A Mother's Love - Chapter Thirty Seven

It was hard to work out what exactly happened next, something hit his wrist, hard, spinning the gun from his grasp even as the bullet exploded from the barrel, he felt a sudden sharp pain in the back of his head but when he opened his eyes, an automatic reaction to the shock, he was still in the alley, still laid flat on his back, but this time looking up at a pale, bloodstained Hannibal Smith, fear and pain clear in the blue eyes that stared down at him. Face let himself sink back into the filth and darkness once more and marvelled at the speed in which he had ended up in hell like this, and of course it had to be hell, because where else would he be when he had to spend the rest of his days looking at the man he loved with bullet holes all through his chest?
 
There was rustling beside him and then muffled, pained gasps and a voice, the most precious voice in the universe whispering frantically into his ear. “Face! Face, dear god, look at me! Open your eyes and look at me!” Face just screwed them closed even more forcefully; there was no way he was going to get involved in mind games in his own personal version of hell. The rustling and the shuffling continued, followed by a ripping, tearing sound and then there were hands on him, poking in his hair, prodding the part of his head that hurt like fuck at the back. “What have you done, oh, baby, what have you done?” The terror in those words lanced through Face like an icy spear, and without thought, he opened his eyes, compelled to look up at their owner.
 
Hannibal was pale, the smears of blood on his face standing out in sharp, sharp contrast to the whiteness of his skin. His hands were running all over Face’s head, and he could feel them shaking as they touched, coming away daubed in blood. He glanced down, couldn’t really help it, even though Hannibal’s bloody chest was the last thing he wanted to see, the violence that had killed him, the reason he’d ended up in perpetual hell like Face himself. He frowned in confusion at the loose hoop of duct tape hanging around his boss’ neck and realised that at one point it had been a gag, and then his eyes ran down to that pale caramel sweater and he stared in confusion at the grime he saw, the odd smear of blood, but no bullet holes, no evidence of exsanguination. Without thinking he raised his hand, the same hand that had been holding the gun and frowned at the pain moving it had caused, but then he was touching and finding Hannibal warm and whole and feeling very much alive.
 
With a hiss of pain, Face was pulled up off the ground and enveloped in a fierce, desperate hug that he could do nothing else but return. He was still confused, still had that searing pain in his head from the one bullet, but if this was hell, then maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he had first feared.
 
“Oh, god, Face, I thought you had done it, I thought you were-” Hannibal stuttered to a halt and buried his face in the warmth of Face’s neck, shaking hard and whispering, “What were you thinking? What were you thinking?.” And Face just held on to him, grabbing at any bit of clothing or skin he could manage and tried to wrap his head around what the fuck was going on.
 
But then Hannibal was pulling him up, grabbing him off the floor and almost carrying him towards the still open door of Silas’ Cadillac. “Get in, kid,” he whispered, his voice anxious, “we need to get out of here pretty damn fast.”
 
He tried to push Face into the back seat but he resisted, grabbing hold of Hannibal’s biceps in his hands and staring at him right in the eyes. “I saw him shoot you,” he whispered, the memories those words conjured up almost more than he could stand. “I thought you were dead...”
 
Hannibal wilted under his agony, “No baby,” he whispered, still lowering Face into the car. “He didn’t shoot me, he was being a prick, trying to scare me, trying to make me freak or piss my pants or something.” He shook his head sadly, “He was never going to kill either of us that easily.”
 
Still Face frowned, realising that Hannibal had been gagged, restrained by the tape and that’s why he hadn’t moved or shouted out to Face before he got his hands on Pike’s gun. He put a hand up to the back of his head which was throbbing in time with his pulse and looked at the blood on his fingers. “I shot myself...” he whispered, wondering why the hell he was still breathing.
 
Closing his eyes against the pain of those words Hannibal leant in and kissed Face, hard and fast on his lips before pulling back. “You didn’t,” he reassured him, “I kicked the gun away just in time, you’ve got some shrapnel damage, that’s all, but it’s not too deep.”
 
Face stared at him, trying to take it all in, only just starting to realise what he almost did, his eyes flicked over to where he knew Silas was slumped at the side of the alley, only just starting to realise what he had done... “Oh, god, John... Pike...”
 
Again Hannibal kissed him, lifting his legs at the same time and bundling him into the back seats. “I know,” he whispered, “I’m sorting it. You stay here while I get this done.” Face stared at him and Hannibal could see the shock setting in, knew how Face felt about taking a life, the way it always hit him. “You had no choice,” he reassured him, desperate to get this mess tidied up, desperate to get out before the cops showed up. “He was gonna kill us both, Face. And Murdock and BA, probably your mom and Eddie too. You had no choice.”
 
He got no answer, Face just pulled his legs up and curled into himself on the leather of the back seats while Hannibal hauled Pike’s body into the trunk, picked up their guns, poured gas from a can in the back all over the ground and then threw a match, watching in grim satisfaction as the alley went up in flames. He forced himself to drive slowly and carefully away from the mini inferno, back out onto the main street and away from the hospital as the first sirens sounded off in the distance.
 
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Face was fairly unaware of the drive to meet up with Murdock and BA and the van. He knew that’s where they were going, could hear Hannibal on his cell as he drove, making arrangements, reassuring Murdock that they were both okay, but he was buried so deep in his own personal fog he could never have said whether they had taken ten minutes or ten days to get to where they were going.
 
