I Only Have Eyes For You
On the makeshift dance floor of the Da Nang Open Officers' Mess, Decker and Hannibal sort a few things out.
There were four things in life that made Hannibal Smith very happy indeed: a fresh cigar, the almost audible snap when a plan came together, Irish coffee with a strong accent and the sensation of his fist knocking the smile off a smug bastard's face. In this case, he thought as he slid a fresh Cuban out of his pocket with a hand that ached a little after he'd smashed it into Rod Decker's jaw, two out of four would have to do. Decker was sprawled across the sanded planks of the makeshift dance floor, a stunned expression on his face, one wiry hand moving across his face where Hannibal's fist had made a point a few seconds ago.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Smith?" he ground out, hauling himself to his feet. He pulled himself to his full height and brushed his hands down his fatigues, a bullish expression on his face. Hannibal grinned and nipped the end off his cigar.
"Winning the argument," he quipped. "Cigar?"
To his surprise and disappointment, Decker ground his teeth and stood his ground. Hannibal had tensed and risen to the balls of his feet, preparing to feint and dodge an attack. It didn't come. Instead Decker eyed him warily. Hannibal could see the muscles in his jaw clenching into knots as he schooled himself to stand still and not react. That wouldn't do at all. In no way, shape or form would he allow Decker to walk away from this with the upper hand, high moral ground or any sort of satisfaction at all. They were more or less alone in the mess, long room strangely quiet without its usual complement of officers eating, drinking and telling taller stories than their neighbours. Hannibal had rousted a couple of sleepless second lieutenants when he came in and a drowsy first lieutenant had not stayed for long. A long bar stretched along one wall and Hannibal turned toward the catering officer casually polishing a glass and pretending not to notice two seasoned and senior officers about to square off and kill each other.
"Beat it kid," he snapped. The catering officer gave him a long, level look, then nodded slightly and tucked his towel into his belt, replacing the glass carefully under the bar. Anticipating what might come, or perhaps recalling what had happened before, he took all the glassware off the top of the bar with quick, practiced motions. With one last look at the two men, he exited into the kitchens. Hannibal watched him go, watched the servery doors slap together in his wake, then turned back to Decker. He hadn't moved, his fists clenched on his hips, his boots firmly planted on the boards where, five hours previously, a four piece band, three pretty girls in shiny bikinis and a stand up comic with exactly six jokes and a card trick had brought a tiny piece of the USO to Da Nang. To the right of the floor, against the wall in the corner, stood the object in question, the straw that broke the back of the tenuous camaraderie between the two officers. With no small amount of effort, clever pretension and a tiny bit of forgery, Peck had managed to divert a jukebox from its intended home in the Saigon Officers Club to the officers mess at Da Nang camp. Da Nang had had its own jukebox until a rocket attack had shaken the mess to its foundations and sent a stack of chairs crashing through the coloured glass front and into several favoured records. While other officers might tend to sit back, preferring Buddy Holly, the Beach Boys or some Motown classics to raising objections at the methodology the young lieutenant employed, the healing power of music was lost on Roderick Decker. Hannibal narrowed his eyes. Decker had threatened to complain, to push for disciplinary action not only against Peck but against Hannibal himself and several other members of his unit, all of whom may or may not have had a hand in diverting the thing from the truck it was on to a waiting transport and installing it in the mess. With his bulldog attitude, his slapdash tactics, his near fanatical devotion to regulation, Decker had been a thorn in Hannibal's side in one way or another for a long time. Perhaps since West Point. There was no doubting that the man was a solid soldier – solid and reliable with the imagination of a sandbag and the flamboyant flair usually associated with carbon copies of orders for extra rations of toilet paper despite his reputation for brutally unusual strategies. He took small victories when the right people were watching and not a lot of prisoners. Occasionally, despite his disabling lack of joie de vivre, his plans came together in a way that impressed even Hannibal. In the right setting, a man like Decker could win a war. Hannibal looked at him through narrowed eyes. In this little war, just declared right here in this room, Decker was in the wrong setting. This day was not going to be won by a bulldog attitude, a flew exploding Cong hospitals and the RoE.
"Now," Hannibal said lightly, flipping out a matchbook and lighting his cigar. "Shall we discuss this?"
Decker shook his head. "This is insane. You know exactly how Peck obtained this piece of contraband. You probably devised the plan, knowing how you operate. I don't know how you have the balls to get up and put on that uniform every day." He rubbed his hand across his jaw again and spat out a little blood, stabbing his other finger at Hannibal like a knife point. "You are dangerous. You flout the regulations every chance you get. You are no officer."
"We've had this discussion before, Decker," Hannibal said, leaning against a table and puffing out a smoke ring, marveling that a man who had killed twenty two civilians the week before by rigging an enemy tank with explosives and aiming it at a suspected Viet Cong medical centre (which turned out to be a rather innocent pharmacy) should be quoting rules and regulations about anything to him. Decker was noted for his chosen target – field hospitals – and his motto: If they're down, make sure they STAY down. Hannibal didn't disagree with the sentiment, just the tactics. He just didn't like the man. "I think it's time we decided who wins."
