The Proverbial Quiet One (stackcats) wrote in thewordsmithery,
The Proverbial Quiet One
stackcats
thewordsmithery

A-Team fic; Five Times Face Kissed Hannibal (And One Time Hannibal Kissed Face)

Title: Five Times Face Kissed Hannibal (And One Time Hannibal Kissed Face)
Fandom: The A-Team 2010
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: Adult
Summary: Written for a prompt on ateam_prompts. The prompt was the title ;)
Wordcount: 11,000



1.

It is not, in Hannibal Smith’s experience, every day that your newest and greenest officer decides to stop half-way through his report and kiss you. Lieutenant Templeton Peck, officially a Ranger for three weeks now, top of his class, vain, arrogant and... Hannibal has tried and failed to come up with a suitable adjective for his appearance, but ‘handsome’ doesn’t cut it and ‘beautiful’ is a betrayal to the kid’s easy, confident masculinity. Hannibal has Peck running increasingly complicated tasks and reporting in every day, while he tries and fails to get the details for the next mission out of Russ before he’s even supposed to know there is a mission, just to keep the kid on his toes, to judge his determination and commitment, to secure items for the team which they really shouldn’t have... to test him, in other words.

But apparently he needs to add ‘way sharper than he looks’ to his list of Peck’s attributes, because the kid’s tone, his stance, his report, they’re all textbook, but his eyes... they shine with barely suppressed amusement, and not a little annoyance. Hannibal narrows his own eyes as Peck tells him all about his day of fun and games with the supply officers. The kid tilts his chin a little, never breaking eye contact. Hannibal leans back in his chair. He isn’t really listening to the words, more focusing on Peck’s body language and the tone of his voice... but mainly his body language. Hannibal has seen this before, of course he has, in countless females standing in front of his desk and in more than a few of the men. That slight tilt of the hips, the thrust of the jaw, the unconscious way they touch their own hair, the pupil dilation, the licking of the lips... He loves to see it. Never acts on it. Not even the women, not even the ones completely lacking in that undercurrent of nervousness or hero worship, not even the ones who just plain want him, once, who won’t bring it up again after. Never.

“...and that,” Peck is saying, “is how I got hold of the alligator.”

“Good,” says Hannibal.

Peck grins triumphantly. “You weren’t listening! I knew it.”

“I was listening. Alligator. Nice job.” Hannibal finds a cigar amongst the papers on his desk, bites down on it. Peck laughs.

“Is there some reason you’re still testing me, sir?”

“You questioning me, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hannibal narrows his eyes again. He feels around for his matches without looking away from the kid’s face. “Carry on with your report.”

“How’d you know I wasn’t finished?”

“Did you get the-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Peck darts forward, plucks the cigar out of Hannibal’s mouth, and replaces it with his own lips. There’s nothing gentle about it - one hand grips the back of Hannibal’s neck, and Peck’s tongue thrusts into his mouth, teeth clashing, paperwork scattering as Peck leans over the desk. Hannibal lets him do it, lets him in for a moment, just a moment, before he presses a hand to Peck’s chest, pushing him firmly away.

They both have to take a moment to catch their breath.

“That what you wanted to know?” Peck asks.

Hannibal chuckles as he picks up the dropped cigar and finally lights it. Good god, the kid has balls. Sees what he wants, goes for it, and all the red tape and all the rules can go fuck themselves. Yeah, that’s what he wanted to know, all right.

He nods once, and Peck relaxes, rocks back on his heels. “So-”

“No, kid. This can’t happen. You made your point and I appreciate your... inspired method of communicating it, but you pull anything like that again and I’ll have you castrated. I’ll do it myself.”

“Anything to get your hands on ‘em, eh, sir?”

Hannibal gives him a level stare. “You need to exercise your libido, you take it out to a civilian bar. Got it?”

“Yessir.”

“And it’s Hannibal to my boys, kid.”

Face beams with genuine pleasure. “It’s Face to my friends, Hannibal.”

Hannibal throws a “Who says we’re going to be friends?” at the door before it closes, but he’s not even kidding himself.

2.

If you can’t break the rules every once in a while, you won’t last long on Hannibal’s team. And, sometimes, Hannibal sees fit to break his own rules.

They’re stuck. That’s the only word for it. Stuck, although relatively safe, if you don’t count the nick taken from his thigh by a stray bullet and the pool of sticky, drying blood he’s still sitting in. Can’t get up, already tried, although Face has bandaged him up beautifully. He probably won’t loose too much more blood before morning, before the rest of the team can find them and bring him home, but he’s definitely feeling a bit light-headed. This building was someone’s home, once upon a time, but now it’s just a brick shell, and he knows it’s the blood loss, the shock, but he can feel what it must have been like to live here. The warm smell of cooking food, the bickering of children, the sounds of the street, of traffic and neighbours, drifting in through open windows along with cooler air and the scents of the surrounding farmland.

And, inevitably, his mind presents him with images from the day the roof fell in, the wall came down, the world ended for the family whose home they’re squatting in for the night. He shakes his head, chases those dangerous thoughts away. It’s just a damn flesh-wound, he’s had so much worse. He’s not going to let it turn his head, blood-loss or no.

Face is rummaging through his bag, and brings over a blanket and all their food. He looks white and sickly in the moonlight, but moves silently through the cracked plaster and splintered glass that covers the floor, drops his spoils on the bare mattress he dragged down the stairs not long before. Now they have to maneuver Hannibal onto it too. They exchange a wordless glance, and Face gets an arm under his shoulder, the other round his waist, and Hannibal pushes up with his good leg, letting the kid take some of his weight. His head spins, and a wave of nausea washes over him, but Face’s grip is steady. He clenches his eyes shut and rides the dizziness until his body gets the hang of being upright again.

“All right, boss?” Face murmurs.

“Fine.” He tests his wounded leg, putting a little weight on it. Hurts like a bitch, but doesn’t give out on him. Mostly just pain and a ridiculous amount of blood then, no real damage. Well, that’s something. “C’mon then.”

Hannibal hobbles, aided by Face, across a carpet of debris that cracks and groans horribly underfoot. And yes, they should be safe out here, but the slightest sound sets off Hannibal’s alarm bells, and once he’s safely, if not comfortably, dropped down on the mattress, he decides to send Face out to secure the area.

“You’re kidding,” says Face.

“Make sure we’re alone, that’s all.”

“We will be alone. I’m not leaving you. What if you pass out?”

“It’s a scratch! And what if I do? What could you do about it?”

Face shrugs. “I dunno, tickle you out of it? Kick you in the shins, pour water on you? Something. Better than if I leave you here to die.”

“Oh for the love of god, Face, just check the damn perimeter quickly, then get back here before I eat all this food.”

