Chapter Text
The first time Face lied to Kao was Day Number One.
As days went, it had not been one of the Team's best. Nothing had gone right, even before they'd crashed some fifty klicks from the DMZ. It had almost seemed fitting. Of course they'd crashed. And of course the dying Huey had left a swath through the jungle a blind man could follow. Capture was imminent because of course they’d gone down in one of the hottest spots in the territory.
Honestly, the Team should've known better than to try and take a vacation.
Why Face had ever expected anything less (or more, depending on how you looked at it), was beyond him. The three-day passes Hannibal had wrangled for them had just been so tantalizing—though Face'd had his doubts about their chosen destination at first. Given how their last visit to Cam Ranh Bay had ended, a degree of caution had only seemed reasonable. But Hannibal had just grinned airily and said he was certain the Base Commander had forgotten all about that. Exactly how one forgot about having to rebuild an entire barrack wing, Face didn't know. But Cam Ranh had nurses, moonlit beaches, and shiploads of supplies just waiting to be re-appropriated, so who had he been to argue?
Unfortunately, the Universe had not been so easily persuaded.
A broken fan belt, an influx of late morning fog, and an unexpected skirmish with Charlie had kept them grounded in Khe Sanh for almost four hours. Face'd had to call and switch their flight out of Da Nang so many times the personnel there had started laughing every time they'd heard his voice. They'd also started taking bets. Last heard, the odds had been forty to one against the A-Team arriving before nightfall; twenty to one against them arriving at all.
The odds hadn't been wrong.
Sixteen minutes after they'd finally been allowed to lift, they'd heard the distress call: a dozen grunts cut off from their unit less than thirty klicks from the Team's position. Seven wounded, almost no ammunition, Viet Cong on every side. Medevac had been placed on standby, but until someone put out the inferno that was the LZ, they wouldn't be going anywhere. The closest base air support had had a nineteen minute ETA.
The A-Team had made it in eight.
They hadn't exactly been dressed for a trip behind enemy lines (a fact Face had taken great pains to point out) but it hadn't mattered. They could've been decked out in full Class A's and they still would've gone. Without question. Besides, as Hannibal had so blithely pointed out, their lack of tiger camo would only be a problem if they crashed—an observation so comforting B.A. had almost gone catatonic. But that hadn’t stopped them either.
Which was how, less than an hour later, they'd found themselves torching what was left of their Huey and running for their lives in sateen greens.
It hadn't been a total waste, of course. They had managed to keep the grunts safe long enough for additional air support to arrive. It had just been bad luck that their Huey'd taken so much damage by then, it had refused to stay airborne. Murdock had tried to steer them out of enemy territory while they'd still had some altitude, but his lateral controls had been shot. The best he'd been able to do was keep them in the air long enough to pick where they crashed: a secluded little nook so deep behind enemy lines, even the enemy hadn’t found it yet.
‘Yet’ there being the operative word.
It hadn’t been an easy pill to swallow, but at least knowing what was coming had given them time to prepare. Dumping their dog tags had felt like a sacrilege. So had ripping off the sleeves of their fatigues, cutting away their name patches, and burying their insignias. Face wasn't overly attached to his Lieutenant's bars, but he'd tailored those fatigues himself—and seeing Hannibal without at least one bird decorating his collar was almost as wrong as seeing Murdock without his wings. But pilots, high ranking officers, and anyone in special forces were priority targets. The fact they were running around behind enemy lines without back-up was a dead giveaway they were special forces—inappropriate jungle dress notwithstanding. But that was the only piece of free information the VC would be getting from them anytime soon.
In the end, it had taken Charlie two hours to pin them down—and thirteen to march them over what felt like half of southeast Asia. On the bright-ish side, Face was pretty certain their meanderings had carried them into Laos, rather than North Vietnam. It wasn’t much, but at least they weren't destined to rot in the Hanoi Hilton. On the not-so-bright side, having their arms tied to bamboo poles and their captors just itching for an excuse to shoot them, had meant escape was (temporarily) out of the question.
The alternate plan had been simple: stay alive, watch for opportunities, give nothing away. Getting ushered into what was cheerily known as a Death Camp had put a slight damper on their prospects of staying alive. And being swarmed by soldiers who eyed them like meat on a platter had made watching for opportunities a depressing pastime.
But that still left give nothing away.
It was Basic Training 2.0, Prisoner of War Edition: eyes forward, mouth shut, don't react, don't look around. Simple. At least in theory. But habits were hard to break, and Face found himself terrified he would make a mistake. Looking to Hannibal for guidance was as instinctive now as breathing. Especially in moments of panic. No matter how many things were exploding, Face knew if he could just catch Hannibal's eye, it would be okay. Hannibal would tell him what to do or assure him that all the insanity and death wasn’t going to take them under. Sometimes he did it with words, but more often than not, all it took was a grin or a gesture. And Hannibal never failed him. It was like a sixth sense. The plan could be coming apart at the seams, but if Face looked, Hannibal would look back. Always. In the field, it was a gift.
In the Camp, it could get Hannibal killed—one flick of the eyes marking him as their leader, insignia or not.
But as they stood in front of Kao for the first time, Face realized Hannibal was already marked. His steel gray hair set him apart from the rest of them who still looked like they had a few years to go before their voices stopped changing. So when Kao zeroed in on Hannibal and asked in perfect English which of them was the leader, Face opened his mouth. A fake name and slightly ambitious rank rolled off of his tongue, and the last part of their oh-so-simple plan bit the dust.
It took Hannibal all of three seconds to recover, and then he was spitting out a fake name, an even higher rank, and telling Face to, "Keep it together, Sergeant."
Face retaliated with a flat smile and a, "You keep it together, Private."
No sooner had the demotion left his mouth, than Murdock entered the fray and, in a rapid fire stream of consciousness, labeled them all as Corporals, swore up and down their leader was a fifth party named Major Maguffy, and demanded to know why Kao wasn’t out looking for poor old Guff-Guff if he wanted to talk to him so bad.
"One of your number escaped?"
"Of course he escaped! How else could he not be here, if he hadn't escaped?"
Nonexistence leapt to mind, but Face kept that to himself.
Things devolved quite nicely from there with Hannibal crawling Murdock for giving the Major away, Murdock waxing poetic about his Great-Aunt Bernice whose dedication to the truth somehow made her relevant to this conversation, and Face insisting that Maguffy was a coward and he was glad they'd lost him. The exchange became more and more heated, with the three of them calling each other every rank in the book and randomly asserting that regardless of Maguffy's fate and Bernice's recent burial, they were in charge now.
Murdock had just one-upped them all by declaring himself an Admiral in Her Majesty's Fleet and threatening everyone present with charges of mutiny, when B.A. took matters into his own hands.
"Shut up, fools. Shut up!" He glared them all into silence, then stepped into Kao's personal space. "I don't care what they say. They all crazy. I'm in charge."
"You?"
"Yeah. You got somethin' to say about that?"
Kao had quite a bit to say as it turned out, but it was all in Vietnamese and directed at no one in particular, so Face allowed himself the luxury of just standing there in shock.
Ten minutes later, they'd been cut free of the bamboo poles and shoved into a cell the size of a walk-in closet. Apparently, Kao had decided to keep them on ice (figuratively speaking) until he'd consulted his doctor about starting an aspirin regimen.
Face would’ve cheered if his arms hadn’t been hanging like dead weights at his sides, and his jaw wasn’t still dragging the floor. “B.A., what just happened?”
The question had the rest of the Team swiveling around to stare at their Sergeant, too. Clearly, Face wasn’t the only one struggling to come to terms with this unexpected turn of the universe.
But B.A. (the man who had never told a single lie before in his life) just snarled. "What? I am in charge."
"Yes," Hannibal drew the word out with a frown. "You are in charge—of our ordnance."
"Hey, man. I just told the dude I was in charge. If he wanted to know of what, he should'a asked."
Hannibal grinned at Face. “Don’t you love it?”
Face grinned back. “We may make a conman out of him yet.”
"Which just goes to prove Great-Auntie was right," Murdock crowed, rocking up on his toes. "She always said ‘tell the absolute truth—it's the world's best lie’."
"That don't make no sense, fool."
"Of course it don't! Great-Auntie was crazier than a bedbug in a mattress factory. You can't expect someone like that to be right and make sense, can you?"
“No,” B.A. snapped. "Because they ain't never right. They just crazy in the head, like you."
Swinging a clumsy and obviously still numb arm onto B.A.'s shoulder (and smacking him in the face in the process), Murdock beamed. "Why thanks, big guy. I think a lot of you, too."
Her Majesty's Admiral soon found himself hoisted off the ground by his shirt collar (though how B.A. managed to have enough motor control for that feat was a mystery) and Face couldn't help it: he laughed.
And once he'd started, he couldn't stop.
Maybe it was the almost ridiculous familiarity of it all. Or some weird side effect of running on nothing but fear and adrenaline for the past fifteen hours. Or maybe it was just the overwhelming relief that the four of them were still alive and together in spite of everything. Whatever it was, Face found himself breathless with it. Hannibal and Murdock weren't far behind him, and it only got worse when even B.A. broke. Their bad tempered Sergeant shifted from growling to giggling in the space of half a second, and Face almost passed out from lack of oxygen.
They ended up on the floor together in that cramped cell, pressed even closer to one another than they had to be, and struggling to wipe their eyes. It felt good. Right in a way nothing else had since their capture. It gave Face hope that everything really would be okay. Death Camp, hungry-eyed soldiers, missing Guff-Guff, and all.
It was the last truly happy memory Face would have for months to come.
Notes:
In the episode "Water, Water Everywhere" (S2 E10), Hannibal asks, "... do you guys remember the fight we got into in the barracks in Cam Ranh Bay?" No details are given, but after B.A. grins at the Colonel's reminder, the Team ends up using fire hoses and a rigged up tanker truck to blow out a few windows and blast the bad guys into a wet, soapy pile. So I'm guessing they must have left Cam Ranh Bay a little worse for wear.
And thus an Easter-Egg was born. XD
Chapter 2: Day Number Twelve
Notes:
This chapter gets pretty heavy, y'all. Touch of humor to start, but things get serious fast, so hang on!
Specific tags that apply to this chapter: All the Protective Teammate Tags, Fear, Helplessness, Intimidation, Violence, Angst, Hurt Face
Okay, here we go...
Chapter Text
The first time Face got caught lying to Kao was Day Number Twelve.
Unsurprisingly, it was also the day Kao revealed he had somehow figured out they were The A-Team. Not an A-Team—because those had standard patterns of composition (same number of men, same set of ranks, etc.) and actually followed a rule or two. But The A-Team—who did none of that.
Face knew their unit's unconventional make-up was half the reason Hannibal had been so intent on trying to hide their ranks in the first place. Because there was only one Team running around Vietnam with a Colonel, a Lieutenant, a Sergeant, their own pilot, lots of attitude, and nothing else. And that Team just happened to be on the Viet Cong's most wanted list. Sometimes being the best was a pain.