They met up at the back of a car park in a rest station and Hannibal was ruthlessly efficient the second he pulled over next to the van. He stalked around to the back door of the Cadillac and hauled Face out, his hands firm but gentle and then carried his unresponsive lover over to the open door of the van. Murdock was waiting in the driver’s seat as Hannibal laid Face in the back, stroking his hair and kissing him quickly on the lips.
 
“Murdock is gonna drive up to the house with you kid,” he whispered quickly. “Me and BA have to sort some stuff and then we’ll follow you.”
 
He tried to pull away but Face reached up and grabbed him, his fingers gripping like claws in his desperation. “No,” he gasped and Hannibal felt a spike of sympathy rush through him. “Don’t boss, don’t leave me please, don’t leave me.”
 
“Hey, kimosabe,” Murdock’s voice, strained and on edge but forcibly cheerful reached back from the driver’s seat. “Don’t you worry about nothin’, here, you an’ me are gonna have a nice drive up into the hills an’ Hannibal and the big guy will be there before we know it, right bossman?”
 
“Right,” Hannibal agreed, peeling Face’s fingers off his arm and sliding out of the door of the van.
 
“John, please...” Face begged and Hannibal hardened his resolve.
 
“I have to go,” he told him firmly, “I have to sort this,” and Face withdrew, understanding in his eyes and curled back in on himself again, wrapping his arms around his torso as he watched Hannibal get to his feet outside. Looking at the devastation in his boy’s expression, the colonel sighed. He and BA needed to do this right now, they needed to tidy up all these loose ends, and after that – shit – he knew he’d have some major repairs to do with Face as well.
 
______________________
 
Murdock kept up a steady and chipper monologue all the way up to the house in the mountains they were renting for the next few weeks. It was a tough job, as the only words Face spoke in the entire two hour drive were to ask Murdock to pull over when his concussion made him bring up his dinner all over the side of the road.
 
They set off again almost at once, Murdock keen to get somewhere safe and Face added frequently to the contents of the bucket Murdock had given him on the long drive through the rapidly darkening night.
 
When they arrived, Murdock left Face curled around the bucket in the back of the van while he checked the place out, switched on the electricity and quickly allocated the rooms. Then he came back, and, cheerful voice firmly in place, helped Face from the back of the van and straight into the master bathroom where he had already started the huge bath running.  
 
“I’m fine, Murdock,” Face said tiredly when he saw what was going on. “I don’t need a bath, I just need to go to bed.”
 
“Course you need a bath!” Murdock told him brightly, “’Cause I’m the one who washes all the sheets an’ I aint washing sheets that you’ve mucked all over on purpose, Face. Look at the state of you!”
 
Face didn’t need to look, he could feel the dirt and the grime, the sweat and the blood all over him, and Murdock’s comments about the sheets were a little off as well, they all took turns with the chores, the only thing that Murdock did more than the others was cook. But deep in his head, Face knew that Murdock was right, and that his friend only wanted the best for him, so he stripped down slowly and let Murdock help him into the water, sighing as the heat immediately soothed every ache and pain other than the ones inside him.
 
He lay back in the water as Murdock gently washed him down, poked about in the back of his head, removing tiny fragments of shrapnel with some tweezers and finally numbed and cleaned the gash on his head before sealing it with wound glue. Then he let himself be towelled dry and led to the bedroom where the duvet was turned down and his sleep shorts were already out and waiting for him.
 
Clean and dry, but with his body pulsing in pain, his stomach rolling with nausea and nightmares already creeping into his fuddled brain, he dragged the shorts on and crawled under the duvet, wondering if he could hold it all together just until Hannibal got back. But he didn't have to worry, just as the shaking was starting to get the better of him and turn into something a little closer to convulsing, he felt the bed dip and smelt Murdock’s familiar body spray as his best friend in all the world climbed, fully dressed, under the covers with him. He immediately turned towards that warmth and Murdock was there for him, opening his arms and letting Face crush himself up against Murdock’s hard chest. Within seconds the shaking was subsiding, morphing into something more like trembling, and Murdock’s big hands were on his head and his back, keeping away from the shrapnel site, but just holding, soothing, comforting, and with two hands full of t-shirt, Face let himself start to come down.
 
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Face was sleeping, but Murdock was wide awake when he heard Hannibal and BA come in just short of three a.m. He lay still, holding Face securely while he slept and lifted his head to acknowledge he was awake when Hannibal cracked the door open. Hannibal nodded back, let his eyes run over Face’s sleeping form and then crept back out into the hallway. Murdock gave him a few minutes, made sure that his arrival hadn’t disturbed Face’s sleep, and then gently extracted himself from his friend’s grip, sliding out of the bed and following the sound of quiet voices down the stairs.
 
BA and Hannibal were both sat at the island in the middle of the kitchen, one on either side with two glasses and a bottle of Johnny Walker between them. BA leaned over to snag a third glass for Murdock while Hannibal pulled out a stool for him. “He okay?” he asked quietly as BA poured two fingers into the whisky glass.
 
Murdock downed them in one and BA filled his glass again.
 
“He’s okay,” he answered softly, “but really, really freaked out. What the fuck happened?”
 
Hannibal sighed and rubbed at his forehead before quickly relating everything that had occurred since he had left the house that morning. When he’d finished, the three sat in silence, each mulling over their own particular thoughts.
 
