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A slice of Hannibal and Face domesticity, but maybe not quite as it should be...
_________________________
Face fiddled with the cutlery on the table, moving a knife, straightening a fork, his eyes on the clock the whole time, far too on edge to sit down as he waited. Dinner had been ready two hours ago; it would be dried up in the oven by now, despite the foil that Murdock had told him to cover it with. He chewed his lip and resisted the temptation to go and check again.
Satisfied that the table was all as it should be, Face wandered over to the glass wall that ran left to right down the entire side of the room. It was dark, thick black dark and when he stared out at the night he didn’t see the trees that he knew were just beyond the driveway, he didn’t see the stars that were undoubtedly shining down on him from above, all he saw was his own reflection, like a cardboard cut out in the facsimile of domestic bliss behind him as he nervously adjusted his jeans, tugged his shirt into place and pushed back his hair.
Hannibal was late.
The smell of dried up chilli was overpowering, and Face wondered if he had put too much garlic in it. He couldn’t cook to save his life, but it was important that he did this right, that he pleased Hannibal, so he had been getting Murdock to teach him. This chilli was the first thing he had cooked on his own without the pilot’s help. He’d worked all day on it, ground the beef himself, crushed the garlic and finely diced the chilli, all by himself in the huge kitchen with the floor to ceiling windows where he had watched as the sky had darkened, the red and golden trees slowly disappeared from view and Hannibal had got later and later.
He looked at his watch. The boss must have gone to the bar straight from leaving the office; that meant he would have been there for over three hours now. Face frowned and wondered how much he’d had to drink in that time, how tense he would be when he finally arrived home...
As if responding directly to Face’s thoughts, an engine could suddenly by heard through the trees, and as the lieutenant watched, heart thumping in his chest, two bright points of light appeared, sweeping across the front of the house before illuminating the wood shed and then switching off, plunging the yard into darkness once more. Face watched impassively as Hannibal swung his long legs from the car, and, holding his briefcase tightly in one hand, staggered slightly on his way into the house. Taking a deep breath, Face went to meet him.
The door swung open, letting the cold smell of Fall leaves into the warmth of the kitchen and then John Smith was standing there, cheeks flushed, swaying slightly, his sharp blue eyes flashing around the kitchen. Eventually they landed on Face who was leaning against the oven trying hard to look nonchalant but failing miserably. Hannibal’s eyes darkened. “No dinner?” he growled slamming the door behind him. “What’s going on? I’m fucking starving!”
Face literally jumped into action, throwing open the ice box and pulling out a beer, yanking the top off with shaking hands and handing it over to his boss, “There you go, John,” he almost stammered, “your dinner is in the oven. Have a beer and sit down and I’ll bring it right over.”
Hannibal didn’t say anything but he did snatch the offered beer and slump into the wooden seat at the central table, slamming the bottle down onto the top with such force that Face jumped as he bent to lift a foil covered plate out of the oven.
Kicking the door closed with one foot, Face carried his prize across the room, eyes lighting up just a little with obvious pride in his achievements. It was awkward to carry the plate in one hand, but he only had the one oven glove and it was very hot, being kept warm for as long as it had – too hot to touch with his bare skin.
“Here you go,” he whispered as he set the plate reverently down on the table, carefully peeling away the foil to reveal the slightly dried chilli surrounded by baked hard rice and his face fell.
Hannibal stared for a moment and then looked incredulously up at Face. “What the fuck is that?” he asked quietly, the tempered fury clear in his voice.
“It’s chilli,” Face almost mumbled in response.
“Chilli?” Hannibal spat, his voice rising with every second, “Chilli?!” Face cringed, “It looks like a fucking cow pat, you idiot!” Now he was yelling and Face dropped his head, wringing the oven glove desperately in his hands. “What the fuck are you thinking, serving me this shit?” Hannibal’s eyes were fixed on the plate, “I mean look at it! You’ve had all fucking day here on your own, nothing to do, nowhere to go, and this is the best you can come up with?”
Face edged back from the table ever so slightly, “I’m sorry! It’s been ready for too long! I-”
“And that’s my fault?!” Hannibal yelled. “You should have realised I would need a drink before coming back here to face your snivelling little whinges again! You should have been prepared during your whole day doing fucking nothing while I had to go out and earn the money! But you weren’t, because you are fucking useless and all you can offer me is this pile of dog food!”
Hannibal reached out to grab the plate and Face sprang for him, genuine concern in his expression, “No!” he shouted. “It’s hot!” but he was too late, those big fingers touched the baking hot plate as he shoved it hard off the table to fly through the air and smash against the side of the ice box, splattering chilli and rice and chips of broken plate all over the cupboards and the floor, and Hannibal roared in pain, grasping his hand tightly to his chest as he swore under his breath.
