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.

AN: Shorter chapter this time. My work schedule, writer's block and a bad cold got in the way of writing and posting this sooner. Thanks for reading and commenting!

Chapter 7

Murdock forced his breathing into a regular rhythm even though everything inside screamed for him to run. Each step down the hallway brought him closer to the worried frown and questions Hannibal would unleash on him.

'N' what'll I say? My voices're tellin' me t' get t' hell outta here 'n' run as far as my legs'll take me.

He didn't understand why the voices were so insistent. Hannibal and B. A. weren't threatening.

Well, leas' Hann'bal ain'. Th' Big Guy . . . jury's still out on that one.

But he knew that wasn't true either. B. A. would defend Murdock with his own life if someone tried to kill him.

And Face. Face had managed to calm him down with so much ease Murdock wondered why the con man hadn't thought to become a therapist . . . or a priest.

The thought of Face hearing confession almost brought a snicker until he remembered how convincing his friend could be playing the part of just about anyone.

Hannibal and B. A. were sitting in the same places as they had been when he said his goodnight and left the room.

B. A. grumbled, "'Bout time ya got out here ta serve up that pie, fool. Been waitin' for ya." His tone was gruff but his eyes had a concerned softness to them that was usually reserved for the kids he worked with at the youth center.

He decided to answer like he normally would even though the voices taunted him with nonsensical provoking things he could say instead.

All o' which'd make their alarm bells go ding-ding-ding even more.

Instead, he crooned, "Aw, were ya really waitin' for li'l ol' me?"

Winking at the black man, he was thankful when he received a dark scowl in return.

"I made a pot of coffee." The Colonel pierced him with appraising eyes before glancing quizzically at the con man. Face gave him a barely perceptible nod all of which didn't escape Murdock's attention.

I musta convinced my buddy. Now I gotta prove t' Hann'bal 'n' B. A. they got nothin' t' worry 'bout.

"Well, what're we waitin' for?" Murdock offered up a lopsided grin and strolled toward the kitchen.

Coffee . . . coffee . . . c-o-f-f-e-e . . .

Grabbing four mugs from the cupboard, silently telling his hands to stop shaking, he startled when he heard Face's voice directly behind him.

"Want some help serving it up?"

Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Murdock turned and shoved the four cups at his friend. "Sure. Ya wanna take care o' pourin' th' coffee? 'N' I'll dish up th' pie."

Prob'ly spill coffee all over myself th' way my hands are. Course, don' know if it's much better, me tryin' t' use a knife right now.

Face scooped the cups into his hands, barely missing dropping one on the floor. "Whoa! Careful there, buddy!"

The pilot saw the Colonel shoot a sharp glance their direction at the cautionary words. "Everything alright out there?"

Murdock silently appealed to Face.

Please don' tell 'im.

Face's eyes were on Murdock's as he answered with a cheerfulness that didn't match his expression. "Nothing we can't handle."

The pilot gave the con man a weak grateful smile. "Thanks," he whispered. His friend nodded grimly. The Lieutenant's eyes scrutinized Murdock's face before he went to retrieve the pot from the coffee maker.

Guess I blew it. He's wonderin' if he can trust me t' get through th' resta t'night 'n' t'morrow without my meds.

"So . . . what kinda pie d' ya'll want? I got pecan, sweet potata, apple, punkin . . . your choice . . . they're all fresh . . . made from th' finest stuff . . . Momma's best recipes . . . " Murdock felt like he was babbling just to ward off suspicion. He let his voice trail off and clamped his mouth shut.

"What you goin' on 'bout, fool?" B. A. grumbled from his armchair.

Face cut in before the pilot could think of an answer. "He just needs to know what kind of pie you and Hannibal want. It would be a shame for him to cut up all of the pies if he doesn't have to. Right, buddy?"

The con man nudged him gently with his elbow. Murdock swallowed and nodded, glancing at his friend and noting his strained smile.

Hold it t'gether, H. M.

"I'm okay, Faceman, I'm okay," he whispered. "Trus' me, I'm gonna be fine."

"Sweet potato an' apple sounds good ta me." B. A.'s voice sounded like it always did when the Colonel made him stop threatening to cause Murdock bodily injury for one reason or another.

Hann'bal musta gave 'im 'the look.'

Which meant he wasn't fooling Hannibal at all. Nobody would act naturally around him the rest of the night for concern they might trigger something.