But for the first eleven days of their captivity it hadn't been an issue. They'd remained cheerfully anonymous, and while the VC had been annoyed by their lack of cooperation that’s as far as it'd gone. Neglect had seemed to be their game plan, which'd been just fine by Face. True, the starvation diet and unsanitary living conditions were far from ideal, but given some of the alternatives he hadn't been about to complain. A fact which his teammates had found, by turns, to be both astounding and amusing.
But all of that changed on Day Number Twelve...
The Team were embroiled in an argument over who actually had all four aces in their latest round of invisible poker (it was Murdock, Face had dealt the cards himself) when Kao arrived. There were three other officers and at least twenty guards on his heels—a warning sign if Face had ever seen one.
The cell block was long; a dozen overcrowded cells standing between the Team and Kao. But somehow Face still knew: Kao was there for them.
The line of Hannibal's shoulders came up a little as the enemy began their approach. It was the only sign the man gave that he was even aware of their presence. With his back to the door, he made a show of adjusting the nonexistent cards in his hand. Voice casual, he said, "Kao?"
Face hummed in confirmation. "Brought a few friends, too."
"Ain't seen him come in with a party like that since they first dumped us here," B.A. muttered.
"They must've found Maguffy. Oh, I may never forgive myself!"
"Shut up, Murdock. They ain't found no Maguffy, anymore'n you got four aces."
"I do to have four aces." Murdock fanned out his invisible cards as proof. "See?"
Hannibal grinned. "Looks like four aces to me, B.A."
"I must'a been outta my mind, agreeing to play with you guys. This is ridiculous."
"You didn't think it was ridiculous when Face dealt you that Royal Flush, you big ugly—"
"Guys, guys," Face hissed. "Can we not attract attention right now? Please?"
But it was too late. Their already dim cell was cast even deeper in shadow as Kao and his men came to a halt in front of the door.
Naturally, Hannibal continued to ignore them. With another grin, he clapped his hands together. "Okay, kids. My turn to deal. How about a little five card stud? Diamonds are wild. Aces or better to open."
Face groaned. That was preposterous. If Hannibal kept making up rules like that, even Face wouldn't be able to talk B.A. into playing with them again. Of course, seeing as how they were all probably about to die, maybe it didn't matter.
Darting a look toward Kao and his too-large entourage, Face swallowed. And swore his heart tried to jump out of his chest when a hand curled over his knuckles.
"Take it easy, kid," Hannibal murmured. "You're gonna bend the cards."
Face huffed out a breath, but slowly unclenched his fists. He was rewarded with a smile and a wink as Hannibal plucked invisible cards from his hand.
One guard stepped up to the door and there was a dull clatter of keys.
Face swallowed again, but didn't look. Not this time. When a hand once again curled over his knuckles, he set his jaw, locked eyes with his commanding officer, and waited for orders.
"Stay sharp, stay alive." The words were hushed; something less than a whisper. But the fierceness in the Colonel's tone made it a command.
One Face accepted with an almost imperceptible nod. Yes, sir.
There was a harsh scrape as the guard slid the key into the lock.
Hannibal's attention shifted to focus on first B.A. and then Murdock. "Stay alive," he repeated. "Whatever it takes."
Whatever it takes. The words echoed in Face's head as he and the rest of the Team got to their feet.
The cell wasn't wide enough for them to stand four abreast as they normally would have, so they dropped into a loose two-by-two formation instead. Based on the growling Face could hear at his back, he guessed B.A. wasn't too happy with being relegated to the second line of defense. Face wasn't too thrilled with how that had worked out either, if he was being completely honest, but he was second in command. His place was at Hannibal’s side and that's where he intended to stay. Even if it was like standing next to a lightning rod during a thunderstorm.
The door to their cell opened, and Kao smiled as he shattered their hopes of anonymity forever. "Colonel John Smith, leader of The A-Team. It is an honor."
Adrenaline (it wasn't panic, honestly it wasn't) rushed through Face's veins. Just what the heck were they supposed to do now?
His eyes flew to Hannibal; that traitorous need for guidance and reassurance unable to be denied.
But for once, Hannibal didn't look back. He just stood there, staring Kao down with something close to a smirk on his face. He was obviously on the Jazz, but there was a flicker of something darker in his expression that Face had never seen before.
"I would return the compliment, General." Hannibal paused, fishing the stub of his last cigar out of a pocket and sticking it between his teeth. "But I do hate hypocrites, don't you?"
Eight violent seconds later Hannibal was gone. Surrounded and dragged away while Face and the others were driven back against the wall. It was like being caught in a human riptide. No time to think, no time to react. Just sudden and complete loss of control.
The impact with the wall left Face breathing hard. Or maybe that was just the shock. He supposed he should be used to it by now. War had a cruel habit of ripping lives apart in the blink of an eye. One moment your unit was alive and whole. The next it wasn't. But they were The A-Team. Things like that didn't happen to them. They just didn't. Not like this. Oh, they'd been wounded before; trapped, cut off, surrounded. But they'd always been together, and together they could do anything. But with Hannibal taken, their invincible unit had suddenly been fractured.
And Face had no idea how to fix it.
B.A. didn't seem to have that problem. With a yell, he threw off the guards pinning him to the wall. Two jaws and one nose snapped under his fists in quick succession. Then he got mad.
If the eight seconds it had taken to drag Hannibal away had been violent, then the fifteen seconds it took for B.A. to pluck Face and Murdock out of VC hands were feral. Vicious in a way B.A. rarely ever was.
Face was again left breathless as he found himself jammed into a corner practically on top of Murdock. It was a tight fit with B.A. planted in front of them like a brick wall, and nothing but rough hewn stone on either side. Having his legs half-tangled with Murdock's only made it worse. But it was being stuck with his back to the VC that spurred Face to move. His efforts cost him several new scrapes, and Murdock at least one new bruise, but that couldn't be helped. There was no way Kao was going to let B.A.'s show of defiance stand, which meant Face had to be ready. For what and to do what he had no idea. But he had to try.
His desperate scramble ended as soon as he caught a glimpse of what lay beyond their human shield. B.A. had clearly done some damage. There wasn't an enemy left standing inside their cell. Bodies (limp but still breathing as far as Face could tell), were strewn across the floor. The rest of the guards—for reasons unknown—hadn’t advanced from their positions in the hall. They just stood there, stony and impassive.
And then there was Kao.
The General didn't appear to have moved either, but there was something off in his eyes. Something wild that belied his otherwise serene appearance. The level of calmness in his voice when he finally spoke was unnerving. "Sergeant Baracus. I have heard many tales of your strength and temper, but did not believe them to be true. These matters are so often exaggerated. Yet, even weakened as you are, you have proven yourself worthy of such reputation. I am impressed."
The tone of his words slipped under Face's skin. Soft and insidious, like the smooth burn of alcohol.
But whatever intoxicating effect Kao might have been hoping for was lost on B.A. With a snarl, the Sergeant stepped forward and began hurling the unconscious guards out the door.
When the last body fell at Kao's feet, the General laughed. A harsh crackle of sound that soon shifted into the even harsher bite of Vietnamese.
A portion of the guards in the hall responded to the command. There was no riptide this time; just the steady march of soldiers into their tiny cell. The enemy set themselves in a half circle, three deep despite the cramped quarters, and waited. The choice, though left unspoken, was clear: B.A. could back down willingly or he would be made to back down.
As soon as Face saw B.A. widen his stance, he knew exactly which option the Sergeant had chosen—and how it would end.
Grabbing onto the back of the other man's shirt, Face tried to stop him. "B.A., don't."
"He's right, big guy," Murdock murmured. "Even you can't win this fight."
"I'm not lettin' 'em take you."
Face closed his eyes and held on even tighter. "B.A., it's no use. Just—"
"No!"
The fabric under his hand ripped as B.A. threw himself at the closest opponent.
Face threw himself after him, not really pausing to think. He landed against B.A.'s back, arms straining to wrap around the other man's shoulders, and tried to pull him away. "B.A., stop!"
But the Sergeant didn't stop—and neither did the VC.
A baton lifted in preparation to strike, and Face half-climbed onto B.A.'s back, putting everything he had into forcing the man off course. Out of the way. He felt more than saw Murdock add his own weight to the mix and, between the two of them, they managed to make B.A. stagger. Not much, but enough. When the baton came down it missed B.A.'s skull.
It wasn't until Face heard himself scream that he realized he'd been hit instead. That the angry crack of wood ringing in his ears had come from the blow landing across the base of his own neck and shoulder.
Things went a little hazy after that—sensations bombarding him in disconnected waves; the world bending and flowing like liquid. After a while, even that threatened to drift away.
But it didn't drift away.
Piece by brutal piece, reality slotted itself back together, leaving Face bent over and unsteady on his feet. Murdock was there, one shoulder propped under Face's and an arm tight around his waist. B.A. was close, too, voice rising and falling as he alternated between insulting Face's intelligence, seething unintelligibly, and apologizing again and again. At least, that's what Face thought he was doing. If the big guy would only slow down and maybe stick to just one emotion he might could tell better.
Calloused hands pressed against either side of his face and lifted his head.
"Faceman?"
"M'okay." The answer felt thick on his tongue, but it was mostly the truth. Dragging his gaze up to meet B.A.'s, Face tried to smile. Tried to project even a fraction of the confidence and reassurance he knew Hannibal would, if he were here.
But Face wasn't Hannibal, and he never could be.
The still unchecked flow of anger and worry radiating off of B.A. was proof enough of that. But at least he wasn't fighting any more.
No one was.
A fact which registered in slow and increasingly disturbing stages for Face. He wanted to believe it was a good thing. That the guards giving them space was just an unexpected act of mercy. But the longer the stillness lasted, the more unsettled Face became.
One look past the circle of his teammates told him why.
All of the bodies B.A. had flung at Kao's feet were conspicuously absent, while the number of guards in the hall seemed to have doubled. Inside their cell, the rows of would-be combatants had shifted, taking up flanking positions along the walls.
A move which left Kao and the chambered Colt M-1911 in his hand with a clear field.
Judging by the angle and the steadiness of Kao's hand, a shot at this range, would sever B.A.'s spine just below the brainstem. Not an immediate kill-shot perhaps. B.A. might last for a minute after, maybe two. But he would die. Of that, there was no doubt.
The thought was enough to make Face's stomach roil. He tried to tell himself it would never happen. That Kao would never really pull the trigger. Not now. Not so soon after discovering who they were. The same reputation that made them such attractive targets, also made them more valuable. Too valuable to just be gunned down over a single offense. Or so one would think. But when Face finally dared look Kao in the eye, he saw the truth.
Lives had no worth here. Not even The A-Team's.
"Sergeant," Face rasped. "Stand down."
