Nameless One, 5/18
Jun. 29th, 2011 04:33 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".
The plan goes off without a hitch—just some ringing in Murdock’s ears and a few new bruises on Hannibal’s skin—and before long, Face has them in a cozy farmhouse where B.A. can retreat to bang out his anger on an old tractor and Murdock can play with the farm cats and Hannibal can drink up the last swallows of the setting sun.
Face finds an old Corvette that B.A. fixed up and takes it into the city, hits the night clubs, and feels the strobe light pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
“Hey, handsome,” a man’s voice says, and he turns to see a wide grin and green eyes smiling at him. “Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” Face says, putting a little bit more flirt in his voice than necessary.
The man taps the bar.
“Two of whatever he’s having,” he orders, gesturing to Face’s half-finished drink.
Before the last song ends, Face and the man end up in a taxi cab driving to a condo with white, white walls and a bed so soft it should be illegal.
“Mmm,” the man groans as Face shoves him up against the wall. The buttons on his shirt pop off and he lets out a throaty laugh. “Slow down there.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Face says with a grin right before he drops to his knees and unzips the man’s pants. The rest of the night is a symphony of moans and “Oh, yeah, like that, right there,” and “Please, God, please, so close”. When the light outside finally starts to filter through the blinds, the man has his head turned into the pillow, snoring, and Face is pacing the balcony, wishing he had a cigarette. He never really took up smoking, not like the other guys, but he found it helps calm him down when things start going haywire. The early morning stillness finally gets to him and he finds his shirt and leaves before the man stirs.
He didn’t even catch his name.
Hannibal is there when he returns, sipping coffee from a green mug with a faded John Deere logo on it, reading a book on the porch swing.
“Good night?” he asks mildly, but there’s something sharp in his eyes.
Face means to grin and wink and say, “Of course,” offhandedly before going inside, ostensibly to sleep, but instead he finds himself pouring out each neon-streaked glass and sticky dance floor and throbbing music to Hannibal in a rush of words that he can’t stop. His hands hover in the air like birds, illustrating each detail as he jumps from one club to the next; the words keep rushing out of him like water, turning into ice chips, heavy and cold, when they escape.
“Face,” Hannibal stood up at some point, his book discarded next to him. He walks up to Face with his hands loose in front of him, like he’s calming a skittish horse. One hand makes tentative contact with Face’s shoulder. “Face, listen to me.”
“You shoulda seen it, boss,” Face continues, thinking maybe it’s a good thing, because talking fast is supposed to be his specialty and maybe this time it’ll work on Hannibal, the one person he needs it to work most on, “This place had it all, you would have hated it, there were so many people. I never even knew you could fit so many people in one place like that, not enough space to even pace—”
“Face.”
And that voice, so calm and steady, has a note of concern running through it like an out-of-tune low E chord thrumming on a guitar. It almost drowns out the whooshing sound as the ground gets closer and closer.
“Face, what’s going on?”
Like a switch being pulled, Face shrugs off Hannibal’s hand, glaring at him. “What the fuck? What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’? Haven’t you looked around recently?” He bounces on the balls of his feet and gestures to the miles of emptiness around them. “There’s nothing for us! You lied to us, you said we would get pardons.”
Hannibal reels back a little at the accusation, the speed with which it was delivered. “I did,” he says slowly, but Face is already shaking his head.
“Sure, we got pardons, but not much good they’ll do us? Not full pardons, right? No excuse for escaping, none, none, none,” he feels his brain get stuck, like the needle of a record player and shakes it off, frustrated at the way his mouth suddenly feels clumsy against the onslaught of words his brain is supplying. “Nothing! There’s nothing for us. B.A. will go back to prison, Murdock will go back to that god-awful hospital, and you and I—”
“Is that what this is?”
“What do you think?” Face spits out viciously. His mind suddenly feels clear and razor sharp. He stalks up to Hannibal, shoving him in the chest. “What do you think? What’s left for us now?”
“Face,” Hannibal says and Face can hear the warning in it, replacing that growing concern blossoming there a second ago.
“Huh? The great Hannibal Smith fucks up. Where’s your plan now, Colonel? Is this part of it? When are you going to light up one of those damn cigars and—”
He’s been pushing, he knows it, almost wants the fight he can feel coming, because this aching building up in him needs a focus, needs an outlet, before it tears him apart completely. He swings wildly and Hannibal blocks it, but he doesn’t expect the leg that aims for his knee, trying to knock him to the ground. He grunts as it impacts, staggers a little, and suddenly it’s real and Face can breathe just a little bit with every new bruise that forms.
He’s too uncoordinated, too scattered, to fight coherently—always fight with your head, kid, he hears Hannibal’s voice say from twelve years ago—and soon Hannibal has him pinned down despite his wild thrashings.
