Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Good guys two. Bad guys zilcharooney,” Murdock pronounces in one of the many random voices that often come out of his mouth. This is the second of the mercenaries he’s taken down, although he appreciates that Face softened him up first. He checks to make certain this one—he thinks he heard him called Hoffer—is well and truly out and is pleased to find he is. He glances to his right where Face kneels, one hand on his belly.

“You okay, Faceman?” He saw his teammate take a hit to the gut just before Murdock swung in on the zipline and tackled the baddie he’d been fighting.

Face nods loosely and waves his other hand in an “I’m fine” gesture, so Murdock refocuses on Hoffer, goes digging through his many pockets. To his delight, he finds exactly what he hoped for.

“Hey look, Face! He brought his own zip-ties. That’s handy.” He tosses a grin in Face’s general direction and rolls Hoffer onto his stomach so he can use one of the plastic strips to secure the guy’s hands behind his back. It’s nice getting a bit of turnabout like that.

Face still hasn’t said anything, and it strikes Murdock as odd. He expected a clever quip or sardonic comment by now. Making sure the merc isn’t breathing dirt, he leaves him where he lies and goes to Face who is slowly staggering to his feet.

“You sure you’re okay?” He takes Face’s arm and helps him upright.

“Yeah, yeah.” Face draws a breath. Not deep enough to fill his lungs but getting better. “Got the…wind knocked…out of me.”

“I hate when that happens.”

A pair of explosions roars through the woodland, and they both duck instinctively as twin plumes of smoke rise in the middle distance.

“I hope that’s a good sign,” Murdock says. “Hang on a sec.” He scampers to the highest point nearby—the top anchor post of the zipline—and uses the binoculars he left there to peer in the direction of the smoke. He spots B.A. standing triumphant over the biggest of the mercs, the scary one with the beard and the flat, soulless eyes. Three down, he thinks with grim satisfaction. He continues scanning the area, searching for a sign that Hannibal has taken down bad guy number four. Evidence comes in the form of an even bigger explosion a few moments later.

He hangs the binoculars from his neck and slip-slides down the steep hill since he doesn’t have anything he cares to sacrifice by throwing it over the cable of the zipline to descend quicker.

“It’s all good,” he informs Face. “Let’s haul this joker back to base to join his evil buddies.”

Hoffer is returning to consciousness, woozy and concussed. It’s enough to get him on his feet and moving, and Murdock herds him out of the gully at the point of his own gun. Huffing and puffing against the ache in his chest and gut, Face brings up the rear.

***

Kidnapping Harper’s wife and daughter is enough to put the mercenaries behind bars for a good long time even without facing charges for all the stuff they did to Hannibal and his team. If the rest of their scheme and the connection to the foreign syndicate come out in court, so be it. The A-Team will be far away when that happens.

Face feels better by the time all the uglies are hauled away by the cops (while the team is conveniently absent). He’s pretty sure his ribs are intact since he can finally get a decent breath, but his side and belly still ache from that last blow to his gut. So, when Hannibal says they’re all going to run back to the house while Tawnia and Maggie follow in the van like shepherds herding a small flock of sheep, Face does his best to dissuade him from the idea.

Of course he fails.

Facing Hannibal’s taunting and the grin he tosses over one shoulder, and Murdock jogging backwards giving a come-and-get-me motion with his hands, B.A. starts after them. Face, however, sees his out and takes it. He slides open the van’s side door before Tawnia can pull out and climbs into his usual seat.

His mistake is his cockiness. He should just shut the van door and call it done. He could easily charm Tawnia into letting him ride it out. But no. He has to act smug, giving the others a cheeky grin and a little wave.

Naturally, B.A. reaches out and yanks him from the van as it catches up to him. “If I gotta do this run with a belly full of milk, you gonna run, too,” B.A. declares.

There is no arguing with that, and before long, Face doesn’t have the breath for arguing anyway. He estimates they’re maybe half a mile into the roughly two-mile run back to the house he secured for the training week Hannibal ordered. There’s a stitch in his side he will never admit to, and he’s falling behind. The van nips at his heels, barely at a crawl as the rest of the guys pull ahead of him. He tells himself he’s lagging because he doesn’t want the others to notice how his hand keeps going to his side in a futile attempt to ease the pain. And sure, that’s true, because he’s got an ego and doesn’t want them to know he’s hurting. But the pain is real, and that’s what’s really causing his slowdown.

