The Perfect Con
Amy saw them in her dreams. It was fairly rare, but periodically they would just pop up from her subconscious without warning. Most of the time, they were random dreams that simply included the people she considered extended family. Hannibal would materialize in a dream wearing his Aquamania monster costume and waving his cigar around while spouting off Confucius, or other scraps of advice she needed to hear at the moment. Murdock's laughs would haunt her occasionally, or his songs. Typically, though, dreams with Murdock in them were pleasant. B.A. would just be there, in fact she usually didn't even see him—she just felt safe. After Jamestown, Amy had always felt safe when B.A. was around. So Amy didn't mind her dreams about the A-Team. In many ways these dreams were like new adventures, adventures she was longing for more than she'd ever admit.
Except for her dreams about Face. The ones with Face in them were always nightmares, and they were always replays from the past. She would relive the moment he faced the firing squad, seeing again the look of terror on his pretty-boy, conman face when his cigarette failed to ignite the gasoline. In the fleeting second before Amy had fired the flare gun, she had seen the same paralyzing fear etched on his face as she'd felt during the Jamestown incident. She knew then what Face had meant by "trying" to accept death; one could come to terms with the idea enough to function, but no one was really ever ready to die.
Of course Face had not died that day. She had saved him, thanks to his teaching her how to shoot. But in her nightmare Lynch would appear behind her and grab her at the last minute, cackling as the guns went off and Amy watched Face's contorted body fall to the ground and bleed out into the dust. Amy didn't have the dream often, but just when she thought she was over it, it would pop up again. Some psychoanalyst would probably say she had the re-occurring nightmare because there was some sort of unfinished business between her and the A-Team's Faceman. Except there had been no business between her and the Faceman to begin with, so there was certainly none of the unfinished sort.
When she had first seen Templeton Peck's picture in the file at the paper, she might have thought he was an attractive member of the team who seemed to fit her picture of an unjustly accused hero, spending his days fighting for those overlooked or abused by the system. Naively, she'd went in with false expectations of Face.
When she first saw him, running out to meet them from the plane he'd just conned, he hadn't even taken a second glance at Amy. And admittedly he'd looked better in his photograph, all dressed up in his uniform instead of in the remnants of his rich cowboy scam. So much had happened so fast after that, Amy didn't have time to dwell on her first reaction to Templeton Peck's face. Perhaps part of her had been hoping the image she'd created in her mind was true, even when she'd talked her way onto the team. But after assisting with a few jobs, Amy saw things a little more clearly; he was the Team's Faceman because his pretty face was the Team's front and because his so-called charm got them what they needed. He was a swindler, not the white knight she had hoped he was.
After that realization, it hadn't been hard to be professional. It wasn't like there had been anything romantic in his handing her cockroaches, for instance, or dropping her a little forcefully onto the bed in Vegas when she'd had to play his wife. Plus, she'd seen firsthand what idiots girls made of themselves over Face, and Amy had no desire to be lumped in with them. Most of the time she had spent with Face they were running some sort of con for a job. "Off duty," she had spent more of her time with Murdock. B.A. had been more caring, in his gruff sort of way, and even Hannibal had paid more attention to her.
So despite her initial attraction to his face, Amy had quickly come to see Face as the member of the team who let her work with him, and nothing more. In all honesty, he'd gotten stuck with her because his specialty was the only thing she could really assist with. When she had left for Jakarta, Face had organized the farewell party because he always took care of details like that for the team, and Amy had appreciated it as such. There was no wishing he'd done it specially to please her, or anything like that. No feelings whatsoever that could be reason enough for her to have a reoccurring nightmare about him.
Perhaps she should break down and see the psychoanalyst then, Amy thought, her head in her hands. It had been another one of those nights, but instead of being weeks or even months apart, she's dreamt about Face's death two nights in a row. There has to be a reason, she decided, forcing herself to rally enough to pour another cup of weak coffee and take a Tylenol. And I have to get to the bottom of it, somehow. So I can actually get some sleep.
The crack of the rifles being fired rang in her ears as she swallowed the Tylenol, her heart jolting along with each shot. Instinctively, her eyes snapped close, and she saw each of the bullets enter Face's body in slow motion, painfully realistic, even causing his body to jerk with their impact. Blood spurted from the wounds; her mind's eye followed every drop as it fell to the ground. She heard herself screaming his name, the explanation for her aching throat ache when she woke up this morning. She saw him look over at her and smile. Blood covered his teeth, and this time, it wasn't because of an exploded dye pack, or because he had lost another crown. Amy struggled against Lynch, still screaming, but the light in his eyes went out. Templeton was gone. His body crumpled to the ground in a disjointed heap, causing a cloud of dust.
