41:9

by indigo (indigo_angels)

Summary:

Hannibal vanishes from base and Face is told to let it go. We all know that that is not happening, right? This is a rough ride for all the boys... happy ending guaranteed, though!

Notes:

Only ever posted to the Hannibal/Face group, never before posted publically - written in 2017.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Face was leaning far across the table, his worry, his anger, his frustration burning through what little common sense he saved for moments such as this.

 

“Lieutenant,” and Morrison’s tone was tight, holding onto his temper, as he was, by the thinnest of threads. “You would do well, at this moment, to remember both your rank and your position.”

 

“My position?”

 

“Your position. With Hannibal AWOL-”

 

“He is not AWOL!”

 

“He is AWOL. Absent without leave. You telling me he’s here on this base, at this minute, are you?”

 

“And that is my entire, fucking point,” Face could feel himself starting to boil over. He was dimly aware, back in the far reaches of his mind, that he had to keep a grip if he wanted to keep himself out of the stockade, but there was something about this whole situation that stank to high heaven and the fact that Morrison was refusing to be straight with him was just about the last straw. “He went to breakfast for fuck’s sake. He walked out of the tent and said he was going to get something to eat!”

 

“And no one saw him after that. And when we checked. When you checked, you said that most of his gear was gone. All of his operational gear was gone.”

 

“That means nothing.”

 

“I know that, Lieutenant Peck, that is what I am trying, very unsuccessfully, to explain to you here. Hannibal has gone. Where, we don’t know but there is nothing to say that he was removed against his wishes from the centre of a heavily guarded FOB and everything to say that he walked out of here on his own sweet will-”

 

“Hannibal wouldn’t do that!”

 

“Oh no?” and this time, Morrison's voice was raised enough to push Face back just a couple of centimetres. “Well, maybe you could tell me why that is?” Face flushed slightly but didn’t speak. “No? In that case, please share with me your theory as to where the fuck he’s been these last two days. You do have one, right? To be making this much fuss? You must have some fucking clue of your own to be such a royal pain in my ass?”

 

Face stepped back. “He has not gone AWOL on us, here, General. Not voluntarily. That’s for sure.”

 

“So????” Morrison waited whilst Face seethed at his own ignorance. “You think he was abducted? From the FOB? In broad daylight?”

 

Face drew himself up a little. “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” and Morrison roared with laughter.

 

“By aliens? Ghosts? Russians? ‘Cause I sure as hell haven’t seen any Iraqis wandering around here recently, have you son?”

 

There was a loud thump as Face’s fists landed on the solid wooden desk and, again, he loomed over the seated General, his eyes flashing in absolute fury. “Do not patronise me, General,” it seemed his common sense had, finally, decided to withdraw for the remainder of the day. “Something crooked is going on, here. Something that Hannibal would never have agreed to and something, it would seem, that you are involved with right up to your stinking-”

 

“Enough!” Morrison’s roar swallowed Face’s words and got him upright but still wasn’t enough to push him into attention. “I have tolerated enough insubordination from you these last two days to last me a fucking lifetime!” Face’s eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. “And without Hannibal here to cover for your loose tongue you’re gonna find yourself in a whole vat of trouble.”

 

“I-”

 

“Not one more word, soldier, or I swear to you, you’ll be up on so many charges you won’t be able to stand under the fucking weight of them. Jerome! Halley!” The door swung open with such alacrity that Face just knew that Jerome and Halley had been listening to every word outside, poised for the moment that they were needed to haul Face’s sorry ass out of there.  

 

“Sir?”

 

“Take Lieutenant Peck to the lock up.”

 

“General! You can’t do this!”

 

Morrison just cranked his boom up to cover Face's protests, “Taser him if you need to. Lock him in solitary and keep him there until you have my direct word on the matter. Do you understand that?”

 

The question was as much to Face as to Morrison’s guard but they were the only ones who answered in the affirmative as they seized Face by the arms and started dragging him away, struggling to hold him as he twisted and flipped, knocking them sideways, his eyes locked onto Morrison’s furious features. “This isn’t over,” he vowed, shoving Halley to the floor. “It’s not over and I will find out what the fuck you’ve done with him, General.”

 

Morrison didn’t answer, didn’t intervene as Jerome had his turn in the dirt, only stood and watched the fists flying the curses tumbling until, inevitably, the guards lost their temper and Face fell to the floor, his body rigid as fifty thousand volts of electricity ran through him.

 

Then he folded, completely lax, and, slowly, Jerome and Halley hauled themselves upright, nursing their bruises, brushing off their uniforms and checking the damage to their egos. Russel Morrison didn’t move, didn’t respond to the furtive looks thrown his way by the two Privates or the flat stare that was still levelled at him from a Face who may or may not have even been conscious.

 

He was hauled upright, less than gently, by the bristling guards who suddenly seemed in an incredible hurry to get him to the stockade and Morrison watched impassively as the door banged shut behind them. Then he heard Face’s voice start up again, a little slurred at first but building in clarity and volume as the seconds passed. Morrison’s eyes slid closed and his cheek twitched with every word the damn boy spat out into the afternoon heat. Finally, it was quiet though and the General sank, slowly into his battered leather chair before reaching for his bottle of scotch in a drawer under the desk and pouring himself a long measure. He stared at it for a moment, pondering all the times he and Hannibal had shared a drink together and then shook himself clear, downing it in one before turning back to the pile of reports stacked on his desk.

 

_____________________________

 

It was a quieter Face who was hauled, three days later, back into Morrison’s office and pushed down into a chair across from the General where yet another shot of whisky stood awaiting him.

 

“What’s this?” his voice was rough from three days of yelling, he stank to high heaven and his stubble was long past a fashionable length, but he was still boiling in fury over the General’s stonewalling. “A poison chalice?”

 

Morrison’s lips twitched as he sipped his own drink. “Peace offering, son. You and I don’t have to fall out over this – situation – you know.”

 

If three days in solitary hadn’t blunted Face’s anger, it had certainly made him reassess his strategy and so he played the game, cocking his head to one side in what he hoped was a harmless and engaging manner but remaining silent, inviting Morrison to elaborate.

 

What he got though, was a laugh, deep and rumbling and sounding genuine enough in the stifling heat. “Johnny’s done his best with you, now, hasn’t he? Not quite taught you to use your anger instead of letting it use you,” Face bristled at those words, so often heard from Hannibal himself, “but you know when to play coy, don’t you? Know when to act the innocent which, believe me, I know you never are.”

 

Face held his gaze, forced himself to keep quiet, forced his body into lax and submissive and Morrison sobered once more, shook himself when it became apparent that Face wouldn’t be rising to his bait this time.

 

“So,” his eyes were dark, his expression foreboding and Face felt a cold sweat break out on his back. “Whilst you’ve been yelling yourself hoarse in the lock-up,” no response, “We’ve been doing something a little more useful in trying to track down where Hannibal’s got to.”

 

He’s not dead, the words spun in Face’s head like a protective charm. That wasn’t what the General had hauled him here to hear, there was something else maybe, a clue perhaps, a reason, an answer… There had to be something, the man hadn’t just vanished. “And?” his voice was remarkably steady.

 

Morrison sighed and looked down at the Manilla folder in his hand. “And you’re not going to like what we’ve come up with.”

 

Not dead. Not dead. “So are you going to show me, then? Or wait until I’ve died of old age?”

 

The glare Morrison shot his way was icy. “So help me, Face…” he shook his head, “One day, soldier, you are going to realise what a mistake it is to cross me,” but Face just held his eyes and reached a grubby hand out across the desk.

 

“May I?”

 

For a moment, he thought the answer was going to be ‘no’ but then the folder was held out towards him and, with fingers that were incredibly steady, Face took it.

 

“Note the Classified status,” Morrison murmured as Face flicked it open.

 

There were three shots inside. The first black and white, a grab from the security camera that monitored the face of everyone who entered or left the FOB. It was clearly Hannibal, dated five days ago, ten hundred hours and he was carrying a huge pack of gear, trying to angle his face away from the camera whilst not looking too shifty. Face lifted the image and showed it to Morrison.

 

“What is this? BA asked for the feed from that camera the same day Hannibal disappeared and he was told it was faulty.”

 

“That’s the official story, yes.”

 

Face raised an eyebrow. “So you’re admitting that you’re covering up what’s going on here, then?”

 

Morrison’s expression didn’t waver in slightest. “Keep looking,” was all he said.

 

Face turned to the next shot, colour this time and, despite himself, his insides turned to ice and his heart began a sickly thumping up in his throat. “What the fuck is this?” he was horrified to hear the wavering of his voice.

 

There was a pause, a long one, and then Morrison spoke again. “I assume you recognise some of the people there? Not counting Hannibal of course,” and Face’s eyes jumped up at the tremor in Morrison’s voice – and somehow that became the most terrifying thing about the entire nightmare.

 

He did recognise people though, plenty of them. There was a long table, covered in an opulent cloth and the camera, although it was no doubt HD, was also covert from the angle of the photo and the lack of any guarded or posturing expressions around the room. It was a meeting of power, that much was clear. The various heads of the some of the most active Sunni militia groups, a few once-powerful Baathists, clinging onto hope after Saddam Hussein’s demise, a couple of Al-Qaida Generals, coolly surveying the potential of the others around them. None of these people were friends of peace, the UN or the USA and there, right in centre frame, standing as he spoke, that look of fierce determination about his expression that Face had seen many, many times before, was Hannibal Smith.

 

Face stared. His mind a complex whirl of restrained panic as he tried to formulate a reason, an excuse, for what he could see but only one thing seemed to make any sense at all…

 

He flicked to the final picture, also in colour, and it was a stark and bloody image of a headless corpse, Face wondered blithely what it said about him as a person that he didn’t find it anywhere near as horrific as the previous still. “Who?” he asked though, through his dry mouth.

 

“Yassin Bouhamad.”

 

An agent from Kuwaiti State Security, Face had met him often, liked him a lot. “He took the other picture?”

 

“Yes. Transmitted it before his death. It was he who first alerted us to where Hannibal had turned up.”

 

Face forced himself to note every aspect of that mutilated body before turning back to the group shot, studying every man’s face, reading their expression, memorising their pose, before finally forcing his reluctant eyes back to Hannibal and the evidence even he was struggling to find a way around. “You believe this? You never heard of Photoshop?” Fuck this – what was wrong with his voice?

 

“Face… son, I’m sorry. It’s genuine.”

 

He looked up at that, had to blink a few times to find Morrison too starring at that picture, his eyes red-rimmed and misted, his face etched in the misery that Face himself knew he had to be showing. What could he say? What was there ever to say to this? He looked down again, tried to dig right into Hannibal's mind and ask the one, burning question: ‘What the fuck have you done?’

 

Minutes passed, Face’s eyes stayed fixed on that well-known face and then there was a hand on his arm, hot, heavy, unwelcome, and Face looked up into Morrison’s wretched expression once more. “I know this must be hard on you, I mean it’s hard for us all, but you especially – I know he was like a father to you.”

 

It was hard not to scoff at that and impossible to sum up what Hannibal was to him. Mentor, idol, hero, role-model, teacher, priest, partner, friend, comrade, colleague… all of those words and yet none of them – that’s what Hannibal was. He was also the focus of Face’s love, a devout and most secret of loves but a real one non-the-less. Hannibal might never have known it, if this photograph was true then there was every possibility that he’d never know it now, but he was Face’s one, true love. Always and forever.

 

Still? After what he’d seen? Yes, Face’s loyalty ran deeper than some convenient picture.

 

But father figure? No – he was more than that. Better than that.

 

“Yes.”       

 

Silence slid around them again. What now? Face’s mind was asking him on repeat. What the fuck are we supposed to do now?

 

But instead, what came out was, “What’s our response to this, then?” and a dry laugh came from Morrison.

 

“Well, it’s a blow, isn’t it? A hard one. Hannibal knows so much, has been instrumental in so many operational secrets, if he shares everything we know then people will die. Many people.”

 

Face knew that already, did the General think he was stupid for fuck’s sake? He hadn’t wanted an image painting of the consequences of Hannibal’s possible defection, he wanted to know what they were going to do to find out for sure – to put it right. “So, what’s our response then?” he repeated through clenched teeth.

 

“A response?” Morrison laughed again. “You think that there’s something we can do to fix this? You think we can ride in there on white horses and pull Johnny out again? You have any idea how well hidden he is? Guarded? Cossetted? Grow up, Peck. Now Hannibal's not here to baby sit you you’re going to have to realise that it’s time you started running with the big boys.”

 

The stark blow and cold despair of the previous minutes was gone at that, replaced by an anger so fierce, so white hot in its rage, that it burnt through the numbing shock and made Face’s course of action brutally clear. Nothing on his countenance changed though, he still held the incriminating photograph in his fingers, allowed them to shake a little now, just a little and took a breath in, long and shuddering before speaking to his untouched Scotch. “Am I going back to the lock-up?” he almost said ‘sir’ but that would have been too much, Morrison was no fool and Face had to play his game very, very carefully.

 

“Well that depends on you,” the words were low, carefully crafted to ensure they wouldn’t travel through the closed door. “You gonna cause a big fuss? Let the whole damn base know what Hannibal's done? How they’re all in danger because of him?”

 

Face looked up at that, allowed a flash of anger to spark in his eyes, “You think I’m a fucking idiot?”

 

_________________________

 

“Jesus, Face…”

 

Face’s gaze swung up in shock, BA never blasphemed. Never.

 

“You sure? You don’t think it was a fake?”

 

And that was the question. That was where Face’s mind just got stuck and hell, he’d thought about it often, almost continuously, ever since his eyes had first settled on the image of Hannibal which, above all others, was now burned into his mind. “I don’t know,” but it was only with BA that he could be candid. “I just… I don’t know. There was too much that looked genuine, all the shadows, the direction of people’s eyes, the expressions, the colours.” He shook his head. “If it was then it was fucking good, but somehow…” he swallowed hard, “No. I just feel it was genuine.”

 

BA nodded and went back to staring at his hands; if Face thought it was the real deal than that was enough for him, even if the fallout from that threatened to destroy his entire world.

 

“So, what does that leave us with, then?” they were talking quietly as Murdock slept behind them. “That Hannibal chose to do this? That he betrayed us all? His team? His country?”

 

Was that all that was left?

 

“You don’t think he’s doing this under duress?”

 

It was clear that BA hadn’t considered that possibility but then he’d only known for a fraction of the time that Face had, his mind hadn’t had the opportunities to spin itself to the same ends. He blew out though, long and low before he gave his verdict. “I dunno. The boss is always the man with the plan, right? You think he’d let himself be walked into this corner?”

 

Face thought not. Plus, he was missing that lever. He knew all about Hannibal, more than he should do and far more than Hannibal would ever know, but he’d still never come across anything that anyone could use to force Hannibal to do something this heinous. The guy was squeaky clean. “I don’t think so.”

 

“Threats maybe? Against us? People he cares about?”

 

Again, Face just couldn’t see it. “Who’s gonna threaten us, Bosco? We’re fucking soldiers, we get shot at every day; he knows we could die. And people he cares about?” Face shook his head, “Who? Who’s the boss got?”

 

“Dunno, man. He never says.”

 

He didn’t, Face realised. He never talked about John Smith and his life in the States just like Face never talked about Templeton Peck. Or Alvin Brenner. Or any of the other people he’d once been. Didn’t mean Face didn’t know, though. “There’s no one, trust me. Only child. Parents and grandparents all passed on. He doesn’t even have an aunt or an uncle hiding out there somewhere. No long-term girlfriends ever, no buddies who aren’t army,” he shrugged and met BA’s eyes, “No one.”

 

“It don’t make sense.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Face rubbed through his filthy hair. “No fucking sense at all.”

 

They slid into silence, both staring at the patterns in the Formica table top until BA spoke again and it was the question that Face had been waiting for, preparing for. “So…” the air around them was heavy, “what are we going to do?”

 

“Well,” Face’s voice was steady, careful, “Morrison has arranged for us to be seconded over to Colonel Pattison for now.”

 

“Face…” BA’s voice had dropped to a whisper, “Don’t bullshit me here. You know what I’m asking.”

 

The silence drew on and Face rubbed at his eyes. “What choice have we got, buddy? Trying to get anywhere near where Hannibal is would be suicide. Plus, this whole damn thing is highly classified, have you got any idea what people would do if it got out? There’s only us two, we can’t lay this on Murdock and if Morrison had even a sniff of the fact that we were going to mobilise he’d put us away before we’d even started.” They stared, bleakly, at each other and Face shook his head. “There’s no choice.”

 

Again, the silence, heavy and brooding and Face could feel BA’s eyes on the crown of his head.

 

“I don’t believe you,” the words were so low, so much like a wisp of thought that Face could have pretended he’d not heard, that the wisp had dissipated before it reached him but BA was his friend, his honest to God friend and he could never do that to him, even if what he was planning was probably worse.

 

“There’s no choice.”

 

“But you and Hannibal, man…” he could feel BA shrug. “What is it with you two? It’s like you’ve known him forever but you haven’t. It’s like you’re married but you’re not. It’s like he loves you-”

 

“But he doesn’t,” Face finished for him. “No more than he loves you guys that is.” BA’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t speak and Face allowed his eyes to fill with tears and his voice to break, “What other choice do we have, BA? Other than to let him go?”

 

BA reached out and gripped his hand as a single tear slid from his eye and ran into his beard.

 

_________________________________

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

 

Face slid down the sand dune, his feet spraying fountains of hot sand in his face as he scrabbled for cover, scrabbled to not be so damn obvious before the jeeps were close enough to spot him. Not that they’d miss the scar he’d made in the side of the dune though. He just had to hope that they’d think it was an old one.

 

Three weeks he’d been playing this game now, three weeks of cat and mouse, following whispers and half-truths, finding more tales waiting for him around every corner, each one darker than the last, ducking US Army patrols and Iraqi checkpoints – but never once seeing Hannibal Smith in the flesh.

 

He’d long given up the tendrils of hope that Hannibal was being held somewhere against his will, forced to participate in events alien to his sense of honour, the reports he’d heard were too graphic for that. Hannibal had assumed control of a large group of warring militia factions, a group who’d previously been due for self-destruction with the in-house fighting that was going on. The biggest shock to Face’s system, however, was finding out that the defection had been planned months in advance, literally months ago. It was a bitter truth to swallow; all those months of fighting side by side, all those nights sat around a camp fire, drifting, Face had felt, closer and closer to something more, something he himself had yearned for since he and Hannibal had first met, and all the time Hannibal had been planning on betraying him – betraying them all. The realisation that he’d been played, that Hannibal had used his own emotions to cloud his vision, make him blind to the treachery being plotted right under his nose – well it was enough to have him on his knees in a filthy alley, tears blurring his eyes as he vomited behind the trash.

 

A different Face had emerged from that alley though; harder, tougher, eyes wide open to Smith’s duplicity and it was a good job that that armour was securely in place once his information digging gathered momentum.

 

They called him Ra’is, the Ruler, and Face had swallowed hard at yet another example of this stranger that Hannibal had become. Stories of Ra’is were everywhere, how he had killed the squabbling leaders with his bare hands, snapping their necks when they refused to accede to his leadership, how any further dissent had been silenced by a bullet through the brain of the speaker, how he was religious, but his interpretation of the holy book was stark and brutal, a supreme tactician, running rings around the attempts of the Coalition forces to cut off the supply routes to his militia, how he was strengthening his army every day, gathering men to him from rival groups, killing their leaders, destroying their homes, growing in power until whispers began to surface that he was ‘the one’, the single leader who would guide them to victory and expel the infidels from their homeland.

 

Evidence of that brutality was everywhere. Villages razed to the ground, American hardware paraded and destroyed in public shows, headless bodies turning up at the side of the road. Face had seen Hannibal kill before, of course he had, and kill in cold blood as well. But this… this was something else. Hannibal had hated every death, only ever killed in necessity, had made it clean and quick and as dignified as possible. Ra’is seemed to revel in it, the stories said that he liked to puncture the throat of his victims, watch and laugh as they choked in their own blood. He’d then decapitate them before they were dead and throw the head to the pigs to fight over before ordering the body dumped at the roadside or strung from a lamppost by its feet. Face only just managed to keep his food down the time he heard that story.

 

It was easier, after that. Face stopped thinking of Hannibal at all. To him, the man he tracked was now Ra’is, a man who wore Hannibal's body, but possessed a very different soul. The mission objective had changed as well. Face had set out intent on returning his leader to the Army, offering them both up in their shared AWOL status and hoping that, at the end, there would be some way of continuing their journey through life together. He now realised that that hope had been nothing more than a fool’s folly, that he’d fled from his Army and his friends for nothing, and his cheeks burned in remembrance of his naivety. No – his mission had morphed into something deeper and darker but ultimately far simpler. Ra’is had killed Hannibal, now Ra’is had to die.

 

He wasn’t expecting Ra’is in this jeep convoy though. No, here he was expecting to get his first look at the man they called Montakhab, ‘The Chosen One’. Not chosen by any divine entity though, there was nothing divine about this mess in the slightest; Montakhab was the one chosen by Ra’is to be his second in command, his right-hand man, his Lieutenant. His Face. That had been another sharp blow to bear but Face had stared it down. Would he have wanted to by the XO for a man like Ra’is? No. He’d simply cherish his memories of the days he served alongside Hannibal Smith and be done with it. Montakhab had nothing Face desired.

 

The man was supposed to be in that convoy. Face’s hard-fought intelligence had told him that and he had the bruises to prove it but in this world nothing was certain. They were too far away to tell, too far away to have seen Face’s frantic dash for cover unless they’d been looking for it, so he busied himself with preparing his rifle, forcing himself into that state of calm he needed to make a clean shot but that was hard to come by these days. He always seemed to be on edge, always seemed to be biting his nails, chewing his lip, picking at the skin at the side of his thumb; maybe he’d never realised what a steadying influence Hannibal had been on him for all these years.

 

There. At last. Face lay flat on his belly and carefully edged his rifle into place, making sure the sun had nothing to glint off and give him away. He peered carefully through the scope, skipping from face to face and then – yes, that was him, that was the bastard and his first concrete tie to Hannibal.

 

It was a tricky shot to make. There was a patch of rocky track that would just about rattle the ears off the side of your head as it was driven over in a Jeep, that was the point that Face had to make his move, any other time and he’d be heard for sure. He forced his body to almost sink into the ground, let his breathing come deep and slow, let the world around him fade into nothing and he waited, finger just slightly depressing the trigger, he waited and waited and waited and… Yes! He’d made it, the tracking dart was lodged inside the wheel arch, one of the only places on the vehicles where the skin was thin enough for it to penetrate and it could remain hidden until it had done its job. Hopefully. It was always a risk, but still, job done.

 

Face stayed motionless as the three Jeeps continued to bounce and rumble past him, his eyes on Montakhab the entire time. The man was like a snake, thin, tall, powerful, watching the world and preparing to strike. He would be a dangerous person to cross, Face knew that, he also knew he’d never hated another human being this passionately in his entire life.

 

Finally, they were gone and only a cloud of dust marked their progress towards Hannibal's current hideout. Face allowed himself to roll out of his cramped firing position and rooted around in his pack, squinting against the fierce sun. There it was, his fingers closed tightly on the little tablet and he drew it out, smiling grimly at the flashing icon he could see slowly making his way across the screen.

 

Game on.      

 

_________________________

 

It proved to be an exhausting game. Face had no reliable means of transport, he couldn’t afford to have, couldn’t risk leaving a trail or doing anything that might draw attention to himself. Instead, he traded and conned, fought and stole, switching from taxi to mule to bus to jeep, horse to truck to train to dirt bike. He dressed like a native, looked like one as well, his skin dark from the sun, his hair and beard obscuring his features. It allowed him to move unseen, to effortlessly blend in in a way that Face had always found easy. It was like he could melt through the streets, draw little attention to himself as he watched and listened and learned.

 

He was unrecognisable from that happy Ranger who’d simply thrown a messy wave at Hannibal the day he’d gone to breakfast alone, and not just to those who might have known him: he was unrecognisable even to himself. He slept rough most nights, but occasionally he’d taken to getting a room at an inn if he’d felt certain that he’d be able to remain unnoticed. That all ended, though, the day the that a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror on the wall stopped him dead in his tracks. Who was this man with the dark skin which seemed to emphasise every single line and scar on his face? Why was he so… haunted? Shadowed? Hunted? Lost?

 

Was that all his life had been? An extension of Hannibal Smith? It appeared so. It appeared that without the man at his side he was simply a shadow of what he had been. Darker. Sharper. But also far, far more shallow. Just like Ra’is really. So, no more inns. No more mirrors. Face had a job to do and after that… well – there would be no after, he was realistic about that. Instead, he spent the nights he wasn’t working laid on his back in the open air, staring at the pin-prick stars above him as he and Hannibal had done so many times before and allowing his mind to drift and wander.

 

Scenario after scenario wafted through his mind, the things he would do when he saw Hannibal, confronted him, the things that Hannibal would say. There was a common theme to it all though, and it made Face despise himself and his weakness: always Hannibal folded before him, always he was relieved to have Face track him down. Sometimes he explained away his actions due to temporary insanity, brainwashing, evil blackmail plots, sometimes there were explanations of threats against a previously unknown family member or even Face himself - a duress so convincing that Hannibal had had no choice but to do what he’d done.

 

He was always overjoyed to see Face. Worried and penitent but overjoyed and together they turned the tables on Montakhab and the others, freeing Hannibal and giving him the opportunity to declare his undying passion for Face. Sometimes the fantasies stopped there, sometimes, when Face was feeling just that little bit more needy, they continued into an X-rated slideshow. Face would then allow it to progress until he came in his own hand and the self-disgust would immediately surface. He’d get up, scrub his hand clean in the dusty earth or even strip and jump into a nearby river, swearing that he would never, ever be that weak and pathetic again.

 

Once daylight came back, it was easier to be strong. Hannibal Smith ceased to exist and Face’s target – Ra’is – was all there was. But with darkness, it all shifted once more though and, just like that little boy who hoped for years that his mother would come back for him, Face was once again lying in the dark, chasing dreams that were no more attainable than the stars themselves.

 

If the nights had been monotonous in their desperation, then the days had been rapid, full of progress and back-slides, U-turns and dead ends until, a month of dogged trekking found Face here at last, gazing out on the empire that Ra’is was building for himself. He had to admit that he was impressed, but then Ra’is obviously held Hannibal’s flare for the dramatic and his keen sense of strategy.

 

The stronghold for his seat of power was imposing to say the least. Honey coloured sands, flat and monotonous, dominated the vista and there, rising straight up towards the sapphire sky was the medieval fortress. Clean, Islamic design, perfectly square with flat, solid walls. Cylindrical watch towers at every corner and mid-point. One entrance, shielded by two huge pillars and over-looked by a guarded gantry. No windows, only arrow slits which were just as happy to house a long-range sniper rifle as an ancient long-bow. And Face was the one who would know that.

 

It was the perfect headquarters. Safe, solid, imposing and terrifying. Face knew there’d be deep wells inside, some of them dry, as well as dungeons and courtyards; plenty of places to house, torture or kill your enemies.

 

It was a frustrating end to his mission. He was fairly sure that Ra’is was inside – right now at this very moment – but there was absolutely no way that Face could see to get anywhere close to getting in. It was impossible to even approach it without being seen, the flat sand offered no cover for miles, and even if he spent a week wriggling close on his belly with a camo-tarp over him, he’d still be clear as day to the sentries who paraded those walls.

 

They were there, as well. Face had watched them, walking in twos, radios in hand. They were rotated often, changing position every thirty minutes or so, so there was no chance of them becoming bored and switching off. Even the blanket of night was no use to Face, he’d watched them shift to NV goggles as the dusk approached every evening and Face could just imagine the nice, bright green target he’d make for them then.

 

Three days he’d spent lying on his belly two miles from his target, watching every coming and going and feeling more and more hopeless with every passing moment. He wasn’t going to give up, though. Absolutely not. There was only one solution available to him and – if he had to – that was the route he would take. Hannibal had always been a fan of the old, ‘through the front door’ plan. Face could only hope that Ra’is was too and wouldn’t simply order him shot as soon as he appeared over the horizon…

 

A week though, that’s the time that Face was allowing himself. He had little food but just enough water for a week of watching. After that it was die of thirst or make his move. Four days. Surely something would come up before then?

 

____________________

 

In the end, it took all four days before the opportunity for movement came. Face had been keeping up his vigil, sipping through his water rations and watching the single entrance for at least twenty two of every twenty four hours. He’d also used his knife to cut through his untamed hair and beard, refusing to think of it as preparation for his eventual meeting with Ra’is and instead convincing himself it was to keep himself cool and ensure his vision wasn’t obscured in anyway. It was just after he’d finished this task, just after he’d packed away his gear once more, that his eye was drawn to the western horizon and the dark shape he could see looming there. At first, he cursed his rotten luck, but then it struck him that this might just be the miracle he’d been waiting for.

 

He moved fast. Getting everything he needed ready, hiding the rest in the rocks that had been his home this last week and shuffling as far forward as he dared whilst waiting for the moment to strike. His handheld GPS didn’t have much charge left in it and Face just prayed it would be enough, but then all time for doubting was gone and Face rose from his crouch and dropped his goggles into place, tucking the edges of his Keffiyeh securely around his nose and mouth, he grimly held onto the GPS in his fist and ploughed headlong into the swirling Haboob.

 

He’d never done this before; even Hannibal had never been insane enough to order them onwards through a Haboob. The dust itself was blinding and choking, even with goggles and a Keffiyeh and the wind was brutal, buffeting him off his feet and threatening to dislodge the precious GPS from his hand. He held it like a talisman as he lurched and staggered onward, his eyes tracking his progress through the disorientating swirl, his feet eating up the metres, running whenever he could, always aware that he had two miles to cover and a limited window of relative safety.

 

In the end, he did it with time to spare, the wall of the fortress invisible as he groped at the rough stone with his fingers. He was still exposed though and there would be no getting in during the Haboob as the militia would be on lock-down. Instead, he pressed himself up against the wall and slid down to the ground, covering himself with his Keffiyeh and allowing the sand to bank up around and over him like a snow drift. There he waited, motionless, even as the winds died away and the sun gradually found its strength once more. The sweat ran down his face, and his throat and lips dried up from lack of water but still he sat and waited and it was only when he was shivering in the desert night that he finally allowed himself to move.

 

It seemed his gamble had paid off. There were guards directly above him as he’d come to rest in the lee of one of the observation towers, but their eyes were drawn outwards towards the surrounding country and, as long as he kept his back pressed to the warm stone, Face was able to shuck off the layer of sand that had been shrouding him and prepare for the final act.

 

There was no finesse about this one, no neat little tricks or lucky atmospheric conditions, it was a basic misdirect and attack, or at least that’s the way that Face hoped it was going to go. He’d never been able to see how many men were guarding the main entrance but he’d had to presume, from the patterns in the guards on the towers and the size of the open porchway, that it was just the two as well. If he was wrong then his attack would be short lived indeed.

 

He crept forward, a squeaky dog toy in the shape of a huge steak compressed tightly in his hand, until he reached the edge of the porchway and then, knife at the ready, he leaned forward and threw it as far as he could back to the right. It landed with a soft thud in the sand but then started to re-inflate, pulling air in through its valve and making a noise a little like a dying harpy. Face could instantly hear the consternation it had caused and – just as he had hoped – one of the guards broke out into the open to investigate. Face was ready for him, yanking him backwards by his Keffiyeh and clamping a hand over his mouth as he quickly helped him on to the other world. He waited just a moment, just to make sure that he really was out of the picture, and then he lay him quietly in the dust, taking his weapons and outer clothing, knowing he’d need everything he could to get anywhere near Ra’is.

 

“Yasin?”

 

The voice sounded young, unsure, but Face drove that thought to the back of his mind and pushed on – he had a job to do here. Instead, he crept back against the pillars at the side of the door and waited for a beat of ten before croaking out an Arabic, “Help…” letting the word hang in the darkness.

 

He thought it had failed at first, thought the second man was going to go for reinforcements as he should have done and so he threw out a quick, “Hurry…” and the bait was taken. It was a young man and Face grabbed him as before, choking him down the ground, holding the thrashing body tightly until it was heavy and still then, without looking at either of the two corpses, he grabbed the fallen weapons before hustling into the porchway.

