Nameless One, 6/18
Jul. 3rd, 2011 05:22 am![[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".
When he wakes up, he lies in bed staring out the window. It’s morning again, which means that he lost an entire day somewhere. The mad rush of thoughts is gone, replaced by the fuzziness that must have been the sedatives Hannibal gave him yesterday.
God, what a train wreck. He winces thinking about it.
He needs to apologize, he knows. Yesterday—he was there, he remembers every thought, every action, remembers that, remembers it felt right and sensible, but the next day it’s like he snaps back into his body and is watching someone else direct him when he thinks about it. Like he was hitchhiking and someone else was in control of him while he stared out the window and suddenly the driver veered into a snow bank, and he has to explain why he wasn’t paying attention. But the guys don’t know that, don’t know it was someone else who was driving and flipping the stations on the radio, and he doesn’t know how to explain it, because that was him, undeniably, saying all those terrible things he didn’t mean and freaking out and talking too fast, so he needs to say he’s sorry, but he doesn’t know how.
Doesn’t know if he can, if he’s being honest, because there’s nothing he can say that will make this better.
C’mon, Facebaby, he thinks, think of something good, some silver-tongued lie that will smooth over things and make it all better, but nothing comes to him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rolling out of bed and pads over barefoot to the washroom to take a shower.
The warm water feels heavenly, but he can’t even bring himself to enjoy it, too wrapped up in trying to come up with an excuse that doesn’t involve, “So, hey, I periodically go insane, hope that isn’t a problem?”. He laughs softly as he tries to imagine Hannibal’s face if he tried that. Maybe, “Murdock and I have a lot more in common than you thought,” or better yet, “Twice the crazy, twice the fun.”
Shutting off the water and drying off with a towel, he gets dressed as slowly as he can, still turning it over in his head.
A good conman knows how to play it by ear, and Face is the best conman. He can do this, just let Hannibal lead the conversation and figure it out from there.
That’s a plan, he figures. He runs a comb through his drying curls and stares at himself in the mirror, mustering up one of his megawatt grins in the reflection. He can hear Murdock banging pots and pans in the kitchen, probably making breakfast for everyone. A deep voice is yelling something at him—has to be B.A., who always likes to keep an eye on what exactly goes into Murdock’s omelets—which just leaves the boss. He’s probably outside, sipping coffee on the porch like the way he always does when they’ve got downtime.
One last check in the mirror and Face opens the door, taking a deep breath to brace himself.
Time to face the music, honey, and this time it's not the kind you only hear in your head.
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".
When he wakes up, he lies in bed staring out the window. It’s morning again, which means that he lost an entire day somewhere. The mad rush of thoughts is gone, replaced by the fuzziness that must have been the sedatives Hannibal gave him yesterday.
God, what a train wreck. He winces thinking about it.
He needs to apologize, he knows. Yesterday—he was there, he remembers every thought, every action, remembers that, remembers it felt right and sensible, but the next day it’s like he snaps back into his body and is watching someone else direct him when he thinks about it. Like he was hitchhiking and someone else was in control of him while he stared out the window and suddenly the driver veered into a snow bank, and he has to explain why he wasn’t paying attention. But the guys don’t know that, don’t know it was someone else who was driving and flipping the stations on the radio, and he doesn’t know how to explain it, because that was him, undeniably, saying all those terrible things he didn’t mean and freaking out and talking too fast, so he needs to say he’s sorry, but he doesn’t know how.
Doesn’t know if he can, if he’s being honest, because there’s nothing he can say that will make this better.
C’mon, Facebaby, he thinks, think of something good, some silver-tongued lie that will smooth over things and make it all better, but nothing comes to him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, rolling out of bed and pads over barefoot to the washroom to take a shower.
The warm water feels heavenly, but he can’t even bring himself to enjoy it, too wrapped up in trying to come up with an excuse that doesn’t involve, “So, hey, I periodically go insane, hope that isn’t a problem?”. He laughs softly as he tries to imagine Hannibal’s face if he tried that. Maybe, “Murdock and I have a lot more in common than you thought,” or better yet, “Twice the crazy, twice the fun.”
Shutting off the water and drying off with a towel, he gets dressed as slowly as he can, still turning it over in his head.
A good conman knows how to play it by ear, and Face is the best conman. He can do this, just let Hannibal lead the conversation and figure it out from there.
That’s a plan, he figures. He runs a comb through his drying curls and stares at himself in the mirror, mustering up one of his megawatt grins in the reflection. He can hear Murdock banging pots and pans in the kitchen, probably making breakfast for everyone. A deep voice is yelling something at him—has to be B.A., who always likes to keep an eye on what exactly goes into Murdock’s omelets—which just leaves the boss. He’s probably outside, sipping coffee on the porch like the way he always does when they’ve got downtime.
One last check in the mirror and Face opens the door, taking a deep breath to brace himself.
Time to face the music, honey, and this time it's not the kind you only hear in your head.
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Date: 2011-07-04 03:03 am (UTC)