This is set in the murky future somewhere, sometime, and it's depressing beyond belief. Character deaths abound, be warned. But please, read it anyway, and tell me what you think--if you could actually ever see these characters acting like this, if it's just maudlin self-pity (although how it could be self-pity when I'm not even in the story, I dunno...), whatever you think. Again, I don't own 'em, I make no profit off this, and I have only one disclaimer: keep some tissues nearby. Just in case.
Revised May 2001.
the only one left
(Face's POV)
"You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out of here..." ~the Beatles, "Two of Us"
"All things must pass all things must pass away..." ~George Harrison, "All Things Must Pass"
The only mourner left.
Not that there had been that many to begin with. Amy had come, of course, as had Tawnia. Frankie had shown up and stood beside me at the grave silently for a long time before leaving. He never spoke once, the look on his face unreadable. It only displayed his grief that much more eloquently.
Hannibal had gone years ago, BA a few years after that. I was the only one left. I'd just buried Murdock.
* * *
I'd dropped by to visit him a couple weeks ago, only to find him in the hospital again--but not the psychiatric ward this time.
He didn't look happy to see me.
I wasn't happy to see him either, not that way. I was shocked at how thin, how tired he looked, propped up in the hospital bed with a needle in his arm. I hated that, hated seeing my oldest living friend so weak. So old.
Hated how guilty I felt too. I hadn't seen him since BA's funeral, hadn't known he was in the hospital until I knocked on his apartment door (not even sure he still lived there; it was the most current address I could find for him) and his neighbor stopped outside her door and told me he wasn't home. The pretty young woman had taken him to the emergency room a few days ago and had brought him some of his things the day after that when he'd told her he'd be there a while.
"Is he a friend of yours?" she asked, looking me over carefully and trying not to appear too obvious about it. I thought I sensed disapproval, as if she thought I should have already known where he was, should have come sooner to be with him. She probably knew how few friends he had, that he kept himself to himself. Or maybe I was just reading too much into her tone of voice and look, my guilt escaping. She'd probably seen my surprised and dismayed look at the news that he was in the hospital. Again. I wondered if she knew his history.
I smiled at her pleasantly and replied, "A very old friend I haven't seen in a while. I was going to surprise him. Can you tell me which hospital? I should visit him."
She hesitated before smiling back and taking a notebook and pen out of her purse to write down the hospital name and address. She ripped the sheet off and handed it to me, asking if I needed directions. She was a nice girl, obviously concerned for the silly old man she'd lived next to for who knew how long.
I told her no, I wouldn't need directions; I'd lived in the area before. I smiled at her again before taking my leave, and I could feel her thoughtful gaze on my back as I walked down the hall to the elevator.
I've always had a great smile. Still do. Comes in handy in my way of life. I know I've aged well, probably better than I deserve, looking "distinguished" in my "old-fashioned" three-piece suits. All part of the con. I've always been a fraud.
He didn't look happy to see me when I entered the room.
I flashed him a big smile anyway, hoping to switch our roles around for once: normally he cheered me up. I carried a big bouquet of a colorful variety of flowers, something I'd hurriedly picked up pre-made at the gift shop in the hospital lobby downstairs. "Hey, Murdock," I said, setting the flowers down on the compact dresser next to his bed. There was nothing else on it and nowhere else in the room to put the flowers. "Long time no see."
"What're you doing here Face?" he grumbled, picking nervously at the blanket that covered him. For a moment I was transported back years ago, to when Hannibal and BA and I were still on the run and Murdock was still in the VA hospital and he'd done something he wasn't proud of. He didn't want to get caught out.
He didn't want me to know he was sick.
"Well, I dropped by to see you, but you weren't at your apartment," I explained cheerily, playing with the flowers, rearranging them, smelling them, fingering the silkiness of their petals, giving myself something to do. I couldn't look him in the eye. We were both tense; I felt awful, not knowing what to say to him. I'd known him for so long; we'd been through so much together, and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of that hospital room and onto the first plane out of the city. "Your neighbor--she's quite a looker, isn't she?--told me where you were."
"You shouldn't have come Faceman," Murdock muttered, still sounding grumpy, his voice old and scratchy and tired.
"Murdock," I admonished him, finally stepping away from the flowers and looking at him properly, "you know I couldn't do that. I had to at least see how you were doing."