 

The heavy wooden door was open slightly, the glow of harsh strip lighting inside throwing a stark wedge of light across the stone steps. Face winced a little as he replaced his own Keffiyeh with one of the black ones stolen from the guards – he had hoped for mood lighting inside, flaming torches or something like that but then reminded himself that this was Hannibal here, not some crazed despot who’d grown up watching too many Bond films.

 

He slipped inside and instantly shifted his posture from stealthy to assertive. There was nothing to be gained from creeping around in such well-lit surroundings, the best way forward now was to act like he damn-well belonged and hope everyone else swallowed it.

 

It worked well. He had no idea where Ra’is might have decided to have his command room, but he knew exactly where Hannibal Smith would have chosen. Hannibal always put himself in the thick of everything, always made sure that he would be in the middle of the action when it started. There’d be no fortified under-ground bunker for him, or a heavily guarded tower. No, Hannibal would make his base in the very centre of the fortress and that’s where Face headed, hoping that Ra’is would be just as predictable. He’d made good progress as well, had seen no-one and was just approaching some very hopeful looking doors when, all around him, sirens started to wail.

 

Guard change… Face thought wearily, of course. He’d hoped for more time, but discovery of the missing guards had always been inevitable so he just pushed on. Hearing footsteps in the passageways behind him, he looked at the four doors facing him, took a breath, took a chance, opened one and slid inside.

 

It was empty of any other life, that Face could tell at once and he stood still, back to the door as he let his eyes drift around, taking everything in with speed and skill honed in many previous missions. It was an interior room, no windows, and lit by subdued wall lights at regular points in the stone walls. It was square, fairly large, maybe ten metres along each wall, and had a huge empty fireplace rising impressively in front of him. There was a large wooden desk, a bank of PCs and surveillance equipment, a mammoth bed with curtains that could be pulled right around it, a dining table and six chairs, two leather sofas… it was comfortable, opulent but there was nothing in it that pointed to Ra’is, that was nothing until…

 

Face’s breath caught in his throat and, as if he had no will of his own, he was drawn forward to the work station, the mahogany desk, intricately carved in a traditional Islamic style and a box, carved again, patterns and lines and whorls. Face’s fingers were shaking slightly as they reached out and flicked over the tiny brass catch, opening the box, flicking the lid back and staring, heart thudding hard in his chest, at the familiar cigars that lay there, mocking him in their innocence.

 

The door burst open behind him and Face turned but it wasn’t Hannibal that stood there, there was a guard, two, three and they looked stunned to find Face when they’d clearly been looking for someone else entirely. Face cursed himself for letting his concentration slide but was instantly on the move, knowing that the unexpected was always the best course to take, and flinging himself at the first of the guards, bringing him down in a quick series of punches before turning his attention to the men behind him.

 

Had it just been the three of them, Face would have got away, there was no doubt of that. In fact, he very nearly managed it still, they were all on the ground, all of them gasping and writhing when Face made to take his escape. He never got far though, a grasping hand on his ankle slowed him down and sent him crashing into the stone wall and, by the time he found his feet, there were more guards arriving, and more again.

 

Working with Hannibal for so many years had taught him never to give up though, and defeat had never been something that Face had easily embraced so he instantly rounded on the new batch of assailants, swinging his fists, using every part of his body to slam and trip and jab and crack. He was doing well, men fell around him but there were always more to take their place and slowly he began to tire. He’d averaged two hours sleep a night for weeks, not eaten in days or drunk in twelve hours so when he started to weaken, he weakened fast.

 

The stone floor was heavy on his knees when he went down but he was already scrambling back up again when a blow across his shoulders had him face down in the dust. Still he fought to rise but a boot kicked away his arm, making him yell in pain and fear a broken bone, then another boot in his ribs stole his air and another to the back of his head made the world heavy and dark. I’m dying… the thought was clear and dispassionate and made him determined not to go like a lamb. He swung a leg blindly out in front of him and registered the grunt of pain as it connected with something soft, threw back an elbow and was sure he’d caught someone in the kneecap. The blows were landing thick and fast now though, the voices around him spitting Arabic curses but Face felt nothing more than frustration that he’d never get to the object of his mission now, never get to just ask Hannibal why???

 

Another blow, this time to his belly had him curling protectively like an armadillo and then, through the swirling blackness a voice, still speaking in Arabic but different, familiar and foreign all at once, “Khalass!”

 

Stop, Face thought vaguely, wondering if the speaker were talking to him or his attackers.

 

They did stop though, and Face found that he was unable to start anything during the respite, even opening one eye to allow him a grainy shot of the floor seemed to be almost beyond him.

 

He waited, sucking air into his burning chest, ears straining to pick up any little sound above the roaring in his head and then he blinked again, tried to clear his spotty vision as a pair of heavy boots moved into his field of vision. Face stared. They seemed familiar but they were just boots, everyone had boots, right? But they were there, just there… just the sight of them made his eyes burn with tears but he couldn’t move, couldn’t lift his head to look up. Was he still dying? Was this how it ended for him? Suddenly he was scared, he’d never been frightened of death before, but now, with these enemies and whoever else it was staring down at his beaten body… His fingers were just there though, he could see them, see the blood streaking his skin and wondered whose it was. Maybe he could move those fingers, maybe he could creep them forward, those boots were just there, so close, just a touch and he’d know, before he died, that’s all he wanted, just a touch, just to not be so alone when he went…

 

He marshalled everything he had and edged his dirty fingers forward, creeping across the rough stone floor towards those boots. It was easier then he’d thought – and harder – but then there was a movement and his sluggish vision struggled to follow it, struggled to interpret what it meant and he’d only just worked it out before the swinging boot caught his temple and everything went black.   

 

____________________

 

Face was confused when he awoke and it took him a few minutes to piece it all back together. Once he had done, he was even more surprised to find that he was still alive. Slowly, he tested himself out, feeling the sharp pain of his beating without any of the searing agony that broken bones would have caused – further surprise and more than a shard of relief. It was dark where he was, and quiet, warm without being too hot and as he shifted slightly, he discovered that he was lying on a bed of what felt like dried grass.

 

For a while, he lay still once more, waiting to see if his first tentative movements had attracted anyone’s attention but there was nothing, just the silence and the darkness and, finally, he opened his eyes. At first, it made no difference, but he waited and blinked a little and finally his night vision kicked in enough to make out that he was in a cell, three stone walls and a third crossed by thick metal bars. He pushed himself up, wincing as the movements awoke his aches and pains and realised that his cell was one of six in a much bigger room and that all the others were empty. He sighed; seemed he’d been dead on about the dungeons then.

 

There was a jug of water in the corner and he shuffled awkwardly over, pleased and surprised to find that he wasn’t restrained in anyway at all but then, he pulled himself up by the bars and pressed his face up into one of the gaps, it wasn’t like he was going anywhere – if he managed to get through this lock then there was a thick, wooden door blocking his progress any further, the soft light from flickering torches shining dimly through a barred window at its apex. Hoping without hope, Face patted himself down to check whether his lock picks had been taken from him and it was only then that he realised he’d been stripped, right down to nothing it seemed, and then dressed again in a loose top and drawstring pants, a mismatched and filthy pair of socks on his feet. He sighed and slumped against the bars – well at least they hadn’t left him naked.

 

He investigated the jug, found it full with a wooden cup floating in the top and a cardboard tub, bizarrely, an empty Baskin Robbins bucket, next to it in the grass, a stale end of bread loaf sitting inside. Face felt slightly sick, was possibly concussed, ached like a bitch all over, had a pounding in his head that was threatening to split his skull in half and was more than a little pissed off at the way his mission had floundered but he’d been well trained by the Army on what to do in a captive situation and rule 101 was that you ate anything and everything you were offered as long as it wasn’t going to make you sick – weak men would not survive long enough to take an opportunity for escape when it came. Face downed a cup of water and then took the bread, being thankful that he couldn’t see it too well, before he retreated to the far corner of his cage and sank down against the wall, waiting for the inevitable visitation from Ra’is himself.                   

 

________________

 

At some point, Face must have fallen asleep as he woke with a start to a discordant clanging of metal on metal. He was on his feet before he knew it, his whole body trembling as his weakened system struggled to cope with the huge surge of adrenalin and blinking furiously as he tried to focus of the world around him.

 

Finally, his eyes cooperated and he made out the figure of a man standing just on the far side of the bars, a metal spoon in his hands and the bars still ringing from the clanging they’d received. Face’s heart was threatening to burst out of his body as he peered through the gloom, the H- just about to slide from his lips when the dark shape spoke. “Food,” the word was in English, the voice heavily accented and all Face’s hope and fear deserted him at once. “It’s all you’ll get today, eat it.”

 

Another ice-cream tub was dropped into his cell, his water was topped up and then the shape started to shuffle off back towards the door, “Wait!” Face threw himself at the bars. “Where is Ra’is? Tell him I want to see him, no, I demand to see him!” the man reached the wooden door and lifted the latch and Face raised his voice. “Tell him that, right? Tell him I must speak with him!”

 

The only answer he got was the grating lock sliding into place and Face was left alone in the dark once more.

 

This pattern was repeated twice more and Face realised that he got his rations for the next twenty-four hours at the end of every day. No one came to him apart from his ‘caretaker’ who never spoke to him again, not one single word despite anything Face tried to provoke him with. The day after that, Face made a grab for him as he filled the water jug but the shuffling old guy seemed faster than he’d first appeared, not only getting out of the way before Face’s fingers could even get within inches of contact, but also managing to deliver a rather nasty shock with a cattle prod at the same time. After that, Face received no food or drink for two days and so learned very quickly that he’d need to be fully recovered and come up with a better plan if he were to ever get out under his own steam.

 

He went back to watching and waiting, eating everything he could and getting his strength back by doing pull-ups on the bars and sit ups in the straw. Remembering his training well, Face forced himself to be pragmatic about the conditions he was being kept in. He knew that captors liked to add degradation onto their lists of weapons by forcing captees to live in their own excrement. Face saw no way around that, his sarcastic requests for a bathroom visit had been blanked along with everything else he’d said and so he simply took a leaf out of the captive hamster’s book and used one corner of his cell as a toilet, doing his best to ignore the smell for the rest of the time.

 

A week passed and his enforced calm was starting to fray a little around the edges when there was a sudden change to his routine. Face had been fed in the usual way and was starting to think about one more training session before bedding down for the night when the rusty lock turned in the grate once more. Slowly, he pushed to his feet, his heart thumping hard again and wondering what he should say to Hannibal after all of this.

 

It was quickly clear, however, that his planned confrontation would have to wait even longer as three black-garbed figures strolled into the central room, locking the door behind them again in what Face felt was a very sinister manner. They didn’t speak as they approached his cell with a key, and neither did he but he felt himself coil like a patient snake – he knew damn well what this was.

 

At first, the men didn’t do anything, just stood and stared and Face knew that they were trying their best to unsettle him and, despite his very best intentions, he knew that it was working.

 

“You come here often?”

 

He hadn’t meant to speak but sometimes his mouth did that, just blurted all on its own, but his snappy greeting didn’t even raise a murmur from his visitors, he sighed and went back to waiting.

 

Eventually, they seemed to decide that their theatrics had lasted long enough and one of them stepped forward, a key sliding into the lock and Face leaned up off the wall. There was a fizzing sound then, one that Face knew and his eyes skipped back to the other two, heart sinking as he registered the sparking cattle prod and the manic glee in the eyes of the man holding it. Fucking great.      

 

With an ominous rusty grating, the cell door swung open and all three men approached, filling the tiny space with their bulk. He fought, of course he did, but they had that damn cattle prod and its reach was longer than his and by the time they eventually floored him and bound his wrists together they were laughing with the adrenalin rush of it all, their surly silence stolen in excitement.

 

They spoke in rushed Arabic, no efforts to keep their voices down which told Face that no one would be coming to his aid. He was also fluent in the language, had spoken little else in the last six weeks and listened as they dragged him out into the space between the cells, forcing himself into stony composure as he worked out that this was no grand torture-for-information session, or even an execution. No, this was a punishment beating, little more than an illicit out of hours fun session, drawing blood in retaliation for the guys that Face had killed on the main door the first night. Face himself didn’t believe much of that – men like these didn’t know what ‘friends’ were – but realised that they needed little excuse and he himself had little defence.

 

He was hung by his bound wrists from a dangling hook in the ceiling ‘like a dirty swine’ they joked and then chains were fastened from his ankles to the floor, holding him still. They took a break then, leaning against the wall and passing a hip flask back and forth between them, wondering what they could get away with, wondering how far they should take this and Face felt a modicum of relief that someone, somewhere had obviously ordered that he wasn’t killed. Not yet anyway, they’d added.

 

And then, with no more warning, they got to work. It was only their fists, for which he was grateful, but there were still three of them and they were vicious bastards and his body still ached from the pounding he’d had a week ago. He forced himself to be stoic though, gave them nothing to add to their enjoyment and was lucky that they were both clumsy and lacking in stamina through drink. They also took him down again when they were done, throwing him back into his cell with enough force to have him clattering into the far wall. It was only when he was listening to their laughter and footsteps as they faded through the heavy door, that Face realised they’d left him bound and chained.

 

He lay still for a while, his body throbbing in a new orchestra of agony, and fought to push the threatening despair back into the furthest corners of his mind. This was a set-back, yes, but it wasn’t the end of anything. Again, he hadn’t appeared to have suffered anything more than painful but superficial damage – he would rest tonight and then restart his training at first light. At some point Ra’is would come to him and Face would get his answers. That, in turn, would give him more of an idea as to what he was facing and then he’d be able to start bargaining and scamming to get out again. Hannibal had always been blind to the subtler end of Face’s ruses, he only had to hope that Ra’is would be the same.   

 

His studiously buoyant plans were seriously dented, however, when they came for him again the next night, and the next – a nightly ritual – and suddenly, Face realised that he was in deep trouble.

 

His recovery was halted in its tracks. In fact, it went hurtling backwards at frightening speed as every night found him more compromised than the last. The fun of beating him seemed to have spread as it wasn’t always the same men and now they were using sticks and poles or even the cattle prod, burning his skin and shocking him until he couldn’t keep the yells of pain inside anymore. His loss of control seemed to excite them and they pushed on and on, laughing as he tried to writhe away from the pain, yelling in triumph if they made him scream, keeping the sessions going all night, long, long periods just filled with pain and utter despair.

 

He lost consciousness often and prayed that he’d awaken back in his cell. Often that wasn’t the case though, they would keep him where he was, fastened between the ceiling and the floor and just start all over again the second that he couldn’t hide his consciousness anymore. For them, it was all about power and sadism. For Face, it was all about fighting to stay alive.

 

The relief at waking up inside his cell was always short-lived, however. His was in constant agony and had no idea any more of the severity of the damage that had been inflicted on him. His hands had been bound together for days now, hampering his ability to eat and drink, to toilet himself and keep himself clean. He had open wounds which were sore and infected, his clothes and skin were soiled which was adding to the pain and inflammation. The chains on his ankles meant he couldn’t even try to stand, could only crawl short distances through the filth of his cell. He was in serious trouble and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

His days were spent drifting in and out of awareness, dreaming of long, cool drinks and being with friends. Snatches of conversations came to him in a language they still thought he couldn’t understand. They talked of the mudīr, a general word for ‘boss’, and how he’d said that they could have their fun, as long as the American wasn’t killed. They laughed at the disdain the mudīr had for the life of the infidel and how he really wouldn’t mind if he died after all. They ate the food he couldn’t get to and peed on him, rinsing it away with his drinking water, and claiming they were acting on the orders of the mudīr.

 

Finally, it all became too much and Face found himself just sliding away into nothing, his body shutting down under the constant beatings, the lack of food or water: his will to fight eaten away by the pain in his heart.

 

His eventual salvation came from the most unlikely of places.

 

Face had been sleeping once more, or unconscious, it was hard to tell and he blinked his eyes open to find a figure sitting in the cage with him, his back to the bars and, startled, Face struggled to his knees, scrambling and struggling against the pain and the binding around his wrists and ankles.

 

“Take it easy, now,” the voice was cultured and the English impeccable, but there was an unmistakable Middle Eastern lilt to his accent that killed the tiny flare of hope in Face’s chest that this might be Hannibal at last. He wavered on one knee for a moment and then fell, crashing down into the straw with a painful groan. “I told you to take it easy,” his visitor hadn’t moved but Face could hear the amusement in his voice even through his pain. “Wouldn’t want you any more damaged than you already are, now, would we?”

 

Face closed his eyes and breathed deeply through the pain as sudden realisation struck him. “Montakhab,” how much worse could his day get? He hauled himself back to a sitting position, “I would say it was nice to meet you, but that would be a huge pile of horse shit.”

 

Montakhab laughed and adjusted his position comfortably across from Face. “Of course. ‘Snark’ – what else should I have expected? After all,” he leaned in a little, “I know who you are.”

 

Face’s blood chilled but he forced himself to stay calm, “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Ra’is hasn’t told anyone – I think he’s embarrassed to be honest. I mean it is humiliating for him, his Lieutenant after all, his right-hand-man from the Army offering himself up in such a pathetic way. Being such a – what term do you people use?”

 

“Super-awesome dude?”

 

“Pussy.”           

 

Face shook his head, “What is this? Gloating day? Being an annoying shit day?”

 

Montakhab laughed again, “No, but they sound like fun – I shall suggest that to Ra’is.” Face fell silent at a reminder of that name. “No, this is me telling you that I’m here to be your fairy godmother.”

 

There was a pause at that and Face cocked his head slightly, “I’m guessing you’ve not seen much Disney then?”

 

“Do you want to die?”

 

“We all die one day, brother.”

 

“Do you want to die here? This week? Next? Today?” Face didn’t answer and Montakhab pushed on. “No, I thought not so maybe you should stop with the ‘snark’ now and instead start being grateful to the person who is going to save your miserable ass.”

 

“You?” Face had switched snark for scorn but Montakhab seemed not to notice.

 

“Yes, me,” the preening was audible. “And would you like to know why?”

 

“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me…” and as if to confirm Face’s words, Montakhab leaned in a little.

 

“Ra’is knows you are here, of course he does, he ordered you dumped here. An ‘oubliette’ I think the French call it?” Face couldn’t answer through the chill in his veins and Montakhab continued. “But I’m smarter than that. I knew who you were immediately, I’d done my homework and I wasn’t about to let you die when you could still prove to be so useful in the long run. Useful to me of course.”

 

“Of course,” Face was pleased how natural his voice sounded.

 

“And I also know – despite appearances – that you have your talents. I mean, tracking Ra’is here was a feat in itself and-”

 

“I followed you,” Face couldn’t resist it, “I couldn’t get a bead on him so I found you instead. You were much easier to track.”

 

There was a pause and then a tight, “Quite,” which brought a quirk to Face’s lips. “Like I said, you don’t appear to have been completely useless in your work for the US Army. So,” Montakhab seemed keen to move away from talk on his own slip-up, “when Ra’is ordered you thrown in here to rot, I made sure you would be taken care off, fed, watered-”

 

“Beaten?” Face had always presumed that the food had been on Hannibal's orders; the disappointment was crushing.

 

“No… but Ra’is hadn’t forbidden it and so I didn’t want to attract too much attention by making that order myself.”

 

Another blow, and Face found this one hurt far more than any of the recent beatings he’d had. “But now?”

 

Montakhab sighed, “Well now it seems they are getting a little too carried away by the fun of it – the ease of it,” Face flushed. “I can’t have you killed. The time will come when I can rise up against Ra’is and take my turn at the helm, and when that time comes, I feel that a man like you, a man so betrayed by Ra’is, who would go to such lengths to track him and kill him – well, I feel that you could be useful to me.”

 

“And if I refuse?”

 

“To rise up against Ra’is? Then I’ll kill you. No loss.”

 

“What if I refuse to let you save me?”

 

Montakhab laughed again, loud and long, “My dear, dear, Face… why would you do that? All these weeks, all this effort and pain you’ve put into revenge and you’d let it go just for your pride? You’d rather die a failure than let me save you? You had a mission – what happened to seeing it through?”

 

“What if my mission was to die here?”

 

“Then congratulations, my friend, you have done an excellent job. Another couple of beatings and you’ll be there.”

 

That was true – Face could feel it in his failing body, he let out a long sigh, what chance did he have? What hope did he have? Did he trust Montakhab? Fuck, no. Could he protect himself if, when, they came to beat him again at night? No. Montakhab was right – he had very little time left. He shook his head and looked at the straw, “Okay.”

 

Montakhab sat in silence for a moment and then pushed to his feet. “I wasn’t asking your permission. I can do what I want with you, you’d best understand that.” Face said nothing. “I will send a doctor to you and station a guard on your door at night,” he moved to the door and Face wished he had the strength to follow him out.

 

“You think that will be enough?”

 

There was no answer and, with the clanging of locks resounding in the darkness, Face was left alone once more.

 

____________________

 

The doctor came later that night, a silent, surly man who was less than tender with Face’s body and impervious to any of his questions or taunts. A guard stood at his back whilst he removed the chains from wrists and ankles, a twitchy looking teen with a gun levelled his way who Face worried was going to kill them all every time a rodent scuttled through the straw beneath them, and the Caretaker once more, a man the doctor referred to as Mahood, who lurked in the shadows looking like he did not want to be there at all. Face knew how he felt.

 

Then, the doctor and Mahood picked him up by his limbs, pulling a strangled yelp from him before he could silence it, and carried him out into the middle area, dropping him onto a sheet of tarp laid out on the stone floor where he found himself looking up at the metal hook which had been implicit in his weeks of misery. He fought to get the pain under control again, to steady his breathing and stared at the hook, wondering how many other men had suffered in this space; how much of it had been under the orders of Ra’is. He gritted his teeth as he suffered the further indignities of having his filthy clothes cut off his body and then buckets of tepid water poured over him with enough force to re-open closed wounds and at the end of it all, he was shaking from cold and shock. 

 

Mahood withdrew, and Face could hear him in the cell, shovelling and sweeping and loading a wheelbarrow with soiled straw. Like cleaning out the pigs at the orphanage, Face thought absently, and then doctor got busy, his ministrations brutal enough that, within minutes, Face was barely able of any thought that wasn’t just fighting through the pain. He was prodded and poked, cleaned and stitched, without care or anaesthetic; his jaw throbbed from clenching it so tightly and his fists were so tight he feared the skin would split.

 

After that, his wounds were wrapped and bound and he was redressed in another loose set of pants and baggy shirt. By the time the doctor had finished, he was in more pain than before he’d started. His entire body was pulsing, building to an almost unbearable crescendo before diminishing just to start the climb once more. He himself was swimming in and out of consciousness, fighting hard to stay aware of his surroundings, not trusting his ‘care-givers’ in the slightest.

 

A syringe appeared then, and another, glinting silver in the gloom and Face’s hand shot out, grabbing the doctor’s wrist and getting the teenager’s weapon levelled at his forehead. He forced himself to ignore the wavering barrel and fixed the doctor with a cold stare. “What’s in that?” his voice was low and strained, he was in so much pain and struggling to focus but he knew exactly how vulnerable he was at this moment and there was no way he was going to let them shoot him up with just anything.

 

The doctor seemed unfazed, Face reckoned he must have seen some horrific things in his time with the militia, a half-dead skeleton of a man clutching at his wrist was hardly going to give him any new nightmares. He returned Face’s stare and pointed to each hypodermic in turn. “Pain-killer. Anti-biotics. You don’t want to get an infection.”

 

No, Face didn’t, that would be very dangerous in his current predicament. But still…

 

“My instructions are to treat you as I see fit. Montakhab says that if you refuse I am to call for the guards who will hold you still whilst I administer my care,” Face let out a dry laugh and the doctor matched it with a thin smile. “So, I suppose it is your choice in how we proceed?”

 

They stared at each other but Face was weakening fast, could hear a roaring in his ears and see dark tendrils licking around the edge of his vision, the last thing he needed at this moment was to go another five rounds with the resident gorillas. Sighing loudly, he released the doctor’s wrist and lay back on the tarp. “Don’t bother with the pain killer.”

 

The doctor stared at him for a moment and then shrugged, it was nothing to him. The needle went in easily, the sharp pain barely noticeable over the symphony of agony he was experiencing and, to top it off, he was lifted again, by whom he couldn’t even see through the dark edges to his vision, and deposited back in his cell, on top of a pile of fresh straw. The doctor stood then, looming over him and Face hoped he would go, let him sleep through at least some of the pain but he didn’t, he just stood and watched and suddenly, Face’s heart was pumping in fear. He didn’t feel right, there was a warm lethargy running through him, similar to morphine in the way it dulled everything but it also made him feel loose, exposed, and he hated that, feared that and he tried to sit up, tried to grab at the doctor’s impassive face but nothing would work properly. He flopped down in the straw and the doctor picked up his wrist, counting his pulse and then leaning over him to look into his eyes. “What is your name?”

 

“Lieutenant Templeton Peck,” the response was automatic, even if his voice was slurred. Fuck those bastards, he’d let them shoot him up with Sodium Pentothal.  

 

The doctor stood again and turned over his shoulder and there was Montakhab, smiling in that snake-like way as he slithered into the cell and crouched at Face’s side. “Well, hello again, Lieutenant. I trust you are feeling better now that we’ve had you taken care of?”

 

Face clamped his lips together and fought to stay in control of his mouth. He knew how Sodium Pentothal worked, he was special forces for fuck’s sake, he’d been shot up before as part of his god-damn training. Who was this amateur who thought it would be just like in the movies? The anaesthetic affect was creeping through him, making him heavy and sluggish, but there was little in the way of analgesia and so the pain still flared and fizzed all over his body. The drug would confuse him, make it harder to lie but it couldn’t force him to say something he didn’t want to – not now he knew what was going on.

 

“Is that a yes?” Montakhab reached out and smoothed Face’s hair back from his eyes. “You were such a pretty little thing when you were my age, I’ve seen the pictures. All blue eyes and shiny teeth. Very Californian.” His face darkened as he watched Face in the gloom. “Not so much now, though, hey? Ra’is’ lack of hospitality has done a real number on you. Pale, bruised, thin… no wonder he doesn’t want to even look at you anymore.” Face’s gut twisted painfully. “So, how about you start to get a little of your own back, hey? How about you give me lots of lovely information that I can use to oust him from his seat of power and put myself there instead?” Face didn’t answer and Montakhab sat back against the bars, smiling again. “Let’s start off with his background. Where’s he from? Where was he born? He’s a remarkably hard man to find information on.”

 

A montage of images spilled through Face’s mind, pictures carefully unearthed in his own forays into Hannibal’s past; a smiling toddler, a woman with long golden hair, a ranch in the sunshine, a swing in the yard, a trestle table set up for a birthday tea, a thin Christmas tree, presents piled underneath, a boy dressed as a cowboy, in a graduation gown, an Army uniform, a young man beaming as he leant against the hood of a beaten up old Chevy, a death certificate, newspaper reports of a traffic accident, two neat little graves in a cemetery with incredible views over the open prairie…

 

Montakhab was watching Face carefully, his expression eager and Face’s stomach twisted once more – no matter what Hannibal had done to him, his revenge was a personal thing, not to be completed through the conduit of this snake. He tried to sit up but none of his muscles would obey him, instead he smiled, showing his dirty teeth to Montakhab as he eagerly waited for the secrets to come spilling out, “Fuck you,” he offered instead and laughed at the outrage he’d provoked.

 

___________________

 

It was a long week.

 

Face was barely conscious for most of it as Montakhab insisted on the doctor keeping him sedated with steady doses of one drug after another in his attempts to get Face to open up about Hannibal’s past life. Face had to hand it to Montakhab, the guy was as persistent as the doctor was negligent and by the end of the week, Face had no genuine clue if he’d spilled any beans or not.

 

He figured that answer had to be a reasonably sized ‘no’ though, judging by the foul mood that Montakhab was in when he called by to see him and Face hauled himself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the pounding in his head that was trying to crack his skull in half.

 

“Morning, Monty, you given up with Doctor Death then? Or have you finally realised that life isn’t actually like a Hollywood movie?” He threw  out a dazzling smile and waited as Montakhab prowled up and down outside his cell.

 

“I’m sure you think you’re very funny.”

 

“Pretty much, yeah.”

 

“But you misjudge me if you think I give up easily.”

 

Face had to suppress a long, hard sigh, fuck – he was getting tired of this game. “No. You misjudge me. I would never say that about you at all.”

 

Montakhab regarded him carefully, trying to work out how to take that comment and then came closer, leaning on the bars, lowering his voice. “I don’t take you as a stupid man-”

 

“Good.”

 

“-and I’m unwilling to waste my time in trying to torture the information I require out of you-”

 

“Good again.”

 

“-so you can have one more chance to tell me what I need.”

 

Face frowned at that. “You haven’t been able to drug the secrets out of me, you know that torture won’t work because, quite frankly, I’m far too badass for that,” and didn’t that just sum up Montakhab’s naivety? Torture worked on everyone eventually, everyone. All you had to find was the right lever – and have the stomach to carry it through. Face wasn’t going to share that little nugget of information with his host though. “So, what now? You’re going to ask nicely?”

 

Montakhab didn’t even blink, “That’s correct,” and Face roared with laughter.

 

“You are kidding me, right? You really think that’s gonna work?”

 

“As I said before,” Montakhab was proving very hard to ruffle, “I don’t take you for a stupid man and I’m hoping that you will heed the message in my warning.” 

 

It was hard to remain jovial in the face of Montakhab’s dark stare and, despite his week spent drugged up to the eyeballs, Face was tiring fast, “Go on then, lay it on me.”

 

“You will tell me what I want-”

 

“No, I won’t.”

 

“-or, I shall unleash the seven layers of hell onto you. Your hell. Your own personal demons.”

 

Face blinked, “Is that it?” Montakhab stared at him and this time he forced out a shrug, “Doesn’t seem too bad.”

 

“You are a fool,” with a flourish, Montakhab pushed back off the bars of the cell. “No wonder Ra’is ran from you and keeps you here, you aren’t worthy of him.”

 

“And you are?” Face couldn’t help the snap-back, “A treacherous little snake like you?”   

 

“Remember why you are going to suffer, Face. And when you’ve had enough, call for me and I’ll put a stop to it all for you. I’ll be watching every moment of your anguish.”

 

There was nothing that Face could think of to say to that and he sunk back into the straw, his heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest whilst Montakhab let himself out.

 

_____________________

 

Face soon fell back into the routine of one meal a day from the inscrutable Mahood but his desperation to escape was getting fiercer by the hour. He’d tried to use the straw he laid on as a lock pick, fashioned slivers of hope from the ice cream tubs and the wooden cups. He almost dislocated his shoulder stretching out to try and snag anything from the floor beyond his bars and had been shocked by Mahood’s cattle prod too many times to mention as he took a grab at anything he could reach during feeding times. It was all useless though and Mahood sighed as he studied the damaged cup, turning it over in his fingers as he watched Face carefully.

 

“Ra’is says you are to stop trying to make a key for the lock. It will not work and if you get out of here they will only kill you anyway.”

 

“Ra’is?” Face scrabbled across the cell on his knees. “You talk to him about me? He knows about me?”

 

“He ordered you here.” It was as much as Mahood had ever said and even with his words he was withdrawing from the dungeon.

 

“I need to speak with him!” Face was leaning out between the bars, his hands reaching for Mahood even as he left. “Tell him, I need to speak with him!” The heavy door opened, creaking ominously in the dark and Face felt the panic rearing up inside him, “Tell him!” he yelled. “Tell him! TELL HIM!!”

 

_____________

 

It was impossible to measure time in the darkness but Face knew that it was maybe only an hour later when he heard the key in the lock once more and he rose to his knees, filthy hands grabbing at the bars, heart pounding as he strained forward to see who was visiting him. He was trying not to hope that it was Hannibal but maybe it was, maybe Mahood had told Hannibal that Face had been asking for him, wanted to see him. Maybe Hannibal hadn’t known, maybe he’d thought Face wouldn’t want to see him, maybe that’s why he’d left Face down here for so long, suffering the violence and treachery of his men.

