Work Text:
October 1st, 1975
“He's my father.”
It's the first thing he can think to say. Between the blood smearing his hands and the hollow pit in his stomach, Face knows he isn't thinking clearly. But, the words still resonate all the way to his core.
They must resonate with the paramedic, too, because he stops halfway into the ambulance.
“I’m his kid,” Face says, as if that will make it clearer. It sounds like a plea.
There's a moment of hesitation, then, “Okay, get in.”
Face is inside before the man can finish speaking. He slides down the bench as far as he can go without crowding the other paramedic. It takes restraint to hold back; to not push the human obstacle out of his way so he can be closer to Hannibal. But, he can’t do that. He won’t. Not when he knows Hannibal needs the paramedic far more than he needs Face right now. It's a fact that hurts almost as much as the instant replay his mind keeps showing him over and over.
That Honda hadn't even slowed down.
The doors of the ambulance slam shut and Face flinches. Though, whether it's because of the sound itself or because his mind just forced him to relive the moment Hannibal was thrown into the air, he doesn't know. Blinking the memory away, he searches for reassurance from the man who has never let him down. Instead of hope, though, all he finds is blood. It's fresh, tracking down Hannibal’s face despite the bandage, which is wrong. The bandage was supposed to stop that. But, the red lines just keep spreading.
Face braces himself as the ambulance lurches forward. The siren wails to life and suddenly his stomach is churning. This isn’t supposed to be happening. Hannibal isn’t supposed to be bleeding; he isn’t supposed to be strapped to a backboard or wearing a C-collar. He’s supposed to be embarrassing Face by dipping pickle spears in his mustard and talking too loudly about the inner yearnings of slime monsters.
“How old is your father?”
Face tightens his grip on the seat. When he speaks, his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “Forty-seven.”
Only forty-seven.
“We were—” Face swallows, bile suddenly burning his throat, “—are going to celebrate his birthday this weekend.”
He's not sure why he tells them that, but both of the paramedics nod. Then they exchange looks that send what's left of Face's stomach straight to the floor.
“The doctors may call on you if he needs blood. Is that okay?”
The question makes Face spiral a little. The last time he felt this powerless a gavel had just fallen and stolen their lives away. If Hannibal’s life gets stolen this time…
“No." Face almost shouts the word. When he senses the paramedics trading another look, he's not entirely sure he didn't. Throat swollen, he offers the only explanation he can give. “We're not the same type. My blood would only hurt him."
"I thought you said he was your father?"
"He is," Face says, voice steady and unyielding. "I was an orphan. He adopted me.”
It's the truth in all the ways that matter.
Gripping the edge of the bench even harder, Face sets his eyes on Hannibal and refuses to look away again. His vision blurs along with everything else and when he finally comes to himself he's standing alone in a waiting room with Hannibal's blood still on his hands.
“I'm his son.”
It's the first thing he hears when the fog starts to lift. Between the slow pounding in his head and the vaguely nauseous churn of his stomach, Hannibal knows he isn't at his best. But, the words still resonate all the way to his core. Because it wasn't just anybody saying those words. It was Face.
Hannibal wants to see him, but his eyelids weigh too much to lift. Actually, all of him weighs too much. Just turning his head makes him groan.
“I think he's coming around.”
The voice belongs to a stranger this time, and Hannibal’s spirit rebels. He doesn't want to hear a stranger. He wants—
“Hey, I'm right here.”
Hannibal sighs. Then his lips twitch as a hand wraps around his own.
“Mr. Smith, can you open your eyes for me?”
It's the stranger again, and Hannibal can't think of a single reason why he should listen to them. All they've done so far is annoy him. He really wants to tell them that, too, but his tongue is as heavy as the rest of him and all he manages to do is growl. Someone snickers at him for that. He's pretty sure it's Face.
“I'll go get the doctor,” the stranger says.
Face murmurs something back and then it’s just the two of them. He can feel it.
“Hannibal?”
His tongue still doesn't really want to work, so he answers with his hand instead, tightening his fingers around Face's.
There's a stuttered breath of relief and, even with his eyes closed, Hannibal can tell the kid is smiling.
“The guys are on their way. I called them while you were napping.” Face's tone is light—fiercely so. “You're gonna be okay. I promise.”
Hannibal knows it's the truth. It has to be. That tone from Face means he will accept nothing less.
“Mr. Smith?”
It's a different stranger this time, and Hannibal sighs. “What?” He's proud of himself for getting his tongue to work. The fact all of the word’s syllables end up where they should is a bonus—so is the unapologetic bite they carry.
“Sorry,” Face says. “He always gets a little cranky after he’s been run over.”
Hannibal doesn't remember ever being run over before. But, then again, he doesn't remember being run over today either, so…
“Mr. Smith, can you tell me your full name?”
Face’s thumb brushes over his knuckles; gentle, encouraging. It's how he knows it's safe to tell the truth.
The stranger praises him for his answer, but the only thing he cares about is the warm press of that thumb on the back of his hand.
“Do you know what day it is, Mr. Smith?”
“S’my birthday.”
“He’s right,” Face says, though he seems to choke on the words. “It is his birthday.”
The stranger makes Hannibal open his eyes after that and pierces his brain with a penlight for his trouble. There are more questions, too. All of them are simple and inane—all that is, except one.
“Can you tell me who he is, Mr. Smith?” the stranger asks, pointing at Face.
Hannibal smiles. He looks Face in the eye and sees a hint of panic there. His conman hasn't had a chance to tell him their cover story yet. But, that's okay. Even if Hannibal hadn't overheard his claim earlier the answer would still be the same—because it's the truth.
“He's my kid,” he says. “Always has been.”