=+++=/+====
It had started yesterday morning. Hannibal was on the jazz and had – per the A-Team's SOP – sent him out to scam what was needed. He'd spotted the MPs just in time and ducked into the first small shop he found.
It was like stepping back in time, back to Nam – the pungent smells of earth and jungle and incense and once-unfamiliar herbs enveloped him; the faint clonk-clonk of wooden wind chimes whispered to him from the far corner; the luxuriant fronds of a tropical plant brushed lightly over his hair and the side of his face. A second, feather-light touch behind his ear caused him to turn quickly, jostling a small table. Twitched out of place, the two culms, each about twenty-four inches long, rolled off the edge; the sound of the hollow bamboo stems hitting the floor rendered him immobile, muscles tensed, breaths restricted.
All that's missing is diesel, blood and screams, observed the primal part of his brain, where dark things still lived and played.
The noise also brought the ancient proprietor through the dark blue curtain beyond a simple wooden countertop. Upon seeing him, the diminutive woman immediately shuffled forward, bowing, and greeted him respectfully: "How may I serve you, Father?"
The use of his assumed title brought Templeton Peck back to the present and he wove a quick tale of deceit and lies to explain his presence in the Asian apothecary, the details of which he could not remember even two minutes after slipping out the back door. A brisk run, courtesy of the MPs still trailing him, cleared his head of the miasma of memory. By the time Hannibal's plan had finally come together early this morning, Face had forgotten all about those few eternally long minutes he'd spent in-country, recalling a sadistic lover's touch.
Now, he lazily traced the contour of a beautiful Latina's back with his fingertips, truly amazed at the smoothness and softness of her light brown skin, as he kissed her deeply. Face gently turned her away from him, nuzzling her dark hair aside and dribbling kisses along her neck to sweeten the good-bye. Running his hands skillfully down her flanks, pressing thumbs into sensitive spots, he descended to the rumbled bed. Then, beginning at the base of her spine, he planted kisses on each of her vertebrae, slowly zipping her red silky dress up, inch by inch, slowly rising to stand behind her, slowly edging toward the limits of his control. Face pulled her close, cupping her breasts through the thin material one last time, and kissed her lips with ironic chasteness.
"Are you sure you cannot stay?" she asked again, pushing back against him in invitation. "Tomorrow is a holiday. We can have a nice private fiesta."
"Sorry, angel, no can do," he replied, easing away from her. "I'll call you," he added, collecting his shirt and jacket from the chair and backing out of the room as though reluctant to leave, as though savoring a vision of loveliness. As soon as the dimly-lit hallway had swallowed him up, he turned and walked briskly out of the apartment. Face balled up the tailored dress shirt as though it were cheaply-made polyester rather than hand-stitched 200-count Egyptian cotton and stuffed it in one pocket of the suit jacket he hastily pulled on. He didn't bother to button it; the stairwell was just a few steps away. Surely his luck would hold that long.
In less than five minutes, he was tucked into the 'vette six floors below, moving smoothly into the street. As he merged onto the freeway, he consigned the slip of paper with her phone number on it to the night wind.
=+++=/+++==
On the way to his current beachfront address, Face indulged himself a bit, pushing the sports car faster than usual on the deserted late night straightaways, driving aggressively through the curves of the Pacific Coast Highway.
The need to concentrate on his driving kept his hands occupied and made it impossible to run his fingers over the scar on his back, the one the girl – whatever her name was – had asked about. He'd lied about it, of course, and then concluded his seduction of her in such a way that kept her hands and eyes busy – and away from his back.
There was some irony in the fact that he'd done so in part by fetishizing her perfect back.
Whatever. She'd bought it, been left happy, had no cause for complaints.
Face slowed and pulled into the driveway of the darkened house. The others were no doubt asleep; earlier, flashing his roguish smile, he'd told them not to wait up. He turned off the engine and sat for a few minutes, listening to the ticks of the cooling engine, the waves' incessant rhythm against the rocky shore, the breeze provoking a flag to fits and snaps in the moonlight. Like Murdock and BA, he thought with a touch of humor. Tomorrow, or the next day, they'd all return to their post-mission pursuits – Murdock and mental health, Hannibal and Hollywood, BA and bettering the lives of children. Face and … what? Fortune? Females? Finery? He sighed and got out of the car.
Climbing the steps slowly, he idly tapped his ring against the wooden rail. Ta-tap. Ta-ta-tap tap tap. Ta-tap. Ta-ta-tap tap tap. Face let himself in quietly, once more tapping out 'A-2' to reassure anyone still awake of his identity, and stripped off his jacket, tossing it in a chair on his way to the kitchen. A single light still burned over the stove, providing ample light for him to fill a glass with water at the sink. He forced himself to drink most of it, then set it aside. Head bowed, he appeared to massage his lower back with both hands for a moment, running strong fingers over the tissues.
