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Hands

Hands

by Soulseeker

 

Rating: NC 17 for implied m/m slash, nothing graphic though, implied childhood sexual and physical abuse.

Summary: Murdock's thoughts on a long night.

Disclaimers: Don't own 'em but I kidnapped them and their chained up naked in my bathtub :) !!!

 

Handsнн

 

   I lie here, watching your hands by the pale glow of the full moon, you spooned behind me with one hand around my chest. I watch your hands...strong, slim, pale in the moon light, a recent manicure on your artistic like fingers. I watch your hands.

   To others they may seem soft, as if you've never done a hard days work. But to the ones who know you, the team and I, know that they are rough with calluses, tiny scars crossin'  the palms and knuckles.

   I watch your hands when you aren't aware of it. When you're runnin' a scam, pickin' a lock, crackin' a safe, assemblin' a weapon. Fightin', gesterin', pickin' a pocket, I watch. They can be hard as a brick one moment and soft as silk in another.

   It's not just your hands that I've watched and observed over the years. Hannibal's hands are usually encased in black  leather gloves. He's always sure of his movements, whether in a small, cramped room or in large spaces, playin' to audiences that aren't there. The ultimate actor.

    B.A.'s hands... ahhh, B.A.'s hands are kinda like yours. Poundin' one minute and soothin' the next. Surprisingly delicate for someone so large. Not that I'd say somethin' like that to the Big Guy. I'd like to keep my screwed up head on my shoulders thank you very much.

   The first set of hand I remember watchin'  was my mother's hands. Just about the only things I remember of mama was her hands and her voice. She loved singin' and workin' in her flower garden. She never wore gloves and her hands always smelled of the rich, dark earth.

   The second set of hands of my memory was of my father's. They were gentle until mama died. They got rough after she passed on, usually with a beer in one hand and the strap in the other. He taught me to fear hands. That's why I've never slept much... hyper, always movin' . I learned at an early age to always keep movin',  to try to keep away from the hands. Hands that hit. Hands that hurt. Hands that ... that ... never mind ! I need to keep those memories buried down deeper.

   I feel you movin' behind me as if you sensed my distressin'  thoughts. You snuggle deeper against me, like your tryin' to crawl inside my body. You throw your top leg over mine, which causes your soft shaft to nestle into the crack of my ass. That little maneuver caused Jr. to perk up. I have to tell it, "Down Boy."  Jr. regretfully goes back to sleep. Your hand over my chest flutters around, makin' sleepy-like pats on my stomach as if to calm my dark thoughts. You nuzzle your face into the back of my neck, mutterin'  somethin'. It could have been , "I love you", "I want you" or "Feed the damn cat" . I'm not sure but it does comfort me.

   After my dad ... after my dad .. well, after! I couldn't stand to be touched. By anyone. At least voluntarily. If it was necessary I always kept the contact as brief as possible. I got that reputation in 'Nam. I don't touch anyone and nobody touches me. I wouldn't even shake hands.

   Then I met you guys. You, Hannibal, B.A. and Ray. Alright, I'll admit it now. B.A. and Ray scared me. A lot. They were much bigger then me, they drank, and they had short tempers. Just like dear old dad. That's why I liked to tease 'em. Push  'em and see how far I could go. See if they were like my dear old dad. Oh, sure they chased and threatened me but they never even got close to hurtin' me like that. But you,  Face, you scared the All Holy Hell  out of me. I watched everyone's hands and you watched me. Before I knew it, I found myself on the team and you always near me, gettin' under my skin. Against my better judgment I kept lettin'  ya'll talk me into goin' to the bars, a danger zone for me.

   The smell of smoke and booze sent me back into my childhood. Nights spent peelin' Dad off the floor of some rat hole dive of a bar, draggin' him home and tryin' to sober him up for work the next day. Never got a thank you for my troubles. Only a beatin' and 'other' things best left forgotten. I didn't know what was worse ... him drunk in a bar or drunk at home. At least when he was at a bar I got a few hours peace. That's why I never drank.

   I learned to hide it of course. Can't have a tee-totalin' Southern boy. Ain't natural. I learned to act the part of a fun lovin' drunk. Wasn't hard at all. Just act the complete opposite of Dad. Hold a bottle of beer in my hand and pretend to drink. After everyone has a few they forget to count how many I've had.