“Shit boss,” Murdock eventually whispered into the silence. “What if... what if Pike had decided to be a little more straightforward and a little less of a jackass? You’d be dead right now, both of you.”
 
BA shifted uncomfortably and Hannibal rubbed two fingers across his forehead. “But we’re not,” he ground out flatly. He couldn’t get that image of Face laid out in the alley, lifting the gun up to his head, pulling the trigger, actually pulling the fucking trigger, out of his head at all. It was like it was on a perpetually repeating loop, burning itself into his mind.
 
“He thought you were dead, Hannibal,” Murdock offered, reading the look in Hannibal’s eyes and automatically defending Face.
 
“I know, but how could he do that? I just-” he stopped, they all stopped, straining their ears to catch the sound drifting down from upstairs.
 
“Fuck...” in a moment, Hannibal was on his feet, running for the stairs, hearing Face’s shouts, wondering where the weapons were, wondering what he’d find in that bedroom... He burst through the door and saw Face was sitting upright in the sheets, awake now, his eyes confused and downright scared. He looked over at Hannibal standing in the doorway and then they both moved, Face leaning forwards, reaching out for the comfort, Hannibal climbing right onto the bed, crawling up and gathering him into his arms, both of them far, far too close to knowing what it was like to be alone.
 
They stayed like that, immobile in each other’s arms for long, silent minutes until Face needed more and edged around, letting his eyes stay closed and his lips feel their way along Hannibal’s jaw until he was close enough to reach the older man’s lips. He stretched up, pressing his own mouth firmly against Hannibal’s and slipping his tongue out to flick against closed lips, asking for the entrance he was always granted.
 
Not this time though. One minute Face was being held securely, his cock just starting to swell slightly at the promise of what was to come, the next he was being roughly pushed away, so hard he fell back against the headboard and Hannibal swung himself around, presenting his stiff back to Face as he let his head fall down into his hands.
 
Face was stunned into silence for almost a minute as the piercing pain of rejection slowly filtered through his body to pool coldly in his heart. And then it hit him, why Hannibal was turning him away, what he’d done in that alley, the way he’d killed Silas Pike. Shot after shot after shot he’d let rip into the bastard, and why? Because he’d lost control, let his emotions get the better of him and allowed his heart to rule his head. Stupid. Hannibal was always telling him he had to stop and think, he couldn’t get away with reacting like a five year old, that one day it would get someone killed.
 
Well, today it had done, but only Pike, who’d wanted to kill them all and hadn’t Hannibal said that was okay? That Face had had no choice? Or had he only said that to get him into the car? To let Hannibal clear up his mess and get their butts out of there before the cops turned up?
 
When they’d started on this whole ‘Soldiers of Fortune’ thing, Hannibal had told them, over and over again, that it was not their role to be a lynch mob. They would stop the bad guys and present them and enough evidence to the police so that they could be taken care of in an appropriate way. If the need was strong enough then they would use deadly force, but otherwise – no; in no circumstances at all were they going to turn into vigilantes.    
 
So, was that what this was all about? That Face had killed Pike in cold blood when there had been no real need? Hannibal wasn’t dead, had never even been shot; all Face needed to have done was to turn around and look and they could have taken care of Pike in a much less bloodthirsty manner. But he hadn’t, he’d ended up blasting the guy’s internal organs all over the wall in the alley, and now Hannibal was disgusted in him, in the bloodlust he’d seen in Face’s eyes as he repeatedly pulled that trigger, so disgusted that he wouldn't let Face kiss him, didn’t want to hold him anymore... and where the hell did that leave their relationship now? His insides turned to ice, was it over? Was Hannibal so appalled in him that he didn’t want him in the team anymore? In his bed? Face swallowed hard, he couldn’t let that happen, he just couldn’t – he would do anything on earth to stop it.
 
“I’m sorry...” he choked out and Hannibal twitched slightly, looking at Face from under the hand cradling his head. “I can’t believe I did that,” he whispered, “I should never have shot him like that.”
 
That eye slid shut again and Hannibal wilted even more, his sigh clearly audible in the silence following Face’s words. The quiet stretched on and Face began to panic. He felt nauseous once more and wasn’t sure if it were due to his concussion or the waves of disapproval he could feel rolling off the boss. His heart was hammering against his ribs and he was sweating, that nasty cold sweat of fear. He couldn’t believe that his apology had fallen on deaf ears the way it had; if anything it had only seemed to stoke Hannibal’s resentment of him even higher. So if the apology had failed then what was left for him? Justification seemed the next best alternative.
 
“I thought you were dead,” he offered plaintively, “I saw him shoot at you, heard the shots, saw him laughing. How the fuck was I supposed to know he was only playing mind games?” Hannibal got to his feet and walked to the window, staring out sightlessly, tension obvious in every plane of his body from his folded arms to the veins that were standing out on his neck.
 
Face shifted to the edge of the bed, testing his swollen ankle on the floor and willed Hannibal to turn and face him, tell him it was alright, he understood. When no such reassurances came, he ploughed on. “So, maybe I didn’t do it the way you would have done, maybe I messed up where you wouldn’t have. But, shit, John, I did my fucking best!”
 