Time stretched, dread distorting mere seconds into a lifetime. He could feel B.A. staring at him; feel the force of every unspoken accusation and protest. But he refused to look away from Kao. Certain, somehow, that if he broke eye contact, whatever thin thread of restraint was keeping the man from pulling the trigger would be broken, too.
Face fumbled for a hold on B.A.'s wrist. His fingers were heavy and clumsier than they should have been, but eventually he made them work. "Stand down," he repeated. "Please."
He wasn't even sure who he was pleading with anymore.
The hands that had been bracing his face, shifted to his neck. Rough fingers pressed into his skin, and for one horrifying moment it felt exactly like goodbye.
But then B.A. bowed his head, shoulders rounding in defeat. His hold on Face tightened and, with one last, gentle squeeze of his fingers, he let go.
Face let go, too, his friend’s wrist slipping out of his grasp as the other man surrendered.
The corner of Kao's mouth curled in approval. He didn't holster his weapon, but he lowered it fractionally, and for now that was enough.
Swallowing against a sudden swell of heat in his throat, Face turned to B.A. He couldn't bring himself to meet the other man's eyes this time, but he had to give him something. "Stay alive, remember?" he whispered. "Whatever it takes." The reminder sounded hollow. Inadequate in a way words rarely were for Face. But it was the only excuse he had to offer.
A command was snapped in Vietnamese and iron cuffs linked with chains were passed into the cell. It took two guards to secure them around B.A.'s wrists and then he was being yanked toward the door.
The Sergeant only looked back once; his gaze lingering long enough and heavy enough to weaken even Face's resolve. The raw, torn in two look he found waiting for him cut deep. But anything was better than seeing his friend dead. Wasn't it?
Nineteen seconds later, B.A. was gone.
That roiling feeling came back with a vengeance and Face was certain if he'd had anything in his stomach, he would have thrown up.
The arm around his waist tightened. A sudden, unintentional reminder that he had yet to fully straighten himself. Giving Murdock's shoulder a pat, Face shuffled a step away and carefully unbent his body. The pilot let him take back his own weight, but refused to allow the distance between them to stand. Stepping into the slim gap Face had just created, he pressed close.
Face wanted to object. Showing any kind of dependence or weakness in front of the enemy was a dangerous mistake—and they'd given Kao too much ammunition already. But Face didn't have the wherewithal to step away from Murdock again. Not when they were the only ones left.
And not when his body seemed to have decided being vertical was its least favorite position right now. He swayed a little, unintentionally leaning into the small points of pressure where their bodies met—shoulders, elbows, hips.
Murdock tucked himself even closer. "I got you, muchacho."
The world blurred a little—for reasons that had nothing to do with the blow he’d taken—and Face locked his knees. Pulling himself to his full height, he lifted his chin. I got you, too, buddy. I promise.
Kao walked into the cell, scrutinizing them both. His attention settled on Face, though, as he very deliberately slid the Colt back into its holster. "I commend you, Lieutenant Peck. Your instincts serve you well."
"I would return the compliment, General," Face said, voice falling in a tight, unyielding echo of Hannibal. "But you seem to have made a mistake. It's Captain, not Lieutenant."
The supportive body next to him went rigid.
"Face?"
It was little more than a breath of sound. One which Face easily ignored. "Captain H.M. Murdock. Pilot for The A-Team," he clarified, just in case there was any doubt.
"That's not true." Murdock stepped forward, inserting himself between Face and Kao. "I'm Captain Murdock."
"He's lying," Face snapped. "It's the only thing Lieutenant Peck is good for." It came out sharper than Face had intended; an old, familiar bitterness tainting the words. But he had to make Murdock understand: this was all he had to offer. The only possible way he could help.
Next to Hannibal, Murdock was the highest priority target on the Team, and they all knew it. He outranked Face and, worse still, he was a pilot. They'd made sure Murdock hadn't been caught wearing a flight suit, of course (Face's spare pants had been a little short on him, but the rest of uniform they’d pieced together had made it passable). But if Kao knew they were The A-Team, then he also knew one of them had to be a pilot.
Taking Hannibal's place had never been an option, but with Murdock it was different. The two of them were close enough in age and general physical description to at least try pulling off a switch. They were all going to be tortured anyway. It wasn’t like Face was offering Murdock a free ride. But the Viet Cong had a reputation for being especially brutal to pilots, and it wasn't fair that Murdock should have to carry that alone. Sharing it made sense. They shared everything else. Besides, it was good strategy. Even if the deception only lasted a few days, it could help.
Murdock disagreed. "I'm not lying, General," he insisted. "I am Captain Murdock."
"Will you stop it," Face hissed. Then louder and a bit angrier, he added, "Just because I’m not a Green Beret like the rest of you doesn’t mean I need protecting, Lieutenant. I know what I'm doing."
Murdock turned around, gaze steady and smile far too soft. "I know what you're doin', too, Facey. And if you think I'm gonna let you do it, you're crazier than I am."
Face grit his teeth, focus shifting back to Kao. “I’m Captain Murdock,” he bit out. “Service number 4-8-9-2-8-8."
There was a sigh, warm hands cupping Face's shoulders, and then it was all over. Any hope Face had of convincing Kao, snatched away by the very man he was trying so hard to protect.
"If you’re really The A-Team’s pilot, why don’t you tell General What's-His-Bucket over here how to prepare a Huey for lift-off, huh? Can you do that? Because I can."
Face opened his mouth. As long as you were confident and talked fast enough, people rarely questioned whether or not you actually understood what you were talking about. He could come up with something.
But Murdock never gave him a chance.
Face clenched his eyes shut as the other man began listing off steps and procedures with practiced ease. Don't do this. Please don't do this.
But it was already too late.
"What about the cyclical, huh?" Murdock asked. "Can you tell 'em what that does? Or explain how you calculate thrust and lift? What about the altimeter? Can you—?"
"Stop it!" Face jerked back, staggered. Told himself the reason he was shaking was because he was angry and not because everything that mattered to him was being taken away. Murdock reached for him, but Face shoved his hands away. “No!”
“Faceman, hey, it's gonna be okay, all right?"
No! No, it’s not. I can’t—
“Hey, look at me.”
Breath sawing in and out of his chest, Face glared at Murdock. But then the world blurred again and, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his mask from crumbling. "Why? Why'd you have to do it?"
That too-soft smile resurfaced. "Why'd you stop B.A.?"
Thirty seconds later, Murdock was gone—and Kao stood in his place.
The General was shorter than Face, but sturdier. Broader. Not that it mattered. The cold Face could feel seeping into his bones had nothing to do with Kao's size.
There was less than an arm's length of space between them. Face hadn't thought twice about the distance when it'd been Murdock, but now he suddenly found himself very acutely aware of just how close he was to the wall.
The cell had been cramped with all four members of the Team in it, but it had never felt claustrophobic. If anything the forced proximity had helped keep them all grounded. Or maybe that had just been Face. It wasn't like they'd actually talked about it. But now, with the others gone and Kao standing close enough to touch him, the cell seemed unbearably small.
Which was completely irrational. The General hadn't even done anything. Since moving into the cell and sucking all of the oxygen out of the room, he'd simply gone still. Granted, his posture was more uptight than before, but it just made him look crisp. Formal. Like this was some kind of routine inspection, and Face nothing more than a particularly ill-made cot he couldn’t decide what to do with.
Kao didn't speak. Didn't lash out or yell or even scowl. Back ramrod straight, hands folded behind him, he just looked.
But there was something wrong in it. Something cold and... sick that made Face want to claw at his own skin. Instead, he stood there frozen. Will power and whatever strength his starving muscles might have had left, stripped away beneath that look.
He wasn't even sure why.
Panic stuttered in his chest and, without thinking, he glanced at the Colt. He never saw Kao move. Couldn't have said later where the bamboo cane had even come from.
But he felt it.
One strike was all it took to put him on the ground. Maybe it would have been different if he'd seen it coming. Or if his balance hadn't already been compromised. Then again, maybe it wouldn't have made any difference at all.
With a gasp, he fought to bring his trembling limbs back under control. To think past the stripe of pure fire radiating down the side of his face. Blackness swept across his vision. He blinked, shook his head, and slowly watched the shadows ebb to gray. That's when he saw Kao. Not towering above him as he'd expected, but crouched in the dirt mere inches away.
Face scrambled back, heart thudding. The cane was still in the General's hand. Every few seconds, he snapped it against his open palm. The sound alone was enough to make Face shudder. Pressing his body against the wall, he turned his head away.
And almost choked when two fingers touched the wound on his cheek.
Kao's touch was clinical—not particularly harsh, but not exactly light either—and Face pressed back even harder against the wall. A low keen escaped his throat as the fingers began to move, raking down the swollen line of heat from his temple to the crease of his lips.
By the time Kao was done, Face's breathing was an erratic mess. And it only got worse when the clinical touch suddenly turned cruel—fingers and thumb clamping around his jaw hard enough to bruise. His eyes blew wide as his head was jerked forward, away from the shelter of the wall. The move left him with no choice, but to look straight at Kao.
The eyes that stared back at him were black. Devoid of light in a way Face had never seen before. And just like Kao's icy composure, the wrongness of it to made him cringe.
Father Magill had always told him there was no such thing as an irredeemable soul. That all of humanity, no matter how steeped in darkness they might have become, were born in the image of God. That everyone was intended for salvation, if they would but accept Him. Sister Terrance had not shared that opinion, regularly prophesying eternal damnation over all the boys in her care for their mischievous ways. She'd even gone so far as to declare a nine year old Templeton Peck beyond all hope of redemption. Only a born heathen, she'd said, would run a pyramid scheme on his fellow orphans and wind up with every cookie, marble, and frog Sacred Heart had to offer. It had been the extremity of that reaction which had first lead Face to believe (and desperately hope) that it was Father Magill who was right. That no matter how far he fell, there would still always be a chance for salvation—a hope he had clung to all the harder since landing in Vietnam.
But as Face stared at Kao, at those eyes so consumed with darkness, he couldn't help but wonder if Sister Terrance hadn’t been right. If perhaps there was such a thing as an irredeemable soul.
The fingers clamped around his chin dug in deeper, and Kao leaned close.
"You lied to me, Lieutenant Peck. Do not do it again."
Face shivered, eyes skittering away from Kao. It was a mistake. The hand gripping his chin snapped upward, forcing his head back at such a harsh angle he had no choice but to again look straight at Kao. Keening as the strain in his neck built into something sharp and painful, he wondered if now would be a good time to mention that he lied to everyone. Another upward twist of Kao's hand and the thought scattered.
"Do not try me, Lieutenant."
And Face didn't. Until Day Number Fifty-Two…
Chapter 3: Day Number Fifty-Two
Notes:
One year, ten months, and twenty-one days ago, I started writing this chapter. And on January 1st, in the year of our Lord 2025, at exactly seventeen forty-six hours Central Standard Time, I FINALLY FINISHED IT!! To say it has given me fits would be an understatement. It has also changed forms so many times, entire stories have been cut out of it (The Hall, Always, Without, and two as yet unposted multi-chapter fics). I hope what's left isn't too much of a disappointment. I'm not entirely sure it's any good, but this is what it wanted to be, and I'm tired of fighting with it, so here we are. Be warned, this one's a real rollercoaster ride!
