![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
indigo_angelsOne week later
Charisa Sosa looked warily over her shoulder as she ran the distance from the car port to the porch of the house. The rain was driving down, almost sideways in the force of the wind, but she was relieved as it gave her the perfect opportunity to have her hood pulled up, to be stooping down low and also to run as fast as she could into the teeth of the wind. It would also make it pretty damn unpleasant for anyone who was trying to follow her.
She ducked into the porch of the big, old house and rang the doorbell, cursing her luck that she would choose to visit Florida in the hurricane season, not that this was a major storm of course, no according to the weather man, this was simply a category two hurricane, a pussy cat, not a tiger. As a gust of wind almost knocked her clean off her feet, that was little consolation to Sosa.
Thoughts of the weather were pulled from her mind by the sound of the door opening and she ducked in, even before she was invited, trying to keep as much of the storm outside as she could. She heard the door close behind her, effectively shutting out the sounds of the weather and she bent down to take off her hood and shake out her hair, splattering the antique earthenware tiles as she did so. And then she lifted her head and found herself looking into the cool appraising stare of Hannibal Smith.
“Smith,” she forced out a smile for him.
“Sosa.”
No one moved and Charisa sighed. Her relationships with this man had always been – frosty – to say the least. He’d never liked her she’d felt, not since the first day Face took her back to his colonel’s house for a Christmas party, way back when they’d only slept together once or twice and everything was still light and fun and easy. He’d stared at her like something the cat had dragged in and then sent Face off on some ridiculous errand or something and leaned in and said to her, “You hurt my boy and you will have me to answer to.”
Even now, thinking of that moment, the cold blue eyes staring at her, she gets a shiver down her spine, but then well, it had downright terrified her. And it shouldn’t have, it should have been funny even, she’d thought to herself at the time: ‘Who actually says that?’ But of course it wasn’t funny, because Hannibal Smith angry is about as far from funny as you could possibly get.
So, of course, she did hurt Face, badly, but she didn’t have Hannibal to answer to and she thought she’d got off scot free. She hadn’t of course; it wasn’t until much later she found out that Hannibal had been the one to recommend her for the DOD posting. When she’d crossed his line, he’d simply got rid of her; it was just lucky from her point of view it was a posting she’d wanted.
And now they were here and she hadn’t travelled all this distance, taken all these risks to stand and glare at the man in hallway. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but he beat her to it.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet and drawn, and Charisa glanced up, the shock she felt written all over her face, “for looking out for him, at the Police Station, that day he got his pardon.”
For a second she was speechless. “You’re welcome,” she stuttered and then almost kicked herself for letting him intimidate her again. “But I didn’t do it for you, I did it for him.”
Hannibal didn’t flinch in the slightest, “I know. But I can still thank you.”
Sosa weighed him up and noticed for the first time the dark shadows under his eyes, the drawn look about his face, the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes that she was sure hadn’t been there before and suddenly she was scared for Face and for how he was, how he was surviving this, and she remembered why she was here. “How is he?” she asked, knowing the fear was evident in her voice.
And right in front of her, Hannibal seemed to sag, the pain clear in his expression and for the very first time since she’d met him, Sosa felt sorry for the man. He shrugged and then met her eyes, “He doesn’t need you upsetting him.”
Sosa was appalled, “I wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t, that’s not why I’m here.”
Hannibal nodded, and for a second she thought he was going to ask her something else, but then the moment passed and instead he nodded to the door at the end of the hallway, “He’s in there.”
Nodding her thanks, Sosa went in.
____________________
She didn’t know what she expected, a quiet, sick room perhaps, with muted light and serene pictures, and what she got was a giant wall mounted flat screen TV, playing MTV in the background while Face sat and wrestled with his Xbox controller, feet up on the table, some game involving flying dragons on the smaller screen in front of him.
He glanced over as she walked in and a smile lit up his face, the same smile that had suckered her in all those years ago.
“Hey gorgeous!” he greeted her, and instantly killed his game, leaning over and turning the sound on MTV right down to almost nothing as well.