Still Hannibal stayed still and silent, staring out of the window and Face slowly got to his feet, the panic and the adrenalin in his veins masking the pain in his foot. “I know I shouldn’t have killed him,” he stated to Hannibal’s rigid back, “I know you always say that brings us right down to their level and we are better than that, should be better than that,” he shook his head and took a step in, tentatively resting a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, “but I... I just lost it for a second there, I thought I’d lost you!”
 
Hannibal made a disgusted little growl and shrugged Face’s hand off him, a movement that hurt more than anything that Face had suffered at Pike’s hands in the last week. He recoiled physically from the man he loved, stumbling a little in his shock and suddenly the room was far too small and Hannibal’s presence was far too painful and he just needed to get away. He leaned heavily on the chest of drawers as he forced his ankle to take his weight long enough to get to the door and then he stopped, tears in his eyes, his throat as tight as a bow, shaking from the effort of standing on his own two feet. He gripped the door handle tightly and stared down at the beige carpet, determined to have one last go at bringing Hannibal round.
 
“I’m sorry John,” he whispered, the bitterness of his words impossible to miss. “I’m so fucking sorry that I’ve let you down here. But I did it because I love you,” he implored. “Because I thought he’d hurt you and I fucking love you.” There was no response. “You have no idea how I felt,” his voice scratched at his throat on the way out. “No idea what it was like to have to watch the man I love scythed down in front of me like that by a psycho with a gun...”
 
He depressed the handle, but before he had chance to even start to open the door, Hannibal was on him, swinging him around and slamming his back into the wall next to the door so hard he hit his head yet again. He started to slide down but then the boss was there, a big hand around his throat, holding him up, his furious face just inches from his lieutenant’s and Face froze, recognising a Hannibal Smith right at the end of his rope when he saw one. “No, Face I don’t!” Hannibal spat, boiling hot fury evident in every syllable. “But I do know how it feels to watch some dickhead with a piece threaten to blow you apart right in front of me ‘cause I’ve seen it, haven’t I? Too many fucking times to count!”
 
Face knew that was true, he’d felt that terror himself. But this was different, this time he’d really thought that Hannibal was dead.
 
“But they were all assholes,” Hannibal continued, “Pike one of the biggest ones going. What about if it’s not an asshole wielding the gun? What then, hey, Face? What then?”
 
Face just stared at him, thoroughly confused.
 
“You, Tried. To. Kill. Yourself!” Hannibal iterated, punctuating each word by banging Face against the wall. “I sat and watched as you lifted that gun and put it to your own fucking head! Your own head Face! How do you think that made me feel? What in fuck’s name were you even thinking?”
 
Things finally slid into place in Face’s head and he struggled against the hand on his throat. “I thought you were dead!” he defended himself desperately.
 
“You should have looked!” Hannibal yelled at him. “You should have fucking well checked!”
 
Face was rapidly losing control himself and the pressure of Hannibal’s grip on his neck was beginning to hurt. He wrapped both his hands around Hannibal’s wrists even as he started yelling back. “I didn’t want to see you dead! I didn’t want to remember you like that, all shot up and gone!”
 
“And that would have mattered? When you were planning on offing yourself anyway?” Face’s mouth opened but no sound came out. “And so I have to watch you blow your own fucking brains out all over the fucking ground instead then do I?!” Hannibal spat back. “DO I?!!”
 
Face had no answer to that, and with his silence, Hannibal’s fury ran out to be replaced by tragic resignation. “How can I ever trust you again after this?” he asked, the rawness of his voice impossible to miss.
 
“What?” Face asked quietly, shocked by the realisation of what he’d done.
 
“How can I let you go out on a job knowing that this is what you would do if the shit really hit the fan?” Hannibal asked him. “How can I let you run the risk of getting captured if I think you are gonna add yourself to the ‘death in custody’ statistics? How can I carry on this relationship with you if I think that every time we fight I’m gonna find you swinging from a rope somewhere?”
 
“John, I...” Face started, but he was soon cut off.
 
“I can’t trust you Face, I just can’t. And without trust then what the fuck is the point to all this?”
 
Face just stared, his eyes filling with moisture, the pain in his chest so acute he was having trouble breathing around it. “What do you mean?” he whispered, but Hannibal just shook his head and removed his hand, frowning at the marks he could already see standing out on Face’s skin.
 
“Just go to bed, Face,” he answered tiredly and turned at once, slipping out of the door, leaving Face to slide down the wall and slump into a heap on the carpet.

Next

A Mother's Love - Chapter Thirty Eight - Penultimate Chapter

As the morning light slowly filtered through the gaps in the blinds, painting the walls a faint orange, Face was still sitting where Hannibal had left him, his expression blank, his mind reeling.
 
His first reaction to Hannibal walking out on him like that had been to leave. His bag was already packed, his worldly possessions combined into one medium sized holdall and if that was what the boss thought of him now, then maybe he would be doing everyone a favour if he just disappeared.
 
But then, even before he’d managed to struggle to his feet and get his stuff, it had struck him; he’d had a sudden, searing image of Hannibal, gun raised to his temple, pulling the trigger and the force of the vision had almost crushed him, and he realised then what he had done, how violently he had betrayed the man who loved him.
 
It was more than that, though, much more. And as he sat through the small hours of the morning and the black of the night slowly, slowly receded, he thought back to his early days with Hannibal and the vow he had silently made as a soldier, long before they had been anywhere near the point of making vows as lovers.
 