Not well, by the look of it.
He changed the subject. "Why're you here anyway? Where've you been the past few years?"
I shrugged uneasily, prowling around his private room, looking at the monitors, opening the closet and bathroom doors, staring out the window that just looked onto another dreary city street and more dreary city buildings. I was unable to look at my friend again. "I've been...traveling," I answered at last. "Around the States, Europe mainly. I was in the area when I realized I'd completely lost touch with you, so..." I trailed off, not mentioning that "in the area" was actually a two-hour plane ride that had disrupted some plans I'd made and frustrated some people I was supposed to meet. The thought of Murdock had been preying on my mind the past few months, the way I'd abruptly left at BA's funeral, not even bothering to talk to the pilot and, to all intents and purposes, immediately disappearing on him...again. Just like at Hannibal's funeral, BA's angry gaze that time watching me flee. Murdock hadn't even bothered to meet my eye then. But lately I'd been thinking about him, worrying about him.
Maybe I'd known.
"How've you been Murdock?" I asked, staring out the window and not at him, my attention caught by a young man walking a dog. I watched them wander down the street.
"Okay I guess. Until now...Billy died a few weeks ago."
I winced at my ghostly reflection in the window, fairly sure he wouldn't be able to see the expression on my face. I'd managed not to externally wince earlier, when Murdock called me by my old nickname, the first time I'd been called that in years. Last time was, of course, at BA's funeral. The last time before that was at Hannibal's. Nobody I met these days knew about my old nickname.
Billy. Even I had never been exactly sure how sane (or insane) Howling Mad Murdock was. He spent so much time being deliberately manic, deliberately off-the-wall and in such a comical (if sometimes embarrassing and nerve-wracking) way, that sometimes his intelligence and perception were utterly astonishing. And in those rare moments of lucidity, you were sure his insanity was as much of a con as anything I've ever pulled off in my varied and long career.
But then there were the moments when even I was afraid because Murdock wasn't playing with a full deck. Not afraid for my life, just uneasy being around a person who wasn't using the same rules I was. (Even I use some of the same basic rules as the rest of the world.) Afraid...I could end up like him. After all, I'd seen much the same things as he had. What real difference was there between us?
"Billy huh?" I said at last, forcefully shaking myself out of my morbid reverie. "I'm sorry, Murdock. He must have been a very old dog."
"No no," the captain replied, sounding surprised. "My cat." I turned finally to face him in surprise, and he grinned at me shyly, sharing the joke--or the irony--with me. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking Facey. No, I had this cat for only a couple years--it was already pretty old when I found it on the street and took it in."
I smiled warmly. Murdock loved everybody, especially those out on the street and alone. "Well, I know you took good care of him, Murdock. And I'm sure he loved you."
"Actually, it was a she," Murdock said ironically and I laughed. He frowned then, as if working out some complicated math problem with difficulty, and looked away from me, unable to look me in the eye this time. I watched him in concern and finally stepped away from the window, sitting down in the visitor's chair next to his bed.
"Hey Murdock," I said, "what's wrong anyway? Why are you in here?"
He managed a wry half-smile that flickered and died quickly on his face. "Not the usual, is it Face?" He waved a hand around the hospital room, avoiding looking at the IV dripping into the vein in his arm.
"I--guess not," I answered slowly, not sure where this conversation was going.
"I'm dying Faceman."
He said the words so simply it took me a long, confused moment to understand. And then I felt sick. I've never had to say those words to someone. I hope I never do. It was the second time I'd heard those words from a very close friend of mine. And I wished I'd never made Murdock say those words to me.
I sat silently for a long time, not knowing what to say. I wasn't about to go into the "I'm so sorry" line, or spout platitudes, or protest in denial and argue. I hadn't done that when Hannibal told me he was dying; I hadn't done that when Murdock tracked me down to tell me about BA.
He deserved better. They all did. A hell of a lot more than empty words and impersonal sympathy. And a hell of a lot more than I'd given him--any of my three oldest friends--in a long time.
