Fandom: The A-Team (2010)
Characters, pairings: Hannibal/Face, with a Murdock cameo
Summary: Written for
Notes: I forgot the prompt said 'pre-movie' and set this somewhere in that 8-year gap between the team-gathering prologue and the main plotline.
When Hannibal opens his eyes, it’s long past midnight and the fire has died to a dull orange glow almost lost beneath the embers. His mouth feels dry, and there’s a heavy weight on his chest; the wind is hot and dusty, the moon a tiny, pale sliver of grey in the corner of his vision. He tries to piece the evening back together in his memory. Difficult. There was alcohol and laughter, a lot of both. They’d been blowing off steam after a tough mission. Hannibal had more to drink than he knew he should - Murdock had gone off at some point to be sick, and BA eventually took himself to bed. Hannibal, feeling antsy and restless and, yes, drunk, dragged his bunk out into the night air and collapsed on it, staring at the starry sky and thinking vaguely philosophical thoughts. Which left Face to account for.
Oh right. Dead weight on his chest.
He tries to shift, but can’t force himself upright just yet. Thankfully, there’s a bottle of water within reach. He grabs it, swills some of the warmish liquid round his mouth, swallows, grimaces. Then he nudges Face in the ribs.
“Your head weighs about a ton, kid.”
“Flstfgl,” says Face, and flings an arm around Hannibal’s waist, snuggling against his neck. Hannibal tenses; they’re out in the open, completely exposed. And okay, there’s nobody around, but suddenly he feels very sober, and very awake.
“Come on, get off me.” But nudging Face again only results in a leg hooked over Hannibal’s hips, and the realisation that the kid has a full-on erection. Great. With a regretful sigh, Hannibal pinches Face’s nose shut until he jolts awake, gasping and cursing.
He watches as Face ruffles a hand through his hair and rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.
Hannibal shrugs. “Zero-three-hundred?”
“Bleh.” Face rolls back onto the camp bed and flings his arm around Hannibal again.
“Lieutenant? We’re not in our quarters.”
“Who cares,” mutters Face, his lips against Hannibal’s neck as he tries to find a comfortable spot again. His mission is thwarted when he tries to resume his former position and his still half-hard cock rubs against Hannibal’s thigh. Face grins in the dark.
“I was dreaming about you, boss.”
Face hitches up the hem of Hannibal’s t-shirt and his fingers slide along firm muscle, hot skin. Hannibal thinks about swatting the hand away, but finds himself unable to link the idea with an action. Face’s touch feels good. And it’s just his belly. Nothing sexual about belly-touching, right?
“It was a good dream. Except for the bit where we were in space and BA was Spock and he kept trying to get out of the... ship, whatever. And the bit with the bees. That was weird.”
“But that’s not the point.” Face sounds dozy, still half-asleep, but his hand is slowly moving further up Hannibal’s chest, and that pressure against his thigh is becoming more insistent. “You were in it. Can’t really remember now. But it was hot.”
Hannibal runs a hand through the kid’s hair, willing him to fall asleep again, but Face is just the wrong side of the horny-tired line. The pad of Face’s thumb finds Hannibal’s nipple at the same time as he presses a kiss to Hannibal’s throat.
“We’re still outside,” Hannibal points out, but the little voice in the back of his head is already muttering there’s no one around, no one will see, no one will care.
“I know,” Face purrs, tilting his hips to rub his cock against Hannibal’s thigh, through their clothing. “Kind of exciting, isn’t it?”
“Kind of stupid,” says Hannibal, but only because every officer’s instinct in him forbids him to verbally endorse this craziness. Fraternization rules, DADT, public decency laws, the fact that there’s dust every-damn-where... he mentally ticks them off and lines them up against the irrationally tantalising notion of everyone finding out that, although he may be willing to share the rest of him to an extent, Face’s ass is his.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” says Face.
Hannibal chuckles and tugs a cigar out of his pocket. Face rolls his eyes as he lights up, but they both know fine well that Face loves the smell.
Face nuzzles his way slowly from Hannibal’s neck to his collarbone, where he pauses for a moment to nip the skin with his teeth. Hannibal’s free hand rests on Face’s head, his fingers stroking through his hair, as Face kisses the reddening skin, kisses and licks and then bites again. He doesn’t mention that Face has chosen a generally-visible patch of skin to leave a mark. He actually kind of likes the idea, but he doesn’t say that either. Instead, he huffs a plume of blue-grey smoke, and hitches his knee up a bit, rubbing against Face’s crotch.
Hannibal’s mounting interest in this adventure turns to ohshit when someone comes round the side of a building and ambles into their immediate vicinity. Face hasn’t noticed - he’s hitched Hannibal’s t-shirt right up and is skillfully tonguing one of his nipples - but he realises something is wrong when Hannibal’s fist clenches in his hair, and the Colonel’s whole body stiffens.
“Hey, Facey, keeping the boss nice and limber, eh? Don’t stay up too late, kids.”
“Murdock.” Hannibal almost chokes on cigar smoke.
“G’night!” Murdock gives them a little wave and vanishes inside. Face is grinning broadly; Hannibal takes a few moments to catch his breath. Then their eyes meet. Face’s pupils are blown, and Hannibal is sure the expression on his own face is pure predatory lust. He suspects his body has just overdosed him on adrenaline - and all of a sudden, his pants have become inexplicably too tight.
“Well, shit,” says Face, his voice hoarse. And then he’s on his feet, unbuckling his belt, and doing that funny little pulling-pants-off-over-shoes dance. Hannibal takes the opportunity to grope around for Face’s kit bag, where he is sure - yes, there it is - to find supplies for just such an emergency. He throws the lube at Face, who has decided that, yes, he should probably lose the boots, tucks the condom between his own teeth, and is starting on his belt when Face comes back to help him with that.
