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If I hear your voice

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The voices are screaming again.

There’s the Brit, the secret agent fellow with the indeterminate accent, and there’s that major he used to know that looks worse now that he did before, before he had all of his head, now he’s screaming and the words are garbled but he can understand them as clear as day, there’s those other soldiers (freak, crazy, stupid, nutcase) and then there’s the pink rabbit with the carrot and there must be some horrible argument going on, because he can’t think for all the GODDAMN NOISE.

He tries to take a calming breath. It doesn’t work as advertised. He’s starting to let out little hysterical giggles now. Thank god he isn’t in public. Public is a bad place to have screaming matches with the people inside of your head.

Wasn’t there something he was supposed to do today? He was dressed, and it was in uniform…so he must be going somewhere important, but it doesn’t matter now, never really mattered, these functions were just to prove he could hack it in the outside world, and if he showed up in his present condition, the hacking may be his own…or something like that.

Another giggle. He backs up against the wall, eyes dancing about the room, taking in ordinary shapes and changing them into monsters. He knows they aren’t real. He can see them as such. The table is a table. It is not a torture device, the finish is red, that isn’t blood, it’s not blood, it’s not.

But there is a section of his brain, one connected to his eyes, that fools him, gives him different evidence, and it’s such an insidious part, it’s already cowed other parts of his brain, like the one to his medulla, and adrenaline is pumping now, fear is a real and true thing, and the rest of his brain is fighting that flight or fight response down. Trying to.

He closes his eyes. The table is a table. There are no voices. The Major is dead and not in his head. There is no blood.

He opens his eyes. It’s still all there. The half or his brain trying to fight back against the terror has lost a few dozen paces of ground. He slides down the wall curling up, knees to his chest.

He’s about to run headlong into a breakdown. Damn. DAMN! He’d been doing so well. The others would be so…disappointed. He might lose them all.

Oh shit…what if they sent him back to Mexico?

The thought pushes against his last defenses and suddenly the fight is lost. He’s barely holding on by a thread now, just trying not to lose himself.

But it’s too much, he’s sinking, the voices will overwhelm him and then-


The voice cuts through the others like a knife. But they rise up again.


Still there.


The voices fall away, hissing, and he can bring himself out of this now, struggling muddily upwards. But it’s hard, so hard, and they keep dragging at him.

“James? Can you hear me, son?”

He latches onto that voice, pulls himself out of that pit with Herculean type effort, and blinks. He looks forward into blue eyes.

He can’t remember some things, like why he’s on the floor in his apartment instead of at the party for…someone, but he does remember the man in front of him.

It’s…it’s…Hannibal. Yes, Hannibal. He can remember now, when the noise is gone.


“Boss.” His voice sounds scarily normal. He’s frightened of it. Maybe its not his voice. Maybe one of the voices in his head took over. His breathing hitches in panic.

“Murdock, calm down. I’m right here, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Yes. Yes, that’s true. Hannibal always has his best interests at heart. Hannibal always keeps him …not sane. Better.

He’s drawn into a hug. Hannibal is stroking his hair. The voices are silent now, and Hannibal’s whispers beat back the encroaching insidious brain demon with its…evidence. The table is a table. The major isn’t in his head. The monsters are leaving, the other soldiers are silent.

He is on the floor, lying in the embrace of his commander’s arms.

His heart beats a little faster, his grip tightens on Hannibal. He doesn’t get to do this often, and he can’t even feel guilty using the minor -almost major- breakdown as an excuse.

Because Hannibal is everything to him. Hannibal can chase away monsters with his voice. Hannibal is a rock, a hard place, and a last stand all in one. Hannibal will indulge him in his little games of make-believe, even if they border on the absurd and ridiculous, which they often do. Hannibal knows he’s crazy, but doesn’t seem to mind. Hannibal loves him.

Maybe…maybe not in the way he would like to be loved, but the military looks down on that sort of thing, and he would never, ever jeopardize Hannibal’s career for something silly like that. No…this is fine. This is right. Just lying in Hannibal’s arms while the man kisses his forehead…and…

…and he hopes whatever hallucination he’s in where Hannibal kisses him in any way doesn’t turn violent. That would be a waste of a wonderful daydream.


This is a guilty pleasure. He allows his fingers to card through the younger man’s soft hair, justifying it by the episode that he’s just been privy to.

Murdock is holding tightly to him, still shaking slightly, pressed against him tightly. All of this is his guilty pleasure. As long as he doesn’t take it too far.

Kissing the young man on the forehead was probably too far, but when Murdock melted in his grip and into his body, he couldn’t find it in his heart to berate himself.

Murdock had always been…loyal. To a fault. But wild. Intimidatingly intelligent. A puzzle and contradiction and something that was just so uniquely Murdock that he got lost in it sometimes. He had flights of fancy that could either be humorous or just downright bizarre and somehow, that fit.

Murdock fit.

And then there were those times Murdock seem to get stuck in some fantasy and nightmare, couldn’t get out by himself. But Hannibal could bring him out of it.

Sometimes it scared him, how much power he had over Murdock. How he could cut through the madness. How Murdock would follow his orders with little to no question. The unfaltering loyalty. It would be so easy to break the young man, just by putting his own desires ahead of the safety of his men. His man. No, that kind of thought is dangerous. He couldn’t think that way.

Especially if it meant that Murdock might go along with it to please him. He couldn’t have that. He couldn’t jeopardize Murdock for something he could keep buried.

But sometimes…like now….sometimes it was so damn hard. When every instinct told him to gather Murdock up and chase demons away in a different, more permanent manner. When Murdock melts into him, not knowing or maybe even understanding how it affects the other man, presented with an armful of beautiful, needy young man.

