indigo_angels

It had been a ridiculously long day, and Face was kind of glad that Samantha had insisted on him being driven back to the penthouse apartment they had set up for him, even if it did mean leaving his Mustang in the care of her ‘people’ for now.

He was exhausted. The actual signing of the pardon took much longer than he had imagined it would, and he’d found meeting General Dobson a rather unnerving experience. He seemed to find Face a totally fascinating subject and Face noticed his small, dark eyes on him almost all of the time they were in the same room together; it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. By the time Dobson shook his hand for the final time, wished him well and left the room, Face had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew just what a lab rat felt like.

And then there was the press conference, and before that the meeting with Samantha over which questions he would and wouldn’t answer which had been even more draining in its own right. Samantha had been adamant that Face should say nothing that would throw any doubt on his innocence in the break out, but Face had been equally adamant that he would not say anything that would further implicate any of his team, especially Hannibal, in any way. By the time the two of them were finished, there were hardly any questions left to ask, and the reporters went away frustrated.

After the press conference Samantha took him out for dinner with some friends of hers to celebrate his new status as a free man. But sitting around that table, with twenty people he barely knew while his real friends were hanging out in a drafty warehouse still very much wanted men, was quite possibly one of the most hollow and empty experiences of his life, and in a life that had had more than its fair share of hollow and empty experiences, that was certainly saying something.

He was relieved beyond belief when Samantha asked if he was ready to go home and at his instantaneous nod, called for the car to come and collect them.

Face sat in silence in the back of the car, staring blankly out of the window at the dark shop fronts and condos as they drove past; he could feel Samantha’s eyes on him all the time, and was relieved that she respected his silence all the way back.

Within fifteen minutes they had arrived in the underground garage of Face’s new home, and Samantha smiled at him, reaching over to squeeze his thigh, “Okay?” there was no missing the genuine concern in her voice, despite the unwelcome presence of her hand.

Face smiled thinly at her and his slid out of the car, feeling her hand slip from his thigh. He stuffed his hands deep into his pockets as he headed straight for the elevator, leaning against the wall and waiting for Samantha, “What floor?” he asked tiredly as she followed him.

“Top,” Samantha smiled, “penthouse, Templeton. Only the best.”

The elevator opened and Face walked in, already fed up of hearing his name, missing ‘Face’ and ‘muchacho’, even ‘pretty boy’, and especially ‘kid’... He rubbed his hands tiredly over his eyes.

Samantha unlocked the door and he walked right in, standing on the spot and turning slowly around, checking out his new home. It was nice, very nice. Bright and airy, luxuriously appointed, high quality furnishings... exactly the type of place he’d always wanted. He caught Samantha’s eye and she was obviously waiting for his reaction so he smiled, made it as genuine as he possibly could, “It’s great,” he told her, “thanks.”

She watched him for a moment and then nodded, “Okay. You’ve had a tough day, I get it. I’ll go now, come by and pick you up in the morning. Nine?”

“Sure.” Face didn’t sit down, he couldn’t wait for her to go, just needed a bit of time to get his head back together.

“Just before I go,” he tried not to sigh as she paused in the doorway, “I need to give you this.”

Face stopped just behind her and politely extended his hand as she held a small PDA out to him. “What’s that?”

For the very briefest of moments, he caught a shifty look flash across her eyes but then it was gone and she was smiling at him, reaching across to switch the PDA on for him. “Here,” she tapped on the touch sensitive screen, “the passkey is your date of birth,” Face had to watch carefully as he wasn’t sure which one, “and then you need to open up this file here and, there!”

A text document appeared in front of him and he frowned, “What is that? Is that a -”

“Yeah!” Samantha was beaming at him, “It’s a movie script!”

“A movie?” The lines of Face’s forehead deepened, “A movie about...?”

“You!” she told him. “Your life, your adventures, your battle against injustice!”

Face just looked, incredulous. “My life? I somehow doubt anyone would find that in the slightest bit entertaining,” he was scrolling through the document, reading snatches here and there, his frown deepening all the time.

“Well...” that shifty look was back, “I think the script writers have taken a bit of creative licence, you know? Missed a few bits out, maybe changed a few things.”

“Yeah, like the part where I am adopted by...” he frowned as he read from the screen, “Mary-Jo and Robert Brown? Seriously Samantha? Could you get any more apple-pie than that?”

Samantha had the grace to look a little embarrassed, “Yeah, well, we’ll talk about that Templeton, in a couple of days, once you’ve read it.”