   But you, always watchin', somehow knew that somethin'  was up. You never said anything then, perferin' to watch me. You saw how nervous and skiddish I was around B.A and Ray when they drank. How I always paid close attention to their hands. How I edged away or flinched when their hands got too close to me. How when a fight would break out I would freeze at first, then joined in on the fun, always makin' my way to the door. I wasn't a coward. Not by a long shot. I could fight well, could hold my own in a fair fight. I might not start  'em but I sure as hell finished more the my fair share.

   I remember that night. I finally ran out of excuses for not goin'. I got duty, got a mission, bar didn't have my favorite brand of beer. The first two could be easily dismissed by lookin' at the duty rouster, the third usually worked real well. Until you asked what brand I liked and like a fuckin' moron I answered. But to be honest I did think that I was being smart at the time to come up with some rare, hard to find brand. I was still congratulatin'  myself a week later when you presented me with four cases of my 'favorite' brand. You looked so pleased and I was so shocked that I could only stutter a lame thank you. I had severely underestimated you. The first and last time.

   After that it got harder to avoid goin'. Like I said, you must have been watchin' me for weeks before that night. I ended up between B.A. and Ray... a bad position for me. Too nervous to play drunk I just sat there, enduring the long night. The later it got the more they drank. The louder they got the more miserable I became. Ray told a funny joke that had B.A. poundin' the table in helpless laughter. Ray innocently slapped me across the shoulders and suddenly I couldn't breathe. I had to get out of there. Somethin' must have shown on my face because you asked me if I was alright. I couldn't say anything. I was too busy tryin' to remember how to suck air into my lungs. I managed to stumble out of the chair and shove and push my way to the door. You followed me. I managed to get a few yards away from the club before I lost what little I had in my stomach. A few minutes after I threw up you touched me on the arm, askin' if I was alright. I violently flinched and edged away from you.

   You kept askin' what was wrong. I couldn't say a word. Every step you took toward me I'd take a step back. This dance continued for a few minutes with neither of us sayin' anything. Your eyes shown some sort of understandin' and you softly asked me, "Whose the fucking bastard that hurt you so bad?" That's the last thing I remember before I blacked out.

   I woke up in the team's hootch and saw Ray's concerned face loomin' over me. I was still disoriented and he startled me so much that I fell off the cot. I picked myself  up off the floor and ran out of the hootch so fast I must have left tread marks behind me. Found out later that I was out cold for two days. Doc said it was from exhaustion. Made sense 'cause I was flyin' back to back missions. Colonel wanted me to move in with the team. I refused at first. Then it became an order and I had to. Didn't want to, afraid that I'd keep ya'll awake with nightmares. But ya'll never said a word about them. I appreciated that. I began to relax a little around the team. Came off my guard a little. Then B.A. and Ray became 'protective' of me. Had a lot more patience. Made me uncomfortable and uptight all over again so I began to needle 'em harder. Really poured it on thick. Took over a week to drive B.A. over the edge. When he came after me, callin' me a crazy fool and chasin' me around the compound, I felt like I finally belong somewhere. We all got closer and the walls I built around me began to come down.

   Then came that R and R in Hawaii. You taught me that hands can bring pleasure. God, did they bring pleasure. Shouldn't think about that, Jr. would never go back to sleep. That was the first night you held me in your arms. I felt safe. Warm. Loved. Something I haven't felt in a long long time. You made me into a touch junkie. I couldn't seem to get enough.

    Wasn't long after that that we were captured and sent to Choa's P.O.W. camp. It was ok the first few weeks. Alright, it wasn't ok , but it was almost bearable compared to what happened later. After they found out I was a pilot it got a whole lot worse. They taught me to be terrified of hands again.

   Wouldn't let anyone touch me after an interrogation. I shoved myself into a corner of the bamboo cage, wouldn't let anyone near me, includin' you. Knew it hurt you, but I couldn't help myself. Didn't, wouldn't, couldn't let anyone touch me. I felt dirty ... damaged inside. Like it was before. They did things to me that my father wouldn't dream of doing to me in my worse nightmares.

   I knew they came after me more because I was a pilot. The more brutal they became, they deeper I went into my head. The team talked to me all the time, bringin' me back to myself. It was then that I let  myself be touched... held. After awhile it was just you that could break though the walls that I put back up around me, blockin' out the pain and the rest of the world. Never told you that I really, really hated you. Bringin' me back to reality... back to a world filled with pain. Wanted to stay in my own little place ... where I was safe and secure. I hated that you dragged me out time after time.