“Oh, Jesus,” Face muttered, grabbing a cloth from the sink and soaking it with cold water before rushing to Hannibal’s aid. “It was in the oven!” he frantically explained, reaching out to try and prise Hannibal’s hand from where it was jammed under his arm, “It was red hot! I tried to tell you, but-”
He was cut off in mid sentence by the backhand that swung out and caught him solidly in the mouth, sending him reeling back into the cupboards, cracking his head hard on a metal handle. “You stupid fucking idiot!!!!”
For just a fraction of a second, Face was too stunned to respond, but he quickly pulled himself back together. “I’m sorry!” there was no missing the fear in his voice, “Really, John I am, I’m sorry! I needed to keep it warm and I thought-”
“You thought?” Hannibal thundered as he advanced on the obviously terrified man in the corner of the kitchen, “You aren’t here to think!” he yelled. “You’re here to cook and clean and wash my shirts and suck my dick and spread your no-good whore’s legs for me! You got that?”
“Yes, yes...” Face stammered trying desperately to back off further into the corner.
“If it wasn’t for me you’d be on the fucking streets, wouldn’t you?” Face nodded desperately, his eyes beseeching Hannibal to keep back. “But I let you stay here, I buy you clothes and food and keep you warm when no one else wants you, fucking reject that you are! And this is what I get from you? You fucking try to burn me?!”
“I didn’t! I just-” But yet again Face was cut off, a solid thump to his midriff that had him landing on his back right in front of the glass walls, instantly curling in on himself as he tried to force air into his lungs despite his spasming diaphragm.
Hannibal was on him before he had chance to recover, dragging him up by his hair and holding his chin hard to look into his face, “You are a worthless piece of shit...” he muttered staring straight into Face’s wide blue eyes. “What are you?”
“A worthless,” Face was still gasping for air, “worthless piece of shit.”
“That’s right! I mean look at you! Snivelling like a fucking woman! Like the little bitch that you are!”
Face was sobbing now, holding onto Hannibal’s wrists and trying to get his words out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll try harder tomorrow, I’ll-”
The piercing ring of a phone stopped him short and Hannibal dropped him like he was radioactive, whirling on his heel and grabbing his phone from the side of his briefcase. “Yeah?” he barked, his tone sharp and he listened intently as Face sniffled on the floor behind him. “You sure?” he asked, some of the bite gone now as he ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Okay,” he answered, “you do that, and keep in touch, yeah? Okay. Right,” and then he hung up.
Without a word or a glance at Face, Hannibal reached for a button on a remote control on the counter, and when he pressed it, blinds started sliding down over the windows, removing the strange double-house effect of the reflection. As soon as the blinds were down he returned to Face who by this time had dragged himself up into a sitting position on the floor, one hand still pressed against his stomach, the other tentatively dabbing at the blood seeping out from where he cracked his head on the cupboard.
“Oh, Jesus, Face,” he muttered as he dropped to his LT’s side, “I’m sorry kid; I didn’t mean to hit you that hard, let me see.”
“I’m fine,” Face reassured him, wincing as Hannibal’s fingers probed his head. “You sure they’ve gone?”
“Positive. BA and Murdock are following them just to make sure.”
“You think we fooled them, boss?”
“Fuck, kid,” Hannibal’s fingers were shaking as he traced the edges of the gash through Face’s hair, “we just about fooled me, and I knew what we were doing!”
Satisfied for now that Face wasn’t about to lose his brain through the crack in his head, Hannibal offered him a hand and tugged him to his feet, pulling him straight into a fierce embrace that almost squeezed all the air back out of his recently re-inflated lungs. “I never want to do that with you again! You hear me, Face? Never. That was the worst plan ever!”
Face returned the hug and then pulled back slightly, taking Hannibal’s hand in his own and lifting it up to examine the red finger tips. “You kidding?” he replied lightly, “It was a fucking top plan. Bad guys got their tapes, top gay rights lawyer, John Adams, will get his blackmail letter, and now the police can be involved without any of our clients being dragged through the papers. Neat. Elegant,” he looked up and beamed at Hannibal, “Fucking top!”
Hannibal however, didn’t return his smile. “I don’t like hurting you.”
Face just laughed him off, “Boss, we’ve been sparring for years, you never bother about whupping my ass then!”
But it seemed that Hannibal wasn’t even listening. “Those things I said to you...” he whispered instead, his eyes wide with regret.
