![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: g
Warnings: none
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Hannibal has a heart attack between two missions. He's safe but doctors ask him to stop violent activities to prevent heart failures. It means he has to retire but refuses to do it. He's completely depressed.
I'd really want some protective!Face, begging him to stop missions, promising him he'll stay by his side, will take him in some beautiful place. Fluffy description of peaceful life, tender nights and restful days.
TV!verse, but movie!verse is okay.
Face tries to get Hannibal to stop smokng and move to Hawaii. Sounds pretty damn good to me, but Hannibal’s got different ideas.
The doctor looks up from his clipboard and closes the curtain behind him. It’s three AM, and Hannibal’s been in the emergency room for eighteen hours now.
Murdock gets the shakes any time he gets within sight of a hospital, and BA volunteered to stay with him back at the safe house. Face knows what a sacrifice that was for the big guy, but BA had told him not to mention it and bodily lifted him into the ambulance.
“Are you family?”
The paramedics had asked him that, too. There’s nothing to say. He’s incapable of running a scam right now, like he was then, Hannibal’s face gray and pinched, breathing unsteady and uncertain, shorting the conman’s own mind out. But if he says no, they’ll throw him out. And Hannibal could wake up at any minute. Or have another attack.
“Just talk to me, doc. Is he going to be alright?”
“What was he doing at the time of the heart attack?”
“Umm, nothing. We were having lunch.” And thank god for that, the whole team at Hannibal’s apartment, celebrating a job well done. How can he explain this to the doctor? “He, we, there was a gunfight earlier in the day. His arm went numb after that, but he wouldn’t let me bring him in...”
“Gunfight?”
Shit. His brain really isn’t working right now. “He does movies.”
“Are those usually physically strenuous roles?” the doctor continues in a bored voice, like he doesn’t care. He probably doesn’t. Not at this hour.
“Usually.”
“He seems like a pretty fit man for his age, but based on some of his scars... was he in ‘Nam, by any chance?”
“Three tours. Infantry.” He doesn’t mention the time spent in the POW camp. Even now, he can’t think about that.
“That’s a lot of abuse for the body to absorb. Get to his age, and things start falling apart. Old injuries become worse, dietary issues crop up...does he smoke?”
“Like a chimney.”
“What are you telling this man about me, kid?” Hannibal asks gruffly, stirring out from under the influence of whatever sedative it was that they gave him. “Did we get...”
“John,” Face says softly, cutting him off before he can say anything incriminating, “remember, we’re in the hospital? You collapsed at dinner?”
“A little disorientation is normal after something like this...” the doctor begins, and Hannibal jabs a shaky finger at the man.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, doc. Tell the kid here or he’ll never stop worrying.”
“I’d prefer to talk in private,” the doctor says, and looks over at Face, like he still can’t figure out where he fits into this whole equation. The former lieutenant looks him square in the eye and quite deliberately reaches up for one of Hannibal’s hands, laid out over the thin blanket.
The boss squeezes his subordinate’s palm, just a little, and Face feels his heart freeze. The skin under his is icy cold, the muscles weak. He’s never seen Hannibal this exhausted, drained, like there’s nothing left.
“Don’t you dare make me leave,” he warns the older man, and Hannibal glares at him.
“Temp, you gotta learn to calm down. I’ll be back on my feet in a day or two.”
That doctor clears his throat. “Actually...”
And Face sits there. Sits there, while the doctor tells Hannibal he’s just suffered an acute myocardial infarction, a serious blow to his heart, that there’s evidence he’s had one or two mild attacks before, that he needs to slow down, give up smoking, reduce stress in his life, cut back on all but easy physical activity, that if this happens again, he’s going to die, how if he doesn’t make any changes, he’s maybe got three months, and on and on, weaving in and out of medical jargon that Hannibal seems to take in stride. Face can’t focus on any of it. It’s all too much to take in at once. Far, far too much.
After the doc leaves, Face drops his head into his hands, and he can feel Hannibal’s fingers in his hair as he starts to cry.
+++++
Hannibal, predictably, doesn’t do a damn thing the doctor tells him to do. Doesn’t stop smoking, throws a fit when Face hides his cigars. Keeps researching clients, despite what Face tries to tell him about not getting into car chases and shoot-outs and industrial freezers. Insists he’s still up to the task of keeping Face satisfied, and sets about proving it as often as he can.
