Nameless One, Missing Scenes
Jun. 1st, 2012 06:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Nameless One
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: R
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Face secretly takes meds for bipolar disorder. But for whatever reason, Face is no longer on his meds. Then the manic behavior starts, from getting into a mess of fights to needing to have tons of sex with strangers. Then when the emotional roller coaster stuff starts, Face begins cutting himself during the darkest times. His teammates notice, and try to help but Face is stubborn and refuses help, heavily in denial.
Additional Notes: Title taken from James Clarence Mangan's poem, "Nameless One".
Additional, Additional Notes: I've gone back and included this chart of chapters on previous posts and will update it regularly. I hope this makes things a little bit easier to navigate!
These were some scenes that popped into my head but just didn't fit within the story. Enjoy!
Hannibal’s hands are playing along his ribs like silent piano keys, fitting into the slots between each bone and stroking the skin gently there. Face lets out happy ivory sighs, a satisfied harmony in the dark of the room.
That warm calloused hand, so adept at drawing out sweet sounds from the body curled up beside his, drifts down and catches on the knob of his hip and rests there. There’s a reticence, a strange hesitance, in the motion and Face makes a murmuring noise that is almost a question.
“Face?” Hannibal’s voice is soft, like Face has the choice to ignore it if he wants.
He finds that he doesn’t want to, though, and turns over, barely able to make out the blue of Hannibal’s eyes from the moonlight drifting in through the window.
“What is it?”
He hesitates again, thumb playing along the indentation between Face’s hip and ribcage. “You remember
“I know,” Face says, puzzled at the low discord of ache in Hannibal’s voice. He lifts a hand to rest gently on Hannibal’s neck, brushing through the short gray hair that curls just a little at his nape when it gets too long. His fingers play in the strands briefly, stroking them between the pads of his fingertips. “I know that.”
“Going out?” Hannibal said lightly. He turned another page in the novel he had lifted from off the dresser of the master bedroom, chomping on a cigar and looking for all the world like he was perfectly content.
Face shrugged, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, plucking at the seam nervously. “Yeah, I figured I would see what kind of night life this place has to offer. Drive into town, go to the bars, the usual.”
Hannibal was perfectly content to read a book on the porch, watching the last swallow of sunshine sink below the horizon. B.A. had happily disappeared into the shed of the place they were staying after unearthing an old 1966 Corvette that had seen better days. Murdock looked pleased as punch to be sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and Skittles in his lap, watching cartoons.
Face just felt restless, feeling that urge to talk to people, get out and do something before he went stir-crazy sitting in this old place while the real owners were on vacation.
“Think we should lay low for a bit,” Hannibal said. He didn’t look up from his book, didn’t make it an order, but Face could feel the disapproval thick and clinging to the air around him.
“I’ll be careful,” Face said with a grin, ready to be bouncing off again. It wasn’t really an answer, but Hannibal hadn’t really made it a question, so he took off before the man could say anything else. There were some things he didn’t want to explain, like how they hadn’t stayed in a place long enough to get more medications, how he could feel it bubbling up inside of him, the desperate knowledge that he needed to be away before it got bad. Like how if he just ran fast enough in the mornings, or paced the perimeter restlessly at night, it might go away.
He could feel it, like an itch just under the surface of his mind. He twitched, trying to throw it off.
“Something the matter?”
“No,” Face snapped. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension building up under them, choking off his air, making his heart beat faster.
Hannibal gave him a level stare that Face fidgeted under. It was hard to stop that recently.
Everyone is awake when he pulls up – hazards of being military so long, Face thinks. Old habits are hard to break. He walks in and Murdock is perched on the countertop like a cat, all long lines and sharp green eyes, while B.A. mutters something about him leaving scuff-marks with his shoes but shaking his head fondly all the same. Hannibal is sitting at the table and he looks up at the squeak of the screen door, tracks Face as he walks in and hangs up the keys on the hook.
Face loves being the center of attention, but not like this.
