Breaking Through
Oct. 29th, 2010 08:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: hurt/comfort
Summary: Fill for this prompt over on the A Team Kink Meme.
This is a sequel to Boxed In, cause of course, Hannibal’s going to have issues. PTSD, to be exact. Can Face get him through it? Will Hannibal admit to needing help?
Outwardly, everything’s fine. But Face knows different.
Face is keeping his promise, not to tell the other guys. The one he made that day, the one where he loaded Hannibal onto the plane in the southern Philippines, skeletal, worn beyond limit, two cold-blooded murders and cordite on his hands. Face hadn’t known what he was promising, and even after he found out, really found out, and the grief threatened to overtake him, he kept to his word.
There wasn’t a choice. He had to protect BA and Murdock, just as much and maybe more than he has to protect Hannibal. The boss seems to be getting through it, these last few months, but the wounds would be fresh for his teammates, so he said nothing.
Face can't be sure of anything right now, though. Hannibal rarely talks of it. There had been that first, halting conversation in the kitchen, lubricated by a fifth of Jack’s. Enough of an idea for Face to wish he could go back and kill Lynch, kill Pike, himself. Slowly. Brutally. With something rusty.
After the outpouring of that first night, Face mentioned therapy. Once. They just talk now, Hannibal terse, Face bracing, alcohol as an excuse for emotion, short snippets, a sparse narrative emerging from disparate details. It seems to help. But it’s not enough. Hannibal is still missing something, one final piece to make him whole.
Outwardly, everything’s fine, but Face is a conman, and he knows a con when he sees it. He pulled Hannibal out of an hour-long shower, about two weeks after, a roughly stitched knife wound scarring over above his heart. Catches him up sometimes at night, pacing; during the day, staring. He doesn’t call Hannibal on it, doesn’t want to cut the only lifeline the colonel’s got. If Hannibal wants to put on a front, he’s an adult, Face isn’t his mommy, it’s his business.
Until the day it becomes the team’s business.
They’re supposed to be working on a case involving human trafficking. Sex slaves from Southeast Asia. Which in itself raises all kinds of flags in Face’s head, but BA is insistent of helping out an old friend and Murdock agrees and Hannibal demands to know what the hell’s wrong with him.
Nothing with Face, actually, but there’s a hell of a lot wrong with Hannibal when they go to talk to the Chinese mobster in question and find a cage in the back of the office, a crying, starved girl inside. BA goes for a pair of boltcutters, Murdock tries to get the story out of the girl in soft Cantonese, and Face chases Hannibal to the small bathroom in the back.
The boss is retching over the toilet, doubled almost over, and Face catches him as he starts to pitch forward.
He feels the muscles tense automatically, a slight shiver run under him but he doesn’t let go. “Hannibal?” he asks softly, rubbing a hand over the colonel’s tight shoulders. There’s a distance between them now. He doesn’t know why. It’s been there since the plane. “Hannibal, we need to deal with this.”
“I’m fine.”
“That mean you’re going to be able to see this job through?”
“Face...”
“I’ll get BA to walk away from this right now.” He’d leave the girl in the cage, he’d turn the informant over to the gangster, he’d walk straight into the nearest FBI field office and turn himself in, if that’s what the boss needs. Getting BA to back off would be nothing.
“We have to finish this,” Hannibal says, and pushes Face away as he wipes his mouth with a sleeve and heads back out.
Murdock looks up, but Face shrugs and laughs a little. “Sorry, I, uh, got, sick...”
He makes sure that Hannibal’s grounded for the rest of the op. As Face bluffs down the gangster, buying time for the cops to arrest the lot and BA to free the rest of the women in the main brothel, he’s wondering what, if anything, he can do.
+++++
After they’re done here in Vancouver, they head back to LA. Hannibal doesn’t say anything for the first hour of the flight, and BA’s passed out. Even Murdock’s affected.
Face goes back to the stewardess’s galley and starts popping the tops on as many of those little vodkas as he can find. There’s beer. He’s not in the mood to take this slow.
He’s got at least seven of those open when the curtain moves and Hannibal’s standing there. The colonel’s got that look, and Face holds out the tray he’s pilfering from. At least he can listen. He can always do that.
“It’s not going to cut it, Face. We both know it’s an excuse.”
“You looked like shit, Hannibal,” Face says. “I’d ask what’s going on, but...”
