Nameless One, 7/18
Jul. 3rd, 2011 07:05 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 Face walks into the kitchen, the conversation stops. From the look B.A. gives him, Face knows that Murdock or Hannibal mentioned something went down last night, but he at least wasn’t there to witness his breakdown. Murdock stares at him before smiling brightly.
“Hey, Facey,” he says, like there’s nothing at all wrong, and Face smiles back and plays along. He feels like a little kid, that by pretending nothing happened, it’ll all go away. “Want some breakfast?”
“Sounds good,” he says, pulling out a stool. “Can I get pancakes?”
“Of course!” Murdock says with a hint of a French accent. He always likes to pretend to be a chef when he cooks; it makes things more interesting, especially when he decided to be the Swedish chef from the Muppets for a whole week.
“Chocolate chip?”
Face groans and plays along. “Trying to get me fat?”
“Someone has to,” Murdock replies with a glint in his eyes. “I’ll even make my special syrup to go with them.”
“You’re the best, H.M.,” Face says sincerely. If Murdock realizes he’s talking about more than the pancakes, he doesn’t say anything.
The conversation lags a bit as Murdock tries to find a spatula somewhere in all the cabinets, rooting through silverware and Tupperware to find the hidden utensil. B.A. sits silently, like he’s debating whether to say anything. Face decides to jump in before he can.
“How’s the project going?” he nods his head toward the barn outside. B.A. stares at him and Face feels his heart beat faster, wondering whether he would go along with this façade of normality they’ve got going.
“Pretty good,” B.A. finally grunts. “I had to make a run into town to get some supplies, but the farmer should have a hell of a surprise waiting for him when he gets back.”
“I’m sure,” Face says. He’s been putting off the inevitable, but he swallows his fear and asks casually, “Where’s Hannibal?”
Murdock bangs his head on the underside of a cabinet. B.A. stares down into his coffee.
“Outside,” B.A. finally says. “He said he wants to talk to you about somethin’ when you got up.”
So much for pretending nothing happened. Face nods, not sure what to say. B.A. clearly wants to pretend that he knows nothing about it, at all.
Face kind of does too.
“Right,” he says finally, adding a little laugh in there like he’s unconcerned, like this is going to be a normal lecture he gets from Hannibal whenever he screws up. “Well, let me eat breakfast before he bawls me out, at least.”
“He won’t bawl you out, Face,” Murdock says softly, looking up from where the batter is starting to sizzle.
Face wants to believe that, but believing it means that he has to acknowledge that he did have an episode in front of God and Hannibal and Murdock. He swallows, puts on his game face. “Nah, it’s fine. I should be used to these lectures by now, right, guys?”
He tells Murdock he’ll be back in a minute for the pancakes and heads outside.
Hannibal is right where he always is these mornings, sitting on the steps of the porch and taking sips from his coffee mug. Normally he looks content when he sits like this, like everything is right with the world, but even Face can see through that today.
“Hey, boss,” he says, stretching his legs out beside Hannibal’s. “B.A. said you wanted to talk to me.”
Face carefully doesn’t meet the sideways look Hannibal gives him, assessing him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Face answers truthfully. “Fine.”
He’s just about to wonder whether it was better to jump in and explain himself or wait for Hannibal to ask when the man shifts beside him to get a better read. Amateurs jump in, explaining themselves before they're asked, while the greatest con men know that lies are meant to be doled out carefully. He fidgets under the hard gaze and wishes Hannibal would go back to staring out at the field in front of the house.
“You ready to tell me what that was all about yesterday?”
Face wants to say, “No,” but that would mean admitting something had happened. Better to put it to bed quick, instead of letting it fester and rot.
He laughs lightly, patently false even to his own ears. “Guess I was a little drunk still from the morning after.”
Hannibal arches an eyebrow and asks, “Drunk?” like he wants to add, “That’s really the excuse you’re going to use?” after it.
Face meets his gaze, because he may not be the smartest of them, but he can make up for it in pure stubbornness and determination. Never back down, brazen it out. “Yeah, boss, what can I say?” He shrugs helplessly. “Maybe someone slipped something in my drink, I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry, but I promise it won’t happen again.”
There’s a long pause where he can hear Hannibal’s breathing and he makes sure to match his own to it, because if he doesn’t, he’s not sure he would inhale at all.
Finally Hannibal breaks the moment with a long sigh and without a word, collects his mug and paper and disappears into the house. The screen door bangs closed after him, a sharp angry rattle in the cool quiet of the morning.
Face wonders when the hell his life went so wrong that lying to Hannibal was a better option than telling the truth.
He stays outside a long time, but never comes up with a good answer.
