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 12

Face startled at the crashing sound in the living room. He had just wrung out a dish towel to mop up the worst of the Colonel's blood and to revive him.

It can't be Hannibal. He was out cold when I left. That leaves B. A. or . . . oh shit . . . is Murdock attacking the Colonel again?

Whatever broke, it was something big.

Still clutching the damp towel and the box with their medical supplies, the con man hurried to see what had happened. He didn't know what to think when he saw Murdock lying on his back in the middle of the glass and broken wood of the coffee table with B. A. over him, holding his shoulders down. Dropping the first aid kit on the floor he snapped, "What the hell happened, B. A.?"

"Don' ask" was the only response the black man would give as he forced Murdock to show him his injured arm. The pilot seemed in a mild state of shock. The cold relentless anger that fueled the fist fight was gone.

Kneeling beside his own patient but keeping his eyes on what B. A. was doing, Face winced at what he saw. The shards of glass were driven deep into his friend's flesh. A thick splinter of wood from the broken table jutted out from Murdock's side.

All of the wounds bled around the obstacles and Face wondered how much more blood would flow once they were removed. He could see Murdock would need stitches for some of his cuts and gashes.

He noted the scowl on B. A.'s face as he continued to assess the other man's wounds.

That's going to hurt when B. A. pulls them out. He'll try to be gentle but, I mean, it's B. A. and he isn't known for his medic skills. I wonder if he'll trade and let me do that for him. It might be better coming from me.

But the Sergeant seemed determined to tend to Murdock's injuries himself. Shaking his head, Face used the towel to wipe away the blood around Hannibal's nose and mouth. He didn't care what the Contessa was going to say about the coffee table. Murdock was bleeding, Hannibal was unconscious and B. A. looked ready to punch out a wall.

He was barely aware of the black man's request for gauze pads from the kit. Seconds later, the sound of the first aid kit lid being thrown open told him B. A. had already taken care of that. Face looked up in time to note Murdock's terribly lucid, horrified eyes watching him.

"Make sure the Colonel ain' got a concussion," B. A. muttered.

Murdock's reaction to that word twisted a knife in Face's gut. "I didn' mean t' do that. I didn' . . . ya gotta b'lieve me . . . "

Whether the Sergeant believed the pilot or not, Face knew he had witnessed a side of Murdock he had rarely seen before. His buddy almost always kept his darker nature stuffed inside and locked away.

Yeah, he believed Murdock when he said he didn't mean to leave Hannibal with a concussion. He knew his best friend, and the pilot he knew would, if he could, take a bullet for his CO without blinking an eye.

It's got to be the diazepam he hasn't been taking. All of those meds work together and if one part of the therapy is removed . . . maybe this is the result?

He continued to tend to the Colonel's cuts.

I'm going to have to put something cold on that eye, Face noted. There was so much bruising around the Colonel's jaw and mouth, the con man figured he would be eating soft food for a few days.

At least they aren't filming any scenes for the latest Aquamaniac movie over the holidays. It'll give him some time to recover. But then, he doesn't have to show his face for those scenes either. That's good. These bruises will take a while to fade away.

A hissing intake of breath alerted him that B. A. had removed the first piece of glass from Murdock's arm. At almost the same time, Hannibal reacted to the cold cloth and turned his head from side to side to avoid it, moaning as he did.

The Sergeant mumbled, "Looks like we'll have to patch two fools up. Some merry Christmas."

Face couldn't disagree with him. The festivities had definitely turned sour.

Someone had to be the voice of diplomacy in this conflict between Hannibal and Murdock. He sure as hell didn't want the job but who else was there to do it? B. A.? The only diplomacy the Big Guy knew was found by staring down his enemy or knocking him on his ass on the floor.

But diplomacy would have to wait until both men had their wounds tended to. The Lieutenant sighed at the thought and made eye contact with his patient.

"Careful now, Hannibal. Tell me where else you hurt besides all over your face and body."

oooooo

It was everything Murdock could do to keep shrieks of pain from escaping as the Sergeant carefully worked on his arm. More than once he clenched a fist and arched his back when B. A. removed another shard or splinter.

Can' say I didn' have this comin' t' me.

"Hang in there, li'l brother. There ain' many more o' these." The Sergeant paused in his work to squeeze the pilot's uninjured shoulder. It was a rare show of compassion and if Murdock wasn't in so much pain, he would have made a silly comment to prevent the Big Guy from being embarrassed.