 

Maybe some of that was true – but in reality, Face didn’t believe any of it and hated himself for his pathetic weakness.

 

It wasn’t Hannibal, though, of course it wasn’t, and so Face knew that it had to be Montakhab’s seven layers of hell instead. One of them at least. He rose to his feet and backed off across the cell to the far wall – there was no way he was going to make this easy for them, whatever the fuck it was.

 

There was a few of them, eight maybe although it was hard to tell in the gloom. And they were drunk, he could hear it and smell it and what type of Muslim did that make them anyway? Face knew the answer to that – none of this mess in the Middle East was actually about religion at all, in fact none of the violence in the world was. What it was, was opinionated people using religion as an excuse to do horrific things, using their god as vindication. These men were no more Muslim than he was Catholic, he’d sailed too far from that ship now, and often wondered what the good Father would think of him.

 

He was panicking, he realised, allowing his mind to skip around anything other than focus on the fact that these men had been sent for him by Montakhab and were going to do unspeakable things with him. Montakhab’s words had unsettled him, not torture but his own personal hell? What could that mean? What did he care about except Hannibal – who was already dead to him? And Murdock and BA… his mind offered, but Face wouldn’t think about that. Not until he absolutely had to…

 

They were laughing as they came forward, fumbling the key and Face hoped they’d lose it. They were talking as well, in Farsi, not realising he could understand them but nothing they said threw any light on their plans for the evening.

 

“He’s waiting for us.”

 

“He must be looking forward to this.”

 

Much laughter.

 

“I am.”

 

“That’s because you are sick, Ahmed, sick in the head.”

 

More laughter.

 

“He looks scared.”

 

“He should be.”

 

Face stepped forward at that – that would never do – and cranked up an empty smile. “Alright? Are you my escort for the night?”

 

They each had a little English, but Face’s words were lost on them. The shit-eating smile wasn’t though and they stopped, slightly wrong-footed with the direction the evening had taken.

 

“Montakhab said not to speak with him.”

 

“He said he has the tongue of a snake.”

 

Great, Face thought grimly, takes on to know one, Montakhab.

 

“What do we do?”

 

“Get him out.”

 

“I’m not going in there!”

 

Face tried hard not to let his smile broaden at that.

 

“Just go in and grab him.”

 

Please do… Face knew he could overpower any one of these pricks and then… they must have something he could use. A weapon, even a fork would do. Maybe he could kill them all, if they came in one by one he could, maybe even two at a time but would they do that? Would they stand and watch as he dispensed with them in turn? No, they’d slam the door and run for help. Or just shoot him. It was disconcerting how appealing the shooting seemed at this moment.

 

“No,” this was the guy at the back and Face wondered who he was to carry such authority. “You saw what he did to Kasis and Yasin.”

 

Aah… the guys on the door.

 

“And you heard what Montakhab said. We go in together. We get him together. That’s why we’ve all come.”

 

Eight men… Face thought bleakly. I must have impressed Montakhab really.

 

And then they came at him.

 

In the end, it wasn’t even a long fight. The first man made a grab for Face’s arm but he twisted away with time to spare, grabbing the flailing arm and flinging the man headfirst into the bars. Unfortunately, the man was heavier than Face had assumed and the movement wrong-footed him, making him twist too far to the left and leave his right side vulnerable. One of Montakhab’s men at least had enough about him to spot the opening and tackled Face at knee height, sending him crashing backwards into the wall, striking a blow to his head that stunned him and left him sprawling in the straw. After that it was easy pickings, they grabbed at his flailing limbs, cursed him as he got in a good crack at a jaw, a knee cap and some unprotected balls and then held him fast, face pressed into the straw as his arms were hauled behind his back and tightly secured.

 

“Oh, are we going out?” Face was winded, scared shitless but not about to let any of that show. “You should have said and I’d have changed. Is it a formal event? I fear these pants are a little loose…”

 

They were as well. He’d tried to find a way to tighten them but they just got baggier and baggier the more weight he lost. The socks had never been replaced either, and Face’s bare feet dragged and scraped on the ground as his attackers bundled him towards the door.

 

“Ah…” he tripped and was hauled up again, feet off the ground as more hands grabbed at him. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just call a cab? I bet I could get one, if you let me out the front door.”

 

No one paid his words any heed as they heaved him out of the dungeon and into the corridor beyond. He squinted in the torchlight that burned his eyes – used, as they were, to near darkness – but he forced himself to keep them open, to do as thorough a reconnaissance as possible, just in case he needed it at a later date.

 

He was carted down a long corridor which was lined with desperate faces staring out at him from cells similar to his own. Face was shocked at the age of some of the captives, they must have been barely in their teens, their dark eyes hollowed and fearful and ratchetting Face’s fear up another notch as he wondered if they knew what he was headed for. Then he was taken up a stone staircase, tight and spiralling, dropped many, many times on the way, the cold stone scraping his knees and elbows raw.

 

At last, they were back on the ground floor, back in the areas that Face recognised from his disastrous raid, all those many weeks – months? – ago. He could hear where they were headed, there was a door at the end of the corridor which was positively vibrating with laughter and shouting and no matter how Face struggled, his captors just carried him onwards. The door was kicked open, he was dragged inside and a huge roar greeted his arrival. Face was seriously unhinged now, what the fuck was going on?

 

They were in a large room which seemed to serve the purpose of some kind of recreation room – and wasn’t that the norm for every self-respecting band of insurgents these days? There was a vending machine that carried a variety of Coke bottles, a huge flat-screen TV fastened to the wall, two pool tables, one green and one blue, a foosball and a variety of leather couches and arm chairs, all squashed in around the edges of the room. There must have been upwards of forty men as well, all flushed faces and baying calls and there was Montakhab, his snake’s body draped over a chair, his face darkly amused, his glass raised in greeting as he met Face’s eyes.

 

No Hannibal though. Ra’is, Face corrected himself, and was that a good or a bad thing?

 

Face’s feet were set on the floor and he was propelled forward by two of his guards, straight up to the green pool table, straight into the green pool table and the blow to his belly winded him, re-awoke dormant pain and he folded over, his hands still bound behind his back, his cheek pressed hard into the baize and it was only when a firm hand grabbed the leg of his filthy pants and yanked down that he suddenly realised where this was heading.

 

Face exploded upwards, showering his assailants backwards and spinning on his feet, his back to the table, to stare them all down.

 

He had his limits, he had his non-negotiables and this was just about it. Face had been the victim of sexual violence before and had no intention of it happening to him again. Even then, he’d taken swift retribution against those who had dared defile him. He’d been nine years old, in the third of five eventual care homes and woken up one night to find three older boys grinning down on him. He hadn’t really known what was going on, they’d pulled back his bed covers and pinned him to the mattress whilst they yanked his pyjamas off and forced him spread-eagled across his bed.

 

A pillow was put over his head and pressed down so hard that breathing had become a huge issue but through the panic he could feel the cold fingers that gripped his ankles and then the probing finger that pushed and pushed at his anus. He’d tried to fight back but it honestly felt that they were sitting on him and all efforts to call for help were swallowed by the pillow. The finger had made its way inside his body now, stretching and reaching and he’d never even heard of such a thing and was horrified at what they were doing. Then it was gone, and he’d thought it was over but it wasn’t, there was just a weight on his thighs and then that pressure again and such pain; he’d felt like they were literally splitting him open.

 

Finally, they were done and the pillow was lifted but it was only that moment, only when a hard and sticky penis was pushed into his mouth and he was ordered to ‘clean it’, had he even realised what they’d done to him.

 

He’d spent the rest of the night vomiting in a cold and draughty bathroom.

 

He knew his attackers. Knew that Jon-Jo Simpson had been the ring-leader and actual rapist. Knew that there was little hope in telling anyone as his word was hardly the most trusted in the home. None of that mattered to him, though. Face had been looking after himself for as long as he could remember and this was no different. He might not be big or strong enough to be able to take Jon-Jo on himself, but he had his brain and that was more than enough to work something else out.

 

Next door to the home was the ‘half-way house’, where the boys went when they were sixteen and no longer able to be housed in the orphanage. Trey Stone was one such resident and a more volatile temper would be hard to find. Face hatched his plan, had to endure two more rapes at Simpson’s hands before he could spring it, but finally all was ready and he set the ball rolling.

 

First, he broke into Trey’s room whilst he was out. He stole money, clothing and smashed up the boy’s vinyl collection. He also made sure he left Simpson’s locker key behind him as he went.

 

Trey wasn’t the type to ask questions or demand apologies and Face crouched up on the roof that night watching as Simpson had the daylights beaten out of him by Stone and his crew. It had been so bad that an ambulance had been called and neither boy was seen around the orphanage again. The nine-year-old Face wasn’t sorry though – justice had been served in his mind and that was all there was to it.

 

He’d seen Simpson after that, years later, and watched him shuffling around with the walking frame he still needed, a shadow of his former self. The guilt had kicked in a little then, he’d just started with the Army, just began to learn that there were other routes than violence, but he’d explained it all away, after all he’d been a child – what the fuck else was he supposed to have done? The guilt only increased when he found out that Trey Stone had gone into Juvie and come out a drug addict.

 

He’d told Hannibal once, after he’d woken up, completely frantic, from a rare nightmare. The words had spilt from his lips, eager to have an audience after all this time and Hannibal had actually held him, soothed him, told him it was okay and that it was over for him now, over forever. Face had managed to grab hold of his treacherous tongue before it spilt the gory details of his revenge and for that he was grateful. It was bad enough that Hannibal saw him as a victim, how bad would it have been if he’d also seen him as a sociopath?

 

The next day he’d asked Face if he wanted to go to the police, told him that historical allegations of sexual abuse were common-place and that he’d be treated fairly and in confidence, and that Hannibal would go with him, support him. Face had almost vomited in horror but instead managed to smile it all off – convince Hannibal he was okay and they’d never spoken of it again.

 

But it was a line crossed for Face – a line he’d vowed he’d never allow anyone to step over again. Anyone. Ever. Those bastards came at him again and he’d kill them.

 

There must have something of that in his face as everyone stepped back and a cautious silence fell across the room. Face’s trousers were still pooling around his ankles and he kicked them off, not caring if he was exposing himself to staring eyes, he had nothing to be ashamed of and he wasn’t prepared to take his eyes off anyone lest they choose that moment to strike.

 

He backed up to the table, felt it reassuringly solid at his back and groped around with his bound hands, praying he’d find a cue, a ball even a damn triangle but there was nothing.  He was one man, semi-naked, bound and beaten and they were forty with assorted weapons but it was a stand-off, no one person seemed keen to make that first move.

 

Eventually there was muttering to Face’s right and a man stepped forward, easily six foot two, solidly built, bald, tattooed and toothless – he would have looked equally at home in a Bond movie or a WWF bout. He smiled at Face and slowly advanced, cracking his knuckles theatrically whilst Face leaned up from the table, his bound hands still frantically squirming behind his back and readied himself. The bald guy took one more step in, then another and Face flew into action, stepping forward, springing up and kicking out, catching him perfectly under the chin and knocking him cold long before he hit the floor. 

 

He glanced around as he landed, heard the murmurs of surprise and readied himself once more. This was the fight of his life – there was no way that he was ever going to win it, but maybe he could do enough to put them off. Or maybe he’d die trying. He was happy with either eventuality.

 

Two men stepped up then and Face twisted his neck to crack it, blood running down his hands as he desperately twisted his wrists against the cord they were bound in. Would they attack together? If so he could try and flip one into the other, use his shoulder maybe, or trip them as they came closer? They wouldn’t be expecting that – that was the key, go for the unexpected all the time. He shifted onto his toes, bouncing slightly as he prepared to lurch left or right and then stopping dead as a revolver was whipped from the waistband of one of the men and pointed his way.

 

Everything hung in silence for a beat and then the men around him erupted into laughter thinking they’d won, thinking that Face’s resistance would crumble at once. They were wrong. Instead he lurched forwards, straight at the man with the gun and registered the look of total shock on his face that stole his response time. The gun went off, deafening in such a confined space but Face was already well out of range. He drove forwards with his shoulder, shoving the gunman off his feet and onto his back, the gun speaking again, causing chaos in such a packed room.

 

Maybe if Face had had his hands free it would have been very different indeed. The weapon skittered free and Face was first there but he couldn’t grab it, wasted precious moments groping for it behind his back, taking his eyes off his attackers and leaving himself wide open for a strike from the side. He didn’t even see who it was, one minute he’d finally felt the rough grip of the gun against his fingertips, the next he’d been winded once more as he was driven sideways, falling awkwardly on his shoulder, crying out in pain as a swinging foot found his genitals.

 

Once he was down they couldn’t get hold of him fast enough. Too many of them pulling at him, tugging him, carrying him forward once more back towards that pool table and his rape. He fought with everything he had, kicking and thrashing, biting and headbutting. He knew he wasn’t going to get free, instead he hoped that they’d kill him, he wasn’t prepared to live through another humiliation like that – he just wasn’t.

 

He hit the table with force, groaning as his head bounced off the playing surface dazing him slightly, allowing them the moment they needed to grab his ankles and pull them apart, holding them tightly against the table legs whilst more rough twine was produced to bind them there. It was too much like before, memories flooded him of the terror he’d felt and the helplessness and the complete humiliation once he realised what they’d done to him. He could hear their voices, smell the dormitory and the stale body odour, every breath felt like he was pulling it in through that ancient pillow and he bucked up again, trapped by his bound feet he thrashed ineffectively, unable to resist as they forced him down again, a man climbing up onto the table next to him, leaning on him, pinning him down, just like before…

 

“Your own personal hell,” Montakhab’s smug voice was in his ear and he cracked a furious eye open, boring into that mildly amused face with every ounce of hate he could muster. “I did warn you didn’t I? Remember though, you can stop whenever you want to. Betray a man who’s left you to die or agree to every man in this room mounting you – I wouldn’t have thought there was much of a choice there for you to make.”

 

“I agree,” Face had to force the words out through the pressure on his back, crushing his chest against the table, “to nothing. You hear that? Nothing.”

 

“But that’s not how it works,” Montakhab petted his hair clumsily, rubbing his hand down over his face as well. “If you don’t tell me what I want then you’re agreeing to all of this, asking for it,” he was practically hissing in Face’s ear now. “Telling me how much you want to be filled with the seed of all these men…”

 

Face stared him down. “I will kill you. You understand me, Montakhab? No matter what happens now – I will kill you.”

 

Montakhab held his stare and then addressed one of the men behind them. “Zaid, you can go first. Rip him wide open.”

 

A wild whoop went through the crowd at that and Montakhab smiled as Face desperately thrashed under the hands that held him, “Your own personal hell,” he repeated and it was only at that moment that Face realised that Hannibal must have told him.

 

It was a crushing blow, despite everything that had happened since Face had left the base in search of his friend and commander, he had always kept his belief in what had happened before. Whatever had made Hannibal choose this awful path and leave everything else behind, Face had held onto the memories of what he’d had, that trust, that friendship. But he had shared with Hannibal his darkest secret, his deepest shame and Hannibal had betrayed him again, had told Montakhab everything, had made Face even more vulnerable than before.

 

There was nothing worse than that.

 

His shirt was pushed up, his butt squeezed and struck and then pulled apart and there it was, that pushing finger again, that pressure that Face could not get away from no matter how he writhed and bucked. Panic was coursing through him now, his mind stuck on a cycle of, “No, no, no…” but there was nothing he could do, nothing but yell like a madman as that finger breeched him deeper and deeper whilst Montakhab continued to grin at him.

 

“What are you doing?!” the voice boomed out behind him, the words bellowed in Arabic and the silence was immediate, the finger inside him vanishing in an instant along with Montakhab’s smug face.

 

“Ra’is,” Face closed his eyes in mortification as Montakhab’s silken tones, his Arabic perfect, filled the air. “I hope we didn’t disturb you. The men were just having a little fun.”

 

Face could almost feel Ra’is’ gaze as it swept over him.

 

“I told you not to touch him,” there was menace in that sentence and men started backing away from Face although, unfortunately, not the man who was pinning him to the table top.

 

But Montakhab didn’t seem fazed. “No – you didn’t. You told us not to kill him, and we won’t, we’ll return him when we’re done, it’s just,” Face could picture his innocently confused expression, “you’ve never told us why this American is so special, why he is kept alone, given superior treatment. Why is that, Ra’is? What is it about this man?”

 

“You question me?” Of course Ra’is wouldn’t play Montakhab’s game. Hannibal wouldn’t have done either.

 

“No, no, of course not Ra’is it’s just… I’m trying to understand.”

 

Footsteps approached the table and again, Face felt Ra’is’ eyes rake over him, sensed those startlingly blue eyes as they catalogued every single mark of brutality on his body.

 

“I ordered him left alone. I tasked you with ensuring that was done.”

 

“No,” the irritation was clear in Montakhab’s tone. “You said you didn’t want him killed. How can I help it if the men-”

 

“And you think that this wouldn’t kill him?” the roar was back and even more people backed away. “You were planning on ripping him apart from in the inside out and you thought he would walk away from that?”

 

“Ra’is-” the confidence was leeching from Montakhab’s tone now as mutters started up in the ranks of men, questioning the contradiction between their two leaders.

 

“Nobody touches him!” this time the roar was for the assembled onlookers and the man on Face’s back quickly scurried to the rear of the room. “No one hurts him! Or fucks him! Or even lays one fucking finger on him – do you all understand me now?”

 

There were murmurs in the affirmative from all around the room except for Montakhab whose voice had taken on a petulant whine as Face heard him step forward towards Ra’is. “But why? He is a prisoner, an American spy who came here to kill you! Why should he get to live? If it had been anyone else, then he’d have lost his head months ago! Why Ra’is? Why should he be any different? Why should he be special?” Those final words were spat out into the air and were accompanied by a thud as Montakhab hit the floor right in Face’s line of vision.

 

“Because he is mine!” Another roar reverberated around the room and Face could tell that Ra’is’ patience had been exhausted. “He is mine to kill when I decide that the time is right! He is mine to kill in which ever manner I decide! Everything about him, his past, his present, his future, is all mine! I have supreme power over every part of him, every atom of his existence. I am his ruler, his Lord, his god! I own him! You dare question me? Watch.”

 

Face hadn’t expected it. He’d been martialling his aching body, trying to dredge up the strength he needed to lift himself out of such a compromising position. But suddenly Ra’is was right behind him, pulling his shirt up further still, tugging it over his head, ramming himself into the gap between Face’s spread legs and the panic was back again.

 

“Hannib-” the word was out of his mouth without thought and cut off midway as his filthy shirt was shoved into his mouth and held there by rough fingers.

 

“Get me some oil!”

 

Face was trapped again, a huge hand shoving his shoulder blades down onto the table and then it was gone but before he could move something cold and hard was pushed up inside him and he was flooded with warmth and wet. The hand was back and he fought against it, bucking and thrashing again, disbelief warring with the terror and the panic, desperately trying to spit out the gag in his mouth as he felt Ra’is crowding in behind him, pushing into the space between his spread legs and he was trapped, immobile. Then there was that blunt presence, just like with Simpson all over again but this time, somehow, even worse.

 

“Don’t…” he choked the material out of his mouth and gasped into the cover of his shirt. “For God’s sake Hannibal, don’t. Don’t do this to-”

 

A fist in his kidneys stole his words and then the hand was back on his mouth pushing for entry against his clamped lips just like the pressure that was pushing for entry between his legs. He tried to keep it out, tried to tighten his entrance, and force that pressure back but it was too much and his clenching muscle quivered and gave under the sheer power of Ra’is surging in, bottoming out in one brutal stroke that had Face crying out in pain and horror and the gag pushed right back into his mouth.

 

It was brutal. Only the slickness of the oil saving him from being ripped apart as Montakhab had wanted. Ra’is thrust heavily into him over and over again as the watching crowd found their voices and started howling and baying once more, cheering their leader on, saluting his power over the infidel.

 

Face had nothing to fight with anymore.  His hands and feet were bound tightly, leaving him open and exposed, the hand over his mouth both silenced him and held him down whilst another in the small of his back meant that he couldn’t even shift with the power of it all. His eyes were open, staring lifelessly at the inside of his filthy shirt as Ra’is rutted inside him, grunting now with the pleasure of it all and all he could think about was that this was Hannibal, the one person who he’d trusted with his childhood trauma, the one person who knew what it had done to him. And here he was, doing it again, humiliating and defiling Face in front of his enemies. Face was sure that Montakhab had not planned for this to happen, but if he had, what a success it was. Seven levels of his own personal hell? This was every single one of them.

 

Finally, there was a roar behind him and he felt the hot rush of semen filling him up. He closed his eyes, it was over, he was beaten. Why had he ever come here?

 

The crowd had loved the finale, there was whistling and stamping whilst Ra’is was still, Face could feel his breath heavy on his bare back. Then he shifted and, safely hidden under his shroud, Face winced as he felt him pulling out, felt the tell-tale trickle of warmth as escaping come ran out of his ass and down his thighs – what a sight he must make. There were fingers wiping through the mess, right back up to his hole, sweeping in and scooping some of the thick liquid up.

 

“You see this?” Ra’is’ voice was hoarse. “My seed. Inside him. Because he is mine. Anyone else feels the need to touch him – they will die. That is my final word.” He stepped back, the room was silent once more. “Mahood?” And of course Mahood would be there, he’d been there since the start to catalogue Face’s slide into hell, of course he’d be there for the final descent. “Take him to my quarters and chain him. Watch him, he’ll kill you if you give him the chance. And for fuck’s sake clean him up. He fucking stinks.”

 

Footsteps retreated and the murmuring started up again, all around him and this time, when they came to move him, Face didn’t resist.   

 

___________________

 

Maybe it wasn’t actually Hannibal…

 

Face had been dragged back along the corridor to the room where it had all started, his t-shirt stripped off him and leather cuffs fastened around each ankle and wrist. These had been connected by a cross of chains with another to act as a leash and he’d been led, meek and shuffling, into a modern and brightly lit wet room. Mahood had paused at the entrance and held a bar of soap and a safety razor out in his hand. “You can do it yourself, or I’ll do it for you, either way, it gets done.”

 

Face thought for a minute, wondering if he cared, but the very consideration of anyone else touching him when he felt so raw was abhorrent so he took the offerings and shuffled further in, wondering where the Face who would have grinned and asked for some Kérastase was – and if he’d ever be coming back.

 

He’d soaped himself on autopilot, barely noticing the grime as it washed away leaving his skin pale and fragile, smudged in bruises and interwoven with lacerations. The chains made it harder but he coped, rubbing the soap through this hair four times, standing under the shower until the water ran clear and then doing it again, watching the suds chase each other down the plug and wishing he could just go with them.

 

He shaved his beard with difficulty but eventually it was done and he was clean shaven for the first time since he’d left the FOB and then everything was done – almost – even his blackened feet looked respectably flesh-coloured once more. He glanced up at the doorway, satisfied himself that Mahood was out of sight and reached around, closing his eyes as he soaped between his legs, down his crack, his heart breaking all over again as he felt the soreness and the swelling, the dried traces of Hannibal's semen on him, washing it all away.

 

As if it would be that easy.  

 

He shut off the water then. Waited for Mahood to come to him and stand, implacable as ever, whilst his aching muscles towelled himself dry. Then he was led like a dog once more, or a bitch, he mused darkly, back into Hannibal’s chamber where his chains were removed at gunpoint, he was given a loose robe to wear, fastened up again and the leash was locked onto a metal ring embedded into the stone floor.

 

Mahood retreated then, with not another word Face’s way and Face sank to the floor, crouching on a rug with his back to the wall and allowed the dangerous thought to surface… What if it wasn’t Hannibal? 

 

____________________

 

Face startled awake with the closing of a door and the pre-dawn call to prayer sounding out somewhere above him. He realised that he’d fallen asleep and slept through the dead of the night, surprising when he considered the trauma of the previous evening but maybe not so much when looking at what his body had been through. He sat up and stared in surprise at the rough blanket that covered him before glancing across the dimly lit room to the bed that belonged to Ra’is. It was empty, but the sheets were rumpled and pushed back and Face cursed himself for missing his first actual audience with the man.

 

Unless he counted being kicked unconscious of course.

 

Or worse. 

 

What if it wasn’t Hannibal? 

 

The thought had swum through his mind over and over, had chased through his dreams and now was here once more with the coming new day. What if it wasn’t Hannibal?  What if Ra’is was exactly that? What if Face had been mistaken? What if he’d followed the wrong trail and ended up with the wrong man?

 

But why would Montakhab be so interested in Face’s stories? Surely he wasn’t wrong as well? He knew who Face was, why would he know that if Ra’is wasn’t Hannibal?

 

And if it was Hannibal…

 

There were so many emotions embedded in that, that Face could hardly keep up. His mind kept on returning to that scene in the rec room, kept on playing the whole appalling incident on constant repeat and still, despite that, he still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. The disbelief would fade for a moment as reality came crashing in with a vivid flashback, a hand-shaped bruise on his hip, the pain in his ass whenever he shifted on the hard floor and then anger would steam in in its place. How could Hannibal have done this to him? How could he? Face would kill him for this, for this ultimate of betrayals. That’s what he’d come here for, now he just had even more of an incentive.

 

How could Hannibal have stooped this low? Was it a worse betrayal than the one he’d dealt his own country? But then how could Face have allowed it? Self-recrimination, self-hatred, was always hot on the heels of the anger against Hannibal. Why hadn’t Face realised sooner what Montakhab’s plan for him involved? How stupid had he been? How naïve? He’d sworn as a nine-year-old child that he would never let anyone use him like that again – what had happened? How had he failed himself so spectacularly? He was supposed to be a fucking Army Ranger for God’s sake; how had he ended up being- and then he would choke to a halt as he couldn’t even bring himself to name what had been done to him – again.

 

After that came the despair – what was he supposed to do now? How could he look at himself in the mirror? How could he live with what Hannibal had forced him to become? What was he? What had he been doing for all of these years to give Hannibal the idea that treating him like that was allowed?

 

And Hannibal, Ra’is – Face was so confused now – he’d not even spoken to him, not even looked at him, had used him, insulted him and then walked away leaving him behind like a piece of trash. ‘And for fuck’s sake clean him up. He fucking stinks.’ Hannibal’s parting words still rang in his ears, compounding his humiliation and circling him right back to the anger once more. Of course he stank – he’d been locked up in a fucking dungeon for what must have been months. An oubliette. What the fuck did the man expect? 

 

He was still trapped in his swirling internal monologue when the clock on the wall crept past 1300 hrs and the door opened, letting in a shuffling Mahood and no one else.

 

“I need to speak to him,” and this was the anger speaking as Face had trekked right through another cycle of emotion.

 

“He will not speak to you,” Mahood didn’t make eye contact as he set a tray down on a low table near Face’s side. “You are not his companion, you are beneath him. You are his deliciae, that is all.”

 

Deliciae? His delicacy? Face thought not and his anger burned more fiercely; he was not prepared to live out the rest of his days as anyone’s toy.

 

“You can visit the bathroom twice a day, do not soil Ra’is’ quarters at other times. You will be fed twice a day as well from now on.”

 

“Why the change?”

 

Mahood didn’t answer but turned for the door with Face scrambling in his wake, “Why won’t he face me?” still Mahood walked, “Is he frightened of me?” Nothing. “That’s it?” Face’s voice was rising in frustration and anger. “He’s frightened? Or can he just not face what he’s done? He’s ashamed of how-” again he stumbled to a halt, his words choking him, the chains pulling up taut. Not that it mattered as Mahood had already gone. Face turned and spied the bowl of stew sat steaming in the middle of the tray and without a thought just kicked it across the room, taking savage delight in the mess it made as it flew.

____________________

 

Time passed slowly, marked by the call to prayer, the sluggishly ticking clock and Face’s allotted bathroom time. He was taken there on his leash by three guards, two of whom held him at gun-point the whole time, refusing to leave even to allow him to relieve himself. They also talked amongst themselves in the Farsi that they didn’t think he could understand, referring back to the night before, how Ra’is had taken him, how Face had cried like a girl and begged for more all at the same time, how Ra’is was hung like a donkey and the American had bled for him, needing to be carried out, dripping in seed and blood once he’d been mounted. They hadn’t even been there for the show, they were just passing on the stories they’d heard.

 

Face returned so mortified, so utterly humiliated, that he could barely stand to be alive and sat up against the wall, his knees drawn tightly together, his forehead resting on the protruding bones and wished himself dead. It was then that the door opened and he looked up, timed it to perfection to catch that first proper glimpse of his jailor and the sight made him laugh, a bitter choking sound that he tried to silence with his robe. It was Hannibal – of course it was Hannibal and what the hell was Face supposed to do with that?

 

They stared at each other, Hannibal’s expression empty and blank and Face dragged himself back under control, there was no way he was going to lose it now, no way at all. He swallowed, hard, and Hannibal looked away, crossed over to the now-made bed and sat down, back to Face, slowly unlacing his boots. Face swallowed once more, being ignored was not how he’d imagined this meeting would go.

 

“Alright there, boss?” he allowed a good level of poison to creep into his voice. “Long time, no see. And looks like you’ve been busy. Taking a break out from your packed schedule of back-stabbing and betrayal now, are you?”

 

Hannibal, Ra’is, Face reminded himself again, paused in his act of unlacing but didn’t turn around and Face tried again.

 

“They offer good medical did they, then? Dental? Decent vacations? Or did you just get fed up for playing for the side that supports free speech and free will?”

 

Ra’is turned back to his boots at that, his back ramrod straight. “Shut the fuck up, Peck. You have no moral high-ground here, you came here against your orders – just to kill me.”

 

Face laughed again, dry and bitter, “Oh, but that’s what gives me the moral high-ground, Ra’is, because you are now the very scum that you and I used to hunt together.”

 

Ra’is exploded to his feet and stalked across the room, refusing to look at Face where he huddled against the wall in his chains and his robe. “I said shut up,” he yanked a bag open and started to rummage through the contents. “You have nothing to say that would interest me.”

 

“No?” Face forced himself to glare directly into the side of Ra’is’ head, even though the video-loop of his humiliation had started up in his mind once more. “You sure? ‘Cause there are plenty of people who would be interested – Montakhab for one.” And why not? Why not let the bastard worry just what Face had spilled about him?

 

“Nobody gives a fuck about what you say,” Ra’is straightened up, something black grasped in his hand and he approached Face whilst carefully keeping his eyes elsewhere. “You’re not here for your mouth.”

 

“No? My ass then? You seemed to get off plenty on that last night.”

 

And just like that it was out there. Face hadn’t planned it like that, hadn’t even meant it like that, it had just slipped out and was made so real by the fact that he’d actually said it, acknowledged it, cemented it in reality. Ra’is had raped him. Hannibal had raped him. Jesus Christ… in front of all those people, Hannibal had held him down and raped him…

 

The words were just out of his mouth and Hannibal’s eyes were on him, his own shock and horror plain to see for the briefest of moments before it was all washed away again. “Your loose mouth was always your biggest problem,” he growled, back to staring at the wall near Face’s head and ignoring the damning acknowledgement of his words completely.

 

“I’m not your toy…” Face’s words were low – lethal. “You don’t own me.”

 

“I’ve always owed you, Face,” Ra’is growled, “And now you need to shut up,” he stepped right in and without warning back-handed Face across the cheek, slamming his head into the wall and following straight through to grab a handful of over-long hair. “I don’t want to hear your pathetic whining,” Face was gasping through the pain in his skull, trying to reach up to Hannibal’s wrists but the chains wouldn’t allow enough movement. “Should’ve got Mahood to do this earlier.”

 

Something hard and smooth was crammed into Face’s mouth then and he gagged against the rubbery taste of it. Hannibal was relentless though, forcing it in further, holding him tightly by the hair, kicking him when the struggles became too much and fumbling around, fastening something tightly at the back of Face’s head and then he stepped back, walking quickly away, straight into the wet-room without a backward glance and Face was left fuming and writhing in his wake, the ball-gag stealing his words, his hands unable to reach behind his head to unfasten the buckle. He screamed a wordless yell of frustration and anger and kicked out at everything within his reach. It didn’t make any difference though, his helplessness and humiliation just grew with every second and he slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, breath heaving in through his nose.  