He struggles to pick up his pace, knowing the consequences if he doesn’t. After all, it was lagging that got him the original extra miles in the first place. I owe Murdock for that one, he thinks bitterly. Why his buddy called him out like that, he can’t figure. It wasn’t like I was behind the whole time. Mostly it was at the end there where everyone got ahead of me. Face shakes his head, sweat-damp hair falling briefly into his eyes. He swipes it away in annoyance, one more thing to hate about this whole situation.

It doesn’t help that Face has never enjoyed running. Not like Murdock, who loves a good sprint and is acting like this longer jog is his new favorite hobby. Hell, with his occasionally obsessive personality, it probably is his new favorite hobby—destined to be displaced by the next exciting thing to catch his attention. Face, on the other hand, considers running to be a necessary evil only to be employed when involved in a pursuit. He would rather do another belly-crawl under barbed wire than run a mile. He’ll never say that, of course, because Hannibal would for sure make him do it—and he’d still be forced to run.

The stitch in his side is worse. He’s back to having trouble drawing a decent breath. If he could just walk for a minute he could get his heartrate down and then get back to it. But with his teammates ahead of him and Tawnia and Maggie in the van bringing up the rear, straggling isn’t in the cards.

He stumbles, almost falls, barely keeps his feet and that only out of sheer stubbornness. He refuses to be the weak link in the chain. He’s still stinging from the double hit of Murdock throwing him under the workout bus and then being so easily duped by that woman the mercenaries paid off to lure him into their trap.

Is he really that easy? That predictable? Obviously, yes, he is.

He doesn’t like how that feels at all.

He doesn’t like how his body feels at all either. The stitch is edging toward a full-fledged cramp. He can’t catch his breath or calm his heart. He’s sweating like a racehorse. And the corners of his vision are weirdly dark. He’s cognizant enough of what his body is telling him to know he’s about to take a dive. He manages to angle himself toward the dirt and grass at the side of the road, keeping on his feet long enough to reach the marginally softer surface before collapsing onto his hands and knees.

He rolls onto his back, knees bent, feet planted, arms splayed by his sides. Struggling to breathe, he stares up at the bright blue sky, its edges fuzzy and grey—and not from clouds. He’s vaguely aware of the van pulling up. Hears a door open and footsteps jog closer.

“Face?” Maggie kneels beside him. Her hand is cool on his flushed cheek as she turns his head and peers into his eyes. “Look at me. Are you all right?”

Face would answer her if he could just catch his breath. As it is, focusing on her face is about all he can manage, and even that’s a challenge.

She was aware for a while that his pace wasn’t up to what Hannibal and Murdock had set. He’d fallen behind barely a quarter mile after B.A. rousted him from the van. She was surprised at first but unconcerned by it until he stumbled, pulled himself up, and then clearly began to waver. Even before he fell, she knew something was wrong. He might not be as quick on the jog as his teammates, but he isn’t out of shape. This relatively easy run shouldn’t affect him so adversely.

“What happened?” Hannibal stands to one side, breathing heavily, looming a little, casting a shadow over her patient.

“He collapsed,” she replies in a tone that would make a lesser soul balk. She’d put it to good use in the Chu Lai evac hospital, and it came back easily now.

“You sure he’s not shamming? You wouldn’t be the first doc he’s scammed to get out of PT.”

Face would be insulted by Hannibal’s words if they weren’t true. On principle, he gives his CO what he can in the way of a glare. It’s not much, but it gets his point across. Which is good, because his next instinct is to flip him off, and that wouldn’t go over well.

Hannibal shrugs one shoulder. “Sorry, kid, but you know it’s a fair question.”

Maggie checks Face’s pupils with the little penlight that lives in her purse. They react normally, so that’s reassuring. Her fingers press against the pulse point in his wrist, and she counts as she watches the second hand on her watch. “His heart’s racing. Breathing is shallow. He wasn’t drugged, too, was he?” She glances at the others, all crowded around like buzzards. “Will you all step back, please? This isn’t a spectator sport.” Everyone shifts enough that she no longer feels like her patient is the primary exhibit at the zoo. “Thank you.”

