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

[notjustaface]

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."

Comments

[notjustaface]

It's a long several hours at the apartment, involving a good degree of frustration when BA was informed they were heading out of state that night and multiple pots of coffee before Hannibal is comfortable leaving Murdock's side.

But, it feels even longer for Face - who does actually manage to get into the file and clear the hospital pharmacy of several large bottles of both his medications as well as a few syringes and a small vial of the drug used with his last break.

"How bad?" He asks, looking toward Hannibal as he paces through the kitchen and drops a full duffel bag on the table.

"He misses you." Hannibal answers, lips pursed; "He asked where you were."

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

Hannibal shakes his head. "How long do we have?" Which means the difference between simply being caught on video and actively running from police.

"They've probably noticed the medication missing by now... give it... a few hours before they start pulling security tapes? So... we should get him sorted out and either lay exceptionally low or get the hell out of dodge." He's already drawing the syringe and doesn't wait for any response before heading back to the bedroom.

"It's me," he says, turning on the lights in the dark room.

[notthatcrazy]

He's hiding under the blankets with the hippo again, though at least he's not curled up in a ball anymore. Several crayoned pages lie on the nightstand, evidence of his earlier attempts at coping.

"Hey."

[notjustaface]

The closed syringe clasped between his lips, he strips off his stolen lab coat before he's seen, and then closes the distance between them.

"This'll help," he murmurs, "anti-psychotic. But it's probably going to be rough." According to the notes scanned into his file, it'd been as bad as any detox he'd ever seen - fits, crying, lethargy... but at least it'd helped him pull up from his break.

[notthatcrazy]

He sits up, hair tousled like he's been tossing and turning. He's thankful that he's at least telling him what he plans to do, but he'd like some answers first.

"Where were you? And how long have we got 'til we have to get outta town?"

Whatever he did to get those, it's going to call attention to them, which is something they can't afford.

[notjustaface]

"Hospital," he replies automatically, tapping down a bubble as he prepares the syringe. "It's in the boss' hands now... we might stay but lay low for a while."

Crawling up onto the bed, he swallows hard and prepares himself to administer the injection. "You okay with this?"

[notthatcrazy]

"I think so."

He's ready for the dark and disturbing to stop, even if this is what it takes.

"Are you?"

This is more than he's ever asked of him before, and he's not sure he realizes just how bad it's going to be before it starts getting better.

[notjustaface]

He doesn't have a choice in his own mind - it's just something that has to happen. Something he has to divorce himself from as he kneels across Murdock's thighs.

"Yeah, yeah..." he sighs, once more clutching it between his lips as he takes hold of Murdock's arm and pushes down his sleeve - searching for a vein.

[notthatcrazy]

"Might be hard to find a place," he says quietly. Hannibal had gotten him to drink a fair bit of water, but he's probably still pretty dehydrated.

[notjustaface]

He's determined, and it shows - his thumbs stroking over the familiar pattern of muscle and thick veins that have sunk over the last few days of letting himself wither away.

"I think I've got you," he whispers, tucking the syringe back into his hand as he draws up the ghost of a main line near his inner elbow. "Breathe for me."

[notthatcrazy]

He does so, not looking at him as he prepares. It's easier if he doesn't see it coming.

[notjustaface]

Letting out a held breath of his own as he injects, Face holds his thumb over the spot after withdrawing and capping off the syringe - setting it aside for later disposal. "I'm sorry..." he mutters quietly, leaning closer to him and kissing his forehead.

"For the way I acted earlier. I was angry."

[notthatcrazy]

He leans against him, letting himself take what comfort he can.

"You were worried."

He understands... sort of.

"Sorry I don't make things easier."

[notjustaface]

"You can't help it." He murmurs, wrapping his arms around Murdock's shoulders. He still doesn't think that he understands everything, but reading over his file opened his eyes considerably. Some of the things he'd done... he couldn't believe half of them though they had to be true.

"I can." He sighs, "And I chose to let myself be angry. And I need you to forgive me."

[notthatcrazy]

"I always do."

He doesn't try to stop the tears when they come this time. Fortunately, crying quietly is a skill he's picked up over the years.

[notjustaface]

Still pinning him across the thighs, Face holds him close, pressing a kiss against the top of his head. He can handle the tears, he can let himself handle the tears.

"Shh..." he whispers; "it's okay. I'm here. You're gonna be all right. I've got you."

[notthatcrazy]

That just makes him cry harder. It's a good cry, though. It feels like things are being purged.

"What'd I do to deserve you?"

[notjustaface]

"Hey, what're you talking about?" He forces a mild laugh, squeezing him tighter. "You deserve a hell of a lot better."

He lets himself pull away just enough to settle back on his heels, cupping Murdock's wet cheek with one hand.

"Let's just ride this out together, okay?"

[notthatcrazy]

He shakes his head. They've been over this before, and they're definitely not going to break any new ground on that topic with him in his current condition.

"Okay."

[notjustaface]

"I want you to lay down and I'm gonna get you some water and I want you to eat something, okay?"

His eyes speak of firm worry - intently bearing down on him.

"Will you try, for me?"

[notthatcrazy]

"I'll try."

He reluctantly lets go of him, burrowing back under the covers. The stuffed hippo, stalwart companion that he is, peeks out from under the pillow.

[notjustaface]

He doesn't want to be gone long, just long enough to heat a mug of canned soup and confer with Hannibal on the course of action for the night. BA's got the police scanner out, and they're definitely heating it up - not by name yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Managing soup, water and a burger and fries for himself, Face lets himself back into the bedroom with a much less worried air about him.

"What does it feel like?" He asks quietly, offering him the warm cup.

[notthatcrazy]

Things are still pretty awful, but at least now he's starting to let himself think that things might be okay after all.

"Hmm?"

He takes the cup, sipping the soup gingerly. It's a light meal, but he doesn't want to take any chances.

"It's...hard to describe."

He'll do his best.

[notjustaface]

It's better than nothing, he'll take what he can get.

His thoughts linger briefly back on the file, the words the doctors - and there had been a lot of them, going back as far as he could read without fear of getting caught. Disorganized, bitter, angry, hallucinations, voices, self harm... things he doesn't fully understand without context.

He has to move some papers to set down his own food and finds the angry looking drawings. "You did these?"

[notthatcrazy]

How do you explain something that's so very much not you and yet is an undeniable part of you?

"Yeah.... kinda takes my mind off wantin' to hurt myself."

[notjustaface]

He doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to draw attention to it, but he also doesn't know how to not ask the lingering question.

"You, um..." he licks his lips, lingering near the edge of the bed. "Did you?"