“... we both know, don’t we, lieutenant?” Hannibal finishes, and leans back. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what...”
“What came over you? Why you froze up? Threw up? Fuck, Hannibal, that’s so trite it’s embarrassing,” Face snaps and slams the eighth little bottle down, realizing he’s a little drunker than he though. “We both fucking know...”
“What do want me to do about it, Face? I can’t just make it go away.”
“Bullshit, boss. We both know you’ve been trying to make it go away...”
“Face...”
“...fucking ignoring it, hiding from it. Goddamnit, Hannibal. I thought...”
“... better of me?”
Face slumps over, stares down. “I don’t care about the... thing. It doesn’t change you, for me,” he says carefully, because Hannibal never calls that a rape, and he never calls this love. “I care about you. I care about what you’re going through. And I can’t help you right now, you won’t let me help you.”
“It’s...” and Hannibal closes his eyes.
Somewhere deeper in than flesh and bone alone can account for, Face feels his heart break. If they were still in the Army, there’d be people to go to, the chaplains, a mental health consultant, the damn sexual assault coordinators. Confidential. Strangers. But all Hannibal has is his crazy pilot and gruff corporal and glib lieutenant, and the last is the most worthless of all, because he can’t help, doesn’t know what to say, just makes this worse.
“...difficult...”
Hannibl’s voice sounds incredibly close, and Face looks up, right into that perfect blue. There’s a crinkle of panic around the edges and then the lieutenant’s got his hand on Hannibal’s chest, bracing them apart, holding them together.
“... difficult to trust anything right now...”
And what must that have cost Hannibal to admit? He was always so strong, always on top of his world, and to have all that ripped away so needlessly must have been a worse torture than the box, than the rape. “You can trust me, boss,” Face tells him with absolute certainty.
“I know,” Hannibal says, moving a little, and then there’s no distance between them at all. Hannibal’s hands are against the dented stainless steel behind Face’s head, Face’s hands up around Hannibal’s neck, everything bursting in his head as the colonel starts kissing him.
Face has been imagining this for years - since as long as he’s known Hannibal, really - and it’s nothing like what he thought it would be. It’s slow, almost shy and definitely uncertain, the colonel’s conflictions making it choppy and uneven. Contact breaks, re-establishes, deepens, pulls back, deepens again. The lieutenant doesn’t move, moaning just a little for encouragement, letting Hannibal take what he needs, whatever it is that he needs. Anything. Everything.
“Are you okay, kid?” Hannibal asks, voice husky, all those empty little spaces in him filling back up somehow. What the boss needs...Face grabs his shirt, and starts kissing him back.
Progress.
+++++
They take it slow. Very slow. Face tells Hannibal he couldn’t cause him any more pain, Hannibal tells Face that he’s not ready. They leave it open, moving forward at the boss’s pace. Face stops going out, stops chasing girls on jobs. Hannibal stops pacing the hallways most nights, and the few times he does is only as far as Face’s room.
Face wakes up at the sensation of an empty bed, that loss of wonderful body heat. They’re in Nevada, some shitty little town, some crappy motel. Hannibal’s standing by the window, a dark blotch. There’s the sound of rain of the roof, hammering, a thunderstorm moving through. He hopes that’s what woke the boss up.
“What is it?” Face asks, slipping out of the cheap sheets and padding over in nothing but his boxers. Hannibal sleeps naked. Face doesn’t have that kind of self-control. But that was always the colonel’s problem, always in control...
The boss puts a hand out on the glass, as if to steady himself and Face doesn’t want to touch him just yet.
“Was it the dream?”
Hannibal’s told him about the dream, the one where Face is laying dead in a ditch somewhere, rotting away. He doesn’t get it very often anymore. That’s he said.
His forehead’s on the window now. “Every goddamn night, kid.”
Face slides a hand across the broad expanse of back. He tries to keep the anger out of his voice. “What else are you lying about, John?”
There’s no response for a long, long time, and finally Hannibal’s fist hits the sill. “I’m scared, Temp.”
He keeps up the smooth circles. Face knows what Hannibal’s really talking about. “Thought it was fading.”
“Not fast enough, kid.”
“There, like, supposed to be a timetable or something? A schedule of events? Milestones to check off?”
“Kid...”