"You're home early, Lieutenant," Hannibal said from the shadows. "I figured we wouldn't see you until dawn's early light, if then."
"Decided not to stay," Face said dismissively, dropping his hands and turning his back to the moonlight coming in through the window. The shadow he cast over himself hid his expression as he reached for the glass again. "What are you doing up?" he asked, finishing off the water in single gulp more fitting for the scotch he wished he had poured.
Hannibal ignored the question. "Did you hurt your back?"
"Me? No. I'm fine."
"Sure about that, Face?"
"Now, Hannibal, would I lie to you?" The easy smile appeared.
"Yes."
"I'm hurt that you would think I'd lie to you."
"Tough. Let me see your back, kid."
"My back is fine." Face twisted his torso through a full range of motion to demonstrate its integrity. "See?"
"Now, Lieutenant." Hannibal rose from his seat and approached the sink. With a sigh, Face turned around. "Here where the light is better," he directed, placing a firm hand on the younger man's bare shoulder to move him closer to the stove and its warm yellow light. The colonel's hands touched him impersonally, almost clinically, probing for tenderness or injury.
Many of his scars from the POW camp had faded; none were physically painful anymore. To the trained eye, the scars still told a story – fine lines, angry knots of flesh, the small round entrance wound, the surgical sutures, divots carved out by gouging. Hannibal fingered the scar the girl had noticed and Face flinched despite his best efforts. He knew he'd given it all away when Hannibal's fingers stayed in place.
"She asked about this scar."
"Yes."
"You lied about it."
"Yes."
"Understandable, I suppose."
Face grunted in response.
"It kind of spoils the mood, wouldn't you say, to explain some sadistic North Vietnamese guards used you as a piñata for the better part of a week?"
"It might at that, Hannibal," Face responded, forcing himself not to shiver as he turned to the other man. "Maybe I'll try it next time and see. Now if there's, uh, nothing else, I'd like to get some sleep."
"Good night, Face," he replied neutrally, folding his arms across his chest but allowing the other man to leave the room. The moonlight spilled across his lieutenant's back as he retreated, smoothing the skin more effectively than the finest plastic surgeon could ever dream of doing.
A different image of his lieutenant – blindfolded, stripped to the waist, suspended by arms tied to a hook above his head – appeared in Hannibal's memory.
=+++=/++++=
After the morning sun had risen, the guards would come for him, hoisting him by his arms in plain view of the other prisoners. For a few hours, they would let him swing gently back and forth, only a few inches above the ground, close enough that if he flexed his feet just so his toes would scrape the dirt, but not close enough to provide even a moment's relief to his shoulders and arms.
Soon enough, the 'fun' would begin. One guard would take a thin, sharpened piece of bamboo and draw it lightly down arms and neck, back and chest, ribs and stomach. Depending on the angle, the bamboo would cut the skin, leaving a delicate trail of blood, or simply sensitize it. Quick, vicious jabs with the point randomly punctuated the subtle lines he traced on Face's skin.
The anticipation, Face had said later, was worse than the pain itself.
Knowing the other prisoners watched, the guard would often put on a show for them as well. An AK-47 might replace the bamboo spike. He'd slide the end of the muzzle along the ribcage in a near-caress, slowly clicking the fire selector down from safe to full-auto to semi-auto, and back again, or drag the prominent front gun sight across the skin to produce an abrasion.
The third and final act usually opened with two to five cracked bamboo canes being brought out and dropped noisily on the ground. Forceful shoves would send the lieutenant swinging and spinning dizzyingly. Two or more guards would then begin whacking him as he swung near them, gleefully taunting him and eventually splintering the bamboo against his body. Each subsequent blow would further embed the slivers in his flesh. The guards would leave him when all the canes they'd brought out had been rendered unusable, letting the hot sun bake him and the flies feast for a time.
Usually within an hour or two of finishing his stint as a human piñata, Face would be back with the others. Hannibal would begin the task of teasing the bamboo out of his lieutenant's bruised and bloody back and sides, doing what he could to prepare him for tomorrow's encore.
=+++=/+++++
"Faceguy gonna be okay, Colonel?" Murdock asked quietly, leaning against the refrigerator.
"I think so, Captain," Hannibal responded, unsurprised by his pilot's presence or question. "But I think we'd better skip the festivities at the park tomorrow. Face's calendar says the fifth of hell, not the fifth of May."
=+++=/=+++=
This is my first fanfic for the A-Team. I'm working my way through the series for the first time since high school so please excuse my miscues. I appreciate feedback and constructive criticism. It's the only way I know of to improve.
Please note: I am aware that caning as judicial punishment is carried out in Asia with rattan not bamboo canes, because of the latter's tendency to splinter with use. I opted to use bamboo herein for just that reason – splintering would presumably make the beating both more painful and more damaging, including an increased risk for infection if the splinters are not removed and the area thoroughly cleaned.
I do this for fun, not profit; the characters are not mine, the mistakes (without exception) are.