I felt crushed. I thought the guilt alone would break me. And the grief. Murdock was the last real link I had to any part of my past--a large part of my past, in fact, the most colorful part of a past that I never told anyone I met these days about. I was suddenly nowhere. Nothing. Utterly alone for the first time in a long, long while. I hadn't been in contact with Murdock in years, I know, but he was always there, somewhere; he could be tracked down if we needed each other. Not anymore.
I was losing the best friend I'd ever had.
Murdock was looking at me in concern. I almost started crying then, for christssake. I didn't deserve his concern; he was the one dying, not me. I stood up, placing my hand on his shoulder, and said as cheerfully as I could, "Why don't you give me the keys to your apartment? I was planning on staying in a hotel, but I can clean your place up instead, take care of it for you. How does that sound?"
He blinked in surprise at my words, not what he'd been expecting, and shook his head slowly. "Face, you don't have to, my neighbor said she'd take care of it..." he trailed off and looked up at me thoughtfully. "No. Go ahead, Face. Please stay at my apartment." He leant over painfully, opened the top dresser drawer, his nose practically in the big bouquet of flowers I'd given him (I somehow managed to smile at the comical image he presented me), and extracted his apartment keys. He handed them to me, somehow squeezing my hand tightly for an instant.
I smiled brightly and turned to leave.
"Thanks for the flowers," his quiet voice stopped me unwillingly, my hand on the doorknob. "I suppose I should stop calling you Face since you don't like it. Do you still go by Templeton?"
I froze, not daring to face him until I had my emotions under control. Then I turned and smiled widely, "No, please, Murdock. Call me Face."
He nodded unsmilingly and watched me leave.
* * *
I went back to Murdock's apartment, let myself in, and looked around. The place was small, only one bedroom, and tidy. There hardly appeared to be anything personal in the place at first glance, no paintings on the walls and few knickknacks. Only a small bookcase next to the TV and VCR, CDs and the stereo resting on top of the bookcase. There was a photograph of a large, disreputable-looking grey cat on one of the bookshelves, next to a framed picture of Amy, Hannibal, BA, and me.
I bought a few groceries, storing them in the kitchen, before going back to the hospital.
I wasn't going to let Murdock die alone.
We'd all gone our separate ways years ago, as soon as we could, really. A couple years after that, I'd found Hannibal and arranged a reunion with him. When he told me he was dying, I'd left, only coming back briefly for the funeral. And then again, later on, I came back only briefly for BA's funeral.
Murdock had been there for both of them. He'd found me both times (with great difficulty, I'm sure; I wasn't exactly keeping in touch or advertising where I was) for the funerals, calling me on the phone and telling me what had happened in his most impassive, expressionless voice. Never any judgement. Never any anger. At least I'd known about Hannibal. BA's death had shocked me.
I had run away. I couldn't handle it. I was such a coward. And I couldn't do that to Murdock; he could not die alone. I've thought about dying alone; I've often thought I would die alone, and I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Let alone my last best friend.
I went to the hospital every day, staying as long as I could, getting there at 7 am when visiting hours started and leaving at 8 pm when they ended. At night, I packed his things, listened to soft music, read some of his books, attempted to fall asleep on the couch but spent more hours staring up at the ceiling and remembering than sleeping. I refused to sleep in his bed. We talked when I was at the hospital, reminiscing, remembering, catching up on what we'd missed of each other's life without going into why we'd missed so much. Even though I was acutely aware of why. Sometimes we watched television (Murdock loved the Cartoon Network), or I slipped off for a coffee or bite to eat when the doctors and nurses came to do tests or when he wanted his privacy. Sometimes we just sat in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts; sometimes one or both of us dozed off. I got to know the nurses as well as Murdock did; they became used to seeing me almost as much as they did their patient. Murdock and I made each other laugh, remembering past scams, telling old jokes; sometimes he even helped me gently con the other people in the hospital. I couldn't help myself. At least it was harmless. We played card games; I even tried not to cheat.
Sometimes he'd be too sick to talk even to me, and I would just watch him, wish I could do more for him than just sit there.
"I used to not mind hospitals," he told me suddenly one day, sitting up in bed the way I normally found him, staring up at the ceiling. I was in the chair, my usual position, my hands resting on the chair arms. We hadn't been talking before he spoke, comfortable in our silence; I glanced up at him in mild surprise. "When I had to live in them. But after I was out for a while..." he shuddered.
