Summary: Face has a bad day.
Warnings: Some mild swearing. Quite the overuse of the word 'damn'. But that's it. All part of the story :)
Disclaimer: I don't own the A-Team. Nope.
In the Army
by Liliththestormgoddess
Templeton Peck's eyes snapped open at exactly 5:30 am.
For a moment, he lay confused, staring at the white ceiling, wondering what had awoken him. He analyzed the room, using his keen ears, listening for any strange sound that may have awoken him. Nothing.
And as he rolled over onto his side, he glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The dark letters seemed to mock him as they flashed the pre-dawn time. He no longer wondered what had woken him. He knew. He half expected his drill sergeant to come bursting into the room, yelling at him to get his lazy ass moving.
Face pounded his fist angrily into the large empty space next to him in the king sized bed. Growling, he knew that now he was awake, there was no going back to sleep. So he got up and headed for the shower.
His old military training kicked in a lot, sometimes when he wished it wouldn't. Like his internal clock, still programmed into him to get up before the sun rose, so he could train. Well, damn it! Face cursed to himself. I'm not in the damn army anymore!
He could tell as soon as his feet touched the floor, that today was not looking bright for him. A cloud seemed to be hanging over his head, just waiting to drop some lightning bolts on him.
However, fifteen minutes later, Face had showered, shaved successfully, and had gotten dressed in a brand new jogging suit, and was feeling slightly better. Perhaps today wouldn't be such a bad day after all.
Face left his apartment, and headed towards the beach at a jog. He always liked that he was the only one out this early. There was always the slight chance that some jogger might recognize him. But today, the world wasn't looking too fondly on Face.
Every couple hundred feet, he passed a different jogger. Men and women alike, they all nodded as they jogged past him, some with headphones clamped on their ears. Out of courtesy, he nodded back, but he didn't like this familiarity. It made him only the more memorable. His hatred, that had cultivated this morning, only burned deeper. His scowl seemed to burn into his face. Damn the army! He thought. I can't go anywhere anymore, without watching my back, without a fear of being recognized.
So he headed back to his 'borrowed' flat, taking the lesser walked streets and back roads. But his nerves were on end already. Every can that clattered against the sidewalk, every rustle of leaves, every footstep that echoed against the stone, sent him jumping, his hand jerking to the gun that he did not have, strapped in its holster. He cursed every time he let the noises get the better of him. Indeed, it did not improve his mood.
Damn the army!
He finally made it back to his apartment, where he changed into something a little more appropriate for breakfast. He decided he needed a little bit of a relaxing breakfast, and walked to the diner down the block. Besides, there was a cute blond waitress there who had dropped several hints, urging him to come back.
But when he turned the corner and caught site of the diner, he found the place swarming with military police cars, and Decker's silhouette talking to the waitress. Damn! Swore Face, spinning on his heels and immediately heading the other way. Damn the army! So much for that hot date, he muttered, storming back to his car to find someplace far away to eat.
On the way, he smacked the steering wheel a few times, the only outlet he could find for his overflowing anger.
Damn the army! It seemed to be his favourite mantra of the day.
He quickly found a small diner, and ordered pancakes and French toast. He brooded while he ate, but never let his mind wander. He kept his wit sharp and alert, in case Decker had decided that he would continue his search in this direction. When he finished, he headed back to his apartment, steering clear of the major roads. However, when he arrived at his block, he parked his Corvette in a secluded parking lot, around the block, and walked the rest of the way. He could tell by all the commotion on the street that Decker was poking his nose around. Time to leave.
The real owners of the apartment weren't due back for another week, but Face wasn't willing to chance staying. He quickly threw his things together into a bag, when there was a knock at the door. He froze, a pair of rolled-up socks clutched in his hands. Decker? Quickly he drew his revolver from his bag, and walked across the room, stopping to take a peek out the window. He saw no military cars parked outside, nor did he see any sign of the commotion around the block. So Decker had moved out. Then who was at the door?
Face peered through the peephole in the door, to see the desk manager of the apartment complex, clutching a package. Face stuffed the gun into the back of his jeans, and opened the door, smiling widely.
"Mr. Stevens, is everything all right?"
Mr. Stevens produced the package, and handed it over. "Just fine, Mr. Price. The morning mailman just dropped this off, and well, it had a special note attached, that it be delivered immediately."
Face was confused, but accepted the package with a smile. "Ah, thank you very much. Must be that special cook book I ordered." And with a last farewell, he shut the door.
Turning back into the apartment, he studied the package closely, a frown creasing his face. The package was indeed addressed to Francis Price, but no one except the guys knew he was staying here, under that name.
And what could it be?
He turned it over gently in his hands, then held it close to his ear for a few moments. A soft beeping almost made him drop the package. His heart stopped beating for a few seconds. No…he thought, and listened again. There was the beeping again, and it was getting faster and faster…
Without a second thought, he tossed the package into the living room, where it slid beneath the couch and out of sight. In the next instant, he was out the living room window, diving through the glass. An explosion came from behind him, and gave him that extra push through the window. The heat tossed him across the cars, and he rolled across the black top of the parking lot before immediately getting up and high-tailing it out of there. Luckily, his apartment had been on the ground floor.
Before he'd made it around the corner, he heard the sirens pierce the air. The explosion had surely alerted them. And when Decker finds my stuff there…Face groaned. But as his feet pounded against the concrete, the actual situation finally dawned on him. Suppose he hadn't had that great of reflexes? Suppose he hadn't been trained well enough to know what was a bomb and what wasn't?
Well, he'd be dead.
Face couldn't help the grin that crept across his face, even when, as he headed towards where he knew Hannibal would be working, he could hear the sirens coming towards him.
Thank God for the army, he thought, and nearly chuckled at the absurdity of it.
Some days it was just like that. Perhaps it was the Jazz. Face frowned suddenly, realizing that the package had to have been from the last mission. An angry enemy, one who had slipped out of police custody. And that mission was Hannibal's fault, Hannibal and his Jazz.
Damn the Jazz! He cursed, and burst onto the set where he found a monster talking to the director.
"Hannibal! We've got a code green!"
Fin