What Better Time To Remember?

Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.

Chapter 3

As the Sergeant put the last platter away in the cupboard and Murdock scrubbed the countertop, the pilot let his attention wander to the double doors and the moonlit ocean beyond.

Finally he broke the silence, his voice tense. "They've been gone a long time. D'ya think we oughta go out 'n' look for 'em?"

B. A. snorted. "No. An' don't start pacin' again or I'll tie ya down to a chair."

Murdock caught himself as he took a step toward the door.

B. A. said don't do it but pacing was better than sitting down and waiting. Pacing was doing something, even if it wasn't as constructive as washing the dishes or searching for his best friend and his CO. He felt the involuntary tremors begin again in his hands and tucked them back in his pockets. The fabric rubbed against the reddened raw skin and hurt, reminding him to focus.

The Sergeant grumbled as he went to sit down in the armchair. "You know it takes time ta drain a bottle even if it is Hannibal and Faceman drainin' it. Just sit down, fool, an' they'll show up."

Murdock strolled over to the Christmas tree, fisting his hand around the box in his pocket again. He knew B. A. was watching to make sure he wasn't about to do something stupid.

Too late, Big Guy. Already did it. Sure hope Hann'bal was able t' talk t' Face. Woulda been better if I had got Miss December here t' be Face's Christmas gift. Wouldn'ta caused as much trouble.

Whoever put up the Christmas tree hung red, green, gold and blue glass ornaments in random places on the branches. Murdock shook his head, thankful for something else to do, and busied himself rearranging the decorations. As he did, he whistled 'White Christmas' and stopped mid-song when he realized why that particular song resonated in his mind.

Hadn't Hannibal promised back in the camp when he was hurting the most to treat him to a real homegrown Christmas in Detroit? Didn't he promise snow and a visit to the department store with the huge Christmas tree outlined in lights on the front of the building? The one with bigger than life reindeer decorations soaring over the tops of the aisles?

Of course, that was before the guards dragged him and Hannibal out of the hut they shared with B. A. and Face. Before they were forced to watch the guys from the next hut carry Luke Cassel's stripped skeletal body outside the camp for burial. Before he was thrown into the isolation pit . . . before he sang that song 'White Christmas' to let his friends know he was still alive . . .

No, no, NO! Stop thinkin' 'bout it! . . . Focus on th' tree . . . Let's see . . . blue . . . red . . . gold . . . green . . . blue . . . red . . . gold . . . 'O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree . . . '

He was so intent on the pattern he created in a spiraling descent from the top of the tree to the bottom limbs that he didn't hear the double doors open.

"I see you cleaned up the kitchen already. Is it almost time for pie?" That was his buddy's voice. Murdock froze, an ornament in his hand, not wanting to turn around. If he was right, from the sound of it, Face drank more than his share of the wine Hannibal brought to him. He made himself hang the blue ornament in place. The glass orb shook in his hand, reflecting the tree lights on its smooth surface.

Maybe he don' r'member th' gift. A li'l wine 'n' Hann'bal talkin' t' him . . . maybe he don' r'member at all . . .

"'Bout time ya got back, Faceman. Next time you do the dishes with the fool. He woulda broke every dish in the place, tossin' 'em around the way he was." B. A. sounded relieved. The pilot couldn't resist taking a second to stop what he was doing and see if the expression on the big man's face matched the tone. He wasn't sure what mood his best friend was in. Wasn't sure if he wanted to face him yet and find out.

As he turned, he met Face's apologetic and curious gaze. The Lieutenant stood a yard away from him.

How'd he manage t' get so close t' me without me knowin'? Without me smellin' that cologne he always wears?

Face didn't look at the kitchen to check the damage the pilot had created. His gaze was riveted on his friend. "Well, I hope he didn't. The Contessa would be very upset if her best dishes were broken." The con man flashed him a brilliant genuine smile. "But I'm sure if you did break anything, I know a way to smooth it over with her. In fact, one or two broken dishes might give us a lot to have to smooth over. Might be fun asking for her forgiveness."

