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  Mess-Understanding 
 by Elizabeth Kent  

 Animal-rights warnings: A couple of shellfish were harmed in the
production of this story. At the beginning of this story there are two
lobsters. At the end of this story, there are not two lobsters. I know
some readers are sensitive to this issue, so I thought I'd better warn
you.  

 Hannibal fished around in his pocket for the key to the house and
inserted it in the deadbolt lock. He could hear the roar of the vacuum
cleaner coming from somewhere inside and sighed a little, remembering the
pile of dirty laundry he'd left on the bedroom floor that morning and the
stack of dishes in the sink that he'd just been too tired to get to last
night. He'd forgotten that Face was coming today. This new movie role, his
first outside a monster suit in years, was quite a bit more taxing than
Aquamaniac ever was. There was even a script to memorize, something he
hadn't had to do for a long time. Plus the makeup that made him
unrecognizable to the MPs in this role took a long time to apply, so he
always had to be at the studio early. Housework just fell by the wayside.
Housework had never been his strong suit anyway, usually resulting in a
mad scramble to get everything picked up when he knew Face was going to be
there. He loved Face with every fiber of his being and cherished the days
they could spend together in his small house. But the man had a ridiculous
obsession with neatness and order, probably a holdover from years in a
Catholic orphanage with fussbudget nuns. Clutter and dirt bothered the
hell out of him, and Hannibal knew it, so he at least tried to neaten
things up a bit when he was entertaining his lover. But this week he'd
been so caught up in his work that he'd forgotten. He hoped Face was still
speaking to him by the time he got inside.

 He pushed the door open and poked his head in first to get the lay of the
land just as the vacuum cleaner whined into silence. This was worse than
he'd expected. Every window gleamed, every metal, glass, or
brightly-polished wood surface shot daggers of light at him. It was like
the entire house was glaring at him at once, regarding him with silent
condemnation and daring him to say a word about how much better it looked
than it had when he left it before five that morning. 

 Maybe he ought to just duck back out and go buy some flowers or an
expensive bottle of wine to soothe the feathers he could almost hear
ruffling from the back part of the house. But it was too late. Just as he
was about to retreat, Face came around the corner pushing the vacuum (with
its cord neatly wound around the handle instead of just haphazardly coiled
up and suspended from an attachment hook) in one hand and carrying a load
of dirty socks and briefs under his other arm. Dressed in a pair of ragged
cutoffs and one of Hannibal's old t-shirts, he was barefoot, sweaty,
mussed up, and looked good enough to eat. Hannibal smiled. "Hi, kid."

 ***** "Hi, kid?" Was that all he had to say for himself? Face bit back a
retort and tried to decide on a reaction. He'd had plenty of them since
he'd let himself into the house that morning, his arms full of grocery
sacks and packages from the specialty shops he'd just visited, and
immediately tripped over the duffel bag lying just outside the kitchen. As
he'd sprawled face-first on none-too-clean linoleum and watched oranges,
bagels, onions, and a bottle of wine roll away from him, he'd moved from
shock to anger. Anger had quickly turned to alarm when he realized he was
lying crotch-down on one live lobster while another waved its pincers
alarmingly close to his nose. With a yelp he'd jumped to his feet and
scooped up both lobsters, meaning to plop them in the kitchen sink, only
to find the sink already filled with dirty dishes. A pissed-off, squirming
lobster in each hand, he'd made a dash for the bathroom, arms raised to
get down the narrow hallway without smashing his passengers against the
wall, and avoiding not just one, but three separate piles of dirty
clothes, a golf bag, and Hannibal's yet-to-be-aired-out sleeping bag from
their last job. He tried not to notice the dirty ring in the tub as he
dropped the lobsters in it then ran back to the living room for newspaper
to soak in water and throw over his reluctant dinner guests. And the day
hadn't gotten any better since then. Every room he went into had a mess in
it. The bed was unmade, dirty ashtrays lay all over the house, and a pile
of unread newspapers teetered on the brink of collapse next to the sofa.
He'd had to clean out the refrigerator just to find enough room for the
lobsters, who were beginning to wilt a bit in the tub. And he hadn't even
gotten around to cleaning the bathroom yet. He'd had a romantic dinner
planned, with hors d'oeuvres, a different wine for each course, a decadent
and complicated dessert, and fresh baked bread. But that took hours to
prepare, and he didn't have hours anymore.

 He finally settled for the first thought that had popped into his head
when he'd finally corralled the lobsters and taken a quick and disgusted
look around. "I can't cook in this mess!" He joined the rest of the house
in glaring at Hannibal.

 Hannibal had the grace to look at least a little bit chagrined. "I know,
kid. I've been busy at the studio all week and..."

 "...and you forgot I was even coming over, didn't you?" Face finished for
him.

 "I didn't forget you were coming over, I just forgot it was today. I
thought I'd have time to straighten up tonight and you'd be here
tomorrow."