Face held his stare, “We had decided on our lines before hand remember? I thought of most of those things you said!”
Hannibal’s hand slid onto Face’s cheek, “You cried...” he whispered and the pain was clear in his voice.
“John,” Face’s hand went to mirror Hannibal’s, resting softly on the slightly stubbled cheek he loved so well, “I was acting, it was all an act. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t. Please believe me,” and with that he stood up on his toes and kissed his lover, slow and steady, a reassuring presence after the turmoil of the last hour.
He pulled back and they dropped their foreheads together, both just taking a moment.
“So,” Hannibal stood up straight, “Your head doesn’t hurt where you hit it on the cupboard then?”
Face frowned, fingers reaching back up to his bloody, matted hair. “Actually, Hannibal,” he frowned, “it fucking does! What the hell did you hit me that hard for?”
Hannibal’s eyes twinkled, “Maybe because you tried to burn the ends of my fingers off?”
“Huh!” Face pulled away to look at the mess on the floor, “What did you expect? It had been in the oven for hours. And what did you have to throw it for? Took me fucking ages to make that!”
This time Hannibal laughed. “Of course! I was forgetting you were showing off your culinary skills to the watching bad guys!”
Face shrugged, “Had to make it look convincing.”
“What’s this?” Hannibal was poking at another dish on the corner of the worktop and Face flushed.
“Ah, that’s,” he rubbed his nose self consciously, “that’s an apple pie.”
Hannibal blinked. “Face...” he shook his head, “You made an apple pie?”
Crossing his arms defensively, Face drew himself up to his full height. “Well I was supposed to be playing the domestic goddess wasn’t I? And I was fucking bored, and there was a recipe in the paper and there’s an apple tree in the yard and-”
“You picked your own apples?!” Hannibal’s eyes were now on stalks.
“Yeah?” Face replied, “And?”
“And?” that amused twinkle was back. “And it seems I have been overlooking your many talents LT, superb conman, master tactician, incredible lover and baker of apple pies?” He shook his head, “I think I have died and gone to heaven.”
Face laughed, relieved that Hannibal had snapped out of his funk. “Yeah? Well, tell you what, bring that pie and the cream outta the fridge and meet me in the bedroom and I’ll show you heaven.”
Hannibal swallowed hard, burnt fingers totally forgotten, and did just as he was told.
_________________________
Face fiddled with the cutlery on the table, moving a knife, straightening a fork, his eyes on the clock the whole time, far too on edge to sit down as he waited. Dinner had been ready two hours ago; it would be dried up in the oven by now, despite the foil that Murdock had told him to cover it with. He chewed his lip and resisted the temptation to go and check again.
Satisfied that the table was all as it should be, Face wandered over to the glass wall that ran left to right down the entire side of the room. It was dark, thick black dark and when he stared out at the night he didn’t see the trees that he knew were just beyond the driveway, he didn’t see the stars that were undoubtedly shining down on him from above, all he saw was his own reflection, like a cardboard cut out in the facsimile of domestic bliss behind him as he nervously adjusted his jeans, tugged his shirt into place and pushed back his hair.
Hannibal was late.
The smell of dried up chilli was overpowering, and Face wondered if he had put too much garlic in it. He couldn’t cook to save his life, but it was important that he did this right, that he pleased Hannibal, so he had been getting Murdock to teach him. This chilli was the first thing he had cooked on his own without the pilot’s help. He’d worked all day on it, ground the beef himself, crushed the garlic and finely diced the chilli, all by himself in the huge kitchen with the floor to ceiling windows where he had watched as the sky had darkened, the red and golden trees slowly disappeared from view and Hannibal had got later and later.
He looked at his watch. The boss must have gone to the bar straight from leaving the office; that meant he would have been there for over three hours now. Face frowned and wondered how much he’d had to drink in that time, how tense he would be when he finally arrived home...
As if responding directly to Face’s thoughts, an engine could suddenly by heard through the trees, and as the lieutenant watched, heart thumping in his chest, two bright points of light appeared, sweeping across the front of the house before illuminating the wood shed and then switching off, plunging the yard into darkness once more. Face watched impassively as Hannibal swung his long legs from the car, and, holding his briefcase tightly in one hand, staggered slightly on his way into the house. Taking a deep breath, Face went to meet him.
The door swung open, letting the cold smell of Fall leaves into the warmth of the kitchen and then John Smith was standing there, cheeks flushed, swaying slightly, his sharp blue eyes flashing around the kitchen. Eventually they landed on Face who was leaning against the oven trying hard to look nonchalant but failing miserably. Hannibal’s eyes darkened. “No dinner?” he growled slamming the door behind him. “What’s going on? I’m fucking starving!”
