It hurts, so much, brutal claws in his chest, tearing at his flesh. Every new breath is a struggle, every new breath is pure agony, the air flowing like molten lead down his windpipe. He feels a trickle of warm wetness trail down his cheek and blinks slowly, too tired to even try and wipe it off.
Three bullets. The first one only grazed his leg, barely noticed with all the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Winters fell, small hole between his eyebrows and he’d been relieved then, thinking it was over. He never saw Winters’ brother sneaking up behind him, focused on getting the little girl to safety, and her panicked warning came too late. A second bullet slamming into his shoulder, like a large fist, shoved him to the floor and he’d fallen, the little girl scrambling away into the shadows. Got his own gun up, pulled the trigger, watched with grim satisfaction as his attacker clutched his chest and fell. Only afterwards he’d realized the pain.
And now he’s lying here, blood bubbling in his torn lung and can only blink while the girl cries and presses small hands to his chest. Not much longer to go. At least she’s safe, she’ll be with her parents soon. They’ll find her, get her away from here. He only wishes she didn’t have to see him die first.
Face closes his eyes and waits for the darkness to swallow him.
A brutal stab of pain jerks him from the shadows and he’s amazed he still has enough strength to howl in agony as large hands press down on his wounds. Tears leak from his eyes, salt burning in a dozen little cuts and scrapes and he whimpers, fire burning at the edges of his vision. And then, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
“Don’t you dare die on me, kid! You hear me?! That’s an order, Templeton!”
He struggles to get his eyes open, struggles to get the “Yes, sir” out. Hannibal found him. He always does. Face smiles and his breath seems to go a bit easier. Never should have doubted the boss, never… it’s gonna be all right now, everything’s gonna be…
It takes Face a long time to heal. He later learns he spend sixteen days in a coma, afterwards wasn’t really lucid for about three more weeks. He can’t remember much of that time, flashes of intense pain, a sudden brightness hurting his eyes, crying silently because his chest hurt so much. And three worried faces, swimming above his eyes, two light and one dark, soft voices whispering to him, telling him to get better. A soft cloth wiping sweat from his skin while the withdrawal makes his body shake after they’ve taken him off the morphine.
And above all, large hands covering his, a familiar voice talking to him. About the weather, the pretty nurses with their short skirts, about everything under the sun. A constant stream of talking, soothing and comforting.
A life-line, connecting him to the world beyond the haze of pain he’s living in now. Gentle fingers on his face, a low grumble telling him to not give up, to keep fighting. Hannibal’s presence, Hannibal’s voice, Hannibal’s orders. And of course, he obeys.
As soon as he’s fit enough for travel, Hannibal whips him from the doctors’ grasp. The boss’ hard stare is enough to make them cower in submission and Face’s wheelchair rolls up the pathway to their house before he’s fully awake.
The others might not look as pretty as the nurses in the hospital did, but they sure know their jobs. It’s embarrassing, at first, having to let them help him wash himself or use the fucking bedpan, but Face grits his teeth and deals. BA and Murdock fall into some kind of bad nurse-good nurse routine. BA glares at him, makes him swallow pain killers he doesn’t want, eat soup he doesn’t like, do his exercises even when it hurts so much angry tears stream down his cheeks. Murdock fluffs his pillows, brings him comics and a play station, reads him magazines and children’s books and the instructions for building a tree-house and sneaks him candy when BA isn’t looking.
Hannibal stays away.
BA sometimes brings machine parts to his room, quietly tinkering with them while Face watches cartoons. Murdock sits on his bed and smiles at him or reads him Harry Potter with many different voices. Hannibal doesn’t show.
Face lies back in the pillow and clenches his fists. He remembers the time he was floating, Hannibal’s voice a solid anchor for him, but now… That anchor is gone and he’s drifting.
Murdock has fallen asleep in the armchair by the window. BA carefully rouses him, leads him from the room with gentle touches. Face watches the big guy’s hand rest comfortably on the pilot’s shoulder, the way Murdock leans against him and envies their closeness. He turns his gaze to the window, stares out into the quiet night and grits his teeth. Four weeks in this room and still Hannibal hasn’t shown.
Face doesn’t know what woke him, the whole house is silent. A creaking floorboard maybe, or just the feeling that someone’s watching him. He opens his eyes a crack and peers into the darkness.
A shape in the doorway, tall and broad. Familiar. A faint scent of cigar smoke wafts through the air, tinged with alcohol and Face smiles a tiny smile.
Boss stays there for a long time, in the doorway, watching him. Watching over him. Didn’t stay away after all, then.
Face closes his eyes again. Sleep comes more easily than in the last nights.
It becomes a routine. Sometimes Face wakes up only when the door snicks shut and Hannibal’s already gone, sometimes he’s awake before the boss even shows up. Sometimes he misses his appearance, but that’s okay. He knows the boss will be there again the next night.
He sleeps better, his recovery is quicker. Murdock takes his hand and says his eyes don’t look so dull anymore, BA glares and grunts and allows him to shower without help. Little victories, Face supposes. He’s still not allowed to actually walk around the house.
