The Long and Winding Road - Face/Hannibal

[indigo_angels]

This is the sequel to Nowhere Man, and will make a lot more sense if you read that first! You can find it here.

H/C & angst. Warnings for: adult situations, implied violence and it's very long.

All lyrics you might see are from Linkin Park's 'Waiting for the End' and I don't own any of the boys etc. etc

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Face opened his eyes slowly against the morning glare streaming through the thin hotel curtains; he knew it was going to hurt and he wasn’t disappointed. He forced himself to sit up, the pressure in his bladder rivalling even the thumping in his head, but decided to wait for the spinning to slow and the nausea to die down a bit before he even attempted a trip to the bathroom.

What the fuck had he been drinking last night? He moved around on the bed, trying to shift the pressure from his jeans on his bladder and the answer presented itself in the bottles that fell from the bed and hit the floor with a painful thump. He squinted at them and felt the nausea kick up a notch; Mad Dog… what the hell was wrong with him? When had he started drinking that? The last thing he remembered he was in that bar over by Lincoln Park, drinking JD.

The cap from the second, still half full, bottle was leaking and Face watched in detached interest as the lurid coloured liquid seeped out onto the beige carpet. But then the smell hit him, and he only just made it to the toilet before his stomach emptied itself with painful violence.

It was ten minutes before he could pull himself away from the toilet bowl, and even then he only managed to yank the flush handle and turn around, curling up on the worn lino with his forehead against the foot of the sink pedestal. His head was pounding even worse than before, his throat burned and his stomach felt like it had after a gut punching back in basic training. He gingerly drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his midriff. Cold, damp, material met his bare arms, and with horror Face realised that his bladder had emptied itself while he had been heaving over the toilet.

A wave of self loathing washed over him, triggering his stomach to heave again, and presented with limited options, Face decided on the easy way out and slipped back into unconsciousness.

It was getting dark by the time Face opened his eyes once more, the thumping in his head so loud he could actually hear it. But then he heard a voice as well, shouting in time with the thumping, and he realised someone was banging on his door.

They were certainly persistent. It took Face almost another five minutes before he could force his cramped muscles into action and haul himself to his feet. He padded, bare footed across the room and winced as the smell of alcohol hit him; the rest of the bottle of Red Grape now firmly soaked into the carpet, and managed to fumble the lock open, keeping the chain on and peering out into the hallway.

“So you’re not fucking dead, even if you look it. Where’s my money, asshole?”  

Face swallowed back his anger and managed to content himself with just narrowing his eyes at the building super’ before grinding out, “Wait there,” and shutting the door in his face again.

He turned and surveyed the mess of his room, trying to keep his eyes off the spreading purple stain in case it sparked off another bout of vomiting and he eventually managed to locate his jacket down the back of the single chair. He reached into the inside pocket and his fingers wrapped around the wad of notes stashed there. Ignoring the churning revulsion in his stomach, he peeled a few from the top and padded back to the door, opening it a crack once more and shoving the notes through the gap.

“Here,” he growled, “this should more than cover it.”

The super’ raised a sardonic eyebrow and counted the notes in a show of obvious contempt.

“And I’m leaving today as well. Not staying another night in this shit-hole.”

The super’ stopped his counting and scratched his overextended belly, making Face’s skin crawl, “Yeah? You found a bridge to live under? Going to join the rest of the drunks?”

“Fuck you,” Face snarled, and slammed the door in his face.

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It didn’t take long to get changed and then throw everything he owned into his battered kit bag and set out on foot searching for a more upmarket hotel. He headed back towards the Park, looking for a tourist hotel. He needed a big one with hot showers and soft beds with clean sheets. Maybe a flat screen. Definitely Wi-Fi access. Heating would make nice change. Hell, possibly even a Jacuzzi; it’s not like it couldn’t afford it, not now.

He snuck a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and touched the wad of money, checking it was still there, wondering how long it was going to last him, wondering what the hell he was doing keeping it. Trying to imagine what Hannibal would say if he knew the depths that Face had sunk to to get it. And there was that subject again, the one that he seemed to be trying to spending all his time trying to avoid at present.

