Line of fire
Ok, this is my first ever A-team fanfic, and yes, it may be rubbish, but I's only my first go. Geez. I accept all kinds of response- yes, even flames if you want to get it off your chest. The most invaluable response, for those of you who aren't authors, is constructive criticism- and advice- hoe to get BETTER!
Hannibal allowed himself a small smile. Unfortunately, however, his rare show of emotion was bittersweet; it wasn't a smile fuelled by a happiness that toyed with his lips, it was instead fed by sadness. Sadness and memory. The tears that fell were only confirmation.
B.A didn't care who noticed him, he wasn't even concerned with the prospect of being discovered by Decker. He wanted, no- he needed a release. He needed it now.
In the back of his mind, a voice that bore a stricking familiarity shared with Murdock's told him that using violence as a release only made him more dangerous; his body would feel good after he released his pent up anger, and would therefore only look forward to when he next lost control. B.A, however, didn't care. He was too angry for reason, too angry for thought.
The nurses at the V.A were terrified. They all knew that H.M Murdock had bad days, but this was something different- something far more dangerous, and they knew it. Something was wrong with the normally jovial pilot. When he usually returned from his trips with the handsome man he came back happier, calmer, more relaxed. The man who picked him up and dropped him off worked better than any medicine or treatment that the V.A could provide. This time, the man hadn't returned.
Hannibal had always prided himself on his plans. But this time, there was no plan- how could there be? There was no plan and now his team was suffering. Or what was left of it.
B.A liked working out. He liked working out and the rain. They were the only conditions he found it acceptable to cry in. Which was therefore why he could be found punching the stuffing from the one thing created for that kind of thing- a punch bag. The sweat that poured from his body made the moisture that escaped from his eyes against his will less noticeable.
Murdock was rocking back and forth, knees clutched to his chest when the staff at the VA dared to enter his room.
"M- Mr Murdock?"
Murdock cast his red-rimmed eyes upwards, looking like a lost child. And, in one way, he was. He was missing his brother, the only one that was able to really understand him. He was the only one who could see Billy, really and truly see him. Sure, Hannibal tried, but whenever he tried to pat him on the head, he was always about three inches from his head. Even the thought of him brought him to tears again, and so he did the only thing he could think of, he retreated into himself, knowing he was safe there, in his mind, and never wanting to come out.
It was a month before Hannibal came to terms with what had happened, to accept and move on. It took B.A longer. And Murdock? Murdock was never quite the same again, but he tried. And that was why, six months after it had happened, you would find three lonely war vets in dress uniform, standing over a gravestone; a gravestone that read:
Here lies
Tempelton Peck; a conman, a friend.
A brother.
R.I.P