“Not unless it was before they nabbed me,” Murdock answers her question. “But he was fine when they tied me up next to him.”

Face shakes his head against the dirt, silently laments how it’s totally going to stick in his hair with all the sweat and it’s probably going to take at least two lathers to scrub it all out. “Nah, I’m fine,” he wheezes. “Must’ve just tripped.” It’s a lie, but damned if he’ll admit it. He pushes up onto his elbows, and Maggie helps him sit up the rest of the way. He can’t stop the wince that crosses his features at the compression in his belly. His hand goes involuntarily to his gut where Hoffer slugged him with a heavy tree branch during their fight. “The fog’s clearing already.”

“Fog?” Maggie echoes, again peering into his eyes, and it’s the least romantically any woman has ever gazed into his baby blues. Her gaze shifts down to where his hand rests against his midriff. “What’s wrong with your abdomen?”

“Huh? Nothing.” Another lie, and she’s not buying this one either.

“Let me see.”

“Do we have to do this here?” he complains, glancing around. The others aren’t directly hovering anymore, but they’re still staring, and this is not one of those situations where he wants to be the center of attention.

A stern look from Maggie backs them all off another step—except Murdock who remains stubbornly planted, his expression worried. She lets it slide and returns her focus to Face. “That depends. Can you stand up and walk to the van?”

He tries to look offended by her suggestion that he’s so frail he can’t even stand up, but when it takes her helping hand for him to rise, his façade of indignation is lost. At least he doesn’t feel like passing out anymore. His heartbeat is closing in on normal, and his vision has lost the dark fuzz from around the edges. Deep breaths are still difficult and painful, and he wonders if that mercenary didn’t crack a rib after all. He hadn’t thought so, but he’s been wrong before.

Maggie gets him seated on the floor of the van, legs hanging over the open side. She tosses a glance at the rest of the unit. “You boys can get on with your run. There’s still over a mile to go. You might as well hop to it.”

Hannibal and B.A. exchange a glance and begin a slow jog along the side of the rural road.

“Go on now.” Tawnia shoos them off with her hands. She looks at Murdock who stands unmoving. Her tone goes from teasing to reassuring. “Maggie’s got everything under control. We’ll be right behind you. Go before you get separated from the others.”

Murdock nods reluctantly. He briefly catches Face’s gaze. “Sorry, Faceman.” Then he turns and hurries after the others, long legs quickly catching them up.

“What’s he sorry about?” Tawnia muses as she comes to stand by the van’s front fender.

“No idea.” It’s the third lie Face has told since their little convoy came to a screeching halt. He has a couple of guesses, but as far as he’s concerned neither one is something requiring an apology.

“Come on,” Maggie says. “Jacket and shirt off.”

Out of habit, Face opens his mouth to flirt, but her stern expression stifles the urge. He’s pretty sure she’s got a thing for Hannibal, anyway, although he has no solid evidence to back it up, it’s just a feeling he’s had since they met her.

He unzips the track jacket and slips it off. The polo he’s wearing underneath clings damply to his skin. He tries to pull it over his head, but the motion sends a throb of pain through his side. He sucks in a breath, and that makes it worse.

“Easy, Face.” Maggie’s tone is calm, quietly commanding. She helps him get the shirt off and immediately her expression turns sardonic. “You’re fine, huh?”

The bruise is impressive. If it didn’t hurt so much, he’d feel a sense of pride. A feeling of Look at the hit I took, and I’m still standing. Only he isn’t standing, he’s sitting, and even that isn’t particularly comfortable. “I took a hit just at the end of all the excitement. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Maggie examines his injury, palpating it with gentle hands that still manage to make Face feel more than a little nauseated.

“Can you not? Please?”

She pulls her stethoscope from her medical bag that’s tucked under the front passenger seat. “Hang in there, Face. I’m almost done.”

Face swallows against rising nausea, glad there’s nothing in his stomach to throw up if it should come to that. He’s been looking forward to a shower and dinner. Right now, food is rapidly losing its appeal.