 

It was at that moment he realised that there was a man on this earth that he despised more than Montakhab.  

 

_________

 

Ra’is came back from the wet-room and slid into his bed without a single glance Face’s way. Face himself sat against the wall, his finger-tips raw and wrists bleeding from his renewed attempts to escape and seethed as the curtains were pulled across and the room slid into darkness. Who was this man who looked so much like Hannibal? Could he be the same man? The one that Face had fallen in love with? ‘I’ve always owned you, Face…’  What was that? How could words that he’d always wanted to hear be so vicious and sinister?

 

Why had he come here? What had he been thinking? Yes, his outward plan had been to kill Ra’is, but maybe… was his inward plan that he could save him? That Hannibal would come back with him and they would ride off into the sunset together? What a fool he was. He should have stayed outside with his rifle and put a bullet through the man’s head from a mile away. That was the type of death he deserved – cold-blooded, impersonal, savage. Much like himself.

 

There was nothing for it now though. Face had finally realised that Hannibal was past saving and Ra’is too sheltered to kill. This time around at any rate.  The only thing left now was to get out with his life. He was not going to be Ra’is’ deliciae or any other pet for that matter. He needed to hold it together, he needed to watch and wait and let Ra’is think he’d broken him then, like a viper, he’d strike, doing as much damage on his way out as he could. And he’d be back, by God he’d be back. Better prepared, better armoured and he’d finish the job for good. Now that Ra’is had crossed his line, there was no other option.

 

He sat the night through, eyes closed, breath calm and controlled and let his mind wander through his predicament. If Hannibal were here with him, his Hannibal, then he would be telling Face to think his way out of this, let his brain lead him and not his emotions. Well, okay, he’d do just that. He’d let Hannibal's influence over him, Hannibal's patient teaching of him, be the thing that brought Ra’is to his knees. Poetic justice.

 

_________________

 

Once Face had made the decision to be submissive, once he’d decided that it was an act he could do if it bought him his freedom, then it was surprisingly easy.

 

Mahood removed his gag once Ra’is had left for the day and Face never spoke, not a single word left his lips. For three days the gag was replaced in the late evening, just before Ra’is was due back, and Face didn’t fight it, didn’t make eye contact with Ra’is once he returned, just stayed on his mat by the wall, his head down, his posture meek and docile and by the evening of the fourth day, the hated gag never made a reappearance.

 

Physically, Face was feeling better. His many aches and pains were passing, the pain in his ass every time he moved was no more and it was only the emotional scars which remained. Face locked those away though. He had no time for them now; his survival was far more important.

 

At first, Ra’is seemed to only use his quarters for sleeping but, as the days crept by, he started to receive people in there, started to allow visitors and Face felt that that was very much about showing off his possession of an American slave.

 

“Why do you keep him? And in your chamber as well?”

 

Face knew the man’s face, knew he was a leader of one of the other militia’s, but couldn’t place his name, and couldn’t look too closely as he had his head bowed and was pretending he had no idea what the men were talking about, even though Ra’is, at least, knew that his Arabic was perfect.

 

Ra’is blew a plume of cigar smoke from where he lounged in a leather chair. “I like to fuck him. It’s handy to have him here, and Mahood can make sure he is clean.”

 

“You fuck him often?”

 

Ra’is didn’t pause, “Most days.” But he hadn’t. Only that once. So what the fuck was that?

 

“He’s a good fuck?”

 

There was a long pause. “Tolerable.”

 

Ra’is’ guest laughed. “His presence here does not sit well with our brothers though, Ra’is. They think you prefer him because he’s American, they’re questioning your loyalty to the cause.”

 

“Would they rather I fucked them?” Ra’is snapped, “And after what I have done, the information I have provided you all, I don’t think anyone has the right to question me.”

 

“But they do,” Face wondered if this man was Montakhab’s idol – they both had the same snake-like demeanour. “I tell them they are wrong, but they would like to see some proof for themselves.”

 

“Proof?” There was an edge to Ra’is’ tone that Face couldn’t quite pin down. “What type of proof?”

 

“Well,” Face could tell that this snake was worried about what he had to say, but he was certainly going to say it anyway. “They think you should kill him. Make a show of it.”

 

Face’s heart kicked up a notch.

 

“I’ll kill him when I’m done with him.”

 

“Some other show, then. Maybe a gathering, you could show the brothers how you use him.”

 

To Face, that was worse than death and his heart started thumping even harder but Ra’is just laughed.

 

“Tell them to get their porn from the internet. Or tell them to get their own American,” then he rose and extinguished his cigar on an ashtray on his desk. “Now, did you come here to talk business or sex?” and with that the conversation switched to how many men the snake could provide, when he could have them ready and where in the fortress they would be barracked.

 

Face sat silently on his mat and wondered how he could shift any of that into a tool to help him escape.

 

__________________

 

He was alone a lot. Mahood seemed to hate every second he was in Face’s company and Ra’is had appeared equally relieved to observe that Face had slipped into silent subservience so he could return to ignoring him completely. His twice daily visits to the wet room seemed to offer the best chance for a turn in his fortunes, but the guards who supervised him remained as jumpy and reliant on their weapons as before. He tried to scam them once, waited until he was unchained and then fell to the floor in what he felt was a credible impersonation of a fit. He’d hoped that they would run to him and that he’d be able to overpower one of them but instead they had simply stood in the doorway and yelled for Mahood. When he arrived, he’d sighed and told Face to get up, that Ra’is had warned them he might try this and that no one was fooled by his theatrics. Face had brazened it out, staying on the floor feigning unconsciousness but Mahood just refastened his chains and dragged him back to Ra’is’ quarters. He hadn’t even had the chance to use the toilet. 

 

He gave that up as a bad job and so went back to waiting patiently as the guards persisted on talking about Face in their own language – happy that he was ignorant as to what they were saying. He listened hard, tried to tune out the many insults and derogatory comments that were levelled at him and hoped that they would say something, anything, that he might be able to turn to his advantage. There was nothing though, and the one time he tried to talk to them in English it sent them into such a panic that he was relieved to get back to his rug without a bullet lodged somewhere.

 

He didn’t seem to be getting any closer to getting out but at least the abuse had stopped and the meals had become more substantial; he was gaining in strength every day – maybe the opportunity would come for him to surprise the guards after all, overpower one of them and get his hands on a weapon… he spent his days mulling over what he would do with that.

 

The days and nights were regular and monotonous, so when a change occurred, Face instantly knew it was something big, and probably something bad.

 

He’d been alone in Ra’is’ quarters once more, working out on the floor – press ups, sit ups, planking, as much Pilates as he could manage with the chains, anything to get himself in better shape to get out – when the door opened and six guards filed in. Face watched them impassively from his plank position and instantly noticed that they were new faces, slightly different uniforms, older, steadier, and his heart began to beat a little harder; these were professionals, not the teenagers who supervised his washroom visits.

 

He pushed up and out of position, rolling onto his butt to lean against the wall and check them out, count their weapons and register the lack of any apprehension at all – none of those things sent any vibes of positivity his way. He smiled though, tried to match their confidence from his place on the floor at their feet and cleared his throat. “Good evening,” he forced his smile a little wider. “Are you here for the Zumba class? I think you’ll find that’s in the room down the hallway.”

 

Nobody reacted, nobody betrayed even the slightest flicker of emotion, the man at the front barely even seemed to move his mouth as he spoke from underneath his wide moustache. “You are to come with us,” his English was impeccable. “If you refuse, we will shoot you where you cower.”

 

Face’s smile vanished. “I never refused and I’m certainly not cowering. Dick. You try standing up when you’re chained to the fucking floor.” There was no response to Face’s baiting, nothing but a turn to the man behind him and a barked order in Farsi to get Face up and moving.   

 

The door opened and Mahood was shoved in, as silent as usual but with none of his standard calm. He was shoved once more, falling to his knees at Face’s feet and the deep, dark sense of foreboding in Face’s gut just trebled in intensity.

 

“Set him free!” the leader barked again and Mahood shuffled forward, a key in his hand just as the call to evening prayer rang out high above them. No one moved, Face felt that he wasn’t about to be saved by the bell on this one but Mahood took the opportunity to shift even closer, his head bowed as his trembling fingers worked the lock and Face heard an urgent whisper come his way.

 

“These are not friends,” Face wondered mildly who here was his friend, “They are going to kill you,” Mahood spoke in English with a no trace of an accent at all. “Take whatever chance you can to get away.”

 

The lock sprung open at that and Face didn’t even have time to absorb any of the hissed warning as he was grabbed and hauled upright, his hands yanked behind his back and cuffed, his ankles still shackled which meant the fast pace set by his captors had him stumbling over and over again, but ice ran through his veins as he pondered his rapidly diminishing chances of survival.

 

“Alright,” he muttered, wincing as his bare foot slammed into a stone step, “If you’d fucking unchain me, I’d be able to walk a bit faster!” Again, no one reacted to his words at all and an experimental tug against the arms that held him only resulted in the butt of a pistol cracking down on the back of his neck and making it even harder to keep to his feet. 

 

He was dragged through the narrow stone passageways of the fortress and then out through a heavy wooden door and into a warm and starry night. Despite himself, Face took in huge lungfuls of the fresh air, savouring it like never before after the months he’d spent locked up indoors. He’d assumed that he was going to be loaded into some kind of transport, carried away from Ra’is as a prize for one of the rival warlords to kill, but when he looked up, blinked his fuzzy eyes back into focus, his stomach twisted in dread as he realised that he was in the central quad and the assumptions he’d made many months ago, as he lay on his belly at his vantage point in the surrounding hills, were dead on, literally. Plenty of places to house, torture or kill your enemies – that’s what he’d thought, he’d already seen the places to house and torture, looked like now he was seeing the place to kill.

 

It was a surprisingly large space, square, gravelled, plenty of room for the array of equipment Ra’is had accumulated over his months in charge: the gallows, the crucifixes, the Catherine Wheel, the cross of Saint Andrew. Face stared, bleakly at it all as he was dragged through the darkness towards a single pole set into the ground in front of a bullet-riddled wall, Mahood’s whispered warning reverberating through his head as he tried again to break free from the grasp of the guards although where he would go, how far he would even get, shackled as he was, made the attempts futile.

 

He was thrown against the pole and he immediately recoiled, angling his shoulder into the chest of the nearest guard, hoping to upend him and cause enough consternation to facilitate his break for freedom. It worked well, the guard stumbled, gasping for breath and fumbling his weapon but before Face had even half a chance to follow through, his tiny window of opportunity blew shut in his face as another guard stepped forward and returned the favour, slamming his fist into Face’s sternum, stealing his own breath and incapacitating him long enough for him to be tied, chest, hips and ankles, to the stake, a hood yanked down over his head and then left, footsteps crunching across the gravel only to halt again at what Face estimated was a safe distance for them to fire from.

 

“You sure you want to do this?” it was horrific, waiting at every moment for the order to fire and his violent death, but Face had never been the type who would give up easily and he was impressed with how steady his voice was even though his legs felt like jello. “I wouldn’t want to be you if Ra’is finds out you shot me. He ordered me to remain untouched, you know.”

 

His words had been delivered in English, hoping to appeal to the man who would give the orders but there was no answer, only a question in Farsi that was obviously not meant for Face. “Now, sir? Why are we waiting?”

 

There was the sound of pacing in the gravel and the voice, that of the man who was obviously in charge, replied in kind, just out to Face’s left. “Just a moment. Muqtada wants Ra’is to see, wants him to know what we think of his American pet.”

 

Face closed his eyes and blew out a long breath.

 

“Get ready. Take your aim.”

 

“We could talk about this?” It was hot under the hood and Face was sweating, rivulets of salty water running down to soak into the neck of his robe. “I’m sure I could cut you some kind of deal? I’m good at getting things, there must be something you’d want?”

 

“Where are we aiming, sir? Fast or slow?”

 

“Slow,” Face could hear the bastard smiling, “Muqtada wants it to last for hours.”

 

Muqtada… somewhere in Face’s frantic brain the name connected to a face and he could see him, Muqtada Deraa, one of the more brutal warlords and obviously someone who wasn’t that keen on Ra’is having everything entirely his way. The fact that Face wasn’t the only person to hate the man wasn’t much of a comfort at this point in time. “I haven’t had a last meal you know,” he was talking for his life; every moment he kept them from executing him was a moment that could offer him the chance to get away. “Or even a smoke. You guys got a smoke I could have? Isn’t that traditional at times like this?”

 

It was a single gun-shot that rang out into the night, echoing around the thick stone walls and making Face jerk in response, wincing inside the hood as his bare legs were blasted with gravel. “Be quiet,” back to English and that quiet voice of authority. “You might be Ra’is’ bitch, but the least you could do is try and die with some dignity.”

 

And just like that, Face was back in the rec room, the taunts of the men around him, the searing pain in his ass and the betrayal in his heart. What would be a violent death after the horror of that?

 

“Okay men, ready your weapons,” Face screwed his eyes closed as he heard half a dozen safety catches disengage, “take aim…” silence fell across the quad, a soft breeze pulled at the bottom of his robe and soothed the stinging in his shins as he held his breath, “hold your positions, wait for Muqtada…”

 

He should say something at this point, Face knew that, but his mind was an empty vessel. He wouldn’t beg, that was for certain, he had no one to say goodbye to, which was both tragic and fortunate, and his once-never-ending supply of sharp comments appeared to have run dry.

 

This was it, the way he died. He’d always thought it would be less… expected.

 

“And…”

 

Face held his breath.

 

“Fire!”

 

Gunfire exploded around him and his body jerked in response. There was no pain though, no death, no nothing. What the fuck? He strained to try and pick up any sound at all over his panicked breathing, loud and hot inside the hood, and then there was a single command in Farsi, “Men!” and footsteps, were they retreating? And then it hit him: mock execution – the bastards. But for his benefit or Ra’is’? They certainly didn’t seem to care whether he’d pissed his pants or not although he was kind of relieved to find that he hadn’t. Anger swirled in to replace the fear and he yanked at his bonds, tried to shake the hood from his head but there were no words of censure, no reprimand, no order to stop.

 

“Hey!” no answer. No response, the wind played with his robe and a dog barked in the distance. “Hey!” Face shouted again, facing a bullet had been one thing, abandoned, helpless, in the dark, something entirely different.

 

And then there were footsteps, crunching through the gravel once more, jogging at speed and Face was back to bracing himself, wondering if this was a second attempt, a real attempt, and if they’d even bother with an order or just rip his body apart with bullets the second they got close enough. There were no shots though, no words, just hands on him, freeing the ropes and then bundling him forwards once more. His legs were weak, the adrenalin blurring everything and he stumbled almost at once, only to be picked up, manhandled off the ground with firm hands around his limbs and carried at a jog, the only sound above the crunching of boots on gravel the occasional barked word in Arabic, “Careful!”, “Watch him!”, “Hurry!”

 

He was inside, down the echoing corridor, doors were kicked open and then a voice, deep, familiar – taut – “Put him down there,” and a surge of relief rushed through Face on hearing it, closely followed by another surge of self-hatred for his weakness.

 

He expected the floor, was surprised when his chest was laid on something hard, his toes scuffing the stone floor and tried to get up, find his feet even though his hands were still bound behind his back, the hood still muffling all of his senses. There was a hand at his back though, a command in that same edgy voice, “Tie his feet.”

 

It all surged back then, the smell of the alcohol or the stifling pillow, he wasn’t sure which or both but it was all he could smell and he tried to push up but the weight on his back was relentless, holding him down as his feet were pulled apart, ankles tied to something hard, with an edge that bit into his skin.

 

“No…” his mind rebelled against what his body was telling him, there was no way this could be happening to him, absolutely no way. He pushed up harder, “Fucking get off me, you bastard! Get off me now!”

 

“Tie him.”

 

The word was barked in Arabic and Face felt ropes threaded underneath his arms and pulled tight, keeping him down, pressed into the wood, letting the hand lift from his back and yank his robe up instead, roughly tugging it from under his body until a hard edge was biting into his hips and he squeezed his eyes shut as they burned with hot tears, “Don’t you fucking touch me…” It was pointless, a token protest, an empty threat and the hand was there almost immediately, slippery with slick, ghosting over his hole, and he had to bite his lip to try and prevent himself from begging for it to stop.

 

Were the guards still there? Were they watching this? Were they going to have a turn as well? Was this punishment for what had just happened? How the fuck was that his fault?

 

“Getting your fucking hands off me…” Face squirmed and writhed but Ra’is carried on regardless, tracing around and around and around, playing with Face even as he desperately tried to shift away from the imposition.

 

“Shhh,” the hood was yanked away, cool air rushing in to take its place, and Face opened his eyes to find himself tied over the heavy desk in the quarters that had been his prison for so many weeks. “It’s okay, keep still,” and the words were ghosted over the damp skin at the back of his neck.  

 

Okay? How the fuck could this ever be okay? “Get off!” the words morphed into a strangled growl as the circling finger pushed in, right in, and crooked back, finding Face’s prostate with ease and gently circling it.

 

“Shhh…”

 

“Don’t you dare do this again,” Face’s panic was bubbling just below the surface. Ra’is’ bitch – that’s what Muqtada’s men had called him and he would be, if this is what was going to happen, then he would be and everything he’d fought for since that night in the orphanage would have been a complete waste of time. A wasted life. “I swear to God, I’ll kill you for this,” God… his voice was so choked. “I will… you’re a dead man walking…”

 

“Jesus Christ, Face…” the words were little more than an angry hiss and the finger was suddenly gone. Ra’is was gone and face strained to look over his shoulder, see where the fuck he was going but he was already on his way back, tension etched into every line of his face as he approached with that damn ball gag in his hand once more. “You need to be quiet.”

 

Face yanked at his ropes once more and turned his head away but there was no escape, nowhere to hide. Rough fingers clamped around his chin and drew him up, kept him still whilst his jaw was forced open, the ball pushing in, making him gag and yell wordlessly in fury as it was tightened around the back of his head once more. He dropped his forehead to the desk and burned in angry humiliation, his breath tearing in through his nose but it still wasn’t enough to give him the oxygen he needed and everything started to swim. After that the finger was straight back in, straight back to its job of stroking and fondling and choked back a cry as he tried to bury his head into the desk top and closed his eyes to keep the tears at bay. This was happening. Fuck it all and everything that Face had worked for, this was going to happen again and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing. He just hoped it would be quick, and set about trying to survive it.  

 

Over Face’s panicked breaths, the room was quiet, only the ticking of the clock and the occasional sucking sound as Ra’is slick fingers, first one, then two and finally three, worked to destroy both the resistance of Face’s hole and his entire psyche. Face tried to will himself to relax, tried to force his mind to control the fight or flight instincts of his body – there was no stopping it now, he just had to make sure it didn’t hurt like before, wouldn’t damage his hard-won fitness and his chances to get away.

 

Then the fingers were gone and Face braced himself and there it was, that blunt heat, and without pause, Ra’is’ huge cock started forcing its way inside him. It was nowhere near as painful this time, just that slight burn that Face always welcomed in consensual sex, and he knew that it was due to the stretching he’d had and the fact that the man was taking his time this time, inching in bit by bit, having his time to savour it without his baying audience, nestling in as far as he could go as Face lay limply under him, just wanting it done. All of it. “There…” the breath was hot against his neck and he could feel Ra’is’ naked chest as it pressed against his back. “That’s okay, isn’t it? Now you’re still. Now you’re not fighting me.” Face swallowed down his sob.

 

Ra’is’ hands slid over Face’s back, stroking gently, before settling over his kidneys as he started to move inside of his prisoner, rolling his hips with none of the violence of before. Face had expected pain, had expected to be pounded until he bled but somehow this was worse – every roll of that swollen cock-head inside him slid across Face’s prostate and sparked tiny tendrils of unwanted pleasure deep inside him.

 

“That’s it…” the words were whispered right into his ear. “Just relax. Let it happen. Let me make you feel good…”

 

Face’s eyes shot open in alarm as slick fingers crept around his thigh and under the table, finding his flaccid, hanging cock and starting to stroke and pull. Desperately, he tried to shift away but he was trapped between the desk, the ropes and Ra’is’ weight on his back, he tried to yell and swear but the gag stole his words, he tried to buck Ra’is off him but only succeeded in fucking himself on the man’s detested cock and slowly, mortifyingly, his dick started to respond.

 

With every calculated pull and stroke, Face’s cock started to swelled and filled and as it did so, Ra’is’ movements became faster, his breath heavier, his thrusts harder, deeper – his pleasure more noticeable. Tears welled in Face’s eyes and over spilt, despite how tightly he clenched them shut. He couldn’t believe this, couldn’t imagine it could have ever got worse but here it was; not only was Ra’is betraying him again, he was even getting Face’s own body to betray itself.

 

It was too much. Finally, after everything, it was just too much.

 

Face wanted to sob like a child but he refused, there would be no way that he would let this man see what he was doing, what he was destroying with every firm pull of his hand.

 

Everything started to shut down, he just couldn’t cope with it; the degradation was too much, the damage too severe. Long ago he’d perfected the art of leaving his body behind, of finding that safe, secure place in his head and locking himself in there, divorcing himself from the reality around him as a method of survival. As his cock filled and hardened, pre-come starting to ooze at Ra’is’ command he desperately scrambled away, securing himself in the panic room, his consciousness drifting outside his body where he could watch the scene unfold as if it were a movie.

 

Ra’is wasn’t naked, he’d pulled up his t-shirt and let his trousers bunch around his ankles, remaining fully clothes to Face’s almost-nakedness. He was dressed in one of the robes that Mahood brought him and nothing else and the robe itself was gathered up over his shoulders leaving him naked and exposed. He looked a mess – pale, gaunt, scarred and scratched. His hair and finger nails were too long, his stubble uneven and his skin smeared in grime yet again; it was a wonder that Ra’is could even stand to fuck him.

 

But he was, with abandon now, his hips slamming into place, his hand jerking away at Face’s straining cock, the only part of him with any colour. Ra’is was sweating and grunting, his pace ever increasing as his pleasure soared and Face’s body was jerking with every brutal thrust inside him, every twist of that big hand over his cock head.

 

“You have to come,” Face watched as Ra’is leaned right over to whisper that in his upturned ear. “You have to come now, I want to feel it.”

 

The speed increased yet more, there was the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin as Ra’is’ balls slammed into Face’s butt, his hand blurred at the speed it was stroking Face’s cock. Then the orgasm hit. Face hardly felt it, floating as he was, but he watched as his prone body jerked and shuddered, his cock twitched and spurted and strangled noises escaped from around the detested gag.

 

“Yes!” Ra’is was triumphant though, milking Face for everything he had before dropping his spent cock and slamming himself home time and time again, head back, mouth slack in pleasure as he emptied himself over and over again.

 

Then he slowed, his chest heaving, his eyes opening and he looked down, pulled out and watched as a smear of come followed him once more. This time he coated the end of his cock with it and pushed back in again, sighing in pleasure at the slick slide, then, still buried inside, leaned over and brushed Face’s hair back, frowning as he saw the empty expression, the staring eyes.

 

The room was eerily quiet. Ra’is pushed up again and stood, brow creased, chest heaving, head bowed, his cock still buried deep inside Face’s ass, his fingers rested lightly on prominent ribs. He seemed almost reluctant to withdraw, but edged out slowly and carefully, watching Face’s expression as it remained fixed in granite. This time he ignored the come that followed him out and walked over to the ornate closet on the far wall, taking out a towel and wiping himself down, casting surreptitious glances over at Face’s empty body as it lay over the desk exactly where it had been left.

 

He pulled another t-shirt from the wardrobe and stripped off his sweaty one, throwing it into the corner of the room before tugging the new one on, eyes drifting back to Face once more. Then he got another towel and crossed the room, wiping between Face’s open legs, stroking down his thighs before pulling the robe back down and carefully removing the ball gag. Still, Face’s body didn’t move although its eyes were open and staring at the wall. Ra’is leaned over and unfasted the ropes under his left arm, then his right, having to grab over the desk as Face’s body started sliding limply towards the floor. He caught him around the waist and held him tightly as he reached down and awkwardly untied the bonds around his ankles, shuffling about until he could haul the limp body into his arms and carry it over to the rug on the floor.

 

He lay him down almost carefully, stroking back messy hair to look into the staring eyes and Face watched impassively as he reached out to wipe away a single tear from his filthy cheek. Then there were words, words that he couldn’t really hear, sounded like nothing more than a heavy droning and Ra’is rubbed a hand across his own face, scrubbing as if he were clearing something away before taking the chains from where they lay on the floor and slowly fastening them back around bony wrists and ankles.

 

Face’s empty body still didn’t move. Not when Ra’is got a cushion from one of the chairs to put under his head, or when the rough blanket was draped over him once more. Those blue eyes, once so bright and full of life, just stared, flatly, at the wall and, after a moment bowed in thought, Ra’is got up and went to the wet room.

 

He was back within minutes, hair damp, eyes on the corner where Face’s body lay staring and motionless and finally retreated to his bed, keeping the drapes open so that he could lie on his side and stare through the dark at the still form across the room from him.

 

Face himself, meanwhile, continued to drift around the walls, watching and listening, safe and secure in his panic room. He had to go back into his body sometime, he realised that, but there was no rush, none at all. He didn’t know how he knew, it was instinct he supposed and he’d always been good with his instincts – but he knew that when he did go back it would all be different. When he did go back, the Face that he’d known, the Face that he’d once been, wouldn’t be there anymore; there’d be nothing left of him at all.

 

Ra’is had finally won, and in doing so, had destroyed him for good.

 

______________________                   

 

It was light when Face went back to his body. Slanting, golden light that diffused through the room and made the ornate brass light fittings sparkle and gleam. Face was cold though, a statue of ice in all of this golden warmth, and he pulled the rough blanket more tightly around him even though he knew that the cold inside him was the type that would never warm through.

 

He had no idea what had happened to the night. No idea what had happened to Ra’is but without even turning around he knew that he was alone in the chamber once more. Not that he cared. His mind drifted back as his eyes stared at the wall and he found himself replaying the most recent rape in his head. It was funny, but it didn’t hurt anymore, didn’t bother him at all he wondered mildly why it ever had. He felt nothing. No anger, no sadness, no fear, no despair just a huge, cold, empty nothing.

 

Somehow that was worse.

 

The teenage guards came for him once more but he barely even noticed. It was like they were just at the very fringes of his awareness, ghosts in the edges of the mist, easy to disregard as he stared at the grains of sand that made up the bricks in the wall. They must have given up on him at some point and gone again because then there was Mahood, kneeling in front of him, turning his face so that Face had no option but to look his way but still it was easy to not see anything through the fog in his head. Mahood’s mouth was moving and Face watched it, watched the way that the man’s tongue flicked up against white teeth, then down again, then vanished all together behind pressed lips. Face had never really noticed that about tongues before. No actual words ever reached him.

 

And then it was dark and even colder although Face couldn’t find himself bothered enough to try and adjust his blanket. A light flicked on and hurt his eyes but he kept them open, found his brick once more and started tracing patterns in the sand grains with his eyes. There, a line, there, a square. Was that a heart maybe? Upside down? Or a teardrop? It was a teardrop he was sure.

 

His head moved, rotated away from his brick and there was a face above him – someone he used to know, someone he couldn’t quite place at this moment. He too was talking, but like Mahood before him there were no words, just a lined face and that moving mouth and a fan high above in the ceiling, a fan that wasn’t rotating, but was edging from side to side as if it were caught in a draught. He wondered if it were the same draught that was making him so cold and watched the fan carefully, trying to predict when it would tip, when the wind would catch it. Then the fan and the ceiling were both gone and Face had his brick back again and he set about trying to find the tear drop before forgetting what he was doing and counting every grain he could see instead.

 

Then, there were more people. A man with a huge moustache who triggered the vaguest flicker of memory in the back of Face’s head. He had guards with him, unfamiliar guards and Face blankly wondered if he was going to go through another mock-execution; he found it hard to care if he was. They didn’t unchain him, though, or haul him to his feet and drag him away, no, they just lifted his robe and Face felt warm hands parting his butt cheeks and then there was a finger tracing around his hole, like Ra’is had done before and the frost inside him chilled yet again, freezing even harder, the ice threatening to burst through his ribs and shatter him into a million pieces. There was a single voice inside him that cried, ‘No’, but everything else was silent, empty, blank and so Face prepared to flee his body once more, wondered if these men would even leave him alive once they were done with him.

 

But then the finger was gone, his robe was replaced, there was the droning of voices above him and then silence. Face was left wondering if he’d simply imagined it all. 

 

Time had no meaning, there was no passage that he could determine. The shadows changed though – in shape and colour and the way that they reached for him, long fingers that threatened to take him away and end it all but never followed through. Liars… Face thought absently to himself. Who’d have thought that shadows were liars? He’d spent a lot of time with shadows, he knew that. They’d been around him ever since he was a boy. If was often those that were most familiar that let you down the hardest.

 

He watched them again. Saw them tracking him across the room, creeping closer and closer as the golden light fell to be replaced by grey and wasn’t that the way of the world? Everything golden was an illusion or at the very least a fleeting state. Grey was the standard, grey was the inevitable end for everything. These shadows were so grey they looked black, like inky fingers coming to steal him away. He wondered if that was what he wanted, but then realised he wanted nothing so what did it matter if they came for him or not? What if they plucked out his heart and ate it? Would he even notice? Maybe they already had…

 

“Face?”

 

He knew a Face once. Face had been a happy man with a life and friends and hopes and fears. Face had been golden. The gold was all gone now, like a tarnished treasure, and only the grey was left. He wondered what that meant for Face – wondered where he’d gone to.

 

“Face!”

 

The bricks were gone again and that annoyed him which was – different. Had he ever felt annoyance before? It was hard to remember but maybe he had. Either way, he missed his bricks and wanted them back. His eyes liked the teardrop shape and the counting kept away the cold, so why was he looking at the fan again? And why was it spinning this time? Twisting around until the edges of the blades were buried behind a face, a face with a moving mouth, but no sounds reached him through his fog.

 

Then his view changed again, this time it was the closet he could see, pulsing and shuddering in the sudden light, and that was odd because he felt like it had been a whole lifetime since he’d seen that before. Where had the closet been? Had the shadows taken it?

 

“Face, kid, please… Please, Templeton, please, come on…”

 

Templeton… That was a name he’d not heard in a long while and brought up images of a little blond boy, sapphire eyes and golden skin that shined in the sun. Templeton had been beautiful but had lived in a different time, a different world, far away from the voice that had spoken the name.

 

“Temp, come on, hurry, please!”

 

Something jarred inside him, something that didn’t make sense. He blinked and the closet stopped its shuddering, just as the shadows stopped their insidious creeping and the fan became nothing but a fan once more. He blinked again and focussed on the face staring at him, made his body take up some of his own weight and shook away the fog, letting the words reach him in their entirety.

 

“Face? You there? You with me?”

 

Where was Templeton? He’d liked him. And who was this? Hannibal… whispered a voice inside him but he pushed it all down. “Ra’is…”

 

“Thank fuck… Come on, you have to get up.”

 

Face wasn’t sure if he could. When was the last time he’d used his legs? And the chains… the chains had always weighed him down so heavily… But he rose with ease, warm hands helping him up and he looked down, frowned at the skinny, white and pockmarked legs he could see beneath him and then focussed on the empty chain, coiled loosely on the stone floor like a dead serpent and what was that?

 

“You have to leave.”

 

He was weak, unsteady, but Ra’is’ hands on his arms were relentless, tugging him towards the giant fireplace. Leave? But – wasn’t that what he’d always wanted? And wasn’t Ra’is the one who’d kept him chained like a dog? 

 

“Here.”

 

A backpack was held out to him and Face just stared at it, struggling to grasp the chain of events he found himself in. Ra’is blew out a frustrated breath and reached for him, grabbing his shoulders and yanking the bag onto his back, making him stagger at the unfamiliar weight of it all.

