Who's the one to blame?
Oh, you know you're all afraid of
What life's really all about
"Face."
He heard Hannibal's voice tugging at him in the enclosed space of the car but he couldn't look at the other man. He didn't think he could take any more of the lost expression the Colonel hadn't been able to shake for hours.
At least with B.A. there'd been anger and accusation in the glances he'd thrown the conman's way. And Face took a strange comfort in that, knowing that someone else blamed him as well. Because it's your fault.
Instead Face stared at the neatly hung rows of tools on the far end of the lake house's garage. His head throbbed, an almost blinding pain that radiated from his left eye. His stomach sour and throat raw from puking, from screaming. He yanked the hair at the nape of his neck and didn't quite remember even leaving the hospital, much less getting back here.
"If you sign these papers we can contact Dees for transport so you don't have to. They're the only funeral home in town."
Closing his eyes Face heard Hannibal sigh before a big hand was placed on his forearm.
"I just need your signature here so we can release Mr. Milton's things to you. Give me a little bit and I'll have someone bring them up."
Milton. "That's not his goddamned name!" Face had wanted to shout every time it'd passed someone's lips. Not his real name. But no one would ever know, except the three of them.
Hannibal's hand started drumming a familiar tattoo, one Face had seen the Colonel tap on skin countless times over the years. A technique used to draw someone, Murdock, out of themselves.
Face didn't even think the older man had been aware of the gesture until Face flattened a palm over his hand, effectively stopping the motion. He saw a flash of recognition before Hannibal turned away. "Come on, kid. We should get inside."
Face didn't touch the wall switch when he walked into the bedroom, light would only draw attention to Murdock's stuff. They'd only been at the house for three days, but in true fashion, the pilot's belongings had exploded all over the place the moment they'd got there.
"Fuck." Face growled, stumbling over something that he immediately snatched off the floor. One of the pilot's sneakers.
"Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck you." He shouted, launching the shoe across the room. The action was immediately followed by a crash when the lamp in the reading area hit the floor.
Face's body shook as anger flared up. Anger towards the stupid, fucking driver of the truck. And Murdock, because he knew how the pilot could be, he'd get wrapped up in something and not pay attention. Face had pulled him back from busy street corners many times.
But not this time. His brain howled, saving the brunt of his anger for himself. You weren't there when he needed you the most.
Face crumpled to the bed where only 12 hours ago he'd been tangled up with the pilot. Snippets of songs, words in unfamiliar languages had fallen from his lover's smiling mouth as he drew Face in and held him close. Making love like it was the first time, neither of them knowing it would be the last.
His hands desperately grabbed at rumpled sheets that still smelled like them. Like Murdock. Burying his face into the pilot's pillow, he breathed in a scent he knew would be gone too soon as he wordlessly wailed.
"H.M.?" Face jerked awake, his hand automatically reaching out to the empty side of the bed. Dim morning light was coming in through the windows and when his brain caught up he felt the room tilt.
"No."
He sat up, dragging the hospital bag to him and dumping it into his lap. He stared at the random items that only Murdock could have brought sense to. Slot machine tokens from the Vegas job six months ago, an unopened bag of sour gummi worms, the pocket watch that'd stopped working long ago that had belonged to H.M.'s grandfather. Murdock had confided in Face the reason it had stayed broken was because he didn't want to replace even the tiniest bit of the watch that'd meant so much to the old man.
Fingers trembled over the red baseball cap before he upended it and brought it to his face.
It should have been disgusting. Murdock was sweaty by nature and Face couldn't even remember the last time the cap had even seen the inside of a washer. But he didn't care as he inhaled deeply, taking in the strong smell of dirt, sweat, Murdock.
A hesitant smile tugged at his lips at the faint scent of citrus. The expensive shampoo that he'd bought for himself. The bottle had magically emptied way too soon even after he continuously switched his hiding places for it.
A brutal stab of longing shot through him and Face closed his eyes trying to regain his bearings but was met with memories instead.
Face had to hand it to Hannibal; this could have possibly been the absolute worst plan the Colonel had ever come up with. Throwing him into a house with two complete strangers, one of which they'd only two weeks ago plucked out of a mental hospital.
"Team building." Hannibal had amusingly grinned around his cigar and Face had known that nothing was going to change his mind. But it didn't mean Face had to like it and he wasn't going to, just to spite the old man.
And nothing would change Face'smind, not even the awesome smells that'd started coming from the kitchen.
The pilot stood at the stove humming a vaguely recognizable tune while wearing a t-shirt and cargos, both baggy on his too skinny frame.
"Pull up a counter, Faceman." He'd drawled without even looking away from the bubbling pot. "I don't bite…unless you're into that sorta thing. But I ain't supposed to ask, so you probably shouldn't tell."
He had winked over his shoulder as Face leaned against the counter.
"What are you cooking?"
"A little of this and a little of that. Wanna taste?" He'd held out the spoon in Face's direction.
As he cautiously tasted the concoction, the Lieutenant noticed the other man's smile that'd been fractured and wholly manic a short time ago was now calmer and less scattered.
"Shit. That's good, man." Face had stated and his shock had been met by a warm laugh.
"Gramma Murdock's world famous chili, with a little special kick from yours truly."
'Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.' Face had thought after his own laughter had quickly joined the pilot's.
He had eventually found out what the special kick had been when months later he had come into the kitchen earlier in the Murdockian cooking process. Plaster of Paris.
Face lowered the hat, his chest tight as he tried to take something more than shallow breaths that wouldn't fill his lungs.
"I can't do this." Face loudly announced as he moved off the bed, the remaining contents of the bag spilling from his lap onto the floor.