Face lingers for a while longer, but he knows he’s lost. Hannibal watches him slink away, his side-arm drawn, before he investigates the pile of food. There isn’t much, but enough to tide them over until morning. Damn, but he could go for a steak right now. Well-done, with a heap of fries, maybe some onions, an ice cold beer on the side. Amazing how the little things can sound like heaven when you’re lying on a filthy mattress in a warzone with a chunk of your thigh missing and nothing but protein bars for dinner. He slumps back, staring up at the ceiling, the socket and bit of burnt plastic cord that once held a light bulb. Listens to the throbbing of his own pulse, the bouts of pain that flare along with it. Getting steadily worse, even through the painkillers that Face practically forced on him. Shit.

Face takes a little longer to return than Hannibal expected, creeps into the room and bolts the door. Not much point, half the wall’s missing, but any intruder would probably still try the door first. Face’s knuckles are white around the grip of his gun; Hannibal reaches out and gently pries the weapon out of his hands.

“Sit. Eat. If you don’t keep your strength up, how am I going to use you as a human crutch?”

Face ignores his attempt at humour. “There’s still fighting to the north. The guys’ll come in from the west, right?”

“North-west. They’ll make it, don’t worry, kid.”

Face nods. “Yeah, boss. You know any one of us would - would give anything to get you home safe. Any of us.”

“That’s why it’s such a good idea to inspire loyalty. Where’s my cigars?”

Face picks something up from the blanket he tossed down earlier. Hannibal grins. The kid thinks of everything. He lights up and takes a long, deep drag, and that feels so much better than the pain killers or the damn protein bars. He puffs smoke at Face, who wafts ineffectually at it with one hand.

“You doing okay, boss?”

“Wonderful. These are the Cubans I picked up in-”

“I mean really? You think it’ll heal right?”

Hannibal nods slowly. He doesn’t plan to tell the kid about the slowly worsening pain - besides, if it really is infected, if it’s that bad, Face’ll see for himself when he changes the bandage. And they’ll have to do that soon. The mattress beneath his knee is taking on a reddish hue where it isn’t already brown and hideous. He doesn’t want Face to have to deal with it - this is the first time the kid has seen a friend fall in action, and Face’s ability to cope with other people’s suffering is still very much a work in progress. He tends to panic and run at the first sign of trouble that he can’t easily fix, but the place he tends to run to is Hannibal’s office - or it was, when he still had one, before they were dropped out here in this mess. There was that girl who showed up pregnant (wasn’t his, turned out), the investigation into the rash of thefts that plagued the unit (someone set him up), the fight with Captain Milo (Milo started it), and half a dozen other incidents just in the last couple of months. Every time saw the kid slinking into Hannibal’s office, into his personal space, to share one too many drinks and listen to his encouragements and reassurances. Hannibal doesn’t know whether the kid is blessed or cursed, but if it keeps bringing them together, he doesn’t give a fuck which it is.

But right now, Face doesn’t know what to do. He’s torn between taking charge of the situation and retreating to Hannibal’s side like a nervous puppy. He can tell which way the kid is leaning when he subconsciously grips the hem of Hannibal’s shirt, working the seam between his fingers as he chomps distractedly on his food.

“Hey,” Hannibal murmurs, tugging his shirt away. “Try and get some rest.”

Face shakes his head. “You first. You need it and I’m too wired.”

There’s no sense arguing about it, so Hannibal closes his eyes. He doesn’t mean to sleep, but almost as soon as he gets himself vaguely comfortable he’s gone. It isn’t peaceful, however. The pain invades his dreams and leaves them fractured and more nonsensical than usual, and he slips back into consciousness several times. The last time, he finds Face curled up against his side, fingers toying with his shirt again. Hannibal turns his head. His vision feels grey just around the edges. He’s starting to feel a little cold.

“Face?”

Face automatically retreats, lets go of Hannibal’s shirt. “I’m awake. You okay?”

“Fine. Relax.”

“Can’t. It’s worse than you’re telling me, isn’t it?”

Hannibal can’t answer that. He finds it surprisingly difficult to lie to this boy about even the simplest of things. And this isn’t simple. Every wound is a potential retirement, and he can’t even think about that prospect, leaving this life, and his men, behind.

Leaving this damn kid behind.

Face gets the first aid kit and forces another couple of pain killers on him while he changes the bandage; no reaction, so if there’s an infection, it’s not a bad one. He’s gone silent, and that’s never a good sign with Face. His sweat-soaked hair is plastered to his skull, his blue eyes dark, a frown-line on his brow making him look a little older, a little stronger somehow. Hannibal resists the urge to reach out and touch. Just like he resists every single day.

But Face is on the same wavelength. He ties off the bandage, and meets Hannibal’s gaze.

“I do remember what you said, boss. Before you ask.”

“You’d better remember every damn thing I ever say, kid, or I’ll-”

For the second time, Face cuts him off mid-sentence, but it’s far more gentle, more careful than that day back in Hannibal’s office. Face’s hand slides into his hair, the other resting on his un-injured leg as Face leans in. There’s a moment where they’re not quite kissing, but Face’s lower lip brushes his, Face’s nose rubs against his cheek, his fingers stroking against his leg. Hannibal won’t close the gap, but he doesn’t do anything to prevent Face from pressing their lips together.

It’s not his rule as such. It’s the army’s rule. It’s fraternisation, and worse. But it was Hannibal’s conscious decision to actually follow this one, to do what is expected of him, to make sure that sex - never mind love - never, ever endangers a member of his team. He knows other commanders who abuse their positions, and he isn’t exactly adverse to abusing his own in other situations, but it’s a line he’s never crossed, even though he’s wanted to.

Never wanted anything quite like this, though.

Face holds him there and kisses him, lips pressing against his, lifting away only long enough to tilt his head before they’re back again, just slow, chaste kisses across Hannibal’s lips, fluttering pressure, delicious warmth. Face is good at this. His tongue flickers out to add a little moisture, and Hannibal’s mouth opens; it’s an instinctive reflex, and it’s not an opportunity Face is going to pass up.

The hand sliding up Hannibal’s thigh moves exactly in synche with the tongue that thrusts against his, and Hannibal moans, still unable to move, to take control like he wants to, trapped in the sensations of Face all around him. it’s a low, deep moan, and Face pulls back, alarmed.

“Boss-?”

“It’s fine.” Hannibal strokes a thumb across Face’s reddened lower lip. “You’re fine.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t-”

“I know, kid. Sometimes it’s even okay to break my rules.”

“You’re not going to castrate me, then?”

Hannibal smirks. “No. That might ruin my fun.”

A gorgeous flush begins creeping up Face’s neck, spreading over his cheeks. That hand on Hannibal’s thigh starts moving again, slips between his legs, palm rubbing his crotch through his khaki pants. He strokes Face’s cheek with the back of his hand until he leans in and kisses him again, slow and gentle, hand and tongue once again moving in beautiful symphony.