 

“Listen to me,” those big hands were on his face now, cupping his cheeks and Face blinked at the warmth of them, the intimacy of them and, as he remembered how much everything this man had done had hurt him, the hurt started to come back, trickling into his heart once more. “You need to follow this tunnel, move as fast as you can, and when you get out just keep going. It’s gonna be as safe as ever tonight – people are going to have other things on their minds with the air strikes – but you still have to keep low, keep moving: if they find you, they’ll kill you. Okay?”

 

What? Face wanted to ask. Who? But it was hard to persuade his mouth to work.

 

“Once you get to the river, call for help. There’s a radio in your pack with your approximate position taped to the side. If you can’t do that, trigger the beacon and they’ll find you. Hide somewhere safe and wait. And use this,” one of the hands on his cheeks vanished and something cold and hard was pressed into his palm. “There’s clothes in the bag, food and water too. Keep yourself safe, Face, okay?”

 

Face… Face had been golden, but the gold was all gone now, like a tarnished treasure, and only the grey was left. And it was Ra’is that had stripped it all away.

 

“You need to go… now!” he was pushed towards the fireplace and the gaping mouth of black that lurked in its shadows. A secret tunnel, how medieval; Face should have guessed really. He glanced down at the weight in his hand and there was a pistol, an M9 – just like the one he used to have – and how long had he wanted a weapon for? What had he planned to do with it?

 

Ah, yes.

 

Walking and speaking were still problematic but this, lifting this weapon, sweeping it up and pointing it squarely and steadily into Ra’is’ face – that was easy and it helped the last of the fog to clear.

 

Ra’is’ eyes widened and his hands lifted into harmless gestures at his shoulders. There was fear in his expression though, real fear and that – after so long feeling helpless – was glorious. “Face…” his voice was low, urgent. “We have no time for this now. No time at all. You need to go. You have to get away.”

 

“I came to kill you,” Face’s voice was rough but his words were steady. “And after what you’ve done to me, I should do it three times over.”

 

Those piercing blue eyes closed at that and Ra’is seemed to stoop, seemed to stagger under the weight of the words before he straightened once more, his gaze pinning Face where he stood. “You’re right. Of course you’re absolutely right and it’s all I deserve. But you fire that pistol and people will hear you. You’ll lose the chance to run and they will kill you, I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”

 

“Protect me? ‘Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me’.” the fire of anger blazed right through Face’s body and he held the pistol a little more tightly. “You are the bastard who’s crushed me.”

 

“Face…” despite the words, despite the gun barrel, Ra’is stepped in, his voice urgent. “Believe me, by the end of this night I will be burning in hell for what I have done. There’s no need for you to burn with me. Think of Murdock. You think he’d want you to give yourself up, just to kill a dead man walking?”

 

Murdock… That name had been gone for so long – how could Face have done that? How could he have spent all these months without one thought for the man who loved him most?

 

He took a step backward and Ra’is pushed him on. “Go, Face, please. Get out of here while you can.”

 

Another step and he was in the tunnel. Ra’is put his back to the stone door and heaved and the room beyond was gone. There was a glow coming from the bag on his back and Face twisted around, saw the outline of a torch shining in an outside pocket and grabbed it. Then he turned his back on Ra’is and the nightmare of the last few months and started down the black tunnel, every step surer than the last.

 

_________________

 

He guessed it had taken him about an hour to get out into the silent night and as he scrambled from the rocks which hid the entrance to the tunnel he dredged through his memories to find what Ra’is had told him. “Get to the river,” he whispered as he dropped the pack to the ground and started rooting through it. “Then call for help. There’s a radio in there with your position taped on.”

 

There it was, standard US Army issue and Face flicked it on to see if it was working. He lay it in the sand and shoved his hand into the pack once more, finding something soft this time and pulling out a set of clothes. The dirty, shapeless robe was off over his head in a second and an olive green t-shirt yanked back in its place. Then there were briefs and Face froze as his fingers held the familiar, white Calvins in his shaking fingers, his heart thumping as he realised that they were his, his own, from months ago but clean and laundered. What the fuck? He pulled them on, after months without underwear it was glorious and it made him realise just how exposed he’d felt for all this time. He guessed that had been the whole point. The combats were his as well, cleaned and laundered, and the t-shirt – even the socks.

 

They’d all been in the pack that he’d left up in the rocks outside Ra’is’ stronghold. The man must have ordered them searched for and… yes, there was his sniper rifle, all cleaned and dismantled, making it easier to pack – even his own boots were there.

 

He dressed quickly, feeling more and more like his old self with every passing second and then wolfed down an energy bar as he crouched in the dirt, thinking back over everything else that Ra’is had told him. It’s gonna be as safe as ever tonight – people are going to have other things on their minds with the air strikes – but you still have to keep low, keep moving: if they find you, they’ll kill you. Of course they’d kill him, they’d kill any American they found out here but of course they hadn’t had they? They’d held him for all those months and not killed him…

 

Airstrikes… Face had assumed there was a huge militia offensive planned for tonight but something had escaped him, something he really, really shouldn’t have missed and that was the fact that none of the insurgent groups had any air support at all. None of them. Not a single flying object between them. Not even a kite. His heart started thumping hard and his eyes twisted slowly toward the horizon and Ra’is’ stronghold, the place that Ra’is had spent months filling with every single previously-warring rebel faction from miles around. Drawing them to him, recruiting them all into one, single fighting force, housing them all in the same, vast stronghold. A stronghold that would be unassailable from the ground, a fight force that would be unconquerable… unless…

 

He looked at the US issue radio at his feet, the energy bars, the US branded water, the M9, his M9, back where it belonged in the holster on his chest and he slowly got to his feet, facts sliding into place in his head, one after another, clunk, clunk, clunk.

 

“Fucking hell…”

 

Within seconds, everything he had was back in the pack and the pack was on his shoulder and he was moving. Not away from the tunnel, away from Ra’is and towards the river, no, he was heading back up through the rocks, his pace urgent, back towards Ra’is…

 

___________________

 

Running, it took only half the time for Face to get to the stone wall in the fireplace of Ra’is’ quarters and he pressed his ear against the cold stone, listening intently. He could hear nothing, not a sound reached him and he swore softly under his breath, heaving and fumbling until he finally managed to shove the heavy stone just far enough back to let him peer through. He looked around and the room was just as he’d left it, chains on the floor, bed empty and unmade, the desk where Ra’is had taken him, solid and unapologetic… he shook the memory from his head and made the gap wider, squeezing through and crept forward, M9 held ready, anxiety creeping up inside him with every second as Ra’is’ words circled in his head, airstrikes, airstrikes, airstrikes…

 

He poked his head out into the passageway and found it empty, but there were voices coming from a long way off and he could see them, right at the far end of the long passage, hundreds of them, rallying out in the quad, Ra’is’ voice booming out from loudspeakers everywhere. He’s keeping them altogether, he realised as he turned that way, making sure they’re all in the right place at the right time when the moment comes. But what a problem that posed for Face, how the hell would he be able to get to Ra’is through all of that?

 

“You…!” The hiss came from behind him and Face spun, his eyes latching onto Montakhab’s with a flat sense of fatalistic inevitability. For a second, Montakhab looked stunned as his eyes skipped over Face, but then the shocked expression melted away to be replaced by a smile, thin and mocking and Montakhab adjusted his stance. “I suppose it makes sense that it ends this way,” the smile seemed to split his face in two, “That I’m the one who finally kills you. The old replaced by the new, right? And you’re looking frail, Face… you want me to make it quick – or draw it out?”

 

For the briefest of moments, Face fought with his conscience but then he just shrugged it all off. He moved fast, his hand a blur in the half light and before Montakhab had ever really registered Face’s intent, he was dead, three shots to the chest stopping his heart instantly, his body crashing into the wall behind him and sliding to the stone floor to just sit there – surprised expression on its face.

 

It would have been fairer – and more satisfying – for Face to have killed him in a bout of one on one, but Face was busy, and Montakhab was right; he wasn’t in peak physical condition. Anyway, Hannibal had always told him that posturing was for the movies, in real life you just got the job done. And he had. “Told you I’d kill you,” he muttered, and turned away, jogging up the passageway towards the quad.

 

“Overkill is underrated…” Face muttered as he pulled his Keffiyeh up over his head – and this overkill had Hannibal Smith written all over it. He slid into the baying crowd, keeping his head down and only half listening to Ra’is’ words which were designed, purely and simply, to keep the attendant crowds happy and – more importantly – still. It was a PR triumph, there were flaming torches spewing their light into the dark sky, firework fountains in gold and silver whenever Ra’is commanded them, music that swelled with his words of the final victory over the infidels who swarmed through their lands… the assembled militia men, insurgents, Al-Qaida followers as well no doubt, were lapping it up.

 

Face pushed on, ever forwards, sweating now in the crush of the crowd and praying that no one looked closely enough to see him as the intruder he was. Still Ra’is played his crowd, getting them to cheer and chant, louder and louder, and, with a sick twisting in his gut, Face suddenly realised why.

 

The jets came from nowhere, barely skimming the top of the fortress, they unleashed hell onto the unsuspecting masses below. Where there had been euphoria, there was now outrage and panic as the earth shook and those not instantly vaporised were showered in debris and body parts. Face had been lucky, was still in the centre of the quad and so avoided much of the initial impact. The jets would be circling back though, he knew that for certain and… he glanced up, saw Ra’is climbing back to his feet on his improvised stage, his time was running out.

 

“No!” Ra’is voice reverberated impressively around the courtyard, his Arabic both dangerous and inciting. “How dare the infidels attack us in our own home? Stand and fight! Stand and fight! Show these dogs who they are dealing with! Bite them, bite them hard and make them bleed!”

 

The effect of that speech was stunning. Instantly, the panic subsided, to be replaced with a vicious, new determination. Guns were lifted skywards, peppering the night with bullets and Face ducked as he ran, hands over his head, fearing instant death at any moment. With an ear splitting screech the jets were back, targeting the fortress itself this time and thunderous explosions rang around him, sending him skidding forward to crash against the base of a wall as huge chunks of masonry rained from the sky.

 

That had been closer, much closer and, as he scrambled to his feet he could see corpses littering the gravelled courtyard around him. His eyes shifted to the stage and his heart lurched as he saw it empty, it was only then that the relative silence hit him as well, yes, there was the shouting, the cries for help, the thundering roar of fires and lingering gunshots, but there was no Ra’is, no call to arms and Face’s fear rose exponentially. He pushed forward, found the edge of the stage and, gritting his teeth, hauled himself up. There was a body sprawled right in front of him, one he’d recognise anywhere and it was enough, despite everything he’d been through, to drag a horrified, “No…” from his lips.

 

He scrambled forward, flinching as he heard the jets circling around for yet another sweep, and knew he just had to move – they just had to move. Ra’is was out cold, blood smearing the side of his face but there was no time to worry about that, no time to even check for a heart beat, Face just bolstered every ounce of strength he had and hauled at the dead weight, pulling and straining until it was bent over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and then, thighs trembling with the effort, he rose shakily to his feet.

 

Despite Montakhab’s version of hell, Face knew that this was the real deal. Death was everywhere, and not often in one piece whilst the very flames of Lucifer were burning everything that would combust. The jets sounded like hellcats themselves, screaming and screeching as they flew in and out, spewing death everywhere and Face could hear ground based artillery thundering away in the distance, he guessed they were watching for escapees and taking them out by force. There was only one way out.

 

He put his head down and ran, staggering under Ra’is’ weight and the force of the explosions that continued to wrack the ancient fortress. The huge, wooden doors through which he’d been dragged to his mock-execution were hanging forlornly off their hinges and Face turned sideways to get Ra’is inside. There were still plenty of men around, some firing shots up into the black sky, some running, frantically looking for a way out but none of them sparing even a second’s glance for Face.

 

He staggered along the corridor, passed Montakhab’s body, still staring with that bemused expression on its face, sat against the wall in a sticky pool of blood. There was no time for that though, Face barrelled into Ra’is quarters, kicking the door open and crashing into the frame as he went, ricocheting backwards and almost dumping both him and Ra’is onto the floor. Carefully, he regained his balance and, hoisting Ra’is a little higher on his shoulder, distastefully stepped around the iron ring and the chains that had, for so long, been his companion in this room. The entrance to the secret tunnel was still open and, as thundering up above announced the return of the jets, he stooped as far as he could to get through.

 

“Nearly there...” he whispered to himself as he jogged through the blackness. “Nearly there...” and it was, at that very moment, that thunder erupted all around him and everything was swallowed by rock and sand and silent nothing.

 

_

 

Hannibal Smith had a nice voice, when he sang. Face had always thought that. He didn’t sing often, unlike Murdock who sung all the time, different songs, different genres, different voices – the man had an incredible talent for comic mimicry, or even BA, who tended to sing when he was busy, his voice so deep Face could feel it in his chest. No – Hannibal only sang when he was very alone. Face had still got to hear him though, by listening at doors, feigning sleep, once by lying on his belly on the roof in the sun. It was worth it, to hear that surprisingly soft voice crooning through the classics, all the songs that Father David had played on the ancient Decca music system in his office. It had made Face feel settled, feel calm, like everything was right with the world. 

 

It was having that effect now, as was the hand in his hair, gently stroking. Face floated right on the edge of sleep, a precarious li-lo, and listened to the words washing over him in gentle waves, "When somebody loves you, it’s no good unless he loves you, all the way. Happy to be near you, when you need someone to cheer you, all the way.”

 

He was lucky. Hannibal had obviously not realised he was awake yet and Murdock and BA must be well out of hearing distance, that meant that he could just lie here and enjoyed this rarest of treats, a touch and a song, for as long as he could.

 

“Taller than the tallest tree is, that’s how it’s got to feel. Deeper than the deep blue sea, that’s how deep it goes if it’s real.”

 

Face cast his mind back, tried to remember where they were, what they’d been doing. It was all a little fuzzy though... there’d been a desert, he was sure of that but then, when wasn’t there a desert these days? And a building maybe? A huge, golden fort rising from the sands like a child’s toy.

 

“When somebody needs you, it’s no good unless he needs you, all the way. Through the good or lean years and for all the in between years, come what may.”

 

Jets? Had there been jets? Murdock would have loved that...! And a tunnel, which was odd. And explosions... shooting... fire... and Hannibal’s limp body except, Face’s heart started beating fast, a sickly sense of dread creeping up through his limbs, no... not Hannibal... not Hannibal at all... someone else entirely

 

“Who knows where the roads may lead us? Only a fool would say...” The singing broke off with a strangled sob and the hand in Face’s hair vanished at the same moment, the exact same moment that everything slammed back into Face with the force of a speeding juggernaut.

 

“Ra’is,” the word was spat like the insult it was and Face tried to push away from the warmth and the voice and the hands that belonged to a traitor but an agonising fire burst into life in his legs and he cried out, flopped back onto something soft, those hated hands on him again, holding him, soothing him and this time he was in too much pain to try and move them.

 

“Take it easy, kid...” How did that bastard still manage to sound like Hannibal? “Your legs are trapped. I can’t get them out. I’ve triggered the beacon, hopefully they’ll come for us but you need to stay still, try to keep calm. You want a drink, some meds?”

 

It was a long speech, long enough for Face swallow down some of his pain and to sort through the rest of his jumbled thoughts. They were all there, the dungeon, the beatings, the mock-execution, the rapes... but beyond that there was something else, something niggling at him that didn’t quite make sense… He shifted again, and again the pain flared through him stirring up a nausea so strong he had to sit up, twist to the side to heave and that in turn unleashed a fire in his legs that was severe enough to swallow him whole.

 

_______________________

 

Everything was quiet, peaceful.

 

Not silent: there was the low hum of distant conversations, the clinking of china, a rhythmic beeping, a woman’s voice – a news-reader? – talking about a spreading wildfire, in English, her accent undeniably mid-western United States and Face felt sweet, warm hope spread inside him.

 

“Lieutenant Peck?” the voice was soft and came from right in front of his nose but it was still an effort for Face to open his eyes, they seemed to be weighted in lead. “Can you look at me? Can you wake up?”

 

It seemed that the answer to both of those questions was a rather fuzzy, ‘A bit’, but Face did his best, ratchetting his eyes open as far as he could, peering through the gloom of the room to the hazy looking female face studying him.

 

“Hi,” her smile widened as she saw him blinking groggily at her. “You are in hospital. Martin, Georgia. Do you understand?”

 

Face nodded even though his eyes slid shut once more. Thank fuck for that.

 

“You were airlifted out of Iraq and you’ve been here two days now.”

 

Two days… Enough time for the General to know exactly where he was – he wondered if that meant he was under arrest. Sleep was calling him though, soft and gentle sleep without any of the threat he’d lived under for all those weeks. It was a damn good feeling.

 

“You have a visitor as well, he’s been outside, waiting for you to wake up. Shall we send him in? It’s Colonel Smith.”

 

And just like that, everything changed. Face’s eyes flew open and his heart began to pound hard in his chest. The beeping from across the room intensified and alarms started to sound. “No…” Face threw the word out with everything he had. After all that had happened what the fuck was Hannibal doing here? Had he come to finish Face off before he could spill all of his secrets to the world. Was it not over? Would it ever be over? How did Hannibal even get into an Army base?

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” the nurse’s voice was calm but Face could hear the anxiety in it. “I don’t know,” this was obviously spoken to someone else in the room. “He was fine and then his trace just went crazy. He’s going to do himself some damage.”

 

“Okay, I’ll top up his sedative, keep him still.”

 

No! Face thought in a panic. If Ra’is was close then he needed to be awake and aware! He needed to be able to protect himself the best he could. He needed… the rest of that thought was lost as he slipped into a heavy, cloying darkness.

 

_______________________

 

When Face tried again, it was light. There was the same low hum of background noise, a football game playing this time, the beep, beep of the heart monitor, normal sounds that wrapped around Face like a blanket as he tried to piece together why he was there. He didn’t get far though, before anything had slid into place, there was a hand on his cheek and a quiet voice, hopeful, that whispered, “Face?”

 

He blinked his eyes open and squinted until his eyes focussed onto a smiling Murdock; the relief that ran through him was huge, and he still had no idea why.

 

“Murdock…” his eyes slid shut again, he was so tired.

 

“Hey, buddy,” the hand on his cheek moved to his hair and stroked and Face felt himself drifting towards a safe and settled sleep. “Glad to see you back. It’s been a rough few months, yeah?”

 

Had it? It was hard to tell. But then Face did remember leaving, he remembered lying to Murdock and BA – why that had seemed a good idea he wasn’t sure – but yeah, he lied and left them. That had been a shitty thing to do.

 

“I’m sorry,” his throat was dry and it was hard to get the words out properly. “For leaving. I shouldn’t have left you…”

 

“No,” the stroking continued and it felt so damn good. “You shouldn’t have. But you always would have. And you would again, right? For Hannibal?”

 

For Hannibal… Face mused as sleep crept up on him. He hoped Hannibal was okay.

 

Then he slept.

 

________________________

 

The next time he awoke it was night once more and, this time, he remembered everything. He jerked into full awareness, fear thudding through his veins as he glanced around the room before his vision had even had the chance to settle. Was Ra’is here? Had he followed Face back to the US? Was he going to silence him? Kill him before he could speak of the hell of the last few months?

 

“Hey.”

 

A voice got his attention and there was BA, solid, dependable BA, and was that why Face was still alive? Because BA had been watching out for him while he slept?

 

“Ra’is…” it was all Face could gasp in his panic and he registered BA’s confused frown. “Hannibal!” he tried again, hoping that the big guy would understand him and yes, there was the dawning comprehension in BA’s expression.

 

“He’s not here,” he crossed to the bed and took Face’s outstretched hand, sitting at the chair at his side and fixing his buddy with a level stare. “He was here, but then he went. Dunno where.”

 

“You’ve seen him?” Face managed to get the question out just before BA pushed a straw into his mouth and he drank the tepid water gratefully, wondering if anything had ever tasted so good.

 

“No,” BA pressed a button and Face’s pillow was raised a little, allowing him to see around the comfortable little room to the dark square of night sky outside. “He was gone before we got here.”

 

If he’d been expecting for Face to become distressed by that news, he was surprised when instead the other man sank back into his pillows with a whispered, “Thank God…”

 

“Face,” BA’s voice was low, urgent and Face blinked back at him, noticing for the first time the cannula on the back of his hand which was no doubt feeding him enough painkiller to keep him feeling this warm and soft. “We don’t know what’s been going on. No one will tell us anything. First we knew you were even alive, either of you, was a phone call from the General yesterday and then we drive over and you’re here and Hannibal's nowhere… What’s been going on?”

 

Face closed his eyes. BA needed answers, he deserved answers, but Face couldn’t give them to him, not just yet anyway. He shook his head and heard BA sigh, but fortunately no more questions came his way.

 

A sudden thought struck him, sudden memory of the tunnel and Ra’is singing and the pain in his legs. “How badly hurt am I?” he was glad he had his eyes closed, wasn’t keen on seeing BA closing-down on him and another sigh drifted out into the room.

 

“Nothing that won’t heal. You’ve had some surgery on your leg, it was swelling too much the nurse said. They’ve been concerned about the colour of your pee, but they’re happier now.” Face could feel BA shrug. “Other than that, you’ve got a whole load of cuts and bruising, some old, some new, lost a lot of weight, they say you’re malnourished, evidence of fractures that have healed on their own…”

 

Face nodded, that was better than he’d expected. Nothing about the sexual assaults then, and he’d been worried he’d lost his legs after the pain he’d felt in the tunnel collapse. He was tired again though, and it was so tempting just to slide off into oblivion again with BA at his side, watching over him. He started drifting but then the fingers around his tightened a little and he forced his eyes open more, twisted until he could see BA’s concerned face and wasn’t surprised when the question came.

 

“Was this deliberate, brother? All those injuries… someone hurt you?” Face was almost asleep; his eyes had closed all on their own but he nodded without even meaning to. The fingers tightened again and then, “Was is Hannibal?” was whispered out into the night.

 

What to say to that? In the end, Face just allowed himself to fall into somnolence – that was a question he wasn’t prepared to face just yet. 

 

________________________

 

Hannibal sat on the crooked little jetty and cast his line back out into the mirrored lake, watching as the ripples spread ever outwards, disturbing everything they reached – it was a good metaphor for his life.

 

He didn’t know what to do.

 

For the first time since he’d been responsible for his own decisions in life, he genuinely had no idea as to what he should do, who he should speak to, what he should say, where he should be. He’d taken the easy way out of everything, the coward’s way, and that didn’t sit well with him and it also didn’t offer any solution to his predicament. He’d fled for the hills, literally, finding the most remote cabin he could and hiding himself away in the trees. No one knew he was here, no one knew where he was at all, only Russell had the number of a pre-paid mobile Hannibal had picked up from a local store and even then, Hannibal only switched it on for a few minutes every evening to check for messages. So far, he’d had none.

 

He spent his mornings hiking through the woods, stalking forever upwards, his skin washed in sweat and his breath heavy, penitence for his actions. Then he paused at the highest point he could find, taking in the vast beauty of the world and waiting for divine intervention to strike. It never did, of course, and so he would set off back down again, and head for the lake, looking to catch his only meal of the day as he stared at the mirrored surface and the stranger who looked back at him.

 

The days passed steadily in this way but no solutions were presented. No way forward came to light and so Hannibal just carried on, staying at the lake until dark, taking his fish back to cabin to prepare and eat, spending a disturbed night in the blackness of solitude, then rising with the dawn and doing it all again. It was an existence – and barely even that.

 

This particular evening, the sky was streaked in impossible shades of red and orange, just visible in spots and patches through the silhouettes of the trees and reflected in the still water, but Hannibal had no time for that beauty. The part of him that had once appreciated everything that nature had to offer barely even worked any more. The part of him that was there to experience love and joy and friendship and warmth had simply withered and died in his days in the desert. A victim of cruel circumstance – very much like Face.

 

And that’s where his musing stopped, violently halted, as it always was, by the remembrance of everything that had happened. Hannibal couldn’t go there just yet; he wondered if he’d ever be able to but instead he sat and stared idly at the blood-washed water until all the beauty dissolved into black then he simply packed up his rod and walked back to the cabin on auto-pilot.

 

The door wasn’t locked – there seemed little point when your closest neighbours were bears and Hannibal pushed it open, the absence of any catch that day only making him wonder how he was going to fill an hour of his time rather than how he was going to fill his belly. He flicked the light switch on and dropped his gear on the table, turning on the spot and recoiling viciously, reaching for a non-existent side-arm as he noticed the intruder sitting calmly on the sofa. 

 

They stared at each other in silence. Hannibal’s eyes raked over his visitor’s appearance, taking in the relaxed stance, one foot up on a bent knee, the worn walking shoes, old jeans, casual t-shirt, the day-sack on the floor at his feet. Hannibal was shaking, he felt sick and clammy and needed to lean against the table as he wiped a large hand over his face before just shaking his head in denial as his visitor greeted him with a measured, “Alright, Hannibal?”

 

Hannibal allowed himself the luxury of sinking into one of the wooden chairs at the table, knowing it was prudent before he simply fell and tried to collect his thoughts. “How did you find me?” His voice was rough and why was that the most important thing for him to say at this moment?

 

His question went unanswered though, ignored in the face of so many other questions which were far, far more important than that one. Silence coiled around them, Hannibal couldn’t look up from the floor, couldn’t think around the sickly pounding of his heart and then: “I think you owe me some truths.”

 

That was probably the least of what he owed.

 

“Face…” he shook his head, it even hurt to say that name. “I don’t know if-”

 

“What did they have on you?”

 

Hannibal startled to a stop, his eyes flashing up to meet Face’s for the first time and he realised that he wasn’t the only one who’d changed: he didn’t think he’d ever seen his second so… detached before. “Who?”

 

Face rolled his eyes. “Please don’t patronise me, Hannibal. The CIA. That wasn’t the type of mission that you would ever choose to do, there must have been some pressure point that they exploited and I don’t know what. I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find anything dark enough to allow them to manipulate you like that.”

 

Hannibal let out a flat little laugh. Of course the kid had worked it out – he’d always been sharp. And of course he’d looked into it as well, he’d probably turned up pressure points that Hannibal himself didn’t even know about. He let out a long breath, knew nothing he could say would ever make this situation any worse than it already was, but still, admitting this, to Face, would be hard. But no less than he deserved. Ever. He took his breath back in, held it, and then, “They had some – indication – of a relationship I’d had, back when I was a rookie,” he rubbed at the cold sweat on his face. “One that would cause some difficulties if it became public at this point.”

 

There was no change of expression from Face, he sat with his fingers wrapped loosely around his ankle and stared at Hannibal, impassive, thinking, and then, “A relationship with another man.”

 

Hannibal steeled himself. “Yes.”

 

But Face only frowned at that and cocked his head to one side in that way he had when things weren’t making sense and it frustrated him. It was odd that such an innocent little gesture could twist Hannibal's heart so painfully.

 

“But that wouldn’t bother you. You wouldn’t care. You’d ride the storm out and look everyone in the eye whilst you did so.” Hannibal felt himself flush – would he have done? He just wasn’t so sure of anything anymore. “So…” Face watched him carefully, “It wasn’t you then, it was him. You did it for him, either because you wanted to shield him or you felt you owed him or he put pressure on you and…” he stopped and a bitter little smile twisted at his lips. “Morrison.”

 

Hannibal felt his face heat again and again wiped his clammy hand over it. “It would have been the end for him, kid. His career, his wife, his kids… he’d never have survived.” But I wouldn’t have done it, Hannibal couldn’t say the words he wanted to, if I’d known what it would cost you.

 

But Face had already moved on, it was clear he was thinking it all through. “So, they created Ra’is for you. Built him up into this demi-god that the warring factions wouldn’t be able to resist. Dropped you in there at the crucial moment and all you had to do was call them to you, gather them all together in your fort and wait for them to be wiped out in one single night.”

 

Hannibal shook his head. “Ra’is had already been created. They’d had someone lined up to take on the role but it fell through. They were desperate, time was running out, it was a time-critical op and they needed someone they felt would be able to carry it off.” He paused, took a breath and pushed in. “They asked me, I said no. But they got to Russ and when they asked again, he pleaded with me to do it.” He looked Face in the eye, “I had no choice. I didn’t want to get involved, but I had no choice.” He wondered if that was even true anymore.

 

Face nodded, his expression blank once more and Hannibal was unsettled at his calmness but he quickly moved on, almost as if he was ticking points off in his head. “So, you said, back in the Fort, that everything you did, you did to protect me?”

 

Hannibal flushed and nausea swirled through him as image after horrific image danced through his head. Had he said that? Of course he’d said that, but how could he have ever tried to justify his actions as being for Face’s own good? He dropped his face into his hand, unable to bear Face’s eyes on him. “Everything spiralled out of control so quickly,” his voice was low, his mind back in that panic he’d felt when he’d first seen Face in the stronghold. “I thought I’d covered my tracks well enough. I thought I’d done enough to ensure that you wouldn’t want to come after me-”

 

“That I’d think myself betrayed? That my stomach would be turned by the trail of death you’d left half-way across the country and I’d leave you to it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Face let out a noise that sounded like a bitter scoff, “Don’t you know me at all?”

 

There was no answer to that.

 

“And Russ was supposed to have stopped you if he’d felt you would come after me. I told him to lock you up if that’s what it took.”

 

Face smiled at that, a sad, bitter excuse for a smile. “He did. But then he let me out again.”

 

Hannibal could see it all as if he’d been there. “And then you played him – and he fell for it. You changed tactics, treated him like the enemy and outwitted him.” Hannibal shook his head. “I should have known. He’s no match for you in when you’re in top gear.”

 

Face didn’t seem interested in any of that though, his frown deepened and instead he asked, “And was it you? All that death? Yassin? The villages? Civilians?” 

 

“No!” Hannibal's head flew up at the implication. “Of course it wasn’t me, Face! The CIA had agents all over the place, crafting this image of Ra’is. Taking all the death and horror that was happening every day and hanging it on one man. Creating an urban myth.”

 

“You’re saying that it was all a PR job?”

 

“Yes!” Jesus, how could Face think that of him? But then… was what he had done any worse?

 

“And Yassin?”

 

And then there was that and Hannibal was back to hanging his head, shaking his head. “I didn’t know he was there. I had no idea he’d been killed. If there was any way I could have saved him, Face…”

 

“Like you saved me?”

 

The words were cold and bitter and the pain that they triggered almost stole Hannibal's ability to breathe. He closed his eyes behind his big palm, tears stinging as they fought for freedom. “Face, Jesus… I never expected you to follow me – Russ was supposed to be watching you – and if you had then I never thought you’d actually find me. I had no plan… I heard an American had broken into the Fort and I knew, I just knew it was you. Who else would have come for me? Who else would have gone to so much effort just to kill me face to face? I got there as fast as I could but I was already too late, they had you, they’d all seen you, Montakhab had seen you and he’s a mean, devious son of a bitch – there was nothing I could do; I was terrified that they would just kill you right there and then, or that you would tip off what you were to me and we’d both be slaughtered where we stood.” He shook his head. “I had to keep you quiet long enough to plan, then Mahood suggested the dungeon. He thought-”

 

“Mahood?”

 

“He was my CIA handler. He said we could keep you there, that the men would forget about you and that he would ensure you were safe.” Even from behind his hand, Hannibal could hear Face’s ironic huff. “I had no idea,” he lifted his head, he had to see if Face believed him. “I stayed away from you, I thought that would keep you safe – I thought that if I wasn’t interested in you then Montakhab wouldn’t be either. Mahood said that you were well. Angry, but well. I didn’t know what they’d done to you, the beatings, the drugs... I swear, Face, I didn’t know.”

 

Face remained inscrutable. He seemed to weigh Hannibal’s words for a moment and then nod, “Go on.”

 

“And when I walked into the Rec Room…” Hannibal closed his eyes and swallowed hard against the nausea that threatened him at the memories, “I could hear the noise, I knew they were up to something dreadful, but I never dreamt it would be you. When I walked in, when I saw what they were doing…” His head was down again, this time hidden behind two shaking hands. “I saw the state you were in, all those injuries, how thin you were, the fucking needle tracks in your arms… It was so hard to not just shoot everyone down but I had nothing, no plan, no idea… I had to stop them, I had to get you away from them. All they understood was power and violence and threat… I had to make them scared to touch you, I had to warn them off you... What I did was the only thing I could think of to be able to keep you with me. I knew I couldn’t trust Montakhab with you, Mahood either it seemed. I panicked – what I did was the only thing that occurred and it was barbaric… unforgivable… but I just panicked, Face. I didn’t have a plan and I fucking panicked…”

 

There was silence in the room, only the sounds of the insects in the night outside dared break the tension.