But Face can tell - there are changes. Hannibal’s not eating as much as he used to, moves a little slower. He seems more haggard, tired. He stops going on morning runs with Face - his only concession to the heart attack that nearly killed him. But that’s not enough, and the lieutenant knows it.
BA’s worried, tells Face he’s willing to help if he needs it, but gives them both a wide berth. Murdock’s back at the VA. He doesn’t tell either of them how bad it is, how worried he’s becoming. No point. It’s his job, his, as XO, to work this out, to take care of the commander, and he embraces this fully.
The boss complains about his constant mothering, but if Face wasn’t there to shove an aspirin at him every morning, how would Hannibal remember to take it? But Hannibal’s irritable and snappy these days, and it doesn’t make things any easier. The man goes out for walks by himself, something Face strenuously protests to no avail, and tonight, he’s been out an hour later than usual and it’s getting dark and Face is waiting at the dining room table, beer in hand, idea forming in the back of his mind, unable to sitr himself enough to turn on a light.
Like a wife who thinks her husband’s cheating on her, he thinks to himself. Goddamn it.
The door squeaks open, and Face is there, hallway light on, catching the older man up. “Come on, boss,” he says gently, wrapping his arms around that familiar weight, burying his face in a sweat-drenched shoulder. God, what’s happened to him?
“Face, what the hell are you doing?”
“Hannibal, we need to talk.”
Hannibal flat out refuses, refuses something that Face has asked him, something he’s never done before. They eat dinner in stony silence, Face taking the beer out of Hannibal’s hands and putting it back in the fridge, unpleasant and tense, until the boss pushes back and goes to take a shower.
Face clears the dishes away as the water starts up in the small bathroom. Most nights, he’d be all for going in there and joining his lover, but he gets the feeling that Hannibal wants to be alone. And he isn’t exactly looking forward to this.
He expects Hannibal to come back out after the shower turns off. He doesn’t, and the first thing that passes through Face’s mind is that maybe something’s happened.
But when he pokes his head around the corner of the bathroom door, Hannibal’s not there. Checks the bedroom.
“John?” he asks tentatively, stepping into the dark room. There’s a lump in the bed, Hannibal-sized and turned away from him. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe it’s worse. “John?” he asks again, shuffling over to the bed and sitting back against the headboard. He turns on the bedside lamp. “Please talk to me, boss.”
His heart pounds loud in his ears. This is what he's afraid of constantly now, that Hannibal's just going to...
Movement.
He relaxes, happy for the moment.
“Depends on what you want me to say, kid.”
Happiness gone.
Face takes a deep breath. “This isn’t the Army, John. You die on a mission, it doesn’t mean anything. You’re not dying for your country, just for the three of us...”
There’s a rustle as Hannibal turns around and sits up, the blanket slipping down to his lap, chest bare, eyes intense. “I’d die for any one of you boys, you know that.”
“But you don’t have to.” He closes his eyes. “I don’t want you to die for me. I want us...”
“Temp, we always knew it was coming.”
And he can’t deny that. Ever since he joined up, got shipped to ‘Nam, Face has been expecting it. Something that he wakes up with most mornings. Part of life. “I don’t mean like this, John. Not on some stupid job to help a family get their bakery back. Not because your heart gives out. There’s no shame in stopping...”
“You want to me die old and gray in a nursing home somewhere, Face? Playing bingo at church on Sundays, feeding pigeons in the park? Not my style, kid.”
They aren’t touching. Face can’t bring himself to do it, wrap an arm around him like he wants to, so badly. Can’t strip the man’s pride away further by suggesting the necessity of support. All he can do is talk.
“I’ll be there, Hannibal,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere. Away from all of this. You and me. BA and Murdock, if they want. We could leave the country...”
“That’s never going to happen,” Hannibal growls, and Face knows how fiercely this man still loves his homeland, even if the Army did throw him out.
“Hawaii, then. One of the quieter islands, Maui or Kauaii. We won’t get caught. We can buy a ranch or a big house on the beach, breeze through our open windows, palm trees in the yard, watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, let the surf wash up on our toes...”
“Kid...”
“Go into town if we feel like it, stay out if we don’t, spend the evenings making love, hell, make love whenever we feel like it, no more hiding and sulking and sneaking around. Learn to take things really slow, just slow down. Go fishing if we feel like it - BA’s fine with boats, remember? Enjoy the... enjoy being away from all of this...”