Hannibal had been the first person to look twice at the angry young lieutenant who could run his mouth as fast as his body; the first person to ask ‘why?’ instead of just reaming him out, and that was all it had taken for Face’s life to turn around. He found that with someone to trust him and believe in him and value him he could start to be a better person, a more level person, and he vowed that he would repay that trust by always being exactly what Hannibal wanted him to be, always doing whatever it was that needed doing.
 
And he had. For almost twenty years he had done whatever was needed perfectly and often without Hannibal even having to say anything. Maybe the methods he chose weren’t always what the boss had had in mind and maybe the end results were a little different too, but Face had instinctively known the big picture, known what was expected of him and he had moved heaven and earth to unsure that that was what he had delivered for his colonel.
 
Until yesterday. And that was the thing that had brought him up short and shocked him back into real life. It didn’t matter whether Silas had shot Hannibal or not, it didn’t matter whether Face had checked out his facts properly or not. All that mattered was what Hannibal had expected of his XO in that situation, and in the quiet calm of the night, those expectations were crystal clear to Face now.
 
He was right to kill Pike the way he did; as unpleasant as he usually found taking a life, as unsavoury as the after taste of his over enthusiastic shooting might be, Pike was a threat to his team and would not have stopped in his crazy vendetta until he was dead. Face was right to kill him.
 
And after that his role was clean up. He should have sanitised the situation, made sure nothing existed to link either him or the team to the whole debacle. And if the worst had happened, if his CO, his life, his love had been killed, then he should have stepped up to the mark and taken control. Someone needed to move the bodies, someone needed to meet up with BA and Murdock and tell them what had happened, someone needed to be there for Murdock, be strong for BA, someone needed to organise a burial, someone needed to command the unit until they all decided what they were going to do with themselves. And that someone should have been him. 
 
Regardless of what he owed Hannibal as a lover, the vow to hand over his heart and soul for all eternity had come after the vow to be the very best soldier, and later XO, that he possibly could be. He’d said he would never let Hannibal down, never, and now he had - and why? Because he’d been out-thought? Out-manoeuvred? Out fought? Out soldiered? No. Because he’d been damn selfish. Shame washed over him in a hot wave.
 
’I can’t trust you Face, I just can’t.’ Those words were haunting him now, circling round and round in his brain like a whole kettle of vultures and he realised what that meant to him, losing Hannibal’s trust like that. He wouldn’t be XO anymore, couldn’t be, how could you have an XO you didn’t trust? So where did that leave the team? How could they take on missions? How could they survive without that income? He couldn’t even begin to consider the knock on effects into his personal life, how much Hannibal would be able to stand by him and how much he wouldn’t.
 
And of course the ripples didn’t stop at Hannibal either, they just kept on spreading, absorbing everyone and everything they came into contact with. BA for example; he saw himself as chief protector of the team, and he would gladly stand between any one of them and a threat. The problem was, how was he supposed to do that if he thought that the biggest threat to Face came from his own hand rather than the hand of an adversary?
 
And then there was Murdock, and Face let his head droop as yet another tsunami of shame hit him. Murdock dealt with so much, coped with all the times his own mind back-fired on him and in all of those times, he’d never, ever been tempted to just jack it all in and top himself. Face knew that for a fact as it had come out in one of their all night whisky induced bonding sessions, where Hannibal and BA would eventually pass out and Murdock and Face would talk until dawn, wrapped up in a shared blanket marvelling at how they seemed to be two halves of the same brownie. Murdock’s joy at life, his wonder at waking up every morning and just being alive was far too strong for that.
 
He rubbed at his eyes, gritty with lack of sleep, and wondered what Murdock would think of him, giving up like that in a moment of despair. Refusing to tough it out, refusing to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe he didn’t need Hannibal to be able to live, and that maybe there were others out there who needed him and were relying on him to help them get by.
 
Face had fought all his life. He’d fought to stay sane and to stop the world from beating him down when many others would have given in from the first moment. He’d fought to stay in the army when the powers that be decided he was too risky, too unstable. He’d fought to stay by Hannibal’s side and then later with his team when others had tried to split them up, and he’d fought to be the very best person he could be for his family, to be everything they needed and stop the darkness inside him from rearing up and claiming his soul.
 
And then, for two short minutes, he’d given up; given up the fight, given up striving to be the good man that Hannibal wanted him to be and let himself slide down into desolation and despair. He hadn’t seen what was needed from him, in fact he hadn’t seen anything beyond his own determination that he simply wasn’t good enough to be able to survive without Hannibal in his life. He’d been a coward, he’d taken the route of least resistance and now it looked as if that moment of weakness was going to cost him everything he held dear.
 
So what were his options now? To sit here and mope and feel desperately sorry for himself and wait until someone came to check on him and take his weapons and shoelaces off him? Or was he going to man up and try to fix some of his mess before it destroyed them all?
 
There wasn’t a decision to make, he hauled himself to his feet, took a second to steady his aching body and then quietly let himself out of his room looking for where Hannibal had taken himself off to.
 