Decker raised his eyebrows and took two stalking steps toward Hannibal. "Like this? You are beyond the pale. You think that… brawling… in the middle of the mess is the way to repair a problem?" He barked out a humourless laugh. "Of course you do." He shook his head and grinned a deaths head grin. "You will regret this, Smith. I'd say you'll be in the doghouse after I'm through with you but that insults the good men in the Growl Pad. Disciplinary hearing won't even begin to cover it."
Hannibal felt something akin to glee at the other man's words. Decker was offering petty insults. Cracking the man's calm was almost a done deal. His rigid control and self discipline had been begging to be broken for a long, long time. Hannibal took a thoughtful pull on his cigar, considering the situation.
"Well, alright then, is that's the way you feel." He grinned around his cigar. "I guess we can go see Major General Hunter in the morning. You can lodge a complaint against me if it will help you sleep better." He pushed himself to his feet. "In fact, let's go now."
Decker took another step toward him and eyed him warily. "Now?"
"Yeah. Why not? Hunter won't kind being rousted out of bed at this hour to deal with the paperwork generated by a neurotic cry-baby." Hannibal gestured toward the door. "Off you go then, I'm right behind you. Don't let the door scratch your shiny Mary Janes on the way out."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Decker bunch a fist against his thigh. One more… tiny… push… Hannibal surveyed the room and smiled. This was going to be far too perfect for words. All he had to do now was get the timing right and trust the others to come through with their end. He casually brushed past the other man and sauntered over to the jukebox, taking his time with his selection. Decker seethed on the edge of the dance floor as Hannibal punched two buttons and watched the mechanical arm slowly descend onto the record he'd chosen.
My love must be a kind of blind love
I can't see anyone but you
He turned around to look at Decker with wide eyes and a wider grin. "Gosh, I love this song, don't you just love this song?" He raised a limp hand and let it drift with the doo-wops. Actually, he did like this song. He had good memories of a girl named Peggy and an Indiana motel room that involved this song. Now he planned to make another good memory backed by JC Carey's smooth crooning. He turned in a slow circle, slowing in front of Decker and pursing his lips and jabbing him in the chest.
"Admit it, Rodererick, you love this song."
He executed a small dance he'd learned from his chopper pilot the day before, sidestepping and twirling and ending with a minstrel's bow. Decker's hand closed over the front of his shirt and the man's entire body rammed him backwards against the front of the jukebox. Gotcha.
As his other hand slammed upward into Hannibal's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, Hannibal couldn't help but be pleased through his pain. Now he needed Peck… He raised his arm to block the next blow and shoved Decker backward, away from him, and braced himself against the jukebox as his opponent swung again, grunting as his fist connected with Hannibal's jaw. Through the stars, Hannibal reminded himself – all he needed was Peck. He ducked the next blow but let the next one land. Where the hell was that kid? He felt Decker's hand twist into his shirt front again and looked the man in the eye. His lips were drawn back in a grim rictus of hatred and his eyes were blanked by a look that Hannibal had seen on men who'd been ordered to kill prisoners. For the slimmest moment he wondered if he'd underestimated Rod Decker. The man was wound tighter than the girdle on a minister's wife at an all you can eat pancake buffet. You let something like that go there was always chance it would snap in a direction you couldn't predict. Currently it was snapping at Hannibal's face. He felt Decker's fist smash into his left eye and retaliated with an uppercut to the other man's solar plexus, driving him back for a moment. Gasping, Hannibal risked a glance at the door. He saw it crack open. Sergeant Baracus stuck his scowl into the room, raised his eyebrows at Hannibal and nodded once. Hannibal let Decker back him up against the jukebox and land another punishing blow.
"As I was saying sir," came Peck's voice like some sort of dream hallucination, "this is the juke box in question. I just felt so – "
"What the hell?"
Hannibal barely heard the words through the blood rushing through him but he felt Decker arrest his motion and freeze mid-blow. Through his one open eye, Hannibal looked over Decker's shoulder and saw Baracus with one hand clamped around the man's upraised fist and a stern expression cast across his customarily inscrutable features. Beyond him, Major General Hunter and Colonel Morrison stood stiffly wearing twin expression of shock and disgust, Morrison's tinged with something like humour. Beside them stood Peck, his face showing every sign of surprise.
"Lieutenant Colonel Decker, what are you doing?"
Hunter's voice was chillingly calm as he asked his question. Hannibal saw Decker's face deflate and heard that little snap as it all came together. Decker didn't move. Baracus released his arm and he rested his hand on Hannibal's chest, his expression sharpening and driving into Hannibal like a blade. Hannibal found enough uninjured muscle in his cheeks to offer a small smile, aware that his senior officers couldn't see his face. Then he groaned and let himself go slack in Decker's grip.