The pilot absently nodded, hearing voices in his mind telling him what to do. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut, tell them to shut up . . .

. . . but if I do that, there'll be all kinds o' questions. So do I go back t' what I was doin' . . . I mean, I was jus' 'bout done . . . 'r do I say good night 'n' head t' my room so I can put that stupid dog tag in my duffel bag 'til I know what t' do with it?

Face was staring at Murdock's hands, his brows drawn together in a frown. He gestured toward them with a nod. "Looks like you got a bad case of dishpan hands. Do they hurt?"

Murdock held his hands up to glance at them. Oh great. Didn' know how bad they looked.

"A li'l." Then he stuffed them back in his pants pockets to hide them. To tell the truth, they hurt a bit more than a little. Any more hot water over them and he would have raised blisters.

The pilot looked past Face to Hannibal and B. A., both of them grim, both scrutinizing him.

"Well, all day tomorrow you let me handle washing the dishes and doing some of the cooking. Okay?" Face stood in front of him, holding him by the elbows to make eye contact. Involuntarily, his muscles tensed. The blue eyes were solemn with concern and Murdock realized Face probably knew he hadn't taken his meds for a while.

No, make that 'bout a couple weeks now.

"I think I have some lotion that will take down the pain if you want to use it." The con man dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. Murdock felt his shoulders relax as Face released him.

He knows. 'Course he knows. We ain' been best buddies for th' las' . . . how many years? . . . guess he knows a li'l 'bout how my mind works. I get like this, I can't stan' t' have no one hold me in one place. Gotta have th' freedom t' move. Flight 'r fright . . . ain' that what they call it?

Face's gaze moved to the tree behind the pilot. Appraising it from sparkling top to bottom, he gave Murdock a strained smile. "That looks a lot better now. You did a good job." Raising one eyebrow with wicked humor, he came closer again and muttered in Murdock's ear, "You wouldn't have happened to find a red lace garter hung in one of the branches or behind the tree, did you? I never did get to looking for that after I saw the Contessa off at the airport."

"No. No red garter. A few dust bunnies on th' floor. One o' them called himself George." Murdock tried to return the smile.

Oh sure . . . jus' say somethin' dumb t' make 'em think you lost it even more. Looney tunes? Yup, that's me . . .

As the theme music to the Looney Tunes cartoons played in the pilot's head, B. A. grumbled, "Crazy fool prob'ly wants t' put one in a box an' keep it as a pet." Hannibal shook his head slightly at the big man, his gaze intent on Murdock.

Wish Hann'bal'd stop lookin' at me. I got it under control . . .

Face had moved over to the sofa where he was sitting before. Picking up the torn wrapping paper and cardboard box, he looked inside, then pulled out the batting. He dropped the box on the couch and got down on his hands and knees to look underneath. Finding nothing, he got back on his feet and gave Murdock a puzzled look before staring down at the empty box.

When he looked back at Murdock, the pilot returned the gaze, trying to keep his expression blank.

Sorry, Faceman. Can' help ya. Gotta make it right . . . 'Please have snow 'n' mistletoe 'n' presents under th' tree . . . '

"Looking for something, kid?" Hannibal joined Face in searching the couch cushions.

"The box with the chain and dog tag. It must have slipped down into the couch." The two men were so intent on their search that Murdock shifted from foot to foot, hoping they wouldn't decide to frisk him next.

B. A. wasn't saying anything. Murdock knew the Sergeant witnessed him slipping the box into his pocket but all the big man did was to scowl at him and cross his arms.

He ain' gonna say anythin' but he wants me t' decide what t' do. Well, I can' give Face this dog tag 'n' make 'im relive all those mem'ries . . . 'I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas, Jus' like . . . ' stop it! Jus' stop it!

He had to think of something.

"Aw, don' worry 'bout it, buddy." He heard how strained his tone was and swallowed to calm himself. It didn't work. "I'll jus' get ya somethin' else, somethin' better, 'n' maybe you'll fin' th' other thing when ya fin' th' Contessa's garter."