Specific tags that apply to this chapter: Fear, Manhandling, Violation of Personal Space/Boundaries, Intimidation, Threat of Torture, Mention/Description of Past Torture, Emotional Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Unintentional Self-Harm, Destructive Behavior, Terrified Face, Protective/Caregiver Face, Murdock is a Wreck, Kao is Evil
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first time Face lied to Kao and actually got away with it was Day Number Fifty-Two.
Somewhere in the back of his mind where he wasn't completely distracted by the rage and fear clawing up his throat, Face guessed that had to be some kind of record. He’d gone forty days without running a con.
Not that he hadn't thought about it, of course. Truth be told, he'd thought of almost nothing else, in spite of Kao’s warning. But, for once in his life, his skills as a conman had seemed destined to fail him. No matter how many times he'd gone over their situation or how many different approaches he'd considered, nothing had ever seemed good enough.
Not when his potential marks all held the power of life and death.
Their captors shocking lack of communication had made things even more of a challenge. They doled out punishments and tortures without warning or reason. Even the most compliant of prisoners were not immune. But aside from the occasional suggestion that Face or one of the others sign papers admitting to war crimes, they asked no questions, made no further demands.
Face hadn't been above considering their offer, traitorous as it seemed. He was a conman, after all, a deal-maker. It just wasn't in his nature to turn down an opportunity to bargain. But being able to maintain leverage was key at this point. Just buying a moment's reprieve wasn't enough and, as it stood, that's all their offer would've been good for: a moment. As soon as the enemy had his signature for their propaganda machine, Face would no longer matter. His usefulness to them would come to an end and with it any hope he had of helping his Teammates.
So Face had turned them down (citing Kao’s admonition about honesty, of course) and suggested a warm place they could go rot for eternity.
But then Day Number Fifty-Two happened, and it turned out the VC wanted something more after all. At least, from one of them…
Face was asleep when the guards came; so weighed down by exhaustion he didn't even realize the Team's cell had been invaded until a hand wrapped around his throat. He was off the ground and being dragged to the door before he caught his first breath.
Distantly, Face recognized the sound of B.A. roaring; of Hannibal calling his name. He tried to answer them, but the hand around his throat was too tight. Clawing at the guard’s fingers, he fought to get even one syllable out. But then, between one blink and the next, it was too late.
Face barely managed to keep his legs under him as he was hauled out of the cell. Instinct had him twisting back, searching for just a glimpse of Hannibal. But it was too late for that, too.
When the guard with the meaty grip finally let go, they were a long way from the cell block. Face tumbled to the ground, blinded by the sun and gasping for air. The respite was short-lived. Almost immediately, new hands grabbed him—by the arms this time—and held him upright on his knees.
The water one of the guards threw in his face was a shock. So was the next bucket-full they dumped over his head. Both doses were warm. When he licked at the drops on his lips they tasted stale; like the water had been left to stand in the sun too long.
Hands sank into his hair, tugging and pulling just enough to make him wince. It wasn't until he caught a whiff of ash and oil, though, that he realized they were trying to work in some kind of soap. The Viet Cong were washing his hair.
It was… confusing. So out of place from what Face had come to expect he didn't know what to think. He supposed he should be grateful. There were so many things they could've chosen to do to him that were far worse. But somehow this felt more personal. A strangely intimate humiliation that left him feeling almost as vulnerable as if he'd been beaten.
Another bucket of water was dumped over his head. A rough rub down with a towel followed, and Face dared to hope that might be the end of it. Instead, someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. Face hissed at the pain, then froze as he found himself staring down the wrong end of a razor. The guard holding it barked an order in Vietnamese. Face wasn’t sure if the words were directed at him or the guy testing the strength of his hair roots, but in the end it didn't seem to matter.
The first touch of the blade made him forget how to breathe. Logically, he knew they wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of washing his hair just to slit his throat. But the guard was still the enemy and no amount of logic could change that.
Thankfully, the guard was quick. A few short strokes and all of the baby fine hair and fuzz Face had managed to grow was gone. His lungs were also slightly on fire, but he was pretty sure the enemy didn't care.
As soon as the other guard released his head, Face turned away. He knew it would never stop them. Another fist in his hair and they could—and would—do whatever they wanted to with him. But he just needed a moment; a chance to remember how to breathe.
It was almost a relief when the guards pulled him back to his feet and started them moving again. They weren't exactly gentle about it, but at least it was familiar. Something he understood.
After only a few steps, though, Face found himself struggling to keep pace with the soldiers. He wasn't even sure why. Everything just felt wrong. He felt wrong; as if his mind and body had somehow become staggered. As if he were walking through a dream rather than reality.
The feeling only intensified when he saw the grass. It was a rather pathetic scattering of grass, but it still made him stumble. Because there wasn't any grass between the Team's cell and The Hall. Not a single blade.
Looking up, Face stared at his surroundings in a kind of blurry wonder. None of this made any sense. What was happening to him? Where were they taking him?
All too soon, he had his answer.
The row of buildings was unfamiliar; a series of small structures tucked among the shadows of the Camp's rear wall. Each appeared to be made of concrete block and fitted with metal armored doors. Face wanted nothing to do with them.
His escort didn't care.
Despite his soft mewl of protest and brief attempt to resist, they took him to the third one on the left. Its door swung open from the inside as they approached and the stench of ammonia hit Face hard. His nostrils burned with it, leaving him open-mouthed and gagging. He slipped as the guards dragged him across the threshold. Then he was falling, a forceful shove sending him headlong into the dark. He hit the floor. Behind him, the door thudded close.
Pulse pounding, Face scrambled into a crouch and kept scrambling until he felt a wall at his back. No one touched him. It was impossible to see in the gloom so soon after having been outside, but he knew he hadn't been left alone. His instincts told him there were at least three others in the room. Maybe four. What's more he was there—Kao. His presence crowded Face's senses like an oppressive weight. It wasn't logical. Kao hadn't come near any of them in weeks. There was no reason to think he should be here. But he was. Face could feel it as surely as his own heartbeat.
Forcing himself to slow his breathing, Face pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Water dripped from the fringe of his hair down his neck. One drop kept going, slipping all the way down his back before soaking into his shirt. It was as unsettling as it was grounding. The one sensation too vivid to be a dream.
Tilting his head back, Face blinked rapidly. He needed to be able to see. Needed to know where Kao was and what was about to happen.
When his vision finally began to adjust, the first thing he saw was a post. It stood at the center of the room; a pillar of rough wood, streaked with dark stains and studded with a pair of manacles. Swallowing, Face shifted his eyes away.
That's when he saw the man tied to a chair.
His mind began to reel. He'd never been taken for a session where there was another prisoner. Never. What could they possibly—
With a gasp, Face lurched away from the wall. He half-stumbled, half-crawled to the other prisoner's side and dropped to his knees. Hands trembling, he lifted the man's head.
“Murdock?”
Vacant brown eyes stared back at him—no, through him—completely lifeless. If it hadn't been for the faint rasp of his friend's breathing, Face would've sworn he was looking at a dead man. Just the thought made his throat swell.
“Murdock?”
Kao said something, voice smooth and cold.
It took longer than it should have for the words to register. For Face's brain to not only catch up with what Kao had said, but what he meant.
I trust you will not forget to say goodbye.
“What?” Face could barely hear his own voice as he spun to face Kao.
The General stared down at him. “You have been brought here for a very specific reason, Lieutenant Peck. As you can see, Captain Murdock has taken to hiding from us. He apparently has little care for the lives of strangers.”
Face didn't fully understand what Kao meant by that, but he knew he hated him for it. Hated him as he had never hated anyone before in his life.
Kao met his hatred with a smile. “As I was saying, Lieutenant, your Captain has proved most resistant. It is our hope that a familiar face—the face of a boy who once tried to protect him—will provide Captain Murdock with the proper incentive.”
Face scowled. “Incentive for what?”
“To give us what we want.” There was no trace of a smile this time. No hint of humanity. Just a cold, unyielding stare. “You have one hour, Lieutenant Peck. I suggest you make the most of it.”
“An hour?” Face sputtered. “To do what? I don't even know what you want. I—”
Face broke off as the General turned and strode toward the door.
“No, wait! Please—” Face choked on the word. Though whether it was from the bitter taste of his pride or the sudden swell of fear in his throat, he couldn't tell. “Please,” he said again. “I'll do whatever you want. Just tell me what it is, I’ll—”
But Kao wasn't listening. He walked out the door without so much as a backward glance and the guards…
“Wait!” Face staggered in his rush to get to his feet and stop the guards from leaving, too. Most of them barely spoke any English, but if there was even a chance one of them could tell him something. Anything.
The last soldier turned, looked Face in the eye, and slammed the door.
Face lunged forward even though he knew it was too late and called out again. The thunk of a lock sliding into place was his only answer.
With a cry, Face kicked the door. The sounds echoed like broken glass. Jagged and fierce and wrong in so many ways. Almost as wrong as the silence coming from the other side of the room.
Sagging against the door, Face looked back at Murdock. The pilot still hadn't moved. Hadn't even turned his head despite all the commotion Face had made. He just sat there staring at nothing.
The sight hurt. Cut through the storm of everything else and hurt. Because Murdock shouldn't look like that. Nobody should, but especially not him. The pilot had always been so full of life; his presence alone had seemed infectious. Even being put in solitary, cut off from all of them for weeks, hadn't been able to dampen his spirits. Face still remembered the night they'd finally received word from him. When they'd finally known for certain he was still alive and, not only that, but still very much himself. Or so it had seemed.
Dashing an arm across his eyes, Face made his way back to Murdock. It was only a few steps, but the weight of those lifeless eyes made every one seem harder than the last.
I trust you will not forget to say goodbye.
Working his jaw, Face again dropped to the floor in front of Murdock. He tried to look up. Tried to force himself to truly look at his friend while he still had the chance. But he couldn't. Instead, he found himself staring at the ropes.
The knots were tight. Even before he touched them, he could tell these weren't the kind of knots the guards untied. These were the kind they cut.
Face set to work on them anyway.
His fingers slipped once, twice, three times. After the tenth time, he quit counting. His skin soon began to burn from the constant friction, but he tried not to pay attention to that either. It felt too much like a warning—a foretaste of what he would feel once Kao saw what he had done. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to stop. He just couldn't.
Pushing past the burn, he ignored every warning bite, and began to talk. He talked about knots; about the two days he'd spent in the boy scouts when he was twelve; about the incident with the poker game, a wandering opossum, five collapsed tents, and a very brief forest fire that had gotten him kicked out; and then there was the ridiculousness of knee-high socks. If it came to his mind, he talked about it. Anything to keep himself from thinking about what he was doing and what was to come.