“All of it?” Face looked appalled, reading wasn’t his favourite pastime, “It’s really long.”

“Don't worry about, read it in little bits. Keep it on you all the time, it will fit into your pocket and then we can go over it, bit by bit whenever we have a few minutes.”

Face looked back at her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, “They certainly get this written fast.”

“Oh, yes,” Samantha looked unruffled, “The studio are keen to get started as soon as possible, tap into the media circus, they think it will be a huge money maker...”

Despite himself, Face’s ears pricked up. “Really? How much money?”

“Multi-million, definitely. They are moving fast; already have someone lined up to play you...”

“They do?” Now Face was really interested, “Who?”

Samantha suddenly looked unsure and her eyes flicked to the open door into the hallway, “I shouldn’t really say...”

“But you will,” Face breathed back at her, slipping easily into his most convincing grin.

And Samantha smiled back, “Okay,” she leaned in, “You seen the ‘Hangover’?”

Face paused for a moment, thinking and then his face fell, “Oh, god, not that fat guy with the beard? What’s he called, Zack Something-or-Other, not him?”

“No!” Samantha laughed, “The other guy! The teacher! Bradley Cooper!”

“Oh, him!” and Face looked relieved, “Yeah, okay. He might need to bulk up a bit, but okay, I can live with that. Bradley Cooper. Right.”

Samantha smiled, and realised that it was the first time Face had looked happy since she’d met him.

“Okay,” she stood up on her tip toes and kissed him full on the lips, quickly before he could react at all and then drew away, smiling at his confused frown. “Well, enjoy your first night as a free man, keep that PDA right next to you, and I’ll see you in the morning!” With a quick wave of her hand, she turned away, throwing a, “Goodnight Templeton!” over her shoulder as she went.

And it was the use of that name again; the one he usually went for months without hearing once, that brought it all crashing down on him once more; the loneliness, the melancholy, the doubts about what he was doing...

He trailed into what he guessed was the bedroom and found a huge, spacious room with a massive bed taking up the centre of the space. He could tell there would be a view across to the Hollywood Hills in the daylight but he was in no mood to gaze out of the window right now. Snatching up his bag from where it had been left on the bed for him, he threw the PDA onto the dresser and stalked into the en-suite, switching the shower on and closing the door tightly on the world behind him.

________________

The heat of the shower was welcome as it warmed his aching muscles and his soothed his sore eyes, but he found it could do nothing for his empty heart. It was crazy, he had seen the team a little over twelve hours ago, but it already felt like a lifetime. He was a free man. Free. But he had no one to share it with, no one to be happy with him. Not even Father David anymore. He’d thought about this moment a lot over the years, what it would feel like to finally get that pardon, to be able to walk down the street with his head held high, no more looking over his shoulder, and quite frankly he’d always imagined it would feel a damn sight better than this. But then he’d always imagined it would come to the four of them together...

He’d often lain awake at night and thought about what they would do when they were finally declared free, the party that would happen that first night, how they would stay up all night, drink, laugh, shoot a little pool, play a little poker... get laid. He’d never imagined spending that night alone in a strange apartment, stone cold sober.

In direct response to the direction his thoughts had briefly taken, Face noticed the familiar sensation of blood flowing fast and hot into his extremities. Without even looking he let his hand creep down, follow the fast flowing water, trail across his stomach, down his abs and finally, as his creeping fingers reached their goal, he ducked his head, let the water wash over his neck and face, and looked at his thickening length, watched, fascinated as he always was by the this, as it filled all by itself, grew, thickened, darkened, only the very tips of his fingers touching it, feeling all that heat. And then, when it had risen to stand proud away from his body he finally allowed his hand to grab, to hold tight and smooth and stroke.

The breath caught in his throat and he tipped his head back, shifting back to let the spray hit his chest as his eyes slid shut, that delicious warmth finally starting to fill him from the inside out.

This was a well rehearsed technique for him; this brand of comfort had often been the only thing that got him through the night as a frightened, miserable teen. He had become the master of the quick, furtive wank, under his covers at night, in a secluded cupboard somewhere, out around the back of the garages, in the shower. He would retreat somewhere as private as his life would ever allow, slip his hand into his pants and let himself feel something other than pain and despair for a while, let his mind wander onto things other than fear.

