My first A-Team fic, let's gooo! I've been binge-watching this show lately because Face is so gender and I love it when a plan comes together, and finally a wild story idea has appeared. ~700 words of dangerous driving and light arguments ahoy!
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"BA, would it kill you to take a corner normally for once?" Hannibal asked curtly, steadying himself on the door with one hand and clutching his cigar with the other.
"Don't tell me how to drive my own van, Hannibal," BA growled, turning again with perhaps even more aggression, sand skidding beneath the wheels, "when its you drivin' it, you can do what you want. And you ain't never drivin' it, so shut!"
"Touchy." Face commented acerbically, one hand in a white-knuckle grip on the back door handle as though he was considering leaving if the ride got any rougher.
His other hand had a fistful of thin red cotton in a death-grip: beside him, between the seats, Amy was having perhaps the worst time, kept in place only by the tightness of the space and the two helping hands. The other was Murdock's, and though he was doing an excellent job of steadying her, considering BA was driving even more eratically than usual, that wasn't his main concern.
"I'm telling you, they'll have run out!" he said, somehow managing to lean forward without being thrown out of his seat. "Hannibal, the next place you see, we gotta stop! It's the last chance we'll get before the big day!"
For once, even Hannibal was lost; he'd been concentrating so much on their latest escape from Lynch that Murdock's current bit had so far passed him by. Now, though, in an attempt to stop himself from entering an argument with BA that he'd never win, he decided to entertain it for a minute.
"Stop for what, Captain?"
"A tree, of course!" Murdock replied, "It's almost Christmas Day and we haven't got a tree!"
"It's July, fool!" BA shouted, taking another corner on what felt like only two wheels.
"Your calendar does seem to be running a bit fast, Murdock." Amy put in, then grimaced as they rattled over a small rockslide.
"Or perhaps a few months slow..." Face murmured.
"All that snow, and you call this July?" Murdock replied, gesturing to the barren yellow desert terrain flashing past outside. "I can't believe you're not all freezin' to death, you should be dressed like me!"
Indeed, whilst the others wore as little as possible to combat the midsummer Arizona heat, Murdock was somehow swathed in ski pants, two coats, and a chunky-knit bobble hat over his baseball cap, though with his usual converse to finish the look off. Hannibal was mainly amazed that he hadn't melted yet, or indeed seemed to be sweating at all.
"If we see a place, Captain, I promise we'll pull over." Hannibal said, making BA growl- but then chuckle, when he realised the truth of the words.
"I just hope that it's one of the good places that grows their own, though we'd never get such luck." Murdock said mournfully. "BA, watch that snowdrift!"
"It's a sand dune, sucker!" BA replied.
"We should probably avoid it, nonetheless." Hannibal said calmly, wincing as BA pulled the wheel round hard just in time to miss it.
"Look, I'm with Hannibal on this one, BA," Face put in, "I'm all for getting away from Lynch, but I'd like to actually survive my daring escape? In one piece, if possible?"
"I'm tryin' my best here!" BA shot back, and Hannibal realised that he was really losing his temper.
"I'm sure you are, BA, but if you could just-"
He was cut off at that moment by being thrown against the door as another particularly tight corner was taken, and before they had recovered, the van got a little air over a slight hump in the road. It was as they landed- with a crash, but still powering forward- that the final straw broke the camel's back, and the full-blown argument started.
"Sergeant, the mission type is 'escape', not 'suicide'!" Hannibal admonished sharply.
"I'm doin' my best to keep you suckers alive, and this is the thanks I get!" BA returned.
"I'll thank you once I'm stabilised in the ambulance!" Face hit back.
Amy put her head in her hands, a good posture for bracing her elbows against the seats beside her, and wondered when it would all be over. However, Murdock had another 'solution', and he sang a brief scale before putting it into action.
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A follow-up to my other bingo fill 'Cease'! ~600 words featuring more from BA, a Murdock appearance, and Face making a plan. The team's actions without Hannibal at the helm is interesting to explore and write :)
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Murdock threw the van's side door open from the outside, quickly taking a seat and slamming it shut behind him.
"Drive," he instructed curtly, and BA put his foot to the floor whilst Murdock added "I think the VA's gonna leave a car on standby to chase me if I do this too often." As they turned their first corner, on only two wheels, he asked "What's the story, then? I only got the bare bones over the phone. How's the great white chief?" Murdock had made note of Hannibal's conspicuous absence as soon as he entered the van, the front seat instead occupied by Face, who half-turned back as he replied.
