Nameless One, 18/18
Jun. 1st, 2012 06:39 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!
He looks in the mirror and wonders what the guy on the other side of the glass sees. There’s a guy standing there, with his hands braced against the cool marble counter, blonde hair falling in perfect disarray, bedhead look, and blue eyes staring. He tries on a charming smile, the megawatt one, and that guy’s name is Face, the one who can scam the red off a cardinal and it would still sing a sweet song because he made the ride so much fun. He pulls down the collar of his shirt and sees the light rose blushing on his skin because Hannibal forgot to shave and his stubble rubbed against there when he spread light kisses all over Face’s neck – that’s Hannibal -John's- lover, the one who he calls Temp when he’s close and holds near after and falls asleep next to, one arm curled around his waist. Then there’s the other kid, with the same too blue eyes that shine occasionally with something that’s not quite sadness but not hope either - that’s Templeton, beaming sticky smiles at the nuns and crawling into their laps and chattering endlessly to indulgent smiles. He’s there, too, buried somewhere deep and locked away.
He doesn’t see the guy who has an answer to all this.
His jeans are still lying on the floor where he left them last night. He picks them up and rifles through the pockets until he finds the prescription, turns his back to the mirror and leans up against the counter as he stares at it. Hannibal's words billow up, echoing in his head, and he rolls the edges of the paper between his finger and thumb until it wrinkles and the corner tears a tiny bit.
Two pills a day doesn’t seem that big of a deal. He’s taken more ibuprofen for a headache than that; he used to take an assortment just to keep things in control, but that was different, because this- this means that there’s something wrong with him. It’s written in between the inky stains of lines and the spaces between the letters. There’s something wrong with you. We have to fix it. Don’t you want to be normal?
There’s a sound of shifting clothes and he looks up to see Hannibal watching him from the door-frame.
“Thinking about it?”
“Maybe,” Face says, and his hands feel too warm. He wipes them on his boxer shorts and grimaces. “I don’t know.”
“Face… whatever you decide,” Hannibal says cautiously, taking a few steps forward, “we’re not going to leave you.”
“I know,” Face says. It almost sounds true. He waits for the ‘but’.
“We won’t,” Hannibal repeats and he’s suddenly right there, pulling Face in toward him, one arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders and the other at the small of his back. Face leans in, breathes in the smell of cologne and sleep-warmth and the cigar smoke that lingers in Hannibal’s hair. He brushes his cheek against a shirt that still remembers the thick quilt wrapped around it not long ago.
“Maybe just for a while,” Face sounds muffled against faded cotton. “A trial basis.”
“Okay.”
“No promises,” he warns, and he feels Hannibal nod as he says, “Okay” again.
Hannibal pulls away after a moment, leans down to catch Face’s eye and cups his cheeks between his palms. “It’s okay. Whatever you decide, it’s okay. But you gotta promise me one thing.”
Here it comes. Here’s the moment when he gets the ultimatum – my way or the highway, kid – and the conditions and Face learned a long time ago that love was never, ever unconditional, so why the hell does it still hurt to know what’s coming?
“Promise me you’ll say something next time. It doesn’t have to be me,” Hannibal continues, “or even Murdock or B.A. but just – talk to someone. Don’t let it get to that point again.”
He doesn’t have to reach for the thin skin of Face’s wrist for Face to know what he’s talking about.
He nods, swallows the rising emotion that is getting caught in his throat and suffocating him just a little bit. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t, I’m so sorry, John. I'm so sorry."
“It’s okay,” Hannibal hushes him, carding through his hair. “It’s okay.”
And even with his face streaked with salt and saline and a hitching sensation in his chest, Face, for the first time since this whole thing began, thinks that maybe it can be.
They’re leaving today. They were supposed to have left this morning, because Hannibal decided they had stuck around long enough and wanted an early start, but Murdock wanted to say goodbye to all the critters and they spent two hours alone tracking down the mean-tempered yellow tom with the tufts of fur missing from his tail. Then there were arguments about who was going to drive and where to stop for food and the last-minute check where they went through and made certain everything was in its place and they hadn’t forgotten something.
Face isn’t superstitious, not more than any soldier is, but he sometimes feels like all the bad that went down is still lingering there and he feels sorry for the farmer who’s going to come back to a house with peeling yellow wallpaper saturated with shreds of madness. He only hopes that he and Hannibal and Murdock and B.A. left enough good things behind to cancel it out – maintain the balance.
“Ready to go?” Hannibal comes up behind him, a steady hand on his shoulder. The bags are loaded and B.A. is already behind the wheel, slapping Murdock’s hand whenever it ventures too close to the knob on the radio.
They left it too long – the sun is already awake, far above them in the middle of the sky, and he grins at how cliché it would have been to leave at sunrise; he never liked metaphors anyway.
The heat of Hannibal’s hand slides away, and he looks at Face with a questioning expression.
“Yeah,” Face says. “I’m ready.”
And he thinks that maybe this time he really is.