He doesn’t say what he's thinking, all those friendly thoughts about death that never leave him. Even on the missions when nobody dies, he can’t ever stop remembering Vietnam, the bodies splashing into rice paddies and rivers, the smell of cordite and napalm, smoke he’ll never forget, the cold floors of the POW camp and the smell and the way the ropes dug into his skin...
Hannibal must sense something of that, because he tugs Face gently towards him and he lets himself be guided into that comforting embrace, against that heart beating with no less fire than ever before.
Yet every thump draws it closer to expiration. How many beats are left there? How many before the last? There’s no way to know. That's why this is so important to him right now. He has to make Hannibal understand.
They have to leave this behind.
“We’re not peaceful men, Face. Neither of us could stand it. We’d get bored.”
“John,” he pleads, turning so they’re facing each other, bracing up to steal a light kiss. “John, we can’t keep running forever. I’m tired of it. I want to be with you. Nothing can ever be boring if we’re together.”
“Wouldn’t, wouldn’t be doing anything for anyone...” Hannibal begins, and then stops. Face bites his lip. He knew this was coming. The boss needs that, needs to be useful, wants to use everything he has to make things better for others. Under that gruff exterior and ironic attitude, the boss was ever the idealist, and Face has always suspected that it was less out of need for action than for this that drove Hannibal to this little enterprise of theirs.
“You’d be doing something for me,” Face whispers. “I love you, John. Please, don’t leave me alone...”
They hardly ever say it. It’s a difficult thing for him to vocalize now. One of Hannibal’s hands, a little stronger now, brushes his cheek. “Is that what you want?”
“I want you.”
There’s a pause. “I’m a broken old man, kid...”
“... and I want whatever time we have left. Everything, John, I’m all yours. Let me take you away from all this, please...”
There’s no answer, just a kiss that starts light and grows in intensity. Face feels like he’s sliding into deep water, falling into the sensation of that touch. Hannibal always knows exactly what to do, exactly how to touch him, what makes him pant and beg and squirm and spark, growing hard. A hand slides between them as Face undulates against his lover, into his lap, and buttons are popped, one by one, a belt unbuckled and thrown aside, pants discards, their lips never breaking until Face is bare and shivering.
“Hawaii, lieutenant?”
“Oh yes, colonel,” he murmurs as the older man sucks on his ear. “We’ll watch the ocean break on the shore outside, windows open, nobody around to judge... most beautiful blue you’ve ever seen...”
Hannibal grabs his shoulders and eases him back until he’s flat on his back. Swings over him and takes his head up in both hands, kissing him breathless. “Every night?”
“Oh, yeah, just like this, after dinner... whenever you want, however you want...please just come away from this life...”
The boss isn’t hard right now - that’s one of those things that’s getting more difficult for him - but he still strokes down Face’s length, exactly the way he likes it, rough and gentle at the same time, something no woman’s ever been able to give him. “Anything for me, hmm, Face?”
“Yes, sir... oh god!” And Hannibal’s pressing a finger behind his balls, and if he thought he was hard before... “Yeah, John, like that...”
“A new life?”
“Please...” And he’s not sure why he’s begging, but he’s begging and he needs everything Hannibal can give him, always has.
Then Hannibal’s stopping mid-stroke and pinching down. “Do I get my cigars?”
Face gasps at the sudden squeeze, and swallows. Of course he’d focus on that. “John...”
“Good, kid. Just as long as we’re clear on this.”
The hand starts up again, a little faster this time, and before long Face can feel his orgasm building, his toes curling. Hannibal smiles in that amused way of his and hauls Face up for another kiss, his hand not stopping, and Face isn’t sure if it’s the kiss or the hand or the murmured “yes” against his cheek that finally has him spilling into Hannibal’s hand in choked little sobs that turn into real tears the second the older man releases him.
Hannibal cradles him in until the grief gives way to sleep, and Face dreams that they’re already far from here, listening to the surf, watching the tide ebb, waiting for dawn.
There’s no need to worry, whether or not the old man will live long enough to enjoy it with him. Hannibal promised. Face is going to make it happen.
That’s the way this works between them.
That’s more than good enough for tonight.
