Motivation - H/F - Part 5

[indigo_angels]

The second Hannibal opened his eyes he knew that this was going to be a terrible, terrible day. His head was pounding, his throat like sand paper; the fact that he was laid diagonally over Face’s still sand covered bed, fully clothed, boots on, wasn’t so good either. He glanced at the other bed and was relieved to see Face similarly situated, well that was something, at least Dougie hadn’t got his claws into him, and at least Hannibal hadn’t embarrassed himself by pawing at the kid himself. Thoughts of what had happened with Dougie last night swam into his mind, and he emended his train of thought to ‘further embarrassed’ himself...

 

He looked at the clock, eight forty, and heaved himself off the bed to look at the schedule for today. His head was far too furry to remember anything by himself and if they had to be somewhere in full uniform in twenty fucking minutes – they were dead. His blurry eyes took a moment to focus and the words were definitely the best thing he could wish for in the circumstances: Free Morning, thank the lord for that, followed by Hand to Hand drills, or maybe not.

 

Hand to hand. With a hangover. Excellent. Well, there was plenty of time to stress about that later. First of all, the only thing that Hannibal intended doing was getting some more sleep. He kicked his boots off and crawled under the covers and was asleep again in minutes.

 

The second time he awoke he felt little better. A squint at the clock told him it was twelve five, fifty five minutes to the afternoon session. He needed to get showered, get dressed, get some food inside before he threw up. They both did.

 

Hauling himself out from under the duvet, he grabbed his boots and half staggered to the side of Face’s bed, where his lieutenant was still sprawled on top of the covers fully clothed. He felt an unjust flare of resentment as he looked down at Face, knowing that if it hadn’t been for him, Hannibal would never have come on this damn stupid course in the first place. And if he’d never come, he would never have run into Charlie McArthur after all those years of moving on. Shame flushed his cheeks red, never have sold himself as cheaply and as willingly as he had last night... All the years, all the ways that Hannibal had grown, all the strength and wisdom he had amassed, and still Dougie could play him as effortlessly as a damn kazoo. And to think that Face was there to witness it all...

 

The resentment peaked and Hannibal lashed out, harder than he intended and shoved at Face’s shoulder, “Lieutenant!” he barked, and Face, shocked awake, reared up and fell on his ass in the gap between the bed and the window, “Get the fuck up and get ready!” Face’s eyes were blood shot and blurry and utterly, utterly confused, “Hand to hand in fifty minutes, and you’d better not damn well embarrass me today...”

 

And with that he turned and stormed out of the room, not looking back, but knowing the look of hurt and confusion he’d left in his wake.

 

______________________

 

Face turned up with two minutes to spare. He slunk into the huge conference room, stubbornly wearing shades against the artificial lighting, holding a Starbuck’s Venti takeout cup and scanning the assembled masses until he spotted Hannibal in the far corner before making his way gingerly over.

 

All the furniture from the room had been removed and crash mats spread over the floor. Hannibal had chosen a quiet and relatively empty corner, as far removed from the door as possible, and was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall wishing this day would just hurry up and end. The sight of Dougie breezing in five minutes ago looking as fresh as a daisy and not in the slightest bit hung over did nothing for his state of mind, especially when his old friend looked over and gave him a cheerful wave.

 

Arriving at his side in silence, Face slid heavily to the floor and took an experimental sip of his coffee. Hannibal smelt the rich aroma drifting from the cup and guessed that there must have been about five espresso shots in there, before he wondered how the kid had managed to find a Starbuck’s nearby, never mind had the time to go and get take out; he’d obviously even showered, hair still wet and curling. The smell was glorious, and Hannibal wondered petulantly why Face hadn’t brought him one, but then he remembered how he’d woken his lieutenant up this morning and suddenly wasn’t so surprised. 

 

It was clear that Face was studiously ignoring him, sipping delicately at the obviously hot coffee and hiding behind his shades. Hannibal sighed; the air was so thick around them they were in danger of choking. He decided to bite the bullet and try to shift a bit of the tension from around them, but just as he opened his mouth to say something, the PT Instructor gave a shrill blast on his whistle and the assembled waiting, and mostly hung-over, troops all fell silent. Hannibal sighed again and started counting down the minutes.

___________________________

 

There were two hundred and thirty six minutes of drills that afternoon, and Hannibal had to slog through every one of them. He generally enjoyed hand to hand, but not with the worst hangover of recent years, not with Face determined to answer him in sentences of one word all afternoon and certainly not with Dougie always in his damn eye line, flirting and charming and just making everyone think he was totally wonderful when Hannibal knew damn well that he was the most unprincipled shit in the whole fucking room. And knowing some of the officers in there like he did, that really was saying something.

