn't talk much. He winces sometimes when they touch him. He doesn't joke around with Murdock. But other than that, everything's fine.
The boys need a bit of a break anyway, so as soon as Face is able to walk without limping, they hit the train station and head south to Malaysia and one of its ubiquitous little islands with tiny resorts and no questions. Everything’s paid in cash. The CIA still probably knows where they are. Hannibal doesn't give a shit.
He wants his Face back.
+++++
Face heals up, hangs out on the beach, working on his tan. It reminds Hannibal of that time in Iraq. Maybe that’s why he thinks there’s something wrong.
Eventually, one night, sitting under the ineffective electric fan in their tiny, private longhouse, Hannibal sits down next to Face and tugs the cheesy spy novel out of his hands. The conman manages an indignant look. Murdock and BA are out on a night dive. They'll be moving into monsoon season soon, and there are no other guests out here. They’re completely alone.
“I was right at the part with the evil African dictator and the fight in the oil refinery,” Face complains, but Hannibal holds the book out of reach.
“When you asked me to make it hurt...”
Face throws himself back and stares up at the ceiling. Restless. “I’d never ask you for something like that, Hannibal. Not normally. You know that.”
“How bad was it, kid?”
“We are so not going to talk about that.”
“You can’t...”
“It wasn’t rape, Hannibal,” and the older man gets the strangest feeling that Face isn’t talking about Lynch. “Not the best circumstances, but it wasn’t rape.”
Hannibal’s got a hand on Face’s stomach now. When did that get there? His other hand moves up to the pillow, bringing them close. “Not the best circumstances?”
Face closes his eyes. “Never mind.”
“Would you like better circumstances?” Hannibal could kick himself for saying something like that, but it seems to do the trick. Face does a little move, and then his lips touch Hannibal’s, just like they did that night, but better. They’re open this time, like his eyes are now, and he can push his tongue in, a little push, and Face is groaning beneath him.
The little gasps light something inside the colonel, but he breaks away, far enough to put some words between them. “Tell me, kid.”
Face wraps urgent hands around his neck, and leans in for a long, pleading kiss.
Oh. That. The colonel’s heart starts hammering, excitement spreading. He tells himself to keep it under control. But he can’t help himself.
Hannibal lets his body thump down onto the thin bed, and draws Face in. He can taste the day’s heat on the man beneath him, caked onto that tanned, perfect skin of Face’s neck, trapped in over-long hair.
There’s the memory of ordering Face to arch his back, of pulling him off that filthy floor, bandaging torn wrists. Too vivid. Hannibal swallows. “No.”
The younger man pulls back. “Ever?”
There’s something unmistakable in his boy’s single word, something that tears him and fills him and swells inside him, and he can’t say no. He can’t let himself. He doesn’t want to. He can’t let go, not now.
Face folds himself against Hannibal’s chest. “Can we get there?”
His boy. Right where he belongs.
“Yeah, kid. I think we can.”
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
I'd like Face being required to seduce the bad guy (who's psychotically dangerous)as part of the plan, and not knowing how far he'll have to take it. Hannibal hates this plan, but for whatever reason -maybe there's a life at stake - they have to go ahead with it, and now he's concerned that Face will hesitate at the wrong moment, endangering himself and the op. So as a preventative measure, Hannibal decides to give Face some hands-on instructions on how to sex-up a guy.
If you can include Face having to seduce the bad guy - as far as you want to take it, anon, while a seriously unhappy Hannibal can only sit and wait (or if the rooms bugged, listen in!), that'd be the icing on the cake :) First time H/F or even gen if you want to really put a twist on it. Lots of angst and h/c. Movie-verse please.
The CIA approaches Hannibal to help them out with a sting to capture Lynch. The plan involves Face, and Hannibal wants to make sure he survives the encounter. Face doesn’t want this Lynch to be his first time with a man. Angst ensues.
Supposedly, this job isn’t supposed to include sex. Hannibal can still hear the voice in his head, a smooth, easy, unconcerned voice, telling him that. “We know he’s a bit of a weird-o...”
“Pervert...”
“Use your word, I’m fine with that Just find him and keep him busy long enough for us to pinpoint the location.”
“I’m not comfortable with this.”
“I don’t really care. You know what he’s up to. Besides,” and this was the part where Face put a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder to stop him from getting out of his chair, “I’d hate to have to turn you boys into the authorities.”
And that was the part where Face agreed to do it.
The CIA was kind enough to provide a goodie bag of tech. A bug, encased to look like that molar Face lost when he was a kid, a GPS tracker shot between the flesh of his toes, stuff that goes cold and passive during scans so they don’t find it on Face when the grab him from a hotel lobby, just like Hannibal had planned.
