Kit Bag - Part Two
Sep. 2nd, 2011 10:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
indigo_angelsTuesday, ten thirty a.m
Alcohol was a good anaesthetic; Hannibal lay on his back, staring straight up at the turning fan and feeling nothing. He didn’t feel drunk, or hung over or even sick anymore. He felt bad about what he had done to Face, of course he did and he always would, but that blinding searing pain he had felt every time he’d thought of that morning was now dulled to nothing more than a blunt ache. It was almost pleasant.
He wondered if he could just lie here forever, if he didn’t move, didn’t stir, just kept on topping up the whiskey every now and again would he be able to simply fade away?
It was a tempting thought, and would be very, very easy if it wasn’t for that damn annoying ringing that was almost constant in his head disrupting his solitude and ruining his peace. Slowly turning his head he stared at the offending phone, its screen cheerfully light in the gloom of the room and wished he had the energy to get up and flush it down the toilet.
Eventually it stopped and he let out a sigh of relief, turning back to study the fan and let himself start to slide once more, off towards that peaceful oblivion that was so close he could almost tough it.
He was almost there, hanging on to the grim hotel room by the slenderest of threads when he was suddenly yanked back again by the sudden, harsh beep of the text alert. He tried to ignore it and let it all float away again, but in the back of his mind was another message, one that kept on needling him, ruining his peace, probing his conscience. Only text for problems now.
Problems. With Face? The thought wouldn’t leave him, it was like a terrier around his neck and eventually he couldn’t ignore it any more. He reached out, sending empty bottles clattering off the bed and fumbled awkwardly with the tiny buttons until he managed to open it up and read the fuzzy, trembling letters.
Report colonel. i need to know that you are safe and well. call me
Hannibal stared at that message for a long, long while, resisting the temptation just to close it down and let himself slid back into peaceful oblivion. It was like BA had known just what to say to make him feel bad, to remind him, that until he told them otherwise, he was their commander and they were relying on him. He scrubbed hard at his forehead and hauled himself up a little on the narrow bed, reclining against the headboard and stabbed at the speed dial button with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers.
BA answered on the first ring but then Hannibal had known that he would, could visualise him with the phone in his hand, staring at it, willing it to buzz.
“You alright, man?”
Hannibal took a deep breath and cleared his whiskey sodden throat. “Yeah.”
There was a pause on the other end, BA obviously waiting for more information than he was getting; Hannibal wondered if he were on speaker phone. “I came for you today. Where were you?”
Was that a tinge of pain in the big guy’s voice? Hannibal frowned and ignored it. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat again, “I’m not coming back.”
Silence; just a beat and then BA’s voice again, surprisingly steady. “Could have told me. Could have saved me a drive.”
Those words were like a lance through a boil and Hannibal had to close his eyes against the nausea that suddenly threatened him. Of course. What was he expecting? That they would cry and beg him to stay? No, that was never going to happen. They had nothing to say to each other.
“So,” this was BA once more, and Hannibal forced himself to listen. “If you goin’ on your own, you’ll need money, fake i.ds an’ all that.”
Would he? Did he even care whether the army caught up with him? Whether he starved to death under some railway bridge somewhere?
“Keep them,” he growled, “I’ll manage on my own.”
“No way,” BA sounded pissed, “you think you are gonna blame us for gettin’ caught or for bein’ down on your luck? Blame us for havin’ all the money, all these passports and stuff with your name on? Don’t you think you done enough harm already?”
And again that hit front on, to hear this coming from BA, the one who hadn’t hated him, had tried to understand even though he obviously felt that what Hannibal did was wrong. “Whatever then,” he snapped back, “post them. I’ll give you a PO box.”
There was the tiniest pause and then BA was back. “No way, it’s not safe enough. I’ll meet you with them.”
Hannibal hung his head. A meeting with BA; was that how he wanted to spend a day? He shook his head but at least it was BA and not Murdock. Or Face... “Fine,” he exhaled, beaten. “When?”
This time BA was straight back. “Tomorrow? 1000? Can you get into Memphis Central that early?”
’Can you get sober that early,’ more like. Hannibal knew that’s what BA really wanted to say. “Sure,” he mumbled, getting this over as soon as possible was the way forward as far as he was concerned.
“Alright,” BA sounded nervous now, and Hannibal was wondering if he was already regretting his arrangements. “See you there, in the Main Hall, where they sell the coffee.”
“Right,” Hannibal’s head was spinning, he just wanted to get off the phone and continue passing out on the bed.