 

But eventually it was all over, he was looking forward to nothing more exciting than a shower and a cold glass of water when the brass dropped their bombshell. This evening, in this very room, there was going to be some ‘entertainment’, Hannibal froze, he could just tell this was going to be trouble by the expectant hush that fell over everyone. A sparring match, one on one elimination, open to all, one eventual winner, it was even worse than he had dreaded.

 

Abruptly the hush disappeared, replaced instead by a thrum of excited chatter, and then Hannibal heard his lifeline, ‘voluntary participation’. Well, that was alright then, there was no way that the higher ranking officers would be expected to take part, and that was Hannibal’s way out. Maybe another time he would have had a go, he certainly had no problem with losing a sparring match to a worthy opponent, even if that opponent was of a lower rank. Not that he lost often, that is. But not today. Definitely not today, and he knew that there would be very few of his rank who felt differently.

 

Signups were encouraged on the other side of the hall and suddenly the entire room came to life, the hubbub of excited voices, loud ribbing and baiting, the mats being dragged into position, the hotel staff coming in to clear away the refreshments. Hannibal bent to pick up his discarded sweatshirt and when he straightened up again, he had lost Face in the melee. He was fully intending on heading back up to his room without the kid, but then he found Face’s shades and key card in his hoody pocket and remembered that he had agreed to look after them as Face hadn’t wanted to train with them in the pocket of his track pants. Sighing resignedly and knowing that his shower was only minutes away now, Hannibal leant back against the wall to wait.

 

He didn’t have to stand for too long, within five minutes Face came wandering over, still looking like death warmed over and clutching a piece of paper in his hand. Hannibal gave him his things and as they set off walking towards the lobby he nodded at the folded piece of paper gripped tightly in Face’s fist, “What’s that?”

 

Face held it out to him, “My number,” he answered.

 

“Number?” Hannibal was starting to get uneasy.

 

“For the match.”

 

Hannibal grabbed his arm and Face stopped, turning slowly to face his CO.

 

“You’re fighting?” Hannibal asked him.

 

Face frowned, “Of course I’m fighting. I haven’t come here to sit on my arse and watch TV you know! What the fuck is wrong with you today?”

 

Hannibal stared at him, momentarily lost for words. What the fuck was wrong with him? Of course Face was fighting, he should be, Hannibal would have been disappointed in him if he hadn’t signed up. Hell, there was even enough of an argument here that says Hannibal should be in it too. But... He shook his head. “I don't know, kid,” he turned for the doors and slid his hand up onto Face’s shoulder, “Let’s get something to eat. What time you on?”

 

The shower and bed would have to wait. It was going to be a long night...

 

_____________________________________

 

Hannibal moved among the mats watching carefully; seeing who was good, who was in it just for the laugh, who was taking this far, far too seriously and who (if anyone) was more hung over than Face...

 

He shook his head, unable to get that gnawing feeling of unease out of the pit of his stomach and stood watching Tosh make very short work of some unfortunate sap who had obviously been in this just for the laugh. The bout must have lasted less than forty seconds, but Hannibal knew that even with the mandatory head protection on, the loser would have one hell of a headache in the morning. Tosh, meanwhile, was like an automaton, just picking up his water bottle and his winner’s token and making his way back to the organiser’s table.

 

“Hey,” Face’s voice at his elbow brought him out of his study of Tosh and Hannibal frowned at both the winner’s token Face was holding up and the blood that was trickling from his nose.

 

“You done already? I was on my way to watch you.”

 

“Well, you missed me.”

 

The awkward distance was still there between them and as Face started walking towards the table Tosh had just left, Hannibal fell into step beside him, “What happened to your nose?”

 

Face turned and looked incredulously at him, “I got hit.”

 

Hannibal was about to say something more, when like a bloody genie out of a bottle, Dougie appeared on Face’s other side, “Oh, Face, my boy, that was a damn fine bout!” Hannibal glared at the casual arm flung over Face’s shoulder and tried not to grind his teeth together too loudly. “I loved the way you drew him in, and then that roundhouse was perfectly delivered, beautiful!” He pushed a handful of tissues into Face’s hand which were  instantly used to wipe away the blood before leaning around Face’s shoulders to address Hannibal, “Wasn’t he perfect?” he asked, his eyes alight, “I bet you were just so damn proud stood watching him...”

 

Hannibal felt his blood boil, but before he could think of a snappy comeback, Face answered for him.

 

“Oh, the boss didn’t see it,” the hurt was obvious under the casual tone, “he was watching some other fight.”

 

He stopped short as Face carried on towards the table, and Dougie stopped with him. “Sloppy, John, sloppy...” he shook his head in mock disappointment, “I won’t need to steal him off you soon, you’re doing a great job of sending him my way yourself!” and laughing at his own general cleverness he followed after Face, draping a hand over his shoulders again as they headed toward his next opponent.

