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indigo_angels He stayed in the bathrobe. Hannibal had seen his injuries, they all had, and in places on his front the skin was almost flayed right off. Not a part of him was untouched, from his chest to his feet they had worked methodically on him to ensure that their sticks and whips and lashes had reached every square centimetre of skin. In some places it was a livid red, hot to the touch still, whilst in others the skin was blistered and broken, but there were places where a thin, rough cord had obviously been used on him with great force, and there the skin had been sliced open, right into his flesh. It was not surprising he couldn’t bear to have clothes on, Hannibal had been so glad he was unconscious when they had reached Fort Irvin, being awake while they peeled Taz’s stolen clothes off his weeping, inflamed skin would have been a whole new brand of torture in itself.
So he forced a pair of loose boxers on, his genitals had most certainly not escaped the sticks and lashes, and wandered around in the white bathrobe looking pale and ill and avoiding all contact and conversation with his team.
On the night of the sixth day, as Murdock, Hannibal and BA sat around in the living area watching TV and listening to Face’s nightmares drifting through the open windows, BA finally reached the end of his tether. He knocked the magazine he’d been reading off his knee and across the wooden floor and turned to Hannibal, desperation in his eyes, “Bossman, you got to talk to him, we can’t go on like this, none of us can!”
Hannibal just took in a long breath and stared at the television, BA was right, but what the hell he was supposed to say was anyone’s guess.
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And so the seventh day dawned, and Murdock and BA left really early to hike up into the mountains, Hannibal watched them go with an ironic glance, he certainly wasn’t born yesterday, and then took his coffee out onto the deck to admire the view and think; an hour later, all he had left was cold coffee and a serious lack of ideas.
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A noise behind him makes him start and he turns in time to see Face just about to withdraw back to the solitude of the lodge. “Hey,” he says loudly, just to let Face know he’s been rumbled and watches as Face, obviously wanting to leave, turns and takes a step closer in, knowing the older man has seen him.
“Where’s Murdock and BA?” Face asks hesitantly walking out to stand with Hannibal at the railing.
Hannibal turns and leans his back on the smooth stainless steel rail as he looks his lieutenant over. Another clean white robe, the staff here really are efficient, dark shadows mixing with the bruising on his face, pale skin, further washed out by the glare of the sun and the colour of the robe, cheek bones standing out over tight skin, two days of stubble on his face. Hannibal just about manages to hold back a sigh; the kid still looks like shit. “Hiking. How you doing?” he asks and is surprised by the tenderness he hears in his own voice.
So it seems is Face, surprised and annoyed. He steps away and Hannibal wonders if this is not it, the crux of the problem that he’s just stumbled onto here. Does Face suspect the depth of Hannibal’s feelings? Does it disturb him? Were Murdock and Samantha wrong? He doesn’t know what to think anymore.
They stare at each other, the wall obvious between them and Face caves in first, turning on his heel, stalking away and leaving Hannibal wondering what the hell just happened. He turns back to the view, and prepares to tell BA that he had tried, but then Samantha’s words come back to him once again, ‘He’s worth much more than pining away for a dry old fool who doesn’t want him! Can’t you see that?’ and once again he knows she is right. Taking a deep breath, he follows Face down the corridor to his bedroom.
The door is open and he looks in, breath catching in his throat. Face is standing, staring into the holdall of clothes provided by the CIA, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, evidence of his days in hell laid bare for Hannibal to see. Face looks up at the sound from the doorway and Hannibal’s throat tightens as he sees him lift his chin slightly, he recognises the familiar defiant gesture from many, many confrontations of the past.
“Face,” that tenderness is still there, “we need to talk.”
Face looks away, back into the holdall and pulls out a t-shirt, holding it up, wondering how painful it will be to wear. “Don’t worry about it boss,” he replies, his voice light and full of false cheer, “I’ll be heading off tomorrow. Get out of your hair.”
For a minute Hannibal is speechless. He watches as Face throws the t-shirt back into the bag and takes another one out, feeling the material between his fingers. “What?” he eventually stutters, it’s hardly the most eloquent sentence he’s ever produced.
“Yeah, well,” Face’s eyes are hard as he turns to look at him, “things are a bit tense around here at the minute, I can’t stay with you, not after leaving you all like I did,” for a second, a shadow of shame flits across his expression, “and I know you would all prefer it if I left so...” he shrugs and turns his attention to trying to find some trousers that won’t reopen all the healing cuts on his legs.
“You do know your pardon was revoked don’t you?” Hannibal snaps, shock making his mouth run away with him a little and he feels a jolt of pain in his chest as he sees Face’s shoulders sag at his words.
“Yes,” the word is barely audible.
Hannibal takes a step in, “So, where the hell are you going to go?”
Throwing the last pair of trousers back into the bag in disappointment Face turns to him, anger in his eyes, “I don’t know John. I’ll think of something!”
Silence falls again as Face goes back to the bag a yanks out a pair of combat pants that he had once disregarded and starts to pull them on, hissing in pain as he does so. “Face...” Hannibal starts towards him, hating to see him hurt.
“What?!” Face whirls on his heels to face Hannibal, his eyes bright and furious. “You got something to say to me Hannibal? You got a reason that I don't have to go?”
Hannibal just stands, wishing he had the words, the nerve, to say what he needs to and for a second Face stands and waits, but then, with a tired and ironic laugh he turns away, staring out of the window at the mountains as Hannibal stands mute behind him.
Minutes tick by, and then Face speaks again, his voice calm and quiet once more. “You know this has been coming, Hannibal don’t you?” Hannibal doesn’t answer. “I suppose it’s been building for a while, years even. Where do you think we went wrong?” there’s still no reply so Face carries on, still staring out of the window. “I suppose it was when you stopped trusting me...”