"I've always hated hospitals," I answered, more bitterly than I'd intended.
He glanced at me, wry smile flickering on his pained face. "Is that why you were always the one to break me out?" he asked almost jokingly.
I grinned back, trying not to laugh. "C'mon, you know it's because I was the best con man," I told him. "Could you really see BA sneaking you out?" He just grinned and shook his head.
A week went by. I got to know his next-door neighbor, Ashley, quite well (she seemed to get over her disapproval of me fairly quickly, if she'd ever felt it), and I took her to see Murdock a few times in my rented red convertible.
"This is your car?" she asked the first time she saw it.
"Yeah," I answered, confused. "Why?"
She blushed as she settled herself in the seat, purse in her lap under her clasped hands. I closed the passenger door (I am always a gentleman) and walked around to the driver's side. "It just seems so..."
"Young?" I asked ironically, starting the car. She nodded mutely, the pretty blush still coloring her cheeks. "I'm young at heart," I told her self-mockingly and she laughed. But I didn't feel like laughing with her.
I didn't feel particularly young either.
"You don't have to feel guilty Faceman," Murdock told me one day. I jumped upright in my chair, nearly jumping out of my skin, eyes blinking open, heart pounding, startled. I thought he'd drifted off to sleep, as I almost had. Obviously I was wrong.
"Guilty?" I asked lightly, hoping he hadn't seen the spark of dismay in my eyes. The look on his face said he had. Dammit, he always knew me better than I wished.
"For leaving," he continued. "When Hannibal and BA..."
"Running away you mean," I said bitterly and ran a hand through my hair, a habit I'd given up years ago, or so I'd thought.
"Yeah," he agreed. "But it's all right, Face. You'd already run away before that. We understood. We'd all done it too. I just wish you'd kept in better touch."
Christ, I almost felt like crying again. I always closed the door when I came visiting, so we could both have some privacy, some peace. I was especially glad at that moment that I'd closed the door as I struggled to regain control. I hoped to God Murdock wasn't looking at me.
"I'm sorry I left you guys alone," I said after a long pause, wishing I could speed through this conversation, get it over with with a minimum of fuss and difficulty. Real emotions always make me feel that way. I'm so much better at the con.
"It's too late to regret the past Face," Murdock sighed wearily. "And if you were going to regret it, there's so many other times that would be worth regretting more."
"Yeah," I said, trying desperately to lighten the mood and change the subject at the same time, clutching at straws, "like that woman I met when we working in New Mexico--do you remember her? I knew I should've asked her out. She had the most gorgeous green eyes and black hair..."
"Thank you for being here Face," Murdock said softly, cutting me off.
I stopped and stared at him. "Look," I said finally, for once not running a scam, "I might run away from you guys--we might all do that--but when you need me, I'm here. You should know that after all this time." I took his hand and held it. He'd been there for Hannibal and BA. I was gonna be there for him. That was what the team was for. "I will not leave you alone, Murdock."
He nodded and reached forward to hug me.
* * *
He was worse the next day I came to visit. Normally he'd be awake, sitting up, waiting expectantly for me. The instant he saw me, his childlike grin would light up his face, and it'd be just like the old days. Sometimes I would find myself conspiratorially grinning and winking back, almost as if I were there just to break him out again.
But this day he was sleeping fitfully, his head turning back and forth, muttering and gasping for breath. I took one look at him and shot down the hall to the nurse's duty station, running as if Decker or Lynch was pursuing me. The nurse there--a big, motherly black woman who always wore gaudy lipstick--soothingly cut off my agitated words, sympathy sparkling in her eyes. She already knew.
I went back to Murdock's room slowly and sat down in my chair, dazed. I'd brought new flowers, and a cute little teddy bear I'd seen in the gift shop window downstairs. It had seemed the perfect thing for the crazy old pilot.
I held the flowers and bear crowded in my lap, watching him. The sun was rising behind me, beams gently entering the room, softly apologizing for the intrusion.
After a couple hours, I threw away the old flowers, set the new ones in their place. I put the bear in the crook of Murdock's arm, and his whole body convulsed, squeezed in around the bear, clutching it. He seemed to breathe a little easier after that.
I closed the curtains. I couldn't bear the sunlight at that point.
