(A/N): So after seeing a picture of Dwight in a Kilt, I felt compelled to write this. Sorry...
Disclaimer: I do not own the A-Team, nor do I own Kilts.
A TRUE SCOTSMAN
It was one of the hottest days of the year. Everything, even the park benches, looked like they were melting. The public pools were absolutely packed and even the lakes in the park, too, but by ducks instead of humans. It was the heat wave of all heat waves.
Just as Face had finished walking out of the Tailors, he realised he had made the worst mistake in history; wearing a jet black, pinstriped power suit.
Instantly, he felt the immense heat wash over him and sweat begin to bead on his forehead. He steadied himself, all of a sudden feeling a bit light headed, then loosened his tie. It felt like a noose around his throat, tight and uncomfortable. Starting the short walk to the parking lot around the back of the Tailors, the Conman unbuttoned the first two buttons of his crisp, white shirt, quickly becoming damp with perspiration, and rolled up his blazer sleeves. He finally arrived at the 'Vette parked up and fished the keys out of his trouser pocket. Unlocking the door, he slid onto the piping hot leather seat and placed his hand on the cooked steering wheel. His skin singed and made a 'ssss' sound like burgers being fried on a grill.
Biting his lip to keep the womanly yelp bubbling up in his throat at bay, Face started up the vehicle and quickly set off back to the apartment, before he ended up looking like a dried raisin.
He stumbled out of the 'Vette, muttering to himself about the puddle of sweat left on the drivers seat, and made his way towards the building. As he went through the entrance and arrived at the first flight of stairs, he let out an anguished cry and started to climb them at a snails pace.
By the time he had made his way onto the third floor, he was crawling, the droplets of perspination making a trail behind him. Face was breathing like he had run a marathon. A woman passed him on the stairs and gave him an odd look and continued even faster.
"Yeah," the Lieutenant yelled, or attempted to, it came out as a choked groan. "You... carry on walking... just leave me to... die here."
After a few minutes of crying, the blonde carried on slowly making his way up to the tenth floor.
Finally, he did it. He had made it to his sanctuary, alive. He was victorious. The beautiful, wooden door, with its shining golden letters and stunning handle was waiting for him at the bottom of the hallway. It was calling his name.
"Templeton... Templeton... open me, Templeton."
He was delirious, soaked through, and sobbing with joy but be didn't even care; he was going to make it. Crawling those last few feet to the door, he reached up with his key and unlocked it, pushing it open and letting his head rest on the old welcome mat in the doorway.
The Conman finally lifted his head and his half-lidded eyes opened fully in shock.
"Murdock?" He said. "What on earth are you doing?"
The Pilot turned around, smiling broadly. He rested his arms on his hips in a triumprant pose and lifted one leg on the small coffee table.
"Ah, good to see you, me laddy!" Bellowed Murdock in a strong, powerful Scottish accent.
The Conman couldn't believe his eyes. "Are you... are you wearing a-"
"Aye, that's right!" The Captain interrupted. "This here's a Kilt, fizzogman; keeps your legs nice an' cool."
Face sighed. "Please tell me you're wearing underwear, Murdock."
"A true Scotsman wears nothing under his Kilt... I am a true Scotsman."
The Lieutenant immediately averted his eyes.
The Pilot disappeared into the kitchen as the blonde picked himself up and closed the door. He then returned and shoved a plate under Face's nose.
"What's this?" Face asked cautiously.
"Haggis!"
"What's in it?"
"Oh, ya know, the usual." Murdock said, guiding Face to the dining table and setting it down in front of him. He placed a knife and fork in front of the Conman and grinned. "It's a mixture of sausage, onion, suet and spices..."
He watched as Face began to cut into it and brought a piece to his mouth. As he chewed, the Pilot carried on. "Oatmeal, Sheep's heart, liver, lungs and stomach."
Peck let the food roll off of his tongue and back onto the plate.
"I'm think I'm going to be sick..." He muttered sourly.
"That was just desert!" Grinned Murdock. "We have Scotch egg, Scotch beef, then a nice wee glass of Scotch to wash it down with. Then, after, we can hang this poster of Scotty from Star Trek up using Scotch tape!"
The Lieutenant groaned, got up from the table, and started to climb the stairs to his bedroom.
"Where are ya goin'?" The Captain shouted, as he chased Face up the staircase. "We still haven't played Hop Scotch yet!"