I don't even know, guys. This just sort of happened. Seriously, no clue where it came from.
This is set after several years on the run, helping people and stuff.
Contains blood, aftermath of violence, health issues, angst, denial. And other fun stuff.
"When the test comes back positive, another test is performed immediately to assure that a false positive did not occur. If the second more specific test comes back positive then the person is most likely infected. If it comes back negative, then, most likely, the first test was a false positive."
B.A. and Murdock have the same blood type. This is a very good thing. It's saved both of their lives more than once. Hannibal is the AB Positive. The Universal Recipient. This is also very good.
Face is O Negative. The Universal Donor. This is not good. Not good at all.
"Face, I'm greying out here."
"I know, you need blood." His hands are shaking. He presses down harder on the wound.
"So give me blood." Sounds simple. They've done this before, most often with Murdock and B.A. although Hannibal had needed blood once before as well. Face always treats his own wounds. He won't let the others touch him when he's bleeding.
"I can't, boss." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't."
"Lieutenant, we both know I need a transfusion. Stick a damn needle in your arm and get me some blood." Hannibal blinked slowly and when he spoke again it was with real effort. "That's an order, soldier."
And with that, he passed out.
Face brushed his hair out of his eyes with a bloodstained hand.
"Shit, fuck. What am I going to do?" He needed a plan, but the man with the plan was sleeping on the job. His hands slipped in the slick of blood and slid right off Hannibal's shoulder. He grabbed another towel and pressed down as hard as he could. Boss was right. He needed blood or he would die. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let the Boss just die quietly in this fucking ugly motel room with its mustard yellow walls and dirty sheets.
But he couldn't have Face's blood. No. No way. No how. He couldn't do that to him. Face's blood had something bad in it. Something Face thought was worse than dying a good clean death by bullet.
He didn't know what to do.
Murdock and B.A. were hours away. They would never get here in time.
He had to do it. Hannibal had ordered him. He had to do it.
First, to stitch closed the wound. He had his kit on him. He sterilised the needle with his lighter, but he wasn't sure why he was bothering. Hannibal was going to get sick no matter what he did. He'd already pulled the bullet out, that's when the bleeding had got real bad. Face reached inside the wound and found the place where the blood was flowing worst. An artery had been nicked. He had to stitch that first. Then the muscle and skin. Arteries were delicate things. The slightest imperfection and they'd give way, unexpectedly. He had to get it right. The blood slowed to a mere trickle.
Hannibal was so pale.
Face stitched up the skin and checked his pulse. Too slow. Not enough blood in his veins. He had to do it, God help him. God help them both. He pulled the tightly coiled length of hollow tubing and unwound it, checking the needles at both ends. All was good. He tied a bit of sheet around his arm just above his elbow and tapped at the veins. They stood up, thick and dark. He inserted one needle into the back of Hannibal's hand, carefully taping it down so it wouldn't get pulled out accidentally.
Then he put the other end into his arm and watched the thick red liquid flow down the tube into Hannibal.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, letting his blood go into his Boss. He felt numb. Light-headed. Hannibal was looking more colourful though. that was probably enough. He pulled the needle from Hannibal's hand and immediately went through to the bathroom and threw up. He sat on the tiles, leaning back against the glass of the shower cubicle and stared at the blood on his hands.
That's how Murdock and B.A. found him, eleven hours later; shaking and covered in blood on the bathroom floor.