By Clarity Scifiroots
Fandom: The A-TeamPairing: Face/Murdock
SPOILERS: Without Reservations
Rating: General but there's blood and a serious boo-boo
Summary: A close look at Face during the episode's events.
Eleventh day of June!fic – for eldritchhobbit's hurt request again
& for drabbles100 claim, "agony (79)" (#3 of 100)
Edited July 6, 2006
Oh fuck. Since when had it become such a dangerous task to try stopping a couple of bozos from robbing a family business? He supposed it was fitting—no aspect of his life ever seemed to be completely safe these days. Everything was so far out of his control he could hardly call it his own life any more.
"Hang in there." A woman's voice, desperate sounding.
He tried to nod but had no idea if he succeeded. God, he'd been shot in the gut before, how come this hurt so much worse? No mission, no adrenaline, part of his mind analyzed, amazingly detached. Gee, that made everything so much better. Maybe the situation hadn't come about due to an assigned mission, but he and the others sure as hell had ended up walking into a mission. He was sure by now that the team would be getting ready to—
No. That's right, it was only Frankie, Murdock, and him. The Colonel and BA were back at the house, chilling out to watch the game.
"There's a plain one on the table over there."
He opened his eyes and watched as Murdock strode anxiously over to the counter; he was shooting cautious glances at the guy with the gun. He had an idea, some sort of plan. Thank God... Face groaned loudly, causing the girl above him to stifle a cry. He wished he could tell her it was alright, he'd lived through worse—just not recently. His complaints caught the gunman's attention, good. Murdock, I hope you know what you're doing.
He wondered how long it had been since he was moved into the kitchen. The tiles under his back felt too chilly and even though he could feel the sweat dripping down his face, he shivered with cold. Shit, he needed a doctor's help. Tablecloths just weren't made to bandage gunshot wounds. Jesus, when would he stop bleeding? His pulse beat thickly in his ears, and he swore he could feel the blood pumping out of him. He wondered distractedly if the tablecloths could be washed to look like there'd just been some major sauce disaster. Doubtful. How many clothes had he thrown out or burned over the years because of bloodstains? Nothing made it come out.
"...eyes? Please... Can you—?"
Face struggled to open his eyes and peer blearily at the faces hanging over him. Frankie was back, holding one of his bloody hands, although he couldn't feel it. The girl still had her hands clenched in the tablecloths covering his stomach. Murdock... where was Murdock? Struggling to listen, he caught snippets of his lover's familiar voice—angry, determined. An argument. Shit... don't do that! Out-gunned and far out-numbered. There wasn't anything they could do but wait, he knew that. Hannibal had always said it was something that they had to do sometimes. Well, that's what they had to do now. Even if it was slowly killing him.
Heh. What a terrible joke. Then again, if he really did end up dying here—on the cold floor of some small restaurant in DC, while on vacation, no less—that would be truly ironic and cosmically hilarious. So many years in Vietnam, barely scraping through non-life in a POW camp, picking up the broken pieces, arrested, escaping, and then running, always running, while extending a helping hand to anyone in need of help. He was still running with the team, although now the running was done in circles as Stockwell made them jump through hoops of fire and walk on tightrope above a field of razor-sharp swords. Damnit, he knew he should have slipped away when he had the chance. More likely than not, Stockwell would never decide to let them go. He was right, the pardon's were a perfect incentive that had the team doing back flips to make it through the missions. Hannibal could play his game—they could take out the cameras, the guards, and the listening devices, but it meant very little when they still came "home" at the end of the day.
Why'd you stick around, HM? He'd wondered that more than once. Now out of the VA, Murdock could go anywhere and do anything. He had no pardon to wait on, no record of traitorous actions to stain his files.
"Face... stay with me, muchacho."
His lover's voice again, this time low and private, for his ears only. He attempted a smile. By now his vision was blurred so badly that he couldn't make out any distinctive details of his surroundings. He could taste blood in his mouth and tried to cough. The action rocked his torso and he bit back a gasp. A warm trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth.
A whispered litany of curses came from his left—Frankie. And he thought he heard Hannibal? Did that mean they'd trounced the bad guys? God, he hoped so. He was definitely looking forward to some pleasant knock-out gas about now and a few shots of his old friend morphine.
"Get him behind the bar."
The hope that had bubbled up and overwhelmed him was doused with the harsh reality that something had gone wrong. He opened his eyes in a narrow squint, hoping he could garner some details. What he saw was Hannibal and Frankie crouching over him and reaching out. He bit back a cry of feared pain—oh shit... don't move him... please...
Of course they did. He screwed his eyes shut and tried valiantly to keep breathing as shoulders were wedged under his armpits. Somebody grabbed his feet so at least he wasn't dragging—one small fact for which he was grateful. It seemed like it took an eternity for them to lay him down again.
"You're going to be all right."
He felt like laughing and crying. Yeah, right. Nice one, Hannibal. But I doubt you're fooling anyone. "Co-colonel..."
A gloved hand brushed his cheek, surprisingly gentle. Yeah, that would confirm how bad things were. Hannibal was incredibly choosy about sharing his emotions through physical contact.
Just get these bastards, he thought. And take care of Murdock.