CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

December 10, 1968

Boston found Hannibal in the motor pool, of all places. He glanced up at the approach, then looked away without a word. He was sitting in the front seat of one of the jeeps, his foot up on the frame where the missing door belonged. A lit cigar was in one hand, and the other held a drink of something clear in an unmarked bottle. Boston couldn't venture to guess whether it was water or something stronger. Right now, he couldn't venture to guess about much of anything. Nothing made sense anymore.

He approached, unsure, and slid into the passenger seat. For a minute, it was quiet before he finally spoke. "Hannibal..." He hesitated, not sure he wanted to ask. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Are you seriously…?"

Hannibal closed his eyes at the unasked question and Boston's heart sank. Before he even spoke, Boston knew what he was going to say. "I have been for years," he admitted quietly.

Boston's brow furrowed deeply. That just didn't make any sense. It was career suicide, for one thing. For another, and more importantly, it just wasn't Hannibal. The man had more integrity than that. Even after hearing it from his own mouth, Boston couldn't believe it. There had to be a reasonable explanation, something he was missing.

"Why?" he pleaded, searching for sense in the confusion. But he could immediately tell Hannibal didn't have an answer. After a brief, uncomfortable silence, he tried again. "You...? Years?" He almost couldn't form the words. "You been doin' it for years?"

Hannibal took a drink. "It started when I was a captain," he admitted.

"Jesus…" Boston couldn't help it. He didn't know what to say, but he didn't think he wanted to hear anymore. It was too uncomfortable to see his image of the man he'd held in such high esteem shatter into a thousand pieces.
"And it just never stopped," Hannibal concluded quietly.

"I thought you and Westman were… you know… friends!"

"We were," Hannibal answered, then paused and reconsidered. "We are."

"You think you'd still be friends if he knew?" Boston asked, startled. He hadn't even considered that possibility. What man would be okay with that?

"I don't know," Hannibal admitted. "I know he thought she'd lose interest in me a long time ago. I'm not the first or the last man he employed to entertain her."

"Entertain her?" Boston repeated with disbelief. "You mean he knew?"

"Possibly." Hannibal paused and frowned deeply. "He had to know his own wife. He never told me to sleep with her, just to keep her happy and out of his way. She had a definite preference for how."

Boston shook his head. "This is so wrong in so many ways, I can't even count them all," he concluded. "You've got to stop. If this were to come out…"

"I know," Hannibal replied. He didn't need Boston to finish that thought.

"And Face?" Boston continued. "That's what this was all about? He found out and decided to blackmail you and then… what? You decided to get even?"

Hannibal hesitated for a long moment. "Face has been on a short leash for a lot of reasons," he explained carefully. " But I've never had any reason to get even. He would've been in prison for a long time if I hadn't gotten him permission to be on this team. His record was an open secret. He chose not to say anything and neither do I."

"Yeah, okay," Boston said with a frown. "So how come he didn't realize you were on his side?"

"I have no idea," Hannibal admitted. "He's young, stupid. I do know that what's been going on lately is a power struggle. He just didn't realize he didn't have a chance at winning."

Boston knew his eyes were a bit wide. Power struggle? Was he kidding? "You realize, of course, that if he goes to Westman, we've all got a problem."

A small, sad smile crossed Hannibal's lips. "You'll be fine," he reassured.

Boston rubbed the back of his neck trying to ease away some of the tension. Damn it, in the space of a few hours, his world had been turned upside down by an adulterous CO and an angst-ridden, idiot teenager.

"Maybe he won't do it," Boston said hopefully. "He knows he got more to lose than you."

"Maybe," Hannibal answered, but he clearly didn't believe it. He frowned deeply. "He pushed me to throw him in jail, though. Almost like he wanted it."

That made no sense to Boston. "Why would he want to go to jail?"

"I don't know," Hannibal replied. "Break up the team to get even with me?"

Once again, Boston wanted to throttle the kid.

Hannibal sighed deeply. "I guess I just thought he was smarter than that," he offered sadly.

Boston didn't like what he was hearing. As he mulled it over for a few minutes, Hannibal put his head back and closed his eyes, breathing deep

"He doesn't trust me," Hannibal mused, taking a moment to puff on his cigar. "And given what happened today, I suspect that has something to do with Sergeant Young."

Boston heaved a sigh. "They must have known each other. But if he blamed you, why'd he even join up?"

"I don't know," Hannibal answered lightly. "Maybe it was better than the alternative. At least at the time, when he was looking at twenty years behind bars."

Boston looked down, quiet for a long moment. "Did you know? About him and Finch?"

Hannibal flinched ever-so-slightly at the use of the name he knew much more intimately than the one on Devon Young's paperwork. "Not until today," he admitted.

Boston had questions. But they were questions Hannibal couldn't answer, and he knew it. Unfortunately, he doubted he'd get anything even remotely like a straight answer out of Face. Even if he could give an honest answer, he wouldn't.

"Maybe he just doesn't know how to trust," Boston said hesitantly. "And if that's the case, maybe he could learn."