Eventually, the knots began to give way. Face paused after each one, examining wrists and ankles as he freed them. Rubbing warmth back into too-cold hands and feet.
Murdock never responded to any of it. He never shifted, never groaned.
Face kept going anyway. By the time he reached the last knot, his fingers were ruined. Nails torn; fingertips bruised and swollen from digging at the ropes. Even the lightest touch seemed to set them on fire. But he still couldn't stop. Not now, when he was so close. Not when this might be the last thing he was ever able to do for his friend. Pushing up onto his knees, Face got back to work.
The only rope left was the one binding the pilot's chest to the chair. Its knot was larger than the others and sat in an awkward place on the lower left side of Murdock’s ribcage. Face was so intent on trying to get his fingers to do something useful, he almost didn't notice the blood. It wasn't like there was that much of it anyway. At least, not at first. But as the tiny smears began to multiple and the rope became harder to hold onto, he was forced to look closer. That's when he realized the blood was coming from him.
He wasn't sure why that surprised him. Maybe it was because his awareness of the pain had slipped out of focus; the constant burning hidden beneath a layer of fog. Until now.
The pointless stream of words that had been coming out of his mouth faltered as he stared at the damage. For weeks, all he'd been able think about was trying to find a way to help. And now he couldn't even untie a rope. Why was he even there, if he couldn't—
“Face?”
He closed his eyes. Only minutes ago, he would've given anything to hear that voice. But now... how could he face Murdock knowing he’d failed him? What could he possibly say to make any of this better?
“Face, is that you?”
The awe in Murdock's voice only fed Face's shame. He drew his hands back, curling his fingers to hide the damage, and looked away. He knew he should say something; find someway to explain or apologize. But as soon as he opened his mouth, all the words seemed to be gone.
He was still trying to make his tongue work, when a hand landed on top of his head. Instinct and recent memory made him flinch at the touch. But something far deeper kept him from pulling away. When the hand began patting his hair, Face actually laughed. It was such a ridiculous gesture—and so completely Murdock. The long fingers eventually worked their way to the back of his neck and settled into a loose grip. The hold was so gentle, Face could've cried. It felt nothing like the guards. Nothing.
“Facey?”
A soft, but insistent tug accompanied the name, and suddenly Face was back to wanting to laugh again. Leave it to Murdock to be more concerned about Face not looking at him than about the rope binding his chest.
Another light pull on his neck was all it took for Face to cave. Working up a smile, he lifted his head. “Hey, buddy.”
The hope and awareness he found in Murdock's eyes made the smile a little easier to hold onto. When his friend’s face lightened in return, it almost felt right. But the moment didn't last. All too soon the pilot's expression crumpled, the warmth in his eyes flaming into grief.
“No. Please, no.”
“Murdock?”
“Not you. Please, not you. Please…”
“Hey, hey, what's all this, huh?” Face shifted closer, keeping his voice soft. His smile trembled a bit around the edges, but he refused to let it slip. “C'mon now, I know my face isn't the prettiest these days, but it can't be that bad.”
The only reply he received was a cry so wretched and shattered it made his heart plummet—and then it got worse.
Face watched in horror as one of the kindest men he'd ever known, begin to sob and plead and yank at his own hair. Cries of ‘no’ and ‘not him, please, not him’ and ‘I can't’ spilled out of Murdock's mouth. There were bursts of Vietnamese, too; vicious and angry at first, then broken and begging. He didn't seem to understand that Face was the only one there to hear him.
“Murdock, stop. Please,” Face pleaded as he tried and failed to keep the pilot from tearing at himself. “C'mon, buddy, don't do this. Please. I promise they're not here. It's just you and me, okay? Just you and me.”
But Murdock was too far gone. Arms thrashing, he continued to fight against an enemy only he could see.
It wasn’t long before a wayward strike caught Face in the side of the head. He tumbled back, gasping as his body once again connected with the floor. But the physical pain was distant; a mere shadow compared to the heartache of seeing Murdock like this.
Swiping at his eyes, Face pushed to knees and tried again. It took longer than he would've liked, but eventually he managed to capture Murdock's face between his hands. With swollen fingers he guided the other man's head down to his shoulder and held on as tightly as he could. The position left him vulnerable to Murdock's flailing arms, but he just bent closer, absorbing the blows for both of them.
Face lost track of how long they stayed that way—of how many reassurances he whispered before the thrashing stopped and the sobbing began to wane. All Face knew was that, by the end of it, he felt carved open.
Uncurling himself just enough to give them both some breathing room, Face lifted his friend's head. Red, painfully swollen eyes met his, and Face did his best to smile. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “You with me?”
A fresh trickle of tears was his only answer.
Brushing the back of his fingers over Murdock's cheeks, he tried again. “Hey, I know you're scared. I am, too. But we're gonna figure this out, all right? I promise. Just— hey, no, no, no. Don't look over there.” Face panicked a little when he saw Murdock's attention drift toward the post. Bracing the pilot's jaw between his hands, Face did his best to distract him. “C'mon, buddy, look at me. Right at me.”
It took time—more time than they probably had left to spare—before the pilot complied. But when he did, the devastation in his eyes took Face's breath away.
“My fault,” Murdock croaked. “S'all my fault. I'm sorry, Face. So, so sorry.”
“Hey, shh, don't even say that. None of this is your fault. I don't care what they've been telling you. It's not—”
“Yes it is!”
“Murdock—”
“No!”
For a split second, Murdock looked angrier than Face had ever seen him. Fury bled through his tears as he grabbed Face by the front of his shirt.
“Don’t you understand? They’re gonna chain you to that post and take you apart just like they did all the others! They're gonna stand there and make you scream over and over and over until you can’t anymore. Until there's nothing left but limp and bloody bones, and even then they won't stop. They'll just keep going and going and—” Murdock sucked in a breath, anger suddenly twisting back into grief. “They're gonna make me watch, Facey. They're gonna make me watch all of it an— and no matter how hard I beg them, they aren't going to stop. They're never going to stop, because they know, Face! Somehow they know, and I—”
“Whoa, hey, slow down,” Face said. “What do they know?”
“… December 1967.” Murdock bowed his head, voice dropping to a whisper. “They know about December 1967.”
Face blinked. That was impossible. The Team didn't even know about December 1967. Not really. They knew of it, but only because of what wasn't there, not what was. To them, it was nothing but an absence value like the number zero; or the roar of silence in the jungle. It was the four missing weeks in Murdock's file. ‘The Trip’ he always referred to as if it had been lived by someone else. The shapeless reason he gave for preferring to fly without a co-pilot.
So how on earth had Kao found out about it? And, more to the point, why did he care? What interest could he possibly have in a single mission from over two years ago? It didn't make any sense unless…
With a sigh, Murdock laid his forehead on Face's shoulder. “They think I still do that, Facey. They think I'm still with them.”
The hushed words left Face’s heart beating in double-time. It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath him and a golden lifeline had landed in his lap all in the same moment. This could be it; the angle he’d been looking for. It felt cruel to even think such a thing after what Murdock had been through, but there was no denying the hum building under his skin. Even after forty days there was no mistaking that feeling and, for better or worse, there was no way he could ignore it.
Supporting his friend’s heavy head with his hands, Face ducked down until they were once more eye-to-eye. “Murdock? Who is it they think you’re working for?”
“I can't tell you.” Murdock muttered. “I can't tell anyone. I can't.” Fisting both hands in his hair, the pilot began to rock against the ropes. “I can’t, I can’t.”
“Hey, hey, easy, buddy. Easy. You don't have to tell me, all right? It's okay. You're okay.” Covering his friend's hands with his own, Face tried his hardest not to shake—no simple task given the amount of adrenaline pumping through his system. His whole body seemed to be alive with it as he tried to tease Murdock's fists loose. Perhaps it had something to do with realizing he was going to have to do some high-stakes guesswork on this one.
The ‘67 mission had been a cloak and dagger op, that much Face knew; probably CIA or G2. He would've preferred to know for certain one way or the other, but he'd run cons with less. He could still make this work. All he had to do was figure out what Kao wanted.
Biting his lip, Face guided Murdock's hands back to his shirt. The pilot latched onto the material and held on tight. Face held on even tighter. “Murdock? Murdock, I need you to listen to me, okay? I think I can stop Kao.”
Murdock whined at the sound of that name, and Face hurried on.
“I can fix this. I know I can. But I could really use your help, buddy. I need to know what they want. Anything they've asked you or something in particular they seem to be after…?”
Murdock shook his head. “No, no.” His eyes squeezed shut as he suddenly tried to pull his hands away. When he couldn't, his motions turned frantic. “I don't know anything! I don't, I swear I don't.”
“Okay, okay, shh. I'm sorry,” Face said. “It's okay, you're okay.”
But Murdock was already gone. Spitting out a curse in Vietnamese, he fought all the harder.
“Murdock, it's me. It's Face. C'mon, buddy, plea— ahh!” A blinding rush of pain lit his fingers as Murdock finally broke his hold. Face wanted to reach out again; find someway to stop his friend from tearing at himself. But all he seemed able to do was curl over his own hands and wait for the pain to stop. It was stupid. The abrasions were raw, yes, and some of his nails had torn down to the quick. But none of the damage went beyond the ends of his fingers. It shouldn’t have hurt so much. It just shouldn't.
But it did.
It wasn’t until the pain began to recede, that Face noticed the quiet. Where before all he'd been able to hear was Murdock, now there was nothing. No crying, no gasping. When he finally dared to look up, empty eyes stared back at him. Lifeless once again.
“You disappoint me, Lieutenant.”
With a gasp, Face whirled around. He didn't try to stand; just pivoted into a crouch and pressed his back against Murdock's knees.
Kao was waiting for him. So were the guards.
Someone re-engaged the lock on the door and Face flinched. But the weight of that sound was nothing compared to the sight of Kao stepping towards him with a cane he remembered all too well.
The General didn't stop until he had breached Face's personal space. He didn’t breach it by much; just enough to prove he knew where it was. And to prove that, like every other part of Face, it was his to violate when he chose.
It was a truth which left Face shaking. He hated himself for it; tried with everything in him to make it stop. But his body still shook.
It only got worse when Kao suddenly swept his boot through the ropes at their feet. Some just slid across the floor. Others went flying. When the last of them hit the wall, Kao lifted the cane.
Face ducked, pressing back even harder against Murdock's knees. It took a while for the lack of pain to register. Longer still for the guards’ laughter to penetrate the blood thundering in his ears. Heat flooded his cheeks at the sound; so hard and so fast it left him lightheaded.
“I am pleased you remember our last encounter so well, Lieutenant Peck.” With a smile, Kao lowered the cane. “Perhaps you are not such a disappointment after all.”
The words made Face’s skin burn even hotter. What the General said next, though, set him on fire in a completely different way.
“It is a shame your Captain could not have learned his lesson equally as quick. Had he been more teachable, all of this unpleasantness might have been avoided.”