She warms the end of the stethoscope before placing it against his chest. “Breathe for me. Deep as you can.” He does his best, but the breath hitches when it gets too big. “Easy now.” Her voice is soothing, professional. She moves the resonator. “Try again for me, okay?” He tries, and it’s no better than before. She takes pity on him and doesn’t request a third attempt.

“Okay.” Maggie pulls the stethoscope from her ears. “There doesn’t appear to be any internal bleeding, but it’s a fair bet you’ve cracked a rib. I can’t be a hundred percent certain without an x-ray.”

“Sorry. That’s not one of the tools B.A. keeps in his van,” Face quips through his discomfort.

“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Tawnia says.

“No, but I’d’ve lost my lunch if I’d had any. May I?” He shares a questioning look between Maggie and his discarded shirt.

“Go ahead.” She wraps the stethoscope around her hand, fiddling with it absently as he winces his way into the shirt. She nods toward his purpling midsection as it disappears behind tight-woven cotton. “I’d like to take a closer look at that when we get back to the house.” Her own office would be preferable, of course, but she knows better than to expect him to consent to being taken all the way to Bad Rock. And the local clinic—where she learned earlier Hannibal was involved in a shootout—is even further out of the question.

The three of them find seats in the van, Tawnia once more taking the wheel. She starts up the engine, checks the road, and pulls out.

“Can we, uh…can we keep this on the downlow?” Face asks from behind Maggie.

“What, that you’re injured?” Tawnia glances at him in the rearview. “Why?”

“No reason. I just…” Don’t want to be a liability. Don’t want the others to think I can’t pull my weight. There are many ways he can finish the statement. He chooses to keep them all to himself.

“No,” Maggie says flatly. “You need to take it easy for a few days. I think I know Hannibal well enough by now to know he won’t let anyone off the hook unless it’s absolutely necessary. Right?”

Face thinks of the many times one of them has been superficially injured in the line of duty—and by “superficially” he means enough that a normal person would very sensibly take some downtime, but not badly enough to pull one of the team from the front line. “Uh, right,” he confirms.

They’ve caught up to the guys, and Tawnia slows to pace them, bringing up the rear once more so no one gets left behind or waylaid this time.

“Well, I say it’s necessary. What did you get hit with anyway?”

“Tree branch.” Face holds up his hands making a ring of about the right circumference. “Big one.”

Maggie turns in her seat to eyeball him, like it was his fault or something. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse. A hit like that could have ruptured your spleen if he’d struck you just right.”

“I’ll try to remember that next time someone comes at me with a small tree, thanks,” he says dryly.

They’re all quiet for the rest of the drive back to the house. Face takes the time to indulge in feeling sorry for himself. He won’t have the luxury once he’s around the guys again.

Hannibal strolls over as Face emerges from the van. “Enjoy the ride, Lieutenant?” he asks, a challenge in his voice.

“Back off, Colonel.” Maggie steps between him and Face. He may outrank her, but this isn’t Vietnam. Besides which, she’s the doctor here, and she’s never been one to take shit from the brass where her patients are concerned. “Face has a severe abdominal contusion and possible cracked ribs. I’m putting him on a minimum of three days’ rest. That means no jogging or running. No obstacle courses.” She gestures to the one set up beyond the house, rolling her eyes at the absurd machismo of the thing. “No fist fights. No heavy lifting. No heroics of any kind. Understood?”

Hannibal straightens up in respect for her authority as a doctor. He’s not a fool, and while he might sometimes cross the line into recklessness, it’s never his choice to endanger the health of anyone in his unit if he can help it. “Understood, Captain.”

“I hope there’s an extra bed here, because you’re stuck with me until I’m sure my patient doesn’t have more extensive injuries.”

Murdock stands on the periphery, listening with concern to the doc’s diagnosis. He pipes up with an offer. “You can have my room. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch for a couple nights. It’s the least I can do.”

Face shoots him a puzzled glance that Murdock skillfully avoids.

“Thank you, Murdock. You’re a gentleman. I accept,” Maggie says.