I stayed all day, not leaving my chair except to pace around the room or adjust Murdock's covers. Most of the time I just sat and watched him sleep. He never woke up that day. Nurses and doctors came and went, checking his chart, adjusting his IV, taking his pulse and BP. They all looked sad and moved around me quietly, knowing better than to ask me to leave.
I was grateful to them for that.
The room was quiet, peaceful, except for Murdock's mumblings. Sometimes he seemed to be dreaming about 'Nam, and I'd hold his hand when he reached out blindly for someone, anyone, to stop the memories for him. Sometimes he dreamed about girls he'd met, one of his smiles crossing his face. I heard him talking to Billy once, and even he seemed confused if he meant his imaginary dog from years ago or the cat he'd cared for recently. I heard him speaking to his "wee people" one moment and barking softly like a dog another, things he hadn't done in years.
At one point he seemed to be having a fight with BA in his dreams, actually getting indignant and then quickly apologizing (no doubt after being threatened by BA's fists), and I almost managed to laugh. Another time he was begging Hannibal to take him to his favorite fast-food restaurant. I had to smile at that. But when he deliriously remembered a time he had been pretending to be me, and was failing yet again to romance a girl, I had to get up and go to the bathroom in his private room to splash water on my old, lined face.
Faded blue eyes stared back at me blindly through the bathroom mirror.
"Dammit," I half-whispered, half-sighed, and felt my throat clench. I went back to Murdock's bedside.
I stayed long past visiting hours, the nurses only half-heartedly asking me to leave and not pressing when I firmly told them "No." I couldn't even be bothered to give them a trademark charming smile.
Around eleven o'clock that night his hand groped around on the bed, reaching for mine blindly. I grabbed it and held on desperately, watching his every breath, not sure whether he knew I was there or not. He could have just been reaching out for anyone. He hadn't dreamed aloud in a long time, not since that afternoon. The room had been deathly silent for hours.
His eyes flickered but didn't open. "Thank you Face," he breathed out so softly I was uncertain whether I'd dreamed it.
He sighed and released my hand.
I sat back in my chair, a long breath leaving my body and nothing replacing it. I felt hollow, empty, incapable of understanding what had just happened. I stayed looking at him for a few minutes more, cold in my light jacket and plaid flannel shirt, even though the clothes had been almost too warm when I'd left his apartment early that morning. I was numb, my throat still clenched, my eyes stinging but no tears coming. The silence and darkness of the room seemed to suffocate me, reminding me how utterly alone I now was.
I didn't know what to do anymore. I had nothing left.
The only mourner left.
I stood up shakily and walked out of the room, not stopping until I reached my rented convertible. I'm not sure how I got there; I don't remember the walk. I was completely dazed.
I sat in the driver's seat, staring at the wheel blankly. I finally remembered to turn on the ignition and pull out of the parking lot.
I drove back to his apartment building and went inside. I left the elevator at the appropriate floor and walked down the hall. I was working on autopilot and trying to tell myself I should feel something at the death of my last best friend.
Ashley was sitting outside Murdock's door, her legs raised up to her body, staring at the wall opposite with the same blank look that was probably on my face. She glanced up when she heard me coming, steps whispering on the carpet, then quickly stood up with a youthful grace I remembered having once and now envied, brushing down her slacks and blouse absently and trying to appear businesslike and unworried.
I stopped when I reached her, waiting. Didn't even open the door. The girl--she'd told me she was a senior in college, had a part-time job at a store in the nearby mall--looked up at me, took one look at my eyes, and quietly broke down crying.
Her tears shook me out of my daze, at least enough to open the apartment door and escort her inside. She sat down on the couch, not bothering to hide her tears, yet not asking me to comfort her. She was in her own private world of grief.
I went into the kitchen, pouring us both a small measure of Scotch (I'd been surprised to find that and the half-finished vodka in one of Murdock's kitchen cupboards), and then took the drinks into the other room.
"Here," I said quietly, handing her the glass. She took a tiny sip and coughed.
"I'm used to beer," she told me, a watery smile on her face.
I smiled distantly back, taking a sip of my own drink. "It's all right," I told her. It didn't matter.
The tears fell down her face again at my words, and she placed her glass carefully on the coffee table. "Dammit," she sniffled, wiping at her eyes furiously. "I don't know why I'm crying so much."