Face wasn't sure what happened in that moment. Where his fear went or his shame. But he suddenly found himself rising to his feet. “My Captain will never tell you anything.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” On some level, Face recognized he had just snarled at Kao and that there was no way that was a good idea. But an even greater part of him was too incensed to care. “He will never tell you anything,” Face spat again. “But…” he hesitated, eyes falling as he tapped into that hum beneath his skin. “He’ll tell me."
“What?”
“I said, he’ll tell me.” Face looked up, locked gazes with Kao, and said, “Put him back in the cell with us. Give me a chance to work with him and I'll get you all the answers you want.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
Kao looked at him thoughtfully. Then he stepped closer.
Face swallowed, biting down on his tongue to hold himself steady. Though whether he was trying to keep himself from snarling again or shaking apart, he didn't know.
When Kao very deliberately lifted the cane, Face tasted blood. But he didn't move. Not even when Kao pressed the tip of the cane to his temple. It went against everything in him to just stand there and let it happen. But this was one mark who would never be convinced by words alone. If Face wanted this one, he was going to have to earn it—the hard way.
The cane had a gnarled head. Its touch was rough, but it didn't hurt—a fact which gradually lost its importance as the bamboo traced a line past Face's eye and down his cheek. When it reached the corner of his lips, it stopped.
Just like the first time.
It was unnerving. Because as ugly as that wound had been, it hadn't left a scar. B.A. had promised Face it hadn't. Which meant Kao remembered. One blow laid on Face weeks ago, and the man still remembered. Somehow the thought of that disturbed him even more than the weapon resting on his cheek.
The cane shifted, pressing into the underside of Face's chin. It forced his head up just enough to make him wince—yet another reminder of what had happened the first time.
“And once you have obtained these answers,” Kao said, “you will give them to me. Nothing hidden. Nothing held back. Is that right, Lieutenant Peck?”
Face closed his eyes. He knew what he needed to say; what the General most likely needed to hear. But he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. Not with Kao's breath ghosting across his skin.
The cane dug in even deeper and, for a moment, Face couldn't even think. But then he felt a tug on his pants leg. The touch was light. So light he almost thought he'd imagined it. His doubts disappeared, though, when the material was pulled taut. Knuckles pressed into the back of his knee and suddenly Face could think again.
He opened his eyes and looked straight at Kao. “Murdock shutdown because he saw you. For me to get the information you want, you are going to have to stay away from him. Your officers and the guards, too. You put him back in our cell and no one touches him, but us. No one. Do that, and I will tell you every word he says.”
With a frown that struck Face as more curious than disapproving, Kao tilted his head. “For this, you would betray your country?”
Face scoffed. He made it a harsh sound. One he hoped matched the look in his eyes. “I didn’t join the Army because I believed in a cause, General. I joined because I had no where else to go. Murdock, Hannibal, and B.A. are the heroes on this Team. They’re the ones who believe in fighting for something bigger than themselves. I only believe in fighting for them.” Face stopped. Forced himself to take one breath, then two. When he could finally unclench his jaw, he said, “If you and the commies want South Vietnam, as far as I'm concerned, you can have it. But you can't have him.”
“I can't?”
The General's tone was dangerous. So dangerous Face felt Murdock's hand begin to shake. It was all the incentive Face needed to bare his teeth in a smile. “Well, I guess that depends on what you want most, General. If he's all you're after then, by all means, keep him tied to this chair. Shred a few more prisoners on that post of yours—myself included—and just keep right on wasting everyone's time. But if it's information you want, you're going to have to give him back to me, and never touch him again.” Face stared Kao down, lips curling into another smile. “Like I said, General, it's your choice.”
The spark of greed in Kao’s eyes said it all. Face had him and they both knew it.
“You have three days, Lieutenant Peck.”
Face smirked. For what he had in mind, all he needed was two days and nineteen hours.
Day Number Fifty-Five was going to be a piece of cake.
Notes:
In researching this fic, I found that the Viet Cong rarely tortured their prisoners for the purpose of obtaining information. More often than not, their primary goal was simply to break their prisoners' spirits and/or force them to falsely confess to war crimes for the sake of propaganda. That said, torture for information did happen occasionally, and I figured with Murdock having run an op "once... in December 1967" for the CIA (S4xE13), it would make sense for him to be one of the few who were targeted for information.
Also, during my research for this fic, I discovered that in Vietnam, soap is made from ash and different kinds of oils. So, now, you know. LOL.
P.S. About seven or eight months ago (mid-2024), I actually updated the first chapter of this fic. The main portion of the story did not change, but the opening was expanded to better set the stage for where/how/why the Team wound up getting captured. So, if any of you lovely people are interested in finding out how they ended up in this pickle (or if you just need a chuckle after this monster of a chapter), I hope you'll check it out!
Chapter 4: Day Number Sixty-Two
Notes:
Specific tags that apply to this chapter: Protective/Caregiver Face, Fear, Emotional Whump, Night Terrors, Mention/Description of Past Torture, Murdock is a Wreck, but also Protective/Caregiver Murdock, Hallucinations, The Power of Make Believe, Attempted Intimidation, Attempted Power Play
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first time Billy helped Face lie to Kao was Day Number Sixty-Two.
It was an unexpected alliance for three reasons: one, Face had only known Billy for ten days; two, Billy was only twelve and a half weeks old; and three, Billy was a dog.
Of course, Billy was also invisible, but in the most literal sense of the words, that was neither here nor there. As long as Murdock believed Billy was real and Billy made him smile, Face would believe, too. Which was how he ended up courting disaster with an invisible puppy sitting on his foot. At least, that's where he thought Billy was. With as quick as the little guy was, though, he might’ve moved on to gnawing at Kao’s pant leg by now. Or he could be off playing tug-of-war with the guard’s boot laces again. It was hard to tell.
And maybe Murdock wasn't the only member of the A-Team whose sense of reality was slipping.
Somehow the thought wasn’t nearly as disturbing as it should have been. If compromising his sanity was what it took to connect with Murdock and bring him back, Face would do it. Without regret and without a single hesitation.
It was what it was going to take to get Hannibal and B.A. back that had given him pause. Because his one hope for saving them meant risking everything. If Face won, they would all be safe. If he lost, none of them would ever be safe again.
But Murdock had faith in him. More faith than was probably wise, if Face was being honest (which he rarely was), but that wasn't anything new. The pilot had always believed in him far more than he believed in himself. Which was why, shortly after moonrise on Day Number Sixty-Two, Murdock had given Billy to Face…
It had only been dark for a few minutes, yet the entire cell block seemed to have fallen asleep. The day had been long and overcast, dampening the prisoners’ already low spirits. The guards had seemed equally effected by the weather, which had proven to be both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because they had evidently lacked the energy to drag anyone away from the cells to The Hall. A curse because that same lack of energy meant they hadn't bothered to bring anyone back, either.
Hannibal and B.A. included.
As long as it had still been daylight, Face had allowed himself to hope something would change. But now…
He hugged Murdock a bit closer. “Guess it's just you and me tonight, buddy.”
Again.
Murdock made no answer; just continued to lay unresisting on Face's chest. Asleep, perhaps, or simply too deep in his own world to hear. It was hard to tell these days. But, as long as he wasn't screaming or crying, Face could count it as a win. It was a pitifully low standard, and yet there were times when even that seemed unreachable. Thankfully, tonight was not one of those times.
Tilting his head back against the wall, Face stared at the moonlight trailing in above them. The ventilation slats cut the light into five, thin beams. All five of which stretched across the floor to the opposite wall. The door was on that wall, but between the broken casts of light and the yawning shadows, its bars almost seemed to disappear. It was a cruel illusion that left Face aching.
The wall wasn’t any kinder. While the patchwork of light and shadows didn't make it disappear, it did do other things. Like make almost all of the marks it held starkly visible.
He'd lost track of how many times he'd counted those marks. Particularly, the group of dots which ran along the edge of the ceiling. There were sixty-two of them at the moment. When the sun rose in a few more hours he would add another one to make it sixty-three. One for every day they'd been held prisoner. There'd been a few times when Face had lost track. Times when the VC had kept him away so long he hadn't known day from night. Or times when he hadn't been able to stand or reach that far. The others had helped him then, piecing together how many days he'd missed and making sure the count of the dots was as accurate as it could be.
He'd wondered sometimes why it mattered to him. Keeping track had just been an impulse, at first. But, somewhere along the way, it had turned into an obsession. Hannibal had come to think of it as their countdown; every new mark promising they were one day closer to freedom. It didn't mean that to Face. The complicated knot that seized his chest whenever he added another dot was proof enough of that. It hurt too much. Then again, maybe when you were in hell that's exactly what hope felt like.
Face swallowed, working his jaw, and turned his attention to the other marks on the wall. These were set in four horizontal rows near the floor. To the left of each one, clearly visible in the moonlight, were the Team’s initials. The rows themselves were filled with lines: vertical scratch marks for every time one of them had been taken; cross-marks for every time they had been returned. Face had been the one to start keeping track of that, too. He hadn't bothered to include a row for himself, but Hannibal had—as soon as he’d learned why Face was doing it, anyway. Because it wasn't about keeping score. It was about having proof that they’d come back. No matter how many times they'd been taken, they had always come back.
But, regardless of their intended purpose, it was hard to ignore how disproportionate some of the rows had become. Because, while Face had taken the most damage during the Team's introduction to torture, the VC had been quick to shift their focus. Far too quick. Within a week, it had become clear that Hannibal and B.A. were their main targets. They’d continued to take Face sometimes, but not like the others.
And then Face had made the deal for Murdock.
It shouldn’t have made a difference. Not where the others were concerned. But, for some reason it had. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that, by unintentional extension, Face was suddenly off limits to the guards, just like Murdock. The only times they were supposed to touch him now was when they took him to see Kao and when they brought him back again. It was a rule the the guards seemed to resent. And one they evidently thought Hannibal and B.A. should have to pay for.
At least, that's what the guys thought. They hadn't phrased it that way, of course. As far as they were concerned, the guards were just blowing off some steam. Either that or Kao was feeling the need to compensate for the fact he'd been forced to give a little ground and was using them to remind the Team what he was capable of.
Naturally, Hannibal and B.A. were too stubborn and contrary to be impressed by any of it. As far as they were concerned it would only be a matter of time before the guards and/or Kao lost interest. But even if they were wrong, even if it never stopped, they still wouldn't care. To them it would still be worth it.
Worth it. Because they knew what Murdock had been put through. Because, like Face, they were willing to pay any price to keep the VC away from him.
And because they knew what had almost happened to Face.
He hadn't wanted them to know about that part—or any of it, really. The things Murdock had been forced to watch… Face shuddered, reflexively drawing Murdock closer. Just the thought of speaking of that to anyone felt like a betrayal. And, as for what Kao had threatened to do to Face, well, it wasn’t like that really mattered. How could it when the General had barely touched him?