If it were anyone but Maggie, Hannibal would protest. He doesn’t for two reasons. First, he trusts her medical skills. If she says she needs to keep an eye on Face, then he believes her. His XO must genuinely be hurt. Second, he’s happy to have her company for a little while. Their original meeting was fraught, to say the least, and their reunion hasn’t been any better. But their mutual attraction was undeniable from the start, and it hasn’t faded in the months that have passed. “All right.” He turns to his team. “Men, hit the showers, then it’s Murdock’s turn to fix the chow.”

“Aw, Hannibal,” B.A. protests. “You never know what’s gonna be in the food when you let that crazy man fix it.”

Hannibal slaps him on the back. “Don’t worry, B.A. If anything goes wrong, we have a doctor already on site.” He grins at Maggie who chuckles indulgently.

Tawnia glances between B.A.’s scowl and Murdock’s too-innocent expression and says, “How about I start supper while you guys get cleaned up.”

“Face, remember what I said,” Maggie reminds him as he turns to go. “I want to see you once you’re done.”

He nods, and the guys file into the house: B.A. first, then Hannibal, then Face moving gingerly and trying to hide it, and Murdock close on Face’s heels like he doesn’t want to let the conman get out of reach.

Maggie takes her medical bag and purse from the van. “You’re just playing into their game by offering to cook, you know.”

“I know,” Tawnia replies. “But better that than getting food poisoning. I can’t personally speak to his cooking, but I’ve heard stories about the stuff Murdock’s put in his own mouth. Shaving cream. Paint.” She shuts the van door, and they head up the flagstone path to the house.

Maggie thinks back on her introduction to H.M. Murdock and shakes her head. She’s still not sure exactly how much of his insanity is real and how much is a game. “I’ve never doubted Murdock was genuinely troubled, but that goes a long way toward confirming the crazy.”

***

The house has two bathrooms with showers, so it’s not long before everyone’s cleaned up. Face is dressing when there’s a knock on his bedroom door. Assuming it’s Maggie checking on him as promised (More like threatened, he thinks.), he makes sure his trousers are zipped up but doesn’t bother putting on the clean, black t-shirt he’s pulled from the dresser. He would just have to take it off again. At least I can get this over with quickly. Then hopefully she’ll leave me alone.

“Come in,” he calls unenthusiastically.

Instead of Maggie, it’s Murdock who pokes his head around the open door. “Hey, Faceman. Got a minute?”

“Sure, buddy. C’mon in.” He says it in a considerably more welcoming tone. “Hey. You don’t have to sleep on the couch if you don’t want to. You can share with me.” It’s not like they haven’t shared close quarters in the past on any number of occasions. The bed isn’t huge, but it’s big enough for two.

“Oh, I—I don’t have to. It’s okay.” Murdock is unusually deferential, and it puts Face on alert.

“What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Murdock points to the mottled purple contusion that’s blossomed across Face’s midsection. “That what the doc’s worried about?”

“Yeah.” Face pulls the t-shirt over his head, fighting not to let it show how much it hurts to move like that, glad the soft cotton shirt fits a little loosely. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Murdock doesn’t believe him at all. It’s written all over his expressive face. “Even if it’s only half as bad as it looks, it’s still gotta be pretty rough. That’s why you were having trouble out there. Right?”

“I’m fine, Murdock,” Face insists, wishes his buddy would let it go, hates the reminder that multiple times today he’s proved himself to be the weakest link.

“It’s my fault.”

That brings Face up short, stunned. “Huh? That’s crazy, Murdock. And not your normal crazy,” he quickly qualifies. “I mean, like, beyond that. Where d’you even come up with it?”

“I ratted you out this morning to Hannibal. I didn’t have to do that. That’s why them goons nabbed you so early, ’cause you was out there on your own.”

“This didn’t happen then,” Face protests. “And they’d’ve gotten me eventually just like they did the rest of you guys. I was an easy mark.” His tone is bitter, the words as distasteful as bargain-bin champagne.

Murdock shakes his head emphatically. “No. No, no, no, no.” His hands flail, gesturing futilely, trying to impart a physical apology along with his words. “I shouldn’t’ve been a jerk like that. I was only playing, and then it went all sideways. I never woulda said anything if I’d had any idea how it’d go down.”