And still Hannibal comes. Doesn’t show during the day, mind, but stands there every night. Face keeps his breath even and his smile too small to see. Feels good to have the boss there.
Sometimes he has nightmares. The bullet hits the little girl instead of him. He isn’t quick enough and Winters’ brother drags her away, small arms reaching for Face while he bleeds to death. Hannibal doesn’t find him in time and he lies there alone. Sometimes the little girl has Murdock’s face, or BA’s, or, God, Hannibal’s.
Murdock tells him the girl is safe, rubs his hair and neck soothingly and promises she’s okay. BA glares and says nobody will get her and brings him pie his Mama made. One day he hands him a picture the little girl made for him, a knight on a horse and a princess in a looming castle. After that he doesn’t dream of her dying anymore.
But sometimes he still sees his friends, bloody and lifeless.
Usually there’s nobody around to notice the dreams. They happen early at night or during the last hours before dawn, when sleep isn’t deep enough and his subconscious is wide awake. He’s glad for that, he shivers and presses his face into the pillow, muffling his ragged breathing. He doesn’t want anybody to see him like this.
But one night someone does.
Hannibal must have come in while Face was still sleeping peacefully. It was a tiring day, BA’s stupid exercises taking their toll but Face barely complained because he wants to get fit as soon as possible. It’s disconcerting, seeing his body all weak and pale and thin, covered in angry red scars. So he pushes himself, pushes BA until his muscles tremble and he’s covered in sweat. BA doesn’t complain much, just rests a big hand on his back while Face struggles for breath and Murdock hovers anxiously. After days like this he falls asleep early, weak like a kitten.
And, of course, the nightmares start earlier, too. Seems like Hannibal got in just before this recent one started.
Face jerks awake, vision swimming with images of his friends dead or dying, gasps and wheezes, tasting bile. He tries push his face into the pillow, muffle his breath and hide his tears, but he can’t. Someone’s holding him tight, refusing to let him roll away.
Strong arms surround him, press him close to a hard chest. Face struggles and pushes, but he’s too week, is pulled in closer, held immobile, can’t escape. Hannibal, he realizes.
“Shh, kid, calm down, I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay. Come here, I got you, kid, I got you…”
He clutches to Hannibal’s arm, buries his face in the boss’ shirt, feels wet patches form where his eyes rest. Shivers and trembles, embarrassed and scared and so fucking grateful, and Hannibal lets him cling, hugs him tighter and strokes a big hand down his spine. Up and down, up and down, soothing and calming and so welcome, and Face muffles a sob and hangs on.
“Thought I lost you, kid, so fucking scared, should have seen yourself, God… Can’t lose you, Temp, can’t ever give you up, I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me, don’t you dare do this to me…”
A low voice in his ear, warm breath puffing against his neck, he can’t make out words over the roaring in his ears, but it doesn’t matter. That voice is familiar, protective, so dear and Face is so pathetically grateful he can’t even be embarrassed by his weakness. Hannibal’s not dead, he’s alive, Murdock and BA probably asleep somewhere in the house, curled around each other, and Hannibal’s there, John’s there. Nobody died.
“Calm down, sweetheart, don’t cry, Temp. Don’t worry, I’m here, I’m here, I’ll never leave you…”
Fingers in his hair now, scratching his scalp, and Face nestles closer. Slowly he calms down, shakes off the last remains of the nightmare, breathing easy against John’s chest. The roar in his ears lessens and he begins to make out words.
“My beautiful boy, my sweet boy, my love, I need you Temp, need you with me always, love you so much, shhh, be calm, love…”
Face stiffens. John notices the moment Face realizes what he’s been saying. Face pulls back, the other’s arms falling limply away from him and looks at John. Looks at him, sees his eyes, large and anguished and bright, even in the darkness of the room, sees the wetness on his cheeks. Finally notices the tremble in John’s frame, the way his breath goes quick as he looks at Face.
And he sees it. There, in John’s face, everything. And then Hannibal is gone, the door slamming shut behind him. Face sits there and stares after him. Jesus.
Why didn’t he see it before?
Hannibal disappears. The morning after he’s just gone, said he’d check out a potential client. Probably hides in that cabin of his, up in the woods, wounded bear curled up in his cave. BA refuses to go after him and threatens to tie Face down if he tries to do it himself. He isn’t really sure he wants to.
Days pass and Face’s mood shifts frequently. Denial, embarrassment, anger, empathy, it’s all there and more. Murdock worries, he can tell, and Face yells at him when he tries to cheer him up with a new card trick. Later he apologizes, hating the way Murdock looked so sad and hurt while BA glares at him. It’s not Murdock’s fault, he’s not angry at his best friend, he’s angry at himself. And at Hannibal. Or is he? He doesn’t know.
Hannibal is in love with him. Has been for a long time. Face isn’t sure how he feels about that. He isn’t sure about anything anymore.
He’s getting better, walking around without getting out of breath, doing his exercises with barely a twinge of his wounds. Muscles start to thicken again, his reflection doesn’t make him want to avoid his eyes anymore.
