by Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2010
Summary: Just a little drabble after having seen The A-Team on the big screen. Murdock has to placate a very angry B.A…. with very limited resources.
Disclaimer: These guys don't belong to me and I'm not doing this for profit. Just cooking up a little bit of fun.
Friday, 23:46 hours
"He's waking up, Murdock..."
"Naw, he's not."
"Look at him! Jeez! He's gonna be pissed…"
Murdock knew. It was pretty much SOP by now after a half-dozen missions together with the Big Guy and the rest of the team. Once the last of the sodium pentathol had run through Bosco's veins, he wouldn't just be pissed.
If Murdock were lucky, maybe they'd be able to find at least some recognizable part of him to put in a box back to Dover. If he were unlucky, well…
The critters in and around Lake Titicaca would eat well for a few days.
Wait a sec. Wait just a sec…
"We still got that fancy box from that Kashmiri rug merchant in our little birdie?" he asked, eyes twinkling.
Hannibal and Face looked for a moment at each other, then to the writhing, groaning form of B.A.
"What for?" they asked almost at once. They knew the drill by now, too.
Friday, 23:48 hours
B.A. didn't know where the hell he was. That only ever meant one thing.
"Hannibal!" His voice was slurred but forceful.
The Colonel was sitting a few yards away, putting a fresh edge on his favorite throwing knife. "Did you have a good sleep, Corporal?"
"I gonna kill that crazy-ass fool."
"You might want to ask him what's on the menu tonight before you do," Hannibal said, nonchalant. "Just a suggestion."
B.A. had been in the process of rising gingerly from a crouch, legs wobbling underneath his massive bulk. He stopped.
"You messin' with me."
"Smell for yourself."
He did. And it took him far away from…somewhere.
He still didn't know where he was.
Friday, 23:52 hours
The stolen Kiowa provided only minimal shelter from the howling west winds, but it was just enough to keep the flame under the little Sterno going.
Murdock chopped, diced, stirred with manic precision. In another life, he might have been a short-order cook slinging hash and biscuits to a crowd of eager patrons at some greasy spoon in Little Rock. As it was, he was squatting in the shadow of a bird he'd stolen from underneath the noses of a really loco bunch of Marxist commandos, almost out of fuel, on the windy highlands above La Paz.
And a certain companion of his was getting hungry.
Order up, baby.
The mixture was starting to congeal. The Kashmiri box, stashed in the hold, had been chock-full of delicious ingredients. But the dish still needed an extra-special touch. And he was almost out of fuel, which meant no special sauce this time.
"Lessee…I need a secret ingredient…gotta spice this baby up…Bosco, he loooves his spices, yes he do…"
He fumbled in his pockets. There had to be something.
Friday, 23:58 hours
"Thought you said he busted out the apron, man," B.A. growled as his stomach did the same.
"Would you relax?" Face had made his perimeter sweep with the Ruger, uneventfully so, and rejoined them around their Coleman lantern. "I'm sure it's worth waiting for."
B.A. had to agree. It did smell like heaven. Curry, to be exact.
"What's takin' that fool so long?" he grumbled.
Saturday, 00:02 hours
"Oooh, lookie what I got for you...one howlin' mad blue plate special."
Murdock wore his "Kiss the Cook" apron around his waist, and his grand gestures were those of a maitre'd at a five-star restaurant. In one hand, he offered a tin plate heaped with steaming basmati curry casserole.
"You dragged me on that chopper again, fool. Lied to me. Better start makin' it up to me right now."
"First…in terms of how we gotcha on that pretty bird…it was kinda like slinging a bag of feed rather than dragging, ya know?" Murdock began, his brow furrowing. "And remember, don't I always bring your favorite culinary treats when we travel in the wild blue? Eat up, now, before it gets cold."
Saturday, 00:06 hours
"Mmmmmffff." B.A. was inaudible. He was down to his last few bites of basmati.
"What's that, big guy?"
Saturday, 00:07 hours
"Can't believe it. Out here, middle 'a nowhere, and he fixes curry." B.A. smiled gratefully, rubbing at his stomach. "How you do it, man?"
"Never ask an artist that question," Murdock responded in his most prim British tones.
"You got any more?"
Murdock grinned. "Thought thirds would be enough for ya. Guess not."
"I liked those red things a lot. Kinda sweet and tangy, man. What were they?"
Only then did Murdock hesistate, pulling at his apron strings. "You know what they say, muchacho. 'Waste not, want not.'"
B.A. looked down at his empty plate, then back to Murdock, who was fidgeting more animatedly now. "What you tryin' to say?"
"Remember that little stopover we had? Outside Quito?"
"No. You guys knocked me out…"
"Don't you just love that basmati? Want some more? C'mon, big guy…"
"Not until you tell me, fool."
"Not a good idea. It's a 'secret ingredient.'"
Saturday, 00:09 hours
"Tell me! Tell me!"
Saturday, 00:10 hours
"I shoulda known better than to trust that fool." B.A. said, well into his fourth serving of casserole, now visibly missing any red pieces.
"You did eat it, though," Hannibal said with a shrug.
"Without any complaints," added Face.
"Yeah, but, hell…" B.A. looked over to where Murdock worked more magic over the cauldron of the little Sterno.
"It beats tree bark and cicadas, B.A. He was improvising."
And B.A. hungrily tucked into the curry again.