Hannibal.

Hannibal’s visit to Montana had thrown him big style. He’d carved himself out a nice little life in Rob Taylor. Snow Mobile safaris weren’t exactly Black Ops, but they were a hell of a lot safer and he’d fallen into a nicely predictable self sufficient routine. He’d just been beginning to think that he could do this; he could live this life and leave the team and his whole other existence behind him when he’d walked out of the shower and found Hannibal waiting for him in his room.

And that had been that really, all those doors he’d so carefully locked behind him just flew open and everything came tumbling out and there was nothing he could do about it. That one night with Hannibal in Columbia Falls was just the icing on the cake. It was so much more than they had ever had before, everything Face had ever wanted really, but just too much, too quickly and he’d freaked. Told Hannibal he didn’t want this now, didn’t want the team and the danger and the running and the adrenalin. Didn’t want him.

Face closed his eyes as he remembered Hannibal’s face as he said those words. Jesus, what had he said that for? Hannibal had seemed to crumble, just for a second before he pulled himself together, but Face had seen it and it had haunted him ever since. Columbia Falls had held no peace for him after that moment, thoughts of Hannibal were everywhere and he’d not even lasted two weeks. In the end he’d cracked, quit his job, and moved on.

He wasn’t hiding from the team this time though, he couldn’t do that to Murdock again, that was just more guilt he was carrying around with him. He’d talked to Murdock before the team had left Columbia Falls and it had been hard to keep his resolve. He was much calmer than he had been when he’d burst into Face’s room the night before, but Face had still been shocked in the change in him. He’d lost weight, that look in his eyes was just a bit brighter than it should be and Face could see him struggling to keep still, keep the twitches out of his limbs. He didn’t want Face to leave, of course he didn’t, couldn’t see why it was even necessary, but then he wouldn’t. And if he were being brutally honest, sometimes Face himself struggled to work that one out, but he still knew it had to happen. So he’d promised Murdock he wouldn’t disappear again, would always be checking his e-mails, would reply to Murdock all the time, and he had. Every single week since the team had driven out of his life, he had diligently e-mailed, cheerful, chatty notes to Murdock that barely contained one word of truth. But at least they made his friend happy.

He’d not heard a peep from Hannibal, and wasn’t surprised in the least. He didn’t really imagine that Hannibal had been turned down often if at all in his life and he knew his own rejection of the colonel would have cut deep into his ego. Not an easy injury to recover from. But still, Hannibal had asked for a mobile number in case he’d needed to get in touch in a hurry. Face had lied of course, told him he didn’t have a mobile and knew from the look on the Colonel’s face he hadn’t fooled him at all. Another reason for Hannibal to want to avoid him from now on.

 Face shook his head, trying to rid himself of these circular thoughts he kept on having about Hannibal at the minute, he really had more pressing things to worry about at the minute; like that bloody money in his pocket. 

Hannibal’s appearance in Columbia Falls had upset his equilibrium to such an extent that when he arrived in Chicago, he just didn’t have it in him to pull off any kind of scam at all; he’d been truly lost for the first time in a long while. He’d brought some money with him from Montana and had relied on that at first, but fancy hotels and copious amounts of alcohol, both of which were suddenly playing a huge role in his life, didn’t come cheap, and within a fortnight, he found himself out on the streets.

Face was no stranger to living rough; two of the least pleasant years of his life had been spent on the streets, doing whatever he needed to just to survive as a homeless teenager. But he’d dragged himself out of that hole once, and had never thought he would have to do it again. The army had been his saviour the first time round, but this time it was local mobster Joey Pacitto.

It had been a pure case of right time/right place. Face had been walking the streets, looking for somewhere out of the wind and hopefully away from anyone who might try and slit his throat while he slept, to shelter for the night when two guys in ski masks burst out of some liquor store, firing out the windows as they fled. Face was right there, right in front of them and reacted without thought. He may have been cold to the bone, half starved and exhausted, but he was still a Ranger at heart, had had far too many hand to hand combat sessions drilled into him over the years to do anything other than react instinctively. Didn’t matter that they were both armed with semi-automatics and he didn’t even possess a coat, he had the element of surprise, and with Face, that’s all that was needed.