Hannibal still hasn’t come back.
He manages a full hour of workout without having to pause and Murdock cooks all his favorite foods in celebration. They sit on the porch, BA and he, watching Murdock tend to the koi in the small pond. His belly is full, BA allowed him a beer, he’s pretty content.
Something’s niggling in his mind. Questions, thoughts. BA is silent, head bent over the piece of wood he’s whittling, making a toy for Billy to play with, and Face takes a deep breath and asks.
Murdock’s long gone to sleep and they still sit on the porch. BA’s voice is quiet, thoughtful. Tells him what a bad place he was in before he met them, how he didn’t belong and raged because there was no one there with him. How he was wary, at first, of them, how it turned into grudging respect, then more, then friendship. How he considers them family now. How he’d stiffened and withdrawn when he’d noticed Murdock look at him that way. Hid his own fear behind sneering thoughts. How time had passed and Murdock became closer. Became more than a friend. Partner, brother in arms, whatever. How he’d started thinking about it then, still shying away from the whole thing, but not afraid any more. How Murdock had been patient and waited, never said a word, let BA work through his issues.
And how he’d come to the realization that Murdock was… that there was someone beside him. With him, forever and always. Accepted him like he was, wanted him, loved him. Without hesitation, without doubts. How BA had realized how precious he was. How much he needed him. That the love had been there a long time and he hadn’t even known it himself. How he’d finally accepted it. Told him, told him everything. And then…
“It’s not about straight or gay, you know. Gender plays no role for what we have, he and I. Took me a while. I never had anything like that before, and I never will with someone else. Sure, he’s a guy, but that doesn’t matter. He’s Murdock, you know? And that is that.”
Face listens and doesn’t interrupt. He goes to bed, head filled with thoughts and more questions.
BA doesn’t mind, answers without hesitation. Even the more intimate ones, he colors a bit, visible even with his dark skin, Face blushes too and he never blushes, but he answers. Sometimes he gets annoyed and grumbles he wants his peace, go ask the other fool. But accepts Face needs his point of view and not Murdock’s, so he sighs and lets him ask.
Face finished his morning jog and slows to a walk. An elderly couple approaches, both about 70, enjoying a slow walk in the sun and Face steps aside on the narrow path to let them walk past. The man lets his wife go first, one hand chivalrously on her elbow and she smiles at him and at Face. The husband’s other hand doesn’t let go of his wife’s, and Face watches them walk away, hand in hand, until the turn the corner and are gone from view.
He bites his lips, heart thudding fast, and makes a decision.
BA promises death and dismemberment if his car gets so much as a scratch, but Face doesn’t really listen. Murdock’s hugging him tight, whispers in his ear, promises and encouragement, so he can’t hear much of BA’s threats, plus he never had a car accident before anyway. Well, not one that was his fault.
He gets in the car and drives off, towards Hannibal’s not-so-secret hide-out. A few discreet phone calls had ensured that he was there, and now all Face has to do is drive there and then… then what? Talk, probably. See what this is, where they stand. What Hannibal has to say.
He steps on the gas, then slows down again. Doesn’t want to face John and wants to, desperately, at the same time. Murdock’s words echo in his head.
“You’ll see, it will all work out. Me an’ Bosco, you and the boss, that’s how it is, how it’s always been. Meant to be. Good luck, although you don’t need it. Who could resist either of you?”
Meant to be. Hm.
The wood is dark when he finally gets there, the last rays of sunlight turning the leaves into red gold. The path is narrow and windy, up the hill, tall trees looming close. Face is glad when he reaches the small clearing, the wood felt oppressive, especially with his not-so-chipper mood. He’s nervous, and not really sure why.
The cabin is small, warm yellow light shines from its windows. Face remembers when he was here the first time, years ago, back when Hannibal first took him in. Drove them both here, made him run through the woods, tied him to a tree and let him make his way back to the cabin alone. Pushed him mercilessly, constantly criticizing, his survival skills, his stamina, his aim with the rifle, everything. Taunted and teased, Face refusing to back down. Finally he’d had enough, had taken a swing at Hannibal, and the boss had tackled him down effortlessly and laughed while he pressed him into the pine needles. Let him back up, patted his shoulder and showed him how to take a man down with two well-aimed blows.
Hannibal taught him everything. Face can barely remember a time before the boss was there. He has been the focus of Face’s thoughts, of his fucking life for years. He remembers a day, barely out of training, first place in the sniper contest, first through the obstacle course. Remembers a smile, a pat on the shoulder. A “well done, kid” and his own exhilaration at how this famous officer thought he’d done good. And later, barely an hour afterwards, a new assignment. A new team, new commander. And that large hand on his shoulder, fingers grazing his neck, almost caressing the skin there. He hadn’t thought anything of it back then, too young and naïve, but now, he wonders. Even then? Hours after we met?