"I . . . I'm . . . tryin' . . . it jus' . . . hurts," he panted. He touched the wooden splinter in his side and grimaced as white-hot pain radiated out from it. "Ya . . . still got . . . t' get . . . this out."

B. A. stared at him with a somber expression. "Yeah. I still got that one ta do." The big man squeezed his shoulder again. "Ya try an' hold on. I'll make it quick as I can."

Murdock gritted his teeth and nodded. It didn't matter if he cried out or not. The tormented voices in his head screamed in unison already. He tried to ignore them but they were so damn loud. He was surprised none of the others heard them. They almost drowned out Hannibal's protests as Face treated him. His own guilt made that voice hard to shut out.

He made sure not to look down at his arm. Every time B. A. pulled a larger chunk of glass out, he immediately pressed a wad of gauze over the wound and taped it in place. Murdock didn't know which was worse: the feeling when the glass came out or the pressure the gauze placed on the wound. Once or twice a whimper escaped his lips.

At those times, B. A. paused and drew in a deep breath, then continued. Murdock knew the Sergeant was having a hard time with what he had to do.

The pilot had to distract himself with something . . . anything. In his mind, he began to compose a verbal apology for what he had done but nothing he could come up with sounded right.

Sorry, Hannibal . . . very sorry, Hannibal . . . uh, Colonel, I didn' mean t' bash in yer face . . . sorry, sir, th' crazy got th' better o' me this time . . . won' happen 'gain . . . no shit it won' happen 'gain . . . be lucky if he don' kick me off th' team . . .

More than once the injured pilot craned his neck to peer at the Colonel and Face to check that Hannibal was still conscious. The Colonel kept telling Face he didn't need any help. Murdock fidgeted with each protest. His apology would have to come later . . .

. . . if th' Colonel'll listen 'n' accept it, that is . . . 'r is he gonna groun' me for th' rest o' my life? He sure can' court-martial me . . . 'r can he?

"You just let Faceman do what he's gotta do, Colonel, or I might be tempted ta change places with him," the Sergeant growled, seeing the pilot's discomfort and agitation over the other man's injuries.

"Thanks, B. A.," Murdock whispered as Hannibal quieted down. Except for an occasional grunt of pain, the Colonel said nothing more except to respond to Face's questions.

After extracting the last glass piece from the pilot's arm, B. A. breathed out slowly and reluctantly met his team mate's eyes.

"Ya ready for the last one?" The Sergeant's eyes flickered over Murdock's sweat-beaded face and waited for an answer. When the other man swallowed heavily and closed his eyes in silent resignation, he mumbled, "We don' hafta do it right away. I can let ya rest for a minute or two."

Rest . . . yeah, that'd be handy-dandy if it didn' already hurt so bad . . .

Opening his eyes to look at him, Murdock plastered a sickly lopsided grin on his face. "Yank it, Big Guy. I don' want a tree growin' there."

Frowning, B. A. hesitated. "This one's gonna hurt pretty bad an' I don't know how much bleedin' . . . "

"If you wanna sedate him first, look in m' duffel bag." In a slightly slurred voice, the Colonel interrupted his sentence. "Stuff's in there."

B. A. glanced over at Hannibal, then back into the Captain's glazed eyes. His gaze softened. "That what you want?"

Murdock shook his head furiously. "No . . . nuh uh . . . don' wanna be knocked out." Taking a steadying breath, he reached down before B. A. could stop him, wrapped his hand around the wood and jerked it out. Squeezing his eyes shut, he muttered, "There . . . it's . . . out . . . "

He tightened his fist around the piece of wood as if attempting to channel all of the searing pain from the wound into it, then let his hand fall beside him on the floor. He felt his fingers slowly uncurl and drop the splinter. B. A. was saying something to him and he tried to focus on it but it sounded like faraway thunder.

"Better get out th' umbrellas . . . 'bout t' rain . . . " the pilot murmured.

oooooo

Hannibal pushed Face's hands away as soon as he heard the Captain's words. "How bad's it bleeding, B. A.?" He wanted to stay on top of Murdock's medical condition but he couldn't see out of his left eye and wasn't in the best position to see anything but B. A.'s hulking figure with his right. He was glad the pilot hadn't located both of his eyes with his fists.