“This stuff can’t just be ordered away! You have to...”
“... we need to keep going.”
The calm in Hannibal’s voice stops him cold. The way the boss pushes back off the window. The way he closes down around Face’s wrist. That intensity.
“We don’t have to...”
“I need it, Temp.”
Face has been letting Hannibal control things. That’s really what the man thinks he needs right now, control. So Face lets himself be dragged over to the bed, lets Hannibal strip off his boxers, the kissing starting up, and damn, if Hannibal isn’t some kind of expert in that. Face lets himself fall into that, the rough, needy caresses, the hunger in the other man’s touch, the urgency of little bites and nothing gentle at all right now.
They’re both hard by this point, naked skin just starting to sweat, the salt gritting between them, friction building, everything heating up. He could lose himself in this, Face could, let himself have what he’s been wanting for so long, just take it...
But that would taking. He can’t do that. Can’t let Hannibal make him do that. He puts a finger on the colonel’s lips, lifting and twisting and settling himself on top of Hannibal’s chest. The older man’s erection is pressing against his ass, and Hannibal’s trying to do something, but Face squeezes his thighs until he stops. That fear, the one Hannibal admitted to but Face has never seen before, is rising now. Face leans forward and kisses him softly.
“Not like this, John,” he whispers. “Neither of us is going to lose anything tonight.”
“Temp, please.”
“Shh,” Face says, ignoring the little shiver that runs through him at the sound of Hannibal begging. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Hannibal nods, so Face plants one last kiss on nose and starts working his way down that chest, still a little tight and drawn but mostly recovered, pausing to tug the older man’s hand away from that scar.
“Don’t hide from me,” Face says, and Hannibal lets his head fall back into the pillows.
The conman smiles a little at the grunt give out when he reaches Hannibal’s cock and gives it a nice, long lick before taking it fully into his mouth, tongue playing along the underside, along the head. Hannibal moans, louder now. This they’ve done, and Face swears that he’s never going to get tired of it, holding Hannibal’s abs down with only the lightest of pressure to keep him from bucking off the bed completely. But he’s not trying to make Hannibal come. Not yet, and not like this, so he eases back up, hand staying down to cup Hannibal’s balls.
“I got some extra-large condoms,” Face says, giving him another soft kiss, but the older man’s shaking a little. Too soon. “Okay, John, we can stop...”
“No,” Hannibal says and Face knows he isn’t understanding this, because it sounds like... “I need you to...”
He’s asking Hannibal to trust him.
He has to do the same.
It still takes him a while to answer.
“Okay.”
He gets things the way he likes them, pillows in the right places, grabs the bottle of lube out of his bag on the floor, kneels between Hannibal’s legs, looks up for the nod. Gets it. Pushes a finger in.
Hannibal’s tight, so tight around him, and for some reason that’s a huge relief to Face. They both sigh a little as Face sinks in up to the knuckle. Hannibal nods again, and Face twists, adds another, spends long minutes stretching him open. He murmurs encouragement as he does it, peppers kisses along the inside of Hannibal’s knee, his thigh as he nudges the leg over his shoulder, repositioning, lines his the head of his cock against Hannibal’s entrance.
Another nod.
Face sinks in. Hannibal’s a furnace. He could definitely lose himself in this. He gives Hannibal a moment to adjust.
Nod.
Face starts moving, slow and easy, not very much at all, but Hannibal’s pushing back against him now, taking him deeper, deeper in. It’s awkward at first, but they find a rhythm between one another, setting a pace that’s all long breaths and short gasps. Face wraps a hand around Hannibal’s cock, letting the other man have something to thrust up into as they move together
Everything in Face is humming approval at this, wanting to fall into Hannibal until there’s nothing at all of himself left, let Hannibal take everything he needs, take anything, if it means he’ll be whole again. He just wants to take that pain away, drive away the memories that were here before him, bridge all those months where he didn’t know if Hannibal was alive or dead, where Hannibal was somewhere in between...
“Crying, Temp?” Hannibal says lightly, and the hand that runs along his jaw undoes him, and he’s coming even as Hannibal chokes back his own cries, spilling into Face’s hand. He's aware of collapsing onto his elbows, onto Hannibal, the older man catching him and laying him down and everything, everything is just the way it should be.
So Face lets everything go still for a little while.
