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Author of 75 Stories |
By Clorinda
Rated: PG
Category: General
Summary: Amy sits by Face in the hospital after he is admitted for injuries, and an impairment. One-shot.
Author's Note: This was inspired faintly by Murdock's earmuffs in "The Out-of-Towners," where the Face Man is a cabbie and a garbage trucker. The pairing here has a bit to do with the episode which came after the one where Amy joined the team. The episode where there was a religious fanatic who lived in a military-camp style place with his students, who were never allowed to speak.
But this is FacexAmy without fluff, but with a touch of angst, and although I have nothing against slash, somehow I can't picture the A-Team harbouring deep-running feelings for one another.
Except maybe BA and that van.
He hunted in his pockets for the grenade, hoping he hadn't lost the explosive little egg that you couldn't make a single measly omelette out of. He found it, pulled out the pin and leaning out the broken doorway, flung it as hard as he could at the rooftop.
It exploded in burst of flames, and a man was pitched over into the street. He snapped his neck instantly. That happened when you fell out of those seven-storey buildings.
Out of nowhere a car appeared at the mouth of the road. Damn expensive-looking limousine to be bringing to a street fight, but as the driver spun the wheels to gain control, a head popped out of the sunroof. And the head had a body. One that was firing a machine gun.
Hastily, Face opted to wisely duck back into the store.
Gunfire met gunfire outside, cracks of a pistol and more grenades and dynamite— Face banged open the back door and flipped on a light. His head was pounding with the pandemonium, and he could barely see.
The fluorescent tube light blinked a couple of times, before it lit the room. The floor was stacked with shelves and rubbish, but beneath the rusty metal desk, he saw, through blurry eyes, a young woman bound with raw ropes and a woolen gag shoved into her mouth. Barely walking steadily, he stumbled towards their client's daughter, and began to cut her free.
The battle raged on outside, and half the store was nearly blown away. Gunfire reached his ears louder, sharper, the reticence known of Vietnamese nights gone. He could feel blood trickling down inside the collar of his shirt, and he panicked for a moment, thinking he had hit his head too hard.
Suddenly, the half-freed girl let out a scream and threw herself on top of him. Face had just managed to catch her, reflexively falling to the ground and shielding her with his own body— before the sky exploded and the roof came crashing down.
He was in a hospital room, lying in the bed with an arm in a sling. He could barely remember anything, except the ceiling. He looked around, but he could see no clock, and the window had the curtains drawn. But it must be dawn by now.
The hospital was quiet, not a sound anywhere. Silent, and almost oppressively so. Someone had deliberately created the atmosphere; so pressingly sleepy and warm that Face sunk his back into the pillows again, and gently closed his eyes.
When he opened his eyes, the door to the ward was open, and Amy was standing in the doorway. She was alone, and nervous. Face pushed himself up, and rather surprised, called out to her.
He had blue eyes. Blond hair and blue eyes. How cliché. Every romantic story hero had blond hair and blue eyes. Every man Amy had been attracted to, and hurt by, had blond hair and blue eyes.
But Face was different. Always had been. Blond hair and blue eyes, the debonair lady-killer. But he was different where he had never loved Amy, never noticed her because her coltish legs and arms were never bared. Not in front of him.
And she, stupid, stupid girl, had waited for the day when he would come to love her with both his head and his heart, really know what she felt each time she saw him. The slow hammering feeling of loving someone and being left behind.
She closed the door behind her, raising her hand in greeting, careful not to say a word. She wouldn't trust her voice.
"Morning," Face greeted cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. "Do you have any idea what time it is? There's o clock he added, noticing as she looked around. Amy nodded simply, and unbuckling her watch from around her wrist, put it into his hand.
"Err, thanks," he said. He glanced at it. Seven-thirty. "Rather early, isn't it?" He started to give it back to her, but she caught his hand and shook her head. Face smiled, and pocketed it. "Remind me to return it the second they release me. I'm beginning to feel like Murdock."
Amy didn't return any of his friendly overtures— she didn't even smile. Her hands were tightly clutched in her lap as she sat beside the bed on a metal chair. She looked worried, anxious and apprehensive, biting her reddened lips.
As if on a reflexive train, she leaned over and straightened the pillow that was propping him up. Her hand stroked his cheek, and brushed away the strands of fine blond hair that fell into his forehead, and he lifted his face, smiling that slow warm smile at her for the first time.
Heat flooded her like fire, and almost unable not to, she whispered what she had always wanted to tell him, but never had the courage to. And such was cruel irony that the only time she found herself saying, "Godammit, I love you," was the only time he could not hear her. Puzzled, he watched her straighten suddenly, and angrily brushing at her eyes, she left. Thankfully she didn't slam the door. With the migraine building behind his eyes, he needed world peace.There was something on the side-table that he had not noticed before. It was a round, heavy vase blooming with vibrant yellow chrysanthemums. A card was propped up against it. Face picked it up. It was from Hannibal.
He hadn't seen the man all day, and pleased to see the colonel had visited, he read it. The words came like a hundred daggers at once, with white-hot blades. Coldness washed through his chest.
'Face.
Hope you get well soon, up and on your feet again. Murdock says he misses you already. Hannibal.'
Face lifted a hand, and touched the wasted shell of his ear, staring at the rest of it.
'I want you to believe me when I say we did everything we could. I'm sorry we could not return your hearing.'
Denial. That was his first reaction. He tried to laugh, but it caught and choked in his throat. He hated it when Hannibal pulled something like this. He'd nearly done it the last time too. Said all of those golden tresses had been shaved off for brain surgery. What a load of bull.
Still trying to laugh, he picked up the vase, and hurled it at the wall. It shattered, washing the wall and tiles with water and scattered flowers. Face reeled back from the shock, and gripping the edge of the side table, fell gasping for breath against the headboard.
The breaking vase had rocked like an explosion. Face had heard nothing. Only the sound of silence.
—- End -—