And the mission where he got lost in the jungle, the one where Hannibal ran through the desert to save him from being burned in a stack of tires, and all the other times Hannibal came for him. Worried so much he could only yell at him and make him do laps until he stumbled with exhaustion, covering his fear of losing Face with anger. Makes a lot more sense now, he thinks. And he himself, hurt by Hannibal’s apparent anger, his disappointment, how he’d pushed himself so hard to get that smile again, all of it for him. How he’d felt when Hannibal praised him, how a simple “well done, kid” had put a smile on his face for the whole day. Really, in retrospect it’s kinda obvious.
Face opens the door. His bag can stay in the car for now, taking it out seems… presumptious. He walks closer to the cabin, breathing in clean forest air and wonders how to do this. Should he knock? Just go inside? And then what?
The decision is taken from him. Just as he reaches the door, it opens and Hannibal steps out. Face freezes, can’t move. Hannibal carries a bucket, obviously on his way to the well, and Face remembers there’s no running water here, just the well, and no electricity and no toilet apart from that stupid shack under the trees and how is he supposed to brush his teeth when his electric toothbrush runs out of juice and great, now he’s panicking.
Then Hannibal looks up and sees him. His eyes widen, the bucket falls from limp fingers. His face is ashen as he looks back at him, mouth opening and closing.
Face takes a deep breath and manages a smile.
Hannibal abruptly turns away, picks up the bucket and walks stiffly over to the well. Face grinds his teeth and follows, too stubborn to be turned away by this refusal. Not now, not when he finally, when he realized, not after all that has happened. He deserves this, dammit, he wants this.
“Been enjoying the time up here? Three weeks with nothing but trees for company, man, you must be so relaxed right now. Nobody annoying you, nobody expecting anything from you, just peace and quiet. Great, huh?”
Hannibal’s back is ramrod-straight, arm muscles bunch as he determinedly ignores Face and moves the pump. Face slouches a little and looks up at the sky. It’s getting dark quickly up here, barely any sunlight left.
“Yeah, must be great. No responsibilities, no people asking for anything or lying around waiting for you to help them… what a relief.”
The pump creaks loudly when Hannibal jerks it too hard. Face starts humming a little and ambles over towards the well. “You know, I might need to get a cabin myself. I could use some relaxing after the last few weeks. I was never really alone, you know? Always someone around, BA and Murdock, nagging me about my exercises and my health, stuffing me full of food, taking care of me… pretty annoying, really, don’t you think? Figures a guy should get some rest when he’s nearly killed. At least you kept your distance.”
That broad back seems to get even stiffer. Face grits his teeth and soldiers on. Boss can ignore him all he wants, he’ll get a reaction eventually.
“Back in the hospital and then at home, you were never there. During the day at least. At night, not so much. You were there every night, weren’t you? Couldn’t stay away. You were always watching me, watching over me. I saw you. You know that, don’t you?”
And finally, a barely audible sigh. The bucket’s full now, the pump has stopped moving, but Hannibal doesn’t turn around.
“What are you doing here, Face?”
“Oh, it’s back to ‘Face’ now, is it? No more ‘Templeton’? No more ‘my sweet boy’?”
Hannibal jerks as if slapped. “What do you want?”
“I want you to look at me, dammit! Don’t turn your back on me, you bastard, not after everything that happened! You had no problem looking at me that night, you had your hands all over me that night, for Christ’s sake! Or did you forget your little declaration of love?!”
That gets a reaction. Hannibal whirls around and glares at him. The bucket tethers on the edge of the well, wobbles for a few moments, then crashes onto the ground, spilling water everywhere.
“No, I didn’t fucking forget it, Templeton! How could I? Fuck, what do you want from me?!”
And finally Face understands. John’s breathing heavily, fist clenched at his sides. And his expression… Jesus, the boss is scared. Scared of him, of his reaction. Thinks that Face doesn’t, that he’s not, that he hates Hannibal for what he did. He lets his shoulders slump and lifts a hand, palm out, in Hannibal’s direction. “John,” he says quietly, voice lowered to a whisper, and Hannibal shivers and swallows, “I want you to look at me.”
It doesn’t last more than a few seconds, the two of them standing there, looking at each other, but to Face it seems like hours. His heart is beating painfully fast, seems lodged inside his throat, his stomach twists and turns. This is it, this is everything, this, and he can only stand there, mouth so dry it hurts to swallow. What if he was wrong? What if John doesn’t, what if it was all a misunderstanding, what if he doesn’t think of him that way? Calls him ‘kid’ all the time, what if he means that literally and not, not the other thing? Nausea rises, the hand stretched towards John starts to tremble slightly, and he has never been more afraid than now, not even when he faced that firing squad and was so sure he would die, not even then. God, this was a mistake, it was wrong to come here, oh God oh God what is he supposed to do now?!
Face can’t take it anymore, closes his eyes, a horrible wetness gathering in them, cheeks burning hotly. He’s numb, he can’t feel his heart beat anymore. He’s empty. Alone. Face turns away.
Only he doesn’t.
