Disclaimer: the A Team does not belong to me and I make no profit from this.
At first I don't really understand why I am rolling down your cheek. You're safe here.
They have warm beds, good food, and you're even allowed out of your room occasionally. There's a TV, you have a pinball machine in your room, and the people amuse you. The walls are sparkling, the floor is spotless, and they clean your clothes. And it's not even like you're stuck here permanently– you know Face'll be back in a week or so to spring you again (sometimes it's almost a month and you don't know if he'll come back and you're sure you can't make it and you think you've been abandoned by the only people you've ever trusted but just when you're about to let go he's there again, just like he said he would be, flashing that smile and winking those eyes).
More importantly, they dish out the little blue pills that quieten down the voices for a bit, turn your head the right way round, flip the old grey matter so it's thinking in a way similar to normality, a semblance of sane.
So I am confused, at first. You collapse onto your bed like a sack of spuds and just stare at the abhorrently neutral walls for what seems like a lifetime, but is only a few seconds. In that few seconds I make my way to the tip of your nose and hang there for an instant, hovering between the familiar and the unknown abyss, and I am about to drop but then you wipe angrily at the escaping sorrow and I am saved.
I have a better vantage point now, watching from your hand. You see me glisten in the sickly glow of the fluorescent lights. Your face is blank. Your mind is a whirlwind of turbulent emotions and thoughts, half-imagined fears and crushing doubts, and yet all you show is a brave stab at normalcy. Admirable, but pointless. Who are you trying to fool?
For a mere second, your features contort and you finally show the full extent of your inner turmoil and at last, I begin to understand why I am sitting here on your hand.
You miss them.
Not a question, no. A statement.
You miss every single one of them so, so much. You miss the mad glint in the colonel's eye when he thinks of something spectacular. You miss the smell of the fine cigars he smokes. You miss the way he always seems to know what he's doing, always seems to have a plan, even when he's admitted that you're up a certain creek without a paddle.
You miss the casually coiffed hair of your favourite conman. You miss the way his baby blue eyes twinkle when he knows he's going to pull off the most unbelievable scam. You miss how he understands you and why you do the things you do when it seems no one else does.
You even miss that angry mudsucker, when his face twists all up because he's reached the end of his tether (usually due in no small part to you). You miss the ropes of gold hung around his neck, when they sparkle in the LA sun. You miss the rare words of kindness you squeeze out of him sometimes, when he's not prepared, that let you know that 'Bad Attitude Baracus' is all a facade.
You miss the banter you have in the van, you miss the camaraderie that is only struck upon once in a lifetime, you miss testing how far you can push BA before he throws you in a lake, you even miss the times when the colonel's plans don't work out the way they're supposed to.
You miss them, all of them, all of it; the sheer freedom and implausibility and fun of the A Team.
But that's not why you're crying.
You're afraid they don't miss you. You're afraid that when Face has delivered you into the waiting arms of the VA, he doesn't give you a second thought as he's speeding away, no doubt off to some glamorous, sophisticated affair. You torture yourself over it, convincing yourself that eventually he'll decide you're not worth the hassle, that he'll convince Hannibal and BA that they have no need for a pilot, especially not some unhinged, unstable, unbalanced freak who has to be busted out of an asylum every other day.
You're stone cold terrified that one day, old Templeton'll just stop coming. Because you know that if he decides he doesn't want to waste his time on some lunatic who used to be fun to be around, you won't get told. Oh no, you won't get any sort of notice or letter. And you'll go one of two ways, you know you will.
Either you'll convince yourself that they haven't ditched you, they haven't thrown out old H.M. Murdock along with the rest of the junk that seems to accumulate in the van. That they simply couldn't abandon their good friend, no matter how crazy he is. In some ways, that's worse than the other option. Sitting every day, just waiting, surrounding yourself with false hope, arming yourself with memories of the good times, desperately trying to stop the cold, harsh truth invading your mind and twisting it more than it already is.
Or your head's so screwed up it won't even bother with some sort of self defence mechanism, it won't even put the effort into trying to convince itself the Team are still going to come back for you someday soon. The crushing truth will hit devastatingly home and your already fragile mind will crumble into an oblivion of lunacy. Then the world will see the true extent of the madness of Murdock.
That's why you're crying. And I am the only witness to your distress.
A/N - This was written to try and get me back into the habit of writing again. I was perusing the net when I found the prompt 'Write from the point of view of a teardrop' (I forget where) and that inspired this. I know it's short but it has been ages since I've written anything half decent and I was afraid if I tried to make it any longer I'd ramble. Forgive me :)
First time I've ever written for the A Team, let me know what you think!