She stood and stared as he shifted himself around on the sofa and patted the space next to him and wished she’d been better prepared for this moment. Face was still Face, of course he was, how would he ever be anything else?, but he was in a very sorry state. She watched him wince as he tried to manoeuvre his healing ribs into a comfortable position, she knew from his notes he’d had seven broken and three cracked, and her eyes took in the wounds that littered his body. He was wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweat pants, cut off at the knee and Sosa could see the dressings that wrapped around his body and disappeared under the waistband, presumably protecting his fragile skin from the friction of his clothes. His bare chest was a road map of cuts and welts and obvious lash marks, as were his legs and feet. There was a heavy bandage around his left knee which he moved very gingerly while his face was dark with bruising, left eye still slightly swollen, the gash across his right temple held together with butterfly strips. Each wrist and ankle was carefully wrapped up and the sight of him like this just about broke her heart.
“Hey,” there was a roughness to his voice that instantly filled Sosa with shame and she smiled at him desperately trying to blink back the tears that had appeared. He reached his hand out to her, “Don’t Charisa honey, please...”
She took his hand and let him pull her in until she was leant up against his side, trying to keep her weight off him, trying not to touch anywhere that might hurt.
Face huffed out a harsh sigh. “You can touch me, you know,” he snapped. “I won’t fucking break.”
Pulling away, Sosa leaned over him and placed her hand on his cheek, feeling the heat in his skin, “I’m so sorry, Face. I’m sorry this happened to you, I’m sorry I didn’t see it for what it was and I’m sorry I didn’t get you out when you needed it.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like an age before the anger left Face’s eyes and he lifted a hand to place it over hers. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “It’s not yours, it’s not Hannibal’s, it’s not Murdock’s. It’s just life and sometimes life is shit.”
She pulled back, taking his hand with her, turning it over and kissing the palm gently. “How are you feeling?”she asked.
The smile was back and Sosa frowned, finding it hard to keep up with his mercurial moods. “Fine!” he offered brightly. “A little sore still, here and there, but generally, you know, fine!”
Sosa’s frown deepened, “Face...”
“What?” he hauled himself up from the sofa, teeth gritted against the pain and took a step towards the kitchen, glancing at the wind whipping the water up out of the pool in the garden. “You want a soda?”
Getting up from the sofa, Charisa followed him, “Face!”
“Not sure what we’ve got Lite, definitely Pepsi, but you were always more of a Coke girl, right?”
“Face!” she reached up and grabbed his arm.
“What!” he responded, that angry fire in his eyes once more.
“Don't do this,” she placed herself in front of him, “Don’t shut everyone out. Don’t shut-” and she stopped, she had been going to say, ‘Don’t shut me out’ but she suddenly realised that that was not why she was here. Smith had asked her to come over and see Face, and she suddenly realised why. “Don’t shut Hannibal out Face; he’s going crazy with worry over you.” And, just like Smith before him, Sosa watched as Face just sagged, all the life going out of him and he slumped down onto the dining chair behind him, his head in his hands and suddenly looking every inch the person who was still trying to recover from two days of torture.
“Charisa,” there was a sob in his voice and she dropped to her knees between his legs a hand on the back of his head and one gently on his better knee.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered, dropping their foreheads together, “you don’t have to do this; you don’t have to struggle on all alone. He’s here, he wants to help you, let him in.”
Face shook his head, “How can I let him into my head?” Face whispered, “It’s full of such... horror, I don't like being there myself. How can I inflict that on him? He already blames himself so much for what happened to me.”
Sosa sat in silence for a moment, fighting with her conscience before she took a deep breath. “He already knows,” she whispered.
Face looked up, and she wasn’t surprised to see tears standing in his eyes, “He knows?”
She nodded grimly. “Not all of the men who were involved in your,” she swallowed hard, “torture, went into the woods after you. Two stayed with their women and so were still around to be interviewed by the CIA.” Face just stared at her. “My office have been sent a copy of all the investigation, including those interview transcripts. Hannibal contacted me last week, somehow he already knew they existed, asked if I would send a copy over for him.”
“And you did?” Face’s whisper was incredulous.