And John is there, he’s finally there. Strong arms surround him, hold him close. A hand on his back, the other in his hair, pressing his face against John’s neck. He can’t seem to lift his arms, they dangle at his sides, and he breathes in cigar smoke and sweat and the smell of leaves and forest and warm, soft skin. Stubble is scratching his cheek, the cloth of Hannibal’s shirt rough against his neck, a voice whispering in his ear. John’s there, surrounds him, drowns him in his presence, is everywhere and Templeton lifts his arms and wraps them around his lover.
“Thought I’d lost you, kid, thought I’d lost you forever, I’d never thought you would… I’m so sorry, sweetheart, so sorry, don’t ever do that to me again, I couldn’t take it, God, love you, love you so much…”
Templeton laughs around the lump in his throat and clings tighter. “I know, John, God,” he mumbles into his lover’s skin and shudders a bit. “Took me a while to figure it out, but yeah, I love you too.”
He buries his nose in John’s neck, not really ready to look at him yet. His newly-healed chest gives a painful twinge, but he ignores it. Holds John firmer and squeezes his eyes shut, hating the reminder of how close they came to losing each other, so fucking close. Never again, he’ll never let go, now that he has him.
But John notices his discomfort, of course he does, and pulls back. Lets his big hands rest on Templeton’s shoulder and neck, fingers stroking slowly. Templeton curls his own in John’s shirt and keeps his eyes down, gaze darting everywhere but at his lover’s face. There’s a grass stain on John’s jeans leg, a small round pebble right by his shoe, a dead dragonfly a few inches away. He feels hot and flushed, his legs are kinda wobbly, his lower lip wants to tremble and what is he, a 14 year-old girl? Templeton raises his chin and squares his jaw, looking straight at John. The other smiles and cups a warm palm around his cheek, thumb stroking gently across the soft skin right below his eye. Templeton’s eyelashes want to flutter close, this barely-there touch almost too much. Dammit, he’s a grown man.
He manages a grin, musters all his cockiness and bravado and tilts his head, looking at John through his lashes: “Does that mean I finally get laid now?”
John guffaws a surprised laugh, then sobers and looks at him. Only looks at him, eyes dark and intense and piercing, and Templeton shudders.
“You can bet your sweet ass you will, Temp.”
The door slams shut behind them. Templeton bangs his hip on the table and John almost trips over the rug on the floor, but neither of them notices nor cares. John maneuvers him backwards, eyes on his face, until Templeton’s back hits the wall. And John is in front of him, looms over him, so close and warm and firm, hands flat on the wood on each side of his head. Templeton rests his own palms on his lover’s hips and looks back at him, suddenly a bit shy. ‘Your sweet ass’ John had said, and yeah. This isn’t… he’s never done that before. He’s nervous, okay?
“So, how do we do this?”
No answer. Templeton huffs an impatient breath. Boss likes to let him steam, always did. Constantly watching and waiting until Face starts to babble. Like now.
“I mean, like, who’s gonna… are you a, a top?”
A smirk, sharp teeth glinting. “What do you think, kid?”
Jesus. John’s voice is low and gravelly and seems to shoot straight to Templeton’s groin, and how did he never notice how hot that growl was? He feels himself get hard, and oh God, is that John’s dick pressing against his thigh? Feels like it is. Templeton bites his lips.
John notices his nervousness and gentles his smile, one hand coming up to cup his cheek again. Thumb stroking softly, like it did before, and this time Templeton doesn’t fight the urge to close his eyes and lean into it. “Relax, kid, you trust me, don’t you?”
He opens his eyes again. Course he does, with his life. With his heart, now, with everything. And John leans in, Templeton’s breath hitches, kissing, he can do that, he’s good at it. Closer still, breath puffing across his face, he could count the boss’ eyelashes now, so close and then there are lips on his, finally... finally.
Meant to be, Murdock said, and he’s right. They fit together seamlessly, John’s slightly chapped lips against his softer ones, boss doesn’t like to use lip balm, mouth warm and wet and oh so gentle against his. Barely touching, at first, just resting there, testing the waters, maybe, to see if he freaks out, but he doesn’t. Opens his mouth a bit, nips at John’s bottom lip, sucks gently, draws it between his. That dick resting against his thigh twitches, Templeton smiles into the kiss, likes he can make it do that with only his mouth. Opens further, lets his tongue snake out, trails it across the seam of John’s lips and John… moans and surges forward.
And then it’s not gentle anymore, no, there’s nothing sweet about it. It’s… teeth clashing and nipping, a forceful tongue prying his lips open, thrusting inside, overpowering him effortlessly. John presses him into the wall, grabs his chin and angles his head just so, bites at his lip and shoves his tongue in deeper. Devours him, kisses him deep and bruisingly hard, takes what he wants, everything Templeton can give and more, and he can only cling to broad shoulders and let himself be plundered.
So good, so good, he whines high in his throat, wraps his arms tighter around John’s neck to pull him in further, tastes blood on his tongue and presses down against the thigh shoved between his legs. Hangs on desperately, barely able to think, can only feel those hands and that thigh and that dick and that wonderful tongue, fucking his mouth, and Jesus, if he’d known it would be like this he would have done that a long time ago.