“Murdock, sit down. Here.” Face gestures to the bed where he’s already seated. When Murdock hesitates, he adds, “Seriously. Sit. Please. Okay, first off,” he continues once Murdock’s perched himself next to the pillows, “there’s no way you could’ve known that a syndicate hired a bunch of freelancers to take us all out. Not even you have your fingers plugged that far into the sky. Second…” He lets out a small, defeated sigh. “Maybe I needed the extra training Hannibal assigned. He wasn’t wrong that I was sloppy on the last job.”

Murdock’s quick to contradict him. “We all were. Hannibal said ‘all,’ not just you.”

“Still, we didn’t all lag on that obstacle course.”

“It’s relative, though, Faceman. Could’ve been any one of us on any given day.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t always feel that way.” He shifts a little away from his friend, flinching as his waistband digs in and makes the stupid contusion twinge. Should’ve put on sweats. But he hadn’t wanted the visual reminder to the others that he wasn’t feeling up to snuff at the moment.

Murdock is instantly solicitous. “You okay? Can I help?”

“I’m fine. And thank you, but there’s nothing you can do except let it go.”

“Hm.” Murdock’s not satisfied, frowning and guilty. “I should’ve had your back.”

“You did have my back. Hell, you swooped down out of the sky like some—” He digs for the words. “—some sort of avenging angel the instant that guy took me out. Yeah, I saw you,” he says at his friend’s surprised look. “I couldn’t breathe, but my eyes worked fine.” His mouth turns up in a tiny smirk. “No wonder you got so far ahead of me at the end of Hannibal’s obstacle course.”

“That’s my favorite bit. It’s the closest to flying.”

“Makes sense.”

“Can I tell you something else?”

“Of course, Murdock. Anything you want.”

“After Hannibal sent you off running, I said I could do the whole obstacle course again.”

“What?” Face starts to laugh but it hurts, so he pulls it back to an amused breath and a shake of his head. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I felt bad about you having to do the extra running.”

“And did you do the course again?”

“We all did.”

“I bet B.A. was thrilled.”

“Oh, delighted.” Murdock cracks a grin.

There’s a light tapping at the half-open door and they both look over to see Maggie standing in the gap. “Face?” It’s a prod, a reminder, and a greeting in a single word.

“Uh, right. You want to do this here?” Face asks.

“It’s quieter than the side of the road,” she replies. She turns to Murdock, offers a dismissal disguised as a question. “Weren’t you going to help fix supper?”

Murdock bounces to his feet. “Yup! I hope everyone likes sardines.” He shoots Face a hopeful look that’s part query and part apology.

“It’s all good, Murdock,” Face answers. They both know he means what they were talking about before Maggie arrived, but Murdock pretends it’s the sardines he’s responding to.

“Great! Yum!”

“Um, I’m pretty sure Tawnia is cutting up vegetables for a big pot of stir-fry,” Maggie says warily.

“Perfect! I’ll go help. They never let you play with knives at the VA.” Murdock bounds out of the room.

“Is he serious?” Maggie asks Face.

“About which part?”

“All of it, I guess.”

“The knives? Probably. I mean, I hope so. Don’t you? About the sardines…?” He shrugs one shoulder. “If we’re lucky, there aren’t any in the house and we’ll never have to find out.”

***

Murdock finds B.A. and Tawnia in the kitchen, the former of whom brandishes a large chef’s knife and promptly blocks Murdock in the doorway.

“Out, fool,” he orders.

“But, B.A.,” Murdock protests, “it’s my turn to cook. I am a member of this team and feeding said team is my responsibility tonight.” He tries to bob and weave his way around the immovable object that is B.A. Baracus, all the while babbling in a French accent. “You would deny Chef Murdock’s culinary genius? Why, my ratatouille is renowned across France, from ze Côte d’Azur to Normandy! And my éclairs are—” He motions a chef’s kiss. “—perfection.”

Always a man of few words, B.A. keeps it short. “Beat it.”

Tawnia starts to intervene. “Come on, B.A., maybe he can help.”

“You trust him with this knife or that chicken?” B.A. challenges her, gesturing with one and tossing a glance at the other.

She hesitates, then shoots an apologetic shrug at Murdock past B.A.’s shoulder. “Sorry, Murdock. Guess you’re off the hook this time.” She tries to make it sound like a positive thing, them not trusting him with sharp objects and raw meat.