The ‘things’ his mind wandered onto changed with time. First of all it had been Tracy Gilmore, three years older than him, staying in the dorm above his in the orphanage and a constant source of righteous disappointment to the Sisters. She’d eventually provided him with his first taste of vaguely consensual sexual contact, around the back of those damn garages, laid on her back, propped up on her school bag, her skirt around her waist and both her hands jamming his head into the space between her thighs. He’d had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to be doing, but she hadn’t really complained. He’d soldiered on, wondering how long this was going to last as his jaw ached and it was almost supper time and he hadn’t found the episode even remotely arousing. Until, of course, she had eventually stopped gasping and thrusting into his mouth and quickly slipped her hand into his trousers, grabbing him and tugging at him so quick and unexpected that he had gone from being totally uninterested to coming hard and fast in about thirty seconds. He’d been thirteen at the time.

Then for a time, and to his utter mortification, his thoughts at those crucial alone-times started heading towards Dylan Heisenberg, quarterback for the school football team who had thighs like tree trunks... But the fifteen year old Templeton was a good Catholic who went to church every time he was forced to and knew exactly what God thought of boys who thought about other boys like that. So he tried to remember Tracy’s nimble fingers instead and wondered why God didn’t hate those Priests who thought about boys like that, touched boys like that.

And then there had been Lesley. The one who had made him pleased that he’d never voluntarily gone farther than mouths and fingers with anyone before, so that he had something good to give her when they both decided the time was right. But of course the time had never been right, had it? Not for them, so Face had just decided ‘fuck it’, quite literally, and resolved to get as much sex as he could, from either gender, as quickly as he could before he died, which he surely would pretty damn fast, because he honestly didn’t give a shit any more.

But then he’d met Hannibal.

He felt the surge of blood fill his cock when his mind wandered to his CO as it inevitably did these days, usually the second he started touching himself. It was cruel trick of nature, he’d often mused, that fate would ensure he had such a yearning, such an obsession with his totally straight, totally off limits CO when he honestly and without boasting, could have his pick of just about anyone he ever fancied; male or female or anything in between. So, why did God decide that the one person Face had to fall in love with would never be interested in him? Was it his punishment for all those impure thoughts he had about Dylan Heisenberg back in his youth? And he knew it was love, knew from the day that Hannibal had crawled through a mine field in Afghanistan to haul his shit-scared, rookie ass to safety and give him back his life, that he would love the older man until the end of his days. Even if Hannibal would never love him back, not like that anyway.

He’d often tried to ‘cure’ himself by shagging it out of his system, drinking it out, fighting it out... but none of that had ever worked. Hannibal was his One True Love, his reason for living, his soul mate, and was forever destined to be nothing more than the secret focus of his private moments in a cupboard. Or a shower.

He looked down again, he was properly hard now, his cock hot and red in his fingers and he let his eyes slide shut as he indulged in a favourite fantasy or two. There was that one where he is in the shower, just like this, stroking himself almost to the edge and then the door opens and he looks up, horrified to be caught in the act, and of course it’s the boss, his eyes locked on Face’s cock and Face can’t help but speed his hand up, suddenly aroused beyond all measure by the boss standing there, fully clothed, staring at him as he jacks off. And then generally, Hannibal will strip and join him in the shower. Sometimes he puts his hand over Face’s and brings him to climax without any effort at all. Sometimes he drops to his knees and takes Face’s cock into his mouth, sucking him hard and making him come down his throat.

But his personal favourite is where the boss stays clothed, when he steps straight into the water in his jeans and t-shirt, where the water makes everything cling to him, emphasising every hard line of muscle, every proud edge to his body. And then he opens those wet jeans, pulls out a hard cock and turns Face to the wall. And then he fucks him, hard and demanding and fully clothed to Face’s complete nakedness and within seconds the Face in his head is coming all over the tiles, fantasy-Hannibal’s hand tight around his cock as he comes in his ass, while the Face in the shower is coming as well, hot bursts of semen rushing to join the flow of water, his own hand milking it from him this time.

But they both, the real and the fantasy together, breathe the same words over and over as they come, “Boss, oh, boss, oh boss...” jerking their hips with every spurt.

But then, in his head, fantasy Hannibal gathers his boneless boy up in his arms and kisses him, hot mouth against wet shoulder and neck, little words of love and endearment running over his ears. But back in the shower, back in real life which always, always sucks, Face realises that he had never felt so forlorn, so totally and completely alone in his whole life. His hand reaches up to hang onto the shower head, and he sobs, hard and silent, into the tiles.