He didn’t have to look far. As soon as he was on the landing and glanced out of the circular window letting daylight into the stairwell he saw him, sitting outside, the early morning light giving his hair and his jumper an other-wordly glow.  The house hugged the sides of a small fishing lake, the decking at the rear stretched out right over the water so you didn’t even have to leave the property to catch your dinner. Hannibal was on his butt in the sand on the tiny beach that crept gently down to the lake’s edge, cigar in hand and face raised to the mountain which climbed up out of the water on the far side. The whole scene, the sun rise, the lake, the mountains, Hannibal... it was all so beautiful and a very sharp reminder to Face about all he could have lost.
 
He limped outside in his sleep shorts and his bare feet and immediately felt gooseflesh rise all over his body in the cool of the early morning. He steadfastly ignored it though, the chill in his heart over the things he’d done and the things Hannibal had said far outweighed any chill in the air. He padded straight over to the still figure in the sand and dropped down so they were sat side by side, adjusting himself until he could sit comfortably without straining his painful ankle.
 
Hannibal didn't greet him, didn’t move at all and Face suddenly found himself lost for words, floundering at the best way to tell the man he loved how sorry he was that he tried to run out on him here. Permanently. But in the end, as he scrambled in a very un-Face-like way to open the conversation, it was Hannibal that spoke first. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly and Face looked around at him in shock.
 
He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, still sporting various cuts and bruises from his fight with Pike. His jaw was covered in stubble and his eyes were heavy and bloodshot with dark shadows underneath, he looked dreadful and Face felt his heart crack just a little at the sight.
 
Without pause he leant in, his arm creeping around Hannibal’s waist, his other hand resting gently on his taut stomach and felt himself almost melt with relief when Hannibal raised his arm and allowed Face to nestle up against the soft wool of the caramel sweater, complete with smears of blood all down the front.
 
“I’m sorry too,” Face whispered, unwilling to risk his voice at such an emotional moment, “for all the ways I let you down.”
 
Hannibal tugged him in more firmly at those words and even pressed a kiss to the top of his head; filling Face with a hope that maybe there was a way out of this for them.
 
“No, kid, you have nothing to apologise for here, this is me, this was my call and I’m the one who dropped the ball.” Face frowned, confused but Hannibal took a long draw of his cigar, cleared his throat awkwardly and continued with his obviously pre-planned words. “I should have guessed how all this was affecting you; the cumulative effects of everything that’s happened recently and the things you can remember from when you were little.” Face flushed and looked down at the sand, wondering, not for the first time if Hannibal had a fast track right into his head. “I could see you had things bothering you, you’ve been saying different things in your sleep,” Face flushed even deeper, “looking edgier every time you came back from seeing her... But we never seemed to find the time to go over it, did we?”
 
Face didn’t say a word; he just stared at the sand between his legs and wondered where this was going.
 
“Anyway,” Hannibal cleared his throat again, “I hadn’t realised how badly it was affecting you and that was very remiss of me. I’ve had a little chat with Murdock and he’s made a few suggestions,” he cleared his throat yet again, oozing awkwardness into the morning air, “and I’ve managed to get the number of a really good therapist in Dallas. Someone who’s had a lot of success with people who have... who... who are finding things really tough,” and now Hannibal was almost as flushed as Face.
 
“Hannibal...” Face murmured, his eyes on the sand.
 
“So I thought maybe we could head out that way and see if she’ll see us, hey?” Face could tell from the difference in his voice that Hannibal had turned towards him and he closed his eyes in shame. “We could take a few months off, get some rest, just take the time to chill and you could work out some of these things that are making you... feel down...” he finished lamely.
 
“Hannibal,” Face repeated through gritted teeth, “I don’t need to see a shrink!”
 
“Temp,” there was pain in that voice, raw, anguished pain and Face couldn’t stop himself from looking up, hating to hear that tone in the man he loved. “I can’t lose you, kid.” Hannibal ground out. “And I can’t let you do that to yourself either, you are too special, too precious...” Face swallowed hard. “It will be fine, we can beat this,” Hannibal’s arm tightened on him, reawakening the pain from the bullet track in his bicep, but Face ignored it. “You and me, kid, we’ve done worse than this before, yeah? This, these, feelings, you’ve been having – we can whup their asses too, right?”
 
Face swallowed around the golf ball that had apparently lodged itself in his throat and wondered just who Hannibal was so desperately trying to convince here that they could kick Face’s obviously suicidal depression. He took a deep breath. “Boss,” he said, slowly and carefully, “you don’t have to worry about me-”
 
“Face!” Hannibal interrupted, shock clear in his tone. “You think I don’t care how you are feeling? I know I got a bit heated up there last night, but it’s not because I don’t care! I care so much it scares the fucking crap outta me...!”
 
Leaning in, Face swallowed his shame at the way this conversation was going and made sure he held Hannibal’s eyes with his own, made sure that the boss could see the truth in there, the absence of a con, the absolute and total honesty in Face’s words and his soul. “John,” he said slowly and carefully. “You don’t have to worry about me ‘cause I’m not going to... do anything stupid,” he paused, wanting to make sure his words had got through.
 
“Temp, honey,” Hannibal’s hand was shaking as he reached to touch Face’s cheek. “You don’t have to hide from me. I was there, remember? I saw what happened... I know I said some pretty harsh things earlier on, but this will be okay for us, you hear me? We can get through this. It will be fine.”
 