“1000, yeah?”
“Yes!”
“You’ll be there?”
He rubbed at his forehead, “I said I would!”
“Okay,” the reluctance to get off the phone was clear in BA’s voice, but Hannibal didn’t hear it; the lack of alcohol was making him dizzy and he needed to get some water or something else to drink pretty damn quickly.
“Okay,” he repeated and pressed the red button, cutting the corporal off and stumbling into the bathroom to dry heave into the sink.
______________________________
Wednesday, nine ten a.m
To get into Memphis for 1000, Hannibal needed to catch a train at 0910, which was a struggle given all the alcohol in his blood stream. But he made it, eyes red and sore, three days worth of stubble on his chin, he heaved his kit bag onto his back and stepped onto the train as the doors opened on the grubby grey platform. He felt like a condemned man, off to the gallows.
But it was only what he deserved, he reasoned, and at 0945 he had got himself a coffee and slid onto a corner table, near enough to an exit, but where he could watch the main entrance way, and waited stoically for BA.
It was a weekday morning, a little past the main rush of the day, but still busy with hoards of people streaming through the main hall. Regardless of the numbers, however, Hannibal saw him the second he walked in. He was dressed casually, blending in the very best he could, jeans, white linen shirt with pale blue checks running through it; he had a messenger bag slung diagonally over his body, quick eyes scanning from table to table the second he cleared the entrance. Hannibal froze, and checked the distance to his nearest escape point but by then it was too late, just as his body tensed to make a break for it, he was spotted and he knew he had no choice but to face the music.
He sat in his chair, heart thudding hard against his ribs as he waited, and within ten seconds he was there, silently greeting Hannibal with a slight nod before lifting the messenger bag from his shoulder, laying it onto the table top next to them and sliding into the seat opposite.
They looked at each other. “Hannibal,” the salutation was muted, restrained but Hannibal had to swallow, hard, before he could make a sound in reply.
“Face,” and of course BA would set him up, he should have guessed. Silence descended once more.
Face was watching him, and Hannibal took the silence to force himself to look his lieutenant over, check out the damage he had wrought. He looked bruised still, most of the discolouration into greens and yellows now, but the remains of his black eye, still slightly red and puffy, was blue and purple, running into black in the crease below. The cut across his cheek was a black, ugly line, but Hannibal could tell that it would heal with nothing more than a faint silver scar, another one for the kid’s collection, and he felt a crumb of relief at that. He was paler than usual, and even his good eye had dark smudging underneath it – Hannibal wondered just how bad the nightmares had been this week.
“So,” Face’s voice was bitter, disappointed even, and his eyes hard. “Everything you need is in here,” he pushed the messenger bag slightly closer to Hannibal.
He didn’t touch it. The silence grew heavier as Hannibal fought with the emotions that Face’s proximity was sending through him.
Face shuffled, then sighed, then was rising to his feet, his face a bitter mask. “Right, then,” he muttered, “best of luck.”
He was leaving. The panic that that thought produced forced Hannibal’s mouth to work even before his brain had engaged gear. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.
Face stopped, half in and half out of his seat, “Sorry?” he queried, that same tone to his voice.
Hannibal rubbed a massive palm over his suddenly clammy face, “Yeah,” he swallowed. “I know, it’s not enough for you Face,” he shook his head slowly, memories and regrets swirling through his mind, “I know it can never be enough. But I am,” he finally looked up and forced himself to meet Face’s eyes, “I’m so, so, sorry.”
Face sat down again, slowly, and stared at the table top, white fingers gripping the edge. “Were you going to tell me that?” he asked quietly, “I mean, ever? If I hadn’t come here today?”
His only answer was a long sigh and Hannibal’s face disappearing into his palms.
“So, why not?” the bite was back in Face’s voice, “I don’t deserve your apology?”
That got Hannibal moving, his face out of his hands, his eyes back on Face. “It’s not that! Not that at all. I just,” he dropped his eyes to his coffee cup, hands linking up around it and sighed, “I couldn’t even bring myself to speak to you again, not after all I had done.”
There was a silence, long and thick before Face spoke again, his voice barely even a whisper, “I need to know why, Hannibal...”
Eyes flicking up again, Hannibal looked at Face’s bent head, “What? Why couldn’t I speak to you?”
“No,” Face was nervous, his long fingers tangling and re-tangling on the table top. “Why... back at the motel... I need to know what happened...”