"We dosed him with painkillers and left him in my apartment." he said. "He wasn't happy about it, but he can't argue with four cracked ribs and one broken one."
Murdock grimaced in sympathy, saying a little huskily "Someone really did a number on him, huh."
"Hannibal went on the jazz and messed with some jumped up idiots claimin' to be part of the mob." BA growled, throwing them around another corner. "They messed him up right back."
"Yeah." Face agreed quietly, then cleared his throat, bringing them back to the present. "But we're going to be sure to return the compliment."
"What's the plan?" Murdock asked simply.
"Well, what Hannibal tried was giving them a 'cease and desist' notice, and...well, they went to town on him. He only just made it to our rendezvous before passing out." He swallowed the lump in his throat as he remembered how he'd acted, but quickly moved on. "Look, Murdock, I mean to say, I'm real sorry we didn't spring you in the first place," he confessed in a rush, "it's just that this case, we just stumbled across it, and everything happened so fast that-"
"Don't worry, Faceman, I was busy anyway," Murdock put in easily, "Hogan's Heroes ain't gonna rewatch itself."
"Right." Face said wryly, secretly glad of the reassurance. "Anyway, it's kind of worked in our favour. See, it's clear these guys don't actually know the mob guys they're referencing, they just use the names for clout. So, if we hit them with the notice again, this time with a little more emphasis on the 'desist' part, there won't be too much they can do about it."
"They did enough to Hannibal." BA put in darkly.
"Hannibal was alone and unarmed," Face returned, "we had no idea what he was walking into. This time, we'll be ready for their tricks, and play a couple of our own. Namely, we'll get Joey Cortina himself to deliver the notice."
"Joey 'The Spade' Cortina?" BA asked, scandalised, "You off your head, Faceman, you worse than-
"Better known, perhaps, as Mister H M Murdock." Face cut in, gesturing to their friend in the back seat. As the light of understanding spread over their faces, Face continued. "I know I always moan about it, but we'll use the front door, it'll work best here. BA, you drive us in; I'll be at the back doors to cover our retreat; Murdock, you use the side door to hand the paperwork out. Act like you've got us hostage, that'll set another example."
"So we're gonna be the ones impersonatin' the mob?" BA asked, "Sounds like askin' for trouble."
"It shouldn't be more than a few minutes overall, they'll never know." Face assured. "Any objections? You all got that?"
"In other words, we hit 'em hard and fast." BA summarised simply.
"And preferably in the ribs." Murdock added, unexpectedly harsh.
Face was in the same mood, though, and couldn't help but agree. "Yeah, Murdock. We'll get 'em right where it hurts."
~1600 words (hence the 'keep reading') of pre-series Face and Hannibal angst, set a couple of years after they go on the run. I'm not sure that this is this piece's final form, but it's complete for now! Feedback is welcome :) Heavily inspired by On The Road (link to AO3) by @papercranesong, one of my favourite A-Team fics. Also by other fics in the same sort of genre, particularly the Stargate fic Hard Questions (link to AO3) by Catalina_Leigh.
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It only ever happened once. Hannibal made sure of that.
Glad that he'd listened to an instinct that this was a call he didn't want to blow off with nonsense, Hannibal answered the van's phone with a simple "Yeah?"
"This is Deputy Hollins here, sir, River Cote Sheriff's Department." an unknown voice said, and Hannibal tensed up. "You know a 'Jase Beck'?"
The name was familiar to Hannibal; Face had used it just that morning to run a scam with him. But what the hell was Face doing to involve himself with a Sheriff's Department at- Hannibal frowned at the clock on the dash- almost four in the morning, and why was he doing it under that name? The 'Beck' alias was one that they had characterised with strong Tennessee accents, playing a rich father with a shady background and his rambunctious son, both of whom had a predilection for drinking, getting into fights, and-
Hannibal's penny dropped.
"Yessir, my name's Mister John Beck. Jace is my boy." he replied, sending his accent a little to the south for effect, and trying to ignore how those words felt to say. "What's he gone and done now?"