This plan makes him sick.
Over the mic, he can hear everything. BA told him not to listen, but Hannibal can’t help himself. He can’t let his man, his boy, his Face, be out there, alone, dealing with this, alone. The little pants and gasps and moans come through with shocking clarity.
“We need you to maintain positive control of the fugitive. It may take us a few days, but we’ll be there. Keep him interested, or he’ll just shoot you.”
“I suppose that isn’t a problem for you guys.”
“Tracker keeps working if he’s dead. But dead people can’t follow their mark, so we’d prefer that not happen.”
Face is doing a good job of keeping himself in the game. Hannibal just wants to shoot the guy. Whatever the CIA has in mind for their escapee, it better be good.
“Shh, Peck, you’re doing great. Always suspected you had a bit of an authority kink, the way Hannibal bossed you around.”
“Fuck you.”
There’s hard, resounding contact of flesh, and Hannibal winces. Face probably just struck on the face. “You’re doing a great job of that already. Tell me you don’t like it.”
Another crash, like Face has been flipped and hit the desk. “Tell me you don’t like it,” that too-familiar voice insists, and an absolutely wanton moan erupts from Face.
Hannibal slides the headphones off his ears, letting them dangle around his neck. His forehead hits the desk. He’d heard that himself, before the CIA had caught up to them in Thailand, before they’d gotten shanghaied into this mission, before Face had grimly drunk himself into a stupor in that lobby.
After the agent had left, Hannibal ordered Murdock and BA out of the hotel room. The room was huge, a suite on top of the hotel, overlooking the bright lights of Bangkok. The kind of place they could never scam. It was an expense. Classy location to ask for such a thing as they had.
“I’m doing this, Hannibal,” Face had said.
“We’ve gotten away from them before.”
“We’ve gotten away from the military before,” the conman corrected. “The CIA’s a different story, and we both know that.”
“There’s got to be another way...”
“Lynch has what, how many millions invested in the black market down here? We need to stop him.”
“Not like this.”
“Those guns are used to kill kids, Hannibal!”
They stared at each other across the gleaming tile for a minute, and then Hannibal had fallen into a chair. “You’ve never done before, have you kid?”
“I’ve been with guys,” Face said, looking a little jolted by the question.
“Not some damn handjob in basic training, kid. You ever been fucked?”
A small tube of slick had been pressed into Hannibal’s hand, part of Face’s ever-ready supply. “Why don’t you show me, boss?”
“Kid...”
Face had straddled his lap, let one hand slide down under Hannibal’s shirt, just below the bellybutton, where that light trail of silvery hair began. The other arm he laid on the colonel’s shoulder, wrapping around his head and pulling him close. He’d brushed his lips, light and uncertain, over the older man’s, and that light bit of friction nearly undid him completely. “Hannibal, I need to know what I’m doing. Please don’t let him be my first go at this.”
It was so unfair. So unfair that it had to be like this, that something he’d wanted for so long had to come at this price, and probably never again, after this. So unfair that he can still taste Face on his lips, still feel his mouth down there, the tremble in his shoulders as he fought against his body to follow the simple, whispered instructions. So unfair that Face had born the stretching and the penatration with his cheek resting on his palms, stoic, fighting his responses until Hannibal ordered him to let himself go.
Hannibal wants to undo Face, wants to make every nerve sing, take him higher than thought could follow, make him forget everything but Hannibal’s name. Wants to give the kid everything. But instead, here he is, in a ratty apartment across the street from Lynch’s safehouse, listening as the kid let the crazed ex-agent bring him to orgasm. Again.
It’s been keeping Lynch interested.
He was good. Hannibal had shown the kid how to fuck. Women, a long time ago. Men, last week. But soon enough, Hannibal promises himself as he slips the headphones back on, he’ll teach Face everything he knows about how to make love.
“Good boy,” Lynch is crooning.
Soon enough. It can’t come soon enough.
Face didn’t want it to be this way. Not like this, forced and sweating, Hannibal almost afraid to touch him, afraid to not. He wanted nips and little, knowing brushes of skin, hands along his scalp, guiding him home. He lied; he’s never really done this before.
He’s never met another man who measured up, and there was always too much to lose before; commission, team, Hannibal himself. Hannibal was the only one he'd ever wanted. Nobody else was worth it.
The way things are going now, Face wishes he’d said something sooner.
Hannibal is good at this, little throaty whispers guiding Face’s hands and tongue, reassurance as he explains all the right places, all the little buttons to push. There’s a certain degree of fear to the older man’s ministrations, and Face know that he’s thinking about what could happen.
