Nameless One, 12/18
Jul. 5th, 2011 05:34 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".
Murdock lies with him for a long time before gently persuading him down the stairs and onto the couch while he makes soup in the kitchen. He eats the entire bowl under Murdock’s watchful eye, but can’t bring himself to stay up any longer. The last thing he remembers before drifting off is Murdock covering him with an afghan, the sound of a van pulling up on the driveway, and the quiet murmur of voices from the porch.
The worst is passing, he thinks, and the relief alone sends him into a dreamless sleep.
He wakes up slowly, the dying light from outside filtering in through the blinds. His arm feels warm, and it takes a moment for his fuzzy mind to realize that Hannibal is kneeling by the couch, eyes intent on Face. His shirt sleeve had ridden up at some point and Hannibal’s calloused thumb was stroking the angry pink line, too new to have faded white, traveling up his arm.
Hannibal clears his throat.
“Did you want to kill yourself?” he asks and he sounds so pained that Face wants to reassure him, but he doesn’t know how to without lying. They have fought together, been pinned down in situations where Death was so close they could reach and touch it, and he’s never seen Hannibal honestly scared until now. There are lines and swirls of fear at the corners of his mouth and he has to look down before he reaches out to smooth it away.
Face stares at where the line breaks under Hannibal’s hand, reappearing on the other side.
“I don’t know,” he answers hesitantly. “The blade was too dull to really cut.”
“And you didn’t try again? Didn’t think about it?”
Face shakes his head. He knows tomorrow all the knives will be hidden away, the pills in the cabinets tucked away someplace he can’t find.
There’s a silent moment, then Hannibal’s face crinkles like clay cracking in the sun.
“Help me out here, kid,” he says tensely. “Help me understand.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Face says, then realizes how it sounds. He struggles to explain it. “It was like trying to decide where to go to eat, and you finally flip a coin, but when you get there, the place is closed. So you shrug and go to the other place.”
It sounds inane to him, but when he looks up, Hannibal has this sadness tinged in his eyes.
“Is that what your life—” Hannibal stumbles, tries again. “That’s all your life was worth to you? Flipping a coin?”
“No, Hannibal, it’s not—” He sighs, sitting up and drawing the blanket around him. Hannibal stays crouched in front of him, kneeling on the floor with one hand cupping Face’s knee and the other still rubbing across his arm. “It’s not like that. It’s someone else.”
“What?”
Face rewinds his memories, tries to think of a way to explain that now it’s like watching himself do it over his own shoulder, even though he remembers at the time what he was thinking—not much at all—and what it felt like as he dragged the blade against his skin.
“It’s like someone else,” he revises. “I’m not… I would never do that, now. I just kind of turn off, and go away, and it’s like someone else is controlling me for a while, and then I wake up one day and they’re gone and I’m me again.”
Hannibal bows his head, thinking about it. It’s clear he wants to say something and Face waits him out.
He finally looks up into Face’s eyes. “This,” he says roughly, holding up Face’s arm, “may have been someone else doing it, but—it’s still you, kid.”
“I know that—”
“I know you do,” Hannibal interrupts. His face softens. “I do, I get it.”
Face looks at him skeptically and Hannibal shakes his head. “Okay, maybe not all of it,” he admits, “but I get enough. But what I’m trying to say is that even if it feels like someone else doing it, you’re still the one who’s going to be gone if you ever went through with it. And I can’t—”
His voice breaks and Face gets the feeling that he’s been drifting on the surface of this conversation and there’s a whole lot more underneath him that he’s not seeing. Hannibal climbs up next to him on the couch, releasing his arm, and cups his cheek in one hand.
“Kid, we need you around,” Hannibal says. The same thumb that was pressing against that scar is caressing his cheekbone gently. “I need you.”
It feels beautiful, inevitable, time neither going too fast or too slow, but just right as Hannibal leans forward and presses a butterfly’s kiss against his lips. Face knows that the world should be spinning or something according to every love song that ever was, but he’s been there, been on that carousel, and this is a million times better because it feels like balance and peace and everything he’s ever wanted from life that he had given up on ever getting.
When they break apart, Hannibal leans his forehead against Face’s, cupping his head with both hands and smoothing back his hair and tucking it behind his ears. “Promise me,” he says roughly. “Promise me you’ll talk to me next time, please. Promise me that you won’t do this again.”
Face stares at him and breathes out a true, “I promise”.
He wasn't the one who did it in the first place.