"Got into a bar fight, sir, and didn't quite come out on top." Hollins replied easily. "I got him with me here on a potential drunk and disorderly charge, but seein' as how he's so young an' all, and he didn't start the fight, I thought maybe it would help him if he didn't get processed. Gave me your phone number." Hollins was the perfect type of bad cop for the team's purposes. "If you can come by in the next half-hour, sir, I can just release him straight to you, and that can be as far as the whole thing goes."
Hannibal was already pulling his coat on and preparing to get out of the van, scribbling a note to BA, who was sound asleep in the back. "Thanks, Sheriff, I really do 'ppreciate it. Where's 'here'?" he asked, adding a little flattery for good measure.Â
"Just a Deputy, sir," Hollins replied, though Hannibal now heard the pride in his voice that he'd been looking to cultivate, "and we're outside Wakefield's Bar, corner of seventh and Oberlaut."
"I'll be fifteen minutes." Hannibal promised, and hung up.
It was a simple matter to jack a flatbed truck from a nearby farmstead, and a boon that it came with a Stetson sitting on the dashboard, adding to his vague costume. After mentally revising the personality details of 'John Beck', he set to wondering why Face had got into a bar fight, a stupid thing to do given his weight and build even if he wasn't a wanted man. So much for Hannibal's retrospectively unwise idea of granting the Lieutenant an 'evening off'.
After a short drive down the valley to River Cote, as they had been camped a way outside a neighbouring town for safety's sake, Hannibal easily located Wakefield's Bar, not least by the lurid sign and strains of bawdy country music. Standing outside was a figure in a Deputy's uniform watching over three men sitting on the curb, all of whom looked a little worse for wear. The larger two were cuffed, but the smallest, skinniest man merely had his head resting on crossed arms on drawn up knees. As Hannibal pulled up and got out, the Deputy stood forward slightly to meet him, throwing a warning look at the men before he stepped away.
"Mister Beck?"
"Sheriff Hollins, sir."
"Deputy. Evenin'." Hollins tipped his hat. "Got your boy here ready for you. Beck!" He called the last word over his shoulder, and the bowed head came up from the arms. "He'll be sore in the mornin'," Hollins continued to Hannibal, "but it's nothin' serious. Just see that he ain't seen around here again for a while."
"Yessir, I'll make sure of that."
The sound of Hannibal's voice finally permeated Face's drunken brain, and he stood unsteadily, turning bleary eyes in his friend's direction. When the recognition was complete, he was so overjoyed to see Hannibal, and so thoroughly drunk, that he shocked his leader to the core by almost breaking character.
"Ha- papa!"
"Get in the truck, boy." Hannibal said sharply, then turned to Hollins. "Thanks for this, Sheriff. Won't happen again."
"Deputy. And don't mention it. But if he does get in another fight..."
"He won't." Hannibal said, his accent almost fleeing on his anger, and he thought he actually felt Face's flinch where he was climbing into the passenger side. "G'night." Hannibal tipped his hat and turned away.
Despite his head start, Face and Hannibal closed their doors at the same time, the younger man immediately slackening bonelessly into his seat and tipping his head back to the headrest, eyes shut and body still. Looking at him close up, Hannibal saw that Face's injuries were as the Deputy had said, painful but not too severe; his face was bruised, one lip cut and swelling, and the way he had held himself suggested a few hits to his chest. In the confines of the cab, he stunk of alcohol.
His eyes were shut, but Hannibal could tell he wasn't asleep, though he remained silent as the truck pulled away from the bar. When Hannibal told him to roll down his window, he complied without a word. It wasn't until they'd been driving for a few minutes that he spoke.
"'S not fair, Hann'b'l," he murmured, and it seemed to be all he could say, "'s not fair, 's just not fair."
"I know, kid." Hannibal said automatically, forgetting his order to himself to leave the good cop act to Hollins.
Because he did know now; those three slurred words were the key to his realisation, along with the memory of the dashboard time and date he'd been staring at almost constantly as soon as the Lieutenant had been overdue to check in. Face had been saying that phrase over and over at their sentencing- two years ago yesterday.
With the realisation came an understanding, of the twisted logic which Face must have followed all the way to Wakefield's. The first anniversary had been a non-event, the three of them too busy to even realise that the date had passed. But the lead up to this second year had been calmer, almost routine, and too much like safety. The realisation of the date and what it meant must have hit Face hard, particularly as he among them seemed to crave 'normal life' the most. The only available release for his raw, sore feelings had been to drown his sorrows in drink.