Face bit down on his frustration and tried again. “I don’t want to die, John,” he said quietly, his voice starting to break over his words. “I want to be with you. Always. It was just... I thought you were dead...” And that was it, as much as he could take finally reached and he pitched forward grabbing on to Hannibal so hard it must have hurt, his words coming out in a stream of pain that he had no way of stopping. “I thought I couldn’t go on without you, but I realise I was wrong now, I realise that if you... if, that happens someday then you’ll need me to go on and be strong for the others and that’s what I’ll do. Hannibal, you don’t have to worry about me, you can still trust me, you don’t have to leave me, I can do this, I can be whatever you want me to be. Haven’t I always done my job? Haven’t I always delivered the goods for you? Haven’t we always been a good team?”
 
“Oh, the best, baby, the very best!” Hannibal rushed to reassure him. “And I’m not leaving you, I’d never leave you, I thought you knew that, this will be fine, it will, I swear to you, we’ll get all of this all worked out.” He let Face cling to him, wrapping his own arms around his shaking back and felt hot, desperate tears leak from his eyes, wondering how he would feel if Face had died, how much he would feel like getting up and carrying on...
 
He was appalled to see his boy like this, so strung out and overwhelmed. Appalled at the words that had come tumbling out, that Face had felt he’d had to be something specific for Hannibal all these years, that being himself wasn’t enough.
 
But that was a topic of conversation to file away for another day and Hannibal fully intended not leaving this haven in the mountains until he’d covered a number of topics with Face; the suicide attempt obviously one, Adele, his father, his recently recovered childhood memories, and now this, the others. He couldn’t believe he’d let things get this bad, that he’d let Face hide this much from him, maybe if he’d known what was really going on in the kid’s head that stunt in the alley wouldn’t have been such a shock to him, maybe he could have even guarded against it, just like he needed to guard against it now.
 
Face was still shaking and clinging, but he wasn’t crying and that worried Hannibal, he knew they weren’t there yet, that Face was still holding on to too much pain inside him and it needed an outlet. Despite their differences over the last twelve hours, Hannibal knew his boy well, knew exactly what he needed to let go, and so as Face clung to him, his fingers vises on his arms, Hannibal twisted his own head so he was leaning down and slowly, gently, so, so, lovingly, he pressed the most cautious of kisses onto his boy’s lips.
 
The response was overwhelming. Face reared up in an instant, moving his hands to the back of Hannibal’s head to hold him in place and kissing back with a force borne of desperation. For a second, Hannibal struggled simply to contain him, but finally he managed to assert control, to take the lead, control the strength and pace and gently guide Face into something more careful, more fulfilling for both of them and he realised that that was a fairly accurate metaphor for their entire existence together.
 
Face had always been brave and strong, both mentally and physically, but he’d also been vulnerable. He would charge into everything he did with a hundred and ten percent effort and enthusiasm, he would roll with the blows, adapt as he went along, but he could never sustain that pace forever. Running like that, firing on all cylinders, burned him out pretty quick and when he was burning out, he was at the mercy of his emotions, his quick temper, his impulsivity, his sharp tongue all surged to the fore and got him into trouble. And that’s where Hannibal had come in. He was able to take all that enthusiasm and energy and channel it more appropriately, stop the burn out before it even started and let Face moderate his own behaviour. It had worked, it had worked beautifully for years and Face played the ying to his yang by keeping Hannibal grounded in return, not letting him get too swallowed up in the jazz and making sure that there was enough sense in his crazy-insane plans that they could actually come together effectively.
 
They were a team, like Hannibal had told him, the best team there was. But of course, as Hannibal was just starting to realise, even the most wonderful of arrangements had a downside and that happened when Hannibal didn’t notice the warning signs that Face was still burning out, or if he couldn’t get in to prevent that final shove, the shove that had Face rapidly spinning out of control. Thinking Pike had killed him in that alley, that had been it, the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back; Hannibal had managed to haul him back for the short term, but the events of last night, their row, Hannibal storming out the way he had, had all just conspired to push him right back out on the edge again.
 
As they kissed, Face suddenly yanked Hannibal’s sweater up and away and Hannibal shivered with the first wash of the morning air on his torso, breaking their connection for the very briefest of seconds before reaching down to meet Face’s searching mouth with his own. He realised that he’d known all of this all along, known how Face could react if pushed hard enough. Did he really think the kid was suicidal? Was going to slit his wrists the second he was left alone? No, he didn’t. If he’d really feared that then he never would have left him alone all night the way he had. The kid had made a primitive knee jerk reaction in that alley, a response to fear and desperation from a man who had never developed more appropriate coping strategies, and whose fault was that?
 
Hannibal realised that he had contributed to this as much as he had contributed to everything that Face had done and lived and learned since he sixteen years old – still a baby. But it was like BA was always trying to tell him, Face wasn’t that child anymore, and it was long past the time where Hannibal should have stopped propping him up emotionally and let him stand on his own two feet a bit more. He knew that’s what needed to happen now if Face was ever going to achieve any kind of emotional stability in his life...
 
All rational thought, however, was firmly shoved to the back of his mind the second that Face found the bulge in the front of his trousers and started insistently rubbing at it with his hand. Hannibal moaned as the arousal in his gut started to twist and rise, and in seconds they were both scrabbling to undo the button on his cords and shove them down over his tense thighs, pushing his briefs down at the same time and he hissed as he felt the cool sand on his bare skin.    
 