 

_______________________

 

Hannibal had been right, it was a long night. He was sure that even the organisers had had no idea how long the whole damn thing would last. It was already ten to midnight and there were still four competitor’s left, a big guy of Polynesian descent called Shorty, Major Snowball’s LT, Grouch, Face and, of course, Tosh. Hannibal was pacing nervously, waiting for Face’s bout with Shorty, while all the time glancing over his shoulder at Tosh who was stretching himself out and looking very calm and dangerous.

 

After almost gifting Dougie another point, Hannibal had made sure he had watched every single round Face had competed in, and the kid had done really well. In a way Hannibal hadn’t been surprised, hand to hand was something he valued in his unit, and as such, the whole team spent time training and sparring. When Face had joined them, every single man had taken it upon themselves to spend time working with the new LT, training him up, passing on their own little tricks, making him good enough to be a part of their team. Hannibal knew if they were here today they would all be damn proud of him; he’d recognised moves from all his team in Face tonight, the kid had obviously listened hard and learned well.

 

But he still couldn’t keep his eyes off Tosh. The boy was the only one Hannibal had seen today who didn’t seem to be carrying some kind of hangover around with him, and when he thought about it, he really couldn’t remember seeing him out last night, so there was every possibility that there wasn’t an ounce of alcohol in his blood stream. He also seemed to be thoroughly recovered from his sore elbow and Hannibal wondered how much of a ruse that was as well, whether he had lied just to give Dougie easy access to Face...

 

Regardless of any of the ins and outs, however, Tosh had looked very, very dangerous tonight. He was big, taller than Face, and broad, a solid wall of muscle. He was also incredibly focussed and had dispatched all his opponents with relative ease. Hannibal watched now as he suckered Grouch with a dummy punch before sweeping his legs away and quickly moving to pin the hapless LT to the ground before he really had much idea about what was going on. The whole bout had been over in a minute and as Dougie ran over to whisper urgently into his ear, Hannibal definitely couldn’t stop the uneasy snakes from waking in his belly.   

 

But first, there was Shorty to consider. Hannibal wandered over to where Face was seated on the floor, one leg stretched out in front of him, one curled behind as he warmed up, and crouched down in his eye line. “What’s your tactics, kid?” he asked urgently.

 

Face looked up and gave him a serene smile, “Hit him harder than he hits me,” he replied.

 

Hannibal sighed; he was in no mood for games. “Listen, I’ve been watching Shorty and he’s no pro, he’s won every single bout the same way, grabs them, throws them down and pins them. Once he’s got you under his weight, there is no way you are getting up.”

 

Leaning to the side slightly to check out Shorty’s bulk, Face nodded, “Yeah, I can see how that would be...”

 

“So, you don't let him get to you, never let him get a grip on you. Quick, take your t-shirt off.”

 

Face’s eyes widened, “Boss?”

 

“And what do you have on under your track pants?”

 

“Running shorts.”

 

“Right, lose the pants as well then,” Hannibal reached out to grab the hem of Face’s t-shirt, but Face’s fingers grabbed his instead. Hannibal raised an eyebrow, “Shy lieutenant?” and Face narrowed his eyes at him, “Look,” Hannibal sighed keeping hold of the hem, “You don't want to give that guy something to hold onto, okay? If he grabs your t-shirt, it’s all over. Take it off, and the trousers.”

 

Face rolled his eyes, but folded the t-shirt up over his head; “What if he grabs my head?” was muttered from inside the folds of cotton.

 

Ignoring him, Hannibal reached into the pocket of his joggers and pulled out a little bottle, “You could do with some of this as well,” he tipped some of the liquid into his hand and reached for Face’s shoulders as the lieutenant yanked the track bottoms off his legs.

 

“Whoa!” One hand quickly grabbed hold of Hannibal’s wrist, “Is that massage oil?” Face’s eyes were wide, “Boss, do you carry massage oil around with you?”

 

Hannibal yanked his hand away, feeling the start of a blush heating his cheeks, “I don't carry it around with me, I’ve just been up to the room to get it. And yes, it is massage oil; it will stop him for getting a good grip on you, why do you think his skin is so shiny? Now shut up and let me rub it in.”

 

Face didn’t ask why Hannibal had massage oil in his room, but shut up and sat on the floor obediently while Hannibal rubbed oil into his back and shoulders, arms and legs and finally his stomach and chest. When he had finished, he was crouching next to his lieutenant’s sprawled legs and looked up into his face as he prepared to stand up, “Alright kid? You set?” but the words almost died in his mouth. Face had the strangest look in his eyes and Hannibal’s stomach knotted right up. It was almost as if Face could suddenly see right through him, right into his very core and knew why Hannibal was taking such care with him, knew how hard it was to rub oil into his body without thinking about it, or even really looking at it. Knew every thought that had ever gone on in Hannibal’s head. And if he looked carefully enough, Hannibal could see back into Face in return, past the casual facade that was always on show, past all of that to the real man in side...