Hannibal’s staring straight up at the ceiling. It’s still raining, hard on the roof, loud and comforting. Face wants to say something about it, enjoy the buzz for a while yet, but Hannibal’s just staring.
“Boss...” Face says, anxious now.
Hannibal doesn’t move. “That was...”
“Yeah.”
The rain keeps coming down.
“Feel any better?”
“Your sexual prowess supposed to be a cure-all for everything, Face?”
Intimacy over. Not lovers right now. Again, they will be again, but not right now. Just two very sticky men, old friends, one of who looks like he desperately needs a cigar. Face grins, and reaches over Hannibal, back to his bag. “In fact, I would expect so, yes.”
“You are the most conceited, arrogant...”
Face returns to level with a silver tube and a box of matches. Hannibal takes both and grins, unscrewing the cap and tossing it aside. He takes an appreciative sniff along its length, and Face bites his lips to keep from chuckling at the image.
Oh, the places they'll go.
“...thoughtful, polite little boy I think I’ve ever come across.”
“Nice, Hannibal.”
The room fills with the sharp bite of the match, then the smooth smoke of the cigar, overlaying the sex and the sweat and old griefs and new jokes, everything that Hannibal should smell like. Face inhales deeply, and pushes himself up on an elbow.
“How you doing, Hannibal?”
A ring of smoke floats up into the half-light of the window, the world beyond, all the places they haven’t been yet. “Outstanding, kid.”
And this, Face figures as he sidles up against Hannibal, sliding under his arm and jarring hot ash down on them both, earning him a sharp slap and a swift kiss, is as good as things can ever really get.
Until tomorrow gets here, anyway. Tomorrow will probably be better.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: hurt/comfort
Summary: Fill for this prompt over on the A Team Kink Meme.
This is a sequel to Boxed In, cause of course, Hannibal’s going to have issues. PTSD, to be exact. Can Face get him through it? Will Hannibal admit to needing help?
Outwardly, everything’s fine. But Face knows different.
Face is keeping his promise, not to tell the other guys. The one he made that day, the one where he loaded Hannibal onto the plane in the southern Philippines, skeletal, worn beyond limit, two cold-blooded murders and cordite on his hands. Face hadn’t known what he was promising, and even after he found out, really found out, and the grief threatened to overtake him, he kept to his word.
There wasn’t a choice. He had to protect BA and Murdock, just as much and maybe more than he has to protect Hannibal. The boss seems to be getting through it, these last few months, but the wounds would be fresh for his teammates, so he said nothing.
Face can't be sure of anything right now, though. Hannibal rarely talks of it. There had been that first, halting conversation in the kitchen, lubricated by a fifth of Jack’s. Enough of an idea for Face to wish he could go back and kill Lynch, kill Pike, himself. Slowly. Brutally. With something rusty.
After the outpouring of that first night, Face mentioned therapy. Once. They just talk now, Hannibal terse, Face bracing, alcohol as an excuse for emotion, short snippets, a sparse narrative emerging from disparate details. It seems to help. But it’s not enough. Hannibal is still missing something, one final piece to make him whole.
Outwardly, everything’s fine, but Face is a conman, and he knows a con when he sees it. He pulled Hannibal out of an hour-long shower, about two weeks after, a roughly stitched knife wound scarring over above his heart. Catches him up sometimes at night, pacing; during the day, staring. He doesn’t call Hannibal on it, doesn’t want to cut the only lifeline the colonel’s got. If Hannibal wants to put on a front, he’s an adult, Face isn’t his mommy, it’s his business.
Until the day it becomes the team’s business.
They’re supposed to be working on a case involving human trafficking. Sex slaves from Southeast Asia. Which in itself raises all kinds of flags in Face’s head, but BA is insistent of helping out an old friend and Murdock agrees and Hannibal demands to know what the hell’s wrong with him.
Nothing with Face, actually, but there’s a hell of a lot wrong with Hannibal when they go to talk to the Chinese mobster in question and find a cage in the back of the office, a crying, starved girl inside. BA goes for a pair of boltcutters, Murdock tries to get the story out of the girl in soft Cantonese, and Face chases Hannibal to the small bathroom in the back.
The boss is retching over the toilet, doubled almost over, and Face catches him as he starts to pitch forward.