But Hannibal can feel himself tensing, and the pain flares up. Between that and the blood loss, he isn’t going to get much further with this, not tonight, so he takes Face’s hand in his and guides it to his chest, where fingers once more clench automatically in rough fabric. He can see Face isn’t hard either, and doesn’t even try to arouse him. This isn’t about sex. Not right now. It’s about reassuring Face that they’re both alive, that Hannibal has no intention of leaving him alone. He lays back down on the mattress, pulling Face with him, sliding his fingers through his boy’s thick hair, and lets Face stake his claim, lets him explore, feels him finally beginning to relax.

Hannibal doesn’t sleep again; Face does, curled tight against Hannibal’s side, one hand still gripping his shirt for dear life. Hannibal suspects he won’t get to see the kid this vulnerable again for a very long time, so he makes the most of it, stroking softly at his hair, his neck, enjoying the little twitches of his face in response. He can hear the gunfire now, away to the north, occasional sporadic bursts, but he can tell it’s almost over. Won’t be too long before their rescue arrives. Good. He’s just beginning to tremble, and the slight chill is deepening to a gnawing coldness in his bones.

He lights another cigar, holds Face close against him, and settles back to wait for morning.

3.

“Look, kid... Face. Templeton. Listen to me. We can’t do this.”

A hot bead of sweat rolls down Hannibal’s forehead. He wipes it away, takes a steadying breath.

“I won’t deny anything. I want you. I do. But we’ve got to man up and get used to the fact that we - ah - we c-can’t... Fuck. Are you listening to me?”

“Your pillow talk is getting really repetitive, boss. You know that?”

Face grins up at him. His head is resting on Hannibal’s chest, one hand stroking slowly up and down Hannibal’s hardening cock. They’re both still sticky and sweat-soaked from the last round, but Face, Hannibal has learned over the course of the last three nights, is utterly insatiable. He’s succeeded in exhausting Face for no more than half an hour or so at a time before he’s ready to go again, hands and mouth all over Hannibal, hot and talented and so fucking beautiful.

“I mean it. This is the last time.”

“You said that last night.”

Hannibal makes a small, strangled sound in his throat as Face’s thumb rubs against the head of his cock. “Yeah, I did. Meant it then too.”

“Uh-huh.” Face wriggles his hips, his erection grinding against Hannibal’s side. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you can’t keep up with me.”

Little shit. Hannibal tugs him by the hair until they’re nose-to-nose. “You just wait till I get these stitches out, kid, then we’ll see who can’t keep up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. Going to fuck you through this mattress. Going to make you regret you ever doubted my stamina for a moment.”

Face laughs out loud, presses his forehead against Hannibal’s. “Thought this was going to be the last time.”

“It is.” Hannibal runs his hands down Face’s chest, stroking the light dusting of hair, admiring that perfectly-sculpted body. Face arches into his touch, letting go of Hannibal to bring his hands up and brace them either side of his commander’s head.

“Can’t have it both ways, boss.”

Hannibal strokes the hair back from his boy’s face. Face settles between his legs, bucks his hips slowly, rubbing their erections together.

“Can’t keep doing this,” Hannibal insists. “Can’t give you up either.”

Three days since he got out of the hospital. Three nights of Face in his bed. Already feels like they’ve been doing this forever, like if they stop now, he’ll be giving up his whole life. This isn’t close to enough; he’s done little more than lie here and let Face ravish him lest he bursts open his leg and ends up back in the damn hospital. He wants to pin the kid down and fuck him, wants to take him every way he knows how, then work on finding a whole lot more ways between them, wants to make his boy shout and tremble and give him every pleasure he deserves, but there just isn’t time.

Face, despite his teasing, appears to understand. He kisses Hannibal softly as they move together, sucking his commander’s lower lip into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. Hannibal’s low moan of approval earns him a quick scrape of teeth, and then Face is nuzzling and nipping at his chin, working round towards his ear.

“How long?” Face murmurs against Hannibal’s skin. “I mean really? How long have we got, boss?”

Hannibal sighs. “Another two days.” Then it’s out with the stitches and, so long as everything’s healing properly, back to active duty, back to the rest of the unit and the real world once more. They both know what that means. If either was the sort of man to risk his career for a relationship, neither of them would be here to start with. It hangs unspoken in the air between them, and Hannibal wants to swat it away, banish it forever. Wants to, and can’t. Can’t pretend this is anything other than what it is.

Face’s lips work against his ear, ghosting lightly around the shell before his tongue flickers out against the lobe. Then he moves down, breaking that hot contact of hard flesh, but Hannibal misses it for only a second before Face’s teeth tug the side of his throat, biting then kissing, his clever tongue soothing the spot before he bites again. The mark he’s leaving is only just beneath his ear, and will be perfectly visible, but Hannibal doesn’t make him stop. No one can prove Face was here, and a bite is not the only way to gain a bruise, but it might be enough to raise suspicions, to start rumours, and Hannibal discovers, with a surprised little laugh, that he wants people to talk. Wants this evidence, however temporary, that they were here, that this short week happened.

Face gives his throat one last suck before releasing the flesh, and then he’s moving downwards again. Hannibal slides his good leg up along Face’s side, wanting as much skin contact as possible and feeling a little useless lying there. Face’s lips against his skin are perfection, though. Little bursts of heat breaking through the chill of the night air, that hot, wet tongue tasting him, sliding across the contours of his body - feels like Face is mapping out his muscles, but then he gets what the boy is really doing - he’s tracing Hannibal’s scars.

It’s some job - he’s got dozens. Face lifts Hannibal’s arm and finds a network of pale lines, almost invisible now, nothing more than the permanent reminder of a stupid barfight in his teens, but Face’s lips glide over them anyway, kissing gently now.

He doesn’t ask a single question, not even when he gets to the strange V-shaped scar just below his clavicle. That one’s a trophy from a fight in an office, where he disarmed the other guy but the bastard proved inventive and went at him with a letter opener. Not remotely glamorous, but looks kind of cool, if you’re the sort of person who thinks scars are in any way cool. Face is not one of those people. Hannibal doesn’t even have to ask him to know that. But Face presses his lips to the point of the V, and Hannibal wonders what, exactly, is going on.

He doesn’t get the question out, however, because Face detours on his way down to the next big scar to drag his tongue across Hannibal’s nipple. His head flies back as that little jolt of pleasure shoots straight to his cock, which is hard and heavy against Face’s side. Face is a damn fast learner, and he knows exactly what that does to Hannibal. He can feel the kid’s smirk against his skin, but it doesn’t last long. The next scar he homes in on is a large one, deep and purple. Nothing funny about the day he got that one, because as well as a chunk of his left pectoral and what felt like a couple of pints of blood, he also lost two good friends, and that is another damn fine reason why they can’t do this. It’s why he only ever dates civilians. They tend to die less frequently.