Breath becomes an issue after a while and John pulls back to smirk at him with pupils blown wide. Templeton looks back, feeling slightly dizzy, and can’t even muster a yelp when strong arms pick him up and the boss carries him towards the bed. He wraps his legs around his lover’s waist and holds on, vaguely thinking he should protest being handled this way, shouldn’t he? But it’s Hannibal, the boss, John, and Templeton will be fucked before he does anything to stop this. They’ve both waited long enough.
John has him sitting in his lap, Templeton’s back pressed to the boss’ chest, strong legs wrapped around his own and steel-hard arms trapping his against his sides. He’s held immobile, can move barely an inch, trapped in his lover’s embrace and suddenly he’s nervous again. Jesus, Hannibal is strong, carried him her without effort, put him down and wrapped himself around him, he can’t do a damn thing about it. He starts to struggle involuntarily, not sure he wants that. Fuck, he’s never, apart from the mandatory prostate exams he had never anything up there and those were uncomfortable at best. He’s seen Hannibal’s dick, the kraken, fuck, he’s the one who came up with that stupid nickname in the first place, it seemed funny at that time, but now? Face twists and twitches, erection flagging, fuck!
“Shh,” a soft murmur in his ear, sharp teeth nipping his neck, “you trust me, remember? Don’t worry, sweetheart, relax. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”
Templeton shudders and tries to calm down. John loosens his arms and legs a bit, not so constricting anymore and presses a kiss to his neck. “Relax, baby, I got you.”
He sighs and arches his head. It’s John, he trusts him. Always did. And slowly, while John murmurs to him, kisses his neck and rubs his arms, he does relax, melts back against that strong chest and lies there with his eyes closed, breath coming in soft gasps. Feels good, like this, John holding him, close and gentle and protective. Feels right. He can feel John smiling against his neck, hears the soft “See?” and has to smile himself.
“Guess I freaked out a bit there. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, kid, just nerves. It’s your first time, after all...”
Templeton smiles lazily and treads his fingers through John’s where they rest over his heart. Yeah, and he’s glad for it. Nobody else would ever be good enough.
“Kid? It is your first time with a man, isn’t it?”
John stiffens behind him, arms suddenly tightening. And ohh, does he sound jealous? Ha! Templeton smirks and doesn’t answer.
“Templeton… answer me, kid. Right now. Was there someone else?”
Yes, definitely jealous. Face smirk widens in glee. He lets John wait a few seconds longer, then turns his head and presses his lips to his lover’s. “No, no one else. Only you, boss, only ever you…”
John exhales in relief and annoyance and jangles him a bit. “Brat. It better stay that way, you hear me? I don’t share.”
Templeton twists around to face him and frowns. John’s arms tighten around him, as if he was scared he’d try to get away. Now that’s just offensive. “I said no one else, didn’t I? Jeez, what do you think I am? You think I’d run off with the next available guy or girl and cheat on you? Thank you very much.”
He turns around again and leans forward, biting his lips. He knows he’s got quite the reputation, but he’s never cheated on anyone before, fuck. He thought Hannibal knew that, but apparently…
“I’m sorry, kid.” A kiss pressed to his nape. Templeton grumbles but lets himself be pulled back against that chest. “I’m a jealous possessive bastard, that’s what this is. I know you wouldn’t. Forgive me?”
“Whatever.” He mumbles, feeling petty and sullen.
“Oh, baby, I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just… I can’t bear the thoughts of anyone else’s hands on you…” Those arms pull him closer. “But I trust you, Templeton. I know you wouldn’t cheat on me. Doesn’t mean I won’t get jealous and want to hit people for looking at you, but I trust you.”
Templeton twists to look at his lover. “You’d hit people for looking at me?” He grins, mood suddenly much better. “You’d have to punch the whole damn world, then, because we all know I’m irresistible. Even got you in my bed, didn’t I?”
John growls a little and maneuvers him around to rest back to chest again. “You’re too pretty to be allowed, boy.”
“’Boy’, hmm? Kinky.”
A dark chuckle. “I’ll show you kinky… boy.”
And John’s arms and legs move to trap him again, squeeze him like a vice, a mouth closes over his neck, sharp teeth nick his neck and Templeton shudders.
“Bring it on, old man.”
This is not what he would call kinky, but then again the boss has never done anything like everybody else does. Not on missions, not in training his men, and apparently also not in sex. Not that Templeton complains, really. This whole gay sex thing is pretty fucking awesome so far.
They are still sitting on the bed, John wrapped around him like an octopus. His legs trap Templeton’s legs, spreading them and exposing his crotch, arms held at his sides by his lover’s. He can’t move, John is all around him, surrounds him, and it feels great. They are still dressed, both of them, but John’s dick feels iron-hot through the layers of cloth, pressed against him, nestled in the cleft between his cheeks. God, and he’d never thought any man’s dick back there would feel so good. But not any man’s dick, John’s dick, John’s body, his arms, his touch, his mouth sucking bruises into the side of his throat. Templeton gasps and arches his neck to give him more access.