Unfortunately for them all, Murdock's psyche had not agreed.
The first few times his friend had woken up screaming, that's all it had been: screaming. Mindless cries of terror that left your heart pounding against your ribs, but told you nothing. Face had understood their source because he'd been there. He'd seen that room; seen the post. The others hadn’t, though, so they’d had no context for what Murdock was reliving.
Until five nights ago when Murdock'd had his first night terror.
Memories from college psychology class had supplied Face with the name and given him a list of reasons why it wasn't just a nightmare. But nothing he'd been taught had prepared him to see his best friend live through such a thing. To be helpless, unable to wake him no matter how hard he tried. To hear Murdock beg for it to stop—for them to stop—even as he screamed Face's name. Not because he wanted Face to save him, but because he thought Kao was killing Face, piece by piece.
A person wasn't supposed to be able to remember much after they woke from a night terror, and Murdock had been no exception. The only thing he'd remembered that night was the blood. No context, no understanding, just blood.
It had taken hours for the pilot's sobbing to ease. Longer still for him to be able to look at Face and not be horrified by streams of red only he could see. He'd touched Face almost constantly during that time—searching for wounds that weren't there; wiping away blood that didn't exist—before finally drifting into an exhausted sleep.
The silence that had filled their cell after that, had been oppressive. Their relief tainted by something thick and painful. Face'd wanted to just close his eyes and ignore it all; let the exhaustion carry him away, like it had Murdock. Instead, for the first time in what felt like hours, he'd looked at his other Teammates.
Hannibal had seemed almost translucent in the moonlight. A ghost drained of life and color in a way Face had never seen before. His eyes had been the one, startling exception. The fire raging in them could've turned the entire Viet Cong camp to ash.
Face had expected B.A. to look much the same. Not ghost-like, perhaps, but angry. That's just how B.A. processed things: he got angry and he punched stuff. But that night had been different. Face hadn't been exactly sure how or why. All he'd been able to say for certain was that he’d never seen their Sergeant cry that way.
Not long after that night, Hannibal and B.A. had started being taken to The Hall almost daily. Yet, no matter how battered they were when they came back, neither of them seemed to care.
But Face did.
“It wasn't supposed to turn out like this,” Face murmured. Resting his cheek on Murdock's head, he stared at the marks on the wall. “I just wanted to get you away from Kao. I had to. And I had to make sure he never did that to you again.” Face ran his hand down Murdock’s side and pressed his fingers against the other man’s ribcage. Reassuring himself for the hundredth time that the pilot was still there, still breathing.
Voice even softer than before, Face said, “I wasn't trying to make a deal for myself. Playing traitor was just the only way I could think of to buy time and maintain some leverage. I never thought he'd take it out on the others.” Assuming that's what was happening. Since his last meeting with Kao, Face had begun having some doubts about that. Pesky, niggling doubts that refused to leave him alone.
“This is probably going to sound crazy, Murdock, but I don't think they're being taken for the reasons they think they are. Because it didn't start happening right away, remember? It wasn't until after I'd met with Kao that first time and told him about Operation Matchstick.” Face'd done a thorough job of it, too, spilling every possible detail. He'd even woken the whole camp up at two in the morning to do it, too, just to make sure Kao got the intel ‘as soon as possible’. How was the poor, desperate prisoner supposed to know that his offering was four hours too late to do the VC any good? It wasn't like he had access to a calendar or knew what day it was, right?
So, even though the Viet Cong target had already been in flames, Kao had been sold. In fact, between the verifiable accuracy of Face’s intel and how incredibly close it had come to being useful, the General had been more than sold. He'd been addicted. The greed Face had glimpsed when they first cut their deal had increased ten-fold. No longer was Kao content to wait for the traitor to come to him. Now he was the one sending for the traitor. It made it even easier for Face to keep him hooked; doling out the intel he was supposedly piecing together from Murdock bit by bit. Completing the details for one picture, only to begin tantalizing him with hints of something else even bigger he hadn't quite figured out yet. It was a con straight out of One Thousand and One Nights. The only difference between Face and Queen Scheherazade was that it wasn't his own life which would be forfeit if Kao lost interest. But, so far, keeping Kao hooked had proved to be the least of his worries. If anything, he was beginning to fear he’d done his job too well.
“See, I'm thinking he wants me to have more time to work with you. He knows Hannibal and B.A. would never go along with treason. They've resisted him too hard for that. So, obviously, he knows I can't pump you for information when they're around. Assuming, of course, I was pumping you for information. But, he can't move them out permanently, without risking breaking our deal. I did say he had to put you back in the cell with all of us.”
Face went silent for a moment, gaze straying back to the marks on the wall. “And I can't push him to leave them alone without raising his suspicions. But there might be another way.”
Actually, there was no ‘might’ about it. There was another way. An audacious, potentially fatal way, but a way. The idea had come to him in slow, but clear stages over the past few nights and there was no doubt in his mind that it could work. What’s more, if he sold it right, there was a chance his teammates wouldn't be the only ones who were spared. Some of the other prisoners might finally have a chance, too. But if Face failed, if he made even one misstep, it would all be over.
For everyone.
Cupping the back of Murdock's head with his hand, Face took a breath. “It would be a gamble. The biggest one I've ever taken. If it were just my life I had to ante into the pot, it wouldn't matter. Hannibal would say different, if course, but his perspective is a little skewed right now. So's B.A.’s. But, the thing is, if I don't do something, it's only a matter of time before one of them…”
Doesn't come back.
Ends up crippled.
Dies.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “If I try to save them, though, an— and I fail, it’ll cost them whatever time they might have left. Kao will see to it that they never come back and…” his voice faltered, a rush of heat swelling his throat. “He’ll take you away, too. Put you back in that room. One mistake and I could lose all of you and I can't…”
Face had to force himself to take a breath. Then another. He tried to keep the rhythm steady, but each one seemed to stutter and tremble through his chest.
“You won't lose us.”
The unexpected voice—so faint and hoarse it was almost unrecognizable—startled Face. He pulled back, staring in disbelief at Murdock. “What?”
“I said, you won't lose us.”
Face froze as the bowed head lifted. Startlingly clear eyes met his, so determined—so present—they took his breath away. He drank in the sight of them, holding the image close as if it were already another memory. Then he smiled. “Hey, buddy.”
“Hey.” Murdock's lips twitched with an answering half-smile, but it only lasted for a moment. “You believe me, don't you? That you aren't going to lose us?”
Face wanted to believe that more than he had ever wanted anything else in his life, which was saying something. But he didn't. Not with the kind of certainty his friend did anyway. He still had hope—Hannibal had seen to that—but it had grown fragile these past few days. Far too fragile.
Admitting that to Murdock, though, would only upset him. So, Face shoved his own feelings aside and broadened his smile. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, I do.”
Those startlingly clear eyes studied him; tearing him apart in the gentlest of ways. Seeing past every mask and through every wall until all that was left was the truth—stripped bare and more fragile than it had ever been.
Biting his cheek, Face turned away.
Almost immediately, fingers pulled at his chin. He gave easily to their touch, letting his head be turned back toward his friend. But he didn't lift his eyes. He just couldn't.
“Hey,” Murdock said. “Look at me, huh?”
Face swallowed, biting down even harder on his cheek. The hand still holding his chin gave him a little shake. It was a coaxing almost playful gesture. Like a puppy tugging on his brother's scruff. The thought was enough to make him sputter a laugh. But he still couldn’t bring himself to look. “I'm sorry,” he murmured.
“For what?”
It was asked so simply, without a trace of judgment. Somehow that just made the churning doubt in Face's head seem even more messed up and complicated. He blew out a heavy breath. “I don't know. Everything, I guess.”
Murdock didn't say anything, but he did let go of Face's chin.
The loss of contact made Face feel oddly bereft. Before the feeling could really take hold, though, Murdock's fingers were back—right in the middle of his forehead. Face sputtered another laugh as they began scrubbing at the furrow between his eyebrows.
“You’re thinkin’ too hard about this, Faceman.”
“Too hard? Murdock, we’re talking about your lives here! Don’t you understand? If I—”
“I understand you got me out of that room. How hard did you have to think about that?”
Face started to answer, then snapped his mouth shut. In a way, he guessed Murdock was right. He hadn't really thought about that one. He hadn't had time. But, Murdock didn't know (or had forgotten) how close it had all come to falling apart. Face still broke out in a cold sweat when he remembered how he'd frozen: Kao inches from his face, the tip of that cursed cane digging into his skin. His mind had gone completely blank. If it hadn't been for Murdock…
The pilot heaved a sigh. “You're thinking too hard again.”
“Sorry.” The word slipped out automatically along with a twitch of a smile. “You're right, I didn't have a lot of time to pull that con together and it did work out okay. But it almost didn't.”
“What do you mean?”
With a huff, Face slumped back against the wall. “I came so close to blowing it, Murdock. I locked up like some kind of amateur. If you hadn't been there…” Face shook his head.
“I wasn’t there when you told Kao about Operation Matchstick.”
The calm, matter-of-fact statement left Face wide-eyed. He’d told Murdock about that. Of course, he had. He'd wanted his friend to know why he was leaving and, even more importantly, that he'd be back. So, he'd spent hours talking up the fool-proof genius of his plan and going over every step in detail. But his friend hadn’t even seemed to be aware that Face was talking. How had he—?
“I was listening, Faceman. I always listen when you talk.” Gaze skidding away, Murdock twisted his fingers twisting in Face’s shirt. “I know I haven’t really… been here lately. Not like I should. I— I try, but sometimes… it’s just hard, you know?”
“I know,” Face whispered. “It's okay.”
The pilot looked up, expression drawn with a pain Face knew he would never fully understand. “I can’t always hold onto what you say or… or answer you. But I hear you and I try to stay with you, honest I do. I want to stay with you.”
It was such a simple thing to say. Face wondered if his friend had any idea how much they meant. “I want you with me, too, buddy.” He smiled, ignoring the rough sound of his voice, and gave Murdock's back a quick rub. “I’m just sorry I don't have anything better for you to come back to.”
“The only kind of ‘better’ I could possibly need, Faceman, is for the guys to be as safe as we are.”
Face swallowed, once again looking away. He wanted to tell Murdock he didn't know what he was asking. That he didn't fully understand what the cost would be if Face failed. He couldn't or he would have never asked for such a thing. “Murdock—”
“I know, okay?” With a vicious shake of his head, Murdock began to rock. “I know a-an— and just the thought of going back there…”
Given how the pilot was propped on his chest, the rocking motion made it a little hard for Face to breathe. But he didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around the other man and held on.
“They’re dying, Faceman,” Murdock rasped. “He’s killing them, you know he is. And if they die because of me… I can’t live with that, Face. I can’t, I can't. You have to get them back. You can do it, I know you can. Please try, please…”
“Okay, buddy, okay. Shhh, shhh.” Drawing the man close, he said the words he knew his friend needed to hear. “I'll try. I promise you, I'll try.”