He feels the muscles tense automatically, a slight shiver run under him but he doesn’t let go. “Hannibal?” he asks softly, rubbing a hand over the colonel’s tight shoulders. There’s a distance between them now. He doesn’t know why. It’s been there since the plane. “Hannibal, we need to deal with this.”
“I’m fine.”
“That mean you’re going to be able to see this job through?”
“Face...”
“I’ll get BA to walk away from this right now.” He’d leave the girl in the cage, he’d turn the informant over to the gangster, he’d walk straight into the nearest FBI field office and turn himself in, if that’s what the boss needs. Getting BA to back off would be nothing.
“We have to finish this,” Hannibal says, and pushes Face away as he wipes his mouth with a sleeve and heads back out.
Murdock looks up, but Face shrugs and laughs a little. “Sorry, I, uh, got, sick...”
He makes sure that Hannibal’s grounded for the rest of the op. As Face bluffs down the gangster, buying time for the cops to arrest the lot and BA to free the rest of the women in the main brothel, he’s wondering what, if anything, he can do.
+++++
After they’re done here in Vancouver, they head back to LA. Hannibal doesn’t say anything for the first hour of the flight, and BA’s passed out. Even Murdock’s affected.
Face goes back to the stewardess’s galley and starts popping the tops on as many of those little vodkas as he can find. There’s beer. He’s not in the mood to take this slow.
He’s got at least seven of those open when the curtain moves and Hannibal’s standing there. The colonel’s got that look, and Face holds out the tray he’s pilfering from. At least he can listen. He can always do that.
“It’s not going to cut it, Face. We both know it’s an excuse.”
“You looked like shit, Hannibal,” Face says. “I’d ask what’s going on, but...”
“... we both know, don’t we, lieutenant?” Hannibal finishes, and leans back. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what...”
“What came over you? Why you froze up? Threw up? Fuck, Hannibal, that’s so trite it’s embarrassing,” Face snaps and slams the eighth little bottle down, realizing he’s a little drunker than he though. “We both fucking know...”
“What do want me to do about it, Face? I can’t just make it go away.”
“Bullshit, boss. We both know you’ve been trying to make it go away...”
“Face...”
“...fucking ignoring it, hiding from it. Goddamnit, Hannibal. I thought...”
“... better of me?”
Face slumps over, stares down. “I don’t care about the... thing. It doesn’t change you, for me,” he says carefully, because Hannibal never calls that a rape, and he never calls this love. “I care about you. I care about what you’re going through. And I can’t help you right now, you won’t let me help you.”
“It’s...” and Hannibal closes his eyes.
Somewhere deeper in than flesh and bone alone can account for, Face feels his heart break. If they were still in the Army, there’d be people to go to, the chaplains, a mental health consultant, the damn sexual assault coordinators. Confidential. Strangers. But all Hannibal has is his crazy pilot and gruff corporal and glib lieutenant, and the last is the most worthless of all, because he can’t help, doesn’t know what to say, just makes this worse.
“...difficult...”
Hannibl’s voice sounds incredibly close, and Face looks up, right into that perfect blue. There’s a crinkle of panic around the edges and then the lieutenant’s got his hand on Hannibal’s chest, bracing them apart, holding them together.
“... difficult to trust anything right now...”
And what must that have cost Hannibal to admit? He was always so strong, always on top of his world, and to have all that ripped away so needlessly must have been a worse torture than the box, than the rape. “You can trust me, boss,” Face tells him with absolute certainty.
“I know,” Hannibal says, moving a little, and then there’s no distance between them at all. Hannibal’s hands are against the dented stainless steel behind Face’s head, Face’s hands up around Hannibal’s neck, everything bursting in his head as the colonel starts kissing him.
Face has been imagining this for years - since as long as he’s known Hannibal, really - and it’s nothing like what he thought it would be. It’s slow, almost shy and definitely uncertain, the colonel’s conflictions making it choppy and uneven. Contact breaks, re-establishes, deepens, pulls back, deepens again. The lieutenant doesn’t move, moaning just a little for encouragement, letting Hannibal take what he needs, whatever it is that he needs. Anything. Everything.
“Are you okay, kid?” Hannibal asks, voice husky, all those empty little spaces in him filling back up somehow. What the boss needs...Face grabs his shirt, and starts kissing him back.
Progress.