Amy wrenched her eyes open and forced in a shaky breath. She felt nauseous. Tylenol wasn't going to cut it today. Maybe she needed to see a doctor, or at least a shrink. But then she would have some old quack prying into her business, and that was the last thing she needed. Probably a call to Murdock checking up on everyone was all she needed. Yeah, that made sense. Face was the one responsible for taking care of the logistics for the Team and for making sure Hannibal didn't get too carried away on the Jazz. She probably associated him with the Team's safety subconsciously, and her nightmares were merely a result of worrying about the guys. She trusted them on jobs, of course, but things could go wrong. Now that they'd been pardoned, they weren't sticking as close, and Amy knew better than anyone just how much they needed each other.
She had just picked up the phone to dial the Veteran's Hospital in LA when her secretary buzzed her. "Miss Allen, there is priest here to see you. He say he must talk with you now. That he know your friend who need help quickly."
"Send him up," Amy replied anxiously, not even bothering to remind the girl to make sure her nouns and verbs agreed in number. Maybe her dream had been more than a nightmare from a tired mind. Perhaps it had been a premonition. Face was Catholic; if he'd sent a priest out of the country to see her, it must be serious.
Not able to endure the suspense in the wake of her nightmare, Amy stood and strode to the door, which opened just as she was about to turn the handle. She stepped back.
"Ah, my dear Miss Allen," the man said as he entered the room and closed the door.
She knew the voice instantly, and she flung herself at him. "Face!" Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked wondering where they had come from.
Face laughed as he held her gently. "Amy! I'm glad you're this happy to see me. I was afraid you wouldn't let me in, after I how terrible I've been at keeping in touch," he admitted, sounding sheepish. He pulled off his glasses, and Amy was glad. They brought out the lines his rough life had etched in his face and made him look so much older. Seeing him in them made her feel old, remembering just how long ago the "good old days" were.
Regaining some of her sense, Amy stepped back and raised an eyebrow. "You bring up a good point. Why are you conning your way into my office?"
"Well, it's been such a long time, and I thought…"
"Face," Amy warned.
"It has! And so I thought I'd stop by for a visit. It's always good to see an old friend."
"So you simply hopped a plane to Jakarta? Are you even allowed to leave the States yet?"
"I'm a pardoned man, Amy. Besides, it's not like the government knows I'm here. I sprang Murdock," he shrugged.
Amy stared at him appalled. "You're finally pardoned, and you spring Murdock and steal a plane just to "stop by"?!"
Face maneuvered them into the chairs in front of her desk, turning towards her after he was seated. "Murdock has missed you too. It's been rough on him going back to the VA after being out, even if it's just for a little while, so I thought I'd bring him along. And," he added, stressing the word, "I didn't steal a plane. I bought one for Murdock with his share of the profits from that diamond mine after we were officially pardoned."
Sighing, Amy shook her head and laughed. "You never change, do you?"
"Nope." Face sounded proud of the fact.
"I missed you guys," she smiled. "Now, tell me why you're here."
"I told you-"
"You gave me a line. We both know if this was really a visit, all of you would be here. Obviously, you have your own reasons for coming to see me. Something Hannibal probably doesn't know about. And you wouldn't have bothered having Murdock to fly you over here if it wasn't important. Not to mention the scam to make sure I let you in, which nearly gave me a heart attack, by the way. So you better tell me what you want so we can get to work on this."
Face grinned at her. "Taught you a lot, didn't I?"
"More than I ever wanted to know," Amy grinned back.
"Hey, you needed to learn it. You were awfully naïve for a reporter. I thought lock-picking was something they taught in journalism class," he teased.
"And you couldn't have just left me to my naivety, could you? You had to corrupt me too," she tossed back, smiling.
"You were the one who threatened your way onto a team of wanted criminals. Besides, lock-picking is an invaluable skill, especially for a reporter. You can't tell me it hasn't been helpful, even over here." He was smug. Honestly, she didn't mind; she was just too happy to see him—alive.
"It's illegal, even over here," she retorted. "But you were telling me what you need my help for, Faceman."
His easy smugness was instantly replaced with tension. He tried to hide it, but Amy had been in too many tense situations with him to miss it. She frowned. Was something wrong with the pardon? B.A.? Hannibal? The bad taste her nightmare had left in her mouth returned. She wished he'd hurry up and tell her what the problem was, before she got sick.
"Well, remember when you hired us to rescue your friend in Mexico?" Face asked, jumping up and beginning to pace her office floor in a very non-Face-like way.
Was it Al? Her heart jumped to her throat. "Yes. Of course I do. Why, is it Al? Is he…?" She couldn't bring herself to even ask.