 

“I’m sorry…” it seemed trivial, pathetic even, but in the face of what he’d done but how could he not say it? How could he not say it every day for the rest of his life? It would never be enough.

 

“And the next time?” Face’s voice was tight, Hannibal knew he was holding himself together by sheer will-power.

 

“They were starting to suspect that all was not as it seemed with you. Montakhab was being busy in the shadows, stirring up god-knows-what with Ra’is’ enemies-”

 

“He knew who I was.”

 

Hannibal shook his head, “Of course he did. Sneaky bastard...” He took a deep breath, forced himself to go on, “They distracted me and took you for that pantomime-execution, waited until I’d walked out onto the balcony, waited until the second they knew I’d worked out what I was seeing and then, that’s when the order to fire came.” He could feel himself shaking all over as he relived the moment in his head. “I nearly lost it all again, I thought you were dead, Temp, I thought they’d actually done it…” he took a long breath in which sounded more like a sob. “It was a warning, that was all. They wanted to see what I’d do, they wanted to test what you were to me. So… I didn’t know what else to do, I knew they were going to check if you’d been – fucked – I knew you’d hated what I’d done before… I tried,” he swallowed hard, “I tried to make it better for you, but I made it worse. I just made it even worse… Fuck, kid… I’m so sorry…”    

 

The silence was back. Hannibal was breathing deeply, determined not to break-down completely in front of Face. What was his suffering anyway? Compared to what Face had been through, what the fuck did he have to complain about?

 

“You told Montakhab about me. About what happened to me when I was a child.” Face’s voice was calm, quiet, but the bitter edge of accusation was clear.

 

“I did not!” Hannibal's head was up in a moment. “I swear, Face, I haven’t shared that with a single soul! Ever!”

 

Face just looked at him. “He knew.”

 

“Not from me. Honestly, you have to believe me,” but really, why should Face ever believe anything Hannibal ever said to him ever again? “I never spoke of you with him at all. Not once.”

 

Again, that inscrutable look. Again, that level silence and then Face looked away and Hannibal was left wondering what that meant.

 

“And then it was finally time for the fireworks and you would have been happy with all that, then, would you? Happy to die for Russ and for me to think you a traitor? To think that everything we’d ever shared had been a big, fat, fucking lie?” Face’s words were growled out and Hannibal was shaking his head before they were even finished.

 

“No. No, no, no, no… You misunderstand me. Of course I was supposed to come back – it was never planned as a one-way mission. I was going to come back to you and hope you’d understand where I’d been, why I’d lied. You were never supposed to be involved!”

 

“You told me that you were going to burn that night I came back for you.”

 

“Face…” Hannibal shook his head. “After what I’d done to you I had no appetite to do anything other than go down with the ship. I had to stay until the airstrikes were well under way, I had to make sure no one left. And then, Mahood was supposed to have made arrangements to get me out at the last minute but he’d bailed on me and,” he shook his head again, “I just didn’t see the point in running for my life.”

 

“What I don’t understand, though,” Face’s eyes had drifted to the black square of night in the wall. “Is why you didn’t tell me any of this. Not ever. Not one. Fucking. Word. Not one fucking hint as to what was going on.” There was a flash of anger then, the first one, and, perversely, it made Hannibal feel a little better, made him recognise Face a little more. “Didn’t you trust me not to just screw it all up and get us both killed?” His gaze was back on Hannibal, his laugh cold and bitter. “Well, of course you didn’t trust me – after all, would Ra’is ever trust anyone? But I want to know about Hannibal, about the man you were before this. Didn’t he trust me enough to let me in on the big mission? The big secret?”

 

“I am that man, Face!” the anger originated in Hannibal’s self-disgust. “I’ve told you, Ra’is is nothing, he doesn’t even exist – he was just the shell I hid inside!”

 

“And you did a fucking good job of it all!”

 

“Do I trust you?” Hannibal rose to his feet, desperately trying to reign in his anger before he did yet more damage. “Jesus Christ, kid – yes. You are the only person I always trust. Implicitly. With everything. Always!”

 

“But?”

 

Hannibal let out a sigh, long and pained and weary. Frustrated. “I couldn’t tell you before. I knew that, no matter what I said, you would want to come with me. If I told you what I was doing and why, then I knew that you’d come. Hell or high water, orders or not, you’d follow.”

 

“And that would have been a bad thing?” Face’s anger was leeching out once more.

 

“Yes!” Why couldn’t Hannibal get him to understand? “Yes, it would, because it could have got you killed. It could have got you hurt. It did get you hurt. I didn’t want you anywhere near any of that shit!”

 

“And afterwards? In the Fort? When you’d decided you weren’t coming home? You couldn’t even tip me off? You were happy to let me think you’d betrayed me? You’d had me beaten and starved? You’d raped me? You were happy for that to be my reality?” And now Face was on his feet as well, his calmness evaporated, his anger hot and agonised.

 

“I didn’t know who was listening!” Hannibal could feel everything slipping away from him. “Every room was bugged, by the CIA, by the other war-lords, by fucking Al-Qaeda! Everyone was trying to screw everyone else over, everyone was out to betray as many people as they could if it advanced their own position! You know this, Face – you know what the politics in those groups is like! I had no idea who was listening or watching in any room, at any time of the day or night and so I couldn’t tip you off. I couldn’t give you anything in case that was the thing that got you killed. I was trying to keep you alive, that’s all. I was doing my best in a shitty situation, just trying to keep you alive and in doing so…” he ran out of words. Ran out of excuses in his own head. There was no defence for what he’d done.

 

He stalked to the window and stared out at the moon peering at him through the trees.

 

No excuse.

 

No defence.

 

No way forward.

 

He heard Face slump back onto the sofa. Was surprised he’d not heard him slam out of the door and Hannibal’s life. He stood and breathed hard and knew it was time for him to leave the Army, he’d not joined up to destroy the men he was supposed to protect.

 

“I understand what you’ve done.”

 

The words were quiet, unexpected, and Hannibal found himself waiting for the ‘but’ that never came. He shook his head – of course, Face could internalise trauma like no one else Hannibal had ever met. “Doesn’t make it okay. None of that stuff I did was okay, Face. Not at all.”

 

“No. But sometimes there’s just no other option.”

 

Hannibal pinched the bridge of his nose and slid into silence.

 

The insects in the trees chirped out their nightly song.

 

The fan in the centre of the room creaked crookedly on every rotation.

 

Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled.

 

Clouds scudded across the moon.

 

The fridge in the corner clunked into life.

 

The springs in the ancient sofa creaked a little.

 

Hannibal held his breath.

 

“What happens now?”

 

Face’s question was unexpected and outside Hannibal's power to answer.

 

“Why are you asking me?”

 

“Who the hell else am I going to ask?”

 

Hannibal didn’t like the edge of desperation he could hear in those words, but he just shook his head and went back to staring at the unblinking moon.

 

“Hannibal…” the pain in that one word was tangible, Hannibal closed his eyes and wished he could close his ears as effectively. “I need you to come back with me.”

 

Go back? After all he’d done? The way he’d betrayed a fellow Ranger?

 

I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy. What about hand him over personally, then? Join in with his abuse? His humiliation? Was that okay?

 

Never shall I fail my comrades.

 

What a joke. Hannibal was a joke. A disgrace.

 

“I’m not going back.”

 

“Hannibal…” Again. It was like finger-nails on a chalk board. “I… I can’t do this without you. I don’t know how to. I need you to come back. I need you to help me. We can face this together.”

 

But Hannibal wouldn’t be facing anything – not ever.

 

“I’m not going back.”

 

“Hannibal…”

 

And now the word was like a sob and Hannibal couldn’t stand it.

 

“Why did you come back?” his eyes were blurred as they stared out at the night. “To the fortress. Why did you come back?”

 

There was a pause, Hannibal could almost taste the confusion in the air and then, “Why do you think? For you. I’d worked it out; what you were doing with the tribes and the airstrikes and… I was worried you’d not make it out.”

 

“So, you came back to save me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Well – you failed.”

 

“Hannibal…”

 

Hannibal turned then, his chest tightening at Face’s tragic expression, at how lost he looked, how destroyed. Again. And his resolve hardened. “I was supposed to die there, Face. It was the only way I’d been able to get through everything I’d done to you – because I knew that the time was coming when I’d no longer have to think of it.” Face just stared at him. “You think you saved me? You didn’t. You sentenced me to a lifetime of self-hatred and reproach. You interfered and you meddled and now we’re both in this pain and it’s Never. Going. To stop.”

 

Silence. Face looked like he’d been slapped and Hannibal turned back to his window.

 

“I’m not coming back. I can’t even look at you anymore. This is over. All of it.”

 

The insects in the trees chirped out their nightly song.

 

The fan in the centre of the room creaked crookedly on every rotation.

 

Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled.

 

Clouds scudded across the moon.

 

The fridge in the corner clunked into life.

 

The springs in the ancient sofa creaked a little.

 

Hannibal held his breath.

 

And Face walked out.

 

____________________

 

The summer wound on, hot days and sticky nights and Hannibal stopped switching his mobile phone on at all. He fished and foraged for his food, washed in the creek and used fire instead of electricity. His solid frame became wiry, his beard and hair too long and his thoughts dull, nothing but the fish and the elements and the environs. Iraq, Ra’is and everything else was forgotten about in the long days when the sun reached its fiery fingers through the fronded forest, lost in the heat haze and the chorus of calling insects.

 

It was there at night though, waiting until Hannibal slept to shock him awake with Face’s cries, Face’s accusations, Face’s blood and Face’s reproach. Face’s eyes bored into him as he chased sleep and Face’s pain haunted his heart as he tried to rest. When that happened, Hannibal got up and walked. Walked and walked and sat on a ridge to wait for daylight and tried to ignore the tears on his cheeks.

 

Those golden days of summer were just starting to lose their clinging heat haze when he heard an engine as he chopped wood for the stove.

 

He stopped, leaned on the axe and pondered. There were no roads up this way – only the very roughest of tracks. Anyone coming up by vehicle would need a sturdy and compact 4x4 and they’d need to be a damn skilled driver. Hannibal waited and listened and watched and it was no surprise to him when a customised Suzuki Samurai eventually crawled into view, or when a hot and sweaty BA Baracus climbed out of the driver’s seat.

 

The forest seemed eerily silent once the engine of the Samurai was cut off and Hannibal just stood and looked, any joy he might have felt at the reunion with an old friend smothered by the cloying fear of why he was visiting.

 

He watched as the younger man stretched his back and neck out in a comfortingly familiar way and then nodded out a greeting, “BA.”

 

BA turned and appraised him. “You remember my name then?”

 

Bitterness – that was an unusual emotion in BA. Hannibal didn’t answer, just leaned on his axe and stared.

 

“What is this?” BA was gesturing at Hannibal and it suddenly struck the older man how he must look, his over-long hair, his ragged, white beard, his bare chest bronzed by the sun and thinned from his diet. “What’s with the Grizzly Adams thing?”

 

Hannibal picked up his axe and swung it down on an unsuspecting block of wood, enjoying the rhythm he needed to chop effectively, finding it soothing against this unwelcome intrusion from his past life. “You’ve had a long drive just to come up here and throw insults, BA.”

 

BA let out a frustrated breath. “I’m not here for that, man. You know that.”

 

“No?” Swing… chop… “Why then?”

 

“For flying… Hannibal… You know.”

 

For a minute, everything wavered. The block of wood was replaced by an image of Face in the cabin, looking crushed, being crushed, by Hannibal – again. There was a thud as the axe hit the ground and Hannibal ran his hands over his sweaty face. “BA… Leave it, please. There’s nothing to be done.”

 

“Nothing to be done?” BA stepped in, his expression incredulous. “Do you know what’s going on, back at base, whilst you’re up here playing woodcutters?”

 

“BA…”

 

“I’ll tell you shall I?”

 

Hannibal wondered if he’d ever seen BA so angry without a fist flying.

 

BA stepped in closer still, “Well, first of all there’s the General, who doesn’t seem to have the slightest clue where you are, what you’re doing and whether you’re ever gonna be coming back again. He’s busy keeping the brass off your back and trying to stop them listing you as AWOL whilst coming up with excuses that are getting thinner and thinner by the day!

 

“And then, of course, there’re the other boys on base, half of who say you’re dead, the other half that you’re still living it up as Ra’is in some palace in Iraq. I bet you can guess just how much Face likes listening to that shit…

 

“And Murdock… Who just looks wired all the time, Hannibal! Strung out and singing and dancing and glove puppets and trash bags and alter-egos and… it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before! Nothing! I mean, you imagine the worst you’ve seen and like, triple it!”

 

Hannibal closed his eyes.

 

“And Face…” BA shook his head and laughed but it was cold and bitter and when he ran a hand over his mohawk it was visibly shaking, “Hannibal…” his voice dropped to nothing more than a whisper. “I can’t keep ahold of him anymore. I can’t keep his head above the water. He’s drowning, man, drowning, and there’s nothing anyone can do to save him.”

 

Hannibal's heart was thudding uncomfortably in his chest. “Drowning? How?”

 

“I dunno.” BA sank onto the chopping stump, his anger gone and replaced by this emptiness that was alien in him. “It’s like he’s just drifting further and further away from us all. He’s interested in nothing. He cares about nothing. He just does nothing all day. Won’t even bother with Murdock when the fool’s bad.”

 

That was not Face.

 

“He needs to talk to someone,” Hannibal was busy searching the dormant corners of his mind to come up with the right service to point BA towards. “He needs a therapist or something. An army one, someone who’ll help him sort out everything in his head. He just needs to talk.”

 

BA looked up at that, “Oh, he's talked alright, Hannibal. To me. Before he started shutting down he talked a lot. About Iraq. About you. About everything that happened.”

 

Hannibal went cold, “Everything?” his voice barely a whisper.

 

“I guess so,” BA’s stare was icy. “He told me you let them beat him, had to, he reckons, to keep him alive. And drug him. And sexually assault him. Pretend to execute him. And then you fucked him. Twice. Once with everyone watching. Then you let him go. And reemed him out when he came back and saved your miserable hide. That about right or has he missed anything out?”

 

The heat was suddenly too much and Hannibal grabbed his shirt from the ground before turning and walking at pace towards the house.

 

“Where you running to now, Colonel?” It seemed BA’s anger was back. “Truth hurt does it?”

 

“Yes!” Hannibal spun on his toe in the doorway and used every inch of his height to tower over BA. “Of course it fucking hurts, BA! You think any of that was easy for me? You think I enjoyed it?”

 

BA laughed again, cold and bitter, “And what has any of this got to do with how you feel?”

 

“You think I should go back? To him? You think I can help him?” BA just stared, impassive, and Hannibal reeled away again, “I’m the last person who can help him, I’m the one who damaged him in the first place…”

 

“And that’s why you need to be the person to put it right again!” Strong fingers latched around Hannibal’s arm and spun him back. “You’re the only person who can put it right!”

 

“I can’t fix him!” Hannibal's bellow cleared birds from the tops of the trees. “I can’t go anywhere near him ever again! I know what I’ve done, BA, I know the damage I’ve wrought, how can I go back? How can I just waltz back into his life? I don’t deserve to be on the same fucking planet as him anymore! He should have left me to die, I’d made peace with that, I’d accepted that.”

 

“Well, you had no right to,” BA’s words were nothing more than a furious snarl. “This is screwed up, man! You can’t just leave him alone like this – you can’t! And you know why – it’s the same damn reason the fool came back for you like he did!”                   

 

Hannibal took a step back, his pulse rising with his panic. “I don’t know what you mean…”

 

“Yes, you do,” the words were punctuated with a solid finger to the chest. “You and him, you’ve always been weird together. He’s always pushed your buttons and you’ve always let him and why, Hannibal?”

 

Hannibal stepped back again, his mind racing, “I don’t know what-”

 

“You told him you panicked when you saw him in that fort.”

 

Had he? Had Hannibal said that? But it was true, he could feel the hot and slippery panic now as his mind replayed the moment he walked into the Rec Room and saw that bastard with his finger in Face’s ass… “I-”

 

“You never panic,” BA stepped in again, driving his finger home and Hannibal backwards another step. “Only for him. Why, Hannibal? Why? When I first met you, you shot me to save him! What was going on there, then? You’ve never shot anyone for me, or Murdock. You think you’d have lost your head if we’d turned up in your evil lair? No – just Face. And why, boss? You gonna admit it to yourself? For once? You gonna have the balls to face the truth?”

 

Hannibal stepped back again, his mind rebelling at everything BA was telling him and he collided with the corner of the coffee table, staggering slightly, throwing himself off balance and into the wall. The impact was vicious, sudden and jarring, just like the realisation that swept through him as he landed on his butt against the wall. He looked up then, at BA towering over him and suddenly he was totally unable to hide from the truth any longer.

 

What had he done? Over and over and over, what had he done? To Face… especially Face… his Face… his sweet boy… his.

 

He stared, helpless, as his realisation washed through him. What had he done?

 

And then BA let out a long sigh and shook his head, reaching out a hand. “He needs you, man.”

 

______________________

 

It was cold. Face lay on his side and stared at the white walls and wondered where the teardrop had gone. He wondered if the teardrop had ever even been there and then he stopped wondering at all. That was easier. Instead he just drifted, letting his eyes slip out of focus, his ears tune everything out.

 

Why was it so cold? He was surrounded by white, was it snow? Was that why it was so cold? He could feel it right through his body from his toes to his fingers. Cold. He didn’t think it was snow. Snow in Iraq? No… unheard of. But was he in Iraq anymore? He didn’t think so, so base then? Did it snow at Benning? Not so much. But maybe.

 

A face loomed into view in front of him but he couldn’t get his eyes to focus, couldn’t remember how. Mahood? He’d spoken to Face like this before. Mahood the CIA agent and wasn’t that just typical? Was Mahood here, in Benning? Did Mahood wear a baseball cap like that?

 

Mahood had been happy to have him beaten. Would he have ever intervened? Would he have let them sodomise him to death as well? Probably. The CIA were well known for not letting much stand in the way of their missions. What would Face’s life have been to Mahood? An inconvenience.

 

The cold in his chest started changing, morphing into something more like pain and less like the blessed numbness he’d carefully cultivated. He squeezed his eyes closed against the face and the baseball cap and tried to push it out again. This was why he didn’t think. This was why he was happy to just drift – as soon as he allowed any thoughts to form, the pain was back, like a spear through his chest.

 

But Hannibal hadn’t let him die. Hannibal had saved him. At what cost, though? He didn’t want Face any more, had been disgusted with him. With his stupidity in following Hannibal in the first place when the man was obviously on a mission, with the ease in which he was captured, with his weakness at not being able to withstand the beatings and the drugs, with his inability to fight off the rape attempt or the mock-execution, with the way he had come back for Hannibal when Hannibal didn’t want him to come back at all.

 

‘I can’t even look at you anymore.’

 

Face only noticed the tears on his cheeks when he felt timid, shaking fingers wiping them away.

 

And this was why he didn’t allow himself to think.

 

He pushed everything back again. Every thought, every awareness. He allowed the cold to fill him, pictured it creeping through his body freezing every organ as it advanced. Finally, it was at his heart, where the pain was the worst and he let it in, let its frozen fingers clutch at him and turn him to ice.

 

That was better.

 

He could stare at the white wall and think of nothing. Not a thing, not a teardrop, not a single thought. Nothing.

 

Perfect.

 

___________

 

It was dark. When had that happened? Why had the light slipped past so stealthily and left brutal awareness in its wake?

 

He didn’t even have the cold to cling to either. Where was that? Why wasn’t he numb anymore? Where had all his protection from the pain gone?

 

The panic was starting to build inside him. There were bad thoughts just clamouring for his attention and he worried that if he let them in then he’d never be able to get them out again. What was happening to him? Where was the oblivion he’d fought so hard for?

 

And then he felt it – the warmth at his back, the gentle pressure on his chest and belly, stroking, sweeping, calming. The pain didn’t come, Face cautiously let awareness encroach. He was still on his side, still staring at the wall but now there was someone there with him, someone warm and strong who was holding him and stroking him and keeping the ice away.

 

Then he noticed the smell, that so, so familiar smell of tobacco and sandalwood and his body turned, without any conscious thought, into that smell and that heat and everything that sung to him about safety. Instantly, the hands were behind him, drawing him closer, stroking up and down his back and he pressed in tight, his ear against a solid chest and he could feel it rumbling beneath him. He allowed his hearing come back then, opened himself up to the sounds of the room and tears of relief pricked at his eyes as he heard it.

 

‘Who knows where the road will lead us? Only a fool would say. But if you'll let me love you, it's for sure I'm gonna love you all the way. All the way…’    

 

_______________________________

_______________________________

 

Face stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine and slipped his aviators into place. He needed them for the low sun but his eyes were probably red and bloodshot anyway, that particular session with his therapist had been a tough one to get through – he hadn’t cried like that in weeks. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, straightening it out as much as he could and turning left at the end of the street to walk to Hannibal's house instead of his own apartment. That was okay though, that was one of the things that he’d learned: crying was okay, so was anger and grief and shame and confusion. All of those emotions were okay – it was how he dealt with them that was the key.

 

It had been a tough couple of months, not quite as tough as the preceding six of course, but tough none-the-less. After Hannibal had arrived in his apartment, they spent two surreal days in bed, Hannibal holding him and warming him, spooning food into his mouth and pushing straws up to his lips, helping him to the bathroom and stroking him back to sleep. On the morning of the third day, Face had managed to crawl out from his fog and had woken with a clear view of life for the first time since he’d returned from Hannibal's mountain retreat. He was awake before the boss, blinked his eyes in confusion a few times at the strong arms that held him and then he remembered the state he’d been in, the way he’d given up and let the fog claim him – no, worse than that, he’d invited it in, welcomed it and wanted it – anything but deal with Hannibal's rejection of him and everything that had gone before. It had been the wrong decision, in the bright sunlight of a new day with his emotional anchor breathing softly in his ear, he could see that and the shame returned three-fold.

 

He’d slid out of bed, frowning at the realisation that he’d lost even more weight during the course of the last week, and headed for the shower. By the time Hannibal surfaced an hour later, Face had dressed in sweats, made a full, cooked breakfast and was sipping coffee at the table in the window.

 

Hannibal had joined him and they’d had the strangest, most polite conversation of their lives, neither of them mentioning the events of the desert, Hannibal's flight to the woods or Face’s week drowning in the mire of depression. The day had continued in that vein, the atmosphere not helped by Hannibal's obviously increasing tension or Murdock’s perplexity when he’d arrived with yet more food to find his favourite protagonists not only out of the bed they’d lived in for the past two days but also sipping beers and watching an old game on TV as if nothing had ever changed.

 

Evening rolled around into night. Murdock left but Hannibal stayed and Face had no idea what he should do about that. In the end, Hannibal solved the problem for him, announcing that they should turn in for the night and, if Face agreed, Hannibal would sleep out on the sofa. Face had agreed – what else could he do? – and spent the entire night napping and yearning for those warm arms around him once more. In the end it was just easier to sleep on the floor.

 

The following morning it was Hannibal who had made the breakfast and, over coffee, he calmly told Face that he would be going back to his own house later that day. Face had swallowed hard and nodded, but then Hannibal had brought out his ace in the pack. They’d been at the little bistro table in the window, Face wondering what on earth he’d expected from Hannibal, when slightly trembling fingers pushed a business card his way across the white table-top and everything had frozen.

 

Mary-Jo Jolson Ph. D.

Psycho-therapist. Professional Counsellor

Specialist in Military Trauma and PTSD

 

“She’s ex-army, kid. She’s good. I think you should see her.”

 

Face had stared at the card and folded his fingers into fists to stop them from shaking and wondered how long Hannibal had been thinking he was crazy. Probably since he found you catatonic in your bed… A helpful voice in his head provided but then Hannibal had continued.

 

“I’m seeing someone, too. A different one. I’ve got my first appointment this afternoon.”

 

Face had looked up then, properly looked at Hannibal for the first time in months and seen all the pain and the guilt and the anger and the grief that he knew he himself carried. He’d nodded and carefully folded the card into the palm of his hand.

 

The first session had been the worst. He’d felt awkward and humiliated and was trying to keep everything locked up tight and hidden away. Mary-Jo wasn’t stupid though, and she was patient and slowly, over the sessions, Face began to realise that the world would not implode if he told her how he was feeling or he shared with someone the horror of those months of captivity. After that, the relief of unburdening was incredible. Telling his story in a faltering voice gave him the vaguest of realisations that he had already shared at least some of what had happened with BA which was something else to add to his pile of guilt. But they worked through that together, examining not only what Face thought and felt but touching on Hannibal's actions and words as well.

 

For the first week, Face had daily sessions which dropped to thrice weekly on the second week and then, eventually, into once weekly meetings. Face never admitted as much to Hannibal but seeing Mary-Jo was the very best thing that he had ever done. The opportunity to sit down and look at so much about himself, so much inside him that had frightened him over the years, was incredible. She’d explained to him that the abuse he’d suffered in the orphanage had not been his fault and the bloody revenge he’d wreaked, the understandable actions of a powerless child. It had been the adults who’d messed up and not him. It had been a powerful message and one he hoped he would really believe one day. She also seemed to instinctively know his feelings towards Hannibal, the deep love that nothing would ever extinguish and helped him to understand that, just like his sexuality, his feelings for Hannibal were part of him and should be accepted rather than resented.   

 

Face had been worried that, as time went on, he was, more and more, seeing Ra’is and Hannibal as two completely separate people. Everything that had happened to Face and every heinous act of terror he’d seen – that was Ra’is and Ra’is alone. Everything before and everything from the moment when he’d been pushed into that tunnel and given his freedom – that was Hannibal. In his head, Hannibal and Ra’is were even starting to look different. That hadn’t sat right with him, he knew damn well that they were the same person but when he finally admitted it to Mary-Jo she was encouraging. She felt that it was better to separate the two different personas in that way, to allow Face the opportunity to feel anger and even hatred towards Ra’is whilst still being able to hold on to his love for Hannibal.

 

The day he’d realised what it must have cost a man as principled and protective as Hannibal to see Face so brutalised, to brutalise him himself, that was the first time that Face had cried for someone other than himself.       

 

So, he’d made progress. He felt lighter, happier. Stronger. He didn’t hate himself so much for the mistakes he’d made and he was less ashamed of everything that had happened. Progress.

 

He and Hannibal were tentatively renewing their friendship as well. Face never asked Hannibal how his therapy was going but the lines of anxiety were fading and the tension had all but gone from that tall frame. It was only once it had faded that Face realised how much he’d hated to see it.

 

After the first three days spent in Face’s apartment, Hannibal had gone back to his own house. Face had hated it at first but he realised that being on his own was a fact of life and that he needed to just cope and get on with it all. He had his life, he had Hannibal back and, before too much longer, they would be out again, back in the sand box doing what they did best. He didn’t need Hannibal to babysit him and, of course, Hannibal wasn’t interested in him for anything else. He was a special forces soldier who’d survived being beaten, starved, drugged, raped and executed – he could cope with living on his own again.

 

But they obviously worked together and, if it wasn’t as easy and natural as it once had been, it was certainly manageable. And they socialised together, as a team of four and, occasionally, a pair. This was one such occasion, Hannibal had asked Face around after his session with Mary-Jo, told him they’d get something to eat and Face assumed they’d watch a Bourne or something – it was the pattern they usually slid into.

 

It was a beautiful evening and Face couldn’t help but look around him as he walked. For three months, he’d never seen the sky, never felt the sun on his face, the wind in his hair. Almost another six months had passed since that time but Face felt that he’d never lose the joy he had at being outside, at being able to walk at his own pace, at being able to go wherever he wanted. At being free.

 

He rounded the corner onto Hannibal's street and raised a hand in greeting as he saw the other man waiting for him, leaning against the front wall of the house, dressed casually and very much like Face, in expensive jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. It was still a little awkward between them both, and Face wasn’t sure on how best to greet his CO, handshake, fist-bump… they might have had a quick man-hug back in the pre-Ra’is days, but this time Face contented himself with a nod and a slightly awkward silence.

 

“Everything okay?”

 

It was an innocuous enough question but Face knew that it was layered deeply and referred to many things additional to his walk over in the sunshine.

 

“Of course,” and he was. Alive. Reunited. Free.

 

Hannibal smiled, a little thinly perhaps, and nodded at the car as he pushed off the wall. “You fancy seafood tonight? I thought we might eat out.”

 

Face knew the surprise was reflected in his expression but it was an appealing offer – it had been a long time since he’d had decent seafood. “Sure,” and with one more awkward nod between them, they climbed into Hannibal’s SUV and the engine grumbled into life.

 

The drive down was pleasant enough. With the distraction of the radio and the rush-hour traffic, the conversation flowed easily, skipping around safe topics such as the sights they passed, the awful driving around them and, within an hour, they were pulling driving around a wooded bend and pulling up outside a beautifully restored white, antebellum mansion complete with sweeping views out across Walter F. George Lake.

 

Hannibal eased into a parking bay directly opposite the pillared entrance porch and Face blew out a long breath. “Boss, when you said we were going for seafood, I thought we’d hit a Red Lobster or something. Where’d you find this place? It’s like something out of Gone with the Wind!”

 

Clearing his throat a little awkwardly, Hannibal popped his door and climbed out into the balmy twilight, Face following from his own side. “Trip Advisor,” he told Face over the roof of the car. “It’s got some great reviews.”

 

Face wondered why the boss looked a little flushed, but then conceded it was quite balmy before his thoughts drifted to something far more pressing. “Are we dressed okay?” He glanced at the sweeping driveway and the grand entrance in front of them. “It looks a little… classy.”

 

For a moment Hannibal didn’t speak, just held Face's eyes across the roof bars of the car, a stare so intense that Face actually felt it in his belly before he smiled and this time it seemed pretty much genuine. “You’re perfect. We’re perfect,” he corrected. “Hungry?”

 

Face held his eyes and then nodded, “Yeah.”

 

Hannibal gestured with his head, “Let’s go then.”

 

________________________________

 

They were led to a table in the bay of the window looking out over the sunset and the lake. “This is great,” Face’s eyes were everywhere, just a hint of that wonderful excitement that Hannibal used to see all the time. “Looks pricey though,” and just like that, all the excitement was gone again and Hannibal had to stop himself from sighing.

 

“It’s my treat,” he smiled a thanks at the waiter who instantly withdrew as they sat and Hannibal picked up the menu. “It was my idea to come out and so I’m paying.”

 

The sigh was inevitable. “No, that’s crazy. I wasn’t saying I couldn’t afford it I-”

 

“Templeton,” Face choked to a stop at the rare use of his first name. “Please. It’s not a problem for me and you can pay the next time we got out, okay?”

 

There was a long pause and then a quiet. “Okay.”

 

They perused the menu in silence, Hannibal hardly looking at the choices and, instead, surreptitiously checking Face out, trying to get a bead on all his tightly controlled emotions. “Shall we get some wine?” he asked quietly when he saw Face flick to the drinks section, “Or would you like beer?”

 

Those incredible blue eyes flicked to the corner and the screen of trees which hid the parking lot and Hannibal was ready for the question when it came, “What about the car? Who’s driving?”

 

“Well,” Hannibal made sure his voice was light. “It was obviously going to be me, but now I can see that they have a Malbec that I know you’d love and I’d like to share it with you. I’m proposing we leave it here, get a cab and then I’ll persuade BA to drive over with me tomorrow and pick it up.”

 

Face was inscrutable, his eyes doing their best to bore through Hannibal’s skull and Hannibal let him, kept his expression honest and open and finally Face nodded, looking back at the menu. “Sure. Wine sounds good. We choosing off the tasting menu?”

 

“No,” Hannibal went back to his own choices. “A la carte.” He was gratified that there were no more arguments to be had.