“Fine,” he says, and there’s more hurt behind his feigned indifference than he feels like letting them in on. His shoulders slump, and he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets as he retreats to the living room.

Hannibal is there reading a book by Gore Vidal. An unlit stub of cigar rests in an ashtray on the coffee table.

Murdock throws himself into a chair. “I went to Duluth once,” he says with a nod to the beefy tome in the colonel’s hands. “Didn’t feel like a real place.”

Hannibal looks up over the book, eyebrows raised, wondering if Murdock’s serious or if it’s an oblique reference to the abstruse plot and experimental style of the novel. “Everything okay, Murdock? I see you’re not cooking.” He wonders if everyone is going to defy his directives this evening. He lets out an internal sigh, thinking, Probably. At least when it counts, I don’t get countermanded.

“Got kicked out. I think B.A.’s got a crush on Tawnia and doesn’t want me intruding.”

“No, you don’t,” Hannibal contradicts.

“No. I don’t,” Murdock confirms. He falls silent, staring out the window. It’s evening. The sun’s starting to drop toward the foothills off to the west. “Long day,” he mutters, fingers picking absently at a stray thread on the cuff of his plaid flannel shirt. He’s always a bit fidgety, especially when one of the team is hurt and there’s nothing to do about it and no mission to take his mind off it.

Hannibal looks up again. “But it’s ending well.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“You sleeping on the couch tonight?” Clearly something is bugging the pilot, so Hannibal picks a neutral topic to talk about. He’s long understood that if the conversation keeps going, Murdock will wend his way toward whatever’s getting to him.

“Probably. Face said I could crash with him, but…” Murdock isn’t the most restful sleeping companion. He likes to sprawl, and even if he falls asleep curled up, he inevitably wakes with his long limbs splayed across whatever surface he’s sleeping on. He doesn’t want to take the chance of accidentally walloping Face in the gut with an outflung arm in the middle of the night. Which is possible on a good night and pretty much guaranteed if it’s a bad one.

Before Hannibal can prompt him to finish the sentence or start a new one, Maggie joins them. “How’s the patient?” Hannibal asks her. He can follow up with Murdock later.

“The good news is, it’s a simple contusion, not a hematoma.” She sits on the sofa near Hannibal who puts a marker in his book and sets it aside on the coffee table.

“Saying ‘good news’ implies there’s bad to follow.”

“I’m as certain as I can be without taking an x-ray that he’s got at least one cracked rib. And I don’t have what I need to tape him up.”

“We can fix that in the morning. Make a run into town. Find a store with a pharmacy.”

“Or I could take him back to Bad Rock in the morning. I could confirm my diagnosis and treat him there.”

They all look over as Face speaks from the doorway. “I’ll pass on that invitation, thanks.”

“Face—” Maggie starts to protest. He puts up a hand to stop her.

“Tape? Sure. You find what you need in town, and you can do what you want with me.” Murdock snorts a laugh, and Face pins him with a sardonic stare. “You know what I mean.”

“I know,” says Murdock through his smirk. He puts on a German accent to adopt a clinical demeanor. “I simply find your default language settings to be…amusing.”

“And predictable, right?” Face comes fully into the room and sits carefully in an armchair, sinking into the cushions and silently bemoaning how difficult and uncomfortable it’s going to be when he has to get himself out of it. Maybe he can wait until the others are out of the room. He’s okay being the last one to the dinner table tonight. “That’s what got me in trouble in the first place. My predictability.”

Hannibal rises, crosses the room, and stands next to Face. He rests a fatherly hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Those dirtbags had all our numbers.”

“I know, Hannibal, but somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. Murdock wouldn’t have been out there looking for me in the first place if I hadn’t been so stupid.” He knows that’s when they nabbed the pilot. They’ve already collected the ’Vette from where it was abandoned at that Stop sign. Fortunately, nothing untoward happened to his beloved car in the interim.

“It isn’t your fault.” Hannibal’s tone is firm. He’s no therapist, but he knows Face needs to snap out of his little pity-party. “Kyle and his thugs are pros. They’re very good at what they do.” He allows a satisfied smile to quirk his lips. “They’re just not as good as us.”