Forty seconds later, the proprietor of the store, blood seeping from the evidence of his recent beating, staggered out into the night to find both his assailants unconscious on the sidewalk and some filthy, frozen hobo leaning against the street lamp trying to get his breath back from where he’d taken a gun butt to the chest. Needless to say, he’d been impressed.  

More importantly, the true owner of the store had also been impressed. What Face hadn’t realised, could never even have begun to guess, was that this seemingly innocuous liquor store in a rundown part of Chicago was actually a mob owned money laundering joint. Face had just rescued over one million dirty dollars belonging to one of the most powerful criminals in the eastern United States. He was suddenly very popular.

Joey Pacitto had come over to thank Face in person, even if he did try not to get too close as he shook his hand. And then he’d offered him a job running deliveries. Face was no fool; he knew the score with this guy the second he’d walked in the room. That air of menace about him, the bling, the numerous body guards with the ugly bulges under their jackets, but he’d also been desperate. So he’d pushed as far as he’d dared, stipulating no guns and no drugs, and then accepted.

That had been six weeks ago and Face had run allsorts of deliveries since then. The pay wasn’t fantastic, but at least it paid for a roof over his head and enough alcohol so he could sleep at night so he had to be satisfied.

Until the last job that was. He supposed he should have guessed straight away that something was afoot when Si Accrombo announced he would be accompanying Face on that morning’s run. Face had shrugged and slid into the driver’s seat without comment. Accrombo handled the day to day running of the deliveries and sometimes he rode out with the drivers. Face supposed it kept everyone on their toes – no one was going to arrange to rip the boss off if there was a chance his head Rottweiler might ride with you any day. He had nothing to hide, so what did he care?

Conversation was thin on the ground as they headed out into the early morning traffic, but within the hour they’d hit a snag in the shape of a random, routine roadside checkpoint. Face had seen them before, never been stopped, but today must just have been his unlucky day.

His heart gave an unpleasant jolt as the officer on duty pointed right at him in the line of traffic and gestured into the pull in point. He noticed one other van already in place; one officer checking the driver’s paperwork, the other searching through the goods in the back, and briefly considered making a run for it. He quickly discounted that idea; the traffic was too heavy, he’d not even get a hundred yards before he was stopped. No, there was nothing for it, he’d have to brazen it out, try and talk his way out of trouble, and he sure as hell could do that. And after all, no drugs no guns right? So how bad could it be?

It was then he noticed Accrombo.

The guy had gone rigid in his seat, white as a ghost and sweat was standing out on his upper lip. As Face cast a glance his way he noticed the mobster’s eyes flicking between the back of the van and the cops over and over again.

“Aww, man, you have got to be pissing me…” Face moaned under his breath and he drove as slowly as he dared into the checkpoint, “You better hold it together, mister, or you’ll drop us both in it. Relax, for fuck’s sake!”

He saw Accrombo shoot him a venomous stare, but then he did appear to relax ever so slightly, so Face hit upon his strategy just as he pulled up alongside the bored looking traffic cop.

The cop looked up from his clipboard as he heard the window of the van winding down and started on his speech for about the thirtieth time that day. “Sorry to bother you sir, but we are running a joint operation with US Customs searching for-”. He stopped short as he took in Face’s pained expression, his watery, blood shot eyes and his laboured breathing. “Sir? Are you alright, there?”

Face let a fit of coughing overtake him and noted with satisfaction that the young officer took the smallest step back from the van.

“Yeah,” he wheezed between coughs, “just a cold, that’s all, a cold…” and then he was consumed by coughing again, making sure he sprayed as much towards the cop as he could.