 

The wine came, with canapés, and they sat in the window with the pristine white cloth and the all the silver cutlery and made polite conversation. “These are good aren’t they?” Face was indicating at the tiny crepe horns filled with cream cheese and diced prawn.

 

“They are. You tried one of these?” Crab dumplings, soft and warm and so, so fishy. He topped up Face’s glass. “What do you think of the wine?”

 

“It’s good,” Face wiped his fingers on his napkin and took another sip. “Better than that one we had in Chicago, even.”

 

Hannibal felt the tiniest of smiles pull at his lips. “You think? Was that the night that Murdock would only eat orange food?”

 

Face laughed, just a little huff but it warmed Hannibal from the inside out – God, when had he last heard this man laugh? “Yeah. I don’t know whose expression was the funniest, the waiter, or BA.”

 

“Definitely BA. I thought he was gonna walk out. After all that effort we’d gone to in getting him into a suit as well!”

 

“He would have done too, I reckon, if we hadn’t had his Momma with us.”

 

Hannibal smiled at the memory. “She was great wasn’t she? You remember the way she sat with Murdock and made a list of orange food then got the waiter to ask the chef if he could cook them?”

 

“Yeah,” another laugh. “The guy gets a Michelin star and then he’s got Murdock asking for chicken nuggets and beans!”

 

“He liked what he ended up with, though. He had langoustine for breakfast for the next month…”

 

“He did,” Face’s eyes flashed with the memory. “Until that diner in Atlanta just before we shipped out again. You remember that?”

 

And just like that, they were off.

 

Clam chowder with rosemary soda bread and lightly salted butter

&

Yellowfin tuna carpaccio with Iberico ham, slightly spiced chutney, sea beans and lemon extra-virgin olive oil

 

 

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. You remember when we got him the Taj Mahal and BA kept on standing on all the tiny pieces? Plus you know it’ll get him started on his Star Wars kick again and we won’t be able to go anywhere unless we’re accompanied by the screeching of a Tie Fighter.”

 

“Good point,” Hannibal squeezed more lemon onto his plate. “No Lego and no Star Wars theme. What else could we get?”

 

“Well,” Face pulled his chair a little closer to the table, his eyes jumping up to meet Hannibal a little furtively as if he were worried that Murdock would overhear, or, more likely, BA. “What about a George Forman?”

 

Hannibal thought about that. “You know he’ll use it to press his clothes?” and Face shrugged.

 

“Only a few times.”

 

“Okay, let’s do it.”

 

Barely cooked scallop with roasted bone marrow, dressed in Calamansi-butter sauce

&

Faroe Island salmon tartare with a mustard dressing, topped with crispy capers and radishes

 

“I don’t know, really,” Hannibal carefully moved the capers to the side of his plate. “I think his daughter was ill or something. Not cancer but something pretty bad and the hospital were great and so he thought he’d raise some money for them.”

 

“Oh, that’s right.” Face pushed his hair back from his eyes and took another mouthful of wine as he glanced out of the black window. “Didn’t she have a kidney transplant? Wasn’t that it?”

 

“Yeah, I think it was.”

 

“So – that was delicious – ” he pushed his plate away and looked over at Hannibal who was still eating, “What’s he suggesting then? A sponsored event? A fair? A dinner?”

 

“Well,” Hannibal was using a half-radish to chase up the remainder of his sauce. “He was thinking about an auction. See if he could get people to donate things people would pay big money for like dinner with General Kapersky…”

 

Face choked on his wine, “Boss, people would pay to get out of that…”

 

Their quiet laughter rang around their little bay.

 

Pan roasted lobster and baby leeks served with sunchoke purée and topped with a red wine-sauce Américaine

&

Bouillabaisse of mixed fish, shellfish and prawns with a tomato saffron aioli

 

“So the door closes,” Hannibal’s knife and fork were on the sides of his plate so that he could demonstrate with his hands what happened next, “But somehow, he’d got his gloves caught between them, right where the catch was, so he couldn’t get them out.”

 

Face laughed.

 

“And he’s holding onto the gloves with this hands and leannnnnning over as far right as he can to try and press the door release with his chin but he can’t get there-”

 

“Why didn’t he just let go of his gloves?”

 

“Well, that’s what I thought too. So, he can’t reach the button and I’m sitting there thinking I’m not going to get up because I’ve only got an espresso and you know how quickly they got cold-”

 

“Oh, they do yeah…”

 

Hannibal laughed a little as he thought of the approaching punch line, “And I’m thinking what an idiot he is and he should just let go of his damn gloves to open the doors and free them. Anyway,” another chuckle, “the next thing, the doors do open ‘cause someone comes in from the other side-”

 

“Oh… those doors are opaque…”

 

“Yeah, and they nearly walk straight into him but he’s pulled sideways because his gloves are still stuck in the catch, even though it’s open now!”

 

Face’s eyes were wide and amused, his mouth pulled into a beautiful smiling bow. “And he still doesn’t let go?”

 

“No. He can’t because,” another laugh bubbles out as the Bouillabaisse is forgotten, “his gloves are stitched into his sleeves!”

 

“Stitched?”

 

“Yeah, like in Kindergarten? So they don’t get lost?”

 

Face sat back, a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god! And he was a General?”

 

“Four star, kid!”

 

“Give me strength…”

 

Crispy cashew sponge cake sphere with caramelized goat’s milk mousse and a clementine sorbet

&

Cheese platter with water biscuits, pickles and grapes

 

Face’s plate was empty, streaks of melted sorbet the only evidence of it once bearing food and Hannibal was so pleased he’d had dessert, kid was still far too thin. He was talking though, expressive hands mesmerising Hannibal as he munched through his cheese platter. “So she goes through this entire pantomime, ‘Do you have soya? Do you have half and half? Do you have skim?’ and he says, ‘No, we only have regular.’ So, she sighs and looks really pissed and says, ‘Well, I can’t have that, I’m lactose intolerant – I’ll just have the ice cream instead!’”

 

Hannibal paused, water biscuit half-way to his mouth, “Ice cream?”

 

“I know,” Face shook his head. “Bet she’d have been happy with that half and half as well.” 

 

They both laughed and Hannibal finished off his last mouthful.

 

Monsoon Malabar, Indian coffee – a medium roast, smooth and mellow with hints of spices and

served with a hazelnut macaron

 

“This coffee is really good.”

 

“Yeah,” Hannibal blew softly on his as, around them, the few other diners who’d shared their evening were starting to drift out into the night. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle the next part of his plan.

 

“You think we should call a cab now? It might take a while to come?”

 

The culmination of his strategy for the evening had always been a bit vague in his head. He’d kind of hoped that it would just work out, the way that a lot of his plans did, but now he realised that it would take a little scheming to get it going and there were few options available to him. The direct route was, quite simply, too terrifying, so he went for the slightly more convoluted version instead – only slightly more convoluted – and just prayed that it wouldn’t back-fire on him.

 

“Sure… yeah…” he carefully placed his cup down. “Before we do that, can I show you something?” he fixed Face with a stare. “It won’t take long. If you don’t mind.”

 

And suddenly Face looked confused and a little worried and Hannibal’s anxiety cranked up another notch. “Show me something?” Hannibal nodded into the long pause and then, “Of course.”

 

Slowly, Hannibal got to his feet. “Okay, just give me a minute then will you? I’ll be back, just a moment.”

 

This time it was Face who nodded but he also looked edgy – wary – and Hannibal just prayed that this wouldn’t ruin everything for them.

 

He was only gone a few minutes and when he returned Face had finished off both his coffee and the remaining wine; he wondered if that were a good sign or not.

 

“Alright, kid? You ready?” Face nodded and pushed to his feet and Hannibal led them out and into the wide corridor.

 

“This is an incredible place,” their shoes were silent on the plush carpets and Face’s voice was back to polite. “Plenty of history?”

 

“Yeah,” Hannibal indicated framed photographs on the walls as they passed. “Think it was some kind of headquarters in the Civil War.”

 

“Figures.”

 

“Here,” Hannibal stopped at a door labelled, ‘Stratus’ in ornate script, pulling a card from his pocket and flicking it through the reader before pushing the door open wide and holding it for Face, his expression carefully blank.

 

For a moment, Face just stood there, his inscrutable countenance returned, his blue eyes trying to read Hannibal once more but then he walked inside, Hannibal following him and allowing the door to close quietly behind them.

 

Face advanced to the centre of the room and then slowly turned, his eyes taking in the ornate décor, the curtains pulled over full-length windows, the comfortable seating area with flat-screen TV, the opulent roll top bath stood silently against the wall and the bed, the huge bed with the wrought iron canopy which seemed to be growing in size with every passing moment. Hannibal’s heart was thumping in his chest as he watched and then Face turned his way, his expression blank.

 

“What is this?” his voice was low, guarded.

 

“It’s a suite.”

 

“Hannibal…” too late, Hannibal realised that attempting levity had been an error. “Don’t mess with me. What is this?”

 

Fuck, his hands were shaking and the dread was mounting within him. Had this been another awful mistake? He shook his head, “It’s whatever you want it to be, kid.”

 

Face turned away and stared at the empty fireplace, Hannibal wondered if he was thinking about the fireplace in the Fort… he hoped not.

 

The pause was long and awkward and then Face spoke, his voice quiet, his eyes carefully turned away from Hannibal. “To be honest, I don’t think that’s good enough for me right now, that kind of vagueness. I need an answer, a proper one.”

 

Hannibal nodded, he should have expected that really.

 

“I can’t…” Face walked to the fireplace and rested his elbow on the mantle, eyes on the oil painting of the Eiffel Tower that hung above. “This isn’t easy for me, you know,” his voice was strained, like he was forcing every single word out through his tight throat.       

 

“I know, kid.”

 

“I’m trying but I’m still not me, you know? I feel…” he drifted into silence and Hannibal held his breath, let him find the time to source his words, “Like if anything else happens then I’ll just shatter into a million pieces and I don’t know if I’d ever be able to get myself back together again.”

 

Hannibal approached him, feet silent, but stayed back, didn’t crowd, didn’t touch. “I’d never let that happen to you.”

 

He watched as Face’s fingers drew into a fist, “Why not?” Closing his eyes, Hannibal took a deep breath in as Face continued. “I can’t second guess you on this, not right now.”

 

Could he do this? Face was asking him to go out on a limb for him, to expose himself, risk everything. Why? Because he was unsure of Hannibal’s meaning? Or – was this the way he got his revenge? Making Hannibal reveal everything about himself only to throw it all back again? Humiliating him in return for what Hannibal had done? The second that thought had formed in his head, Hannibal furiously crushed it. What the fuck was he thinking that for? Face wouldn’t do that, not in a million years and he was right, expecting Face himself to go out on the edge with no safety wire was unreasonable, and selfish. If Face wanted surety, Hannibal could do that.

 

“I panicked, when I saw you in the Fort, when I realised the danger you were in. Any American would have been in trouble, any service-man. But you… if they’d found out what you mean to me…”

 

“You’ve said that before,” Face was still addressing the painting. “On the mountain.”

 

“They would have used you to manipulate me, or punish me or just to take their revenge on me. I couldn’t let them see, I’d spent my life up to that point hiding it anyway, but then I had to pull out the performance of a life-time. I had to make you believe it, I had to believe it myself.”

 

Face was still staring at the painting on the wall. “Believe what?”

 

Hannibal let out his breath, he stepped closer, still not touching and knew that he’d always been getting to this point in his life, ever since the moment that he and Face had first met all those years ago, this moment had been coming. “They had to believe that I didn’t love you. That you didn’t hold my heart. That you aren’t the most important person in my entire life. They had to believe it, we all had to believe it because, if not…” he shook his head. “I thought that the worst thing that could happen was that my love for you would get you killed. I’m thinking now that maybe that’s not true. I’m thinking that the worst thing that could happen was letting you believe, making you believe, that you are anything less than absolutely everything to me. It’s always been there,” Face hadn’t moved as Hannibal’s words continued to wind around them both. “Hasn’t it? Just outside our awareness, on the fringes, creeping closer with every month we’ve been together.”

 

“I’ve always known I loved you.”

 

Hannibal's heart tightened at the use of the past tense. “And now? Is it gone? Did I kill it all in the desert?”

 

Silence.

 

“Temp…” Hannibal forced himself to remain calm. “I meant what I said before. This is whatever you want it to be. I love you, I’m fed up of hiding it and I hate the damage that I’ve caused. I want to be with you, I want us to be a couple. I want to give you everything you could ever need. But I’m not going to pressure you. I’m not going to try and guilt you or corner you or anything. This isn’t about sex – despite that fucking huge bed – we can stay the night here and I’ll sleep on the couch, anything. This is about us being together. Me being everything I can be just to make you happy. It’s about me loving you.”

 

Silence again, but Hannibal could see Face shifting slightly as he thought, watched the lines furrow his brow.

 

“This can’t be about pity. Or guilt,” a quick look Hannibal’s way to check his reaction to that. “If this isn’t true then…” he shook his head. “Like I said, I’m trying, but I still feel – raw.”

 

“It’s true,” Hannibal risked a touch then, the tiniest of finger-tip caresses to Face’s wrist. “I will feel guilt at what I did until the day I die, but it doesn’t stop me from loving you. That was there before, it’s part of me, you’re part of me. Look at me, Temp, please, look at me.” There was a count of ten before Face moved, wrenching his eyes from the Paris streets to meet Hannibal’s. “I love you. I love you with everything I am and everything I have. You are the whole world to me, without you, there’s nothing. And I’m yours. If that’s what you want, I’m here, baby. For you. Forever.”

 

He left it at that and waited, holding Face’s eyes and praying, knowing that he would let Face walk out of here this night if that’s what the kid needed but wanting, needing him to want them to be together. When Face moved it surprised him, the speed, the fluidity, the surety. One moment Face was at the mantle, his forehead creased in worry and confusion, the next he was right up in Hannibal’s space, his hands on the sides of his CO’s head, angling him just right, his lips warm and passionate and just so, so perfect.

 

Hannibal's arms were on the move in an instant, wrapping around that strong body, feeling the slender lack of previous muscle tone but loving it anyway, loving everything about this man, every damn thing. They kissed and kissed, Face’s hands sliding from their place at Hannibal's head to run through his hair, to stroke up and down his neck and, finally to come to rest, one on his jaw, one on his shoulder as they pulled apart, foreheads together, and shared the same air as they caught their breath.

 

“I love you,” Hannibal felt he’d never lose the thrill of saying it.

 

“I love you, too.” Or hearing it back again.

 

“Will you stay the night with me?”

 

There was the shortest of pauses and then, “Of course.”

 

“We don’t have to make love,” and the fact that Hannibal knew that’s what had driven Face’s slower answer almost made him weep with relief. There had been a time when he’d known this incredible man inside out and back to front: were they getting that time back again?

 

“I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

 

“Of course,” Hannibal kissed him again, warm and firm and reassuring.

 

“But I’d love you to hold me. I’d love to hold you. If that’s okay?”

 

Hannibal answered with his kiss again, this time making it longer, deeper, pouring himself in through Face’s lips, hoping that younger man could taste every single part of him through it.

 

“Come to bed then, sweetheart. This will be the first night of all the nights when I’ll hold you.”

 

They took a step towards the huge bed, fingers twined loosely together and then Face stopped, his brow creased once more. “Shit, Hannibal, I don’t have any clothes, any toiletries, anything.”

 

Hannibal flushed at that, and felt the guilt in his cheeks at being caught out in his manoeuvring. “I brought you some stuff,” he admitted quietly. “You’ve left loads of things at my place over the years. I packed them, a few other things too. I had them brought up, the bags are in the bath – just in case you agreed to stay.”

 

And incredibly, Face laughed. “You sly old fox,” he pressed a kiss to Hannibal's lips again. “Just for that, I get to use the bathroom first and you get to stay out here and wait.” He was off then, twisting out of Hannibal's arms and into the huge en-suite and Hannibal just had to sit down on the edge of the bed and wonder if he was, in fact, the luckiest man ever to walk to face of the earth.  

 

______________

 

Somewhere along the hallway, an ancient clock chimed 0300 whilst Hannibal and Face held each other close.

 

“Despite what you say, I will always hate myself for everything I did in that fort. Everything.”

 

Face sighed and let his fingers drift back and forth across Hannibal's chest. He was glad of the dark, glad of their proximity and so glad of the times that Mary-Jo had told him that admitting to his feelings wasn’t an indication of weakness. Talking like this – it had to be good for them, it had to help in getting all that poison out of them for good.

 

“You kept us both alive. I keep telling you that. And now we get to have this.” And wasn’t that incredible? Face got to touch Hannibal like this, hold Hannibal like this and be touched and held in return and the man loved him. There was very little he wouldn’t have readily suffered to get to this point.

 

“There must have been another way, though,” Face could hear the frustration in his man’s voice. “There must have been a less destructive option.”

 

“John,” and that was another thing that was wonderful. In this bed they were Temp and John and saying that name was as precious as the rarest of jewels. “You’re not omnipotent, you have to realise that.”

 

A chuckle. Progress.

 

“God, how I love you, Temp.”

 

Face twisted on his side, felt Hannibal's hand slide onto his hip, right over his underwear as the other man mirrored his pose and suddenly they were nose to nose, their eyes shining in the darkness. “And I love you.”

 

And then came the kisses. Face had never kissed so much since he was sixteen, not without moving quickly on to the main event. But that wasn’t what this was, this was comfort and affirmation, promises and acknowledgments. This was everything that Face had ever dreamed it could be.

 

______________________

 

“So we all lived in the ranch together, there were eleven of us in all,” slivers of grey light were starting to creep through the sides of the drapes as Face lay with his head on Hannibal's bare chest, listening how the words rumbled into his ears from both sides. “I guess it was a bit like ‘The Waltons’,” Face smiled at the chuckle those words brought. “I was the first of the family to leave. Before me everyone just stayed to work the land and the horses, married a local, maybe even went as far as getting some land of their own.”

 

“Were they angry with you? For joining up?” Face wondered what it must have been like – to have to consider the feelings of others in the decisions you made growing up. Was he actually luckier that he hadn’t had to do that?

 

There was a kiss pressed to his hair, must have been the twentieth that hour, and the warm arm around him tightened. “No, baby. They were happy with anything I wanted to do. They were proud of me I guess. A little worried too.”

 

“Is it still there? The Ranch?” Face couldn’t help wondering what Montakhab would have done with all of this insight into Hannibal’s past but then he quickly shut that train of thought right down; that bastard was dead, Face had seen to that and he had no place in Face’s future and this warm nest that they’d created together. None.

 

“Yeah, it’s still there, still doing well. My Uncle Jake took it on after my parents died, he and Aunt Lil are there now but they haven’t got any kids so I don’t know what’ll happen to it after that.”

 

They slid into silence, Hannibal’s fingers running gently through Face’s hair, Face picturing the two of them at the Ranch, running it together after the Army was through with them, sitting side by side on the porch as the sun slid below the horizon… And when did he, Face, the lover of all things opulent and expensive, become this person that would love to retire out into the wilds of the prairie? He knew the answer was everything to do with the very person he was currently using as a pillow.

 

“Anyway,” Hannibal pulled him closer and kissed his head yet again. “It’s really late, baby. You tired?”

 

Face thought about that. This night was the start of something else, something new and wonderful but scary and risky and something they would have to work hard on given all that had happened in Iraq. But – right now it was perfect, so wonderfully perfect that he didn’t want it to end, not even to get some sleep. There were other considerations though, unfortunately, real life was never far away. “What time do we have to check out?”

 

There was a pause from Hannibal and that strong arm pulled him even closer. “Well,” Hannibal sounded shifty and unsure, not something Face was used to hearing from him. “Thursday actually. I thought – if you wanted – that we could have a few days away? See if we could get some things worked out? A little?”

 

Face felt the love in inside him swell and grow at that. The fact that Hannibal had gone to all of this trouble and effort and expense just to give them this place and this time… No one had ever done anything like that for him ever before; it was humbling and incredibly beautiful. He pushed up onto his elbow and looked Hannibal in the eye. “I’d like that a lot.”

 

Hannibal smiled at that, his grin wide and warm and he leant in and they started their kissing once more.

 

____________________________

____________________________

 

It was hot. And dusty. Face felt that he had dust in places he’d rather not think about. But at least there was the promise of a hot shower ahead of him. And some beers. With Hannibal. And, damnit, if that didn’t just make him feel warm every time he thought it.

 

Hannibal was busy though, and he’d driven into work so Face was left with the choice of a shower on the base in the crappy little shower block, waiting for a couple of hours feeling as disgustingly grimy as he did, or walking home in the heat which would take him about forty minutes. In the end he ran.

 

The streets were fairly empty as the schools were still in and Face set himself a comfortable pace, even getting to glance in through the shop windows as he went by. He reached the intersection where it was left to his apartment and right to Hannibal's house and, with another warm thrill, he turned right as he’d let his apartment go and was now living in Hannibal's house permanently. With him. “Our house,” he heard Hannibal correct in his head and he couldn’t stop the smile that broke out right across his face.

 

By the time he got home, he felt even worse than when he’d set off. His sweat had cut rivers through the grime he was covered in, his hair and PT vest were soaked though and his feet were so hot they felt like they were on fire. He swung his pack off his back, breathing hard, and dug his key out before letting himself in to the blessedly cool and shaded interior. Shower… his body was telling him but first he wandered into the kitchen, glanced through the mail, his mail, that Hannibal had picked up for him that morning and went to the fridge, snagging a bottle of OJ and drinking half of it down in one go. After that, he opened the door to the utility and kicked his sneakers in before peeling off his disgustingly sweaty socks and PT kit and tossing them into the laundry basket. He padded upstairs in nothing but his trunks, his feet leaving sweaty prints on the wooden floor behind him.

 

The shower in Hannibal's, his, main bath was glorious. A walk-in rainfall shower with a view of the sky through the Velux – it was one of his absolute favourite places in the house. Beautiful, luxurious – he and Hannibal spent a lot of time in it together – but also private enough for him to go to it when he needed a moment, when he just had to be alone to sort through his muddled thoughts and his lingering anxiety. He guessed they would be a permanent part of his life from now on in.

 

It was okay though, better than okay. He was okay too, and Hannibal – his whole team in fact. They’d survived and now everything would just get better and better.

 

He twisted the shower on and set it fresher than normal before ditching his underwear and standing under the spray, sighing in relief as the cool water ran over him, washing away the dirt and the sweat and he let his mind wander.

 

It had been an incredible two months since their stay in Cloud Mansion. They’d stayed at the base, training, planning, refreshing, and basically getting their psyches back together again. There’d been some tricky moments between the four of them, some arguments, some yelling, particularly between BA and Hannibal, but they were settling down again. Everything was getting better. It was going to be just fine.

 

Face was still seeing Mary-Jo, weekly sessions which were a life-line for him. He really liked her; she didn’t flinch away from asking him questions he’d rather not consider and she wasn’t phased by his anger and the violence with which it could erupt from time to time. She was incredibly astute though, heard what he wasn’t saying, probed where he was hiding secrets and knew things that she couldn’t possibly have known. He’d had such a session with her the week after they returned from Cloud Mansion.

 

Six weeks previously…

 

“So,” Mary-Jo smiled at Face as he tried to keep his eyes fixed on the window and the garden beyond. “You’re giving your apartment up?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You weren’t tempted to keep it on?” her voice was gentle, non-confrontational, “Just in case you needed it?”

 

Face’s head whipped around to look at her. “Why would I need it?” he felt bad for the snap in his tone but he couldn’t get it to shift. “You think this is going to crash and burn?”

 

Mary-Jo smiled at him, “I don’t think anything, Face. We’re talking about you here. Do you think this is going to crash and burn?”

 

He sat forward, his face hiding in his hands. “No.”

 

“But you are worried?”

 

A long sigh. “The last person I lived with was Sosa. The only person I’ve lived with was Sosa. It didn’t end well.”

 

“No, it didn’t. But Hannibal isn’t Charissa, now, is he?”

 

Face huffed out a bitter little laugh. “No.”

 

Silence.

 

“It must be difficult for you, confusing, when you think about making love with him.”

 

Face didn’t speak. His face stayed in his hands but he could feel his ears flushing red. He was Face for God’s sake – he’d had more sexual partners than he could ever hope of remembering, why on earth would this woman think he was confused about sleeping with Hannibal? He rubbed at his eyes. “What makes you think we’ve not already done the dirty?”

 

“You. Your tension.”

 

He sighed and rubbed around the back on his neck. Tension? Fuck, yes, he was so taut he worried he was going to snap in two.

 

“You want to explain where that’s coming from?”

 

He laughed again, flat once more. “I didn’t think you were here to fix my sex-life.”

 

And this time Mary-Jo laughed, quiet and genuinely amused and somehow it took the sharp edge off Face’s mood. “I’m not here to fix anything, Face. You know that. I’m here to help you make sense of your thoughts and feelings. That’s all.”

 

He blew out a long breath and shifted his hands away from his face but kept his eyes on the carpet, his elbows on his knees.

 

“Tell me how you’re feeling. About moving in. About Hannibal.”

 

Face stared at a loop of fibre that had been pulled from the carpet and vaguely registered the clunking sounds of a soda delivery at the store next door, but his mind was on Hannibal and their new life together – and on what happened in Iraq.

 

“I love him. I want to be with him.”

 

“Live with him?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But…?”

 

It was quite a big loop of thread. Face wanted to get something sharp and push it back through before it started pulling away and making a hole. “I can’t stop thinking about what he did.”

 

“The rapes?”

 

Again, the blood rushed to his ears – would he ever be able to hear that word without wanting to die of mortification? “Yeah.”

 

“But you said you understood that? You said that you realise now they were a necessity?”

 

“I do,” Face’s hands were back over his eyes, “They were. He saved both our lives doing that. I know that. It’s just…”

 

“Go on.”

 

“My head understands. But my body…” he trailed off again, the words stuck in his throat and willed Mary-Jo to understand.

 

“You’re worried,” her voice was quiet and calm and something for Face to hold onto as his emotions roiled inside him, “That when you try and make love with him it will all come back and you’ll freeze?”

 

Face let out a long breath. “That would destroy him. He’d think I wasn’t over it, he’d think I still hate him. He’d leave me again and this time I’d never find him.”

 

“Face, we’ve discussed this before. A serious sexual assault isn’t something that anyone ever gets ‘over’.”

 

“I don’t hate him for it!”

 

“But you hate it, don’t you? You hate what was done to you and you can’t separate him out of it.”

 

Face was silent again, his breath warm on his hands. All he could think was that he wanted to forget it, wanted to move on and leave it in the past and he just couldn’t.

 

“I don’t want to feel like this.”

 

Mary-Jo shifted, the springs of her chair creaking and making Face think of the awful show-down in the cabin in the woods. “Have you told him how you feel?”

 

“No. If he thinks I’m still bothered about this, he’ll leave me.”

 

“I’m pretty sure he knows you’re still bothered by it. And do you think he’ll leave you when you need him so much? After all, he came back to you because you needed him.”

 

Face slid his hands into his hair and gripped tightly. “I don’t know. I can’t do anything that would drive him away.”

 

“I think your silence would drive him away. He knows you. He knows you well enough to see that there’re things that are bothering you. If you don’t talk to him about it, how will he know what those things are? Maybe he’d assume that the problem is him?”

 

Face’s eyes shot up at that, worry etched right through them.

 

_____________

 

Later that day he was sat in his apartment, empty bags and boxes littering the floor, his eyes on the blank TV screen as he heard Hannibal burst in behind him.

 

“You ready yet, kid? Brought some take-out. Thought we could have this here and then-” he stuttered to a halt and Face flushed, knew he’d seen the spectacular lack of any packing that had been done and could almost taste the confused disappointment. Footsteps approached, the was a thud of the take-out bags being left on the table and then Hannibal was at his side, perched on the footstool, fingers on Face’s hand, voice soft with worry. “You changed your mind?”

 

Face closed his eyes. Had he? No, not really. He’d just been sat here, all day, ever since his session with Mary-Jo thinking about what he could say, how he could fix this when he just couldn’t force his body to believe what his head did. “No.” He hoped Hannibal would understand.

 

“So…” warm fingers squeezed his. “What is this then, baby?” God – Face loved the pet names. “You worried about something? Cold feet?”

 

I can’t make love with you. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Is that what you wanted from our relationship? Is that what you’ve hoped for? A life of celibacy? Of course not. I understand if this means it’s over between us.

 

The words were in his head but they were stuck fast. And maybe that was for the best anyway – what the hell would they sound like out in the open?

 

“Face?” Gentle fingers touched his cheek.

 

I was wondering if it was you or me. I was wondering whether, rather than moving in with you tonight, I should go out and find a man, see if I can stand to let him fuck me.          

 

Jesus Christ… what was wrong with him?

 

“Hey,” the fingers on his cheek moved him around, tilted his face so that they were almost eye to eye. “Nothing changes you know, kid. Tonight I mean. I’m not going to leap on you the second you step into the bedroom.”

 

Face wanted to crawl away and die. What the fuck was wrong with him?

 

“I know.”

 

“I told you this was whatever you wanted it to be.”

 

“I know.”

 

Hannibal sighed, pained and sad and it made Face just want to scream in frustration. “Why don’t we leave things as they are then? Just for a while. See how you feel in another month or so.”

 

Face closed his eyes. Is that what he wanted? To carry on living here on his own? Sleeping on the floor because he could only sleep in a bed with Hannibal?

 

“No… I’m fine. This will be fine,” he forced himself to meet Hannibal's eye and pushed out a smile. “Let’s get this shit packed up and then eat. I’m starving…” He bent down and snatched up a hold-all and just caught Hannibal’s morose expression out of the corner of his eye.  

 

If you don’t talk to him about it, how will he know what those things are? Maybe he’d assume that the problem is him?

 

Jesus Christ, Face. You’re close to blowing this whole thing… Get a grip will you? For fuck’s sake, get a grip.

 

_____________________

 

Four weeks previously…

 

He did get it together. Kind of. And they managed to rub along reasonably well for a couple of weeks although Face felt like he was going to explode through the politeness of it all, with the sheer amount of consideration that Hannibal was affording him. It was his own fault he knew, he needed to get his head in the game and stop being such a damn blushing virgin. He’d even resorted to telling Mary-Jo that he and Hannibal had been fucking most nights, just to get her off his case. He wasn’t at all sure he’d convinced her, though.

 

They shared a room, they shared a bed. They spent the nights wrapped up in each other’s arms and the days living in each other’s pockets. They were intimate in every way – apart from the way that was starting to drive them apart.

 

It was a Saturday and Face had been living in Hannibal's house for two entire weeks. It was a beautiful day, late morning and they’d had a lazy breakfast with the papers and the radio and now were running a little late for getting over to Murdock’s barbecue. Hannibal was showering and Face was cleaning his teeth, standing in his trunks with his back to the huge walk-in cubicle, his eyes on the mirror and Hannibal, who was obliviously soaping himself up.

 

“I hope Murdock hasn’t felt the need to make his own cheese again…” his voice was raised above the noise of the spray. “What you reckon, kid? I’ve had leather belts that were easier to chew.”

 

“Yeah,” Face spat into the sink and straightened up again, his eyes drawn to the way that the soap suds wound their way around Hannibal's lithe body and down his long legs.

 

“Actually, I think I’d rather have the home-made cheese than that punch he made the last time though… What do you reckon was in that?”

 

Face rinsed his mouth out and dried his face, leaning up against the sink edge as he stared into the mirror, watching, transfixed, as Hannibal lifted one leg at a time, soaping through his toes before standing back under the spray and letting everything wash off him. “I dunno.”

 

“Tasted like fucking creosote if you ask me,” he tipped his head back, closing his eyes, and squeezed a generous blob of shampoo into his palm. “With grape soda. And milk.” He laughed a little and started lathering up his hair. “Don’t know where he gets his ideas from.”

 

“No.” Face was feeling a little warm, a little clammy, he figured it was the steam from the shower but he just couldn’t get himself to move.

 

“Maybe we should’ve got him some cook books for his birthday instead of that George Forman.” Hannibal tipped his head from side to side to rinse the shampoo from his ears. “But then, he probably wouldn’t ever use them,” he stepped forward, slightly out of the spray and turned into it again, dusting his fingers through the hairs on his chest, clearing the last few suds from their hiding places around his nipples and Face swallowed hard. “What meat is he doing today? He tell you?”

