Summary: Response to the A-Slash Writing Challenge
Blue-grey eyes swept the room. Took in the video games, the basket-ball hoop with the Nerf football stuck in it, the television set and scattered comic books, the t-shirts displayed on the walls as if they were art. Which they were to the usual occupant of the room.
He'd never paid that much attention to them before; he was usually preoccupied with bluffing his way in and out of this room. Now, he really didn't care.
It was his own fault he was here. He'd wanted that pardon so badly he could almost taste it. Because of it, he'd betrayed his team. His family. His lover.
His lover had tried to warn him, but he hadn't listened. He'd hugged his `brothers`, knowing he'd miss them, but he'd still walked out too eagerly. Ignored their concerns. And become infatuated with yet another skirt. Led down the primrose path.
That move had nearly cost him his life, and his friends their freedom.
It made him wonder who was the `fool'.
They'd bailed him out, of course. And in the subsequent game of one-upmanship, they'd laughed heartily when he'd been mistaken for the true resident of this abode.
He couldn't blame them.
He'd been here for nearly a week now, refusing to eat. Refusing to see anyone, in case someone realized he was not the person who was supposed to be here.
The team had abandoned him, just as he'd abandoned them.
He really couldn't blame them.
Would Hannibal ever forgive him? he wondered. Could Hannibal ever forgive him?
If he had to, he'd get on his knees and beg to be taken back. Onto the team. Into his lover's heart. But he doubted the older man would do that. He'd done the unforgivable.
Now, the one thing he'd feared all his life was a reality. He was alone.
He curled up under the blankets, the tears finally over-spilling the lids, and let them flow until he fell asleep.
The lights suddenly dimmed and went out. Outside in the hall, exasperated voices bemoaned yet another power failure, wondering what had caused it this time. Rubber-soled shoes moved up and down the hallway, guided by the light of the emergency lamps on the walls.
The window slid open, and a tall, silver-haired man slipped over the sill into the room. Looking around, his ice-blue eyes took in the same objects the current occupant of the room had noted earlier. He grinned, reflecting briefly on what each object meant to its owner, and how his team had been responsible for acquiring many of them.
His gaze finally found what he was looking for - the figure curled up on the bed. He shook his head, smiling sadly. The clothing was right - t-shirt, leather bomber jacket, blue ball cap - but the man wearing them wasn't.
The consummate con man, blinded to the scam because they'd offered the one thing he'd never had before - the chance to live a normal life.
He really couldn't blame the younger man. It had been like grabbing the brass ring on the merry-go-round. Too bad it had only been a set-up. That he'd only been bait in a trap. Dispensable.
Not to me, he's not.
He couldn't deny that he'd been hurt, seeing his lover go off like that. He`d been embarrassed for the kid, too, for some of the things he`d allowed himself to do. Like that kiddy show, and the so-called `memoir`. But he`d had to let the younger man spread his wings a bit.
It would have been hard to let him go, if it had all been true; after all, associating with known criminals would have compromised the pardon. However, there was always a chance that he and B.A. would be able to clear their names, and they could be together again.
He wished he could have gotten here sooner. He hadn't meant to leave him here this long, but circumstances had dictated otherwise. However, he was here now, and that was all that mattered.
He knelt by the bed. Took the slim wrists in one hand. Brushed the stray blonde hair from the eyes he loved so well, revealing golden lashes wet with tears. Placed a gentle kiss on those soft lips. Watched as blue-grey eyes fluttered open, their expression ranging from broken-hearted sorrow to confusion to hope.
`Come on home, baby,' he whispered, answering the unspoken plea. 'There's nothing to forgive.'
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