Letting out a long breath, almost like a final exhale, Hannibal shook his head, “I don't know, honestly, kid, I really don’t know.”
The silence fell again as Hannibal toyed with his cup and Face worried at his fingers, until Hannibal had marshalled enough words together to reply. “I was worried you were right and they were gonna find us,” his voice was a low, even monotone, “I was worried that Murdock and BA were gonna drive each other crazy. I was tired, I was so fucking hot, and then you...” he stopped, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he felt the heat of that room, the fury that had consumed him, his fists connecting again and again and again... He shook himself, “But none of that matters, they’re all just excuses, I shouldn’t have done it and that’s all there is to it.”
“But I what, John?” Face’s voice was so quiet in the hum of the room, “What did I do?”
Hannibal didn’t want to do this, it felt uncomfortably like he was trying to heap blame onto Face, “I dunno, it was like you were deliberately pushing my buttons or something...” he shook his head again, “But still, it doesn’t matter, I know I was out of order, way, way out of order, and I’m not trying to put all of this onto you, kid. I’m not.”
There was yet another awkward silence and Hannibal watched the top of Face’s bent head, wondering just what was going through that mind of his. Eventually Face lifted up and it seemed like there was a decision in his eyes. He looked straight at Hannibal, his face pale and drawn, but definitely determined. “I was, you know,” he said, voice as firm as his eyes.
A frown met his words, “What?”
Face didn’t flicker, “Trying to push your buttons. Deliberately.”
Hannibal blinked in surprise, “Well, hell, kid...” he shook his head, “Even so... Why would you do a thing like that?”
Face wilted slightly in his seat and ran a hand over his mouth in a subconscious gesture of nervousness. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I suppose I was trying to get a rise out of you, make you notice me or something...”
There was a moment’s stunned silence, “Make me notice you? Jesus Christ, kid! How fucked up is that? Notice you? When have I never noticed you?”
Their eyes met, Face’s pleading with Hannibal to understand, “No, that’s not it boss, I’m not explaining this right...” He stopped and thought, chewing his lip, even where it was still bruised and split, before trying again. “I wanted you to take notice of me, to take me seriously, to hear what I was saying, more like that.”
Hannibal’s eyes widened, “I did! I –”
“No, you didn’t.” Face insisted, “You heard my words, but you didn’t hear the message.”
Next
Alcohol was a good anaesthetic; Hannibal lay on his back, staring straight up at the turning fan and feeling nothing. He didn’t feel drunk, or hung over or even sick anymore. He felt bad about what he had done to Face, of course he did and he always would, but that blinding searing pain he had felt every time he’d thought of that morning was now dulled to nothing more than a blunt ache. It was almost pleasant.
He wondered if he could just lie here forever, if he didn’t move, didn’t stir, just kept on topping up the whiskey every now and again would he be able to simply fade away?
It was a tempting thought, and would be very, very easy if it wasn’t for that damn annoying ringing that was almost constant in his head disrupting his solitude and ruining his peace. Slowly turning his head he stared at the offending phone, its screen cheerfully light in the gloom of the room and wished he had the energy to get up and flush it down the toilet.
Eventually it stopped and he let out a sigh of relief, turning back to study the fan and let himself start to slide once more, off towards that peaceful oblivion that was so close he could almost tough it.
He was almost there, hanging on to the grim hotel room by the slenderest of threads when he was suddenly yanked back again by the sudden, harsh beep of the text alert. He tried to ignore it and let it all float away again, but in the back of his mind was another message, one that kept on needling him, ruining his peace, probing his conscience. Only text for problems now.
Problems. With Face? The thought wouldn’t leave him, it was like a terrier around his neck and eventually he couldn’t ignore it any more. He reached out, sending empty bottles clattering off the bed and fumbled awkwardly with the tiny buttons until he managed to open it up and read the fuzzy, trembling letters.
Report colonel. i need to know that you are safe and well. call me
Hannibal stared at that message for a long, long while, resisting the temptation just to close it down and let himself slid back into peaceful oblivion. It was like BA had known just what to say to make him feel bad, to remind him, that until he told them otherwise, he was their commander and they were relying on him. He scrubbed hard at his forehead and hauled himself up a little on the narrow bed, reclining against the headboard and stabbed at the speed dial button with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers.
BA answered on the first ring but then Hannibal had known that he would, could visualise him with the phone in his hand, staring at it, willing it to buzz.
“You alright, man?”
Hannibal took a deep breath and cleared his whiskey sodden throat. “Yeah.”