 Face dropped the pile of clothes on the floor, wheeled the vacuum to the
coat closet, and shoved it inside before turning back to his lover. He
planted his fists on his hips. "You can orchestrate an attack on an entire
town full of crazed eco-terrorists, but you can't remember something as
simple as a dinner date?"

 "That's what I've got you for," Hannibal said. "To remember the simple
things. Nobody does it better than you."

 Face wasn't sure whether he was being insulted or patronized, but neither
of them worked for him.

 * * *

 Hannibal couldn't help admiring his lover, even if Face was about to tear
a strip off of him. Face was a walking alarm clock. He knew everyone's
schedules a month out (except that Hannibal hadn't remembered to tell him
about the role he'd just landed or his expanded hours at the studio). He
could rattle off everyone's bank account balance to the penny, calculate
earnings on investments, and remind them all of each other's birthdays. He
even memorized the supermarket ads. He knew without looking if they were
getting low on ammunition, could tell you every way into and out of a town
or building before you'd been into it, and found out which gas station had
the lowest prices each week. He remembered what kind of food you liked,
what colors you preferred (even if you never actually said it, because he
was a keen observer) and whether you wanted salsa or catsup with your
scrambled eggs. Face never forgot anything, and that made him invaluable
on and off the job. Unfortunately, that also meant he never forgot when
you'd pissed him off. And Hannibal realized just a little too late how
Face might have interpreted the words he'd just spoken. He decided he'd
better just quit while he was ahead. He plucked a cigar out of his shirt
pocket and stuck it in his mouth, figuring he wouldn't say as many stupid
things if his mouth were busy. He patted his pockets and realized he'd
left his lighter in the car. As always, though, Face was striding across
the room. He'd have a light. He always did.

 Face snatched the cigar from his lips and stuck it back in his pocket.
"On, no, you don't!" he exclaimed. "The flowers I brought are already
struggling to breathe in this polluted air. You know, you could open a
window once in awhile and let some of the smoke out!"

 "It's been cold out."

 "It's been in the sixties all week!"

 He should have known Face would have looked at the thermometer every day.
He felt bad about forgetting the day, but did Face have to get so pissy?
He sighed and headed for the couch. He pulled off his windbreaker and was
about to lay it over the back of a chair when Face grabbed it away from
him and took it to the coat closet. "I'm sorry, Face. It's been a long
week."

 "Last I checked it was exactly as long as any other week."

 "Look, kid, get off my back, will you?" Hannibal finally snapped. "I've
been at the studio before five every day, and this is the first day I've
made it home before nine o'clock. I haven't even seen this place in the
daylight for a week and a half. I've finally got a role, a real
honest-to-God role in a movie, and I'd really like the chance to just
enjoy that a little and do it well instead of fussing over a dirty house!"
He flopped down on the couch and put his feet up, wondering where Face had
stashed the throw pillow he usually kept there. He pulled the cigar back
out and glanced at the spotless coffee table to see if there were a book
of matches there. There was nothing but a vase full of roses. Damn, he
really, really needed a smoke.

 * * * Face opened his mouth to retort, then snapped it shut. Now that he
stopped to really look, he could see that Hannibal did look tired. He was
usually the picture of health, so when he was overdoing it, Face could
tell. It was nothing dramatic, just a slight puffiness under his eyes and
an uncharacteristic slump to his shoulders. But it was enough to let him
know Hannibal was a little off his game. Maybe the rest of the laundry
could wait awhile. Except for the pile that was sitting in the middle of
the otherwise perfect living room. He pulled out a lighter, flicked it
open, and held the light out to his lover. 

 "I"ll try not to kill the roses," Hannibal said as he stuck the cigar in
his mouth and leaned toward the flame.

 "Thanks," Face said. He pocketed the lighter and went back to the pile of
clothes. He scooped them up, took them out to the laundry room, and added
them to the overflowing hamper. Maybe he could put everything in the
washing machine later. Maybe it could even wait until tomorrow.

 Hannibal's feet were on the coffee table when he went back in, and his
eyes were closed as he puffed contentedly on his cigar. It was about time
to get some more. Hannibal would be running low by now. He went into the
kitchen and opened the bottle of wine, remembering to save the cork for
Murdock, who was collecting them for some art project. He checked on the
lobsters, who waved sluggishly at him from the bottom shelf of the
refrigerator, and snagged a couple of recently-washed wine glasses off the
drain board. He set the glasses and bottle on a silver tray and carried
the whole thing into the livingroom. "So," he said, sitting next to
Hannibal and using one bare foot to push Hannibal's discarded shoes out of
sight under the couch, "tell me about the movie."

 * * * Hannibal roused himself and sat up, accepting a glass of wine and
putting his cigar down in the crystal ashtray that appeared at his elbow.
"First," he said, running a thumb over Face's five o'clock shadow,
"there's something you forgot to remind me to do when I came home." He
leaned forward and brushed his lips across Face's. He felt Face's lips
curve up in a smile before they opened and captured his. 