Face literally jumped into action, throwing open the ice box and pulling out a beer, yanking the top off with shaking hands and handing it over to his boss, “There you go, John,” he almost stammered, “your dinner is in the oven. Have a beer and sit down and I’ll bring it right over.”
Hannibal didn’t say anything but he did snatch the offered beer and slump into the wooden seat at the central table, slamming the bottle down onto the top with such force that Face jumped as he bent to lift a foil covered plate out of the oven.
Kicking the door closed with one foot, Face carried his prize across the room, eyes lighting up just a little with obvious pride in his achievements. It was awkward to carry the plate in one hand, but he only had the one oven glove and it was very hot, being kept warm for as long as it had – too hot to touch with his bare skin.
“Here you go,” he whispered as he set the plate reverently down on the table, carefully peeling away the foil to reveal the slightly dried chilli surrounded by baked hard rice and his face fell.
Hannibal stared for a moment and then looked incredulously up at Face. “What the fuck is that?” he asked quietly, the tempered fury clear in his voice.
“It’s chilli,” Face almost mumbled in response.
“Chilli?” Hannibal spat, his voice rising with every second, “Chilli?!” Face cringed, “It looks like a fucking cow pat, you idiot!” Now he was yelling and Face dropped his head, wringing the oven glove desperately in his hands. “What the fuck are you thinking, serving me this shit?” Hannibal’s eyes were fixed on the plate, “I mean look at it! You’ve had all fucking day here on your own, nothing to do, nowhere to go, and this is the best you can come up with?”
Face edged back from the table ever so slightly, “I’m sorry! It’s been ready for too long! I-”
“And that’s my fault?!” Hannibal yelled. “You should have realised I would need a drink before coming back here to face your snivelling little whinges again! You should have been prepared during your whole day doing fucking nothing while I had to go out and earn the money! But you weren’t, because you are fucking useless and all you can offer me is this pile of dog food!”
Hannibal reached out to grab the plate and Face sprang for him, genuine concern in his expression, “No!” he shouted. “It’s hot!” but he was too late, those big fingers touched the baking hot plate as he shoved it hard off the table to fly through the air and smash against the side of the ice box, splattering chilli and rice and chips of broken plate all over the cupboards and the floor, and Hannibal roared in pain, grasping his hand tightly to his chest as he swore under his breath.
“Oh, Jesus,” Face muttered, grabbing a cloth from the sink and soaking it with cold water before rushing to Hannibal’s aid. “It was in the oven!” he frantically explained, reaching out to try and prise Hannibal’s hand from where it was jammed under his arm, “It was red hot! I tried to tell you, but-”
He was cut off in mid sentence by the backhand that swung out and caught him solidly in the mouth, sending him reeling back into the cupboards, cracking his head hard on a metal handle. “You stupid fucking idiot!!!!”
For just a fraction of a second, Face was too stunned to respond, but he quickly pulled himself back together. “I’m sorry!” there was no missing the fear in his voice, “Really, John I am, I’m sorry! I needed to keep it warm and I thought-”
“You thought?” Hannibal thundered as he advanced on the obviously terrified man in the corner of the kitchen, “You aren’t here to think!” he yelled. “You’re here to cook and clean and wash my shirts and suck my dick and spread your no-good whore’s legs for me! You got that?”
“Yes, yes...” Face stammered trying desperately to back off further into the corner.
“If it wasn’t for me you’d be on the fucking streets, wouldn’t you?” Face nodded desperately, his eyes beseeching Hannibal to keep back. “But I let you stay here, I buy you clothes and food and keep you warm when no one else wants you, fucking reject that you are! And this is what I get from you? You fucking try to burn me?!”
“I didn’t! I just-” But yet again Face was cut off, a solid thump to his midriff that had him landing on his back right in front of the glass walls, instantly curling in on himself as he tried to force air into his lungs despite his spasming diaphragm.
Hannibal was on him before he had chance to recover, dragging him up by his hair and holding his chin hard to look into his face, “You are a worthless piece of shit...” he muttered staring straight into Face’s wide blue eyes. “What are you?”
“A worthless,” Face was still gasping for air, “worthless piece of shit.”
“That’s right! I mean look at you! Snivelling like a fucking woman! Like the little bitch that you are!”
