"Smithtaken Identity"
by Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2009
Summary: Hannibal Smith is due for some R&R time after a long day's work, but Decker has other ideas. A little drabble written for the International Smith Day challenge.
Rating: PG-13 for some hanky-panky and mild profanity.
Warnings: Disney characters acting in a decidedly non-Disney fashion eg
Disclaimer: The A-Team, as always, belongs to SJC and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for a short hop.
It had been a strange day for John "Hannibal" Smith.
First there'd been the high-speed chase with the MPs along the L.A. expressway, which had, admittedly, been fun, but then that foolishness with the truck carrying a load of exotic reptiles, not to mention the call he'd gotten from Jer that morning regarding the intense competition for the role of The Venusian Viper…
Hannibal yawned in spite of himself. He was going to relax tonight, dammit. The rest could wait.
He currently sat atop a generic paisley comforter on a generic king-size bed in a generic Holiday Inn room in the most generic, out-of-the-way place he could think of on short notice. Anaheim. It was perfect, really. He'd already dropped Murdock off at Disneyland for a night of Space Mountain euphoria, B.A. to the Friday Night Fights in San Dimas, and Face…
A grin. The way his lieutenant had been talking about his latest flame almost made him want to get a part of the action.
He pulled off his shoes, rubbing at his feet, mentally reminding himself to pick up more epsom salts. Then he settled into the ugly mauve armchair and reached for the remote control.
His grin widened. Channel 11 was showing The Longest Day, and it had just started.
This was his night after all.
In the Holiday Inn parking lot, all was quiet save for the idling engine of an olive drab sedan with chaser lights on top. Two uniformed men sat inside; one held binoculars.
"You're sure it's him, sir?" Captain Crane's voice was eager.
Decker lowered the binoculars. "It's him. He tried this little stunt last year and I fell for it hook, line and sinker. Fool me once, Smith, shame on you. Fool me twice…" His hatchet face bore a predatory snarl. "Not gonna happen, Captain."
Crane nodded. "Shouldn't we have backup on this one?"
"This one's personal. He made a fool out of me today, and I'm gonna catch him with his pants down."
"Agreed, sir," said Crane. "What about the rest of the A-Team?"
Decker held up his index finger. "If I get Smith, that's as good as getting the rest of 'em. Cut off the dragon's head and the whole thing dies."
"So, are we going in?" Crane checked his sidearm one more time.
The sodium-vapor lamps made Decker's eyes gleam with even more ferocity. "Patience, Captain."
The engine idled. They waited.
Hannibal, perhaps without realizing it, was on the edge of his seat. The Allied forces stormed the beaches of Normandy, guns blazing, grenades exploding everywhere. He'd seen the movie countless times, and it never failed to quicken his pulse.
If only he were with them, instead of in Anaheim.
Decker and Crane stole across the asphalt on cats' feet. They made a beeline for the door marked "103," next to the vending machines at the end of the corridor.
"You're sure it's Smith? The curtains are drawn, and it looks pretty dark in there," Crane observed.
"Then it's gonna be a wake-up call he'll never forget. "Ten seconds, Captain, we're going in." Decker glanced at his watch. "Ten, nine…"
John Wayne struck a heroic pose, his men rapt at attention.
Hannibal envied him.
"…two, one!"
The hinges of the door gave way with absurd ease. Decker and Crane, weapons drawn, found themselves in room 103 illuminated only by candlelight.
On the bed lay the prone form of Pluto, furry butt raised to the heavens, countenance frozen in a permanent loopy smile. Over him stood a ravishing brunette, riding crop in hand, her Snow White dress showing off every curve on her perfect body.
Decker froze. Crane gaped. Snow White shrieked.
Pluto pulled himself upright and grinned.
"What the hell…?" Crane began.
"Hannibal Smith?" stammered Decker.
"Get out! Get out!" The woman took off one of her tiny pumps with a red bow on it as if to use it as a machete. "You have the wrong room!"
Decker feebly tried once more. "Military police, miss…we're convinced that man," he pointed to the still-grinning Pluto, "is a wanted fugitive."