+++++
They take it slow. Very slow. Face tells Hannibal he couldn’t cause him any more pain, Hannibal tells Face that he’s not ready. They leave it open, moving forward at the boss’s pace. Face stops going out, stops chasing girls on jobs. Hannibal stops pacing the hallways most nights, and the few times he does is only as far as Face’s room.
Face wakes up at the sensation of an empty bed, that loss of wonderful body heat. They’re in Nevada, some shitty little town, some crappy motel. Hannibal’s standing by the window, a dark blotch. There’s the sound of rain of the roof, hammering, a thunderstorm moving through. He hopes that’s what woke the boss up.
“What is it?” Face asks, slipping out of the cheap sheets and padding over in nothing but his boxers. Hannibal sleeps naked. Face doesn’t have that kind of self-control. But that was always the colonel’s problem, always in control...
The boss puts a hand out on the glass, as if to steady himself and Face doesn’t want to touch him just yet.
“Was it the dream?”
Hannibal’s told him about the dream, the one where Face is laying dead in a ditch somewhere, rotting away. He doesn’t get it very often anymore. That’s he said.
His forehead’s on the window now. “Every goddamn night, kid.”
Face slides a hand across the broad expanse of back. He tries to keep the anger out of his voice. “What else are you lying about, John?”
There’s no response for a long, long time, and finally Hannibal’s fist hits the sill. “I’m scared, Temp.”
He keeps up the smooth circles. Face knows what Hannibal’s really talking about. “Thought it was fading.”
“Not fast enough, kid.”
“There, like, supposed to be a timetable or something? A schedule of events? Milestones to check off?”
“Kid...”
“This stuff can’t just be ordered away! You have to...”
“... we need to keep going.”
The calm in Hannibal’s voice stops him cold. The way the boss pushes back off the window. The way he closes down around Face’s wrist. That intensity.
“We don’t have to...”
“I need it, Temp.”
Face has been letting Hannibal control things. That’s really what the man thinks he needs right now, control. So Face lets himself be dragged over to the bed, lets Hannibal strip off his boxers, the kissing starting up, and damn, if Hannibal isn’t some kind of expert in that. Face lets himself fall into that, the rough, needy caresses, the hunger in the other man’s touch, the urgency of little bites and nothing gentle at all right now.
They’re both hard by this point, naked skin just starting to sweat, the salt gritting between them, friction building, everything heating up. He could lose himself in this, Face could, let himself have what he’s been wanting for so long, just take it...
But that would taking. He can’t do that. Can’t let Hannibal make him do that. He puts a finger on the colonel’s lips, lifting and twisting and settling himself on top of Hannibal’s chest. The older man’s erection is pressing against his ass, and Hannibal’s trying to do something, but Face squeezes his thighs until he stops. That fear, the one Hannibal admitted to but Face has never seen before, is rising now. Face leans forward and kisses him softly.
“Not like this, John,” he whispers. “Neither of us is going to lose anything tonight.”
“Temp, please.”
“Shh,” Face says, ignoring the little shiver that runs through him at the sound of Hannibal begging. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Hannibal nods, so Face plants one last kiss on nose and starts working his way down that chest, still a little tight and drawn but mostly recovered, pausing to tug the older man’s hand away from that scar.
“Don’t hide from me,” Face says, and Hannibal lets his head fall back into the pillows.
The conman smiles a little at the grunt give out when he reaches Hannibal’s cock and gives it a nice, long lick before taking it fully into his mouth, tongue playing along the underside, along the head. Hannibal moans, louder now. This they’ve done, and Face swears that he’s never going to get tired of it, holding Hannibal’s abs down with only the lightest of pressure to keep him from bucking off the bed completely. But he’s not trying to make Hannibal come. Not yet, and not like this, so he eases back up, hand staying down to cup Hannibal’s balls.
“I got some extra-large condoms,” Face says, giving him another soft kiss, but the older man’s shaking a little. Too soon. “Okay, John, we can stop...”
“No,” Hannibal says and Face knows he isn’t understanding this, because it sounds like... “I need you to...”
He’s asking Hannibal to trust him.
He has to do the same.
It still takes him a while to answer.
“Okay.”
He gets things the way he likes them, pillows in the right places, grabs the bottle of lube out of his bag on the floor, kneels between Hannibal’s legs, looks up for the nod. Gets it. Pushes a finger in.
