Face stared out the window of the van, watching the trees whip by. After the day they'd had, he didn't think he'd ever look at a single spruce, pine, or oak the same way again, and even just seeing them made his hands sting a little. Too many splinters, too little time to dig them all out. On the plus side, it would give him something to do when the television inevitably fuzzed out at whatever crappy motel they eventually settled into.
Speaking of, "Hey, Hannibal, do you think we'll be stopping anytime soon? My legs are getting stiff."
"Yeah," Murdock said. "Mine too, Hannibal."
"Shut up, fool. You just lucky I didn't break your legs," B.A. said from the driver's seat.
Murdock frowned. "Aw, come on, B.A.. I helped you down, didn't I? Ain't no reason to be sore about it."
"I'll show you sore."
The pitchy little chuckle that broke from Murdock's throat in response was enough to tear Face's attention from the scenery. It was an almost ironic sort of chuckle, and something about it just didn't sound right.
One look at Murdock, and Face knew why. In the fifteen, twenty minutes it'd been since he'd seen his personal favorite lunatic – to be fair, he'd dozed off for most of it; the trees weren't exactly riveting entertainment – Murdock had…changed.
His face was pale, glistening in the light of the setting sun with a thin sheen of sweat. He was sitting stiff as a board – no pun intended – with his back rigid against the seat and his arms folded loosely around his middle, and despite the smile on his face, it looked to Face like he was in a world of pain.
"Murdock?" he said. "Are you okay?" As he spoke, though, he was already turning around to face him, scooting forward on the edge of his seat to get a closer look.
Murdock's smile widened a little more, but not in a good way. "Oh, I'm fine, Facey," he said, waving a hand dismissively before returning it to his belly.
Of all the people on the A-Team, Hannibal included, Face liked to think he knew Murdock the best. Murdock was his; he was Murdock's. And as such, Face knew when Murdock was "fine" and when he wasn't.
If the taut set of his jaw, the thin line of his lips, the stiffness of his shoulders were all anything to go on, he most definitely wasn't.
Hannibal must've picked up on it at least a little, though, because he turned around, too. "Everything alright?"
"A-okay, boss," Murdock said. "'Cause we're the A-Team, you get it?" He giggled a little at his own joke, only to wince as B.A. hit some sort of pot hole.
That settled it – something was wrong.
"Murdock's hurt."
"'Hurt' is such a strong word, don't you think? I'm just a little roughed-up's all."
Face knew better, though. 'Just a little roughed up' didn't get Murdock holding his stomach like he was afraid something was gonna fall out and wincing at every bump in the road. "Where is it?" he said. "Is it your stomach? Your ribs?" Face knew it was something, he just didn't know what.
"Don't you worry your pretty little face, Face. It ain't nothing but a thing."
"Murdock." This time, it was Hannibal doing the pushing.
With pressure from two sides, Murdock finally cracked. "Think I might've gotten a bit of a rope-a-dope burn to the ol' belly."
"Face, take a look at him, would you?"
"Already ahead of you, boss," Face said. He reached for Murdock's arms, but Murdock kept them in place when he tried to pull them away. "Come on, Murdock. Let me see."
Murdock's drawn face pulled into a pout. "Aw, ya'll are just making a mountain out of an itty bitty mole hill."
"Buck up and let the man get a look at you, sucker, before I gotta come back there," B.A. said.
With B.A.'s threat and Hannibal's command, Murdock could only give Face a pleading look. Of course, it didn't change Face's mind; it just made him feel a little guiltier for doing it. Taking each of Murdock's hands in one of his, he eased his arms from around his stomach and unzipped his flight jacket.
Murdock, realizing his defeat, took it from there. He gingerly hooked his fingers in the bottom of his jersey-style shirt and pulled it out of his khakis.
As he pulled his shirt up, Face's stomach sank. Right around Murdock's middle, near the bottom of his ribs, was a long, angry red line of raw and torn skin that ran straight across his front. Blood had smeared the inside of his white shirt from where it had rubbed against the massive welt, and a good two inches of bruising spread from the line on either side. It got worse around the bottoms of his ribs; the area was swollen, and Face wondered if maybe he might've even cracked a rib.
"Jesus." The words left Face's lips in as much a sigh as a gasp. Murdock had said it was rope burn, no doubt from when they'd been tied up in the warehouse, but Face didn't have anything close to that.
And then it hit him. When they'd broken that board, the way B.A. had been tugging and straining, it must've pulled the rope against Murdock. It didn't look like anything life-threatening, but damned if it didn't look painful.
"I think you have me confused for someone else," Murdock said with a quirk of his eyebrow. Still joking, still making fun, as if he hadn't just shown the van the ugly step-mother of all rope burns. Now that he was paying attention, though, he noticed that even through the humor, Murdock sounded a little faint. His voice was reedy, and his jaw was working overtime in telltale signs of masked pain.
"B.A., pull in at the next motel you find," Hannibal said.