“Okay… right…” the officer, Sgt. McCreedy, Face noted from his badge, nodded as if trying to convince himself and started on his speech again, “Well, we are running a joint operation with-”

“My sister wants me to visit the docs you know,” Face continued, wheezing and coughing as he leaned out the window towards McCreedy, “but I told her, ‘Hell, girl, it’s just a cold!’” he started laughing to himself but had to stop as the wracking coughs overtook him once more.

“I’m sure, sir, I-”

“She thinks it’s that swine flu, you know?” Face was leaning right out of the window now, as close as he could get to poor McCreedy’s face. “Just ‘cos I’ve been working up on my cousin Joe’s pig farm! You can’t even catch swine flu from pigs! Can you? Stupid bint…” and again his laughter was choked off with the coughing.

McCreedy however, had reached the end of his endurance. He stepped right back from the van, unconsciously wiping a hasty hand across his nose and mouth. “Well, I don’t know about that now sir,” he shook his head at his colleague who was on his way towards the back doors of the van, “Maybe you should swing by the clinic anyway? You know, get it checked out?”

Face frowned as his coughs died down, “You think so officer?” McCreedy nodded and Face surreptitiously turned the ignition key, “Well, I’ll go straight there now. Thanks for your concern. Fine service there! Credit to the force!”

Face pulled off and McCreedy raised a hand in farewell, a frown flitting across his features as he noticed Accrombo sitting silently in the passenger’s seat for the first time.

Face drove in silence, not trusting his temper if he spoke at all. Accrombo sat beside him in his own silence, although Face noticed he was no longer sweating, in fact he looked annoyingly smug now which did nothing for Face’s irritation. They reached the drop off point without further incident and Face stubbornly remained in the driver’s seat while Accrombo, after shooting an amused glance his way, climbed out to supervise unloading.

The trip back to the depot was as silent as the trip out and Face eventually swung into the garage a little faster than was strictly necessary. His feet were on the tarmac before the engine had even died completely and he turned to meet the stare of his employer through the still open door of the van.     

“You owe me my fee you double crossing son of a bitch,” he spat; pleased he’d managed to restrain himself to that low level of vitriol.

Accrombo’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in what he obviously felt was a threatening manner and held Face’s stare. “You seem to be over estimating your importance in all of this punk,” he hissed. “You don’t make any rules, you just do what you are told and if you do it right you get paid, and if you don’t...” he shrugged meaningfully.

Face, however wasn’t impressed, he remembered how Accrombo had panicked as they approached the checkpoint. “Yeah? Well maybe next time I might just let the cops find whatever dirty little secrets you’re hiding in the back of the van, and after your performance today, bud, you better make sure you got a change of pants on you when that happens.”

A few other goons had wandered over within earshot and few stifled sniggers met his comments.

Accrombo’s face flushed an ugly puce shade and Face noticed the fingers on his right hand twitching slightly. “Spoken like a guy who wasn’t sleeping with the trash when I gave him a job,” he spat. “You don’t have a lot of options here bud, I’m sure the cops would love to have a chat with you, Rob Taylor, so you’d better watch your step with me.”

Now it was Face’s turn to flush and he bit back the snappy retort just forming in his head.

Accrombo smirked, “So what’s it going to be dickhead?” he reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a wad of money significantly larger than the ones Face had been used to receiving. “You gonna take the money, shut the fuck up and do what you are told? Or are you gonna fuck off and crawl back into your trash can?” The silence in the room was so heavy Face could feel it on his tongue; Accrombo held the money out to him, the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. “Tick, tock, tick, tock, asshole...”

Face snapped and reached out to snatch the money just as Accrombo jerked it back out of his reach, “Thursday morning, bright and early,” he held it out again and Face grabbed it and turned on his heel, “Don’t be late, there’s a good boy.”

So, Face had stormed out, headed into a bar near Lincoln Park, and somehow ended up smashed out of his head on Mad Dog in his poor excuse for a hotel room. But at least he now had the money to stay somewhere better, even if that did make him a drug runner.

He shook that thought from his head as his feet brought him to the steps of the W Lakeshore and looked it over; it seemed to tick all his boxes so he went and got himself a Suite.

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