Time lost meaning for a while after that. Face continued to fill the cell with soft promises, hands running up and down Murdock’s spine. Anything to soothe him. It worked, too, tight muscles gradually loosening under his touch and harsh shudders fading into trembles.
Even so, Face didn’t really expect his friend to still be with him. Even hoping for such a thing seemed selfish. But, when Murdock lifted his head, his eyes were as warm and present as they had ever been.
“Face, I want you to take Billy with you.”
“What?”
“When you go to see Kao, I want you to take Billy with you. That way you won’t have to face him alone.” Murdock’s lips pulled into a fond smile. “He’ll keep you safe, too. That’s why I named him Billy.”
Face wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but he did know how much his friend loved that imaginary puppy. “Murdock, I can't take Billy away from you. Even if I wanted to, there's no way he'd leave you behind. You're the one he cares about.”
“He cares about you, too, Facey.”
“I know he does, but it's not the same. Sure, he likes me, but you're the one he picked to be his person. He could've had anybody in this Camp, myself included, but you're the one he wanted.”
“It's okay, Face, I don't mind sharing. And neither does Billy, do you boy?” Murdock sat up, eyes and hands straying to the empty space beside them. He stroked the air a few times before gathering the invisible bundle in his arms. “He really does want to help. You can see it in his eyes.”
Face tilted his head, scrutinizing the air where Billy's face would've been had he existed. “I don't know, Murdock…”
“Please, Face, it… it really upset him when they took me in that room. They sealed it up so tight he couldn't get in or… or protect me like he wanted to. Broke my heart hearin’ him cry like that.” For a moment, Murdock's gaze went distant. He petted the pup's form and briefly nuzzled his face. “It wasn't until you got them to open the door that he was able to reach me again.”
Instinctively, Face leaned forward, drawing his legs into a crisscross position as he reached for his friend. “Hey, no one’s gonna keep Billy away from you again. Ever. We won’t let them. Even if—” Face faltered, heart seizing a little at the unfinished thought. But he’d come too far to stop now. Setting his jaw, he pressed forward. “Even if something goes wrong, we’ll make sure Billy gets to stay with you, all right? No matter what.”
“But that’s just it, Face. Don't you see? I’m not the only one Billy would cry for now if something went wrong. He wants you to be safe, too.”
Billy was imaginary. By every standard of logic he did not exist. But, there had also been a time when logic insisted that bees shouldn't be able to fly. It didn't really explain how an invisible dog could make him feel so deeply cared for and yet, in a way, it did. According to Father Magill, the most powerful forces on earth were always the ones logic could not contain. As a child, that hadn’t made much sense to Face and, as an adolescent, he’d been far too busy discovering girls to care about anything so abstract. It wasn’t until now, as a prisoner with nothing left to his name except for his friends and the loyalty of an imaginary dog, that he finally thought he understood.
“Here.” With a encouraging nod, Murdock held out his hands. They were empty, cradling a small, vacant space.
In years to come, Face would remember this moment as the first time he ever held Billy. But, as he lifted his arms to take the non-existent bundle, his only thought was that air had never felt so life-altering.
He held the gift close, directly over his heart the way Murdock had shown him once. Puppies like to hear your heartbeat, Faceman. It reminds them of their mommas.
Stroking his thumb over the air, Face imagined the feel of velvet fur and a tiny, warm tongue. When the little guy nibbled his ear lobe and narrowly missed sticking a paw in his mouth, Face laughed—honest-to-goodness laughed—over nothing; over empty air. Except it wasn't nothing.
It was Billy.
With a lopsided grin, Face looked from his empty hands to Murdock. “He's so soft—and wiggly!”
It must've been the right thing to say, because Murdock laughed, too. And that was the most powerful force of all.
Six hours later, Face stood in front of an ornate wooden desk with no idea where his invisible puppy had gone. The little guy had been there, he was certain of it, but now—
“What do you mean, ‘we have a problem', Lieutenant?”
Face clenched his jaw at the cold, seemingly detached tone. “It's what you're doing to Hannibal and B.A.—it has to stop.”
The General said nothing, but the way his eyebrows sharpened into matching points, made his opinion all too clear. He rose in a slow, deliberate manner; the feet of his Ball and Claw chair scraping heavily. He circled the end of the desk. Then he circled Face. When he reached Face’s blind spot, he stopped.
Face straightened even as he felt his blood drain to the floor. If Billy hadn't chosen that moment to careen across Kao’s desk, Face wasn’t sure how much longer he would've been able to keep himself from shaking.
“Perhaps, Lieutenant Peck, you would like to take your friends’ place.”
The words seemed faded, overlaid with angry yips trying very hard to be growls. Apparently, Billy had decided to tear apart all of Kao’s papers. Tricky business given that the little guy was on another plane of existence.
“Well, Lieutenant?”
Refusing to let himself be out-brazened by an invisible twelve-and-a-half-week-old, Face propped his hands on his hips and sighed. A heavy, thoroughly exasperated, sigh that said he was done with Kao’s games. “It’s making him shutdown.”
“What?”
“The guys coming back hurt all the time, it’s messing with his head. I do my best to hide their bruises from him, but I can’t stop him from seeing the blood—or smelling it. And even if I could, sometimes the pain’s so bad they cry out or… or they struggle to breathe.” Face raked a hand through his hair. “It puts him right back in that room, General, and it’s getting harder and harder for me to bring him out of it. If something doesn’t change soon… I just don’t know how much longer he can keep doing this.”
“The day Captain Murdock ceases to provide us with information, is the day he ceases to be of use to me—and you with him.”
Face whirled around. “Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped. Then, very purposefully, he lowered his eyes and took a breath. As planned, the hint of submission drew Kao in like a moth to flame.
Dropping his hands to his sides, Face pressed back until he felt the edge of the desk. He slumped against it just enough to make himself seem smaller, more defeated. When he hooked his fingers under the lip of the desk, he could almost feel a wet nose nudge against his palm. By the time Billy's snout had burrowed and shoved its way into the gap between Face's forefinger and thumb, he was having a hard time not smiling.
“So, you have come to demand that Colonel Smith and your Sergeant no be longer be taken from the cell, is that it?”
The General’s tone was almost inviting; a silk-lined trap if Face had ever heard one.
Bringing his head up with a start, he shot Kao an incredulous look. “Are you nuts?”
There had to be a degree of irony in that question, given that he was the only one in the room currently listening to an invisible dog having a sneezing fit, but Face didn't care. He'd surprised the General; thrown the master off his game and put himself in the lead. Now, he just had to keep it that way.
Making a mental note to ask Murdock if Billy had any allergies—because, bless his heart, the little guy was still sneezing—Face plowed on. “If Hannibal or B.A. ever realize I'm pumping Murdock for information and feeding it to you, they'll kill me themselves. They're patriots, remember?” Face pushed out a tired exhale. “I've been able to keep them in the dark so far, but if you start leaving them in there twenty-four hours a day, one of them is bound to figure it out.”
A frown etched Kao’s brow—thoughtful and calculating. “I will have them moved to different cells.”
It should've been a statement, but it wasn't. Because Kao wasn't commanding. He was asking.
The realization was almost enough to make Face lightheaded. Averting his eyes again, he let his head and shoulders fall. “No,” he muttered. “That won't work either. The first thing Murdock asks about when he comes around is the guys. I can usually put him off for a few hours, but then…” Face flapped his hand in a dismissive gesture. “He'll know something's wrong if they stop coming back.”
“Then it would seem our alliance is at an end,” Kao said stiffly.
“But—”
“But what, Lieutenant? You say you cannot continue your work if I leave them in your cell, and you cannot continue it if I take them away. There is no other op—”
“A work detail.”
“What?”
“Put them on a work detail.” His voice sounded odd to his own ears; at once too loud and strangely far away. When Billy nudged his hand this time it almost felt more real than his own breathing.
“We have never used prisoners for work details before.”
“And I’ve never been a traitor before!” Face shouted. “But I'm trying. Look, it would get them out of the cell everyday and, so long as you tell the guards not to push them too hard, they'll be tired when they get back at night, but they won't be moaning or bleeding.” When Kao didn't immediately respond, Face risked making one final plea. “C'mon, it's worth a try, isn't it?”
The thoughtful frown reappeared, lines tracing even deeper than before. But Kao still didn't answer. Instead, he took a few steps away and turned his back.
Face closed his eyes. Holding a little tighter to the desk, he focused his thoughts on Billy. Why couldn't he hear him anymore? Why couldn't he feel him? It was like the little guy had—for lack of a better word—disappeared. But he wouldn't do that. Murdock had promised he wouldn't. So, where was he?
Where do you want him to be, muchacho?
Opening his eyes, Face looked down at the floor. Imagined the press of a warm body between his feet; the slight poke of tiny paws trampling his toes; soulful, brown eyes staring up at him with trust and affection...
See, Faceman? Wherever you need him to be.
And, even though he knew the space between his feet was empty, Face still smiled.
“Your plan invites risk,” Kao declared. “By your own admission your friends are patriots. As such, you cannot guarantee that they will not disrupt my camp or attempt to escape.”
“Yes, I can.”
The answer made Kao turn and sharpen his gaze on Face. “Explain.”
“Hannibal Smith and B.A. Baracus will never leave this Camp without the rest of their Team. I might be the one exception if they ever find out I've turned traitor, but even if that happens they still won't leave Murdock behind. So, as long as we're under lock and key, you won't have to worry about them going anywhere. Same goes for keeping them in line while they work. Just tell them if they cause trouble, Murdock and I will be the ones who pay for it, not them. It's as simple as that.”
“I find it hard to believe that they will comply as easily as you say.”
Face blew out a frustrated breath and grit his teeth. “I started all of this to get Murdock away from you. There isn't a chance in hell I would suggest using him as leverage if I didn't know he would be safe. And if you have a hard time believing that, General, you haven't been paying attention.”
For a moment, Kao was silent. Then he smiled. “Well, Lieutenant, you certainly have my attention now.”
And, with Billy's help, Face intended to keep his attention for a long time to come.
Notes:
Random notes for those of us who think too much:
1) “He’ll keep you safe, too. That’s why I named him Billy.” — "Billy" is a diminutive form of the name "William". It means "protector of men".
2) "But, there had also been a time when logic insisted that bees shouldn't be able to fly." — The 1930s French entomologist August Magnan and his assistant André Sainte-Laguë studied the flying abilities of bees in the context of what was then known about aerodynamics. Given that, at the time, the principles of flight were limited to fixed-wing aircraft, however, they were unable to produce a successful model of a bee in flight. Magnan, therefore, concluded that it was theoretically impossible for bees to fly. Even after this conclusion was proven to be false, the phrase "a bee shouldn't be able to fly," has persisted as an inspiring metaphor in pop culture. The moral of the story being that a bee, unaware of its supposed limitation, flies anyway.
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