Face’s tongue dips into the shallow hollow of that old memory, but doesn’t linger. His hands slide down to Hannibal’s hips, and his mouth goes with them. Hannibal tenses in anticipation as Face ghosts a fractured path across faint white lines, tongues that semi-circle of an old burn-scar on his belly, and finally finds the mark Hannibal hoped he would - the long scar running across his hip, a nasty knife wound, but he’s grateful for it now because Face kisses his the skin just above the bone, nips once again with his teeth, and sets about marking his commander once more - this time, somewhere no one else will see.

When he’s finished there, Face shifts ever so slightly, and lays a hand on Hannibal’s knee, just below the new wound. They’ve spent the past three nights trying to keep that leg as far out of the way as possible, Face having discovered Hannibal’s one fear in all the world, no matter how much Hannibal protests he isn’t afraid of hospitals, he just hates them and the white-coated vultures that populate them. It’s irrational, he knows, but there it is, and he is not going back there, not until they can clear him for duty.

He shifts his leg under Face’s touch. Face presses one, very soft kiss to the gauze bandage, and then he’s moving down again. The other knee and its ancient scars get a little attention, then Face is moving down his legs, and now he’s kissing every inch of skin regardless, right down Hannibal’s legs and to his feet. Hannibal laughs, finally finding his voice again.

“You got a fetish there, Face?”

“I’ve got plenty.” Face grins up at him, and dear lord, that mouth of his is pure sin. Face slithers up the bed again until he reaches Hannibal’s straining cock, and licks a slow, hot stripe up the underside. Hannibal’s head falls back hard against the pillow as Face presses kiss after kiss to his inner thighs, his balls, his belly, and then finally - finally - takes Hannibal cock into his mouth. Face jerks himself off, his moans of pleasure vibrating around Hannibal’s length, and it isn’t long before it’s over, Face swallowing hungrily, as much as he can before Hannibal tugs on his hair, urging his boy to lie beside him so he can finish the job with his own hands.

Even as they curl together in sticky, blissed-out exhaustion, Face’s lips keep returning to Hannibal’s skin. He knew they were well-matched form the moment he laid eyes on the boy at Benning, but Hannibal laughs when he realises they even have matching oral fixations. Speaking of which...

He lights a cigar and takes a long drag as Face nuzzles sleepily at his throat, tongue flicking out occasionally to lick at sweat-stained skin. Hannibal roughs a hand through Face’s hair, loving the feel of it between his fingers. Savouring every sensation, memorising every contact of skin-on-skin. There will be nights, many nights alone when he’ll need to remember this in detail. Nights spent with his eyes tight shut, some stranger beneath him, Face’s name a ghost on his lips.

“Not enough, boss,” Face murmurs. There’s a hitch to his voice that tugs at Hannibal’s heart, an organ which has no say in any of this, which had better keep its opinion to itself or he might just do something really fucking stupid. He strokes his fingers along Face’s ribs, turns his head to meet Face’s lips for a slow, smouldering kiss. Which has to end only when both their lungs are screaming for air.

“Has to be, kid.” Hannibal takes another drag on his cigar. Face reaches out and plucks it from his fingers, takes a cautious drag of his own. Hannibal watches his lips slide around the end, the sight sending a little jolt down his spine to his cock. Yeah, he’s got one or two things to show Face about stamina. One day, when there’s time and space for them. When they’re both retired, perhaps? And exactly how much stamina will he have left then?

Face coughs, handing the cigar back. “Fucking hell, boss. That’s pure lung cancer right there.”

Hannibal chuckles. “You get used to it.”

“Think I’ll stick to my two favourite vices; booze and falling for all the wrong people.”

Hannibal tightens his grip around Face’s shoulders. The younger man nuzzles against his chest, settling down, his eyes beginning to close. It’s late, and Face’s days are busier than ever lately - the whole unit is working double time to compensate for their CO being out of action, and Hannibal’s XO flat-out refuses to bring him any paperwork while he’s laid up. It’s probably good for them, Hannibal reasons, having to cope without him, even though the guilt is starting to gnaw at him. Ah well, two days left.

Only two days.

“Not enough,” Face repeats, his voice heavy with sleep. “Want you inside me, want it hard and rough and-”

“I know.”

“Want it every fucking day, boss, for the rest of my life.”

“I know.”

There’s that hitch in his voice again, and Hannibal strokes his hair, trying to sooth him to sleep. “Damn it, boss, I-”

“I know, Templeton. I know.”

4.

This whole damn thing is getting pretty intense. London in the rain doesn’t help. The city’s a fucking maze of back alleys and boulevards, where you can be looking up in awe at beautiful thousand-year-old architecture one minute, then the next you’re face-to-face with a building made of glass and plastic and looks more like the discarded wrapper for some highly processed snack than a government building. And in this thin, grey, drizzling rain, the city seems to curl in on itself, the early afternoon already dreary, night closing in fast, people scurrying beneath black umbrellas, bits of newspaper tumbling in the damp wind.

And in the midst of it all is Face, sprinting the down the middle of a congested street, dodging between cars and hot on the heels of their target, also running, but apparently with some idea of where the fuck he’s going. Which Face doesn’t have, beyond Hannibal’s shouted instructions in his ear and a quickly memorised tourist map. This bastard, Cross, has led them on a merry chase across Northern Europe for the past two weeks. Hannibal would be willing to let go, to hand over to those whose jurisdiction he actually falls into now, if it wasn’t for BA lying in a hospital bed back in Oslo, too unstable to move back home. Hannibal is not seeing red, because that implies a lack of self-control. He’s very much under his own control. He’s simply decided that he, personally, is going to crack this bastard’s skull open. It’s a cold, hard decision. One of his boys is down. He’s going to extract the price for that, and it’s a high one.

Face and Murdock are on the same wavelength. The set of Murdock’s jaw says everything as they dodge between office blocks, tailing Cross, keeping Face in sight. It’s impossible to take a shot from up here, but Murdock keeps urging him to try it, dropping the helicopter as low as possible over startled pedestrians and drivers. Hannibal tries to focus on Face, keeping him on Cross even when the bastard manages to drop out of sight, but Murdock's an issue right now. The instant BA fell, some light switched on in Murdock’s eyes, and it wasn’t the good kind of light, not the way he lights up when BA or Face enter the room, but the way a soft, reflected glow in the dark signals the end for some small creature. It’s predatory. Hannibal has never seen it there before, and it is, unfortunately for him, contagious. Face has it now too. Hannibal has avoided eye contact with himself in mirrors because he really does not want to see what it looks like on him.

They have to finish this quick, take Cross down and get the fuck out. Fade into the shadows again. Get off this damn rock. This is already an international incident, and Hannibal spares a thought for Russ, who is undoubtedly holding several shouting matches at once in a dark room with various people who outrank him in a number of impressive ways, but it doesn’t matter so long as they get Cross. If they don’t, Hannibal is dead, but it doesn’t matter because they will. International arms dealing and drug smuggling is forgiveable when compared to what he’s done to Hannibal’s boys, to all of them, by taking down one of them.