And then… one large hands covers the bulge between his legs. Templeton jerks, dick jumping and twitching in his pants, rock-hard and leaking against his fly, but that hand just rests there, doesn’t move or rub or squeeze, just cups him loosely. He whimpers and moans, tries to move forward, wants friction, dammit, wants John to move… but he doesn’t. Holds him back, immobile and Templeton grits his teeth.
“Come on, John, touch me!”
A self-satisfied chuckle. “I am touching you, Temp.” Evil, evil man.
“Fuck you, you bastard! Touch me!”
“Say please, boy. Say please and I’ll make you come.”
He doesn’t want to, he never begs, that fucking asshole, he won’t! That hand squeezes once, not tight enough, not nearly enough, just a hint of pleasure to come and Templeton is embarrassed by the whine that comes out of his throat. Oh John, you devious bastard, fuck!
“P-please, John, fuck you, Goddammit, please touch me!”
“Hmm. We’re gonna have to work on that, but not bad for the first try.”
And he sobs in desperation, because that hand isn’t squeezing or rubbing or doing anything else Templeton wants it to do, no. He’d said he’d touch him, and that he does, at least, the other hand comes around, large palm resting on his stomach. John’s upper arms still trap his own, and how come the boss knows to do that anyway? Has he done this before? With other guys? With… but his jealous train of thoughts is interrupted.
Neither of John’s hands is moving, they are both just resting there. But somehow… warmth is slowly seeping through his shirt, through his pants, radiating from John’s palms resting against his stomach and dick. God, what is that? He twitches, it feels weird.
“Relax, kid. Just feel.”
Okay, whatever. But if John isn’t moving soon, he will... probably not be able to do a damn thing about it, considering how he’s trapped and all. Templeton sighs and tries to relax. Feel it. Feeeeeeel… Huh. The warmth is kinda nice, actually, weird but nice. Seems to get stronger now.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? Me touching you? Holding you like this, in my arms…”
Templeton moans. Yeah, feels great,
John’s deadly hands. Forceful yet so gentle with him. Just resting there, and yeah, definitely getting warmer. Hot even, heat emanating from John’s skin, directly into his, as if his clothes weren’t even there, sending tingles along his stomach, along his cock.
“You like my hands on you, don’t you? They could break your neck in a hearbeat, you know that, don’t you? Does that excite you?”
They could, he’s seen it, and God, it sends a shiver down his spine, the thought of what Hannibal’s hands are capable of. Never with him, he’d never hurt Face, never. But still, the threat is there, lingering in the back of his head, and his dick twitches and leaks.
“I know it does, I’ve seen you look at them. Remember hand-to-hand training? You were always so flushed afterwards, back then I thought it was just adrenaline from the fight, but it was something else, wasn’t it? I know that now. You like it rough, don’t you? You liked me holding you down and forcing you into submission, didn’t you, boy?”
Heat surging from those hands, burning his skin, painfully hard now, teeth in his neck, breaking skin, the wetness trickling down his throat another a fiery line directly to his dick. Templeton gasps, his head rolls back, eyes squeezed shut. God, what is that?
“J-John!” And is that his voice, is that him, sounding so wrecked and broken? His face burns, his mouth opens and he starts panting. “Please…”
A dark chuckle in his ear. “Don’t worry, boy, I’ll take care of you. I’ll show you what it’s like. I’ll fuck you, I’ll make you like it. I’ll hold you down and fuck you. Do you want that? Do you want to know how I’ll do it?”
He’s burning all over, skin tingling, and that damn voice doesn’t stop. Templeton moans again, breath coming in hard gasps, and still John is talking.
“I’ll take your clothes off, baring you to my eyes. Touch your cock, your balls, everything. Touch and lick and bite you all over, suck you until you shoot in my mouth. Then I’m gonna turn you around and focus on your tight little ass. I’ll put my tongue there, shove it up your virgin hole, fuck you with my tongue until you’re hard again. Use one finger, at first, then more, spread you open for my eyes, make you moan and scream and whimper for me. I’ll get you stretched nice and good, boy, finger you until you beg for my cock. And you’ll beg for it, won’t you? That ass is made for fucking, it’s made for my dick, and I’ll shove it up your tight hole so far you’ll feel it in your throat…”
He can’t talk, can’t even moan, only whimper pathetically with John’s burning, unmoving hands on him, John’s mouth at his ear, John’s dick jerking against his ass, John John John…
“You want that, don’t you, boy? Me fucking your ass? Hard and fast and deep, claiming you, taking whatever I want from you? I’ll do it, I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for a week, hell, you won’t be able to stand, boy. I’m gonna fuck you till you scream my name, my sweet boy, until you come so hard you pass out.”
”P-please, John, please…” He can’t take any more, he’s burning, so close, trembling and shivering, panting and moaning like a whore, it’s too much, too much and never enough. “Please please, John, lemme, please…”
“You want to come, don’t you? Come in your pants like a goddamn teenager, come on the sound of my voice alone. You want that? Then do it, boy, do it, come for me, love, c’mon, Templeton, come for me, love, do it!”