When Murdock smiles at him, leans up and kisses him.


The kiss is gentle, chaste, awkward. He doesn’t respond out of surprise. Murdock backs away, quizzical. “You’re supposed to kiss back.”

He’s speechless. It takes him a moment.


Murdock’s eyes fly open comically wide. “Oh…oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. I…oh shit. I’m sorry, s-sorry! I just…I thought it was a daydream, you kissed me on the forehead, I know I dreamed that now, I’m sorry. But I thought it was a dream, it was a really great dream, and I thought I might as well make it better, and I…I…oh shit.”

Murdock is beginning to hyperventilate, trying to pull away from Hannibal. He quickly wraps his arms around the pilot, keeping him close, but not tight enough to elicit a violent response. They learned that boundary a long time ago.

“Murdock…James…It’s alright. Calm down. Look at me James, look at me!” The order causes the man to freeze, looking up hesitantly into Hannibal’s face, eyes full of fear and shame.

He doesn’t like that look. Not at all.


“Please forget it. You know…crazy and all. Hey! You know what, I can have one of those intermittent memory loss things and we can pretend that I didn’t just put the moves on you and that you weren’t interested and that I totally just didn’t screw this up beyond all repair and mmph!”

The angle means that this kiss is just as awkward as before but, he makes up for it in experience and passion. Murdock whimpers against his lips, and he almost backs off, but Murdock is gripping his shirt tightly, pressing closely, lips parting.

He takes it for the invitation it is, shifting his position so that he can possess the kiss, and with it, Murdock.

There is a part of his mind, warning him off, but he can’t listen to it right now. Not with Murdock making those noises and clinging to him like he was drowning and Hannibal was the only thing keeping him alive.


It wasn’t a daydream. Not with what just happened, because he can control those nice daydreams and it should have gone the way he wanted it to, but it didn’t and now it was wonderful, because he didn’t realize that the non-daydreams are like this.

Somewhere in his mind, he scolds his brain for rambling, but that part is too exhausted from trying to hold himself together to do anything but relax into Hannibal and allow the rest of his brain to take over.

It’s not a bad idea, actually.

He shudders as hands find their way into his dress uniform and run across his back, pulling him in closer and tighter to the bigger man.

They have to break for air that he doesn’t realize he needs. He tries to lean in, but Hannibal evades him, instead tucking Murdock’s head under his chin and holding him close, still breathing heavily.

Granted, it isn’t what he really wants, but he’s patient. He can wait for a few minutes, and every time Hannibal does something to the contrary of what he would have dreamed, makes this more real.

“Murdock…you know…You know you don’t have to do this because of me, right?”

Damn. They should have stuck to the daydream script instead. Now he was going to have to reassure his commander, and he didn’t do reassurances very well.

“I’m doing it because of you.” He says, and immediately realizes from the stiffness in Hannibal that he’s said the wrong thing, and tries to explain, unsure of what caused the reaction. “I’m doing it because it’s you and you’re you. You smell nice and you take care of me and nobody makes me feel safe like you do, and you don’t mind that I’m nuts and you like me for me, at least I think so, and to be quite honest, I don’t do it very often, but I’ve been thinking these last few months, you know, that I’d like to do it with you, but mmph!”

The colonel seems to have a very effective way of dealing with his tired, babbling brain. He is beginning to enjoy it very much.

“I like you for you very much.” Hannibal whispers in his ear when the kiss breaks again.

The whisper does all sort of things to him and if he’d been frozen, he probably would have melted on the spot. When he leans up to kiss this time, Hannibal doesn’t evade him.

After awhile, Hannibal manages to get him off the floor. He starts to protest the sudden movement, but when it leads to Hannibal pulling his uniform off, he decides not to be too upset. Hannibal strips him down to his boxers, presses him back into another room and onto the bed.

Hannibal gets on top of him, and starts pressing kisses to his neck, leading up to his ear. “Are you alright?”

The whisper in his ear is having a wonderful effect on him and he moans out a soft, “Yes.”

“I’m going to take care of you.” A large hand was trailing down his chest, thumb sliding under the waistband.

“You…ah! Always do.” He squirms a bit at the ministrations, tries to put his own hands to good use getting Hannibal’s uniform off, but his hands and brain aren’t communicating well after the attack, and can’t navigate the buttons. A whine of frustration slips out.

Hannibal just laughs and leans down, pressing an experienced mouth on the pulse point on his neck and sucking. The sensation makes his brain shut down and his whines of frustration became whimpers. It distracts him to the point that he doesn’t realize what Hannibal is doing with his hands.

When a firm grip wraps around his member, his body arches, almost blindsided by the feeling. The other hand slides around his neck and into his hair, holding his head in place while Hannibal began to lay open mouthed kisses on his neck, sucking and nipping lightly.

The dual sensations flood him, and he twists his hands into Hannibal’s uniform, gasping and arching.

He’s running entirely on autopilot now, unable to spare a thought or an ounce of shame to the fact that he isn’t reciprocating because what Hannibal is doing is wiping all thought from his mind, and the only thing left is the feel of pleasure, which grows and grows until his vision whites out and he cries out, orgasm running through him electrically and lingering.

When he comes back to himself, his body is totally relaxed, and a wonderful voice that can chase monsters away is whispering things he really doesn’t understand in his ear, but he know they’re nice.

Hannibal stops him when he makes a move for the buttons again, folding him into an embrace. “There will be time for that later.”

“Promise?” He asks muzzily.

“Go to sleep, James.” Hannibal murmurs into his ear. “We’ll continue this later. Promise.”

With the sound of Hannibal’s voice and the soft pressure of a kiss on his forehead, he slips away to sleep.