It started with the ice. An innocuous bucket of motel ice, to be precise. (Precise ice, and isn't that nice!) Murdock had been tempted at first to blame the frogs; their singing was so rich and sensuous who could resist them? But, the ice was the real catalyst. (And frogs are so often blamed for all manor of crimes and other events, that later Murdock insisted on returning to the frogs and apologizing. They seemed pleased by the attention.)
The bucket (like the mouse that lived in the house that Jack built) belonged in a stale room, in a nameless motel, on the edge of a dull town, in the middle of Nowhere, USA. It had been a long drive to get to Nowhere. Long hours trapped in an increasingly shrinking van, listening to the sound of his own voice becoming more desperate with every passing mile. Games of I Spy and Twenty Questions giving way to tense silence, the kind that Murdock was always willing to fill. Needed to fill. Because silence may be golden but not all that glitters is gold. And the small chips (mica?) in the long, long, road were glittering with a false cheer. Stay on me! the road droned, because the Road goes ever on and on and on and on... He, like Frodo, had never taken comfort in that idea. It seemed a lot like death.
Eventually, BA's grunts turned to growls, Face stopped singing along, and Hannibal's answers became single syllable. It was time, past time, to land this bird. The motel (Six? Eight? Forty-two?) was just anonymous enough to avoid unpleasant Psycho imagery. Two floors of peeling paint and low watt bulbs and it was such a relief to finally STOP. All of them were stressed; restless. The adrenaline from their last job splashed and grated against their skin, in no way siphoned off during the drive. Murdock felt pressure in his ears and itching heat in his hands and feet. Even the motel room (one, please, we're on a budget!) was way too small after being confined all day. Face gave him a small smile and an excuse to leave. A quest! A hunt for the elusive motel ice machine. "Take your time, buddy. Get some air." So, he grabbed the plastic bucket and fled like a thief. Stealing time.
That was a least twenty minutes ago, now. Even the middle of Nowhere could hide wonders and small miracles if you just knew how to look. Just beyond the scruffy grass and weeds at the edge of the motel parking lot lay a quiet pond. Large pond or small, it was impossible to tell under the chancy light of a cloud washed half moon. Murdock could see the tantalizing edge of the water as he stepped out onto the balcony that ran around the second floor of the motel. He could also hear the frogs.
Thousands (it seemed) of spring frogs, singing of love in the soft, cool air. He found himself at the edge of the dark water with little memory of the trip across the parking lot and through the grass. He just stood for long moments, listening, smiling, bemused and mesmerized. He hummed a little, trying to match the passion of that ancient song. He could see, so clearly! in his mind birds sleeping next to half built nests and tiny fox kits poking eager noses out of their dens for the first time. The fierce joy of Spring quickened his blood and caught his breath. Was this how Mole felt, that morning long ago, utterly claimed and tossed into the light?
Well, at least Mole chose his path. Passion, Murdock knew, could be dangerous, as well as liberating. Fear could transform in a moment to hatred. Lust into greed. It was too easy, sometimes when the quiet around him encouraged the singular voice in his mind, to remember the ugliness of human kind. He whispered a warning to the frogs, but they sang on, unimpressed. Humans came and went, but the pond remained. It was something to hold onto. Comforted, he turned back to the motel for ice and companionship. His team mates, like the pond and the frogs, were a constant in a chaotic world. For the A-Team passion became purpose; anger channeled into action. Gratitude (felt every day, really) swelled in his chest. He was so very lucky to have such strong, courageous men as his friends. To have their respect and trust, well that was a kind of love the frogs would never understand anyway. There were doors that had been closed to him by time and circumstances. The frogs sang of the pleasures of the flesh ( and the spring breeze sighed against his skin and the moon teased his eyes), but he had learned to take what he could get.
Like ice! Turn away from the darkness! Walk (firmly!) into the stuttering light of a mostly empty parking lot. He would show his friends his love by bringing them ice. The frozen stuff was both a need and a pleasure. It could cool drinks, reduce swelling on inflamed tissue and reduce irritation on inflamed nerves. Bosco had a bad habit of crunching ice during particularly long car trips, when the law and discretion, prevented him from demonstrating his own type of Pity on Foolish drivers.
The ice machine was right where an ice machine should be. Right at the bottom of the rusty stairs. Target acquired, he returned, reluctantly, to the room. It was so difficult to come in from a perfect spring night. Nights like this he had walked, as a child and a young man, for miles and miles only to collapse, finally, blinking in the sunrise. He felt so clean and calm on those mornings, licking the dew from the grass...
He tore his mind from the memories (starlight, dusty roads, millions of crickets) and approached the bland door of the motel room. (And why were the doors all the same, when the people hidden behind them were so very unique? Shouldn't the door reflect the person? Maybe he could enhance the decor a little; he thought he saw a can of paint near the janitor's closet...hmm...) Ice, Murdock! Concentrate!
Time to go in and play the role given to him. He would tease BA out of (or into) a temper and frolic with Face. Murdock's attentions would leave Hannibal time and space to think; an excellent gift to give to his honored leader. Murdock knew his place and tended it with gratitude. He reached for the handle, but something slowed his movement. A warning sounded in his nerves and the shadows lurking behind and around him seemed to tighten. The tone of the frogs...changed. Lush and warm deepened to hot and desperate. What was this?
Murdock forced his hand through deep water (cold) and fell upon the knob. He was Bluebeard's wife, driven to open the chamber door. He was Pandora, about to un-box all the ills of the world. He was a cat, doomed to Know, and die afterwards. The door opened a crack, freeing a sliver of warm light from the room beyond. He trembled, gathered his courage, and put his eye to the opening. He saw... and forgot to breath.
He saw Face first. (He would always see Face first, like Mexico. The lieutenant was made, by God, to be seen.) Face stood, shirtless, in the middle of the room, pressed front and back by Hannibal and BA. Bosco and Face were chest to chest, kissing with an almost violent hunger. Hannibal gnawed and nipped at the younger man's neck from behind, while his hands reached around to grasp fistfuls of BA's shirt, pulling them together even more. They were heat and light; a bonfire in the forest. Face was passion made flesh, Bosco was strength unleashed, and Hannibal was the anchor that kept them grounded and close during the storm. Murdock stared and stared until he could see them imprinted on the inside of his eyelids, as though he had been staring at the sun.
He was dimly grateful the small noises Face made masked the closing door. He shouldn't look. This was a Private Moment. They had waited until he was gone ("take your time, buddy") before turning to comfort one another. He didn't question the exclusion. Why would they want him, tainted and twisted as he was? (Used. Filthy.) They loved him enough to keep him, but not enough to let him in. He would take what he was given; he wasn't selfish enough to want more.
Slowly, gently, he placed the bucket of ice on the ground next to the door. The guys might want it when they were done. They would be thirsty. (dry as the desert). His feet moved toward the stairs while his mind tangled around itself, lost in memories and dreams. Nightmares. He could still see them (so bright!) burned into his eyes; a moment stretched into hours. Oh, he knew how tricky time could be. Hadn't he felt seconds drip onto his flesh, salty like blood, while his mouth screamed words his ears wouldn't hear? But, capture and torture produced it's own expectations. This revelation upstairs was a complete shock. (How long? Since Germany? Mexico?) That these three powerful men had overcome their own fears and society's limitations was admirable. Or would be, if he could get his mind to work.
The memory of greedy hands and casual brutality made him want to scream. But, the beauty he left behind ( in the light!) made him want to weep. Time and circumstance. Lost and found. Right or wrong? Right or left?
His feet turned left at the bottom of the stairs. He would go back to the pond. Maybe the frogs could help him understand.