Hannibal sighed as he shook his head. Full of resigned sadness, Hannibal finished the last of his drink, then slowly slid out of the jeep. "If he doesn't know me by now," he said quietly, "I don't think there's a damn thing I could do to convince him."

December 11, 1968

Face was pacing in the tiny eight-by-ten cell. He still hadn't washed, hadn't changed since he'd come back from the field. Bloody, dirty, and drenched in sweat in the wet heat of non-circulating air, he had definitely seen better days. He'd shed his shirt, but it didn't help. Mud streaks from the dripping perspiration ran over the scars he'd acquired over the past months – the wounds from the shrapnel in his arms still the brightest and most noticeable. Cipher watched him for a long moment, through the bars. If Face was aware of his presence, he didn't acknowledge it. But if he wasn't, he must have been ridiculously deep in thought. Cipher wasn't exactly hiding.

"You had any water?" Cipher asked. He was pissed as hell at Face, but his training wouldn't allow him to ignore the fact that Face was probably dangerously dehydrated.

Face stopped, glanced at him, and quickly looked away. "What do you want, Cipher?"

His tone was hard, but it lacked enthusiasm. Even in the dimly lit cell, the streaks on his grease-painted face were a dead giveaway. He'd probably spent most of the night crying. Cipher shifted nervously as he looked away, not wanting to see it. Fuck if he knew how to deal with that.

"Just came to see how you were doing." It was a genuine answer, though he suspected the reply Face gave would be less genuine.

"I'm fine."

Sure enough...

Face paused, and pushed a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, his back towards Cipher. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," Cipher answered curtly. "What the hell happened yesterday?"

"It doesn't matter." Face turned to the cot and sat down on the edge of it, head in his hands. "Just forget it."

"It's not that simple Face." Cipher leaned into the bars. "I need to know."
Face was on his feet again in a flash. "Fuck you; you don't need to know!"

Cipher stayed where he was. Scare tactics didn't mean much from inside a metal cage. Besides, the venom that should've been laced into words like that was missing entirely. In fact, Face's eyes were wide and frantic. Almost panicked.

"Face..." Cipher kept his tone as mellow as he could, not responding to the antagonism. "I came down here because I do need to know. I need to understand what that was all about. Do you actually believe that shit? About Hannibal abandoning Finch?"

Face tried to stare him down. But shaking hands and teary eyes prevented it. He turned away, walked to the opposite wall, and leaned forward against it, head on his arms. "Go away, Cipher."

Cipher stood still for a moment, not quite sure how to proceed. He didn't like seeing Face like this. It felt wrong. "What do you know about his death, Face?"

"He's not dead," Face growled.

"Alright -" Cipher couldn't be bothered to split hairs "- his capture."

Face didn't move, didn't turn, and didn't raise his voice above a whisper. "I'm not gonna talk about this."

"Fine." Cipher felt his patience waver and with it, his patient tone. "Then you're gonna listen. Because you are dead fucking wrong blaming Hannibal for what happened to Finch."

Face didn't answer. He was still for a long moment before he turned, put his head in his hands, and slid his back down the wall until his elbows were on his knees. In that moment, Face actually looked like a child, a half-dozen years his junior. Cipher sighed. Damn it, that was not the response he'd been hoping for.

"Come on man," Cipher almost pleaded, his frustration slipping through. "How many missions you been on with Hannibal?" He didn't wait for an answer; that tactic hadn't gotten him anywhere thus far. "And how many of those times have you seen him abandon his team? Or put himself before everyone else? Or even not in the field - how many times has he not gone to bat for us when we needed him?"

Face hid behind his hands. "Yeah, I know you can't see it," he said quietly. "But I'm not like you, Cipher."

"What do you mean?" Cipher demanded. "What is it you think I don't see?"

Face didn't answer.

Cipher's irritation at the non-responsive prisoner was growing. "Or is it just that you're a pussy?" he snapped. "Rather run away – to a goddamn jail cell – than deal with the fact that Hannibal scares you."

Face looked up to glare through the bars. "He doesn't scare me."

"Bullshit." Cipher was sure of that much. "Westman has this confession over you and strings you up on Hannibal's say. You can't deal with that. He could be a fucking saint and you'd still find a reason not to trust him just because you can't deal with authority."

Face's eyes slipped out of focus as he stared silently at the floor. His demeanor changed so quickly - passive resignation to guarded silence - Cipher knew he'd hit a nerve.

"Well, I got a news flash for you, dumb shit," Cipher continued. "That confession you signed? He used it to help you. I was there when you pulled out of the drug running business, remember? I got shot during that shit. And I got no warning from Hannibal; he kept your secret. But you had to prove you couldn't trust him. And now you're gonna spend the next twenty years in a box with no say over anything you do. That sure was a smart choice."

Face's eyes flashed as he looked up, through the bars at Cipher. "You really think it's a choice?" he challenged. "You just choose to trust people and then you do it?"

"He chose to trust you," Cipher growled.

Face looked away.

Cipher paused, lowering his voice. "He took you in regardless of that record, staked his own reputation on you. He didn't even watch you. You were always free to come and go. Alone, with me, with whores, with anyone you wanted. And if I'd had any idea that I was causing you to betray his trust when I challenged you to get that car, you can bet I would've sooner shot myself in the head."