"I'm fine, boss." But Murdock's weak protest fell on deaf ears. B.A. was too busy looking for motel signs and trying to catch glances of Murdock's injury in the rearview mirror, Hannibal was going for the first aid kit they'd started keeping in the glove box, and Face was trying to get Murdock's seat leaned back a little so that he could get at the welt.
"We know you are, Murdock," Face said, giving the captain's shoulder a reassuring pat. "But we've been on the road a long time. It's time to stop off anyway."
Murdock made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded something like an agreement and didn't protest again. Instead, he took to singing his lumberjack song, his tongue lagging over the words like a drunken sailor.
While it didn't exactly set Face's nerves at ease, at least it meant he didn't have to field anymore questions. It wasn't that he minded hearing Murdock talk, he just didn't like hearing him talk while he was in pain; it was a different sound altogether, and one that grated on something deep in Face's chest.
A first aid kit waving in front of his face snapped him out of it, and he turned to see Hannibal holding the little box out to him. "See what you can do for him for now. We'll see about getting some more supplies when we stop, if we need them."
Something told Face they'd be needing them.
All the same, he'd make do with what they had for the time being. He knelt down on the floorboard and let the kit sit on his seat as he rifled through it. There were some antiseptics, but that wasn't really something he could do properly in a moving fan. A wound like Murdock's, one that was already red with infection and riddled with shirt fibers and flecks of dirt, would take a lot more than a good dousing of alcohol to clean it up.
He did want to get it covered up, though. Fishing out a bandage, he tore open the package. Already, he was wincing in sympathy for the other man. "Sorry about this, Murdock."
But Murdock just kept on singing. "—lumberjack, I'm okay. Sleep all night and then work all—" his voice hitched as Face pressed the bandage to his wound, and face could almost feel a twinge of pain in his own gut. He slid his arm around Murdock's lithe shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting gesture of solidarity, and he held the bandage in place over Murdock's belly.
A sharp bump wrestled a grunt out of the pilot, and if possible, he paled even further. "—all day. Wear my clothes just…just once a…" He trailed off, his eyes barely open in slivers. Another bump – damn those country roads – had his head lolling over against Face's shoulder, and a groan mixed in with the song, "…a year. Smells real bad, but…"
Murdock's brows furrowed, and Face felt worry twist his insides. "Murdock?" He gave him a few sharp slaps on the cheek, not hard enough to leave marks, but hard enough to make his eyes open again. "There you go, Murdock. Stay with us, now."
"Face," Murdock said, his narrow eyes cutting over to the conman. "I think there's a tree on my leg."
B.A. glanced back in the mirror. "Hannibal, he ain't sounding right. Even for him."
"He's got a fever," Face said. He'd taken his hand from Murdock's shoulder and he'd taken to holding Murdock's head against his shoulder, lest any more bumps have it lolling into the window or something. Against his palm, he could feel the heat of Murdock's brow, and his worry meshed with a sudden surge of guilt. Murdock was in bad shape, and it wasn't the kind of thing that kicked in all of the sudden. He hadn't noticed. How had he not noticed?
"I'm a lumberjack, I'm okay…I got no legs, but what the…" He turned his head to look at Face, his nose barely an inch from Face's. "Hey, Facey, promise you'll still love me when I ain't got no legs?"
It was the most complete sentence he'd managed, but just as incoherent as all the rest. "I'd love you if it was just your head," Face said. "But you don't need to worry about that, 'cause you got both your legs right there."
But as Face went to pat them, just to reassure him, Hannibal caught him. "Hang on, Face," he said. "Murdock, do they hurt?"
Murdock grumbled something nonsensical into Face's shoulder.
"Your legs, Murdock! Do they hurt?"
Hannibal's sharp words made Murdock start a little, and Face ended up having to hold him back to the seat to keep him from sitting at attention. "Yes, sir," he said. "I mean, no, sir. I mean, maybe, sir." He let out a miserable-sounding huff and sank back into the seat. "Oh, I don't know, boss. I'm a sleepin' dog; y'all just let me lie a bit, and I'll be fighting fit."
Face and Hannibal exchanged looks. Rhyming and identity crises were pretty standard Murdock operating, but this was more than that. He sounded torn between whimsical and straight-up worn out, like he was half-asleep or something.
"You just gotta stay awake for me a little longer, Murdock, alright?" Face said.
"B.A., what's our ETA on the motel?"
"Should be coming up in a mile or two." B.A. looked back at Murdock. "You hold on, Murdock, or else I'm gonna come back there and take your legs for real."
Murdock let out a half-hearted little chuckle. "Silly ol' mudsucker. Can't break what I ain't got." His head lolled onto Face's shoulder again, and Face could feel the heat of his brow against his neck. "I'm a lumberjack, I'm okay. I got no legs, but what the hey."
And he went on singing, as street signs whipped past and Face's stomach furled itself into tighter and tighter knots.
He could only hope that mile or two went by fast. Murdock would make it – his fever was bad, but there was nothing life-threatening he knew of – but Face didn't know if his nerves would.