Murdock was talking nonsense which meant he either was covering up his pain or he was slipping away from them again.

Can't let him drift like that.

"Captain, there's no rain. It's been clear skies all Christmas Eve. It has to be for Santa to show up with your gifts." Hannibal waved his hand in a circle and looked meaningfully at Face.

Come on, Lieutenant. Pick up the story where I left off.

Face nodded and the Colonel sighed internally. He felt like crap and it was going to be difficult to keep up the pretense that he wasn't seriously injured. The cracked rib the Lieutenant found on his assessment ached along with his entire head. It took a lot of effort to keep himself awake and focused on the most important things.

If I know Murdock, once he comes to his senses, he's going to see through any front I put up. He's going to know. And he's going to be beside himself, knowing he did all of this damage.

Reaching up, he tapped Face on his shoulder. "Go over and help B. A. keep Murdock grounded."

"Colonel, you're . . . "

"Going to watch from here." He made himself grin at the con man, hoping his con was as good as any Face could pull off. "Don't worry. I'm not about to get up and do the samba."

Face gave him an unconvinced smile. "And I'm not about to lend you one of my dates to be your partner either." His smile faded as he looked intently into Hannibal's eyes. "Seriously, Colonel. You took quite a beating and we need to keep you alert and awake until we know for sure how bad the concussion is."

The Colonel put on his sternest expression. "You think I don't know that? We're all in the same room so you can keep an eye on me . . . "

The younger man crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly, listening to the protest but not moving.

"Okay, Lieutenant. I'm making it an order. B. A. needs the help. Go." As Face hesitated, then crossed over to kneel beside his friend, Hannibal shifted a little so he could watch. The resulting pain in his head and ribcage brought a quiet gasp to his lips.

But Murdock is in just as bad shape.

The pilot's arm was patched in several places with wads of gauze and some of them were already saturated with blood. The splinter of bloodied wood lay an inch from Murdock's fingers.

Splinter? Hell, it looks like a damned circus tent stake.

He knew he was exaggerating but the piece of wood had to measure at least a quarter-inch thick and six inches long. And it had been driven deeply into the pilot's left side. He asked the Sergeant the question again. "How bad is it, B. A.?"

"It ain' bleedin' so bad . . . he got lucky . . . but the fool probably left bits an' pieces of the wood 'cause he pulled it like he did. I'm gonna hafta take a look an' pick out anythin' I see." B. A. hovered over the pilot who was mumbling something about telling Billy to come in out of the rain. The Sergeant snorted but Hannibal could see the concern in his eyes.

"Hey, buddy. I bet Billy heard something outside. He's over by the door, listening. Do you want me to get him and bring him over to you?" Hannibal had to admit that Face was good at calming his friend. It would make B. A.'s work so much easier if two people held him down as he probed the wound and stitched it.

Carefully he maneuvered himself around so he lay on his uninjured side and pushed himself across the floor to where the two men knelt beside the pilot. Both men looked at each other in disbelief and shook their heads.

"Come here and keep your master company, Billy," Hannibal called. He whistled and added, "There you go. That's a good boy" and patted invisible air. "Here he is, Captain."

He amused himself with B. A.'s grumbling about "indulgin' the fool" but noted that the Sergeant shifted his position to allow for the invisible dog to press in close to Murdock's side. The pilot lifted his hand and ran his bloodied fingers along an invisible head before letting it drop again.

Murdock chided softly, "No chopper ride t'day, Billy." He let out a small whimper as B. A. touched his abdominal wound.

"I'll keep his legs down if you take his shoulders, kid." The Colonel glanced up at his men and noted their disapproving looks.

If I lay across them just right, he shouldn't do too much harm to me.

"Hannibal . . . " Both men said it in unison.

"You need more than one man to hold him down when you start probing for fragments." The older man lifted himself and carefully positioned his uninjured side across the pilot's knees. "No arguments. Let's get 'er done."

Murdock stirred slightly. His hoarse whisper twisted Hannibal's guts. "I'm . . . sorry, Colonel. Please . . . please don' . . . take mah wings . . . 'way."

With a heavy sigh the older man responded. "I won't, son. You've got my promise on that."

Without another word B. A. took the first aid tweezers and began the work.