Snow White glared at him, arms akimbo. "And I'm convinced you're playing Rambo without a jockstrap. Get the hell out of here! Couldn't you see the sign on the door?" she shouted, indicating the little plastic Privacy Please! hanger.
The chagrined MPs, still murmuring condolences, hung their heads. "Sorry, miss. Must have the wrong room."
"Sorry doesn't begin to cover it, jerkoff." She slammed the door. Then, turning back to Pluto, "You okay, honeybuns? Now, where were we?"
The grinning dog frantically motioned to his mouth with an invisible cup.
"You gotta go to the john?"
Pluto shook his head, then repeated the pantomime.
"You're thirsty?"
He nodded.
"Okay, but don't be long. I'm waaai-ting," purred Snow White, running her hands up and down the little riding crop.
"So, what now, sir?" Crane's flush still hadn't receded fully.
"Maybe it's that other Holiday Inn in Anaheim," Decker growled. He straightened his cap with all the dignity he could muster, then pulled the sedan door shut. "Step on it, Captain."
The MP car pulled out of the parking lot.
Pluto stood at the Coke machine, looking as pensive as a six-foot Disney character could. He was in need of something much stronger than the machine's contents. There were none, so he pressed the Diet Coke button with one oversized paw.
Hannibal frowned. He had been rudely yanked from June 6, 1944 to the present as a used-car commercial flickered onto the screen. But there were still two hours or so to go, and maybe it was time for a break. He remembered seeing that the icemaker on this level was out of order, so a trip to the first floor was in order.
He had to hurry. The movie wouldn't wait for him.
"Pluto" had finally removed his cartoon doggy head, and swigged down his second Diet Coke. How those guys at Disneyland did this all day was beyond him.
Hannibal spotted him.
"Might I ask what you're doing here?" His tone was playful.
"Wha…"
"It's impolite not to answer your CO, Lieutenant."
Templeton Peck's eyes were wide. "Do you enjoy dropping in on me like this?"
Hannibal grinned. "Not necessarily. But Decker did, right?"
"How'd you know about that?" Face was furious. "If it weren't for this walking carpet suit, I would have gotten busted."
"It was brilliant, see," Hannibal said, holding up his hands theatrically. "I check into this place for a little R&R time under my real name. Every fleabag motel has a 'John Smith' reservation, right? That's what I did last year when we were holed up in Encino, and therefore what Decker would least expect." He paused. "Then, to really throw him off, at the last minute I stop by the reservation desk and switch 'John Smith' with 'Snow White.'" He noticed the growing expression of dread on the younger man's face. "And I remembered you saying something about your new girlfriend…what was her name?"
"Isabella." Face said her name as if it were a curse.
"Right, Isabella. The one who works at Disneyland playing Snow White."
"So you sicced Decker on me, why? Was it because you twisted your ankle jumping off that truck? Or the komodo dragon? Or maybe just because you're in a weird mood?" Face ticked the accusations off on his overlarge digits.
"No, Lieutenant." Hannibal soothed him, draping one arm about his furry shoulders. "I'm only trying to reinforce the idea that always seems to slip your hormonally charged mind: discretion in all things," he said, poking Face in the chest.
"Oh. Well, as long as your intentions are good," shot back Face, rolling his eyes.
For the first time, Hannibal looked up and down at the Pluto costume. "Borrowing a trick or two from the master, I see?"
Face scowled. "No, nothing like that. It's just, well, Isabella, she, ah, likes to…" He trailed off, seeing the mischief in Hannibal's eyes. "Maybe working at Disneyland has rubbed off on her a bit."
"Yeah, I'm sure." Hannibal pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it, then offered another to his lieutenant, who declined. "Give her my regards, okay? I've got a movie to finish. And, Face?"
"What?"
"PT starts at oh-five hundred sharp tomorrow. No excuses allowed."
Hannibal, a bucket of ice in his hand and a knowing grin on his lips, turned his back just in time to miss Face's expression of disgust.