If Murdock gets his way, Cross is going to get a couple of tonnes of cold steel dropped on him from a height. He’s skimming rooftops as it is, knocking chunks out of chimney stacks, sending slate tiles flying, the helicopter bouncing away across the street, dipping down towards the traffic, towards Face, who doesn’t seem to notice. Hannibal knows Face’s entire focus is on his target and the voice in his ear, Hannibal’s voice, sending him through alleys or round obstacles to block Cross’s escape. It’s not working. The city is a mess of options for someone on the run, and just a big fucking mess for anyone hunting them. There has to be something else, some other way, and Hannibal needs a plan now, before the police and local military catch up with them. Cross must be heading somewhere, some base or escape route. You don’t enter a city like this one if it isn’t your destination, that’s what the ring-road is for, what the whole of the West-country is for if you want to look at it on a continental scale. There are only a number of options from England anyway - France, Spain or Ireland. But Cross honed right in on London. This is the end of the line for him either way, then.

“Sharp left!” He barks. “Left, Face, left!”

Cross has vanished into a sudden crowd of people, but Hannibal soon spots him moving against them, heading down a flight of stairs. Shit. He’s gone for the underground. Face has visual contact now, sliding across the bonnet of a parked car and diving towards the crowd, who seem to have twigged, as one, that something interesting is happening, and in the true spirit of the British people are determined to get in the way of it. Face simply throws himself at the crowd, shoving his way through, until he, too, disappears down the stairs.

“Fuck!” Hannibal roars. “I’m going down there, Murdock!”

Murdock has his sights set on a sturdy-looking rooftop. “Face hasn’t got an Oyster card!” he shouts, as Hannibal grabs his gear and gets ready to jump and roll.

“What?”

“Don’t let him get on the train!” Hannibal nods and leaps out of the helicopter, making straight for the rusty fire escape at the side of the building.

There’s a sound behind him as he reaches ground level; Murdock, on his six. Standard procedure would have Murdock stay with their transport, ready to airlift them the hell out of there, but they’re a man down, and Murdock is improvising - always a good sign, so far as the pilot’s state of mind is concerned, but it reduces their chances of escape considerably. Hannibal can’t blame him for wanting in on this, barely has time to even think about it before he’s shoving his way through the crowd. Good job he and Murdock are mostly in uniform today - or perhaps it’s his expression, but either way the crowd parts for them, and someone yells ‘get the tosser!’ He just hears Murdock firing off a cheerful response in his British accent before the dim light of the station swallows them.

There’s another exit across the station, leading to a different street, and Cross is heading that way, but Hannibal grins - Face is far quicker than his target and Cross has no hope of losing him this way. Face ducks and dives between commuters and tackles Cross to the exit steps, the two of them rolling and struggling as Hannibal closes the distance between them.

That’s when he sees the gun.

Face sees it too, attempts to grab for Cross’s wrist, but succeeds only in getting a grip on the man’s elbow. Hannibal can hear himself yelling at people to get down, move out of his way. Cross can’t aim at Face from that angle, but he could certainly take out a few bystanders if he felt like it, and he had no qualms about shooting BA in cold blood.

Or he could aim the gun at Hannibal or Murdock. He chooses Murdock. Hannibal sees the realisation flash in Face’s eyes, and the Lieutenant turns his head and bites down, hard, on Cross’s arm. The asshole apparently hadn’t anticipated that - he lashes out, cracking the gun down on Face’s head. Face just tightens his grip, using the distraction to bend Cross’s arm back, and then Murdock is zipping past Hannibal, tugging the gun out of Cross’s hand. Face struggles to slam him down on his front while Murdock cuffs him. Hannibal, meanwhile, has discovered he can’t move. His gaze fixes on the dropped weapon, can’t tug it away. He’s wearing gloves. It’d be so easy. Just have to get him in the helicopter, get away from the crowds, and...

Murdock moves, drawing his gaze away. The pilot leans down to hiss something in Cross’s ear, some insult or creative threat, as Face kicks his legs out of the way so he can get past. There’s a thin trail of blood trickling down the Lieutenant’s forehead, towards his eye. He doesn’t seem to have noticed, but the sight of it ignites fresh fire in Hannibal’s veins. Every muscle in his body is clenched, and he’s rooted to the spot. Face is moving towards him, impossibly slow, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Frowning. Looking - what is that? Is Face frightened?

“Boss? Hannibal!” Face is touching him, and the world floods back into focus. Hannibal’s lungs are burning. He takes a deep breath, another, the moment passing, Face’s hand on his cheek, moving to the back of his neck. His hands are freezing. Or is Hannibal over-heating?

“He okay?” That’s Murdock, currently hauling their prisoner to his feet.

Face nods slowly, eyes still fixed on Hannibal’s face. “Yeah. I think the Colonel just out-gunned himself. Stubbornness overcomes blood-lust, huh?” He laughs nervously. “Never seen that look before.”

Hannibal shrugs Face’s hand away. Too much, too close, too intense. Can’t have Face standing right here, reading him so effortlessly, touching him, it’s too hard to ignore, so he pushes down his instincts and takes a step back. Face looks crushed, but only for an instant, then they’re all looking up at the sound of sirens. Fuck. The police are supposed to be the General’s problem; time to get the hell out of here.

“Murdock!” he shouts. “Go ahead, we’ll meet you outside.”

Murdock shoves his prisoner towards them, and between them, Hannibal and Face haul him up the steps they came in by, watched by dozens of curious, frightened eyes. Hannibal ignores them. He’s able to ignore everything except the trickle of blood on Face’s head, the way it pools around his eyebrow, diverting down his cheek. Just a glance at that red line throws Hannibal back to Oslo, to the mild surprise on BA’s face the instant before he dropped to his knees on that runway. To the coldness that seized Hannibal’s gut in one big fist in that moment, that precarious moment where Cross was pointing his gun right at Murdock.

They’ve all been in danger before, of course. Every single day of their lives. It’s never effected him quite like this. They’ve never been separated like this, with one of his team so badly hurt and the rest of them almost a thousand miles away from him, but the thought has entered his mind now, and is stuck there; his relationship with these boys is not remotely professional. And that’s not even accounting for the fuck-up that is him and Face.

He’s pretty much fine with that.

Murdock is with them just in time; they haul their prisoner into the back of the helicopter, and Hannibal hunts for the first aid kit. Face has helped himself to the co-pilot seat, but as they swing higher over the city, Hannibal makes him face him, cleans him up, and takes a look at the actual wound, just above the hairline. It’s nothing much, just a bump - head wounds always look worse than they are. But something is wrong. Face isn’t swatting him away or whinging like a toddler as he generally does when someone goes at him with an antiseptic wipe. He can take a crack to the skull without a whimper, but turns into a child when it comes to getting patched up afterwards.