At least she could cry. At least she could feel something. "He was a good man," I told her, still in that gentle voice. "And someone you knew. Death's always hard."
"He was so nice to me," she said. "He was the nicest man I've ever met. I used to do his shopping for him, or go with him on walks. He seemed so lonely. The walls are so thin here," she half-laughed, half-cried, "sometimes I could hear him talking to his cat, Billy. Scolding her, or playing games with her."
I almost broke down then, remembering an imaginary dog with the same name.
"He sometimes talked nonsense," she went on at random. It comforted her to talk about him; I recognized that from many other deaths and many other grieving people. "To me, to his cat. I sometimes wondered about his..." she stopped, blushing.
I smiled, to tell her it was all right. She really was a very tactless girl. "He spent a lot of years in various psychiatric hospitals after the Vietnam War," I informed her.
"Oh." She nodded slowly, the tears sparkling points of light in her green eyes. She had short, curly ash blonde hair that framed her face, made her look younger than she was. Or maybe I'm just an old fool who can't tell people's ages anymore. "But it was... nice nonsense. Harmless. And on his good days he was so funny, so sweet...I got worried tonight," she went on, glancing at me surreptitiously to check I was listening, or because she was concerned about my lack of emotion. "I got off work the time you usually come back, but you didn't come. And when I knocked, you didn't answer. Finally I just waited outside the door..." she trailed off, taking a deep, shuddery breath.
I hadn't turned on many lights; we sat in near-darkness, her face glimmering a ghostly pale. We stayed silent for a long time, keeping each other company and perhaps offering each other some small comfort. After the first sip, she left her drink untouched. I nursed mine, holding it in my hands to give them something to do. Finally I looked at my watch and said tiredly, "It's after two in the morning, Ashley. You should go; I'm sure you've got class or work in the morning, and I'll have to make arrangements..."
She nodded and stood up quickly. "Thank you, Mr Peck," she said to me shyly, "for letting me stay here for a while and talk. I know you knew him a long time, longer than I ever did, and I'm sorry he's...gone. I hope..." she trailed off and stared into space for a long, considering moment. Finally she looked down at me again where I was still seated and gave me a warm, comforting smile. "I'm sure he's happy wherever he is."
I smiled back at her, oddly grateful to this young woman for spending the past hour or two with a lonely old man, for caring enough about another lonely old man to cry for him. "I think he is too," I said softly and felt the silence of the apartment creeping in around me, the cold darkness seeping in.
I stood up and opened the door for her, always the gentleman. She paused in the doorway, glanced back at me consideringly through young green eyes. "Thank you again Mr Peck, for coming here, especially when you did," she said at last, surprising me. "I know it meant a lot to him to have a friend with him. Especially you," she added with a tiny smile. "He's talked about you, never by name, but I recognized you..." I found myself grinning at that, having a feeling what stories Murdock had told her about me. "And I'd never seen him so cheerful as when you were with him in the hospital," she concluded.
"I know it meant a lot to him to have you as a neighbor," I told her gently, somehow managing to speak through the lump in my throat. I could feel the tears finally pricking at my eyes, ready to fall, and knew Ashley could see them shining in my eyes. But for once I gave up the con and let the real emotion show through. Murdock would've been proud. "He might have been lonely, but he did have you as a friend."
She smiled, tears in her own eyes again, and impulsively reached up to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. She stood back, still smiling. "You're as nice as he is, Mr Peck."
I grinned, almost laughing at that absurdity and knowing better. "And you're much too nice to an old man like me, Ashley."
She grinned back, almost impishly, and turned away, walking the short distance to her own door.
I almost shut the door, thought better of it, and stepped out into the hall. "Ashley," I said, my soft voice penetrating the silent darkness of the hall.
She looked up, her hand on the doorknob, about to open the door. "Yes?"
"Call me Face," I told her, my heart aching, and went back into Murdock's apartment, shutting the door behind me gently, listening for its soft click.
That was when I finally cried.