Hannibal schooled his features and his tone away from sympathy, knowing what he, as a commander, had to say.
"This can't happen again, Lieutenant. It won't happen again. It's too dangerous, for you personally and for all of us. You understand that you're putting the whole team in danger with stunts like this, don't you?"
"'S not fair." was all Face said in reply, seeming to have hardly heard Hannibal.
"I know, Lieutenant, I feel the same way. It's a rotten hand we've been dealt, and we've been forced to play it, but it doesn't have to be like this! A bar fight, really? Beating out your pain on someone else, or hoping that they'll beat it out of you?" Suddenly, Hannibal realised didn't want an answer to that question, so he moved on quickly. "It was a dumb move, worse than dumb, it could have been fatal. I shouldn't need to remind you that-"
"'S not fair!" Face said, his anger returning even if his vocabulary didn't. "'S not-"
"You got arrested, Lieutenant!" Hannibal cut in, biting each word off as his own anger came to the fore. "What if it had been a better cop than Hollins, what if you'd been printed? You changed your mind on the thirty years in the federal slammer after all? You decided for us too? Because if one of us falls, the rest won't be far behind. We've got to stick together, listen and talk to each other, be able to trust each other. You get that?"
Even as he spoke, Hannibal realised he was giving himself a talking to as much as Face. They were each responsible for themselves, in that they weren't actually in the army anymore; but he was responsible for them as a whole, in that it was because of him that they were all on the run together.
It wasn't worth trying to reiterate the details at that moment, he realised. Face probably wouldn't remember, and in all honesty, he himself would rather forget.
The cab was silent as they drove the final few feet towards the truck's origin, but once Hannibal had shut off the engine and put the hat back on the dash, he turned to Face with his sharpest Colonel demeanour, knowing that he had to make this point count.
"I'm going to say one more thing," he said, his tone low and hard, "and I'm only saying it once, so listen good."
There was no outward response.
"Never again, Lieutenant."
He hadn't raised his voice, but it seemed that his tone and sharp words had been enough, as he now got some reaction. Face crumpled in on himself, folding like tissue paper in rain, his head falling to his hands and tears landing on his dirty jeans, and he shook with the effort to stay silent.
Hannibal instantly felt a sharp pang of guilt. This whole situation was his fault as much as Face's- perhaps even more. For his final words, he lowered his tone to a more calm, rumbling,- fatherly?- pitch, and put a hand on his Lieutenant's bent back, speaking to himself as much as to the boy.
A return to action! This piece is inspired by an Instagram reel (X) of a floatplane doing just what they do here. Risky business- but good for a story! A short scene, but still ~400 words of flying and fun.
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"Murdock, have I told you how much I love this plan?" Hannibal asked, clamping his next cigar in his grin.
Instantly, he was almost headbutted by Face, who leant forward between the aircraft's front two seats at lightning speed.
"Murdock's plan?" he asked, scandalised, "This is Murdock's plan?!"
"Yeah, Murdock's plan." Hannibal repeated, smiling contentedly. "I wasn't going to tell the pilot how to fly, now was I?"
"Even I could have told him not to fly in circles!" Face replied incredulously.Â
"Ah, now Faceman, we ain't actually flyin' yet," Murdock chipped in, "the circles I'll give you, but our floats are still very much in contact with the big ol' water bowl."
Their situation he was describing is not made any less curious with further explanation: Murdock was taxiing their scammed seaplane in circles whilst he built up the speed to take off, as the small mountain lake they had made their emergency landing on wasn't long enough in any direction for a clear run. Their landing there had been extremely fortuitous, not only due to the near-total loss of engine power, and now Murdock was trying to enact another miracle for their escape.
"I think one more pass oughta do it, Colonel." Murdock said suddenly, checking his instruments again.
"Great work, Murdock. Glad to see my trust paid off." Hannibal replied, then looked into the back seat. "Face, how's BA doing?"
"Sleeping like a baby." Face replied, sounding almost disgusted. "He'll be the only one without injuries again when we eventually crash."
"We will not crash!" Murdock returned, wounded. "There's at least a fifty percent chance that we'll be just fine!"
"Fifty percent?!" Face repeated, paling.
"How'd you calculate that one, Captain?" Hannibal asked calmly.