“This what you wanted, kid?”
“Let me up,” Face says, a bit desperately. “Let me up.”
He bucks with his hips, earning a grunt out of Hannibal before the man leans his weight down again. “No, not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
There’s something dark behind Hannibal, something fluttering back and forth and dipping into the shadows and Face can’t help but stare at it. It keeps disappearing, reappearing right at the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t know why, but it feels wrong bad evil and he just knows that if he takes his eyes off of it for one second, it’s going to do something horrible.
“Let me go,” he says again, frantic, “let me go.”
Hannibal frowns at him, glancing behind him where the tattered shadow is hiding against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” he says in a softer tone.
“We’ve got to find Murdock and B.A. Where are they?”
“Asleep, probably, kid, what’s—”
“But you don’t know?” All those watery words melt, leaving him icy cold. “We have to find them. We’ve got to warn them.”
“Warn them about what?”
“Please,” and Face never begs, but he has to make Hannibal understand, because it’s going inside the house now and—
The arms pinning him go slack and he scurries up, practically running into the house with Hannibal following behind. The stairs are creaking at him to hurry as he takes them two at a time, bursting open the door. B.A is sound asleep, but Murdock’s missing.
“Where is he? Where’s Murdock?” Face shouts. He can’t seem to focus, can’t get his mind to think about what to do. He runs his hands through his hair, pulling on the strands, then whirls around, goes back downstairs.
Murdock is at the end of the steps and he staggers as Face throws himself at him.
“What’s goin’ on, Faceman?” Murdock asks.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Face can’t keep himself from running his hands over Murdock’s arms and chest, like he was checking for broken bones or wounds hidden away. “They didn’t find you.”
“No, Facey, they didn’t find me,” Murdock says. He pulls away and looks at Face’s wild eyes, the way his hands keep twitching. Murdock runs a soothing hand up and down Face’s back, then pushes his hair off his forehead and tucks it behind his ear. “Hey, now, come on, it’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Face suddenly whispers, sagging to the ground and rocking himself back and forth. “It’s not. It’s not okay.”
He barely hears the heavy sigh from behind him or the hand that tentatively rubs his back.
Doesn't hear Hannibal's voice saying, "No, I don't think it 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".
The plan goes off without a hitch—just some ringing in Murdock’s ears and a few new bruises on Hannibal’s skin—and before long, Face has them in a cozy farmhouse where B.A. can retreat to bang out his anger on an old tractor and Murdock can play with the farm cats and Hannibal can drink up the last swallows of the setting sun.
Face finds an old Corvette that B.A. fixed up and takes it into the city, hits the night clubs, and feels the strobe light pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
“Hey, handsome,” a man’s voice says, and he turns to see a wide grin and green eyes smiling at him. “Buy you a drink?”
“Sure,” Face says, putting a little bit more flirt in his voice than necessary.
The man taps the bar.
“Two of whatever he’s having,” he orders, gesturing to Face’s half-finished drink.
Before the last song ends, Face and the man end up in a taxi cab driving to a condo with white, white walls and a bed so soft it should be illegal.
“Mmm,” the man groans as Face shoves him up against the wall. The buttons on his shirt pop off and he lets out a throaty laugh. “Slow down there.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Face says with a grin right before he drops to his knees and unzips the man’s pants. The rest of the night is a symphony of moans and “Oh, yeah, like that, right there,” and “Please, God, please, so close”. When the light outside finally starts to filter through the blinds, the man has his head turned into the pillow, snoring, and Face is pacing the balcony, wishing he had a cigarette. He never really took up smoking, not like the other guys, but he found it helps calm him down when things start going haywire. The early morning stillness finally gets to him and he finds his shirt and leaves before the man stirs.
He didn’t even catch his name.
Hannibal is there when he returns, sipping coffee from a green mug with a faded John Deere logo on it, reading a book on the porch swing.
“Good night?” he asks mildly, but there’s something sharp in his eyes.
Face means to grin and wink and say, “Of course,” offhandedly before going inside, ostensibly to sleep, but instead he finds himself pouring out each neon-streaked glass and sticky dance floor and throbbing music to Hannibal in a rush of words that he can’t stop. His hands hover in the air like birds, illustrating each detail as he jumps from one club to the next; the words keep rushing out of him like water, turning into ice chips, heavy and cold, when they escape.
“Face,” Hannibal stood up at some point, his book discarded next to him. He walks up to Face with his hands loose in front of him, like he’s calming a skittish horse. One hand makes tentative contact with Face’s shoulder. “Face, listen to me.”
