notjustaface | So you're having a breakdown / So you're losing the fight

It was only a matter of time, at least that's what Face tells himself when Hannibal corners him in the kitchen of a one bedroom apartment they've managed to scam for the last few weeks since tumbling into Chicago on a job. They'd been running almost a year without any major setbacks, sure they'd had their snags but everything was going well enough. Funny how a little thing can turn into a big problem.

"We need to talk about Murdock." Hannibal states flatly, twisting a spoon through his coffee with just enough sugar to kill the bitter bite of BA's strong brew.

Face already has files laid out in front of him on their mark and his associates, carefully making notes on a page of stationary from some motel in Boston. He doesn't bother looking up, assuming it's about to become another lecture on the dangers of mixing work and pleasure. "I'm listening."

"In case you haven't noticed, he hasn't eaten in two days."

He looks up from from his notes, going over the last couple days in his head - had it really been two days? It's hard to tell, they'd all been so busy getting things together to make their final move on a scumbag pimp that a cop friend of Hannibal's couldn't pin charges on. "I brought him breakfast a few hours ago, but he was sleeping."

"He's been sleeping for the last ten hours."

"So? That's a good thing, God knows I could use a good night's sleep."

"We all could. When's the last time he managed more then four or five hours?" Hannibal sets aside the spoon, but doesn't drink.

Face considers the question and then shrugs; "So, you think he's sick?" It's a possibility - they've been on the move almost nonstop for over a month before landing the gig and spent most of it sleeping in the cargo truck they'd bought with stolen salvage papers and living off fast food - it's enough to kill anyone's immune system.

"When was the last time he filled his prescriptions?"

Filling prescriptions was a laughable matter that over the last year has meant one exceptionally brief stay as a John Doe in an emergency room and a rather shady deal with a black market supplier. "Guadalajara. But those were really big... like dispensary sized bottles." Easily enough to cover him for a really long time.

"And when was the last time you counted them?"

He could see where Hannibal was going, and he didn't like. "Counted them? What, am I his mother? He's not off his meds."

"You're supposed to keep an eye on him, Face... when you decided that suddenly you two were..."

"Don't even go where you're going, man." Face pushes up from the table, glowering. "Just because we're together that doesn't mean it's my job to be his doctor!"

"It's your job to take care of him!" Hannibal shouts, drawing a low growl from where BA was sprawled across the sofa in the living room. "You took on that responsibility."

"I..." Face sighs, shaking his head. There's not even anything he can say to that - in all fairness, he more or less was taking care of him. He just never considered things like Murdock going off his medication without telling anyone.

Without further comment, he heads to the bedroom where Murdock's still curled on the bed with his untouched breakfast beside him.

"Wake up, man..." he states firmly, sitting on the edge of the bed behind him. "We need to talk."

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He flinches at the word choice, as well as the reminder of his risk-taking. Hiding his face for a few moments until he's calm enough to reply, he looks up at him with wide eyes.

"Just don't go anywhere and leave me, okay?"

He can't make that promise, and he knows it. The best he can do is gently kiss him and murmur; "I'll always come back for you."

His hand twitches slightly and he grips tighter, still feeling the ghost of the rings tucked neatly away with his dog tags in the outer pocket of his suitcase.

"Good..."

He sighs, kissing his shoulder where his head's resting against it.

"Don't like bein' alone."

He feels bad for dodging the real request - like part of him should be able to commit to never leaving. But, he tells himself, it's just not the kind of thing that their lifestyle affords.

"Hey..." he murmurs, digging the plush hippo out from between them; "...you're never alone."

He's not going to be able to hide behind life on the run forever, and if Murdock was feeling better he'd tell him so.

"Just... stay."

He'll try, though. Always.

"I'm here, aren't I?" He smiles warmly; "Better or worse means both of us, not just my issues."

That might be the first time he's outright admitted having issues, and it's definitely the first time he's mentioned the promises they made to each other.

"Can I sleep yet?"

Edited 2013-05-06 07:37 (UTC)

"Not yet, babe..." He reaches over to gently stroke the front of Murdock's dirty t-shirt.

"Just a while longer. I want to be sure I didn't mess it up."

He can admit that, he's not a doctor and while he prides himself on precision, things happen.

"You didn't." He can say that pretty confidently. "It feels better."

He's not exactly sure what 'it' he's referring to, just that he doesn't feel so bad anymore.

"It feels better because I gave you enough sedatives and mood stabilizer to drop a horse." Face's smile turns slightly cockeyed, uncomfortable even using words like 'mood stabilizer'.

"I just need to make sure I don't have to drive your ass to the hospital and explain that one."

He can sense his discomfort and pats his arm awkwardly.

"Good thing I'm not a horse, huh?"

If he's trying to lighten the mood with terrible jokes, it's a good sign he's on the mend.

"Yeah... a little bit lighter." He's still serious about it, of course, but humors the joke with an affectionate squeeze against Murdock's side.

After a long moment, getting particularly lost in a sketch about the Swedish Chef, he says offhand; "You know you can talk to me about that stuff, right? I mean your past. I... I don't judge you on that."

The "chocolate moose" sketch is a classic.

"Never worried about you judgin' me. But you keep trying to fix stuff that can't be fixed."

He reaches for his hand again, squeezing tightly.

"You did good today, but this is somethin' that's never gonna go away completely."

It's easy to forget that sometimes, even for him.

"I don't think I'd want to," he admits quietly; "I mean... it's kinda part of who you are, right? That's like taking away my ability to pick up any woman in a bar."

He rolls his eyes.

"You wouldn't know what to do with me if I was normal."

He runs a hand up and down his arm, lost in thought. He's still pretty quiet, but it's not the kind of quiet that's masking his noisy mind.

"I just think you get so worried about protectin' me it just makes you feel worse when you can't."

"I could think of a thing or two to do with you..." he teases, but it's mostly because he knows Murdock's right.

After another long, quiet moment... waiting for Murdock to break the silence... he admits; "I almost got caught, you know? Today."

He's close to dropping off to sleep, despite Face's best efforts, but that comment startles him back to wakefulness.

"What... Don't even say that, okay?"

Edited 2013-05-06 08:10 (UTC)

"What? You'll find out tomorrow anyway when we're getting out of town before police show up."

He leans slightly against him, letting their weight meet in the middle.

"It was risky, but it was worth it."

"There's a difference between 'almost got caught' and 'the cops tracking us down eventually.'"

He makes a face at him.

"Thank you."

"Not when it's because I walked right past a security guard without a face mask on." He laughs, because really if he doesn't he'll hate himself.

"I mean it though, I'd do it again." Face pauses briefly, taking on a mock serious tone; "Don't make me do it again."

He just shakes his head. "You get off on the adrenaline... but I won't."

He reaches for the water bottle, drinking as much as he can without making himself sick. On the TV, the video is starting to come to a close.

He didn't... well... a little bit.

Still, it's nice to be comfortable and quiet together. Nice, and thankfully rare.

"How's your head?" He's not entirely sure what he's expecting the answer to be, but he feels like he should ask; "Like racing thoughts or you know... if you need to draw something..."

"Still sleepy."

He might be drooling on him a little.

"If I do, I'll let ya know."

"Would you?" It's a quiet, earnest question.

"I mean, any time you have thoughts like this... would you tell me?"

He swallows. For once, he's the one unsure about making a promise.

"I'll try."

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