There was a pause on the other end, BA obviously waiting for more information than he was getting; Hannibal wondered if he were on speaker phone. “I came for you today. Where were you?”
Was that a tinge of pain in the big guy’s voice? Hannibal frowned and ignored it. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat again, “I’m not coming back.”
Silence; just a beat and then BA’s voice again, surprisingly steady. “Could have told me. Could have saved me a drive.”
Those words were like a lance through a boil and Hannibal had to close his eyes against the nausea that suddenly threatened him. Of course. What was he expecting? That they would cry and beg him to stay? No, that was never going to happen. They had nothing to say to each other.
“So,” this was BA once more, and Hannibal forced himself to listen. “If you goin’ on your own, you’ll need money, fake i.ds an’ all that.”
Would he? Did he even care whether the army caught up with him? Whether he starved to death under some railway bridge somewhere?
“Keep them,” he growled, “I’ll manage on my own.”
“No way,” BA sounded pissed, “you think you are gonna blame us for gettin’ caught or for bein’ down on your luck? Blame us for havin’ all the money, all these passports and stuff with your name on? Don’t you think you done enough harm already?”
And again that hit front on, to hear this coming from BA, the one who hadn’t hated him, had tried to understand even though he obviously felt that what Hannibal did was wrong. “Whatever then,” he snapped back, “post them. I’ll give you a PO box.”
There was the tiniest pause and then BA was back. “No way, it’s not safe enough. I’ll meet you with them.”
Hannibal hung his head. A meeting with BA; was that how he wanted to spend a day? He shook his head but at least it was BA and not Murdock. Or Face... “Fine,” he exhaled, beaten. “When?”
This time BA was straight back. “Tomorrow? 1000? Can you get into Memphis Central that early?”
’Can you get sober that early,’ more like. Hannibal knew that’s what BA really wanted to say. “Sure,” he mumbled, getting this over as soon as possible was the way forward as far as he was concerned.
“Alright,” BA sounded nervous now, and Hannibal was wondering if he was already regretting his arrangements. “See you there, in the Main Hall, where they sell the coffee.”
“Right,” Hannibal’s head was spinning, he just wanted to get off the phone and continue passing out on the bed.
“1000, yeah?”
“Yes!”
“You’ll be there?”
He rubbed at his forehead, “I said I would!”
“Okay,” the reluctance to get off the phone was clear in BA’s voice, but Hannibal didn’t hear it; the lack of alcohol was making him dizzy and he needed to get some water or something else to drink pretty damn quickly.
“Okay,” he repeated and pressed the red button, cutting the corporal off and stumbling into the bathroom to dry heave into the sink.
______________________________
Wednesday, nine ten a.m
To get into Memphis for 1000, Hannibal needed to catch a train at 0910, which was a struggle given all the alcohol in his blood stream. But he made it, eyes red and sore, three days worth of stubble on his chin, he heaved his kit bag onto his back and stepped onto the train as the doors opened on the grubby grey platform. He felt like a condemned man, off to the gallows.
But it was only what he deserved, he reasoned, and at 0945 he had got himself a coffee and slid onto a corner table, near enough to an exit, but where he could watch the main entrance way, and waited stoically for BA.
It was a weekday morning, a little past the main rush of the day, but still busy with hoards of people streaming through the main hall. Regardless of the numbers, however, Hannibal saw him the second he walked in. He was dressed casually, blending in the very best he could, jeans, white linen shirt with pale blue checks running through it; he had a messenger bag slung diagonally over his body, quick eyes scanning from table to table the second he cleared the entrance. Hannibal froze, and checked the distance to his nearest escape point but by then it was too late, just as his body tensed to make a break for it, he was spotted and he knew he had no choice but to face the music.
He sat in his chair, heart thudding hard against his ribs as he waited, and within ten seconds he was there, silently greeting Hannibal with a slight nod before lifting the messenger bag from his shoulder, laying it onto the table top next to them and sliding into the seat opposite.
They looked at each other. “Hannibal,” the salutation was muted, restrained but Hannibal had to swallow, hard, before he could make a sound in reply.
“Face,” and of course BA would set him up, he should have guessed. Silence descended once more.
Face was watching him, and Hannibal took the silence to force himself to look his lieutenant over, check out the damage he had wrought. He looked bruised still, most of the discolouration into greens and yellows now, but the remains of his black eye, still slightly red and puffy, was blue and purple, running into black in the crease below. The cut across his cheek was a black, ugly line, but Hannibal could tell that it would heal with nothing more than a faint silver scar, another one for the kid’s collection, and he felt a crumb of relief at that. He was paler than usual, and even his good eye had dark smudging underneath it – Hannibal wondered just how bad the nightmares had been this week.