"Well, see, it's like this," Murdock began seriously, but then broke into one of his particularly glint-eyed grins, "either we will, or we won't."
"Oh god." Face groaned, pulling back to his seat beside BA's sleeping form and buckling his straps as tightly as possible, mouthing a silent prayer.
"Alright, I'm goin' for it." Murdock announced. "Let's get...outta here!"
On the penultimate word, he eased back on the stick, and as they lurched off of the water, the cabin was filled a howl, a scream, some hearty laughter, and a snore. Hannibal, still chuckling as they continued their climb, finally lit up his cigar. He just loved it when a plan came together.
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A little A-Team trope-inspired fic- there's more than one bed, but you've still got ~700 words of platonic bed sharing and sleeping together, because what's winter without a winter storm?
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"Not again." BA growled under his breath, then gave a sharp pull on what little remained of the blanket that was meant to be covering him.
His reward was more fabric, but accompanied by a surprised yelp, and then followed by resistance. "Hey, BA, give that back!" Murdock called in a stage whisper, "It's cold over here!"
"It's cold over here as well, fool!" BA returned, clutching the blanket with all of his considerable strength, "You can't go hoggin' it to yourself!"
"I've got barely enough to cover my little snowman buddy over here," Murdock said, trying to pull the blanket back, "and he don't need coverin' anyway, I'm just being polite, but me, for myself, I-"
"Shut it with your snowman jibber jabber!" BA said. "Don't know how you can still keep that thing after that storm we walked through to get here!"
"Well it's cold enough in here." Murdock said, giving BA more fuel for his fire.
"Yeah, it's cold enough that snow don't melt! So give me some more blanket!"
"I don't have-"
"You give me-"
"Stop grabbing-"
"Ow-!"
"Guys. Guys!"
The argument fell silent at Hannibal's sharp instruction, particularly coming as it did from between them, in the middle of the rather overcrowded double bed. At his words, and slight movement to try and get an overview of the situation, Face also stirred, shivering as he un-buried his head from the blankets.
"What's going on?" he asked, voice still thin from sleep.
"As BA has put it, 'jibber jabber'." Hannibal replied, his voice worn with exhaustion. "Look, team, I really don't mind the cuddle pile, in fact I could use the warmth right now. But what I could also use is a little sleep." They all felt Hannibal's glare despite not being able to see him. "BA, Murdock, what's the problem."
"Hannibal, this bed ain't big enough for all four of us," BA complained, "barely fits two, and that's bein' generous. There ain't enough blanket to go around."
"You're welcome to leave, BA," Face replied, his teeth chattering only slightly, "the other bed is-"
"And you're welcome to shut up!" BA returned, not moving an inch.
It was then that Murdock piped up in a high-pitched English accent, the wobble not entirely clear if it was genuine from the cold or faked for the bit.
"Please sir, Mister Baracus, can I have some more?" He tugged lightly at the blanket which really did barely reach him.
"See, the fool wants more!" BA said. "I've barely got any myself!"
"It's pretty thick, though, isn't it?" Hannibal commented, almost to himself, "Let me-"
His words were overtaken by rustling, and then a whole host of different sounds.
"Hey!"
"Hey, what-?"
"Hannibal?!"
"Give that back, sucker!"
"It wasn't me!"
Everyone shivered as the blanket was whipped away and the cold air of the room rushed over them, reminding them all too well that the motel they had managed to literally stumble across in the classic Minnesota winter storm that had stranded the van a two-mile walk away had had no better luck than them; the furnace was broken. The predicament wasn't helped by the sudden flurry of blanket flapping, making everyone's violent shivers surge again, almost as bad as during the walk through the roadside snowdrifts.
"Hannibal, what are you-?"
"Hey, stop that!"
"Sir, please! I really-"
"BA, grab this." Hannibal finally interrupted, and there was the sound of something soft being thrown.
"Finally, what-"
"Murdock, take this." Another quiet huff as fabric met fabric.
"Thank you, sir, thank you so very kindly, I-"
"Shut it, fool!"
"What did you do, Hannibal?" Face asked, tucking the blanket up to his chin again and trying to regain his lost warmth.
"I unfolded the blanket, something we should have done to begin with." Hannibal replied dryly. "Now, are we feeling better?"
"Much."
"Yeah."
"Certainly, sir."
"Good." He put his head back to his half of a pillow, and once again was quickly in the land of dreams.
