Hannibal finds Face still on deck, perched on his rusty metal stool behind the table, sliding the red plastic cups around through interconnected figures of eight, the half-finished bottles of Bud and empty cans of Pepsi at his elbows, dejection on his usually smiling face; it doesn’t sit well there, doesn’t suit him.

As he pulls a stool up from where the others have discarded them, scratching the metal feet across the deck, Face pauses in his cup shuffling, fingers resting on the base of one, other palm flat on the metal surface. He says, “I’m not you, Boss.”

It’s what Murdock said to him, it’s why he’s sought Face out this late in the game. The phrase isn’t typical of his comrade, his friend; it’s lacking his usual confidence and that does not bode well.

“No, you’re not,” he assures, “I’m better looking.” But his only reward is a bark of feigned amusement and the humour doesn’t breach the worry in the piercing eyes. He lets the smile slide from his face. “Don’t doubt yourself, Kid.”

Face shakes his head as he goes back to moving the cups but he does look up, looks directly at him. “It’s a ludicrous plan, even by our standards.”

Hannibal nods. “Yes it is. And that’s why it will work, because they won’t be expecting it. They never do.”

“Pike knows us.”

“He doesn’t. He just thinks he does.”

Face leans forward. “This isn’t your plan but you still think it’s going to work?”

“Of course!” He tries again. “You were taught by the best.”

Face sighs and sits back, rubbing his palms on the rounded metal edge of the table. So Hannibal reaches over for two Bud bottles and moves them through the cups, mimicking the trick, finally making Face smile even if it looks as though it’s being dragged out of him. Shaking his head, he reaches out and snatches one of the bottles, waiting for Hannibal to do the same, knocking them together before they drain the flat lager.

Then Hannibal sits up and lifts each cup in turn until he finds the three small silver balls under the final one and sets it back, starting a slow switcheroo. He slides them across the table top almost lovingly, each move smooth, crossing and uncrossing his wrists, lining them up before starting again.

He stops when Face puts a hand on top of his. Not choosing a cup. Not locating the ball. This is something different and it only lasts for a split second. Then he sits back and Hannibal does too.

“You know they’re not just going to reinstate us, right?” He’s not looking at him again, and this time it’s because he’s telling Hannibal something he already knows. A rhetorical question followed by a silent one that isn’t.

Hannibal hesitates. “I’ve been a soldier my whole life. Even when I was a kid. It’s all I ever wanted to be.” He’s glad Face isn’t looking at him, glad he isn’t seeing the emotion he’s barely had under control since Morrison blew up. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

It’s an admission he’s never made to anyone before and he doesn’t expect anything back, but Face remains silent for so long he thinks this heart-to-heart is over and he’s half way to his feet when he hears, “We’re a unit. We’ll always be a unit, just the four of us. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the military or in spite of it.”

He sits back down and smiles, reaching out his hand, palm to one side, as Face leans forward and brushes the tips of his fingers over the tips of Hannibal’s. Then he makes a noise, like a hum at the back of his throat, and goes back to the trick with the cups and the balls.

~

Murdock sleeps soundlessly, folded into a right angle in the open entrance of the container filled with disembowelled dolls. Hannibal envies him. They’re trained to sleep anywhere, to grab rest whenever a safe opportunity presents itself. But it isn’t the upcoming mission – the next suicidal plan – keeping him awake as the carrier ploughs on towards the port.

This time he finds Face in a container they’ve emptied for their own purposes. There’s a torch hanging on a nail that BA shot into the metal wall and it’s swaying with a movement of the ship he can’t feel. Face is further into the gloom, sitting with his back against the side of the container, knees bent, filing his nails with a brand new battery powered sander.

He doesn’t acknowledge Hannibal until he’s sitting opposite. Then he dumps the sander and lets one leg slide down until it’s flush with the floor, dropping his hands to his sides. For a long time they sit in an old, familiar silence but he knows Face will bore of it sooner or later, he always did, and true to form finally his head tilts to the right and he says, “It’s been a long time.”

Hannibal nods. “Yes, it has.” He smiles as Face smiles, and finally shifts towards him, reaching for him, fingers tangling in the edges of the green T-shirt’s neckline and pulling him forward. They close the gap in a mess of limbs, their mouths clash together and a well-worn fight resumes.

~

Murdock knows the moment he sets eyes on them, somehow he’s always known. The first time his eyes went wide and he covered his mouth and didn’t speak for a month. This time he lets out a burst of laughter without a word being said which alerts BA to them and the big man just groans and rolls his eyes.

“I thought you’d given up?” he asks, like Hannibal is a cigarette and Face is an addict. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

“Me too,” is all Face says in response. Hannibal looks at him, raises his eyebrow but can’t think of anything appropriate to say. He never can afterwards.