Rating: g
Warnings: none
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Hannibal has a heart attack between two missions. He's safe but doctors ask him to stop violent activities to prevent heart failures. It means he has to retire but refuses to do it. He's completely depressed.
I'd really want some protective!Face, begging him to stop missions, promising him he'll stay by his side, will take him in some beautiful place. Fluffy description of peaceful life, tender nights and restful days.
TV!verse, but movie!verse is okay.
Face tries to get Hannibal to stop smokng and move to Hawaii. Sounds pretty damn good to me, but Hannibal’s got different ideas.
The doctor looks up from his clipboard and closes the curtain behind him. It’s three AM, and Hannibal’s been in the emergency room for eighteen hours now.
Murdock gets the shakes any time he gets within sight of a hospital, and BA volunteered to stay with him back at the safe house. Face knows what a sacrifice that was for the big guy, but BA had told him not to mention it and bodily lifted him into the ambulance.
“Are you family?”
The paramedics had asked him that, too. There’s nothing to say. He’s incapable of running a scam right now, like he was then, Hannibal’s face gray and pinched, breathing unsteady and uncertain, shorting the conman’s own mind out. But if he says no, they’ll throw him out. And Hannibal could wake up at any minute. Or have another attack.
“Just talk to me, doc. Is he going to be alright?”
“What was he doing at the time of the heart attack?”
“Umm, nothing. We were having lunch.” And thank god for that, the whole team at Hannibal’s apartment, celebrating a job well done. How can he explain this to the doctor? “He, we, there was a gunfight earlier in the day. His arm went numb after that, but he wouldn’t let me bring him in...”
“Gunfight?”
Shit. His brain really isn’t working right now. “He does movies.”
“Are those usually physically strenuous roles?” the doctor continues in a bored voice, like he doesn’t care. He probably doesn’t. Not at this hour.
“Usually.”
“He seems like a pretty fit man for his age, but based on some of his scars... was he in ‘Nam, by any chance?”
“Three tours. Infantry.” He doesn’t mention the time spent in the POW camp. Even now, he can’t think about that.
“That’s a lot of abuse for the body to absorb. Get to his age, and things start falling apart. Old injuries become worse, dietary issues crop up...does he smoke?”
“Like a chimney.”
“What are you telling this man about me, kid?” Hannibal asks gruffly, stirring out from under the influence of whatever sedative it was that they gave him. “Did we get...”
“John,” Face says softly, cutting him off before he can say anything incriminating, “remember, we’re in the hospital? You collapsed at dinner?”
“A little disorientation is normal after something like this...” the doctor begins, and Hannibal jabs a shaky finger at the man.
“There’s nothing wrong with me, doc. Tell the kid here or he’ll never stop worrying.”
“I’d prefer to talk in private,” the doctor says, and looks over at Face, like he still can’t figure out where he fits into this whole equation. The former lieutenant looks him square in the eye and quite deliberately reaches up for one of Hannibal’s hands, laid out over the thin blanket.
The boss squeezes his subordinate’s palm, just a little, and Face feels his heart freeze. The skin under his is icy cold, the muscles weak. He’s never seen Hannibal this exhausted, drained, like there’s nothing left.
“Don’t you dare make me leave,” he warns the older man, and Hannibal glares at him.
“Temp, you gotta learn to calm down. I’ll be back on my feet in a day or two.”
That doctor clears his throat. “Actually...”
And Face sits there. Sits there, while the doctor tells Hannibal he’s just suffered an acute myocardial infarction, a serious blow to his heart, that there’s evidence he’s had one or two mild attacks before, that he needs to slow down, give up smoking, reduce stress in his life, cut back on all but easy physical activity, that if this happens again, he’s going to die, how if he doesn’t make any changes, he’s maybe got three months, and on and on, weaving in and out of medical jargon that Hannibal seems to take in stride. Face can’t focus on any of it. It’s all too much to take in at once. Far, far too much.
After the doc leaves, Face drops his head into his hands, and he can feel Hannibal’s fingers in his hair as he starts to cry.
+++++
Hannibal, predictably, doesn’t do a damn thing the doctor tells him to do. Doesn’t stop smoking, throws a fit when Face hides his cigars. Keeps researching clients, despite what Face tries to tell him about not getting into car chases and shoot-outs and industrial freezers. Insists he’s still up to the task of keeping Face satisfied, and sets about proving it as often as he can.