That if this doesn’t work, if Face can’t make it worth it, Lynch will just put a bullet in his brain and weigh his body down in the Chao Phraya River and that’s the end of Faceman Peck.
The show’s as good as the tell, and Face is a quick study. It doesn’t take long before Hannibal’s slicking a finger up into him.
“This is probably going to hurt a lot more,” Hannibal says apologetically, moving around. It’s an interesting feeling.
Face can see the Bangkok nightline outside the vast wall of windows. “Then make it hurt.”
“Don’t ask me to do that, kid.”
But the finger comes out, brushing the prostate, sad and slow, and then there’s a sensation of filling, hard and hot and a little uncomfortable. Still. It’s Hannibal. Inside him. It takes all of Face’s willpower not to buck up into that, fill that need smoldering ever since he pushed the lube into Hannibal’s hand. Before.
“Move, kid. Make him think that your mind is fighting your own body.”
It’s more like the opposite, Face thinks, his body not wanting something his heart desperately does. “Don’t pull out until you’re done, boss.”
“Face...”
When it’s over, neither one of them really know what to do.
it’s as good a time as any to hit the specified bar and get this over with. Hannibal gives Face the address after he showers. Mostly to get the smell off. It’s so humid outside he’s going to be dripping wet again in no time. “You don’t have to do this, Face.”
“Thanks for the tutorial, boss,” Face replies, and heads out into the night.
+++++
Hannibal wasn’t rough enough, it turns out. Not nearly rough enough. It was probably an unfair thing to ask of him, anyway.
Lynch is intrigued. That’s good, right? “After your little container trick, Face, I think you’d be harder to catch than this.”
“Up yours, asshole.”
The guy’s paid thugs dragged Face back here, and he’s trussed up in a corner, hands tied to his ankles behind his back, completely naked. Lynch doesn’t say anything.
Face recognizes the tactics. Army Field Manual? Fucking fairytale. The CIA never followed that thing; they’re capable of much worse, and much of it isn’t physical. Being naked’s supposed to make him nervous. And from him, from 1LT Templeton Peck, Lynch will expect defiance. It’s not hard to fake.
But the ex-agent just squats down on his heels, his .308 in hand. He forces up Face’s chin with the gun. “I don’t think I’m the one who’s had something up his ass tonight, lieutenant. What, you and Hannibal get in a lovers’ spat?”
Responding wouldn’t be good. Let him work himself up. Let him get interested.
“I knew you two were up to something. That wasn’t exactly a father-son vibe I was picking up. So, you guys keep it exclusive?”
“He gave me a promise ring last week,” Face snarks. He wonders if Hannibal can hear him, if Hannibal’s listening, like he promised he would. He’d never doubt the boss. But this, this has to be hard to hear.
“Yeah, those Bangkok hookers’ll do it every time. You should get tested when you get home.”
“Fuck you.” He pitches his voice perfectly.
“I swear, Face, you are giving me so many ideas right now. You’re just so cute like that.”
Hook, line and sinker.
Six, maybe seven nights. There are millions of apartments in Bangkok, it seems, and Lynch has a key to every one of them. They move two or three times. When Lynch isn’t fucking him, he’s blindfolded, gagged and bound, earplugs jammed into his ears. It’s a weird way to pass a week.
Face doesn’t trust the CIA. He never did. They’re playing a game with his team. He’s convinced of that. It doesn’t bother him, though. Lynch is an evil bastard, to which Face’s ass and the raw skin, elbows to wrist, can attest. Face confirmed the gun-running thing. The bastard deserves to die.
Things aren’t great. Bearable, and barely that. But Face has had a lifetime of experience in compartmentalizing. It’s no big thing to lock himself away as the man ruts into him, remembering the almost shy touches, the hesitation, the consideration that Hannibal had shown, the way he wasn’t rough. The way he couldn’t be. How much Face trusts him
He does trust Hannibal. That’s the thread he clings to, the one he climbs back up to reach the surface where Lynch slaps him and calls him a whore. And it’s Hannibal in the end who saves him, the night Lynch breaks out the knife.
+++++
Hannibal doesn’t give a shit about the CIA’s plans. About what they want Lynch for. About anything but getting to Face after he hears the laugh on the radio.
BA’s not quick enough to stop him. Murdock doesn't try. They’re only two floors down, and remembering it later, Hannibal will swear his vision goes red, and he doesn’t remember climbing the crumbling concrete flights. It doesn’t clear until his gun fires its third shot and the body hits the ground.
“A little help here, boss?” Face asks, a little breathless. He’s pushed himself up against the wall, a single shallow cut leaking red from armpit to sternum, feet bound, and he’s got an unsteady smile playing on his lips.