Hannibal’s tight, so tight around him, and for some reason that’s a huge relief to Face. They both sigh a little as Face sinks in up to the knuckle. Hannibal nods again, and Face twists, adds another, spends long minutes stretching him open. He murmurs encouragement as he does it, peppers kisses along the inside of Hannibal’s knee, his thigh as he nudges the leg over his shoulder, repositioning, lines his the head of his cock against Hannibal’s entrance.
Another nod.
Face sinks in. Hannibal’s a furnace. He could definitely lose himself in this. He gives Hannibal a moment to adjust.
Nod.
Face starts moving, slow and easy, not very much at all, but Hannibal’s pushing back against him now, taking him deeper, deeper in. It’s awkward at first, but they find a rhythm between one another, setting a pace that’s all long breaths and short gasps. Face wraps a hand around Hannibal’s cock, letting the other man have something to thrust up into as they move together
Everything in Face is humming approval at this, wanting to fall into Hannibal until there’s nothing at all of himself left, let Hannibal take everything he needs, take anything, if it means he’ll be whole again. He just wants to take that pain away, drive away the memories that were here before him, bridge all those months where he didn’t know if Hannibal was alive or dead, where Hannibal was somewhere in between...
“Crying, Temp?” Hannibal says lightly, and the hand that runs along his jaw undoes him, and he’s coming even as Hannibal chokes back his own cries, spilling into Face’s hand. He's aware of collapsing onto his elbows, onto Hannibal, the older man catching him and laying him down and everything, everything is just the way it should be.
So Face lets everything go still for a little while.
Hannibal’s staring straight up at the ceiling. It’s still raining, hard on the roof, loud and comforting. Face wants to say something about it, enjoy the buzz for a while yet, but Hannibal’s just staring.
“Boss...” Face says, anxious now.
Hannibal doesn’t move. “That was...”
“Yeah.”
The rain keeps coming down.
“Feel any better?”
“Your sexual prowess supposed to be a cure-all for everything, Face?”
Intimacy over. Not lovers right now. Again, they will be again, but not right now. Just two very sticky men, old friends, one of who looks like he desperately needs a cigar. Face grins, and reaches over Hannibal, back to his bag. “In fact, I would expect so, yes.”
“You are the most conceited, arrogant...”
Face returns to level with a silver tube and a box of matches. Hannibal takes both and grins, unscrewing the cap and tossing it aside. He takes an appreciative sniff along its length, and Face bites his lips to keep from chuckling at the image.
Oh, the places they'll go.
“...thoughtful, polite little boy I think I’ve ever come across.”
“Nice, Hannibal.”
The room fills with the sharp bite of the match, then the smooth smoke of the cigar, overlaying the sex and the sweat and old griefs and new jokes, everything that Hannibal should smell like. Face inhales deeply, and pushes himself up on an elbow.
“How you doing, Hannibal?”
A ring of smoke floats up into the half-light of the window, the world beyond, all the places they haven’t been yet. “Outstanding, kid.”
And this, Face figures as he sidles up against Hannibal, sliding under his arm and jarring hot ash down on them both, earning him a sharp slap and a swift kiss, is as good as things can ever really get.
Until tomorrow gets here, anyway. Tomorrow will probably be better.
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-20 05:47 pm (UTC)And this one is my favourite:
Hannibal nods, so Face plants one last kiss on nose and starts working his way down that chest, still a little tight and drawn but mostly recovered, pausing to tug the older man’s hand away from that scar.
“Don’t hide from me,” Face says, and Hannibal lets his head fall back into the pillows.
OHHH so sad but so sweet!!!
I loved it!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-20 05:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-20 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-20 09:06 pm (UTC)But making you cry? Uh, good?
no subject
Date: 2011-02-22 02:32 am (UTC)And yeah, sometimes it has to happen... sometimes you're in the mood for fluff, sometimes, well, not.
Oh, PS: I'm not sure if you got negative comments or something, I read that you felt bad about the other recent non-con - the one with the team - I hope you're better now?? I'm not sure how to say this - I'm really impressed you tackled that prompt, and so, well, carefully and... shit, my English is leaving me. Anyway: I really liked the story, and I think you handled it very well... gah. I'm not really sure what I'm trying to say here, just... don't feel bad?
no subject
Date: 2011-02-22 02:53 am (UTC)