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".
Murdock lies with him for a long time before gently persuading him down the stairs and onto the couch while he makes soup in the kitchen. He eats the entire bowl under Murdock’s watchful eye, but can’t bring himself to stay up any longer. The last thing he remembers before drifting off is Murdock covering him with an afghan, the sound of a van pulling up on the driveway, and the quiet murmur of voices from the porch.
The worst is passing, he thinks, and the relief alone sends him into a dreamless sleep.
He wakes up slowly, the dying light from outside filtering in through the blinds. His arm feels warm, and it takes a moment for his fuzzy mind to realize that Hannibal is kneeling by the couch, eyes intent on Face. His shirt sleeve had ridden up at some point and Hannibal’s calloused thumb was stroking the angry pink line, too new to have faded white, traveling up his arm.
Hannibal clears his throat.
“Did you want to kill yourself?” he asks and he sounds so pained that Face wants to reassure him, but he doesn’t know how to without lying. They have fought together, been pinned down in situations where Death was so close they could reach and touch it, and he’s never seen Hannibal honestly scared until now. There are lines and swirls of fear at the corners of his mouth and he has to look down before he reaches out to smooth it away.
Face stares at where the line breaks under Hannibal’s hand, reappearing on the other side.
“I don’t know,” he answers hesitantly. “The blade was too dull to really cut.”
“And you didn’t try again? Didn’t think about it?”
Face shakes his head. He knows tomorrow all the knives will be hidden away, the pills in the cabinets tucked away someplace he can’t find.
There’s a silent moment, then Hannibal’s face crinkles like clay cracking in the sun.
“Help me out here, kid,” he says tensely. “Help me understand.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Face says, then realizes how it sounds. He struggles to explain it. “It was like trying to decide where to go to eat, and you finally flip a coin, but when you get there, the place is closed. So you shrug and go to the other place.”
It sounds inane to him, but when he looks up, Hannibal has this sadness tinged in his eyes.
“Is that what your life—” Hannibal stumbles, tries again. “That’s all your life was worth to you? Flipping a coin?”
“No, Hannibal, it’s not—” He sighs, sitting up and drawing the blanket around him. Hannibal stays crouched in front of him, kneeling on the floor with one hand cupping Face’s knee and the other still rubbing across his arm. “It’s not like that. It’s someone else.”
“What?”
Face rewinds his memories, tries to think of a way to explain that now it’s like watching himself do it over his own shoulder, even though he remembers at the time what he was thinking—not much at all—and what it felt like as he dragged the blade against his skin.
“It’s like someone else,” he revises. “I’m not… I would never do that, now. I just kind of turn off, and go away, and it’s like someone else is controlling me for a while, and then I wake up one day and they’re gone and I’m me again.”
Hannibal bows his head, thinking about it. It’s clear he wants to say something and Face waits him out.
He finally looks up into Face’s eyes. “This,” he says roughly, holding up Face’s arm, “may have been someone else doing it, but—it’s still you, kid.”
“I know that—”
“I know you do,” Hannibal interrupts. His face softens. “I do, I get it.”
Face looks at him skeptically and Hannibal shakes his head. “Okay, maybe not all of it,” he admits, “but I get enough. But what I’m trying to say is that even if it feels like someone else doing it, you’re still the one who’s going to be gone if you ever went through with it. And I can’t—”
His voice breaks and Face gets the feeling that he’s been drifting on the surface of this conversation and there’s a whole lot more underneath him that he’s not seeing. Hannibal climbs up next to him on the couch, releasing his arm, and cups his cheek in one hand.
“Kid, we need you around,” Hannibal says. The same thumb that was pressing against that scar is caressing his cheekbone gently. “I need you.”
It feels beautiful, inevitable, time neither going too fast or too slow, but just right as Hannibal leans forward and presses a butterfly’s kiss against his lips. Face knows that the world should be spinning or something according to every love song that ever was, but he’s been there, been on that carousel, and this is a million times better because it feels like balance and peace and everything he’s ever wanted from life that he had given up on ever getting.
When they break apart, Hannibal leans his forehead against Face’s, cupping his head with both hands and smoothing back his hair and tucking it behind his ears. “Promise me,” he says roughly. “Promise me you’ll talk to me next time, please. Promise me that you won’t do this again.”
Face stares at him and breathes out a true, “I promise”.
He wasn't the one who did it in the first place.
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Date: 2011-07-06 04:28 am (UTC)