Not today, though. Today he’s too busy looking right at Hannibal. Studying him.

“We’ve worked together too long,” he says eventually. Hannibal raises an eyebrow at him. “I could see the moment you realised you could get away with killing our friend back here...”

Hannibal grunts. He really doesn’t want to talk about that. Doesn’t even want to think about it. About the things he’d do for these three boys, the things he’d sacrifice for any of them. It’s possibly even less appropriate than the things he wants to do to Face. A commander isn’t supposed to put other lives at risk for the sake of his men, that’s not how it works.

“Bosco’s gonna be fine, you know that, right?”

Hannibal nods. “Course he is. Until I kick his ass for leaving us a man down.”

Face grins. Hannibal gets another wipe and tries to clean the blood out of the kid’s hair. Now Face has said his piece, he starts to fidget, snatches the wipe out of Hannibal’s hand and tosses it away. Then he’s leaning in, one hand resting on Hannibal’s shoulder, and Hannibal can see Murdock throwing them a curious glance - curious, but not surprised. Face’s lips brush against Hannibal’s.

“We love you too, boss.”

“Some of us more’n others!” Murdock supplies, beaming at them both.

Face doesn’t pull back when Hannibal expects him to. Instead, his fingers slide through Hannibal’s hair, his lips become more insistent, and there’s a flicker of tongue against Hannibal’s lower lip. Requesting entrance. Well, it’s denied, obviously, this is stupid, this is not happening, not again. Six years, they’ve resisted this. Hannibal’s built his defences up impressively, watching Face go through women, attempting relationships of his own with people he decides are safe and inevitably fucking them all up (he spares a thought here for Michael the dangerously perceptive journalist who vanished in the middle of the night, leaving Hannibal a note that simply said ‘find me again if you get over him’. Hannibal sincerely regrets that one; with Michael, he wasn’t even thinking of Face half the time.) He’s started to get used to the fact that Face won’t be working with him forever. Kid’s a born leader, on the long road to his own command, so long as he avoids screwing it all up. There’s even hope on the horizon that, one day, Hannibal will come to terms with the idea that Face is the marrying-and-settling-down sort, and that some woman is going to get the honour of settling down with him. Well. There was hope of that. Not any more.

Face is insistent, and Hannibal, rendered horrifyingly powerless by those lips, relents. Tongue slides against tongue, fast and slick, and it all comes flooding back. The kiss in his office, the night in the bombed-out house, that fleeting week of frantic hand-jobs and long, hot, lingering kisses that faded only when sleep came for them. The love of his fucking life, and this is all they’ve got.

He pushes gently on Face’s chest, forcing him back, breaking the kiss. Blue eyes try and fail to look away from grey.

“I’m sorry,” Face mutters. “I wanted to-”

“I know, kid.” Wanted to re-assure him, something life-affirming. Got it a bit wrong. Hannibal strokes his Lieutenant’s cheek, thumb rubbing against stubble. “Thank you.”

Murdock throws them another look. “If you two are gonna do the nasty, better do it before we rendezvous with the General, on account of we’re all gonna be dead pretty soon after that.”

They share a regretful look before Hannibal gets to his feet and hauls Face out of the co-pilot’s chair - his chair. “No nasty, Captain.”

“Good, cause I was startin’ to feel left out.”

Face laughs. He slides over to Murdock’s side and presses a wet kiss to the pilot’s cheek.

“Better?”

“Bossman got tongue.”

“Sorry, Captain. Only Colonels and above get tongue.”

“Well, don’t you worry, Facey, I’m on my way up the ranks - got my senior officer qualifications in Mexico, all signed and proper and got my uniform straight-jacket an’ everything, now I just gotta learn to ride the jazz.”

Hannibal looks down over the patchwork fields and winding roads, the suburbs barely behind them. He listens to his boys jabbering away, Murdock, as always, finding just the right way to ground Face, swinging the conversation around to the various qualifications he reckons you need for promotion (colonels are all certified lunatics; generals are all on most-wanted lists) and isn’t that beautifully ironic? Hannibal is left to ground himself, however. Probably, he tells himself, a damn good career move that he resisted breaking Cross to pieces, and that’ll have to do for now. Later, when they’ve sat through their chewing out, when they’ve seen BA, he’ll determine how many years he’s regressed, how much work he’s going to have to re-do to get the taste of Face out of his mind again. Hard to say exactly, but it’s going to be a lot of work, because, right now, he doesn’t want to forget at all.

5.

They take Murdock first. BA throws himself at the bars, shouting himself hoarse, cursing and threatening and bellowing nonsense words at guards who carefully ignore him. He’s never been this ineffectual, this powerless, and it breaks Hannibal’s heart to see it. He watches Face put his hands on BA’s shoulders, trying to calm him, but he can see the restless tension in the Lieutenant - the former Lieutenant - and there’s nothing Face can do, nothing he can say to make this any better, because he’s suffering just as much as BA as they watch the guards drag a straight-jacketed Murdock away.

Hannibal scrubs his hand across his face. He’s coming down from his own adrenaline high, and he’s got to focus. Got to find a way out of this. There’s something, there’s always something, and where there’s something, he, Hannibal Smith, will find it. He’s been doing this for weeks, ever since Iraq. Trying to get a grip on this thing, trying to understand, to figure out how the hell he’s going to get Pike for this. It’s difficult to focus. His boys ruined, his friend murdered. Distractions. As much as it hurts, he has to put aside his feelings, has to concentrate, treat this like any other puzzle, find the hidden twists and turns, manipulate them to his own advantage.

It’d help if he knew where they were taking his boys. Murdock will end up in a secure hospital somewhere, so that’s relatively easy - there aren’t many institutions capable of holding his Captain. They could put Face and BA anywhere. No. Nearly anywhere. Hannibal Smith’s boys? They might separate them, but they still have to put them somewhere really, really damn secure. So once he knows where he’s headed himself he can narrow it down...

“Boss?”

He looks up. BA’s standing in front of him. Beyond him, through the bars, he can see another set of guards approaching. The trial ended five minutes ago; they’ve got maybe another five before each of them is escorted under armed guard to separate armoured vehicles and...

“Don’t get complacent, Sergeant.”

“Yessir.”

“We’re still a team. Don’t forget.”

“Yessir. Hannibal? They gonna hurt him?”

Hannibal shakes his head slowly. “Murdock can handle it.”

There are keys in the lock. The door opens.

“John Smith?”

Hannibal gets to his feet. Claps BA on the shoulder. Face is behind BA, looking at Hannibal, his eyes wide in horror. A couple of guards shepherd BA and Face out of the way, keeping them back. They sent six big men to get Hannibal, in addition to the regular guards watching the cell. He’d be flattered if he wasn’t distracted. Face is right on the verge of full-blown hysteria, his whole body vibrating, his mouth moving soundlessly, and Hannibal almost smiles when he realises what Face is about to do.

