Title: Suffer In Silence
Rating: PG-13
Summary: My take on what happened after The Theory of Revolution. (Spoiler Alert)
Warnings: Sappy and Angsty…as always!
He shouldn't have been surprised by how bad he felt. I mean it wasn't as if he hadn't been hit hundreds of times before. An unfortunate part of the job, it was rare for him to go more than a couple of months without the pleasure of getting slugged by some goon.
However, it had been a long time since he was actually beaten; hands tied behind back and defenseless. This time he had been repeatedly slapped, punched, kicked and choked...not your typical day at the office even for a member of the A-Team.
When they reached the beach and were headed toward the rendezvous point, the relief he felt was overwhelming. And when they were told that the townspeople were being held hostage, he would be lying if his first instinct wasn't to follow Burke, Balcom and Sellars into the raft. But when a little boy is looking at you with big, scared eyes and calling you "Mr. Good Guys", leaving wasn't an option.
Adrenaline was an amazing thing. Even after having the you-know-what kicked out of him, he was still able to complete the mission. He even scammed them a plane for the trip home after Stockwell left them high and dry. Sure, he felt the abuse his body had endured, but there wasn't time to stop and think about it. Hannibal would say he was on "the jazz".
Adrenaline was an amazing thing...until it wore off. And now, as he sat on the plane heading back for the states, it had definitely worn off. It hurt just to breathe, and if he moved the wrong way, forget about it!
Feeling Martien's hands around his neck earlier had hit a little too close to home; brought back some memories he had tried to keep hidden. He had been battered worse in the camps, yet he didn't remember it hurting as much. Of course he was 15 years younger and, at that time, the beatings were the least of his troubles. Being a young, blonde haired, blue-eyed "pretty boy", it was a good day if the abuse stopped at a beating. Surface bruises healed; it was the inner damage that never seemed to go away.
He was too young to feel so old. At 35, he wasn't exactly over-the-hill, but living the fugitive life had aged him considerably. He had always thought that by now he would be married with a couple of kids, living in the suburbs, and working a regular 9-to-5 job. Instead he was a fugitive working for a slime ball like Stockwell at a job that was anything but regular. He didn't mean to complain; just because his life turned out different than he had planned, didn't mean it was all bad. Hannibal, Murdock and B.A. were the only family he had ever had, and he wouldn't want to trade them for anything.
He looked around and took in the aftermath of the mission. B.A. was knocked out cold, as was the usual case when Murdock was flying. Hannibal was on the radio trying to calm down an irate Stockwell…unsuccessfully it seemed from his grim expression. And, Frankie sat mindlessly in the back of the plane pining over Bonita. It had been a difficult operation…and it showed on each and every one of them.
He was surprised that nobody had asked him if he was okay yet. Of course, they had been a bit busy earlier what with getting shot at and all. But a simple "hey, Face, you okay?" would have been nice. He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself, but he was hit so many times that his bruises were forming bruises...he figured that earned him the right.
He didn't know why it was bothering him. I mean, it wasn't their fault that he had been used as a human punching bag. And even if they had asked him, he would have lied and told them he was fine. It was hard for him to admit when he was sick or hurt. The joke among the guys was that he would complain for days over a paper cut, but would somehow conveniently manage to forget a gunshot wound. It was an exaggeration, but not a gross one.
It wasn't as if he hid his injuries on purpose, or at least this time he hadn't. He appeared relatively unscathed; the only visible evidence being a swollen lip and faint red palm print across his cheek. Most of the damage done to his torso and shoulder were hidden underneath his black t-shirt; the collar of the olive button-down shirt he wore on top covered the marks around his neck.
He sighed with relief as he felt the plane starting to descend. It wouldn't be long until they were home and he could lie completely still. Home. Funny, but he had never thought of Langley as home before. For the first time, he could actually say he was looking forward to getting back to the house. After all, he had a hot date with a bottle of aspirin and his bed.
He watched B.A. start to awaken with mixed emotions. On one hand, it was good because in his condition there was no way he would be able to help carry the big guy off the plane. On the other hand, B.A. would be mad...especially when he realized that Murdock was flying. A mad B.A. was much like a tornado: unpredictable and dangerous
Much to his surprise, B.A. restricted himself to muttering threats under his breath as they piled into the limo Stockwell had waiting for them. The group rode in silence; too tired to make conversation. He rested his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes. They hit a bump and his injured shoulder slammed against the door. His eyes flew open and he stifled a groan.
The silence persisted until they entered the house and dropped their gear where they stood. As he slowly stumbled toward his room, he heard Hannibal saying something about making sure they got some food and sleep before meeting with Stockwell the next day. He thought about collapsing on the bed, but opted for a quick shower first. As much as he was hurting, smelling his own stench was only adding to the misery.
The pressure of the water hitting his battered body took his breath away at first. Once he had adjusted, however, the warm water seemed to sooth his aching muscles. He gingerly rubbed the soap across his chest and worked his arms up toward his head. Stars danced in front of his eyes as his right arm reached shoulder level; that guard had all but pulled the joint out of the socket while leading him back to his cell.
He stepped out of the shower in front of the mirror and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was glad the glass was fogged over; he really had no desire to see his black-and-blue reflection…feeling it was quite enough.
He shuffled out of the bathroom and over to his bed. Sitting down he made a mental list of what he needed. He needed to get dressed. He needed to get some food in him. But, as the room began to spin around him, he realized he first needed to lie down. He carefully eased himself back on the mattress vowing just to close his eyes for a few moments.