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Author's Note: shadowwalker213, glad to have you onboard. Hope definitely to hear more on what you think.
L Zaza, I sincerely hope I shall not disappoint when it comes to that grand moment to tying the threads. The part about Leslie, yes, I seriously and fervently repeat that last sentence. Nancy, and subsequent OCs who shall be turning up, well, they're all very good to the plot, but a lot of them will be to show the transition in Face's life from one of the A-Team to a fellow on the lam.
Hecate Triformis, thank you for the compliment. Yes, my updating schedule is getting shoddy, but I dislike writer's block as much as it dislikes my writing— I've got the good parts written in snatches, but the "bad parts" are taking me forever. We need Face-centric fanfic? By God! You don't think the large population of FacexMurdock (mostly trash, without the few gems of an exception, definitely) and what not other gay affairs is enough::grins::
PS. If anyone hasn't read it already, the callus problem has been resolved in a simple, non-violent, and amusing way; thank you to IndeMaat and the Protectors of the A-Team. If you want to see the callus removed, (even it's staying on in this story) I recommend Chapter Eight of the fic.
Chapter Four
"When was the last time you, me, and I went fishing?" he said in a funny voice.
Jason tilted his head, looking bemusedly at Templeton. The two men were standing on the end of the pier, lines of their fishing rods dipped in the slow river water. A bucket, flecked with water droplets stood near them, but it was empty.
"That's a funny question," he said.
Templeton shrugged. "Maybe. I was just thinking, that's all..."
"Highly uncharacteristic of the Face Man," observed Jason, and Templeton looked mock-miffed at him.
"Oh sure," he said sarcastically. "Face never thinks. He never thinks that Hannibal's too old to go in through the front door, when the bloody world agrees with him!"
"Aren't you boys interesting folk?"
A third voice surprised them, and they turned hastily, breaking off. Stepping on the pier, and advancing towards them was Nancy Bedford. Her hair blew freely in the wind since she'd washed it and it looked as silky and springy as it was, and she laughed as she came closer.
"I got bored alone at home," she confessed. "I came to see if you two wouldn't mind company."
"Not at all," said Templeton immediately. He cast a very pointed look at Jason who had said nothing, but was heavily glared at in return.
"You're my sister," he said. "Figure it out." Then he moved aside on the edge, and said, "Come on, come closer. The view's lovely."
She carefully made her way, walking deliberately next to Templeton and leaned forward, but not too much, and said directly to her brother, "Wow! You're right. The coast looks so far away, and those sea-gulls ... they look like they've been painted."
"Why don't you paint them?" he said quietly.
Nancy looked around at him. Templeton's clear, innocent blue eyes gazed back.
"I put away the canvases a long time ago. Now's too late to start again."
From behind, Jason too was staring incredulously at her. Templeton said, surprised, "But you could paint so well ... Why it give up?"
"I don't have anything to paint, that's all. It's not a big issue, so didn't get fooled by how my brother's probably staring at me with saucer-big eyes."
"Hey," said Jason, affronted. "That's only 'cause I saw you poking around the attic last week. That is where you keep your paints."
"I was looking for some rubbish, not my paints, so don't get carried away and don't give Templeton the wrong impression. I don't paint anymore."
There was something very defeatist about her manner that belied the casualness of her tone. Templeton caught Jason's eye when he said,
"Okay, why don't you and I set up an easel and canvas here this evening? The landscape is attractive, and you could call it View From the Pier: Artist's Impression, or something. Then I'll see if I can bring around a art dealer of sorts and make him tell you it's good ... I might have to con him a bit first, but that's your standard occupational hazard. What do you say?"
Nancy said nothing; she only gave her snort of laughter.
You are just brimming with evil, thought Nancy savagely, as she tramped down the wooden planks after Templeton, and she told him as much.
"Excuse me, lady," he managed between gasps of breath, as he trudged with the weight of easel and a hardwood stand (while she merely carried a paper bag with a roll of canvas sticking out of it), "but are you really supposed to be insulting the hired help? We have a union, you know ... Guild For Workers Slaving Under Pretty Women."
"Shut up," she said primly.
They set up the easel, and mounted the canvas, and since Nancy hadn't wanted to bring a stool along as well, she would stand with her palette and brushes.
It was a beautiful evening, the sun not yet set, still suspended above the sea, raking its waters with orange light beneath the lavender-red sky. Templeton perched at the end of the pier, crouched on his heels, one hand dipping down but too high to trail in the water.
He was determined to leave Nancy alone with this one. This was going to be her and her alone, and when she was done, he'd help back and shuttle her things back home. He watched the waves ripple, gently like the sea. Oh, it was a beautiful day, a beautiful evening. A beautiful girl, and a beautiful life.
He blinked, startled by the dampness in his eyes. He wiped away the tears with a knuckle, turning around to catch a precious glimpse of her.
She was turned away from him, her hands deftly sweeping the upper of the canvas, her gaze darting like a moth from the paint to the sky. He watched her, his head turned, like he was watching his life play in her adroit, artistic movements. There was beauty in that, he thought. Simple beauty. Simple things like love. Like comfort. Like Hannibal, like BA, like Murdock, so far away from him now.
His eyes were prickling again, and he turned away.
The brush went on painting. It had a life of its own, a self-willed duty to paint all that was left on earth. Nancy smiled, her head bowed over the easel, her shadow falling over the painting. It had been certainly worth it, coming to the pier. She didn't regret not picking up her palette again sooner.