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!
He looks in the mirror and wonders what the guy on the other side of the glass sees. There’s a guy standing there, with his hands braced against the cool marble counter, blonde hair falling in perfect disarray, bedhead look, and blue eyes staring. He tries on a charming smile, the megawatt one, and that guy’s name is Face, the one who can scam the red off a cardinal and it would still sing a sweet song because he made the ride so much fun. He pulls down the collar of his shirt and sees the light rose blushing on his skin because Hannibal forgot to shave and his stubble rubbed against there when he spread light kisses all over Face’s neck – that’s Hannibal -John's- lover, the one who he calls Temp when he’s close and holds near after and falls asleep next to, one arm curled around his waist. Then there’s the other kid, with the same too blue eyes that shine occasionally with something that’s not quite sadness but not hope either - that’s Templeton, beaming sticky smiles at the nuns and crawling into their laps and chattering endlessly to indulgent smiles. He’s there, too, buried somewhere deep and locked away.
He doesn’t see the guy who has an answer to all this.
His jeans are still lying on the floor where he left them last night. He picks them up and rifles through the pockets until he finds the prescription, turns his back to the mirror and leans up against the counter as he stares at it. Hannibal's words billow up, echoing in his head, and he rolls the edges of the paper between his finger and thumb until it wrinkles and the corner tears a tiny bit.
Two pills a day doesn’t seem that big of a deal. He’s taken more ibuprofen for a headache than that; he used to take an assortment just to keep things in control, but that was different, because this- this means that there’s something wrong with him. It’s written in between the inky stains of lines and the spaces between the letters. There’s something wrong with you. We have to fix it. Don’t you want to be normal?
There’s a sound of shifting clothes and he looks up to see Hannibal watching him from the door-frame.
“Thinking about it?”
“Maybe,” Face says, and his hands feel too warm. He wipes them on his boxer shorts and grimaces. “I don’t know.”
“Face… whatever you decide,” Hannibal says cautiously, taking a few steps forward, “we’re not going to leave you.”
“I know,” Face says. It almost sounds true. He waits for the ‘but’.
“We won’t,” Hannibal repeats and he’s suddenly right there, pulling Face in toward him, one arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders and the other at the small of his back. Face leans in, breathes in the smell of cologne and sleep-warmth and the cigar smoke that lingers in Hannibal’s hair. He brushes his cheek against a shirt that still remembers the thick quilt wrapped around it not long ago.
“Maybe just for a while,” Face sounds muffled against faded cotton. “A trial basis.”
“Okay.”
“No promises,” he warns, and he feels Hannibal nod as he says, “Okay” again.
Hannibal pulls away after a moment, leans down to catch Face’s eye and cups his cheeks between his palms. “It’s okay. Whatever you decide, it’s okay. But you gotta promise me one thing.”
Here it comes. Here’s the moment when he gets the ultimatum – my way or the highway, kid – and the conditions and Face learned a long time ago that love was never, ever unconditional, so why the hell does it still hurt to know what’s coming?
“Promise me you’ll say something next time. It doesn’t have to be me,” Hannibal continues, “or even Murdock or B.A. but just – talk to someone. Don’t let it get to that point again.”
He doesn’t have to reach for the thin skin of Face’s wrist for Face to know what he’s talking about.
He nods, swallows the rising emotion that is getting caught in his throat and suffocating him just a little bit. His voice is hoarse when he answers. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t, I’m so sorry, John. I'm so sorry."
“It’s okay,” Hannibal hushes him, carding through his hair. “It’s okay.”
And even with his face streaked with salt and saline and a hitching sensation in his chest, Face, for the first time since this whole thing began, thinks that maybe it can be.
They’re leaving today. They were supposed to have left this morning, because Hannibal decided they had stuck around long enough and wanted an early start, but Murdock wanted to say goodbye to all the critters and they spent two hours alone tracking down the mean-tempered yellow tom with the tufts of fur missing from his tail. Then there were arguments about who was going to drive and where to stop for food and the last-minute check where they went through and made certain everything was in its place and they hadn’t forgotten something.
Face isn’t superstitious, not more than any soldier is, but he sometimes feels like all the bad that went down is still lingering there and he feels sorry for the farmer who’s going to come back to a house with peeling yellow wallpaper saturated with shreds of madness. He only hopes that he and Hannibal and Murdock and B.A. left enough good things behind to cancel it out – maintain the balance.
“Ready to go?” Hannibal comes up behind him, a steady hand on his shoulder. The bags are loaded and B.A. is already behind the wheel, slapping Murdock’s hand whenever it ventures too close to the knob on the radio.
They left it too long – the sun is already awake, far above them in the middle of the sky, and he grins at how cliché it would have been to leave at sunrise; he never liked metaphors anyway.
The heat of Hannibal’s hand slides away, and he looks at Face with a questioning expression.
“Yeah,” Face says. “I’m ready.”
And he thinks that maybe this time he really is.
