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Throughout his adult life, Hannibal had always been the man with the plan. He prided himself on teaching each and every one of his boys the same mantra: one step ahead of the game isn’t a plan, but two to three steps ahead is. Beating an enemy’s move before it’s even made, even if the ‘enemy’ was only the challenges of day to day life on the run. He had plans for everything, every eventuality, every possible twist and turn that fate might throw at them. Or at least, he thought he had.
Since his team had been forced to go on the run, his plans had become absolutely everything. Now more than ever, all they had was each other, and they had to stay at least three steps ahead of the Military and the FBI, who were still chasing them even after four years.
Hannibal kept telling himself that they’d grow bored eventually. That there would be other escaped convicts who warranted far more attention than his A-Team, who were innocent of all the charges levelled at them. Except, of course, from the whole ‘escaping from lawful custody’ part. But for the time being, they had to stay on their toes, and Hannibal had to keep planning.
He had plans for everything, every scenario he could dream up. Practical plans, mostly, plans on how to find new jobs, how to deal with their money, how to find the next safe house. Plans for the boring, everyday things like washing their clothes and buying food. Plans for buying gas for the van, and plans for what to do when the van inevitably broke down.
He had plans for the more personal things, too. Plans for ways to keep BA in contact with his Mama, and for Murdock to talk to his cousins. Plans to let Face send some money to his old orphanage, when their funds allowed it. Plans for treats for birthdays and holidays – the little things mattered when they were on the run, and he owed it to his boys to keep their spirits up. Seeing them happy kept his spirits up too.
And then there were the plans he hoped he would never have to use. They’d been lucky so far. Plans for what to do in an emergency. Plans for what to do if the Military ever caught up with them. Plans for escaping from motels, or safe houses, or plans for what to do in the event of a car chase.
Hannibal had plans in place for what to do if one of them was seriously hurt, though he hated to even think about it. He had to be the one to think about it, though, as it was a risk they all knew existed, even if they never talked about it. Only so much they could do for each other with their basic first aid kid, after all. Plans for getting medical treatment in an emergency. Plans for gunshot wounds, or burns, or broken bones. Plans involving creative use of fake IDs and a string of doctors they’d worked with across the country.
Those fake IDs came into play in a lot of his plans, and Hannibal knew Face had truly outdone himself when he produced them. They had come in handy when Murdock had needed more help than they could give him, the pilot suffering a minor breakdown after a particularly traumatic job more than a year ago. And they also came in handy time and again for the well-rehearsed cons they used to get supplies, especially for the plans he had to keep a constant supply of meds for Murdock, and tranquilisers for BA and his fear of flying.
Hannibal had also forced himself to plan for more life-changing events. For one of them being paralysed, or suffering brain damage, or losing an arm or a leg. Those plans mostly involved him turning himself in to Sosa in exchange for long term care for whichever of his three boys had been so badly hurt that his plans couldn’t fix it.
Plans for death, too. Again, he hated to even think of it, in fact it made him feel physically sick to consider what they’d do if one of their number was stolen from them forever. The four of them had been family for so long now; more than a decade as a foursome, nearly fifteen years for him and Face. Face was the only one who knew about those plans, as Hannibal had to face the reality that he might well be the one killed. That had been the single most awkward and uncomfortable conversation he’d ever had with the man he loved.
Face hadn’t wanted to agree, but he’d eventually seen there was no other choice. The plan simply involved leaving the dead behind and moving on as best they could. No way to arrange a funeral for a federal fugitive, no way to take care of burial rites and memorials. It was the one and only time that any of them would ever be left behind – Hannibal had promised Face that years ago, and he had reaffirmed it then.
But plans changed, as they always did. Plan A might become Plan B, or even Plan C – three steps ahead gave them room to manoeuvre. Years of working black ops in the Rangers had taught Hannibal the value of improvising, though now the four of them were relying on each other and no one else, he tried to keep the improvising to a bare minimum. He tried, but he didn’t always succeed. He planned and prepared to the best of his abilities, staying up late into the night planning some more.