The look Face gave him told him the issue was far from being resolved.

"If I remember right, Captain, you said before we ate that you made enough pie for an army. Let's have our dessert and some coffee and then we can each open another gift." Hannibal diverted the conversation to something else.

From past experience, Murdock knew that meant the Colonel was giving Face and him time to think things through and then privately settle it between themselves.

Ain' nothin' t' settle. I jus' gotta replace this gift with somethin' my buddy'd really like.

Murdock faked a wide yawn and stretched his arms high above his head. "If ya don' mind, Colonel, I think I'm gonna beg out on th' pie 'n' coffee. I been bakin' 'n' cookin' almost straight through for two days 'n' I'm beat." He headed toward the hallway where his assigned bedroom was. Before he disappeared from their sight, he called back over his shoulder, "Ya got your choice o' pecan, sweet potata, apple 'n' pumpkin. Jus' save me a piece o' somethin' for t'morrow. G'night."

With that, he walked as quickly as he could toward the bedroom door, slammed it open so the door knob hit the wall and slipped inside.

oooooo

For a few seconds the three men in the living room stared down the hallway in surprise.

Hannibal was the first to say anything. "Face . . . "

"Already on it, Colonel. He's hiding more than that box. He's acting like he does when something happens on a mission and he doesn't have access to his meds." The Lieutenant took a few steps toward the hallway. As he passed the couch he scowled down at the empty box on the couch.

Oh, buddy. What are you doing to yourself now? And why didn't I just accept that gift and figure out later what to do with it?

"That's what I was thinking too, kid. He wouldn't go off to bed if there was an opportunity to open gifts." Hannibal agreed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in weary resignation. "Before you talk to him, check the medicine cabinet and find out if he has all the pills he's supposed to have."

Face stopped at the entrance to the hallway and turned to look at the Colonel. "How am I going to be able to tell? I have a vague idea of what he's currently taking. That's not the problem. Even if the bottles are there, and they might not be if he put them in his duffel bag to keep us knowing from what's going on, it doesn't mean he's been taking what he's supposed to, does it?"

"Why would the fool do somethin' like that? Not take his meds, I mean." B. A. looked from Hannibal to Face for the answer. A worried expression replaced his usual stoicism.

"We don't know for sure he isn't," the Colonel reminded them.

"But he's been on a hair trigger ever since we busted him outta the hospital. Been gettin' on my nerves with all his Christmas jibber-jabber." The Sergeant glanced at Face as if to ask him to confirm the truth of what he said. "Been after me night an' day ta lighten up."

Hannibal gave B. A. a piercing look.

"Hey, the fool's still alive, ain' he?" the Sergeant mumbled defensively. "An' it wasn't all bad, I guess. When he was singin' all those Christmas songs, I mean. Kinda got us in the spirit."

"I'll find out exactly what's going on." The con man took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "As hard as he's been driving himself for two days, I don't think he's had more than three hours of sleep in forty-eight hours."

Exactly what he would be like if he went cold turkey off his diazepam. I should have recognized the signs way before this. And now . . . who knows what's going through his head?

"Do that, Face. And while you're at it . . . "

"I'll smooth it over with him about the dog tag." As Face continued down the hall to Murdock's room, he overheard B. A. mutter, "Ya better make it right, Faceman." Then raising his voice a little, the Sergeant added, "The box's in his pants pocket if he hasn't hidden it by now."

oooooo

The con man made a quick stop in the bathroom. Rifling the medicine cabinet, he retrieved the tube of lotion for Murdock's burned hands and a bottle of ibuprofen to take down the inflammation. Filling a glass half full of water, he counted the pilot's pill bottles neatly lined up on the top shelf. Noticeably missing was the diazepam the pilot took for anxiety.

What did he do with it?

The question hurried his pace down the hallway. He wasn't sure if his buddy had the pills right now. He didn't believe for one minute Murdock was getting ready for bed.

And if he's locked the door, I'll pick the lock. Some way or another, I'm going to make sure he's alright.