“I had to,” she said, touching his face, “Smith said you were struggling, said you wouldn’t talk to him, were having awful nightmares, he thought it would help.”
Face just stared at her. “Did you read them too?” And at Charisa’s nod he dropped his head back into his hands with a whispered, “Oh, god...”
“It’s not going to go away by itself, Face,” she told him, “Hannibal says you won’t see a counsellor, so you have to talk to someone otherwise it will plague you even more than it already is.”
Face scrubbed at his eyes, wincing as the bruising announced itself, “But if I tell him know how much it all bothers me still, he’ll treat me even more like I’m made of glass. It’s bad enough as it is, he won’t let me do anything, he won’t let me go out, hell, in bed he won’t even touch me, he says-” and Face froze, eyes, wide with horror flicking up to meet Sosa’s.
She smiled back at him, “So you and he finally worked it out then? I wondered if you ever would.” Face just stared at her. “Don’t look at me like that; I knew how he felt about you back when we were together. There had to be a reason why he didn’t like me after all,” she wisecracked.
A frown creased Face’s brow, “You don't mind?”
“Why would I mind?” she lied, “You and I are nothing more than friends now, and of course I want my friends to be happy,” she told him, feeling that last little bubble of hope popping inside her. He continued to stare at her, lost for words, “And of course he treats you like you’re made of glass,” Sosa was proud of herself, moving on like this as if it didn’t bother her that Smith and Face were lovers, “he has no idea what’s going on in your head, no idea where all the pain is coming from and where it’s going.” She paused as Face looked down at the floor. “Maybe if you opened up, let him in, then he’d appreciate how strong you are and help you move on.”
He looked up and nodded at her, “Thanks,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome, honey,” she straightened up and looked out of the window at the calm that had settled now they’d reached the eye of the storm. “Now, how about we get that soda and have a proper catch-up and then I need to get going, back to my hotel,” she smiled at him, “and you need to talk to Hannibal before you both go crazy. Okay?”
Face nodded again and she reached out and touched his hair one last time; preparing to leave and knowing she would be leaving a piece of her heart behind again – for good this time.
Next bit
Charisa Sosa looked warily over her shoulder as she ran the distance from the car port to the porch of the house. The rain was driving down, almost sideways in the force of the wind, but she was relieved as it gave her the perfect opportunity to have her hood pulled up, to be stooping down low and also to run as fast as she could into the teeth of the wind. It would also make it pretty damn unpleasant for anyone who was trying to follow her.
She ducked into the porch of the big, old house and rang the doorbell, cursing her luck that she would choose to visit Florida in the hurricane season, not that this was a major storm of course, no according to the weather man, this was simply a category two hurricane, a pussy cat, not a tiger. As a gust of wind almost knocked her clean off her feet, that was little consolation to Sosa.
Thoughts of the weather were pulled from her mind by the sound of the door opening and she ducked in, even before she was invited, trying to keep as much of the storm outside as she could. She heard the door close behind her, effectively shutting out the sounds of the weather and she bent down to take off her hood and shake out her hair, splattering the antique earthenware tiles as she did so. And then she lifted her head and found herself looking into the cool appraising stare of Hannibal Smith.
“Smith,” she forced out a smile for him.
“Sosa.”
No one moved and Charisa sighed. Her relationships with this man had always been – frosty – to say the least. He’d never liked her she’d felt, not since the first day Face took her back to his colonel’s house for a Christmas party, way back when they’d only slept together once or twice and everything was still light and fun and easy. He’d stared at her like something the cat had dragged in and then sent Face off on some ridiculous errand or something and leaned in and said to her, “You hurt my boy and you will have me to answer to.”
Even now, thinking of that moment, the cold blue eyes staring at her, she gets a shiver down her spine, but then well, it had downright terrified her. And it shouldn’t have, it should have been funny even, she’d thought to herself at the time: ‘Who actually says that?’ But of course it wasn’t funny, because Hannibal Smith angry is about as far from funny as you could possibly get.