And suddenly those arms release him, that wicked hand grabs his dick, squeezes him brutally tight. Templeton’ back arches as he surges into the touch, sparks fire behind his eyelids. He opens his mouth to a scream, distantly aware of John’s teeth sinking into his neck again, biting and marking and claiming him, owning him, and he comes with John’s name on his lips.
Face comes to lying on his back, an amused Hannibal next to him. He blinks his eyes open and stretches. No icky wetness in his jeans, in fact he’s not wearing jeans at all. Are those fresh boxers? His own? Hannibal must have gotten them from the bag in his car and how long was he out anyway? Apparently long enough for the boss to clean and re-dress him, Jesus. He hasn’t come that hard in ages, not that he will ever tell his lover about the last time he passed out from orgasm. But seriously, this was… pretty much the best sex he’s ever had, and there wasn’t even any skin on skin action. Yeah, gay sex is kinda awesome.
He rolls his shoulders and sighs in contentment, only to be stopped by a sharp twinge from his neck. What the fuck? Oh yeah, the biting. The biting! He glares at his lover, fingers flying to the wound on his neck and yep, there was blood. Doesn’t feel all that deep, but still.
“Jesus, Hannibal! That’s gonna scar!”
“No it won’t. And besides, you loved it.” Hannibal sounds smug. Face glares some more.
“That’s not the point, you fucking vampire! There’s a bite mark on my neck!”
“And it looks great, kid. Suits you, my mark on your skin…”
His lover’s voice is husky as he eyes the bite mark appreciatively. Face tries to maintain his angry expression but yeah okay, it is kinda nice, this. Belonging. Doesn’t mean he won’t try his damn best to return the favor. Face grumbles and settles down into the pillows. Hannibal draws the blanket up and tugs it around them, patting it down so there’s no leakage of cold anywhere. Then they kinda lie there and stare at each other. Hannibal’s hands keep twitching, as if he’d like to reach out and… oh. Oooh.
“Oh, go on and cuddle me, you teddy bear.”
Hannibal glares at him, but reaches out all the same and pulls him in. “I’m not a teddy bear.”
Face snickers. “Yeah you are, you big ol’ cuddling softie. Who would have thought? Scary badass Hannibal Smith, secret Cuddle Slut!”
“Stop it, brat.” A hand swats his nose. Face scrunches it and shoves at Hannibal until he’s arranged to his liking and he can lie against him more comfortably, half on his chest and the other’s arm wrapped around his shoulders. His lover endures it with an indulgent smile.
Face yawns. “You love it.” A kiss is pressed to his forehead and he smiles.
“Yeah, that I do.”
“Love you too,” a yawn, “even if you are a Cuddle Slut. I won’t tell anybody, promise.” Another yawn.
“I wore you out, hm? Told you I’d make you come so hard you pass out.”
“Whatever. ‘s only because I didn’t get any for weeks, you’d have passed out, too after such a long time without orgasm.”
“I didn’t pass out.”
“Yeah, but you’ve been jerking off to thoughts of me for years, and I didn’t even know you were hot until recently. So, I win.”
“… that makes pretty much no sense at all, but sure, okay, you win, Temp.”
“Thank you. And now, sleep. But tomorrow it’s my turn, and I’ll make you come so hard you’ll forget your own name, you just wait and see.”
A chuckle and another kiss to his forehead. “I’m looking forward to that. Night, love. Sleep well.”
“Love you too.”
And Templeton falls asleep with a smile on his face, surrounded by his lover’s arms, right where he belongs.
PS: And because this was disgustingly sweet, have a small epilogue. A scene I wrote and wanted to put in there somewhere, but the boys didn’t want to take their clothes off, kept having these FEELINGS and insisted on angsting around, so it didn’t fit. Anyway, here goes:
Some indefinite amount of time later, probably after they already had lots of sex, without clothes this time
“Damn, look at that ass, boss! I bet you could bounce a quarter off that.”
Face eyes the woman, turning his head to watch her walk away until… there’s a growl behind him and suddenly a strong hand yanks him to the side until he’s pressed uncomfortably tight against a strong chest.
“Careful what you’re doing, boy.”
Face grins up at his very irate colonel and lover. “I was only looking, boss.” He ducks his head and smiles at Hannibal from under his eyelashes, feeling no small amount of glee at the way his lover’s pupils dilate instantly. “I can do that, right?”
“Only if you want me to take it out on your tight ass, you little cock-tease.”
Delivered in a low, dangerous growl. Face smirks and lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, jeez. Jealous much?”
A displeased grunt. Then Hannibal pushes him none too gently along the street. Face falls into step beside him and smile to himself, throwing covet glances at his lover. Hannibal’s expression is still stormy, eyes glaring daggers at every one who passes them. Yeah, definitely jealous. Nice.
When the next woman passes them, Face makes sure Hannibal can hear his approving whistle and see him checking her out. He even goes so far as to turn around and walk a few steps backwards to look after her.
This time it’s not so much of a growl, no. Hannibal’s definitely snarling now, and again a large hand wraps around his biceps to yank him along the street.
“Boy, you’re gonna pay for that.”
Face shudders in anticipation. He can’t wait.