   I know now that it was for the best. I would have died there... gladly... but that would have left you all alone. I can't stand that thought now. It would have been suicide and I know how you feel about that. Funny huh? Everyone thinks that it was their voices that brung me back time after time. It wasn't. Well, at first it was, but when it got really, really bad, and baby I mean bad , it was the hands that brought me back. Ironic, huh? It was hands that drove me deep into my head and it was hands that brung me back out. Oh, not just any ol' hands would do. The teams hands didn't hurt. They made me feel safe for a little while. At least until the next interrogation and then we started all over again.

   Then came the lesson that Chao decided to teach me. So far he had no luck in breakin' me. Actually, he had no luck in breakin' any of us but I think he was more pissed off at me. Ya'll might of had his top interrogator workin' on ya'll but he took a more personal interest in me. He conducted my little torture sessions himself. Always knew I was special. He liked to break the pilots himself. I wasn't breakin' so far so he decided to up the ante. I remember the General and his guards takin' me and Alex Miller out of  the camp. I figured that we were being transferred to the Hanoi Hilton or somewhere like that, like where most of the pilots were suppose to be taken. I remember leavin' the camp with Miller. I just don't remember anything else, includin' comin' back to camp. No matter how hard I try I can't remember what happened to Miller ... to me ... to us. I had completely shut down by then. Ya'll told me I was like that for nearly a month. I think I came out of it briefly, near the end, but it's kinda hazy. I may never recover that memory and I'm not too sure I want too. If it caused me to totally shut down, I know I don't want to remember.

   Then we escaped. Which I don't remember, no big surprise there. I found that I blocked a lot of that time out. Well, almost blocked it out. I still have nightmares, real humdingers from what I can drag out of ya'll. Ya'll never really tell me the whole story of them. I know ya'll keep part or most of it out. I guess that ya'll afraid that I'll go off the deep end again. Sometimes I can't blame ya'll. I'm afraid too.

   I came to in a hospital. We recovered physically pretty well. Psychologically... well... some more the others I guess. I managed to fool the head shrinker enough to stay with the team. I had to. I don't think I would have made it very far with out the team. Them came that mission that sent ya'll to the brig and me to a hell hole of a V.A. That place came pretty damn close to being back in Choa's camp.

   You guys broke out of the brig and found me. We spent months on the run. I was pretty bad off by then and rapidly going down hill with no breaks. I guess ya'll thought I was fakin' or something, but I continued to get worse. You guys didn't know what to do and I couldn't tell you what was wrong. By then I'd stop talkin', eatin' , drinkin' or even movin'. I simply existed ... if you could call it that. Some how I ended up in Westwood V.A in L.A. Years later I found out that the condition that I was in was a catatonic state. At least that's what the Docs called it. I only knew that I had a huge hole in my memory that I'll never be able to fill.

   After the heat from the M.P.'s died down some, ya'll began to visit me. Still in a catatonic state but ya'll came to me , talk to me, touch me again. You said it took nearly a year but I began to respond. It took another year before I was able to reconize ya'll. When I got better ya'll began to break me out for little day trips. Nothing too long, an hour here or there, little picnics with just the four of us. No pressure to get better. God, you wouldn't believe the pressure some of the docs were puttin' me through. You guys just accepted me. No pushin' or anything. It made me feel normal ... more stable. I slipped backwards sometimes but ya'll never judged me. Never made me feel like some kinda freak or that I'll go off or something. You began to break me out for missions. Little ones at first, and I improved. Became more aware of reality. Sorta aware. At least for me.

   The two of us got back together after awhile. We both made sure it was what we wanted. I know that you didn't want too at first. That you felt like you were takin' advantage of me because of my fragile mental state but you wasn't. I wanted you as badly as you wanted me. We went... oh so slowly... and I knew it was because of me. I'll always love you for that. For lettin' me make some of the decisions in our relationship. For making me feel like I was real. Because sometimes I didn't feel real. You made me feel real.

   Oh, look. It's dawn. Maybe I'll be able to get in a few hours sleep before we have to get up. All in all, I'd rather watch your hands all night then to have even a small nightmare. I'd never say something that sappy out loud. At least not yet. The dawn's early light edges your beautiful hands in a deep rose and pale gold as they surround me.

   I watch your hands.

 

 

 The end.

 


Hands by Soulseeker

 

 


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