One of the guards ends up with his face slammed into the wall, the other hits the floor with a beautiful crunch, and Hannibal has his arms full of Templeton Peck before the rest have any idea what’s going on. Face wraps his arms around Hannibal and kisses him, deep and desperate. Hannibal pulls him close, lets him in, breathes in the scent of him, runs his hands down Face’s arms and, his heart heaving with regret, pushes him away even as he’s being seized from behind. They cuff his hands and ankles together, and half a dozen prison guards haul Face away and wrestle him to the ground. It takes another small mob to restrain BA - Face and Murdock have always been his berserk buttons, and god help anyone who lays a finger on either one of them, but this time, he’s simply outnumbered.

Hannibal can’t see Face any more, but he can hear him yelling, almost incoherent, his voice cracking and breaking apart. Hannibal doesn’t struggle, won’t fight this like his boys. He’s thinking of Pike, who murdered his friend, who framed his team, who is responsible for separating him from the man he loves. And he is, at last, beginning to think of a plan.

...And 1.

Face looks over the plan again. It’s ridiculous. If anyone other than Hannibal had suggested it, he’d laugh in their face, but it is Hannibal, standing beside him, close enough to touch. He’s looking over the plan too, the little matchbox representing the prison transport, the cigar stub representing him and Face, the whole thing drawn in biro on the inside cover of a battered old road atlas. It’s a little harder for Face to visualise like this, without the toy cars and plastic soldiers, but he can see perfectly well the ways in which they are all going to die.

Except it’s Hannibal’s plan. And Hannibal’s plans are... not good, exactly. Genius, certainly, if only for their levels of insanity. Ineffable might be the only word. It’s the sheer force of the man himself, Face is sure, that gets them through - if you took the same plan and put it into operation under any other commander, it’d all go to hell within seconds. And here he is, proposing to snatch BA from the back of a moving, armoured, and heavily-guarded vehicle. It is, almost, a stupid idea, but it will work. Hannibal has been locked up for six months. He’s probably full to bursting with stupid ideas he’s just dying to get out of his system.

“So what happens,” Face asks, “if the guard shoots us and we die?”

Hannibal gives him a look. Face shivers.

“That doesn’t happen, kid.”

“Yes, but what if-”

“It doesn’t happen because if we die, there’s no one to rescue Murdock.”

Face nods. Murdock’s liberation is going to be more complicated; he knows Hannibal is still working on that one. He watches as the former Colonel flicks the cigar butt off the book, tucks the matches back in his pocket, and throws the atlas in the general direction of their bag. Face smirks at the act of untidy rebellion, then stifles a yawn. They’ve been over and over BA’s rescue today - Hannibal started explaining it back on the beach where they dumped the tanning booth, showed Face his research as they drove, and now, in the relative safety of their motel room, three long hours have gone into perfecting it. Tomorrow will be much the same, and over and over until they’re ready and in place.

The room is tiny, two single beds leaving barely room for a hold-all between them. There’s a closet with a broken door, one chair, and a lopsided wooden table. Face had far better accommodation in the army - hell, his prison cell was twice this size and far more luxurious. Better decorated, too.

Hannibal, dumps the hold all - which contains a couple of changes of clothes and little else - into the closet, then looks right at Face, who swallows hard. That steely gaze has the same effect on him now as it did ten years ago. It makes his skin tingle, his pupils dilate. Spins his head right around. But he’s also had ten years worth of practice at playing it down. He flashes the boss a grin, and kicks off his shoes.

“Bed by the window’s mine.” This isn’t new, he can do this. Sleeping so close to the man he desperately loves and can’t touch. Piece of cake. Story of his fucking life. It’s been a while, though - so much harder to resist temptation after such a long, forced separation...

Hannibal is still staring at him. It’s starting to unnerve him.

“Or... you can have it if you want.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk into a smile. “Something else I want, kid.”

Face doesn’t let himself hope, hasn’t bothered with hope for years. Not even when Hannibal takes the three steps that separate them, or when he strokes his palms down Face’s bare arms. His heart and his lungs aren’t playing the game, though - they’re working overtime, his chest aching, his hands betraying him too as they come up to grip the front of Hannibal’s shirt.

He doesn’t let go of his doubt until Hannibal is actually kissing him, and even then it almost breaks him. Too many years of repression and need making him question his own senses, just for the briefest of moments before Hannibal has him wrapped up in strong arms, kissing him hard, holding him so tight, so close that Face thinks he might suffocate, but he doesn’t care. He moans as Hannibal’s tongue presses for entrance, lets him in without hesitation. That’s when Hannibal loses all semblance of control and shoves Face against the wall.

Hands grab at hair and clothing, teeth nip at tender flesh, Hannibal leaving Face’s mouth for a moment to work at his throat, but that doesn’t last long before he’s back, kissing his lips, pushing into his mouth, pressing him hard against the wall. Face can’t kiss back, can’t do anything but fight for as much skin contact as possible, sliding his hands beneath Hannibal’s shirt. They break apart long enough for Hannibal to shrug the garment off, and Face tugs up his own shirt, throws it in the general direction of the closet. Hannibal pauses to take him in, raking his gaze across Face’s naked torso. Face shudders once more under that scrutiny.

“You sure about this, boss?”

“Shut up, Templeton.”

Face feels as though he’s being torn in two, but he has to raise his hands to keep Hannibal one step away. “When we clear our names-”

“If.”

When.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Don’t give a fuck any more.”

“Okay, but-”

“Face.” Hannibal takes Face’s hands in his, steps in and kisses him again, softly this time. “I’ve been a damn fool. Paranoid and stupid. We should’ve made it work.”

“No, you were right. It was too risky.”

“We will make it work. And if they throw us out again, so be it, but they’ll have to throw us out together.”

His mind is working overtime, the need and want buffered by the doubt and fear. He lets Hannibal pull him in again, and they just stand for a moment, holding each other, Hannibal’s hands stroking through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back. Face turns his head, presses his lips to the bare skin of Hannibal’s throat. He can feel the barely restrained power under his fingers, knows Hannibal is having a hell of a time holding back. Face can hardly believe he’s resisting this either.

Face pushes back, looks Hannibal right in the eye. “I can’t do this now and then give you up again. If they ever reinstate us-”

“I promise you, Templeton. You won’t have to.”

Face nods slowly. He believes Hannibal automatically, that old faith in the plan, whatever it is, whether it exists yet or not. He’s a mess of insecurities, always has been, and the only person able to sooth them is holding onto him now. Finally holding him as he always wanted. “One more thing,” says, forcing himself to hold eye contact. “Never done this before, boss.”

Hannibal, damn him, smirks in disbelief. “Never?”

“Not really. I’ve been... well.”