Face’s shorts were the next to go, and within a minute they were both naked, the morning sun warming them and turning their skin a pearlescent gold, and in all this time since Hannibal’s jumper had come off, they had never broken their kiss, not once. But now, with his lungs burning and his pulse thumping in his ears, Hannibal lifted off and Face fell back into the sand beneath him, his eyes closed and his chest heaving for breath as he lifted a knee to rest against Hannibal’s side, a hand right on his tattoo, keeping up that contact.

Fancy a visual? Click here. NSFW
 
For a second Hannibal just stared at him, letting his eyes run up and down his strong lean body as it lay in the sand beneath him. The smooth planes of muscle, still baring the marks of Silas’ capture, the dusky nipples, taut in the cool air, his beautiful cock, flushed dark red where it lay against the tan of his stomach, smearing it with pre-come that glistened in the sunlight. His eyes were closed, purple smudges underneath them that betrayed his state of exhaustion and suddenly Hannibal felt a fear unlike anything he had ever known that they would lose this thing they had together and he vowed to himself that he would never let that happen.  
 
He wanted to take his time on the body beneath him, spend hours covering every inch of that glorious skin with his mouth and his fingers and his love, but he knew he couldn’t do that, not this time. Looking back up into the kid’s expression, he saw the desperation there as Face opened his eyes and returned his stare. He saw the way that his breath was starting to hitch more rather than settle down, he saw the needy little twitches in his fingers, and how his eyes were swimming in the tears that needed to flow.  
 
Hannibal knew exactly what was needed from him here, and he wasted no more time in fulfilling that need. His head dropped and found Face’s lips once more, plunging straight in with his tongue, opening the kid up so he could fill him with his love. He transferred all his weight onto his left arm, dropping to his elbow and feeling Face’s fingers digging hard into the flesh of his bicep. Then he let his right hand drift down as his hips dipped to rest gently on Face’s abdomen and he wrapped both their cocks up together in one large palm.
 
Face keened into his mouth and responded by thrusting his pelvis up hard into Hannibal, his fingers tightening and the little hitches Hannibal could feel in his breathing telling the older man that the tears were here at last. Hannibal felt his own return in response, hot and angry behind his closed lids as he moved himself, moved Face, kissed him, loved him and tried to pull him through this.
 
It was desperate, frantic, frenzied, and Hannibal knew he would have bruises where Face’s fingers were clutching almost convulsively at him and he was trying in return to steady his own hips, the tugging of his hand, keep them gentle, but it was a losing battle. Face started thrusting up harder into him, the sobs audible now even through the desperate need in their kiss and Hannibal reached with the fingers half buried in the sand to grab at any part of his boy that he could reach, determined to be everything he could for Face now and forever. He got a handful of hair and held on tight, thrusting and tugging and kissing, kissing so hard, desperate now in his desire to drive all this pain and insecurity out of the man he loved once and for all.
 
Face’s hands had moved to his back and were clutching feverishly at the muscle he found there as he tried in turn to bury himself in everything that was Hannibal, knowing damn well that what they were doing here wouldn’t solve anything for him, but that it was all he needed right now, and god he needed it so much. He pulled Hannibal down even harder, trapping their cocks together and Hannibal dragged his hand out, using it to hold Face’s head, moulding them even closer, mashing their chests together, pushing Face back into the sand, as lost in all this as Face was now.
 
And then Face started shuddering beneath him, shaking apart with each thrust of Hannibal’s heat onto his own and Hannibal tried to pull back, tried to give him the space and the air to come, but Face held him still, kept their mouths fused even though neither of them had the motor control to actually kiss as their climaxes reared up to absorb them.   
 
Face went first as Hannibal felt his own twisting, roiling heat filling his cock, and then there was that glorious wet warmth against his stomach, making their cocks slide frenetically against each other as Face’s emptied, spurting hard in time with the sobs that Hannibal could feel in his mouth. Then Hannibal fell, jamming himself down hard, sealing his mouth over Face’s to catch those broken little sounds as he spilled over and over again, mixing his seed with his lover’s wanting that act alone to be enough to bind them together forever.
 
They shuddered through their mutual release and as soon as Hannibal came back to himself and realised that their mouths were still melded together, he started kissing again, slowly this time, deeply, passionately, licking through his boy’s mouth, tasting tears on his lips and trying to kiss around the sobs that were still there, take them away along with all the pain they represented.
 
He tipped onto his hip in the sand, pulling Face with him, keeping them meshed together and slowly used his mouth to bring his boy down from the edge, gently lessening the intensity of his caress, pulling back slightly until he was running kisses along a stubbled jaw, and Face’s sobs were nothing more than jerky, stuttered breathing.

He kept on going, gently, lovingly kissing cheeks, eye lids, forehead, nose until Face finally opened his lids and looked across at him from red rimmed, bloodshot eyes. In silence they regarded each other. Face looked exhausted, mentally, emotionally and physically but somehow he looked better, as if something evil and toxic had been gouged out of him, painful but necessary, leaving him finally able to rest and heal.
 
As if he could almost read Hannibal’s thoughts, Face’s eyes grew heavy and he let them slide shut, almost at once going limp in his lover’s arms. Hannibal screwed his own stinging eyes closed once more and gathered his poor exhausted boy up into his arms, hoping he would sleep for hours, hoping that they would both be strong enough to fix this mess when he woke up.

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Thankyou so much karenjd for the wonderful image that inspired the beach scene! x