"Having a discussion with Lieutenant Colonel Smith about this jukebox, sir," he ground out, not taking his eyes off Hannibal's face despite the officers standing behind him. "It seems Lieutenant Peck there stole it with the aid of Smith and his unit."
"Your conduct in this matter is a trifle unbecoming," Hunter said sharply. "If you had concerns, lodging a complaint would have been sufficient. Report to my office. Now."
True to his training, Decker released Hannibal and snapped upright. "Sir, with respect, this jukebox is – "
"The property of the US Army, Decker." Morrison stepped forward. "It seems that Lieutenant Peck acted on his COs orders tonight and confessed his involvement in the matter to Major General Hunter and myself."
Decker shot a glance at Morrison. "Sir?"
Morrison nodded. "Lieutenant Peck has confessed to taking advantage of a supply corp error in the shipping advice attached to this piece of equipment to install it in here in Da Nang rather than ensure it was sent to Saigon. I have looked at the paperwork myself and the error is evident."
Hannibal saw Decker's face fall for an instant before rearranging itself into it's customary set lines. "Sir, I must protest. I don't think you've been told the truth."
"The truth is it's midnight and I would very much like to get some sleep," Hunter snapped. "Lieutenant Peck has been spoken to regarding his lapse in judgement. Since I am told that the Officer's Mess in Saigon has replaced its missing jukebox, this one will remain on base right where it is. Your own lapse in judgement, Lieutenant Colonel Decker, remains to be dealt with."
"And Smith?" Decker asked roughly. In response, Hannibal groaned and bent from the knees to slide to the floor, letting his head fall to one side, jaw slack, feigning unconsciousness. He felt hands on his head, Peck's hands.
"He's passed out," he heard the young man say. "He's taken a hell of a beating on my behalf, sir."
"Get the man to the infirmary," Morrison snapped. Hannibal felt another set of large hands join Peck's and gently straighten his limbs.
"It's aright, sir," he heard Baracus rumble. "We'll take care of you."
He heard Decker utter something like a snort. Behind him, the jukebox snapped and shifted and began to play the same song again. Hannibal hoped the fight hadn't broken it. He liked that song but didn't think he could spend the rest of the war listening to it.
"Huh." Hannibal heard Hunter take a step toward the jukebox. "My wife loves this song."
"Yes sir," Peck said with ten inches more sincerity than Hannibal had ever heard him use before, "it's a romantic classic. I hope your wife appreciated the pearls, sir. "
"Pearls?" Morrison asked. Hannibal fought a smile, remembering to stay still.
"Wedding anniversary last week, Morrison. Some of the men clubbed together to find a strand of south sea pearls." Hunter sounded pleased. "Margery loved them."
"Some of the men, sir?" Decker's voice sounded strangled.
"Enough. Lieutenant, Sergeant, arrange for your CO to spend the night in the infirmary. Lieutenant Colonel, with me. " Hannibal heard Hunter's heels on the floor as he walked away, followed, after a pause during which he could feel the other man's eyes on him, by Morrison. He felt sudden movement beside him and felt Decker's hand on his shoulder, pressing him into the floor.
"One slip, Smith, just one," he hissed, "and I will have you. This isn't over."
Hannibal chose to remain unconscious but allowed himself a small smirk as Decker rose and followed Hunter and Morrison. When they were gone he felt Peck sit back and swat at him.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."
He groaned and didn't move, rather enjoying the sensation of lying down and letting the world spin around him. He felt a larger hand poke at him.
"Get the hell up, Hannibal."
Long ago in a foxhole somewhere their relationship had become blurred and Hannibal had forgotten what it was like to have either man call him 'sir' with any sincerity. It warmed his cockles.
"I take it he got the record?" Hannibal asked, pressing a hand to his ribs as he rolled over and sat up, leaning against the jukebox. Peck nodded. Baracus stood and disappeared into the kitchen.
" 'I Only Have Eyes For You' by The Flamingos. Post marked Cleveland with a card that said 'Remembering our first dance, love Margery'." He reached behind him and produced Hannibal's cigar, handing it over. "That was a nice act, by the way. Very convincing. You should tread the boards when the war is over." He sighed. "I sure hope you are happy with how everything worked out. You look like hell, sir."
Hannibal nodded, aware of the pain and stiffness creeping through him. He heard the servery doors slap again and Baracus knelt beside him and shoved something hot into his hands. Coffee. He held it to his face and inhaled.
"Seems like a lot of trouble for a damn jukebox," Baracus opined, sticking his hand in behind the thing and turning it off. Hannibal sipped his coffee.
"It was never about the jukebox, Sergeant." He sipped his coffee. If he was not mistaken, it definitely had a strong Irish accent. He was four for four. "It was all infinitely better than that." He swallowed down some more coffee and thought of Decker being hauled across Hunter's carpet. He loved it when a plan came together.