The most fucking gorgeous thing on the planet.
Hannibal holsters the weapon against his thigh, and he’s pulling Face to his feet, holding him as the younger man’s fists ball into his shirt, the blood flowing a little bit faster, tears just starting. Hannibal can’t take that.
"You okay?"
"Fucker didn't even try the crying baby bullshit. Amateur."
His thumb rubs across Face’s chin. “We’re done here.”
“Should have let me shoot him,” Face grumbles as he’s pulled from the room, but Hannibal had more of a claim on that. He doesn’t let anyone touch what’s his.
Hotels are pretty cheap in Bangkok, even the good ones, and the staff’s used to seeing all sorts of bizarre things. Hannibal points this out. Murdock and BA are upstairs, waiting for them.
“Still, don’t you find it kind of funny none of them stopped us?” Face laughs weakly as Hannibal bundles him through the lobby of the Hilton, and into the waiting elevator.
“We should take you to a hospital,” Hannibal says.
“In this country? You have got to be shitting me.”
“You might need stitches.” And not for the chest wound, which is already closing.
Face leans his forehead on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Take me home, boss.”
He gets the younger man cleaned up and in bed. Leaving instructions with BA, he take Murdock with him on a fifty minute cab ride to a pay phone in a different neighborhood and makes a couple of calls.
He’s got that agent at the Siam Square Starbucks the next morning.
“It was good work, nice grouping on your shots,” the man tells him, sipping on a latte. "Clearly not losing your touch."
"An untraceable kill." Hannibal leans forward a little, shifting into threat mode. “You played me.”
“Lynch is dead, which we like, your man’s okay, which you like. What’s the problem?”
The former colonel tosses his coffee in the trash on his way out.
Everything’s fine. Face doesn't talk much. He winces sometimes when they touch him. He doesn't joke around with Murdock. But other than that, everything's fine.
The boys need a bit of a break anyway, so as soon as Face is able to walk without limping, they hit the train station and head south to Malaysia and one of its ubiquitous little islands with tiny resorts and no questions. Everything’s paid in cash. The CIA still probably knows where they are. Hannibal doesn't give a shit.
He wants his Face back.
+++++
Face heals up, hangs out on the beach, working on his tan. It reminds Hannibal of that time in Iraq. Maybe that’s why he thinks there’s something wrong.
Eventually, one night, sitting under the ineffective electric fan in their tiny, private longhouse, Hannibal sits down next to Face and tugs the cheesy spy novel out of his hands. The conman manages an indignant look. Murdock and BA are out on a night dive. They'll be moving into monsoon season soon, and there are no other guests out here. They’re completely alone.
“I was right at the part with the evil African dictator and the fight in the oil refinery,” Face complains, but Hannibal holds the book out of reach.
“When you asked me to make it hurt...”
Face throws himself back and stares up at the ceiling. Restless. “I’d never ask you for something like that, Hannibal. Not normally. You know that.”
“How bad was it, kid?”
“We are so not going to talk about that.”
“You can’t...”
“It wasn’t rape, Hannibal,” and the older man gets the strangest feeling that Face isn’t talking about Lynch. “Not the best circumstances, but it wasn’t rape.”
Hannibal’s got a hand on Face’s stomach now. When did that get there? His other hand moves up to the pillow, bringing them close. “Not the best circumstances?”
Face closes his eyes. “Never mind.”
“Would you like better circumstances?” Hannibal could kick himself for saying something like that, but it seems to do the trick. Face does a little move, and then his lips touch Hannibal’s, just like they did that night, but better. They’re open this time, like his eyes are now, and he can push his tongue in, a little push, and Face is groaning beneath him.
The little gasps light something inside the colonel, but he breaks away, far enough to put some words between them. “Tell me, kid.”
Face wraps urgent hands around his neck, and leans in for a long, pleading kiss.
Oh. That. The colonel’s heart starts hammering, excitement spreading. He tells himself to keep it under control. But he can’t help himself.
Hannibal lets his body thump down onto the thin bed, and draws Face in. He can taste the day’s heat on the man beneath him, caked onto that tanned, perfect skin of Face’s neck, trapped in over-long hair.
There’s the memory of ordering Face to arch his back, of pulling him off that filthy floor, bandaging torn wrists. Too vivid. Hannibal swallows. “No.”
The younger man pulls back. “Ever?”
There’s something unmistakable in his boy’s single word, something that tears him and fills him and swells inside him, and he can’t say no. He can’t let himself. He doesn’t want to. He can’t let go, not now.
Face folds himself against Hannibal’s chest. “Can we get there?”
His boy. Right where he belongs.
“Yeah, kid. I think we can.”