A nice little piece of comeuppance for one of the team's adversaries. ~800 words of snappy banter and bad-guy baiting from the end of an unspecified job. Definitions are taken from the Cambridge English Dictionary.
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The van skidded to a stop at the side of the highway after almost half an hour of break-neck driving away from the team's last job. The conclusion had been successful: another net full of corrupt politicians handed over to local law enforcement, with the net being literal thanks to BA's handiwork, the client and their remote Iowa town saved, and the team paid in full. There was just one loose end, but that wouldn't take too long to wrap up; almost before the van was still, the rear door was thrown open, and a trussed-up, suit-clad figure ejected with little grace.
His fall revealed Hannibal, rifle on one hip and his other hand holding a cigar, with Murdock peering out from beside him, hat on backwards and rifle carefully aimed. Face joined the picture as he got out of the front seat and bought his rifle to bear, smiling sweetly. BA stayed in the driver's seat, prepared for a quick exit.
"What the hell is this?" Leo Oarshaw squeaked, his watery gaze darting quickly between the three mercenaries.
"This, is justice." Hannibal said, grinning. "As you're so keen to keep saying, you haven't done anything actually illegal, so we can't turn you over to the sheriff. But, you are in the running for the world's biggest sleezeball, so we can't just let you off scot-free." He featured menacingly with his rifle. "Get up."
It was a long process for Oarshaw to get to his feet, with his hands tied behind his back and his arms bound to his sides, but he eventually made it, puffing and wheezing and trying to give Hannibal and the others a death glare but having nothing like the necessary authority. Before he had his breath back, Hannibal issued his next order.
"Now get gone."
Oarshaw looked around in a way that was almost comical, taking in his barren surroundings. Nearby, a long-dry steam bed defined the bottom of the sandy valley that the road wound through, empty walls gently sloping to a cloudless blue sky with a particularly fierce sun hanging directly overhead. Other than him, the team, and a handful of lizards, there were no living things within thirty miles or more. It was then that the true reality of his situation began to dawn on him, and he protested in earnest.
"You can't- you can't strand me out here-" he stammered, his cool demeanour failing, "I'll die- you're stranding me- you're-"
"Technically, I don't think this is actually 'stranding'." Face interrupted, casually menacing the man with his gun. "Murdock, would you care to explain?"
"My dear fellow, it would be a pleasure." Murdock said, pulling out his best Bostonian accent. "Strand, noun: a thin thread of something, often one of a few, twisted-"
"Murdock, the verb." Hannibal corrected.
"Ah, yes, of course. Strand, verb. To leave someone in a place that they cannot get away from because of a problem such as not having any transport or money."
"See, see! You are stranding me!" Oarshaw whined. "I haven't got any transport-"
"I see that this body you've got is the model with two legs and a pair of feet, yeah?" Murdock interrupted, his accent now from Seattle as he consulted an imaginary clipboard.
"And they seemed to work fine when you were chasing those nursing sisters near the convent." Hannibal said, his voice cracking with ice.
"But- but money!" Oarshaw said, playing what he knew was his last card. "I haven't got any money, you took it all!"
"That's true." Face conceded, then, with a dramatic sigh, put his hand in his pocket and drew out a single dollar bill, throwing it at Oarshaw's feet. "There." he said flatly. "You've got money."
"A dollar is a lot, Face," Hannibal said, "remember, he's got plenty more in that secret second bank account of his- that's until the convent finds the cheque that I left on their desk." Hannibal nodded to Oarshaw. "You may not remember it, but I distinctly heard you say that you were going to make them a charitable donation, so I thought I'd do that for you. No need to thank me, happy to help."
Oarshaw took a step forward, angry. "You people are-"
"Aht!" Hannibal stopped him just by bringing his rifle to his shoulder. "I wouldn't, if I were you. If you want my advice, you just sit tight here and wait for a passing motorist to take pity on you, you might learn the meaning of the word. That, or it's an hour and a half walk back to town. I'm sure you'd make it by nightfall." With a head tilt, he signalled Face back into the van, and Murdock reached for the door handle. "See you later, pal."
The doors slammed shut, the rear tyres screeched, and moments later, Oarshaw was left coughing in a cloud of dust, the dollar bill dancing away on the A-Team's wake.