“Of course I trust you!” Hannibal at last finds his voice.
“Yeah? That’s why you went to Father David’s funeral then?” Hannibal can’t answer that, how can he tell Face that the reason he went was because he was so damn terrified that Face would get himself caught, that Hannibal had to be there just for that one, slim chance?
“You really think I would buck one of your orders? Come on Hannibal, how many times have I ever done that?”
“You said you only followed my orders out of pity,” Hannibal counters, the pain clear in his voice, that comment still a barb in his memory after all these weeks.
“I know,” Face shakes his head into the silence, “And that’s what I mean about us. I didn't mean that, you must know, deep down, that I’d never mean something like that about you. It’s just... it’s like we’re not happy unless we’re hurting each other. I can’t spend my life just sniping at you like this; I just can’t have that kind of relationship with you.”
Hannibal’s heart is pounding hard in his chest, as he realises that this is no spur of the moment decision for Face, this is obviously something the kid was thinking about long before the fake pardon came through and unless he does something fairly drastic, then Face is going to walk out of here again.
He steps up, two tentative strides are all it takes to bring him right up behind Face, his eyes drawn to the few marks littering his back, the imprint of a belt buckle just under his left shoulder and the desire to touch and smooth away all that hurt is compelling. “So,” he says, his voice husky and unsure, “what kind of relationship do you want with me?”
He sees Face stiffen and then turn, and his eyes are guarded, reserved, as he looks at Hannibal. “What do you mean?”
Taking another tiny step brings Hannibal right into Face’s personal space and he forces himself to stay there, not to run but to hold those bright blue eyes with his own, reminding himself what his life was like when he thought Face had left him, when he thought Yousafzai had taken him forever. “You don’t like this relationship we have? Well, let’s make another one; any one you want.”
He realises he’s said the wrong thing when Face breaks eye contact, and his expression falls, he looks away, moisture shining in his eyes and a resigned smile on his face and Hannibal knows he’s so close to blowing this completely. “Hey,” he whispers, a hand shooting out to grab Face’s wrist, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say, I’m no good with words Face, but... I do know I can’t lose you, kid,” he shakes his head, “I just can’t.”
Hannibal’s eyes are swimming but he keeps them steady as Face turns back to look at him, something tentative in his expression, maybe something unfurling, “You know why I left.” It’s not a question because Hannibal does, they both know it, they know what Face was searching for, what he was lacking. “Is there a reason I should stay?”
And this is it, break point. The words that leave Hannibal’s mouth next are the ones that will shape the rest of his life. Never has so much rested on one sentence and he suddenly realises that there is only one thing he can say, one phrase that he has never said before. To anyone. He holds his breath and tightens his grip on Face’s wrist just a little. “Face,” his voice is shaking, “I’m in love with you. I want you to stay. With me.”
It’s like the world holds its breath for a minute but then Face is moving, closing what is left of the gap between them, lifting his chin and pressing his lips up against Hannibal’s, nothing erotic, just a message, a confirmation, an offering. And then he pulls away but only to rest their forehead’s together and Hannibal can feel the lingering heat of infection in Face’s skin but nothing else matters as he hears the words he thought he never would, “God, boss, me too, I mean, I am too, I mean,” he lifts up and slides his hands onto Hannibal’s cheeks, pulling back enough to look him right in the eye but still the words won’t come, for the first time ever, Face is truly speechless.
But then it doesn’t matter as they are moving, lips sliding together, hands smoothing through hair, over skin and Hannibal can feel himself harden immediately, too many years spent dreaming of this moment for that not to happen. He slides a hand gently over Face’s back, pulling him in so they are chest to chest, hip to hip and instantly Face stiffens, a little cry of pain leaving his lips and Hannibal pulls back, still holding him but making a gap between them, looking down at Face’s abused chest, the bloom of fresh blood spreading over the hip pocket of his combats and he curses his own impatience.
“Jesus, kid, I’m sorry,” he whispers, instantly fumbling with the button of Face’s trousers.
Face tries to object but he is pale with the reawakening of his pain and instead lets Hannibal unzip him, and slide the heavy cotton down, his hands holding onto Hannibal’s shoulders in a death grip as the older man slowly works the trousers off, scraping over healing gashes, dressings, stitches as he goes.
By the time he is done, even Face’s now blood soaked boxers removed, the kid is laid on his back on the bed, towel underneath him, pale and clammy and breathing hard as Hannibal examines the damage. “I think the waist band of your trousers pulled a couple of stitches here,” he explains, cool fingers gently stroking around the livid red skin. “Just hang in here a second and I’ll go and get the medic, get you some pain relief and he can stitch you back up again.” Face nods wanly, sweat standing out on his forehead, and Hannibal folds the towel over him, drops a light kiss onto his lips and dashes out.
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The sun is at the highest point of the day and the mountains in front of them shining in bright light as Hannibal adjusts his hold on the man currently dozing against his chest. Six stitches and a painkilling injection have taken their toll on Face and he has been silent for well over an hour, only a light sheet ghosting over his body, too light to torment his wounds.
“You stayed,” his voice is quiet, full of pain and exhaustion, the nights full of terrors finally taking their toll.
Hannibal leans forward and drops a kiss to the top of his head, “So did you.”
Face lets out a quiet laugh, a delightful sound, but one edged with sleep. “I didn’t really want to leave,” he admits, drifting further with every second.
“Then don’t,” Hannibal replies. “Don’t leave me, and I swear I’ll never leave you. Stay with me, let me love you and care for you and love me back.”
Epilogue