Face whirled around to look her in the eye. "No! No. This has nothing to do with him. Except…" he paused to take a deep breath. "Why were you ready to sell your house for him?"
Amy stared at him in confusion as he resumed pacing in agitation. Didn't he know? Of course he knew, she'd told them already. "He's a friend; a good friend. A mentor, a father figure to me. He helped me out a lot when I first got the job at the paper."
"You love him like a father?" He paused again to catch her eye again, showing her just how important her answer was to him.
She let him see how sincere she was in her response. "Yes."
"You'd do anything for him?" He was just as intense, and this question was hurried—like he was impatient.
Her response was immediate anyway. "Yes, absolutely."
"Even to travel with a group of criminals to Mexico, alone," Face grinned wryly. He threw himself back down into the chair beside her. "When Hannibal first announced that job, I was at a hospital."
Amy settled back, relaxing a little now that he had begun his story about whatever had caused him to fly halfway around the world and find her today. If there is one thing she was an expert in, it was stories. But he bent over with his hands clasped between his legs, starting at them, and it tipped her off to how this was affecting him. Face was over-zealous about eye contact. It was how he conveyed what he wanted to his marks, and how he read their reactions. Because he was a conman, Face lived or died by eye contact, and he always maintained it during conversations. Unless he knew doing so would make him vulnerable, like when he'd told her about Leslie.
"I was in the hospital with the man who is like a father to me. He raised me in the orphanage, encouraged me to go to Notre Dame, and supported my decision to join the army. He was the only one to believe I was innocent. He came to the trial and-" His voice had raised an octave and he stopped, changing the direction of his story. "He delivered the letter from Leslie, Amy," Face said as if the statement summed up his relationship to this man. In a way it did.
"Has something happened to him, Face?" Amy asked softly.
Face shrugged and looked up to meet her eyes again. "He's…dying," he replied. There was no catch in his voice, per say, but Amy knew him well enough to know the word wasn't quite as smooth and as clear as it normally would have been coming from his mouth.
She sucked in a breath, heart breaking for this man. Like all the A-Team, Face had already endured more than normal people could imagine: one of the worst wars, prison camp, an unjust accusation, prison, life on the run, being shot at and beat up for a living. She'd even seen him with a bullet hole in him. Now he was losing one of his special people.
"So what can I do?" She touched his shoulder tenderly, hoping to convey comfort. But Face stood up abruptly, ignoring her hand.
"He has this final request. I promised him I would fulfill it before he died," he explained, his back to her.
"Okay…" Amy still couldn't figure it out. Generally, she wasn't this slow.
"He wants me to get married and settle down," Face confessed. "He's been after me about it for years, but now I'm pardoned I don't have an excuse. He's starting to lose his mind because of the medication, and he won't drop it."
"So you want to get married so he can—" she scrambled to find the right words, "…be at peace as far as you're concerned?"
Face turned towards her, leaning against her desk, something like relief and appreciation in his eyes at her understanding. "Yeah. I've given him more grief than he deserved. And like I said, he's not thinking logically about this anymore, so he doesn't understand that things like that—they take time. But I can't bear to let him die upset with me."
Amy smiled a sad little smile. It was sweet really, and she was proud of Face for desiring to do everything in his power to please this man he saw as his father. One thing she didn't give him enough credit for was his loyalty to his special people. But she was powerless to help him. It wasn't like she could manufacture a wife for him. It wasn't like he would need help with that anyway; he was right, it would take time for him to get to the point where he was ready for that. It certainly wasn't like Face lacked interested girls. Perhaps he'd just needed someone to talk to, someone who understood and wouldn't laugh before sympathizing. "So what are you going to do?"
"I have a plan," he hedged. "But I need your help."
"Okay…" Amy said slowly, unsure of how to respond. "What can I do?"
"I need you to help me with a con. Just this one last one—please, for him, Amy. That's all I ask."
"You know I'll help you, Face, or you wouldn't have come halfway around the world to ask. But I really don't see how a con-"
"I need you to marry me, Amy. Or pretend to have married me, at least. Just until he dies, so he can die happy. Please, Amy."
He pulled a ring box from his pocket and opened it; a half-caret diamond sparkled out at her. Shocked, she looked at his face. He was dead serious. Her eyes traveled back down to the ring. She really was going to be sick today.
But on the bright side, at least she was already sitting down.
A/N: In case you haven't noticed, this story is going to be a blend of cannon references and fictitious could-have-been's. For example, the Priest from "A Mexican Slayride" actually doesn't pop up again, according to Wikipedia. However, watching that episode is what started this whole thing, so I really don't care if it's not cannon. That's what fanfiction is for. So fair warning: bring your imaginations along on this one. ;)
And review!