“You shoulda seen it, boss,” Face continues, thinking maybe it’s a good thing, because talking fast is supposed to be his specialty and maybe this time it’ll work on Hannibal, the one person he needs it to work most on, “This place had it all, you would have hated it, there were so many people. I never even knew you could fit so many people in one place like that, not enough space to even pace—”
“Face.”
And that voice, so calm and steady, has a note of concern running through it like an out-of-tune low E chord thrumming on a guitar. It almost drowns out the whooshing sound as the ground gets closer and closer.
“Face, what’s going on?”
Like a switch being pulled, Face shrugs off Hannibal’s hand, glaring at him. “What the fuck? What do you mean, ‘what’s going on’? Haven’t you looked around recently?” He bounces on the balls of his feet and gestures to the miles of emptiness around them. “There’s nothing for us! You lied to us, you said we would get pardons.”
Hannibal reels back a little at the accusation, the speed with which it was delivered. “I did,” he says slowly, but Face is already shaking his head.
“Sure, we got pardons, but not much good they’ll do us? Not full pardons, right? No excuse for escaping, none, none, none,” he feels his brain get stuck, like the needle of a record player and shakes it off, frustrated at the way his mouth suddenly feels clumsy against the onslaught of words his brain is supplying. “Nothing! There’s nothing for us. B.A. will go back to prison, Murdock will go back to that god-awful hospital, and you and I—”
“Is that what this is?”
“What do you think?” Face spits out viciously. His mind suddenly feels clear and razor sharp. He stalks up to Hannibal, shoving him in the chest. “What do you think? What’s left for us now?”
“Face,” Hannibal says and Face can hear the warning in it, replacing that growing concern blossoming there a second ago.
“Huh? The great Hannibal Smith fucks up. Where’s your plan now, Colonel? Is this part of it? When are you going to light up one of those damn cigars and—”
He’s been pushing, he knows it, almost wants the fight he can feel coming, because this aching building up in him needs a focus, needs an outlet, before it tears him apart completely. He swings wildly and Hannibal blocks it, but he doesn’t expect the leg that aims for his knee, trying to knock him to the ground. He grunts as it impacts, staggers a little, and suddenly it’s real and Face can breathe just a little bit with every new bruise that forms.
He’s too uncoordinated, too scattered, to fight coherently—always fight with your head, kid, he hears Hannibal’s voice say from twelve years ago—and soon Hannibal has him pinned down despite his wild thrashings.
“This what you wanted, kid?”
“Let me up,” Face says, a bit desperately. “Let me up.”
He bucks with his hips, earning a grunt out of Hannibal before the man leans his weight down again. “No, not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”
There’s something dark behind Hannibal, something fluttering back and forth and dipping into the shadows and Face can’t help but stare at it. It keeps disappearing, reappearing right at the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t know why, but it feels wrong bad evil and he just knows that if he takes his eyes off of it for one second, it’s going to do something horrible.
“Let me go,” he says again, frantic, “let me go.”
Hannibal frowns at him, glancing behind him where the tattered shadow is hiding against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” he says in a softer tone.
“We’ve got to find Murdock and B.A. Where are they?”
“Asleep, probably, kid, what’s—”
“But you don’t know?” All those watery words melt, leaving him icy cold. “We have to find them. We’ve got to warn them.”
“Warn them about what?”
“Please,” and Face never begs, but he has to make Hannibal understand, because it’s going inside the house now and—
The arms pinning him go slack and he scurries up, practically running into the house with Hannibal following behind. The stairs are creaking at him to hurry as he takes them two at a time, bursting open the door. B.A is sound asleep, but Murdock’s missing.
“Where is he? Where’s Murdock?” Face shouts. He can’t seem to focus, can’t get his mind to think about what to do. He runs his hands through his hair, pulling on the strands, then whirls around, goes back downstairs.
Murdock is at the end of the steps and he staggers as Face throws himself at him.
“What’s goin’ on, Faceman?” Murdock asks.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Face can’t keep himself from running his hands over Murdock’s arms and chest, like he was checking for broken bones or wounds hidden away. “They didn’t find you.”
“No, Facey, they didn’t find me,” Murdock says. He pulls away and looks at Face’s wild eyes, the way his hands keep twitching. Murdock runs a soothing hand up and down Face’s back, then pushes his hair off his forehead and tucks it behind his ear. “Hey, now, come on, it’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Face suddenly whispers, sagging to the ground and rocking himself back and forth. “It’s not. It’s not okay.”
He barely hears the heavy sigh from behind him or the hand that tentatively rubs his back.
Doesn't hear Hannibal's voice saying, "No, I don't think it is."
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Date: 2011-07-03 10:48 am (UTC)I'm glad you like it so far!