Face sighed deeply. For a long moment, he was silent. Cipher waited, eyes narrowed, demanding a comeback. Face would talk to him. This could very well be the last time he saw him before he went off to face a military court.

Slowly, Face dropped his hands into his lap and sat back, head tipped back against the wall. "I can't do this, Cipher," he finally whispered. "I just cannot do this anymore."

"Do what, Face?"

Face hesitated for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, it was low and monotone, without feeling. "I can't be this person. This person who... who bonds and trusts and cares about life and missions and approval and... It's fucking exhausting and I just... I cannot do it anymore. And I don't care how it ends. I just want it to stop."

Cipher listened quietly, glaring through the bars. What the hell kind of an explanation was that? But he didn't answer. He let Face continue.

"I surrendered to the enemy because Hannibal needed one last shot of adrenaline," he admitted. "And it scared me. And then, two months later, I'm standing out in front of a building full of VC, guns pointed right at me... and I realized... how absolutely ludicrous it was that everybody thought it was because I had such great faith. And that's so far from the truth."

He paused for a moment, and shook his head as he dropped it forward, into his hands. "It's not that I want to die," he said quietly. "I just want to stop pretending. I had to walk away from that, and stand in a room with some general who thinks he knows everything there is to know about me, and listen to him talk about how impressed he is with my courage and trust and the whole time he's talking, the only thing I can think about is telling him the truth about his wife's affair and actually making this all stop."

"So why didn't you?" Cipher asked coldly.

"Because." He paused for a long moment. "Because I wanted the satisfaction of being able to do it to Hannibal's face."

"That is fucked up." Cipher wasn't able to keep the anger out his voice anymore. He didn't try.

"I always knew he'd get me killed sooner or later," Face said confidently. "Just like Devon. I don't even care, as long as he knows why. As long as he knows it's his fault."

Cipher's jaw was nearly on the floor as he realized, for the first time, just how young this boy really was. He belonged in high school, grounded for the weekend and sneaking out bedroom windows to see his girlfriend, or getting caught smoking and sent to detention. Cipher didn't need a degree in psychology to know that rebelling against the grown-ups was a normal part of teenage development. Face had missed the lesson. He was stuck, developmentally stunted, and Cipher didn't have a fucking clue how to help him.

Face sighed heavily, shoulders rising and falling. "Yeah, you're right," he said with a small smile. "Fucked up."
Cipher growled as his anger bubbled to the surface again. He was starting to get familiar with that smile of Face's. It reeked of passive aggression, and made Cipher want to put him through the fucking wall. Instead, he kept a firm grip on his calm, glaring through the bars at Face.

"Hannibal never did one goddamn thing to you," he growled. He saw Face open his mouth, but didn't give him a chance to start. "And don't you dare throw Finch's name into this because clearly you don't have a clue what happened on that mission."

From the way Face's jaw clenched, Cipher knew he'd called that one right. Seething with anger, Face looked away again and muttered. "I can fill in the blanks."

"Yeah? Well guess what, Face, you filled them in all wrong." Cipher reached his hand through the bars to point at the huddled man. "That team was ambushed. Hannibal would've died out there too, but he didn't get that option. Because they came - I came; I was on the medevac - and pulled him out of the goddamn jungle where he was bleeding to death! And he didn't want to live. It took weeks to make him believe there wasn't a damn thing he could've done to save Devon. Not then."

Face turned just slightly to see Cipher, just in case he was lying. But Cipher was on fire and he didn't have to make any of it up. He turned to pace a few steps away before spinning back toward the cell.

"Jesus Christ, Face. Do you think it's a coincidence that he went looking for the guy who had the record on POW snatches, to put him on this team?" From the silence, Cipher could tell the thought had never even occurred to Face. "We all came to him. But he went to you. It sure as hell wasn't for your charming personality or impressive military record. The fuck do you think he wanted you for? If there's a chance in hell Young is alive, he wanted the best man for the job when we found him."

"And yet he turns his back when he hears about POWs we could get out," Face muttered, but it was completely lacking conviction – a pathetic excuse.

Cipher gripped the bars with white knuckles. "Goddamn it, Face, you piss me off so bad I just wanna put your head through this fucking wall," he growled. "You can't see what's right in front of you. Be a martyr. Die for a fucking cause. But you're fucking sick if you think you're somehow honoring Finch's legacy by using him as an excuse to end Hannibal's career."

Cipher paused, giving him one last chance to offer anything in his defense. But Face didn't move. He didn't even look up. After a few lingering moments of silence, Cipher finally growled. "Fine," he said coldly. "Fine. You go to hell, Face. But you will never be half the soldier he is. Take all your fucking trust issues with you and don't bother thanking him that he had pity on your lying, cheating, thieving ass. I hope you're damn proud of yourself."

Without another word, Cipher shoved off of the bars, turned, and walked away, leaving Face huddled on the floor of the cell. He was too angry to say anything more, and it was clear Face wasn't hearing him anyways. The kid was too damaged to be helped, the most pathetic lost cause Cipher had seen in a long, long time.