But Face can tell - there are changes. Hannibal’s not eating as much as he used to, moves a little slower. He seems more haggard, tired. He stops going on morning runs with Face - his only concession to the heart attack that nearly killed him. But that’s not enough, and the lieutenant knows it.
BA’s worried, tells Face he’s willing to help if he needs it, but gives them both a wide berth. Murdock’s back at the VA. He doesn’t tell either of them how bad it is, how worried he’s becoming. No point. It’s his job, his, as XO, to work this out, to take care of the commander, and he embraces this fully.
The boss complains about his constant mothering, but if Face wasn’t there to shove an aspirin at him every morning, how would Hannibal remember to take it? But Hannibal’s irritable and snappy these days, and it doesn’t make things any easier. The man goes out for walks by himself, something Face strenuously protests to no avail, and tonight, he’s been out an hour later than usual and it’s getting dark and Face is waiting at the dining room table, beer in hand, idea forming in the back of his mind, unable to sitr himself enough to turn on a light.
Like a wife who thinks her husband’s cheating on her, he thinks to himself. Goddamn it.
The door squeaks open, and Face is there, hallway light on, catching the older man up. “Come on, boss,” he says gently, wrapping his arms around that familiar weight, burying his face in a sweat-drenched shoulder. God, what’s happened to him?
“Face, what the hell are you doing?”
“Hannibal, we need to talk.”
Hannibal flat out refuses, refuses something that Face has asked him, something he’s never done before. They eat dinner in stony silence, Face taking the beer out of Hannibal’s hands and putting it back in the fridge, unpleasant and tense, until the boss pushes back and goes to take a shower.
Face clears the dishes away as the water starts up in the small bathroom. Most nights, he’d be all for going in there and joining his lover, but he gets the feeling that Hannibal wants to be alone. And he isn’t exactly looking forward to this.
He expects Hannibal to come back out after the shower turns off. He doesn’t, and the first thing that passes through Face’s mind is that maybe something’s happened.
But when he pokes his head around the corner of the bathroom door, Hannibal’s not there. Checks the bedroom.
“John?” he asks tentatively, stepping into the dark room. There’s a lump in the bed, Hannibal-sized and turned away from him. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe it’s worse. “John?” he asks again, shuffling over to the bed and sitting back against the headboard. He turns on the bedside lamp. “Please talk to me, boss.”
His heart pounds loud in his ears. This is what he's afraid of constantly now, that Hannibal's just going to...
Movement.
He relaxes, happy for the moment.
“Depends on what you want me to say, kid.”
Happiness gone.
Face takes a deep breath. “This isn’t the Army, John. You die on a mission, it doesn’t mean anything. You’re not dying for your country, just for the three of us...”
There’s a rustle as Hannibal turns around and sits up, the blanket slipping down to his lap, chest bare, eyes intense. “I’d die for any one of you boys, you know that.”
“But you don’t have to.” He closes his eyes. “I don’t want you to die for me. I want us...”
“Temp, we always knew it was coming.”
And he can’t deny that. Ever since he joined up, got shipped to ‘Nam, Face has been expecting it. Something that he wakes up with most mornings. Part of life. “I don’t mean like this, John. Not on some stupid job to help a family get their bakery back. Not because your heart gives out. There’s no shame in stopping...”
“You want to me die old and gray in a nursing home somewhere, Face? Playing bingo at church on Sundays, feeding pigeons in the park? Not my style, kid.”
They aren’t touching. Face can’t bring himself to do it, wrap an arm around him like he wants to, so badly. Can’t strip the man’s pride away further by suggesting the necessity of support. All he can do is talk.
“I’ll be there, Hannibal,” he says. “Let’s go somewhere. Away from all of this. You and me. BA and Murdock, if they want. We could leave the country...”
“That’s never going to happen,” Hannibal growls, and Face knows how fiercely this man still loves his homeland, even if the Army did throw him out.
“Hawaii, then. One of the quieter islands, Maui or Kauaii. We won’t get caught. We can buy a ranch or a big house on the beach, breeze through our open windows, palm trees in the yard, watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, let the surf wash up on our toes...”
“Kid...”