Face doesn’t have to finish the sentence, doesn’t have to admit he’s been waiting for Hannibal - he can see the moment when Hannibal figures it out for himself, and the Colonel’s expression turns completely feral. Face grins and tilts his head for another kiss. Hannibal claims him with a growl, teeth clashing and tongues battling before Hannibal backs Face up against the bed and drops them both to the mattress.

He can’t get enough of Hannibal’s mouth, holds his head in place with fingers laced through silvery hair, kissing desperately. Hannibal’s hips grind down against him, clothed erections rubbing together, Face bucking up against him. Hannibal pulls free, presses a last kiss to Face’s lips, then moves down, going straight for Face’s belt, biting open-mouthed at his straining jeans. Face cries out, his hips coming up off the bed, only for Hannibal to hold him firmly down until he’s tugged open his belt and pants. Face is pretty sure he isn’t going to last long, and he’s about to communicate this when Hannibal bites him again, firm but not in any way painful, tongue swiping at the fabric of his underwear, and whatever it was Face had planned to say degenerates into a strangled yelp of pure pleasure.

The rest of Face’s clothing is banished pretty abruptly after that, and Hannibal’s mouth is back on his skin, kissing his thighs, tongue and lips teasing his balls, and this is familiar, this is the same game they played nine years ago with Hannibal insisting he can hold his weight up on one knee and Face nagging at him to lie down, stop aggravating the unhealed wound, and it’s not going to be enough, not tonight. Face nudges Hannibal with his foot.

“I need you, please.”

Hannibal chuckles. “Patience, Templeton. Want you to come for me. Just let go.”

“But I want-”

“I know what you want, lad, and you’ll get it.” Hannibal’s voice is a low hum against his skin, his accent deepening with his arousal. He sucks, hard, on Face’s balls, one at a time, his hand wrapping around Face’s cock and jerking along to a rhythm set by his tongue. Face follows orders and throws himself into it, letting his commander bring him to the edge, and instead of holding himself back from it he topples over, spilling hot semen across his own stomach. Hannibal purrs appreciatively, the words lost around his mouthful. He keeps stroking and sucking until Face is spent, and then releases Face’s cock, dropping his head even lower. Face’s breath hitches in surprise as Hannibal’s tongue sweeps across his entrance. There’s no hesitancy, no concession, no pause for Face to get his breath back. Hannibal hitches one of Face’s legs over his shoulder and presses in, his tongue a firm put soft pressure just inside the clenching muscles of Face’s hole, those sensitive nerve endings flickering alight. It’s ridiculously arousing, even through the echoes of his orgasm, and when Hannibal withdraws Face whimpers at the loss.

“Shh. Easy.”

Face wriggles, nowhere near sated, desperate to bring Hannibal the same pleasure he just experienced. But Hannibal has no plans to take it slowly. He moves over Face, nips at his throat once again, his fingers drawing through the sticky release on Face’s belly.

“Didn’t have time to pick up supplies,” he explains. Face watches in fascination as Hannibal slicks himself up with Face’s own fluid. “This might be a little rough.”

Face laughs. “Bring it. I’m a Ranger, baby.”

That feral look is back on Hannibal’s face. Face has imagined what this will feel like a hundred thousand times, but the reality of it is more intense than any of his fantasies anticipated. Hannibal is pretty far gone, Face can feel it more than see it, feel the buzz beneath his skin as he tries to take it slowly for the first thrust in. Face is split in two, the sensation overwhelming him, his head thumping back against the pillow, his heels digging into Hannibal’s back. Panting and trembling with barely contained lust, Hannibal drives deep into him until they’re flush against each other, nose-to-nose, Face feeling full and raw and still needing more. He claws at Hannibal’s shoulders, bucks his hips, and Hannibal chuckles, kisses him again and again as he begins to thrust. He keeps it shallow at first, but quick, one hand slipping between them to grip Face’s cock, which twitches in response. There’s a low thrum of pleasure emanating from his gut, and the rub of Hannibal’s thumb across his head accentuates it, and then - then - Hannibal is pulling further out, slamming in faster and harder, and that strange, pleasurable undertone bursts into brilliant, incandescent bliss. Face shouts out in surprise, clenches his legs around Hannibal’s hips, driving him deeper. He’s never needed anything more in his life than he needs Hannibal now, needs him deeper, needs him harder, and Hannibal gives him everything.

Face’s shouts and Hannibal’s deep, low moans combine with the sounds of flesh on flesh, and the bed creaking ominously beneath them, the whole thing a beautiful symphony as far as Face is concerned. If he thought he was in love with Hannibal’s voice before, it’s nothing compared to the involuntary noises he doesn’t even realise he’s making now. Face discovers that he can coax a fucking fantastic sound out of his lover just by stroking the short hairs on the back of his neck, and something tells him it’s only the beginning of the noises he’ll eventually be able to elicit from Hannibal. But there’s little time for exploration tonight. Hannibal’s hand works faster, until Face is hard and leaking, then lets him go and hitches Face’s legs up higher, propping himself up for leverage as he finally gives up any pretence at holding back, fucking Face hard and fast and so deep. Face bucks up into every one of Hannibal’s down-thrusts, his cock sliding against Hannibal’s hard stomach, and even though he’s already come once Face knows he’s going to lose it first.

“Hannibal!” he moans, and lips find his, muffling the sound - Face understands, and the next thing he shouts is “John”, such a generic name, one that people listening through the paper-thin walls would not associate with news reports of escaped prisoners. But he’s never used Hannibal’s first name in any context before, and it feels so intimate using it now.

Hannibal kisses him again, responding in kind, Templeton sounding like a breathless prayer on his lips. No one has ever, in his adult life, spoken his full name without some hint of a smirk until now. Hannibal’s mouth drops to Face’s throat, biting and licking and kissing, teeth clamping down hard as Face clenches around him. It’s the most intense orgasm of Face’s life, that surreal feeling of being filled adding a new depth he’s never know before. His hips jerk frantically, fucking himself on Hannibal’s cock as he comes hard and long, watching his release paint stripes across Hannibal’s skin.

Hannibal isn’t far behind, hissing Face’s name again, pumping erratically into him. Face holds his breath through it, clinging to Hannibal’s shoulders, and then they’re collapsing together, Hannibal covering him, the two of them gasping and panting for air.

There’s a strange heat deep in Face’s gut, and that’s surreal, but not as surreal as wrapping his arms around the man he’s given up all hope of ever possessing as they both come down from their orgasmic highs. Hannibal nuzzles gently at his throat, kisses him, strokes him, smiling down at him. Face knows his commander’s earlier promise isn’t going to be a simple thing to keep, that life is going to be really fucking difficult from here on out, but that’s fine. Sex was never worth risking their careers over. But seeing Hannibal finally, after all these yeas, looking genuinely happy? Face will give everything he’s ever owned, everything in his power, to keep hold of that.
Tags: adult, five times, hannibal/face, the a-team
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