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December 3, 1986
Langley, Virginia, U.S.A.
As seems to keep being the case these days, Face is staring moodily out one of the back windows of Stockwell's glorified prison when Hannibal approaches him to… chat. It's not like Face is doing it on purpose, all this moody staring, but that mission over Thanksgiving has been weighing on him. Or, he supposes, the aftermath of that mission, specifically. When Bancroft was dead and there was nothing any of them could do about it except bury his body at the bottom of the garden and hope the grass would grow in before the owners got back.
"Alright," Hannibal says, a determined, solid presence behind him, "there's been something up with you ever since we did that job with Bancroft. Spill."
Face doesn't turn from the window. "Just- uh. Been thinking about Ellen."
"Well, kid, I hate to burst your bubble but that's one birthday wish that isn't going to get granted. It's not safe."
Irritation flashes through him at that, something that starts in his chest and ends in his throat. "And why not? We keep in touch with the Harmons, don't we?"
Hannibal sighs and comes to stand beside Face, looking out the window - or, more likely, looking at nothing in particular. "We do. But I've known Jack almost my whole life, Face, that girl was a client and you knew her for… what, a few days?"
"Well I should've known her my whole life, Hannibal, that's the problem!"
"That's the problem?" Hannibal echoes, incredulous. Face hardly hears him.
"A- And instead I knew her for- three days, Hannibal, it was three days, and now she's gone and I had to hear from- from fuckin' Murdock that my father was dead-"
Face breaks off, choking back an undignified sort of whine, and Hannibal whirls to face him, brow furrowed. "Your father? Bancroft? You're sure?"
Nodding, Face looks at Hannibal's vague shape out of the corner of his eye. "Yeah, uh- well, Bancroft told Murdock, and Murdock asked Stockwell, and Stockwell checked, and I went through his sources myself and- I'm sure."
"So that would make Ellen…"
"My half-sister," Face finishes, finally turning to look at him properly. "Different mothers. AJ didn't even- stick around. And then he didn't tell me."
Hannibal blinks. Frowns. Doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Your mother?"
"Samantha Bancroft,” Face says tightly. “They got divorced, though, so she was Samantha Sears."
Hannibal waits. Six seconds pass.
"I- didn't ask. She's the one who left me at the- Hannibal, I don't-"
There's not really an end to that statement that encompasses everything Face means. He just- doesn't.
Hannibal glances out the window again. "Sounds fair to me."
"That she left me?"
"No," Hannibal clarifies, wincing either at his own misstep or at the dog-whistle pitch Face just reached. "I meant that you don't want a damn thing to do with her. C'mon, kid, you know me better than that."
And Face does. He does, and he knows Hannibal wouldn't- doesn't think of him like that. "Right. Yeah, it's just- well- y'know."
Surprisingly, Hannibal looks like maybe he does know. Kind of shifty and tired and stubborn - par for the course with their Colonel, but there's a newly familiar flavour to it. And, sure enough, "You know why we really keep going back to the Harmons', Face?"
"Don't tell me you're Kid's real father, Hannibal, I couldn't take it," Face laughs, disbelieving.
In return, Hannibal grins. "Not quite. You remember me telling you I bat for both teams?"
Vaguely. It was years ago now, back when he and Marchaud were only a few months in country and about as green as the surrounding jungle. Face remembers the awkward darkness of it more than anything else, the wincing discomfort of standing there in a very dishevelled uniform as Hannibal clapped him on the shoulder and said something like Be careful, kid, but I can’t say I blame ya.
Wait.
"You and Mr. Harmon?"
Laughter. "What, you don't think I could've?"
No, that would never have been the problem. Face thinks sometimes the image of Hannibal at thirty-two, leading man movie-star gorgeous, is burned into the backs of his eyelids. Nowadays, Face even has the courage to grin back at him. "No, but- why?"
Hannibal shrugs. "I liked him. He liked me. And we both loved Jane, so it was only right. Now, we were stupid," he says, gesturing at Face - for emphasis, hopefully, rather than demonstration. "Christ, were we stupid - but we were high-school sweethearts, all three of us, and I loved them. Still do, somehow or other. Little harder lately, what with us being dead and all, but I think Jack was coming ‘round to me again last time we saw them. They’re family, though, no matter what. So I like… sticking around for Jack and the kid."
His echoing of Face's own phrasing sounds very deliberate. Face can’t help thinking that it must have been nice, having two people who understood you like that; can’t help thinking that the chance to know Jack, Jane and Hannibal as they were is something he missed out on. Senseless thoughts, really. It’s not like it could have happened any other way. Still, Face muses, all that love must have been something special.
"Three of you. Huh."
"We never did do things by the book," Hannibal smiles, nostalgic. "Point is, I haven't told Kid a word of any of this."
Face looks away. And after all that… God, he really thought Hannibal had understood. "And now you're gonna say that your situation is exactly the same as my father's, even though it isn't, and I shouldn't hold it against him. Thanks, Hannibal."
Face should really know better than to guess Hannibal's intentions, by now. The man blinks, brow furrowing. "Face- shit, kid, no." Eyes flashing, raw blue cutting easily through Face's defences the way it always does, he says, "This business has got you bad, huh?"
"I wonder why," Face snaps, brittle, and-
"Quit it, Lieutenant," the Colonel says sharply, and then he huffs and it's just Hannibal again. "Sometimes that mouth of yours is inconvenient as hell, you know that?"
Face does know that. He can't argue with facts.
"I haven't told Kid anything," Hannibal continues, back on track now. "But I'm trying. I'm still there. And I know for a fact Bancroft could've done the same if he wanted to. Seeing as he didn't, I'd say you're more than justified in hating the asshole's guts."
"Sure," Face sighs, tired. It's nice to know Hannibal agrees with him, but… "I'd just- I'd have liked the- the chance."
"To hate him?"
Face laughs, sort of. "Uh- yeah. Yeah, to hate him, sure. No, just- well, yes, but- just to know. It'd have been nice to know."
Would've saved him years of hoping. Would've saved him decades of wondering - wondering what his name was, where he came from, what his parents were like before they became his parents and he was such a bad thing they had to leave him behind. Would've meant that he had someone he could hate, instead of the ghost of a might-have-been.
"This is shit," he sighs heavily, swallowing when his voice comes out too thick and too choked. "It's all shit."
Hannibal looks at him, cataloguing, and reaches out to rest a heavy, secure, comforting hand on his shoulders. "Well, you've got that right."
It feels like the end of the conversation. Face frowns. "But…?"
"No buts this time, Face," Hannibal doesn't smile, just draws his mouth tight. "Whole thing's shit. Take a minute."
A minute sounds nice. Several sounds even better, but Face can start with one and work from there. He's a very skilled negotiator.