Jason Bedford halted on the foyer, the door still open. Templeton was standing by the lace-doily covered table under the stairs, his hand over the telephone. His eyes narrowed. "How long exactly?"
"Err, just a bit off Langley. The phone there's kind of high security. That's the problem."
Jason nodded, leaning against the doorframe for a minute, not thinking of the cost. He'd feel like a cad if he didn't let Peck make this call.
"You sure? I could go to a pay phone, if you like."
"No, dammit. Just use mine."
Templeton offered a smile. "Thanks," he said, with that touch of sincerity that went straight to people's hearts. "I really appreciate this, Jason. You're a real friend."
"Hey. You saved my life, when I was trapped in a oil mine fifteen feet into the earth, remember?"
"That was Nancy's fault that we did."
Jason's lips grinned. It was roguish, half-jovial, half-unreadable. "Then, let's just say I'm doing this for her sake, too." He pushed away from the door, closing it behind him, and strolled into the house.
The dial tone sounded loud and irritating as it emanated from the telephone receiver against Templeton's ear. Pick up, he thought. Don't pick up. Finally, someone lifted the phone on the other line.
A burst of static, silence, and he knew the security mechanism was doing its checks. For a reckless moment, he didn't care if Stockwell knew it was him, even if it was unlikely. This was why it was safer to use Jason's number than a pay phone. No one knew in black and white that they had helped the Bedfords— and pay phones were suspicious.
"Hello?" It was Hannibal's voice. The blood roared in his ears.
"H-hello?" His own voice deepened, and it acquired the faint trace of an old Pennsylvanian accent that Jason had. "Smith?"
"Jason Bedford? That you, Kid?" The way he spoke, sounded like he was smoking one of his cigars.
He swallowed. "Yeah, Smith, it's me. The others there?"
"Uh, lemme check." A hand muffling the mouthpiece, a yell in the background. Hannibal came back on. "Yeah, go on. There's three of us, here."
"Murdock? BA?" His voice burst out louder, like he was put on speaker. "It's ... me."
"Yeah, we hear ya loud and clear, Roger."
"His name's Jason, fool." Templeton grinned. The unnecessary emphasis BA put when articulating that particular epithet was so familiar all of a sudden. "Hey, how's Nancy?"
"As pretty as ever."
"You doin' okay, Jason?"
"Yeah, peachy, Murdock." That note of anxiety was touching. "Uh, I'm planning a vacation, actually. Do you guys want to come? It's going to be a good party: all sun, only picnic."
Hannibal said, his voice casual, but Templeton had sensed the uneasy glances they must be exchanging, "Maybe another time, Kid. We're a little busy this time of year."
"Oh, okay." So wasn't safe, after all, to tell them where he was moving to. "You could drop by to visit me anytime, you know. I've still got the flat in the city."
"Tempting offer, Bedford."
And now the last act of their play. "Uh, where's Face? Nancy might like to have a word."
"He's indisposed, Jason, sorry. He's not with us right now."
"Miss him the hell of a lot, though." Murdock again.
"Okay. So, guess I'll hang up now? Wasn't much of a reason why I called. Just to hear your voices, I guess. This is goodbye for now then?"
The reluctant farewell echoed from the other line.
"You take care of yerself, now, got that?" The last word of caution from BA, and then, there was a click. The line went dead.
On the other coast.
"You're crazy," he pronounced.
Templeton shrugged. "So, it's a long walk. Accepted. But no one knows me anywhere else."
"That's the point. The MPs will have a harder time finding you anywhere else. You go back there— you walk into their arms." He didn't know there was the Stockwell Factor, ready to hunt the Face Man down, but the Face Man, even if he didn't exist anymore, knew quite well.
"LA's still home."
Jason glared. "So are the caves, by that logic ... Jesus! When were you last in Los Angeles? Five years ago?"
"If Lieutenant Decker is still after us, then MPs are not really a problem," he reasoned. "I mean, I know you haven't met Decker, but the guy hasn't received a promotion since the Vietnam War. Shouldn't that say something to you?"
Unconvinced was the expression when Jason growled in his throat. He didn't like Templeton's stubbornness, but it wasn't his choice to make, and it wasn't his life. He knew Templeton was as aware — maybe more? — of the risk being calculated over the dinner table.
Unwillingly, he gave in, and the two men pored over the maps, trying to work out the route Templeton would be taking as he crossed the whole of the United States of America to reach California— his "home."
"You're awake?"
"Hi, Nancy."
"Hi." She was holding something big behind her back, and she edged into his room when he invited her in, shielding it from him. Smiling at the mysterious air, he took in the sight of her— hair wrapped in a scarf with dark tendrils escaping, a half-worn apron over her jeans and blouse, and a smatter of colour on her cheek. She'd been painting.
She confessed the moment she was accused, looking shy as she stood in his room with her bare feet. "I-I wanted to show it you."
"I'd love to see it!"
She put it face-down on the bed, and Templeton appeared above her shoulder. "Can I turn it around?" he asked, eagerness laid bare in his voice like the little boy celebrating his first Christmas at the orphanage, unsure if he was going to be getting any presents.
He reached out, when she nodded hesitantly, and he gingerly flipped it over on the bed. He froze.
There was only a face, and little else. A human face against a sunset-coloured backdrop, a little shakily done. A man's face. Smooth skin with faint creases from laughter, tanning with the sun. A contemplative mouth. A child's blue eyes. Captured in a moment of vulnerability, with all the emotions laid bare.
He could picture this face as a man's face. A man by the pier, watching the sunset, turning around when he thought the artist wasn't looking. But she had been looking.
Nancy always had.