 

Face wasn’t sure, in fact, it was hard to think about Murdock at all. Or answer Hannibal’s questions, not when his mouth was this dry.

 

“I’d prefer ostrich to crocodile, but then he was threatening moose wasn’t he? Where the hell does he think he’s gonna get moose from around here?”

 

Face shifted against the sink and glanced down in shock at the way that his cock was thick and bulging against the white cotton of his Calvin’s. When the hell had that happened?

 

“Or ostrich for that matter. Or crocodile. You think it’s all just beef? Or chicken and someone’s having his life?”

 

Slowly, Face turned around and watched Hannibal standing there with his face turned into the spray, his muscles long and lean, his height majestic, even that old break in his nose nothing short of noble. God, he loved the man, loved him so, so much.

 

“Maybe I’ll mention that to BA. He might have more of an idea. I’d hate to think that someone’s taking advantage of him.”

 

The soap was all gone now, as was the shampoo, and the clear rivulets of water were mapping their way around Hannibal’s muscles, tracing the smooth mounds just like Face had done so many times before as they held each other in bed. He stepped forward.

 

“What do you reckon, kid?” Hannibal was wiping his face with his hands. “You think I’m making a fuss over nothing?”

 

Nothing. Just the water sluicing down the plug and Hannibal's face creased into a frown.

 

“Face?” he shook the wet hair from his eyes and blinked them open, “Kid-” stopping dead at finding Face right in front of him, right in the shower stall, his eyes dark and serious, his expression nothing short of hungry. He swallowed at that look and reached a tentative hand out, “You okay? You look-”

 

But he never finished. Never got the words out of his head as Face stepped right up to him, hot erection pushing into Hannibal's hip and took hold of his head once more, kissing him as fiercely as he had on that first night.

 

Hannibal’s arms were around him in an instant, kissing back with everything he had but when Face’s fingers, hot and slippery from the shower, found his hardening cock and started to stroke its length, he pulled back a little, stepping backwards until he was plastered against the tiles, doing his best to keep Face away from him.

 

“Face,” he was more than a little breathless and it was nothing to do with trying to breathe through the spray from the shower. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“I know,” Face’s fingers were still wrapped around Hannibal’s cock and it continued to swell and thicken at his touch. “Of course I know. But I want this, John,” his voice was low, the arousal coursing through his body alien to him in its intensity. “I want this – I want you.”

 

Hannibal hung his head, his eyes drawn to where Face was touching him, the hands on Face’s shoulders gripping rather than pushing away any more. “Oh, kid…” Face tried to draw closer and Hannibal’s arms locked once more. “I swore to myself that I’d never push you into this.”

 

“You’re not.”

 

“That I’d never make you feel like it was owed or expected or required at all.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Face…” Hannibal shook his head. “You’re not ready for this.”

 

“I’m not?” Hannibal was properly hard now, his cock straining into Face’s touch as he continued to stroke its length. “Or you’re not?”

 

Hannibal looked up at that, his expression wretched. “I don’t deserve it,” his voice was barely a whisper and Face managed to creep in a little closer, edging around the spray.

 

“We gonna live in the past forever? We gonna let what happened before be our present? If we are then I may as well pack up and leave right now because you know it’s never going to last.” He held Hannibal’s eyes, knowing that they were balanced on a precipice and at any moment they were risking tipping off into nothing.

 

Hannibal stared at him. “I don’t have the right to touch you.”

 

Again, Face crept closer, sliding around the wall until they were arm to arm, two blue gazes locked together. “I give you that right.” Hannibal just looked, pain etched all over his face and, finally, Face leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I forgive you, John. Can’t you just forgive yourself?”

 

Hannibal blinked the spray out of his eyes, “Face…” and Face held his gaze steady once more.

 

“I need you…” Then he moved again, one hand still holding Hannibal’s cock as it warmed his palm, the other sliding through all that wet hair as he swung off the tiles, right under the spray, and pulled Hannibal to him, feeling their chests flush together as he started the kissing up once more.

 

Hannibal remained reluctant though, his kiss was tentative, the hands on Face’s shoulders bracing rather than holding and the panic of rejection started to swim inside Face, swirl and grow and just at the crucial second before it burst into life, Hannibal’s hesitancy evaporated. His hands slid across wet skin and he pulled Face to him, deepening the kiss, drawing him in, drinking him down. Face pushed in, plastering his body to Hannibal’s, lifting a leg and wrapping it around Hannibal's waist, hooking him even closer.

 

They kissed desperately, more fire than in any of the weeks they’d been practising until, inevitably, they broke away, Face gasping for air, trying to find a way through the falling water to find some oxygen.

 

Hannibal appeared not to have the same mortal needs as Face though, he simply pulled him even closer and fell to nibbling and sucking on his collar bone, sliding further along, licking through the water until he reached a taut neck, tendons pulled tight as Face tried to just breathe. He followed the line of neck up, Face gasping and moaning under that flicking tongue, until he reached a fleshy lobe and nuzzled at it – Face actually felt his knees go weak at the touch.

 

“Okay?” Hannibal asked, right against that ear and this time Face shivered, tugging the other man closer and manoeuvring them so that he could still breathe. At some point his leg had slipped back to the floor and he had lost his grip on Hannibal’s cock, but he could feel it then, red hot and iron hard against his hip and he shifted slightly, twisting himself around until – oh God – their erections were rubbing across their bellies together and Face wished that was something he could see. He pushed up, rubbed harder and then next thing he knew he was flat against the tiles, firm hands holding him still and Hannibal ducking to flick at the water collecting in the hollow of Face’s throat.

 

It was incredible, in all of Face’s sexual encounters over the many years he’d been active, no one had ever kissed him there. Or maybe they had and they just didn’t have Hannibal's skill. Or maybe Face just didn’t love them with everything he was. Whatever the explanation, the feel of a firm tongue swirling around and around in that little dip had him closing his eyes and forgetting to breathe.

 

Hannibal didn’t stay there long though. Within a minute he was shifting down again and Face was disappointed right up until the second that that incredible tongue found a nipple. This time he actually cried out and grabbed hold of Hannibal’s head, tugging him closer as he cracked his own skull against the wet tiles. What was the man doing? Again, Face had never really been into nipples, had thought of it more as a girl thing, but Jesus… He could feel his nipple hardening, pulling itself taut and upright as Hannibal licked it and sucked it and nibbled on it. The other one too, it was getting itself ready, knowing its turn was fast approaching and, finally, Hannibal took pity on it, drifting across to share himself about, the fingers and thumb of his right hand sliding over to Face’s left nipple, flicking and pulling until Face was gasping with the pleasure of it all.

 

Then Hannibal shifted again, bending his knees, tracing down over Face’s belly, swirling through the water droplets and Face looked down, watched the care with which Hannibal chased the tiny rivulets as he shifted ever lower. Face hadn’t much muscle tone left in his abdomen; there had been a time when his six pack had drawn the eyes of every single person in the gym, male or female. That was something he’d lost in Iraq but he was already working to get it back; BA had drawn up a training schedule for him and together they were working hard. It would come, he knew that now, nothing was gone for good.

 

The lack of muscle didn’t seem to bother Hannibal though. He was currently swirling around Face’s navel, hands on slightly-protruding hip-bones, thumbs sweeping up and down the edge of sharp obliques, his chin teasing the head of Face’s desperate cock. Face wanted to say something, he wanted to beg and plead and gasp and moan but he was frozen by the myriad sensations running through him. Everything wanted Hannibal's touch, everything was craving the contact, everything was pulsing and tingling and singing with pleasure. It was over-whelming. 

 

Then Hannibal dropped to his knees on the shower floor, and Face only had time to think, oh, fuck… before he was bucking off the tiles, gasps and shouts pulled from his lips as Hannibal bent right down, twisted his head and ran his tongue over the gently crinkled skin of Face’s balls. Again, Face’s fuzzy brain told him that this was new, that plenty of people had rubbed at his balls, some had squeezed them a little harder than Face appreciated but no one had ever licked them. No one had ever, oh Jesus, pulled them into their mouth and sucked them.

 

“Oh, oh…”

 

It was all he was capable of, but Hannibal seemed to understand. Warm hands traced lean thigh muscles as he took the cool little sacks into mouth, one at a time, his tongue tracing patterns on them and Face had to close his eyes, had to press his back against the cold tiles and concentrate really, fucking hard on not just coming there and then. Then a hand was moving, trailing finger tips across Face’s twitching stomach until one single thumb slid in right next to Hannibal’s busy mouth and pressed at the base of Face’s cock, lifting it up and out of the way, pressing it firmly against the sprinkling of hairs on Face’s belly. 

 

Face had to look then, how could he not look at that very first touch of his dick? The first touch that counted of course. Hannibal let the tight little balls slip from his mouth and bent his head to press a kiss to each before looking upwards, his eye lashes spiked with water, his lips red and ever so slightly swollen and, holding Face’s eyes whilst Face tried to remember to breathe, he slowly, slowly leaned in to kiss the base of his swollen shaft.

 

Again, Face gasped. His chest heaved as he pulled in lungfuls of air and slowly, Hannibal moved upwards, tongue flicking out against the shaft, chasing veins, teeth scraping ever so gently, that thumb rubbing firm circles around and around the base. Face moaned and shifted slightly against the tiles, he knew exactly what was coming and those last few seconds of waiting were some of the longest in his life. Finally though, Hannibal was in place and Face could only stare as that talented tongue rippled right around his smooth head, once, twice, flicking at the slit, teeth scraping at the frenulum – Face could feel the pre-come oozing from him and being swallowed by the water from the shower – and then, with speed and ease that was barely comprehensible, Hannibal slid over him, swallowing him down in one smooth motion, no gag reflex, throat muscles cushioning him and Face yelled again, a wordless cry of pleasure and it took everything he had not to just hold Hannibal's head in place and fuck.

 

It was an impressive move. One that, deep in the forgotten conscious part of Face’s mind, he knew that he’d never been capable of, but Hannibal couldn’t keep it up for long. Within half a minute he was drawing back again, the slide off almost as incredible as the slide in and Face’s breathe was coming in deep, ragged gasps. Face thought he was going to pull right off but he didn’t, instead, Hannibal closed his lips as he withdrew, making Face shudder at the sensation and stayed there, just the very tip of Face’s cock in his mouth, his tongue dancing over the sensitive slit and then, holding Face’s eyes once more, he pushed down, swallowing him whole again and again Face cried out.

 

Three more times that happened and Hannibal had his palm flat on Face’s belly, feeling every jump and twitch and he seemed to know when orgasm was only seconds away as he pulled right off, sitting back on his haunches as tossing the water out of his eyes.

 

“You want to come now, baby, or wait a bit?”

 

And again, that was a very new thing. Had anyone ever cared what Face wanted out of sex before?

 

He couldn’t speak at first, the sight of Hannibal kneeling in front of him, Hannibal who had just, mere seconds ago, been sucking his cock, how could he possibly be expected to talk around that? But then he saw a frown developing on that earnest face and he couldn’t have his man thinking that Face wasn’t into this, not when the absolute opposite was actually true. 

 

“Wait,” his mouth was dry – how could it be dry when he was in the fucking shower? He swallowed and reached out a tentative hand to touch Hannibal’s sopping hair, swallowing hard and trying again. “Together? Could we come together?”

 

It was beautiful, the way that Hannibal’s whole face lit up at that, the smile that blossomed and grew and tugged one out of Face at the same time. This would be okay too, for the first time, Face truly believed it and thought that maybe Hannibal did too.

 

“You’ll come inside me?” his relief was finding his voice and Hannibal stood up at that, sliding his wet body up Face’s sparking pleasure in some many different places that Face was back to gasping.

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

Fuck, the man’s voice was dripping in desire. “Yes.”

 

“Then of course,” Hannibal was back to kissing along his jaw and neck, “Of course I will, sweetheart.” 

 

And then he was back to the kissing, sucking Face’s tongue into his mouth and Face’s cock twitched as he thought what else had been in this mouth, was sure he could even taste himself in the hidden corners of Hannibal's cheeks. He lifted his leg again, pressed in close and felt the searing heat from Hannibal's cock as it rubbed against his belly. He wanted it inside him though, was beginning to get desperate for the feel of in inside him and realised that that was yet another first.

 

Hannibal wasn’t pushing them onwards though, his hands were kneading Face’s butt but they weren’t sliding down, they weren’t heading where Face wanted them, they weren’t starting to open him up. He reached around behind himself as they kissed and took hold of a strong wrist, guiding it down, down until he felt tentative fingers whisper up and down his crack.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He’d never been surer. Face pulled back from the kiss again, pressing his lips against Hannibal’s one last time before twisting to the side and coming back with the baby oil. Hannibal blinked at him, seemed to be trying to read every thought in his head and so Face popped it open, rested the nozzle right over his head, between his shoulder blades, and squeezed. He felt the warm trail of oil as it slid down his spine, felt it reach his butt where it was collected by Hannibal’s fingers and then he just let the bottle slip from his hand as the first press against his hole registered through his lust. He moaned again, deep and low and his head fell forward onto Hannibal's shoulder, totally unable of holding its own weight as that gentle pressure slowly, slowly built.

 

“You sure?” Hannibal asked again and Face nodded.

 

“Fuck, yes,” there was so much lust in his voice he barely recognised it.

 

The finger slid right in then, slow and gentle but finding Face’s prostate with ease and Face gasped, mouthing the prominent edge of Hannibal's collar bone into his mouth and sucking hard.

 

It was a tight fit, not much oil and so Face lifted his leg higher, rising onto his toes and wrapping it around Hannibal's waist, silently encouraging more. Hannibal obliged, mopping up more of the slippery oil and sliding in and out, gauging his speed on the noises Face was making, the way he was flexing, thrusting himself back onto that questing finger and forward onto the red-hot cock at his belly.

 

“You ready?” Hannibal’s voice was taut, desperate, almost as desperate as Face felt.

 

“Yeah. Lift me?”

 

It was awkward, but Face reached up to grab the shower head and Hannibal slid his arms around hair-dusted thighs and that left Face the option of wrapping another leg around Hannibal's waist, levering himself up with strong arms on Hannibal's neck and he was rewarded with the smooth heat of an erection at his entrance.

 

“Okay?” the pressure in Hannibal’s voice was more than obvious and Face was straining to keep himself upright.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Slowly…” Hannibal warned but Face couldn’t do that, his cock was throbbing in need, his hole twitching in anticipation and his thighs trembling with the effort of staying up. He took a long breath in and, as he let it all out again, he slid down, feeling that first pop of the breaching followed by the slow burn, the good burn, the burn he savoured.

 

“Oh, Jesus Christ…”

 

He was fully seated in an instant and leant back, pressing his shoulders in to the tiles and keeping the pressure off his thighs as Hannibal shuffled in and slid his hands under Face’s butt.

 

“Is this good?” Hannibal's eyes were dark and his expression one that Face's had never seen before – all power and possession but also one of incredible pleasure.

 

“Yeah…” Face could barely speak around the cock pressing up inside him. “Oh, it’s good, it’s so fucking good.”

 

Hannibal shifted then, tugging Face closer to him, further onto his cock and Face arched and yelled as it scored a direct hit on his prostate, so firm it was almost too much - but still just perfect.

 

“Like that?”

 

Face could only nod and then it seemed that speech deserted Hannibal as well as he started to tip his hips, grunting with every push in, just a fraction before Face’s answering moan and they quickly slipped into a rhythm. Face had never felt it like that before, never felt that he could come just from a cock in his ass but then Hannibal shifted again, repositioning his grip and there was a hand on Face’s cock and he cried out yet again, stiffening against the tiles because he was coming, god, he was coming from one damn tug on his cock. He was barely aware of Hannibal’s answering thrusts, his own desperate grunting and moaning and then, as his own cock continued to spurt in the firm grip on his man, he felt Hannibal's swell and burst inside him, felt it spewing its seed right up to his heart as Hannibal yelled and swore in pleasure.

 

He wasn’t sure if he passed out for a few seconds as he seemed to miss the immediate aftermath, coming back to himself to find his shoulders pressed tightly the wall, Hannibal’s cock still inside him, firm hands under his butt and his own arms wrapped around Hannibal's neck. They were both breathing hard, faces pressed into necks, holding each other close and then Hannibal shifted slightly and the water shut off and Face was only just aware that it had been running cold.

 

“Fuck,” it was all he could say and it was spoken into the damp skin of Hannibal's neck but it got an answering chuckle, one that shook through them both.

 

“I know, kid,” Hannibal’s voice was hoarse.

 

“That was just – fuck,” and he giggled, he felt euphoric, the pleasure and the release singing through his veins. He felt like a child again and again Hannibal laughed with him, right into Face’s damp skin as he held him close.

 

Then silence fell, gravity caught up with them a little and Face winced as he felt Hannibal's softening cock slide out of hiss ass, felt himself slide down the wall a little. “I need to get down,” his thighs were cramping but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand.

 

His hips were stiff, his ass a little tender and it was far from graceful the way that they uncoupled but then they stood in the silent shower, pressed up close still, sticky with come and slippery with oil and Hannibal pressed a breathless kiss into Face’s neck. “Thank you.”

 

Face huffed and pushed at Hannibal although he made sure that he kept him close. “Hannibal, please don’t ever thank me for having awesome sex with you…”

 

There was a long silence and then, “That’s not what I was thanking you for.”

 

“Oh,” Face felt himself flush.

 

“Although the sex was incredible.”

 

And then they were back to giggling and holding each other, caressing their wet skin and kissing again, slow and lazy this time.

 

And they were very late for Murdock's barbeque.

 

Present day…

 

Reliving those pleasant memories, Face wasn’t at all surprised to find himself hard as he soaped himself up. Jacking off in the shower wasn’t something he did much now he had Hannibal but it was always a pleasant thing to do, especially when he had so many lovely images in his head he could draw on.

 

Eventually, he was done though. Cooled down, thoroughly clean, sexually sated (for the time being) and totally exhausted. He stepped out of the shower and towelled himself dry, thought about starting something for dinner and instead just climbed under the sheet in his – their – bed, falling asleep in minutes.

 

He awoke to the sound of the door slamming below and was slightly surprised to find it approaching nineteen hundred hours, he must have been tired. He waited where he was and, sure enough, within a minute the door was opening and Hannibal was sliding in, smiling when he saw Face blinking sleepily at him.

 

“Thought you’d be here when I saw the blinds were closed.”

 

Face smiled but his planned response was highjacked when he saw the envelope that Hannibal was carrying and his heart started beating a little faster. His somnolence banished, he pushed up against the headboard and, brow furrowed, asked, “Orders?” It was a very familiar looking envelope.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Face swallowed hard as Hannibal came to sit on the edge of the bed next to him. Orders were fine, orders were no problem at all – as long as they kept the four of them together. The last set of orders that any of them had received had taken Hannibal from him and almost ended it all. He nodded at the enveloped and asked, “Team?” and Hannibal smiled at him.

 

“Yeah.”

 

After that, Face didn’t care what they said. His anxiety left him and he settled back against the pillows, his grin wide. “Cool.” And it would be. Wherever they went, whatever they did, as long as they were together, the four of them, everything would always be okay.

 

_______________

 

Epilogue

 

Six months later…

 

“Yeah, boss, I can’t get through this way. I’m gonna have to go right around.”

 

Face frowned as he heard the concern in Hannibal’s voice in his ear – he didn’t want him to worry, this was fine, everything was fine, Face just had something he needed to do.

 

“I will. It’ll take about forty minutes I reckon. Yeah. You too.”

 

Keep safe… The request reverberated around and around his head. He would, and he tried to shake off the guilt that was creeping through his veins. This needed doing. He would do it. Simple. Then he’d go back to Hannibal, they would get back to base and have some spectacular post-mission sex. Awesome. 

 

The narrow slums were still and dark, no streetlights here, just the scattering of stars up above and Face’s own night vision. He knew where he was going though. This had been planned down to the tinniest detail, months of work had gone into this. Face twisted confidently through the snaking alley ways, silent but efficient, his sidearm in his fingers, the blue-prints of this hovel in his head. And there he was.

 

Pausing at a non-descript and battered looking door, Face paused a moment to run through his plan and double-check the surroundings – there were no chances to be taken with this and he wasn’t prepared to disappoint Hannibal by messing it up, not that Hannibal even knew he was here of course. Finally, he was ready, and, taking a near-silent flash grenade from his belt, he took a breath, squared his shoulder against the tiny door and pushed.

 

In ninety seconds it was all over. The street was silent once more; if anyone had heard the noise that Face had made they’d simply ignored it, not wanting to get involved, and Face himself was lounging against a wattled wall, straightening his clothes after hauling his subject out of bed and securing his scared-ass body to a single, wooden seat in the centre of the room.

 

He waited. It would take a while for the dancing images caused by the flare to vanish from his target’s vision and he wanted him to know who he was, it was vital that they started this ‘conversation’ off on the right foot. He gave it another five minutes and then shifted slightly, gave the signal that he was done waiting and moved into the sight of his captive, smiling easily in the light from the single lamp he’d lit. “Alright there, Lance? How’s things going?”

 

There was a pause, Face made sure that his smile didn’t crack and then a rather predictable stream of pleading Arabic came from the chair telling Face that this was the simple home of a shoemaker, that he had no idea what he was saying in his foreign tongue, that there was no money for him to steal but that he could have anything he wanted to just go and leave without violence.

 

Face clucked his tongue and shifted slightly, allowing his irritation to bleed through his calm demeanour. “Do not treat me as an idiot, Lance. I know who you are. I know why you are here now. I know everything about you, from your sister Janey – she’s a looker by the way – to your Gran’s dog, Buster. I know you support the Knicks, and that you’re lactose intolerant. I know about your apartment in New York with its genuine Warhol, and the beach house in Mexico which you’ve hidden from your ex-wife. You see, buddy? I know everything. So please – cut the crap.”

 

There was a pause and Face was just wondering if the dick-wad was going to try and draw this whole thing out when a furious hiss sounded from the centre of the room. “What the fuck are you doing here, Peck? You’re compromising my cover!”

 

“Yeah – finding it hard to care about that though, to be honest,” Face smiled again then, brief and bright, but then he was straight back to business. “And why am I here? I thought you’d know really – I thought you’d be able to work it all out, a man with a Harvard education such as yourself.”

 

Lance sighed at that and Face watched him surreptitiously trying to test out the bonds that held his wrists to the chair. “Really, Peck… I thought you Ranger types were supposed to be tough? And anyway, why blame me – it’s not like any of that was actually my fault.”

 

“Really?” Face’s voice was mild, interested. “Let’s have a think about that then shall we? Hmmm, so locking me up in the dungeon out of Hannibal’s sight, yep, your fault. Allowing the nightly goon squad visits and not telling the boss, also your fault. Giving Montakhab and Doctor Death free rein to do what the hell they liked with me and still not telling the boss, yep, your fault. Telling Montakhab what you’d found out about my time at the orphanage, your fault. Not trying to stop or tell Hannibal about the attempted free-for-all in the rec room, yep, on you, and finally, the pantomime execution – hmm, okay, I’ll give you that one. You probably had nothing to do with that.” Despite his weeks of therapy, Face still found it easier to just try and pretend that the sexual assaults had never happened. He certainly wasn’t going to mention them in front of this dick-head.

 

There was an irritated shuffling from the centre of the room and Lance sighed again. “You know what, Peck? There are things in this life that are more important than you. That mission was more important than you. Smith had signed up for completion and you were a complication that no one there needed. I dealt with you the best way I could. The mission had to succeed and let’s not forget that you weren’t supposed to even be there either.”

 

“No,” Face wasn’t stupid, he’d long ago worked out his place in the pecking order of this unwinnable conflict. “I wasn’t, and as much as you behaved like a two-faced, scheming little rat, far too scared to tell Hannibal what was really going on – none of that is actually why I am here.”

 

The corresponding pause was long and heavy. Face couldn’t see Lance’s expression clearly in the half-light, but he could taste the confusion rolling off him. “It’s not?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“What then?”

 

Then it was Face’s turn to sigh, “You don’t know?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Hm,” Face watched him awhile, enjoyed the squirming but the ignorance was stoking his anger once more and he really was on the clock with this one. “What was your brief, then? In the op?”

 

“It’s conf-”

 

“Don’t.”

 

Lance shook his head and turned to meet Face’s stare across the little room. “It’s confidential. But you already know.”

 

“Tell me.”

 

“I was Smith’s handler.”

 

“And that entailed…??”

 

“What?”

 

“Your job description, idiot, what did you have to do?”

 

Yet again, Lance sighed, pretending to be bored with it all but Face could smell his anxious sweat. “Liaise with him. Advise him. Act as a go-between with command since he was in deep cover,” he shrugged. “It’s what I do. It’s my bread and butter.”

 

“Arrange an escape window for him? At the end?” Face’s voice was mild but there was a line of steel running through it and suddenly Lance was preternaturally still on his seat in the middle of the room. “That one of your jobs as well? Make sure that the guy who’d enabled to the whole fucking op got out okay after it was all over?” a little of his anger had seeped into that one word and, with a huge effort, Face dragged it all back again.

 

“Smith knew what he was getting himself into.”

 

“He never signed up for a suicide mission.”

 

“This is the real world, Peck, grow some balls.”

 

Face moved so fast that Lance never even really saw him coming. One minute he was leaning on the filthy wall looking bored and casual if a little pissed off, the next he was pulling the suddenly-terrified CIA agent up off his chair by his neck, his expression furious, his hand tight enough to evoke panic. “You know what I do?” he hissed right into Lance’s face, “What my bread and butter is?” The only response he got was desperate squirming under his hand. “It’s watching out for my boss. It’s making sure he’s okay to do what he does best. It’s getting him anything he needs, any time he needs it. It’s anticipating what he’d going to do and being there to support him. It’s making sure that sneaky fucking little shits like you don’t screw him over and leave him to fucking die…” 

 

“I didn’t! I didn’t! It all went wrong! The jets weren’t supposed to come for-”

 

“Bull. Shit,” Face punctuated each word with a vicious squeeze on the throat under his fingers. “You were never interested in getting him out. You were never going to do anything other than cover your own, sorry, ass. I read your report, the one you wrote before you heard he’d actually survived. The one that says you saw him die, killed by his own men who realised his duplicity at the end, how you only managed to fight them off and get away yourself.”

 

“I thought that’s what had happened!” Lance’s voice was breathless, his panic obvious. “I never would have left-”

 

“Bull. Shit,” Face repeated and threw him back into his seat, backing off and pulling a pair of leather gloves from a pocket of his combats. “You sold Hannibal down the river and left him for dead. And that is not acceptable,” the gloves were on and Face stretched his fingers out. “Prepare to pay the price.”

 

He couldn’t be sure, but as he advanced across the tiny room, he thought he might have heard Agent Lance Barrett whimpering.    

 

_________________________

 

The door to the hovel cautiously opened and Face slipped out into the night once more, looking left and right before setting off on his way to rendezvous with the rest of his team.

 

“Alright, kid?” he jumped right out of his skin at the dark shape which seemed to materialise at his shoulder. “Do I have to call a recovery team in, then?”

 

Face huffed and kept his eyes straight ahead. “No.”

 

“EMTs?”

 

Another huff. “No.”

 

“Right,” Hannibal sounded equal parts amused and confused but Face was in no mood to elaborate. “You shared a beer with him?”

 

“No.”

 

“Coffee?”

 

Faced sighed then, long and loud and stopped, turning to face Hannibal head on, hissing in the quiet of the street. “No. Obviously. And I’m sorry, right? I know I should have told you what I was doing but – I was just handling it instead. I didn’t want to worry you.” He turned and marched off again, not surprised to hear Hannibal at his side.

 

“I’m not having a pop here you know, kid,” Face didn’t reply. “But you’re right – you should have told me. I could tell something wasn’t right and I was worried about you.”

 

It was hard not to sigh again. As they worked through their recent past and the lingering trauma, Face found that Hannibal was always worried about him, always feared for him. It would pass, he knew that, but whilst it lasted it wasn’t exactly helpful.

 

“I was listening to you, at the door.”

 

And this time Face did sigh; wily old bastard, he should have known. He never got to voice that thought though, never even got to take another step as suddenly he was flipped into a wall, Hannibal Smith taking up all of his vision, their bodies pressed so close together that, had they not been in some filthy ghetto in the ass end of Syria, Face might have been able to make something interesting happen. Instead he just blinked in surprise at that face he knew so well and wondered how old Hannibal would have to get before he stopped getting one over him.

 

“I listened,” that voice was nothing but a breath in the still of the night. “And, fuck, kid… thank you.”

 

Face frowned, “What for?”

 

“For doing what you do. For your bread and butter. I don’t always say it, sometimes I don’t even see it, but I always know. You are the one person I can always trust to have my back – no matter what I do or say, you’re there.”

 

It was a hell of a thing to say, especially when Face knew it came right from the depths of the other man’s soul. He nodded, swallowed over his dry throat. “And you for me.”

 

There was no answer, just a look and Face knew that Hannibal was still wading through the guilt of all he’d done to Face to keep him alive. It was functional guilt now, at least there was that and it would improve, alongside the worry it would improve.

 

As if to prove Face correct, Hannibal's intense stare cracked into a smile and he stepped away, tugging Face with them as they wound their way through the streets.

 

“So, you didn’t kill him?”

 

“No.”

 

“Just beat up on him a little?”

 

“Yeah. Bastard had it coming.”

 

“I guess.”

 

Silence once more and back to the hole in the fence that Face had cut earlier in the evening, crawling through and carefully replacing the wire section so that it looked like they’d never even been there.

 

“So, how’d you do it then, kid?” Hannibal waited patiently whilst Face packed the blow torch away. “How’d you coordinate this mission with your own little trip to see Mahood?”

 

“Lance Barrett,” Face corrected.

 

“Of course. So how’d you do it? Coincidence?”

 

Face huffed again, “Thought you didn’t believe in coincidence, boss.”

 

“I don’t. So explain.”

 

There was a long silence, Face needed to get this just right if Hannibal was going to understand he’d never compromised their original target and finally, his voice low, both with nerves and in deference to their situation, he began. “We’d been after Fasil for a while, right?”

 

He felt Hannibal nod at his shoulder as they set off across the open scrub.

 

“But he was jumpy, never let us get too close.”

 

“Right.”

 

“So… I knew Barrett was here, knew he would be for another month or so, so I set up a safe house for Fasil, fed him the information he needed to get him to break cover and suddenly,” Face shrugged, “Here they both were in the same town. Handy. I didn’t have to veer off from the mission too far to teach the little shit some lessons.”

 

“And make yourself another enemy. You’ll already have Montakhab after you for the rest of eternity.”

 

Face threw a sideways glance. “Montakhab’s dead. I killed him when I came back for you.”

 

They slid into silence, paces matched to perfection as they strode across the darkened scrub and, about a mile in front of them, there was a sudden flash, just the one, just telling them that the rest of the team were out, ready and waiting for their trip home.

 

As they walked, Face felt fingers on his wrist, tugging at his hand and he glanced sideways, Hannibal was never one for holding hands on a mission. He had to pause though, had to suck in a breath at the expression that Hannibal was wearing, it was one of such awe that Face wondered who on Earth it was aimed at.

 

“You are incredible,” it was nothing more than a whisper but carried clearly over the sound of their footsteps. “Incredible. And I love you so much.”

 

Face swallowed again and squeezed the fingers in his. “And you.” It was true, he’d never loved anyone like he loved Hannibal.

 

Just like that, the moment passed, the fingers went and they were just two soldiers, eating up the ground between them and home. Back to normal. Almost. “You just wait until we get back to base, Lieutenant,” Face threw a worried glance sideways. “And I’ll show you just how incredible I think you are.”

 

And later that day, as darkness finally rolled around again, and Face came hard with Hannibal’s talented fingers in his ass, that sinful throat around his cock and his own arm jammed into his mouth to keep the yells of ecstasy inside, Face decided that maybe they were both pretty incredible. Together.    

 

Psalm 41:9 - Even my close friend,

someone I trusted,

one who shared my bread,

has turned against me.