 "I figured you'd eventually remember," Face said when they pulled apart.

 "You're wearing my favorite outfit." Hannibal ran a possessive hand up
the inside of Face's thigh.

 "That's because mine has eggs and pickle juice on it," Face said. "And
everything else that fit me was in the laundry basket already. Or on the
floor. Or the bed. Or draped over a chair."

 "You could go naked."

 "I'm sure your neighbors would love to see me taking out the garbage in
the buff," Face snorted.

 Actually, Hannibal thought, they would. He could probably sell tickets.
But this wasn't a good time to say so. "Like I said kid," he sighed, "it's
been a rough week. I should've remembered, though. Sorry."

 "It's all right," Face said. He leaned forward and pressed his lips
against Hannibal's again. "I'll find a way to get even later."

 Tired as he was, Hannibal felt himself begin to revive as he told Face
about the movie. He was playing a role he knew well: the war-weary
commander of a group of eager and idealistic young soldiers. Never mind
that the war was set in space two hundred years in the future and that
even his own mother wouldn't recognize him behind the grotesque scars
applied to his face every day. It was a good role, written well, and the
kids he worked with reminded him a little of the kids he'd led through the
hell of Vietnam. Unlike most of those soldiers, though, these young people
would survive, and they'd win the war. Only one character was slated to
die: a smart-aleck newbie fresh from the space academy. A kid whose death
would save the world. She was his love interest in the movie, the one
person in the world who could see beyond his scars and touch his heart,
and their last scene together would be a real tear-jerker. The scene hit a
little too close to home for him, and he didn't think he'd have any
trouble working up the tears when they filmed it. They'd rehearsed it a
little today for filming next week, and it had conjured up any number of
similar almost-disasters starring his own lover over the last fifteen
years.

 "A girl, huh?" Face said. "How does she kiss?"

 "She's all lip gloss and pointy teeth," Hannibal said. "She's from the
Sirius galaxy and doesn't look quite human."

 "The Sirius galaxy?" Face said. "You mean she's a dog?" He laughed a
little. "Or maybe she's a vixen?"

 "If I didn't know better, Lieutenant," Hannibal said, putting an arm
around Face's shoulders and drawing him close, "I'd think you might be a
little bit jealous. Am I right?"

 "The CO is always right, Colonel," Face said. "Even when he's wrong."

 "You don't have anything to worry about," Hannibal said. "No
pointy-toothed vixens need apply. Now," he nuzzled Face's neck, "how about
we spend a little time catching up?"

 "Sorry," Face said, pulling away and standing up, "I can't make love in a
dirty house."

 * * * Face reached out to snap off the light, careful not to dislodge the
silver head that rested on his shoulder. Hannibal lay half across him,
sound asleep, and Face gently stroked the back of his head as he drifted
into sleep himself. He was glad he hadn't taken his ire out on Hannibal
after all. The evening had turned out fine, and he just couldn't find it
in himself to hold it against Hannibal. Hannibal was more excited about
this movie than he'd been about a project in a long time. And the more he
talked, the more Face understood what a hectic schedule his lover had been
following. If he forgot what day it was, Face couldn't blame him too much.
After all, Hannibal was the big picture guy, and Face was the detail man.
He should have called Hannibal anyway to remind him. He'd do that next
time. And he made a mental note to hire a maid, too. He had some
connections and knew where he could find reliable, discreet help who
wouldn't feel compelled to tell anyone else they were cleaning house for
Hannibal Smith of the A-Team. And as Sister Margaret had always been fond
of saying, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. For a modest
fee, neither of them would have to clean the house when Face came over,
saving time for more...pleasurable...pursuits.

 Hannibal had helped him finish cleaning the house, and they'd puttered
around together in the kitchen, snacking on cheese and crackers while Face
cooked the lobster and baked potatoes in the microwave. They'd eaten by
candlelight at the picnic table on the screened porch, trading
butter-flavored kisses and creating a messy pile of shell fragments on an
old dish towel in the center of the table. They used paper plates that
went straight into the garbage after dinner and left almost nothing to
wash. Instead of the elaborate dessert he'd planned, they fed each other
orange sections and licked the juice off each other's chins. It wasn't a
half-bad dinner after all.

 He hardly even noticed the ring in the bathtub when they'd gone in to
take a shower before bed. But, well, he couldn't help it. He just had to
clean the damn tub before he could actually get out. Hannibal had laughed
at him but dutifully clambered out to get the cleanser and sponge from
under the sink. He even cleaned the toilet while Face scrubbed the tub,
then dried Face tenderly and chivvied him down the hallway and into the
bed. By then it didn't really matter that the sheets weren't exactly
fresh. They had smelled like Hannibal, and that was okay; and now they
smelled like Hannibal and Face and their love, and that was even better.

 That was the best.

  
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