“I’m starved,” he announces, which isn’t true, because his stomach is still doing flips that he blames on the tacky-sweet candy he stole from the waiting room when he left. “What’s for breakfast?”
Murdock swings his legs down and lets them hang. “Grilled rhinoceros steaks with a piquant basil-thyme marinade and smoked asparagus. Or sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches sound good,” Face grins, wondering what Murdock would say if he had asked for the rhinoceros. He busies himself with pulling out the mayonnaise and a half-cut tomato and slices of white bread.
“Very good, suh,” Murdock sniffs, folding a paper towel over his arm like a linen napkin. He bows lowly and starts digging out a plate. “Would suh prefer a white soda or red?”
“Oh, I think I’ll have the green, waiter,” Face says playfully. There’s something stunningly normal about it, even though Murdock is about as far away from normal as Face is to okay.
“Where were you?” Hannibal’s rumbling voice interrupts, and Face freezes, forces his hands to keep making the motions, dip the knife into the jar, slather, rinse, repeat.
“Out,” he says, then adds, “I went to town,” hoping that will be the end of it. Not now. Not yet. He will, he can, just not right now.
“Face…” Hannibal begins, then cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
The thread of tension holding him together snaps and Face lets out a shaky breath at the reprieve. Hannibal won’t let this go, he knows, but he can deal with it later.
“Don’t,” he says seriously. His hands are shaking and he clenches them into fists, releases them with a breath. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“That – where you watch me and everything I do must be because there’s something wrong with me,” he spits it out. “I know what this is and you don’t so don’t try to tell me that it’s something when you don’t know.”
“I’m not – “ Hannibal begins, and Face whirls to face him. He holds his hands up, then drops them by his sides. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I know, but everyone – I’m still Face, so don’t treat me like—“
“A pathology,” Murdock pipes up. Everyone turns to look at him, and he shrugs with a wry smile. “Like a diagnosis? You are more than your diagnosis, grasshopper.”
He delivers the last like a wise karate master, solemn and inscrutable, and it makes Face laugh, lets some of the tension drain out of his shoulders.
“Duly noted,” Hannibal says with a nod.
Author:
tripatchRating: R
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Face secretly takes meds for bipolar disorder. But for whatever reason, Face is no longer on his meds. Then the manic behavior starts, from getting into a mess of fights to needing to have tons of sex with strangers. Then when the emotional roller coaster stuff starts, Face begins cutting himself during the darkest times. His teammates notice, and try to help but Face is stubborn and refuses help, heavily in denial.
Additional Notes: Title taken from James Clarence Mangan's poem, "Nameless One".
Additional, Additional Notes: I've gone back and included this chart of chapters on previous posts and will update it regularly. I hope this makes things a little bit easier to navigate!
These were some scenes that popped into my head but just didn't fit within the story. Enjoy!
Hannibal’s hands are playing along his ribs like silent piano keys, fitting into the slots between each bone and stroking the skin gently there. Face lets out happy ivory sighs, a satisfied harmony in the dark of the room.
That warm calloused hand, so adept at drawing out sweet sounds from the body curled up beside his, drifts down and catches on the knob of his hip and rests there. There’s a reticence, a strange hesitance, in the motion and Face makes a murmuring noise that is almost a question.
“Face?” Hannibal’s voice is soft, like Face has the choice to ignore it if he wants.
He finds that he doesn’t want to, though, and turns over, barely able to make out the blue of Hannibal’s eyes from the moonlight drifting in through the window.
“What is it?”
He hesitates again, thumb playing along the indentation between Face’s hip and ribcage. “You remember
“I know,” Face says, puzzled at the low discord of ache in Hannibal’s voice. He lifts a hand to rest gently on Hannibal’s neck, brushing through the short gray hair that curls just a little at his nape when it gets too long. His fingers play in the strands briefly, stroking them between the pads of his fingertips. “I know that.”
“Going out?” Hannibal said lightly. He turned another page in the novel he had lifted from off the dresser of the master bedroom, chomping on a cigar and looking for all the world like he was perfectly content.