After much editing, I present ~900 words of Face hurt/comfort, because it's something I very much enjoy reading, so I should probably contribute a little back. As he is my favourite (tied with Murdock tbf), there will probably me more in the future >:)
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"It's a scratch, Hannibal, a graze at most." Face said, trying again to push away the hands practically pawing at his torn trouser leg. "Really, it's fine, there's no need to-"
"A graze don't make you whiter than the wall you're leanin' on." BA cut in before the Colonel could, his face angry but his tone mellowing towards concern. "A graze don't paint the back of this truck red!"
That was an overstatement, but not by much; blood had pooled beneath Face's injured thigh where he sat in the back of the stolen box truck, but only started spreading in rivulets as they had swerved dramatically into cover and been able to stop. When Hannibal had jumped from the cab and cheerfully opened the shutter to release Face, not knowing what had happened, he had practically recoiled from the state of the interior. His horror had yet to fully subside, though he hid it behind his usual sparkling demeanour, still coming down from his latest hit of the jazz.
"He's right, Face," he said lightly, not pausing in his pursuit of the wound, "you need to get better and scam some more paint, the rental company won't like this vivid shade of red." And neither do I he added privately, hoping that his reaction didn't show on his face as he finally exposed the wound.Â
It was from a bullet as he had suspected; a 'lucky' hit must have landed literally as Face was pulling the shutter down at the start of their last pursuit. Characteristically, Face had said nothing at the time, not making use of the connecting window to the cab to seek help, instead leaving Hannibal to learn of it when he opened the rear shutter to issue congratulations at their miraculous escape. That had turned through a brief spike of panic at learning Face was hit at all, but now began to recede as he saw that the full nature of the problem was a long, thin, and hopefully shallow wound in the flesh of Face's outer thigh.
"Fine, huh?" Hannibal asked lightly, taking the first aid kit that BA was offering, "Next, you'll say that you've had worse shaving."
"And it'll be true." Face returned, though his pallor didn't support him.
The initial cleaning and dressing of the wound was conducted in stoic silence, Face's jaw clenching at Hannibal's liberal use of antiseptic. BA acted as nurse, providing the gauze and tape as required, and a few minutes later, the injury was hidden below a patch of surgical white. Hannibal patted Face's knee, the signal that all was done and he could open his eyes again. However, it seemed that he had been distracting himself by planning a persuasive speech, which he immediately took the opportunity to deliver.
"Look, you guys, that little scratch really feels much better now that it's dressed." he said, turning on his number sixteen smile; usually reserved for particularly syrupy scams. "Let's just get in the van and keep going, get some more miles between ourselves and the MPs, that's what would really make me feel my best. Once we've dumped the truck back near the rental, if we play our cards right, we can swing by a Captain Bellybusters and get some burgers for the road, huh? What do you think of that?" The smile switched to number twenty-three: 'Winner, winner, chicken dinner'.
For all his nonchalance, though, Face still hadn't made any efforts to leave the back of the truck, or even to shift his position much. Hannibal sat back, seeing his argument laid out for him.
"Alright then, walk outta here." he invited, gesturing to the door. "If you can get up and walk out to the van right now, then I'll agree with you, it's just a scratch."
"Fine!" Face returned, as strongly as he could, then after a second to gather his strength, he surreptitiously bit his lip, and began to draw his legs up preparatory to spinning round and jumping down.
He hardly got past the first movement. As he bent his legs, the torn muscles in his thigh complained with a stabbing pain, and although he had expected that, he still lost his balance, beginning to fall from the truck. BA, who had also been expecting it, caught him easily, and propped him roughly on his feet, taking most of his weight.
"A scratch, huh?" he growled, but held back his anger; it was at the sucker who had shot his friend, not Face himself. "We gotta get to somewhere where we can lie low, Hannibal. He needs to rest."
"Agreed." Hannibal said, and between them, they quickly hustled Face into Murdock's usual seat in the back of the van.
BA jumped in the front just in time to hear Face making another valiant complaint.
"Hannibal, I'm ok to travel more," he was insisting, "we need to get Decker off our tail, we can't afford to hole up at the moment, he's close behind-"
"I think, in this case, I'll be the judge of that." Hannibal said, then slammed the door behind them.
Hardly had the door shut before they were vanishing into a cloud of tyre smoke headed for safety, the bloodstained box truck the only clue they had ever been there.
