The young woman entered the apartment slowly, pausing only to turn and set the deadbolt before throwing the book bag which had been thrown over her shoulders down, sighing as it hit the floor with a resounding thud. She walked the short distance between her door and the sofa in the small sitting room, throwing herself down face first on the plush sofa, groaning to herself. This past semester had kicked her ass and she was looking forward to getting away for a little while.

Away from what? She mentally yelled at herself. Why do I feel like I need to-. Her thoughts were cut-off by the ringing of the cell phone in her back pocket. Pulling the phone out of her pocket she answered it quickly. "Hello?"

"Yes my name is Jackson Miranda and I'm with the LA Times." the male voice spoke slowly. "May I speak with Isabella Smith?"

She sat up quickly, throwing her feet on the table in front of her as she crossed her arms around her chest. "No comment." She said sternly as she pressed the end button and threw the phone in her lap, now reminded of why she felt like she needed to be on the run. Constant calls for the past two months from reporters asking for an interview or comment; trying to get any information from her about her father and the rest of his team.

She had left Benning shortly after her father was sent to Fort Carson, deciding to move to Los Angeles for a fresh start, transferring to UCLA to finish her degree. Her dad had signed everything over to her before the court-martial, a detail that she did not discover until after the proceedings were over. Everything that he had was hers to do what she wanted to with but she did not want any of it. She wanted him. Her mother had passed a few years before and now she felt like she had been ripped from her life as well. His home had become her permanent home after her mother died but it was not the same after he was sent away to prison and she knew that it would never be home for her again.

Her thoughts wondered back to the day that her dad broke out of prison. She was in the lunchroom at school, sitting with some friends studying for Dr. Melton's Ancient History exam when she happened to look up at the TV that was mounted to the wall not ten feet in front of her only to see a picture of her father staring back at her. Time stopped for her in that moment and all she could do was sit there and smile to herself as she heard the newswoman talk about how he had escaped earlier that same day and he was considered armed and extremely dangerous. She followed the news religiously over the next 48 hours as photos of Peck, Baracus and Murdock joined her father's picture. All four of them out again. All four of them together again. Like it should be.

She knew that they would be desperate to clear their names but when she woke up that particular morning and turned on the news to see the chaos at the L.A. docks she jumped for joy. It had to be over. This nightmare had to be over, they would all be free, get reinstated and live happily ever after; they would just move on with their lives and the past months would be like a bad dream that they woke up from.

She waited all day and half the night for a phone call that day. Knowing she would not be able to concentrate she stayed in her apartment praying the entire time that her dad was not hurt; praying that he would knock on her door at any time or just call her and tell her to come pick him up and bring him home.

The call never came. He never came.

But the DOD did come. As did the CIA and FBI. All wanting information. All thinking that it had to be more than coincidence that she had relocated to L.A. All interrogating her for days about the whereabouts of the A-Team until they were satisfied that she was telling the truth and she really had no idea where they could be. Did they really think he would be so stupid as to contact her?

But she had wanted him to. She knew he was not that careless but part of her wished that he would be. Every day that passed without contact her heart broke all over again. Her chest tightened as tears began to fall down her face. She would give anything to hear his voice again. Give anything to see him one more time, to feel his strong arms around her, crushing him to her, breathing in the scent that was her father – a distinctive mix of Cuban cigars and whatever he had to drink with the General before heading home. She took a deep breath as she stood up, discarding her phone on the sofa as she wiped her face quickly with the back of her hand and made her way to the kitchen on a mission to make herself a cup of hot tea before returning back to her sofa to find something on TV to distract her until she fell asleep.

She opened the swinging door leading into the kitchen, instinctively swiping her hand over the light switch, illuminating the small space. Moving like a robot she turned the tea kettle on the stove on as she reached up to the cabinet above, pulling out a small mug with one hand as she fumbled with a canister beside the stove with her other, pulling out a tea bag which she placed in the mug as she sat it down on the stove.

"Ella, a watched pot never boils."

She jumped as she turned around quickly, eyes glued to the direction of the voice. The voice she had been praying to hear for months. She smiled as she saw Hannibal Smith perched on a stool in the far corner of the room, directly in front of the refrigerator. He stood slowly from his sitting position as she took in his appearance. Dressed simply in a white t-shirt and pair of dark jeans she could tell that he had lost a little weight but otherwise looked to be healthy. "Daddy?" She whispered, a small part of her believing that she was dreaming and would wake up anytime now but still moving towards him, throwing herself into his arms with enough force to make him stumble backwards for a moment but he quickly regained his balance, wrapping his arms around her as she burst into tears.