Face shrugged, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, plucking at the seam nervously. “Yeah, I figured I would see what kind of night life this place has to offer. Drive into town, go to the bars, the usual.”
Hannibal was perfectly content to read a book on the porch, watching the last swallow of sunshine sink below the horizon. B.A. had happily disappeared into the shed of the place they were staying after unearthing an old 1966 Corvette that had seen better days. Murdock looked pleased as punch to be sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and Skittles in his lap, watching cartoons.
Face just felt restless, feeling that urge to talk to people, get out and do something before he went stir-crazy sitting in this old place while the real owners were on vacation.
“Think we should lay low for a bit,” Hannibal said. He didn’t look up from his book, didn’t make it an order, but Face could feel the disapproval thick and clinging to the air around him.
“I’ll be careful,” Face said with a grin, ready to be bouncing off again. It wasn’t really an answer, but Hannibal hadn’t really made it a question, so he took off before the man could say anything else. There were some things he didn’t want to explain, like how they hadn’t stayed in a place long enough to get more medications, how he could feel it bubbling up inside of him, the desperate knowledge that he needed to be away before it got bad. Like how if he just ran fast enough in the mornings, or paced the perimeter restlessly at night, it might go away.
He could feel it, like an itch just under the surface of his mind. He twitched, trying to throw it off.
“Something the matter?”
“No,” Face snapped. He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension building up under them, choking off his air, making his heart beat faster.
Hannibal gave him a level stare that Face fidgeted under. It was hard to stop that recently.
Everyone is awake when he pulls up – hazards of being military so long, Face thinks. Old habits are hard to break. He walks in and Murdock is perched on the countertop like a cat, all long lines and sharp green eyes, while B.A. mutters something about him leaving scuff-marks with his shoes but shaking his head fondly all the same. Hannibal is sitting at the table and he looks up at the squeak of the screen door, tracks Face as he walks in and hangs up the keys on the hook.
Face loves being the center of attention, but not like this.
“I’m starved,” he announces, which isn’t true, because his stomach is still doing flips that he blames on the tacky-sweet candy he stole from the waiting room when he left. “What’s for breakfast?”
Murdock swings his legs down and lets them hang. “Grilled rhinoceros steaks with a piquant basil-thyme marinade and smoked asparagus. Or sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches sound good,” Face grins, wondering what Murdock would say if he had asked for the rhinoceros. He busies himself with pulling out the mayonnaise and a half-cut tomato and slices of white bread.
“Very good, suh,” Murdock sniffs, folding a paper towel over his arm like a linen napkin. He bows lowly and starts digging out a plate. “Would suh prefer a white soda or red?”
“Oh, I think I’ll have the green, waiter,” Face says playfully. There’s something stunningly normal about it, even though Murdock is about as far away from normal as Face is to okay.
“Where were you?” Hannibal’s rumbling voice interrupts, and Face freezes, forces his hands to keep making the motions, dip the knife into the jar, slather, rinse, repeat.
“Out,” he says, then adds, “I went to town,” hoping that will be the end of it. Not now. Not yet. He will, he can, just not right now.
“Face…” Hannibal begins, then cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
The thread of tension holding him together snaps and Face lets out a shaky breath at the reprieve. Hannibal won’t let this go, he knows, but he can deal with it later.
“Don’t,” he says seriously. His hands are shaking and he clenches them into fists, releases them with a breath. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“That – where you watch me and everything I do must be because there’s something wrong with me,” he spits it out. “I know what this is and you don’t so don’t try to tell me that it’s something when you don’t know.”
“I’m not – “ Hannibal begins, and Face whirls to face him. He holds his hands up, then drops them by his sides. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“I know, but everyone – I’m still Face, so don’t treat me like—“
“A pathology,” Murdock pipes up. Everyone turns to look at him, and he shrugs with a wry smile. “Like a diagnosis? You are more than your diagnosis, grasshopper.”
He delivers the last like a wise karate master, solemn and inscrutable, and it makes Face laugh, lets some of the tension drain out of his shoulders.
“Duly noted,” Hannibal says with a nod.