“Go into town if we feel like it, stay out if we don’t, spend the evenings making love, hell, make love whenever we feel like it, no more hiding and sulking and sneaking around. Learn to take things really slow, just slow down. Go fishing if we feel like it - BA’s fine with boats, remember? Enjoy the... enjoy being away from all of this...”
He doesn’t say what he's thinking, all those friendly thoughts about death that never leave him. Even on the missions when nobody dies, he can’t ever stop remembering Vietnam, the bodies splashing into rice paddies and rivers, the smell of cordite and napalm, smoke he’ll never forget, the cold floors of the POW camp and the smell and the way the ropes dug into his skin...
Hannibal must sense something of that, because he tugs Face gently towards him and he lets himself be guided into that comforting embrace, against that heart beating with no less fire than ever before.
Yet every thump draws it closer to expiration. How many beats are left there? How many before the last? There’s no way to know. That's why this is so important to him right now. He has to make Hannibal understand.
They have to leave this behind.
“We’re not peaceful men, Face. Neither of us could stand it. We’d get bored.”
“John,” he pleads, turning so they’re facing each other, bracing up to steal a light kiss. “John, we can’t keep running forever. I’m tired of it. I want to be with you. Nothing can ever be boring if we’re together.”
“Wouldn’t, wouldn’t be doing anything for anyone...” Hannibal begins, and then stops. Face bites his lip. He knew this was coming. The boss needs that, needs to be useful, wants to use everything he has to make things better for others. Under that gruff exterior and ironic attitude, the boss was ever the idealist, and Face has always suspected that it was less out of need for action than for this that drove Hannibal to this little enterprise of theirs.
“You’d be doing something for me,” Face whispers. “I love you, John. Please, don’t leave me alone...”
They hardly ever say it. It’s a difficult thing for him to vocalize now. One of Hannibal’s hands, a little stronger now, brushes his cheek. “Is that what you want?”
“I want you.”
There’s a pause. “I’m a broken old man, kid...”
“... and I want whatever time we have left. Everything, John, I’m all yours. Let me take you away from all this, please...”
There’s no answer, just a kiss that starts light and grows in intensity. Face feels like he’s sliding into deep water, falling into the sensation of that touch. Hannibal always knows exactly what to do, exactly how to touch him, what makes him pant and beg and squirm and spark, growing hard. A hand slides between them as Face undulates against his lover, into his lap, and buttons are popped, one by one, a belt unbuckled and thrown aside, pants discards, their lips never breaking until Face is bare and shivering.
“Hawaii, lieutenant?”
“Oh yes, colonel,” he murmurs as the older man sucks on his ear. “We’ll watch the ocean break on the shore outside, windows open, nobody around to judge... most beautiful blue you’ve ever seen...”
Hannibal grabs his shoulders and eases him back until he’s flat on his back. Swings over him and takes his head up in both hands, kissing him breathless. “Every night?”
“Oh, yeah, just like this, after dinner... whenever you want, however you want...please just come away from this life...”
The boss isn’t hard right now - that’s one of those things that’s getting more difficult for him - but he still strokes down Face’s length, exactly the way he likes it, rough and gentle at the same time, something no woman’s ever been able to give him. “Anything for me, hmm, Face?”
“Yes, sir... oh god!” And Hannibal’s pressing a finger behind his balls, and if he thought he was hard before... “Yeah, John, like that...”
“A new life?”
“Please...” And he’s not sure why he’s begging, but he’s begging and he needs everything Hannibal can give him, always has.
Then Hannibal’s stopping mid-stroke and pinching down. “Do I get my cigars?”
Face gasps at the sudden squeeze, and swallows. Of course he’d focus on that. “John...”
“Good, kid. Just as long as we’re clear on this.”
The hand starts up again, a little faster this time, and before long Face can feel his orgasm building, his toes curling. Hannibal smiles in that amused way of his and hauls Face up for another kiss, his hand not stopping, and Face isn’t sure if it’s the kiss or the hand or the murmured “yes” against his cheek that finally has him spilling into Hannibal’s hand in choked little sobs that turn into real tears the second the older man releases him.
Hannibal cradles him in until the grief gives way to sleep, and Face dreams that they’re already far from here, listening to the surf, watching the tide ebb, waiting for dawn.
There’s no need to worry, whether or not the old man will live long enough to enjoy it with him. Hannibal promised. Face is going to make it happen.
That’s the way this works between them.
That’s more than good enough for tonight.