* * *
I spent the next few days making funeral arrangements, tracking down the small handful of people left who would care about Murdock's passing. Amy. Tawnia. Frankie. I'd already packed up most of the pilot's things--he didn't have that much--and put them in storage. I didn't have a fixed address at the moment, couldn't take his stuff with me or send it on ahead to somewhere when even I didn't know where I'd be going next. I'd found a largish box under his bed, the only thing down there, with his old leather jacket and one or two baseball caps. A couple much-favored t-shirts, the watch he'd given me when I thought I was leaving and had finally given back to him (but only under duress) when it turned out I wasn't. Some pictures too, of Hannibal with a cigar in his mouth and a pretty girl at his side, of BA in all his gold necklaces and baring his teeth at the camera in what he considered a smile, of Murdock himself grinning manically at the camera and giving it the Vulcan salute, of me laughing and sprawled in a deck chair, sans blazer, shirtsleeves rolled up, a rare unguarded and relaxed moment. I didn't remember seeing the picture before, couldn't tell where it'd been taken, had only a vague idea of when because of haircut and clothes. There were other pictures as well, of all of us in uniform together (I looked impossibly young; Murdock looked impossibly uncomfortable--he'd always preferred his leather jacket, especially when flying), of Amy with her curly brown hair long or short, of Frankie throwing a Frisbee when we were in Virginia, of BA about to strangle me for something, probably knocking him out yet again to get on a plane.
Dusty old memories pushed under the bed. That box had not gone into storage; I was taking it with me, putting in a few other various odds and ends that I'd wanted to keep to remember him. Remember them. All of them.
As if I could ever forget.
Amy and Tawnia each hugged me at the funeral, kissing my cheek and crying. I hugged them both back, grateful for the contact, for any human touch to remind me that I wasn't as dead as the rest of my team.
What the hell was I going to do next?
Frankie stood next to me at the burial, never once speaking.
I hunkered down painfully on protesting knees, staring at the mound of fresh earth covering the body of my friend. The only mourner left.
Or so I thought. Ashley put a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I looked up at her, blinking, uncomfortable and sad. "Will you be all right?" she asked me. She had stood at the back during the funeral and burial, out-of-place and shy, not knowing anyone there besides me.
I smiled at the girl and wished I was about thirty years younger, if not more. The thought depressed me, but her kindness kept me slightly warmed, if not cheered. "I'll be fine. Eventually..." I trailed off, staring into nothing and trying not to panic. I refocused my attention on her after a moment and managed a smile for her benefit. "It was very nice meeting you, Ashley. You made a wonderful next-door neighbor for the past couple weeks."
She smiled, but her eyes remained pensive and sad. "You could stay," she pointed out, but she didn't sound hopeful.
"No," I said. "I need to move on."
We're all always running I told Murdock. Or perhaps he told me.
She nodded understandingly. "I'm sorry I didn't meet you sooner," she said shyly. "You and Murdock seemed quite a pair."
I turned back to the newly dug grave, smiling sadly. "Oh we were. We all were. Quite a team..."
"Good-bye, Face," she whispered, her voice catching, and stole away.
I stayed by his grave for a long time that morning, the dazzlingly bright sun warming my back. Finally I stood up with difficulty, my knees almost giving out on me, damn them. I'd locked up the apartment early that morning, before the funeral, and turned in the keys to the landlord. I had a plane to catch that afternoon, after I dealt with the car. But I stood by his grave just a little longer, looking around at the long, green grass softly blowing in the warm breeze, at the sky above me, a perfect, solid blue with not a cloud in sight, the warm sun shining down.
I took a deep breath.
"Good-bye Captain Murdock," I whispered into the peaceful silence. "Lieutenant Peck would salute you, but he hasn't been in the military for a long time...and somehow I doubt you'd care for it much," I added with a grin that quickly faded away.
The only one left.
"Good-bye Murdock," I said again around the lump in my throat. I carefully placed the picture I'd selected of the four of us--Hannibal, BA, Murdock, and me--on the mound of dirt covering the pilot's coffin. Tawnia had taken the picture, years ago, when we all actually had a reason to run. We were grinning at the camera, our arms around each other's shoulders, a frozen instant of rare relaxation. I paused, staring at the four of us from so long ago, the real sun shining down on our photographed smiling faces. "...And you're welcome."
I walked away slowly from the grave, the sun on my face, my hands in my pockets, the breeze blowing at my hair, tears in my eyes.
Some dirt blew over the photograph, covering the smiling faces.
All was silent.