“So,” Face’s voice was bitter, disappointed even, and his eyes hard. “Everything you need is in here,” he pushed the messenger bag slightly closer to Hannibal.
He didn’t touch it. The silence grew heavier as Hannibal fought with the emotions that Face’s proximity was sending through him.
Face shuffled, then sighed, then was rising to his feet, his face a bitter mask. “Right, then,” he muttered, “best of luck.”
He was leaving. The panic that that thought produced forced Hannibal’s mouth to work even before his brain had engaged gear. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.
Face stopped, half in and half out of his seat, “Sorry?” he queried, that same tone to his voice.
Hannibal rubbed a massive palm over his suddenly clammy face, “Yeah,” he swallowed. “I know, it’s not enough for you Face,” he shook his head slowly, memories and regrets swirling through his mind, “I know it can never be enough. But I am,” he finally looked up and forced himself to meet Face’s eyes, “I’m so, so, sorry.”
Face sat down again, slowly, and stared at the table top, white fingers gripping the edge. “Were you going to tell me that?” he asked quietly, “I mean, ever? If I hadn’t come here today?”
His only answer was a long sigh and Hannibal’s face disappearing into his palms.
“So, why not?” the bite was back in Face’s voice, “I don’t deserve your apology?”
That got Hannibal moving, his face out of his hands, his eyes back on Face. “It’s not that! Not that at all. I just,” he dropped his eyes to his coffee cup, hands linking up around it and sighed, “I couldn’t even bring myself to speak to you again, not after all I had done.”
There was a silence, long and thick before Face spoke again, his voice barely even a whisper, “I need to know why, Hannibal...”
Eyes flicking up again, Hannibal looked at Face’s bent head, “What? Why couldn’t I speak to you?”
“No,” Face was nervous, his long fingers tangling and re-tangling on the table top. “Why... back at the motel... I need to know what happened...”
Letting out a long breath, almost like a final exhale, Hannibal shook his head, “I don't know, honestly, kid, I really don’t know.”
The silence fell again as Hannibal toyed with his cup and Face worried at his fingers, until Hannibal had marshalled enough words together to reply. “I was worried you were right and they were gonna find us,” his voice was a low, even monotone, “I was worried that Murdock and BA were gonna drive each other crazy. I was tired, I was so fucking hot, and then you...” he stopped, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he felt the heat of that room, the fury that had consumed him, his fists connecting again and again and again... He shook himself, “But none of that matters, they’re all just excuses, I shouldn’t have done it and that’s all there is to it.”
“But I what, John?” Face’s voice was so quiet in the hum of the room, “What did I do?”
Hannibal didn’t want to do this, it felt uncomfortably like he was trying to heap blame onto Face, “I dunno, it was like you were deliberately pushing my buttons or something...” he shook his head again, “But still, it doesn’t matter, I know I was out of order, way, way out of order, and I’m not trying to put all of this onto you, kid. I’m not.”
There was yet another awkward silence and Hannibal watched the top of Face’s bent head, wondering just what was going through that mind of his. Eventually Face lifted up and it seemed like there was a decision in his eyes. He looked straight at Hannibal, his face pale and drawn, but definitely determined. “I was, you know,” he said, voice as firm as his eyes.
A frown met his words, “What?”
Face didn’t flicker, “Trying to push your buttons. Deliberately.”
Hannibal blinked in surprise, “Well, hell, kid...” he shook his head, “Even so... Why would you do a thing like that?”
Face wilted slightly in his seat and ran a hand over his mouth in a subconscious gesture of nervousness. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “I suppose I was trying to get a rise out of you, make you notice me or something...”
There was a moment’s stunned silence, “Make me notice you? Jesus Christ, kid! How fucked up is that? Notice you? When have I never noticed you?”
Their eyes met, Face’s pleading with Hannibal to understand, “No, that’s not it boss, I’m not explaining this right...” He stopped and thought, chewing his lip, even where it was still bruised and split, before trying again. “I wanted you to take notice of me, to take me seriously, to hear what I was saying, more like that.”
Hannibal’s eyes widened, “I did! I –”
“No, you didn’t.” Face insisted, “You heard my words, but you didn’t hear the message.”
Next
