A note:

Hey y'all. These stories will all be short-ish chapters of different scenarios. Some of the chapters will be set while the team was in Vietnam, some will be set after they return home. Any warnings will be listed at the beginning of each chapter. So prepare thyself for humour, h/c, angst, tears, laughs.. mostly tears. Just kidding. (Sort of.) Rated T right now for language and war violence. Will probably change to M later.

All of the stories included in this are only true in part that the Vietnam war really happened, and it really was terrible. All stories include or are based off of either true stories or poems. The A-Team movie, tv show, nor any of the characters belong to me. Neither do any of the poems, lyrics, (or anything else) that these stories spring from. I claim no rights.

Chapter One: Thanksgiving

Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck stared out at the school yard below him. The air was thick with smoke from somewhere down the street, making him cough. He grunted, holding a hand to his stomach, pressing against the bandages that covered tender, bloodied stitches.

"Faceman?" Face quickly covered his pain-filled grimace with what he hoped the pilot would take as carefree attitude. He listened to the pattering of footsteps ascending the hall stairs behind him before reaching the dusty, abandoned room he was perched in. Hannibal had told them to lay low along the street and wait for any further orders. Face had sulked off, aware that Hannibal was just as aggravated with the delay as he was, but too tired to give a damn. He'd really wanted a cool bed, a warm woman, and possibly some warm food, but he'd settle for the seat he'd found on the window sill.

Murdock stalked silently into the room, the only sound he made being the soft thuds of combat boots on the less-than-sturdy wooden floor planks. Face didn't speak, acknowledging the pilot's presence only by moving to the side and clearing a spot on the window sill. Murdock took his place beside Face, staring out at the town beneath them.

"You know, Murdock, when it's all dark just before the sun comes up, it's alright. You can see the mountains and the sunrise, and it's not too sticky outside yet."

Murdock acknowledged him with a glance and a slight head nod, remaining silent. For all his ongoing stories and talkative personality, Face had to give it to a man- he knew when to be quiet and when to speak.

"But then the sun comes up. Every morning it's back, just like this damned war."

"The sun ain't a bad thing though, Faceman." Murdock leaned against the window frame, picking at the dirty bandage wrapping his knuckles.

"No, but it's what it makes you see... things you don't want to see."

"Just like this damned war?" Murdock grinned, although it was humorless. Face shook his head, scoffing.

"Yeah." He subconsciously moved his hand to his stomach again, ignoring the slow throbbing from the makeshift medical attention. "It's like a woman you wanted to just spend the night with, and when you realize she's serious, you're too far in to get out."

Murdock shot Face a look. "Did you jus' compare th' sun to a woman?" Face frowned at him.

"You know what I mean."

"I do." Murdock turned his attention back to the road before glancing up at the sky. Gentle weather, cloudy and calm with a slight breeze that blew smoke straight into the upstairs room. Murdock's mind processed the weather within seconds, and he estimated a storm would hit a bit after noon. His years flying had taught him the invaluable skill of being his own weatherman. Murdock wondered if the storm would match the one he could see in Face's eyes. "What does it make you see, then?"

Face shrugged, scanning the landscape beneath them with a calculating gaze. He let the conversation fall silent, and Murdock almost voiced what he'd originally sought the Lieutenant out for. Face broke the silence first.

"Whitewashed patched walls,

Cracked faded red roof-tiles,

Staring glassless, black window squares.

A broken, open wooden door,

A tired flagpole

Drooping its weary, red-yellow rag."

Murdock turned his eyes to the man sitting beside him. "Waxing poetic? Who is that?"

"Can't remember. Read it in a paper somewhere."

"Written by one o' us, then." It was a statement more than a question. You couldn't help but tell when someone else was explaining something you'd seen much of- too much of, at that. The poem seemed perfectly written for this place. Murdock could see how Face would dislike the sun coming up if all you saw by it's bright rays was filth and death and war.

"Look at them kids down there." Murdock nodded toward the group of Vietnamese children sitting in a dusty corner of the school yard, playing some sort of handshake game. "They needed doctors, and we brought 'em."

Face met Murdock's eyes, curiosity overcoming his attempt at a passive expression.

"You hurt much?" Murdock motioned at Face's abdomen. The lingering pain from a deep knife slash reminded him momentarily of the mission they'd completed the prior night.

"Like a bitch," Face consented. Murdock smirked, an understanding in his eyes.

"Feeling the pain means you're alive to feel it." Murdock coughed into the crook of his arm as the wind pushed another cloud of smoke into their faces. Face watched the pilot's lean ribcage shake as he coughed, realizing Murdock was just as miserable as he was.

"The weather's real nice, too. Could be 'lot worse," Murdock said. He glanced over at the lieutenant.

"Great. We've got kids that'll probably only live to be killed in worse ways that infections, a wound that'll just leave another scar, and good weather that won't last."

"Fine. At least you've got your family."

Face paused in the middle of running a hand through his hair, eyes flashing momentarily. Murdock would've regretted the pain he saw in the Lieutenant's eyes, if he didn't know that what was about to be said was needed. Face finally turned his eyes to meet Murdock's.

"You're not one to take cheap shots, so what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Face's eyes had a soft challenge in them.

"Hannibal is here. I'm here. That ol' angry mudsucker is here. We were sent on one mission together, thanks to the Colonel wormin' his way outta me getting sent out. It's all hell, but at least we're going it together. I can be thankful for that, can't I?" The captain turned his head, glancing out into the street. He missed Texas. He felt his heart drop, thinking about his Grandma's fried chicken and the multiple calorie-laden pies that they'd be eating about this time.

"Don't mean to upset ya, Lieutenant. Figured I couldn' make it a lot worse. Sorry." Murdock readied himself to stand, but Face grabbed his arm and held him from leaving.

"No, it's alright. I'm just tired," he said. Murdock nodded. He knew, oh did he know- it wasn't only the physical exhaustion, but a mental one as well- like you'd just taken a college exam and ran a 10k afterward. Bone-weary, he'd call it.

"H.M.?"

Murdock glanced up at Face. The second in command almost never called the pilot that. It was always 'Murdock', or occasionally 'Captain'. When he'd first met the blond haired, blue- eyed soldier, Face had called him 'Flyboy'.

Face bit his lip and seemed like he was going to say something, but shook his head and smiled out at the town. When he looked back at Murdock, his eyes were glassy- maybe from the smoke, maybe not.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Captain."

Murdock gave him a bittersweet smile. "Back at ya, LT."

After-note: The excerpt in this bit is from a poem called "The School", (2003) by Curt Bennet, a former US pilot. His work is really good- not typical poetry, but then again, how many poets fought through the Vietnam war and chose to write about it? Look him up. He's good. I claim absolutely no rights to the poem.