So, of course, she did hurt Face, badly, but she didn’t have Hannibal to answer to and she thought she’d got off scot free. She hadn’t of course; it wasn’t until much later she found out that Hannibal had been the one to recommend her for the DOD posting. When she’d crossed his line, he’d simply got rid of her; it was just lucky from her point of view it was a posting she’d wanted.
And now they were here and she hadn’t travelled all this distance, taken all these risks to stand and glare at the man in hallway. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but he beat her to it.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet and drawn, and Charisa glanced up, the shock she felt written all over her face, “for looking out for him, at the Police Station, that day he got his pardon.”
For a second she was speechless. “You’re welcome,” she stuttered and then almost kicked herself for letting him intimidate her again. “But I didn’t do it for you, I did it for him.”
Hannibal didn’t flinch in the slightest, “I know. But I can still thank you.”
Sosa weighed him up and noticed for the first time the dark shadows under his eyes, the drawn look about his face, the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes that she was sure hadn’t been there before and suddenly she was scared for Face and for how he was, how he was surviving this, and she remembered why she was here. “How is he?” she asked, knowing the fear was evident in her voice.
And right in front of her, Hannibal seemed to sag, the pain clear in his expression and for the very first time since she’d met him, Sosa felt sorry for the man. He shrugged and then met her eyes, “He doesn’t need you upsetting him.”
Sosa was appalled, “I wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t, that’s not why I’m here.”
Hannibal nodded, and for a second she thought he was going to ask her something else, but then the moment passed and instead he nodded to the door at the end of the hallway, “He’s in there.”
Nodding her thanks, Sosa went in.
____________________
She didn’t know what she expected, a quiet, sick room perhaps, with muted light and serene pictures, and what she got was a giant wall mounted flat screen TV, playing MTV in the background while Face sat and wrestled with his Xbox controller, feet up on the table, some game involving flying dragons on the smaller screen in front of him.
He glanced over as she walked in and a smile lit up his face, the same smile that had suckered her in all those years ago.
“Hey gorgeous!” he greeted her, and instantly killed his game, leaning over and turning the sound on MTV right down to almost nothing as well.
She stood and stared as he shifted himself around on the sofa and patted the space next to him and wished she’d been better prepared for this moment. Face was still Face, of course he was, how would he ever be anything else?, but he was in a very sorry state. She watched him wince as he tried to manoeuvre his healing ribs into a comfortable position, she knew from his notes he’d had seven broken and three cracked, and her eyes took in the wounds that littered his body. He was wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweat pants, cut off at the knee and Sosa could see the dressings that wrapped around his body and disappeared under the waistband, presumably protecting his fragile skin from the friction of his clothes. His bare chest was a road map of cuts and welts and obvious lash marks, as were his legs and feet. There was a heavy bandage around his left knee which he moved very gingerly while his face was dark with bruising, left eye still slightly swollen, the gash across his right temple held together with butterfly strips. Each wrist and ankle was carefully wrapped up and the sight of him like this just about broke her heart.
“Hey,” there was a roughness to his voice that instantly filled Sosa with shame and she smiled at him desperately trying to blink back the tears that had appeared. He reached his hand out to her, “Don’t Charisa honey, please...”
She took his hand and let him pull her in until she was leant up against his side, trying to keep her weight off him, trying not to touch anywhere that might hurt.
Face huffed out a harsh sigh. “You can touch me, you know,” he snapped. “I won’t fucking break.”
Pulling away, Sosa leaned over him and placed her hand on his cheek, feeling the heat in his skin, “I’m so sorry, Face. I’m sorry this happened to you, I’m sorry I didn’t see it for what it was and I’m sorry I didn’t get you out when you needed it.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like an age before the anger left Face’s eyes and he lifted a hand to place it over hers. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “It’s not yours, it’s not Hannibal’s, it’s not Murdock’s. It’s just life and sometimes life is shit.”
She pulled back, taking his hand with her, turning it over and kissing the palm gently. “How are you feeling?”she asked.
The smile was back and Sosa frowned, finding it hard to keep up with his mercurial moods. “Fine!” he offered brightly. “A little sore still, here and there, but generally, you know, fine!”
Sosa’s frown deepened, “Face...”