Face tugs Hannibal’s shorts down over his hips, freeing his cock, and, with a happy purr, runs his tongue along the underside, base to head. That’s the only warning he gives before his mouth comes down, taking Hannibal’s whole length in, working his tongue, and Hannibal thinks, through the haze of pleasure and need, I taught him that. It’s another little kick, an addendum to the mine theme that’s buzzing through Hannibal’s blood, and he toys with the idea of hooking his legs round Face’s shoulders and pinning him there, with that creative mouth on him till he comes. A nice thought, but not what he needs right now.
Face lets him go with a final lick before crawling up Hannibal’s body and kissing him with lips slick with pre-come. Hannibal breaks away for a final draw on his cigar before tossing it down in the dust. Once Face has settled for the moment, straddling Hannibal’s hips, Hannibal draws him down into another, deeper kiss, tasting him, claiming him. Face rocks his hips, rubbing his ass against Hannibal’s cock, which earns him a needy growl. Hannibal’s hands slide down his back, one gripping his thigh, the other wrapping around Face’s erection, stroking in time with Face’s movements.
It’s Face who finally admits out loud that this isn’t going to last long, and he rips open the condom, moving back so he can roll it down over Hannibal’s cock. Hannibal slicks up his fingers, then pulls Face back on top of him. He would usually toy with Face, give him time, make sure he was properly prepared, but there’s a glint in Face’s eyes that he’s seen before - they’ve been in some interesting spots without Face’s bag of supplies before now, and neither of them are adverse to roughing it. Hannibal works one finger around Face’s entrance, watching the kid squirm with a dark chuckle as he pushes in. Two fingers are at once too much and not enough - Face hisses at him, and Hannibal, as he almost always does, relents and withdraws.
Face is buzzing with excitement and nervousness - Hannibal can feel it through every contact of skin-on-skin - but he still maneuvers himself skillfully, with a little help from Hannibal, who can see in Face’s eyes that the burn is on the verge of too much. But Face doesn’t pause, pushes down carefully and steadily until he’s straddling Hannibal’s hips, the Colonel’s cock deep inside him - and then he hesitates, his breathing heavy but his senses alert. There’s movement somewhere close by. Hannibal holds his breath.
“What do we do,” Face whispers, “if we get caught? I mean, do we have to stop or what?”
Hannibal grins. “No, might as well finish. Put on a show.”
Face waits until whoever it is has gone wherever they’re going, and slowly bucks his hips until he’s almost fully off Hannibal. “And then what?” He presses back again, still as slowly as he can manage. “I don’t believe for an instant you haven’t planned for this.”
“Well.” Hannibal strokes his hands down Face’s thighs, his eyes on the younger man’s face. This is Hannibal’s favourite position, the best way to see Face, all of him, to watch the expressions, the passions playing across his features. He allows himself a moment to enjoy Face’s conflicting discomfort and pleasure before answering. “The way I figure, we get kicked out.”
“That’s your plan?”
“So far.” Hannibal gives him a bring-it-on-bitches grin, and Face mimics it. It’s an infectious grin.
“We can work on it later.”
Hannibal laughs, but he doesn’t say anything else - just grips Face’s thigh in his free hand and quickens the pace of the one on Face’s cock. Face takes the hint, riding him harder and faster. He’s tight, too tight, and Hannibal can’t take much of this. Face’s stamina is legendary, and usually Hannibal appreciates it, but he likes to see Face come before he does. He flicks his thumb over the head of Face’s cock with every stroke, and grins as Face bites down on his lip to prevent himself crying out.
“One day,” he growls, “we’ll do this somewhere you can make all the noise you want.”
The idea seems to trigger something in Face, who throws his head back and bucks his hips, faster, driving Hannibal deeper each time. Hannibal can’t help but thrust into him, ignoring each little hiss of discomfort from Face and knowing fine well that if Face wasn’t enjoying it, he wouldn’t be doing it.
“C’mon,” Hannibal mutters. “Come for me, Face.”
It might be the raw tone in Hannibal’s voice, or perhaps the neat little flick of his wrist - it probably isn’t the direct order, at any rate - but Face shuts his eyes, clenches his jaw, and gasps silently through his orgasm. Hannibal isn’t far behind, bucking up into Face until he’s spent and seeing stars, and then, for a long and blissful moment, there’s absolute silence except for their laboured breathing.
Face dismounts; Hannibal deals with the condom, pulls his pants back up, glares down at the stain on his shirt.
“Sorry,” says Face.
“Don’t be,” says Hannibal.
He watches, lethargic now, as Face gets himself dressed. The grey on the horizon has turned yellow, and there are definite sounds of activity throughout the base - and yes, it’s entirely possible that someone saw or heard, but they’ll deal with that if and when the issue arises. Face flops down on the ground near Hannibal’s side. The Colonel allows a hand to brush Face’s neck. His skin is still flushed and hot.
After a while, Face says, “Would you trade?”
“What?” Hannibal has found his cigar again, and is attempting to get it to re-light.
Face glances up at him. “Nothing. Never mind.” Hannibal can’t read his expression, but he knows what the question was, and why Face didn’t push him for an answer. The missions, the plans, the danger - no, he wouldn’t trade, and neither would Face. Not for all the loud, semi-public sex in the world.
Hannibal grins, and tussles Face’s hair. “Ask me again,” he says, “next time we’re getting shot at.”