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“We need to talk about you know who,” Murdock had spoken even before Hannibal had finished the word ‘hello’, his agitation clear even through the phone line.
Hannibal had expected the call all day, “why?”
“You know why,” Murdock said, “meet me for cards.”
It was an order, and Hannibal smiled in fond resignation. “When?”
“Tonight, after lights out,” and Murdock had hung up the phone.
They were playing gin rummy or go fish, or some mixture between the two. It was difficult to keep track since the cards were invisible and Murdock kept getting distracted. Hannibal threw an ace of hearts into the hat he imagined lay on the floor between his feet and got it in first try, then looked across at Murdock who was glaring at his hand.
Beyond the door of Murdock’s room the VA was quiet, and the window which Hannibal had climbed through was now open only an inch, a soft wind blowing through that carried the scent of damp grass and pine needles. He kept Murdock in the corner of his vision as he threw invisible cards into an imaginary hat, waiting. Murdock never usually had trouble speaking, but sometimes when he had too much to say he became suddenly silent, as if the rush of words had bottlenecked somewhere between his brain and his mouth and jammed the whole system.
Suddenly Murdock jerked his hand and scattered the cards across the carpet, slumping back against his bedside cabinet and making it rattle.
“It’s a setup,” Murdock said, looking to Hannibal for agreement.
Hannibal shrugged, shuffling down a little to rest his head back against Murdock’s mattress and resting his hands across his stomach. Ever the contrarian, “maybe it’s not.”
Murdock studied him, frowning, then shook his head, “it’s not even possible.”
Hannibal wondered if Murdock meant the miraculous resurrection or a positive identification. Face hadn’t seen his long lost friend since they were teens and an awful lot had happened since. Chris’ letter read a lot like bullshit, and a lot of men had tried a lot of ways to get out of the war. Even Face had admitted to formulating an escape plan once he’d realised what he’d really signed up for, but then he’d joined Hannibal’s squad. Hannibal had never been sure what to do with the implication, a problem he solved by not thinking about it too much.
He was already sick of playing devil’s advocate but they could sit there agreeing all night and it wouldn’t change a thing.
“It really doesn’t matter what we think about it,” Hannibal said, earning a sharp look. “I’m sure Face has been through all this with himself.” And with Murdock, he added silently, because there was no way Hannibal was the first person Murdock had discussed this with.
He couldn’t blame Face for wanting to follow through. Hannibal couldn’t be sure how he’d react if one of his old, dead friends suddenly started writing him letters again.
“If it was Face writing to you, you’d want to know.”
“That’s different,” Murdock replied.
“Is it?”
Murdock scowled at him again then looked away across the carpet and scowled at the far wall instead. “Face would never do that to us.”
That was true enough. Hannibal followed Murdock’s gaze to where a paper dog house was taped up. “Hypothetically-”
Murdock rolled his eyes as he turned back, “hypothetically if Godzilla beamed down from a flying saucer and gave me a million dollars then sure, yeah, I guess anything’s possible.”
Hannibal was silent for a moment, then broke into a smile the same time Murdock did and they both laughed softly.
“I know, ok? I know,” Murdock sighed, staring at the mess of invisible cards on the floor, “just…”
Silence slowly filled the room. Hannibal had to admit part of him did want to know, to find out why this, why now, and another part wanted the same as Murdock, for Face to turn away and forget the letter and everything it’d stirred up. He knew it was impossible, not just because he’d long learned that stirred muck did not settle easily, but just because that was simply not how Face was.
Maybe if the story was a little bit true, Hannibal was no expert in brain science, perhaps a man could wash up in the Philippines and have to slowly and painfully reconstruct his life from scratch. Maybe he could eventually recover enough, discover a friend, and reach out to a now almost-stranger because, really, he’d never had anyone else. It would make a fine feel-good human interest story and a sappy daytime movie. Hugs all around, happy tears, freeze frame looking out towards the golden sunrise of a brand new day.
Hannibal couldn’t buy it.
He didn’t think of himself as a cynic but he felt very cynical about this. It would be nice if it were true, that by some chain of miracles fate had brought Face’s former best friend back to life. He did, as a matter of fact, want it to be true, if only because it was the one answer that wouldn’t rip out Face’s heart.
“It might be true.”
Murdock snorted derisively.
There wasn’t really much to add to that.
“What do you think he wants?” Murdock asked, “in the very unlikely event that he’s not telling the truth,” he added, voice dripping with sarcasm.
Hannibal could only really agree with Face’s brittle, forced-casual assessment when he’d handed over the letter.
“He probably wants money.”
Murdock glowered dangerously, “if he asks for a single red cent I’m gonna punch his teeth out so he can leave ‘em for the tooth fairy.”
“I recall a similar sentiment from BA,” Hannibal said with a chuckle. “Tell you what, we’ll draw lots.”
Murdock gathered up the invisible cards and shuffled them. “Do you think we could find him?”
“Chris?”
Murdock nodded, focussing on his hands. “Before Face meets him.”
“Already tried,” Hannibal said. “Face is rattled but he’s not stupid. We started looking into it the day the letter arrived.”
“He didn’t say,” Murdock said, scandalised to be left out of the loop.
“Did you give him a chance to?”
After a moment Murdock dropped his hands, the illusion abruptly over.
Hannibal half smiled. This was not the start of that flood of words, but the end, the quiet after, where all that was left to do was look over the wreckage and hope nothing important had been swept away.
“I said I was sorry,” Murdock said with a self conscious grimace directed at the floor. “He, uh… he kept saying Chris was his best friend and I might’ve… overreacted.”
Hannibal always admired Murdock’s ability to look right to his own heart. Maybe it was the hours of therapy but somehow Hannibal figured he’d always been that way. A man with very few filters, not least with himself.
“You can have more than one, you know.”
Murdock shot him a glare, “that’s not it! Just… look, either it’s not Chris or Chris faked his death, right? If it’s not him it’s not him, but if it is him then he let Face believe he was dead for years only to come back with this ‘hi-dee-ho neighbour’ bullshit. That’s not best friends,” he said sharply, “that’s not even worst friends.”
Hannibal shifted, “is that a thing people have?”
“Budgie,” Murdock said firmly.
“What?”
“Budgie Berrigan,” Murdock said, “takes stuff without asking, always tells the same four crappy jokes that weren’t funny the first time, flakes out 90% of the time you ask him to do anything, and even he wouldn’t pull shit like this.”
“Why are you still friends?” Hannibal asked.
“I like him,” Murdock shrugged, then pointed at Hannibal, “and you’ve got to give him this much, he never faked his own death.”
Hannibal conceded that he did, in fact, have to give him that much, even if it seemed a low bar to clear. He didn’t bother making any comments about unqualified loyalty.
“I doubt you said anything Face didn’t already know.”
“That’s what he said,” Murdock sighed, “I could’ve phrased it better.”
They fell silent again, Hannibal watching Murdock stare distantly at the carpet.
“He’s going to get hurt,” Murdock said eventually, a hairline crack in his voice between fear and sorrow, “either way, he’s going to get hurt.”
And therein lay the rub.
“It’s too late for that,” Hannibal replied, reaching out to lay his hand on Murdock’s shoulder and squeezing it before letting his hand drop to the carpet, “all we can do is get him through it.”
Murdock nodded in resignation, “I wish Chris had just sent him a bomb.”
A tiny sliver of anger escaped into Hannibal’s voice as he answered, “he did.”