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 Face walks into the kitchen, the conversation stops. From the look B.A. gives him, Face knows that Murdock or Hannibal mentioned something went down last night, but he at least wasn’t there to witness his breakdown. Murdock stares at him before smiling brightly.
“Hey, Facey,” he says, like there’s nothing at all wrong, and Face smiles back and plays along. He feels like a little kid, that by pretending nothing happened, it’ll all go away. “Want some breakfast?”
“Sounds good,” he says, pulling out a stool. “Can I get pancakes?”
“Of course!” Murdock says with a hint of a French accent. He always likes to pretend to be a chef when he cooks; it makes things more interesting, especially when he decided to be the Swedish chef from the Muppets for a whole week.
“Chocolate chip?”
Face groans and plays along. “Trying to get me fat?”
“Someone has to,” Murdock replies with a glint in his eyes. “I’ll even make my special syrup to go with them.”
“You’re the best, H.M.,” Face says sincerely. If Murdock realizes he’s talking about more than the pancakes, he doesn’t say anything.
The conversation lags a bit as Murdock tries to find a spatula somewhere in all the cabinets, rooting through silverware and Tupperware to find the hidden utensil. B.A. sits silently, like he’s debating whether to say anything. Face decides to jump in before he can.
“How’s the project going?” he nods his head toward the barn outside. B.A. stares at him and Face feels his heart beat faster, wondering whether he would go along with this façade of normality they’ve got going.
“Pretty good,” B.A. finally grunts. “I had to make a run into town to get some supplies, but the farmer should have a hell of a surprise waiting for him when he gets back.”
“I’m sure,” Face says. He’s been putting off the inevitable, but he swallows his fear and asks casually, “Where’s Hannibal?”
Murdock bangs his head on the underside of a cabinet. B.A. stares down into his coffee.
“Outside,” B.A. finally says. “He said he wants to talk to you about somethin’ when you got up.”
So much for pretending nothing happened. Face nods, not sure what to say. B.A. clearly wants to pretend that he knows nothing about it, at all.
Face kind of does too.
“Right,” he says finally, adding a little laugh in there like he’s unconcerned, like this is going to be a normal lecture he gets from Hannibal whenever he screws up. “Well, let me eat breakfast before he bawls me out, at least.”
“He won’t bawl you out, Face,” Murdock says softly, looking up from where the batter is starting to sizzle.
Face wants to believe that, but believing it means that he has to acknowledge that he did have an episode in front of God and Hannibal and Murdock. He swallows, puts on his game face. “Nah, it’s fine. I should be used to these lectures by now, right, guys?”
He tells Murdock he’ll be back in a minute for the pancakes and heads outside.
Hannibal is right where he always is these mornings, sitting on the steps of the porch and taking sips from his coffee mug. Normally he looks content when he sits like this, like everything is right with the world, but even Face can see through that today.
“Hey, boss,” he says, stretching his legs out beside Hannibal’s. “B.A. said you wanted to talk to me.”
Face carefully doesn’t meet the sideways look Hannibal gives him, assessing him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Face answers truthfully. “Fine.”
He’s just about to wonder whether it was better to jump in and explain himself or wait for Hannibal to ask when the man shifts beside him to get a better read. Amateurs jump in, explaining themselves before they're asked, while the greatest con men know that lies are meant to be doled out carefully. He fidgets under the hard gaze and wishes Hannibal would go back to staring out at the field in front of the house.
“You ready to tell me what that was all about yesterday?”
Face wants to say, “No,” but that would mean admitting something had happened. Better to put it to bed quick, instead of letting it fester and rot.
He laughs lightly, patently false even to his own ears. “Guess I was a little drunk still from the morning after.”
Hannibal arches an eyebrow and asks, “Drunk?” like he wants to add, “That’s really the excuse you’re going to use?” after it.
Face meets his gaze, because he may not be the smartest of them, but he can make up for it in pure stubbornness and determination. Never back down, brazen it out. “Yeah, boss, what can I say?” He shrugs helplessly. “Maybe someone slipped something in my drink, I don’t know. Look, I’m sorry, but I promise it won’t happen again.”
There’s a long pause where he can hear Hannibal’s breathing and he makes sure to match his own to it, because if he doesn’t, he’s not sure he would inhale at all.
Finally Hannibal breaks the moment with a long sigh and without a word, collects his mug and paper and disappears into the house. The screen door bangs closed after him, a sharp angry rattle in the cool quiet of the morning.
Face wonders when the hell his life went so wrong that lying to Hannibal was a better option than telling the truth.
He stays outside a long time, but never comes up with a good answer.