And some things he couldn’t plan for at all. Some things he couldn’t even consider. He’d planned what they would do in the event of one of them being seriously injured, or killed, but he’d never planned what might happen if one of them became ill. Not a long-term, chronic illness anyway – he had plans for colds and flus, and even for pneumonia or meningitis, heaven forbid. The pneumonia plan had actually been put into action two years earlier, when BA had been unable to stop coughing and had needed a week in hospital.
Hannibal never planned how they would cope with a long-term illness, because he couldn’t see it happening. They were all fit, strong, healthy men with no ongoing health issues, unless you counted Murdock’s occasional mental ‘wobbles’, and Hannibal had to admit that, if any of them were to start having problems it would probably be him. He was the oldest of his team and, as much as he liked to think he was invincible, he would probably become their weakest link someday in the far future. But hopefully, by the time it became an issue, they would be pardoned. Otherwise, he would turn himself in rather than putting his boys at continued risk.
In the end, though, that wasn’t what happened. In the end, it was Face who came to him one evening, pale and almost teary, setting all of Hannibal’s internal alarms ringing. Face never cried, not once in all the years Hannibal had known and loved him. And he wasn’t crying then, not quite, though he looked as if he might. He looked fragile, which was never a word Hannibal had associated with his lieutenant. He looked scared.
Face told Hannibal how he’d spoken to a doctor that afternoon, one of many in the small medical centre who had hired the team this time. Told Hannibal how he’d explained what he’d been going through over the last few months. How he’d undergone a long series of tests there and then, while Hannibal had thought he was out running errands.
All the symptoms the team had noticed, all the problems Face had been unable to hide from them, at least. A few only Hannibal knew about. The symptoms they had all thought were just part and parcel of stressful lives lived on the run. The painful joints, aching muscles and occasional tremors they’d all thought were just strains from particularly strenuous jobs. The headaches they’d thought were caused by tiredness. The dizziness they’d assumed was from low blood sugar. The blurred vision they’d joked meant Face needed reading glasses.
Not all the symptoms all the time, no – they had come and gone, sometimes weeks between appearances, sometimes only days. Not ever enough to cause worry, though of course Hannibal had worried a little anyway. Face was the one who never got sick, the one who seemed immune to any and every virus the rest of them fell victim to.
Hearing that Face had taken the step of voluntarily speaking to a doctor scared Hannibal badly. Like all the team, Face had a deep mistrust of doctors and would usually prefer to just pretend everything was fine until he eventually collapsed. Hannibal knew he was just as bad himself, if not worse. Just how much had his poor boy been suffering? Had Face been lying in bed beside him all those months, worrying and feeling sick?
There were no real answers at that point. The doctor had wanted Face to have more tests done to try to figure out what might be going on, though he had some ideas already. Firstly, a brain scan. Then a full-body MRI. A lumbar puncture and a bone marrow aspiration. So many blood tests Face had lost count when the doctor tried to explain.
There were plans for some of that, thankfully, and Hannibal had swung into action arranging things, thankful for the help of the staff at medical centre and Face’s wonderful false IDs. They carried on with the job at the same time, of course, though Hannibal could tell Face was distracted while he waited for his results. Results which only led to more tests, and a visit to first one specialist, then a second. And then, finally, the doctors had an answer.
Not the answer any of them would have expected, not something Hannibal could ever have planned for. Devastating, and life-changing. Something Face would never recover from, something that would come and go before eventually becoming slowly worse as the years went by. Something they could learn to manage and cope with, but could never cure.
Those first few months after Face got his diagnosis were the hardest Hannibal had ever been through in his life, though he knew they were far more difficult for his lover. Face tried to ignore it at first, pretending everything was fine and not wanting to talk about it. He took his newly prescribed medications, though, and Hannibal could tell he was trying to follow the other instructions and recommendations he had been given. More rest, less stress – difficult, if not impossible, in their line of work.