Hannibal heavily sat down at the table and ran a hand over his face, feeling older than he ever had, even more than after going on the run. Morning had come too soon, his eyes burned from lack of sleep and he was in dire need of a cigar. The last one had been smoked as they'd sped down the interstate after Face's call yesterday. Since then he'd had to settle with a pack of cigarettes that didn't cut it but he'd still already gone through more than half of.
He looked to B.A. sitting opposite him and sighed.
There would have been no one that could have doubted how much the pilot meant to Bosco if they'd been in the garage the night before.
B.A. had raged, ripping things off the walls, boards and nails creaking at the force. He'd sent tools scattering when he upended a work bench. He'd screamed blame, at the driver, at Face and at the military for putting them in the position in the first place.
Hannibal had leaned against the car and forcefully tamped down the urge to join B.A. in his violent grief. He had ignored the heavy pangs in his chest as Bosco finally slumped to the floor in sudden, deafening silence.
He had gone to B.A. then, hand tightly gripping the other man's broad shoulders as they shuddered with his quiet sobs. Hannibal tuned out his own clawing sorrow; knowing that he needed to stay focused when his boys needed him like never before.
"What are we gonna do, Bossman?" B.A. asked, voice cracking with overuse, his expression utterly gutted.
The words, "I don't know" were the only thing that flashed through Hannibal's mind before loud ringing drew their attention away from the question.
Hannibal moved quickly to the counter and picked up Face's cell phone.
"Hello? No, he's still sleeping but I can help." He avoided B.A.'s inquiring stare as he hmm'd in acknowledgment to the person on the other end of the line. "Yes. Thank you."
He hung up and saw Bosco's hands tighten into fists, as if steeling himself against the words he knew were coming.
"That was the funeral home."
"Face." Hannibal called out, standing in the hall. He knocked once more and when no answer came, he opened door.
Looking around the empty room, he mentally added the smashed lamp to the inventory of things that would need to be replaced before they left.
"Face?" He stepped towards the equally vacant bathroom. "Where the hell are you?" He muttered before bending down beside the bed to go through Murdock's duffle bag.
"We need you to bring clothes for Mr. Milton."
Hannibal didn't know where Face was but this was one thing he could do so the kid didn't have to.
He pulled t-shirts and pants out of the bag, the garments severely wrinkled from having been shoved haphazardly into the duffle. The Colonel shook his head fondly at the memory of how many times Face had tried to show the pilot how to pack to no avail.
Hannibal felt a slight awkward flush as his eye caught the bottle of lube sitting on the bedside table.
He'd known, of course. The pair wouldn't have been able to hide it, even if he hadn't, with great discomfort, witnessed their coming together after their first job on the run.
He didn't understand, and yes, there'd been tense moments and shouting in the months that had followed. But then Hannibal saw that the relationship hadn't interfered with the job and nothing had changed in their day to day life. That it was still just Face and Murdock. The difference pretty much only being the need for one less bed in the house. They were still his boys, his team and so he'd let it go.
He got back to the task at hand. And as he placed the clothes on the bed, he was thankful that there'd at least been a brief bright spot of happiness for the pair to enjoy, before...
He stood up, grabbing the least creased shirt and pants as he heard Face's phone again.
When Hannibal walked into the kitchen B.A. looked at him with befuddlement. "Face is at the funeral home."
"What?" Hannibal's eyes flicked to the two sets of car keys sitting on the counter. "How?"
15 miles. That's how far it was from the lake house to town…and how far Face had decided to run that morning.
"What else was there for me to do, Boss?"
As he watched the men in front of him Hannibal was struck by a sense of déjà vu.
B.A. dug one of his shirts out of a bag in the back of the van before handing it to Face. The conman, sweaty and exhausted, shivered against chilled morning air as he pulled the shirt on.
They'd been here before, the three of them. In an almost identical van as they hurdled down the road away from Tuco and towards a Mexican hospital, towards Murdock.
B.A. leaned close to Face; something whispered that had the Lieutenant nodding vigorously as his eyes glistened and his hand clamped down hard enough on Bosco's bicep that Hannibal saw his knuckles whiten.
"I've got more stuff to go over but they said you can…" Face, voice tired and flat, vaguely gestured away from the waiting area where Hannibal and B.A. sat. "Let me get Roberta."
"Face, I'll take care of it. Are you sure you don't need help?" Hannibal asked, even though he knew his offer would be rebuffed.
"No, I got it." Face swallowed dryly, his throat making an audible click. "Go. Go see H.M." He ran a hand over his mouth before ducking back into the office.
"Take as much time as you need." The young woman, Roberta, spoke softly before leaving Hannibal and B.A. and gently closing the door behind her.
Hannibal's heart tumbled painfully in his chest as they moved to where Murdock was laid out.
The Colonel had always prepared himself; they all had, for the possibility that there'd be a time when one of them wouldn't come back from a job. They lived a dangerous life, certain death being almost inevitable…but this, this was different. The random tragedy of it made the whole thing harder to even begin to come to terms with.
Hannibal looked down at the pilot and was jarred by the lack of substantial visible injuries. He'd countless times seen the Captain in worse shape just dust himself off and move on.
"Severe internal trauma." The nurse had quietly informed them and he had done his best to take Face's weight as the younger man sagged against him.
"Damn, Bossman. You couldn't have picked him some better damned clothes." B.A. grumbled as he smoothed out Murdock's shirt.
The absurdity of the words and motherly action cut sharply through the Colonel's grief and Hannibal turned to see nothing but understanding through B.A.'s tears.
And at the sight of Bosco reaching for one of the thin hands he'd infinitely batted away from him over the last 10 years, Hannibal felt his eyes well up and knew there'd be no staunching the flow this time.