“What?” he hauled himself up from the sofa, teeth gritted against the pain and took a step towards the kitchen, glancing at the wind whipping the water up out of the pool in the garden. “You want a soda?”
Getting up from the sofa, Charisa followed him, “Face!”
“Not sure what we’ve got Lite, definitely Pepsi, but you were always more of a Coke girl, right?”
“Face!” she reached up and grabbed his arm.
“What!” he responded, that angry fire in his eyes once more.
“Don't do this,” she placed herself in front of him, “Don’t shut everyone out. Don’t shut-” and she stopped, she had been going to say, ‘Don’t shut me out’ but she suddenly realised that that was not why she was here. Smith had asked her to come over and see Face, and she suddenly realised why. “Don’t shut Hannibal out Face; he’s going crazy with worry over you.” And, just like Smith before him, Sosa watched as Face just sagged, all the life going out of him and he slumped down onto the dining chair behind him, his head in his hands and suddenly looking every inch the person who was still trying to recover from two days of torture.
“Charisa,” there was a sob in his voice and she dropped to her knees between his legs a hand on the back of his head and one gently on his better knee.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered, dropping their foreheads together, “you don’t have to do this; you don’t have to struggle on all alone. He’s here, he wants to help you, let him in.”
Face shook his head, “How can I let him into my head?” Face whispered, “It’s full of such... horror, I don't like being there myself. How can I inflict that on him? He already blames himself so much for what happened to me.”
Sosa sat in silence for a moment, fighting with her conscience before she took a deep breath. “He already knows,” she whispered.
Face looked up, and she wasn’t surprised to see tears standing in his eyes, “He knows?”
She nodded grimly. “Not all of the men who were involved in your,” she swallowed hard, “torture, went into the woods after you. Two stayed with their women and so were still around to be interviewed by the CIA.” Face just stared at her. “My office have been sent a copy of all the investigation, including those interview transcripts. Hannibal contacted me last week, somehow he already knew they existed, asked if I would send a copy over for him.”
“And you did?” Face’s whisper was incredulous.
“I had to,” she said, touching his face, “Smith said you were struggling, said you wouldn’t talk to him, were having awful nightmares, he thought it would help.”
Face just stared at her. “Did you read them too?” And at Charisa’s nod he dropped his head back into his hands with a whispered, “Oh, god...”
“It’s not going to go away by itself, Face,” she told him, “Hannibal says you won’t see a counsellor, so you have to talk to someone otherwise it will plague you even more than it already is.”
Face scrubbed at his eyes, wincing as the bruising announced itself, “But if I tell him know how much it all bothers me still, he’ll treat me even more like I’m made of glass. It’s bad enough as it is, he won’t let me do anything, he won’t let me go out, hell, in bed he won’t even touch me, he says-” and Face froze, eyes, wide with horror flicking up to meet Sosa’s.
She smiled back at him, “So you and he finally worked it out then? I wondered if you ever would.” Face just stared at her. “Don’t look at me like that; I knew how he felt about you back when we were together. There had to be a reason why he didn’t like me after all,” she wisecracked.
A frown creased Face’s brow, “You don't mind?”
“Why would I mind?” she lied, “You and I are nothing more than friends now, and of course I want my friends to be happy,” she told him, feeling that last little bubble of hope popping inside her. He continued to stare at her, lost for words, “And of course he treats you like you’re made of glass,” Sosa was proud of herself, moving on like this as if it didn’t bother her that Smith and Face were lovers, “he has no idea what’s going on in your head, no idea where all the pain is coming from and where it’s going.” She paused as Face looked down at the floor. “Maybe if you opened up, let him in, then he’d appreciate how strong you are and help you move on.”
He looked up and nodded at her, “Thanks,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome, honey,” she straightened up and looked out of the window at the calm that had settled now they’d reached the eye of the storm. “Now, how about we get that soda and have a proper catch-up and then I need to get going, back to my hotel,” she smiled at him, “and you need to talk to Hannibal before you both go crazy. Okay?”
Face nodded again and she reached out and touched his hair one last time; preparing to leave and knowing she would be leaving a piece of her heart behind again – for good this time.
Next bit