“Or just not as lucky.”

Hannibal’s smile stretches into a grin. “That too.”

“How are the rest of you guys?” Maggie looks between Hannibal and Murdock. “I’m here. You might as well take advantage of having a medical professional in your midst. B.A. insists he’s fine. I asked him earlier. I suppose you fellows are going to be just as forthcoming about any possible injuries.”

Hannibal rejoins her on the sofa, trading knowing looks with his men. His shoulder aches from his less-than-graceful landing when he jumped through the roof of that shed, and his jaw’s a little sore from a sucker-punch Kyle laid on him, and there are some minor bruises he can feel that will probably be visible by morning. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Me, too. Nothing broken but my brain,” Murdock says cheerfully. “That’s a long-standing injury, and no one’s been able to fix it yet. But thanks for asking.” He deliberately echoes Hannibal at the end for no reason other than because it’s fun. His gaze skitters sideways, catching the pained expression that flits across Face’s visage. It’s a tossup whether it’s due to physical discomfort or distress at Murdock’s words.

He shouldn’t be upset, Murdock thinks. It’s only the truth. But he knows better. Knows his condition is a point of old, misplaced guilt for his friend. As if Face were part of the cause and not part of the remedy like he was. Like he still is.

“You boys are incorrigible.” There’s indulgence hidden under Maggie’s exasperated tone.

Her voice pulls Murdock from his spiraling thoughts, and he shoots her one of his zanier grins. “But you love us anyway.”

She chuckles and returns the tease. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

B.A. appears in the doorway. “Dinner’s almost ready. If you ain’t washed up your hands yet, do it now. Don’t want nothing to get cold.”

“The Baracan one has spoken!” Murdock leaps to his feet and is across the room in a few long-legged strides. He waves his hands in front of B.A. “All clean. See?”

B.A. scowls at him although he’s secretly pleased to see the pilot is telling the truth. “Get out m’face, fool.”

“Yes, Chef!” Murdock ducks past him, leaving B.A. shaking his head.

“C’mon. Suppertime,” he says to the others in a friendlier tone.

Hannibal and Maggie rise and follow Murdock, but Face hesitates. B.A. eyeballs him, knowing something must be wrong. Face isn’t usually one to be late to a meal. “What’re you waiting for, Faceman? You gotta be hungry. You’re the only one who didn’t get lunch.” Even if lunch had come with tainted milk, which Face was lucky to have missed out on.

“I’ll be right there, B.A. Just gimme a second,” Face says. He got what he wanted; the others are out of the room. Now if B.A. would just follow them, there won’t be any witnesses to him heaving his way out of the soft armchair, groaning like an old man.

Murdock would be the first to point out that B.A. being a Taurus means he’s celestially inclined to take care of people. (He went on an astrology bender shortly after his Ouija fixation and did everyone’s charts as best he could.) B.A. would of course tell him to shut up. That it was nothing to do with stars and planets and everything to do with growing up with a mama like Adele Baracus. Whatever the cause, nature or nurture, he wordlessly goes to Face and sticks out a bejeweled hand.

B.A.’s no stranger to busted ribs and belly wounds. And he knows Face is hurt enough Maggie probably won’t let him lift so much as a gallon of milk, so getting out of that squishy chair probably isn’t easy.

Face looks up at him, at the outstretched hand, and knows his friend understands. Knows, too, B.A. won’t say another word about it to him or any of the others. He reaches up and takes the proffered hand, is grateful for the assist as B.A. does most of the work hauling him to his feet. “Thanks.”

B.A. pats him gently on the back and rewards him with one of his rare smiles, which Face returns. As Face gets his feet under him, B.A. says kindly, “You know no one’s upset with you but you, right?”

Murdock would say it to spare Face’s feelings. Hannibal would say it to keep his morale up and keep him sharp. When the words come from the taciturn sergeant, the message finally sinks in. B.A. isn’t one for subterfuge; he says it because it’s true.

Face straightens up, looks his friend in the eyes, sees the concern and honesty in their dark brown depths. He nods slowly. “Thanks, B.A.,” he says with all the sincerity in him. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They both know neither of them will, and they wouldn’t have it any other way.