Hannibal tried to deal with it as he dealt with everything in his life. He tried to make plans, adapting old ones and forging new. But how could he plan even one step ahead for something like this, let alone three steps ahead? Something which could strike at any time and could take any number of forms? Face might be fine for months, or it could strike tomorrow. Face might bounce back from an attack within days, or he could be bedridden for months. It would all get steadily worse as the years went on, and no plans could ever change that, though Hannibal would give absolutely anything to take it away from his lover.
One plan did work, though – Hannibal was ready when Face tried to run. He’d known his boy would think he didn’t deserve to stay with the team, with his lover. Had known Face would feel he was useless to them now. And he was able to talk Face down, to stop him trying to set out on his own. Able to convince Face he was still valued, still important to them all, still beloved.
He worked on new plans, then threw them out and tried to think of other plans. Wished with all his heart that there was something useful he could do, anything at all. But the time came when Face’s illness raised its head once more, and all Hannibal’s worthless plans were forgotten.
It was worse, that time. Despite all the new meds, despite the steroid injections, despite the recommendations he had followed from the specialists, Face was in absolute agony, and all they could do was try to manage his pain. Hannibal held his lover tightly as Face sobbed helplessly with the pain in his legs, fighting back tears himself the whole time.
The worst of the pain lasted for nearly a week, and Face was unable to walk for almost a month afterwards. Hannibal spent the whole time by his lover’s side, trying not to take it personally when Face screamed and raged and tried to push him away. Tried to remind Face that it would pass. But it was hard, not knowing how long it would last, nor how permanent the effects might be.
Not permanent at all that time, much to everyone’s vast relief, though Face needed to use a cane for a while. And months passed by before Face suffered another relapse, months in which the team tried to change the way they worked, with some success.
That much at least Hannibal could plan for – he could come up with new ways for the team to earn a living, new jobs which were far less physical than before. Surveillance work, advisory positions, IT-based cases. Not as exciting, perhaps, and certainly not as well paid, but jobs where Face could still feel useful even if he could only work for an hour or two before having to take a nap.
They adapted, slowly, as much as they could. Tried to help Face adjust to the new limitations he had to deal with. The next attack cost Face his vision for a terrifying fortnight, and for the first time Hannibal considered turning himself in to Sosa anyway, though the last thing he wanted was to leave his lover’s side – there was no cure waiting for Face, but there were drug trials which might help ease the symptoms and slow the progression of the disease, trials he couldn’t possibly join as a wanted man.
Even temporarily blinded, Face was somehow able to tell exactly what Hannibal was thinking. Lying in Hannibal’s arms in a safe house far up in the mountains, Face had repeated Hannibal’s own words back to him. The words that had convinced him to stay rather than run: they were in it together, in sickness and in health – if Face wasn’t allowed to run, then Hannibal certainly wasn’t either, at least not for that reason. If Hannibal didn’t want to be with Face anymore, then of course he could go with Face’s blessing, but the suffering man refused to let them be parted for anything less than that.
And so Hannibal had to learn not to plan quite so much. There were still some plans they simply had to have in place, the same plans as there had always been for personal time and supplies and serious injuries. New plans to enable a steady supply of the many different medications Face needed on a daily basis. New plans involving doctors they knew they could trust, when a relapse struck and Face needed more help. Hannibal could be three steps ahead again, at least for some things.
But mostly he had to deal with each new day as it arrived. Had to see how his lover was feeling each morning, whether Face needed to spend the day in bed, whether he needed to be held, or to just be left alone for a while. Quite often Face was absolutely fine, and it was easy to believe he wasn’t ill at all. They quickly learned to take advantage of those good days.
In the end, it turned out that being three steps ahead wasn’t most important thing at all. In the end, it was about making the most of every moment they had together, every moment the four of them stayed free and Face wasn’t feeling too poorly. The most important thing was just being together – that was the one plan Hannibal had that would never change.