Face was sobbing now, holding onto Hannibal’s wrists and trying to get his words out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll try harder tomorrow, I’ll-”
The piercing ring of a phone stopped him short and Hannibal dropped him like he was radioactive, whirling on his heel and grabbing his phone from the side of his briefcase. “Yeah?” he barked, his tone sharp and he listened intently as Face sniffled on the floor behind him. “You sure?” he asked, some of the bite gone now as he ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Okay,” he answered, “you do that, and keep in touch, yeah? Okay. Right,” and then he hung up.
Without a word or a glance at Face, Hannibal reached for a button on a remote control on the counter, and when he pressed it, blinds started sliding down over the windows, removing the strange double-house effect of the reflection. As soon as the blinds were down he returned to Face who by this time had dragged himself up into a sitting position on the floor, one hand still pressed against his stomach, the other tentatively dabbing at the blood seeping out from where he cracked his head on the cupboard.
“Oh, Jesus, Face,” he muttered as he dropped to his LT’s side, “I’m sorry kid; I didn’t mean to hit you that hard, let me see.”
“I’m fine,” Face reassured him, wincing as Hannibal’s fingers probed his head. “You sure they’ve gone?”
“Positive. BA and Murdock are following them just to make sure.”
“You think we fooled them, boss?”
“Fuck, kid,” Hannibal’s fingers were shaking as he traced the edges of the gash through Face’s hair, “we just about fooled me, and I knew what we were doing!”
Satisfied for now that Face wasn’t about to lose his brain through the crack in his head, Hannibal offered him a hand and tugged him to his feet, pulling him straight into a fierce embrace that almost squeezed all the air back out of his recently re-inflated lungs. “I never want to do that with you again! You hear me, Face? Never. That was the worst plan ever!”
Face returned the hug and then pulled back slightly, taking Hannibal’s hand in his own and lifting it up to examine the red finger tips. “You kidding?” he replied lightly, “It was a fucking top plan. Bad guys got their tapes, top gay rights lawyer, John Adams, will get his blackmail letter, and now the police can be involved without any of our clients being dragged through the papers. Neat. Elegant,” he looked up and beamed at Hannibal, “Fucking top!”
Hannibal however, didn’t return his smile. “I don’t like hurting you.”
Face just laughed him off, “Boss, we’ve been sparring for years, you never bother about whupping my ass then!”
But it seemed that Hannibal wasn’t even listening. “Those things I said to you...” he whispered instead, his eyes wide with regret.
Face held his stare, “We had decided on our lines before hand remember? I thought of most of those things you said!”
Hannibal’s hand slid onto Face’s cheek, “You cried...” he whispered and the pain was clear in his voice.
“John,” Face’s hand went to mirror Hannibal’s, resting softly on the slightly stubbled cheek he loved so well, “I was acting, it was all an act. You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t. Please believe me,” and with that he stood up on his toes and kissed his lover, slow and steady, a reassuring presence after the turmoil of the last hour.
He pulled back and they dropped their foreheads together, both just taking a moment.
“So,” Hannibal stood up straight, “Your head doesn’t hurt where you hit it on the cupboard then?”
Face frowned, fingers reaching back up to his bloody, matted hair. “Actually, Hannibal,” he frowned, “it fucking does! What the hell did you hit me that hard for?”
Hannibal’s eyes twinkled, “Maybe because you tried to burn the ends of my fingers off?”
“Huh!” Face pulled away to look at the mess on the floor, “What did you expect? It had been in the oven for hours. And what did you have to throw it for? Took me fucking ages to make that!”
This time Hannibal laughed. “Of course! I was forgetting you were showing off your culinary skills to the watching bad guys!”
Face shrugged, “Had to make it look convincing.”
“What’s this?” Hannibal was poking at another dish on the corner of the worktop and Face flushed.
“Ah, that’s,” he rubbed his nose self consciously, “that’s an apple pie.”
Hannibal blinked. “Face...” he shook his head, “You made an apple pie?”
Crossing his arms defensively, Face drew himself up to his full height. “Well I was supposed to be playing the domestic goddess wasn’t I? And I was fucking bored, and there was a recipe in the paper and there’s an apple tree in the yard and-”
“You picked your own apples?!” Hannibal’s eyes were now on stalks.
“Yeah?” Face replied, “And?”
“And?” that amused twinkle was back. “And it seems I have been overlooking your many talents LT, superb conman, master tactician, incredible lover and baker of apple pies?” He shook his head, “I think I have died and gone to heaven.”
Face laughed, relieved that Hannibal had snapped out of his funk. “Yeah? Well, tell you what, bring that pie and the cream outta the fridge and meet me in the bedroom and I’ll show you heaven.”
Hannibal swallowed hard, burnt fingers totally forgotten, and did just as he was told.