 

“Lt. Peck? You ready, sir?”

 

The moment was gone. Hannibal’s heart was pounding up into his throat, but he broke eye contact and picked up Face’s discarded clothes muttering, “Good luck, kid,” as he stalked off.

 

Shorty fought exactly as Hannibal had predicted he would, and Face managed to successfully keep out of his way, but the whole thing looked more like a ballet than a bout of hand to hand combat and Hannibal could tell that Face was getting frustrated. In fact he wasn’t the only one, Shorty was not enjoying his lack of success, while the now fairly drunk crowd, were not enjoying the lack of action. The only person who did seem pleased with it all was Tosh, who was standing off to one side, arms folded, watching with a slight smug grin on his face while his two possible opponents tired themselves out.

 

It also seemed that Dougie was aware that this bout was going nowhere, not the result he was looking for either it seemed and decided to try and help things along a bit, “C’mon, Face!” he yelled, getting a furious look from Hannibal and a cold stare from Tosh for his troubles, “End this will you!”

 

Hannibal saw Face’s eyes narrow and he knew that something rash was on its way, cursing Dougie for appealing to Face’s impatience, he folded his arms and sorely wished for a cigar.

 

If rash was what Hannibal was expecting, utterly reckless was what he got. Face tucked his head low and charged Shorty, arms wrapping round the big guy’s hips, shoulders in his mid-drift. The force of his charge knocked Shorty back maybe half a step, nothing too far and a smile flowed over his face as he realised that Face had probably just thrown the bout away. Hannibal groaned as the crowd, sensing a victory, went wild.

 

But, they were all wrong. Just as Shorty was lining up to slam Face down onto the mats, he was shocked by the man clinging onto his hips suddenly tucking his head down near the top of his thighs and kicking his legs up, so that Face’s calves were now hanging down the big guy’s back. The crowd went crazy and Shorty’s eyes opened wide in shock as Face locked his ankles together behind the thick, wide neck and dug his heels in, pushing hard with his thighs, swinging up so that he was just about sitting on his adversary’s shoulders, facing backwards.

 

Their eyes met, Shorty’s were shocked, still not quite comprehending what was going on, while Face gave him the widest shit-eating grin he could manage before he edged forward just that little bit more, his groin almost in Shorty’s face. For a fraction of a second, nothing moved, but then Shorty began to over balance, he went to take a step back, but Face was too quick for him, throwing his weight back over Shorty’s head and sending them both plummeting to the ground. Even as they were falling, Face was swinging his legs up out of the way so there was nothing to cushion Shorty’s fall.

 

The big guy fell flat on his back, with Face already draping himself over his shoulders, holding him down, riding out the count, and just as Shorty found enough leverage to boost Face off him, the count had run down.

 

Dougie was at Face’s side in a second, pounding his back and holding his fist up in the air like he’d won an Olympic medal or something but Face pulled himself away, going to Shorty and shaking his hand, clapping him on the arm and thanking him for the good competition. Hannibal was proud of him, not necessarily for the winning move which could have so easily gone the other way, but for his sportsmanship, his sincerity, and watching Shorty congratulate him, laughing at the ridiculousness of the last move together, he knew that’s what marked him out from Dougie – made him an infinitely better person.       

 

Face had ten minutes to get ready to fight Tosh, and Hannibal had supposed that the whole week had always been building up to this point. Dougie was like a cat on a hot tin roof, prowling around Tosh, but his eyes flicking constantly over to Face who was lounging back on the floor drinking Gatorade while Hannibal rubbed him down. Hannibal studied his lieutenant carefully, watching his eyes as they assessed his opponent, flicking over to Dougie every once in a while and trying to sneak surreptitious glances at Hannibal whenever he thought he might be able to get away with it.

 

Hannibal sat back on his heels, “You okay, kid?”

 

Looking back from Tosh, Face threw him a quick grin, “Yeah, peachy.”  

 

Having already looked him over Hannibal knew he was in remarkably good nick, especially considering that he had already had six bouts tonight, he just hoped that he still would be in another twenty minutes. “What’s your tactics?”

 

He’d given Face an opening, the same line he’d used last time, an invitation for flippancy, but he was surprised, “He leads with his right all the time, only tends to use traditional moves. He’s standard old school, bloody good, but no flair. I’m gonna wait him out, soak it all up, let him get himself riled up and get sloppy then I’ll take him out. Probably with a couple of jabs to him kidneys, maybe get a kick into the back of his knee,” he nodded thoughtfully at Hannibal, “Yeah, I think that’s about it. What do you reckon, boss?”

 

Hannibal looked at him, a warm grin spreading over his face and then leaned in to affectionately rub the kid’s hair, “I think you’ll be just fine, Face, just fine.”

Face grinned back as the call was given to get ready. They were on.

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