"Colonel, what'll you have? Don' worry 'bout havin' somethin' other'n sweet potata 'r apple. I don' mind cuttin' inta 'nother . . . " Hannibal's eyes pierced him, then relaxed.

"I don't mind having a piece of that apple pie." Murdock noticed the Colonel look at B. A. as he answered.

The pilot busied himself by taking out a sharp knife from the wooden knife block and setting it on the countertop. He couldn't help but see Face's eyes following his movements as he poured coffee into the four cups on the table.

Hold it t'gether . . . you've held it t'gether for this long 'n' they ain' noticed . . . least not much anyway . . . maybe a song'll keep me steady . . .

He pursed his lips as he removed plastic wrap from the tops of the sweet potato and apple pies. Whistling the first Christmas song that came into his mind, he noticed Face tense slightly.

What's th' problem now? All I'm doin' is whistlin' . . .

"'White Christmas,' buddy? Why don't we sing something else . . . together?" Face's voice was hesitant. "And I wouldn't mind having a piece of that sweet potato pie. I've never had that before. Is it any good?"

Silencing his whistling, Murdock slowly cut the apple pie into fourths. The kitchen light over the sink glinted on the blade.

White Christmas . . . oh . . . yeah, I guess that wasn' such a great choice o' songs . . . focus on 'is question . . . don' think o' . . . that . . .

The wall behind the countertop melted into crumbling black dirt before his eyes, then became china blue tile again. He shuddered, realizing what was happening but not sure he could stop it without the meds to level out his anxiety.

What was Face askin' me? . . . sweet potata pie . . .

The knife continued to section up the pie almost like his hand had a mind of its own . . .

Lefty? . . . That you? . . . Get outta my head! Yer gonna make me cut myself . . . Ferret knew how t' use a blade good, too . . . never cut t' kill . . . jus' t' hurt . . .

He thought he felt the hairs on his legs tickling with some kind of movement. Fear of what he would see prevented him from looking down at his feet.

The wall tiles morphed into black earth again. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with panic.

I look down, I'm gonna see rats 'r lizards . . . jus' like in th' pit in th' camp . . . spiders 'r fire ants crawlin' up my legs . . . bitin' me . . . 'n' I can' move . . . walls close in so tight . . .

His breaths became short, anxiety-ridden attempts to avoid the dank urine- and feces-laden smell of the isolation pit.

Someone's hand landed solidly on his left shoulder. Startled, he lost his grip on the knife. It fell on the edge of the countertop and clattered to the floor.

"Easy, buddy, easy." Face stooped to pick up the knife. He spoke gently, reminding Murdock of his question. "What does it taste like? The sweet potato pie?"

With effort, the pilot focused on his friend's face. "Wha . . . ?"

"Tastes somethin' like punkin, only better . . . that is, if the fool followed Momma's recipe."

Murdock hadn't heard B. A. come out to the kitchen but as he turned toward the voice, he saw the concerned scowl. "Hey, crazy man. Why don'tcha let Faceman an' me serve up the food? You been workin' pretty hard for two days. Go rest."

B. A. squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, pulling himself up to his most impressive, threatening pose.

He ain' gonna take no for an answer.

Glancing in turn from Face to B. A. and out at the Colonel, the pilot noticed an uneasiness among them that he could only attribute to something he did or said. He couldn't remember what that was but the tension was definitely there.

Face shot a look of gratitude at the black man before urging in a soothing voice, "That's sounds like a good idea. It's our turn to serve you. Just let me know what kind of pie you want and I'll get it for you."

Murdock was still trying to figure out what he had done to make them suspicious. "Pie? Oh . . . pecan . . . I guess . . . " He stared dully at the knife in his friend's hand. "You're sure ya don' need me out here?"

"Didn' I tell ya ta go on out ta the livin' room an' put your feet up? Ain' gonna tell ya twice, fool." B. A. turned away to unwrap the pecan pie but not before the pilot saw the scrutinizing look the black man gave him.

"You heard him. Now go on." The con man gave his shoulder a soft nudge, directing him to the living room.

As he forced himself to move, he heard Face click on the radio in the kitchen and twist the dial past static to a station playing Christmas music. The strains of 'Jingle Bell Rock' followed him to the couch. If he wasn't so confused and shaky, he might have danced his way to his seat and sang along as he did.

But that wouldn' convince th' Colonel I got it under control . . . 'n' I do . . . I think I do . . . I hope I do . . .