IT
Ch. 3--THAT
Sergeant B.A. Baracus glared at the cheese grater. Could it...? Couldn't it...? Could it...? Couldn't it...?
With a growl, he tossed the grater into the locker along with all the knives, razors, ice picks, letter openers, scissors, and everything else that could possibly, in the slightest, be used to... to... to do THAT.
Shaking his head, he shut the locker and slid the bolt in place. He was just putting the lock in place when...
"Facey can pick that."
B.A. glanced up sharply at Murdock who sat in the back seat of his van, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped securely around his legs, rocking softly back and forth. He considered snapping at him about the egg that rested on top of his knees, just for some resemblance of normality, but, after one look at the pilot, he just didn't have the heart. With a sigh, he jerked the lock into place. "We'll just have to watch him." he growled.
"What if we can't?"
The big man's fists balled up. "There ain't no can't, crazy man! When it comes to one of our own, there ain't ever a can't!" he growled. "Now, why don't you go bug that doc of yours, and leave me alone?"
Murdock moved his head just enough so that he could see the cabin through the open door of the van. Dr. Richter sat in the rocker on the front deck watching them that way doctors always watch you: watching, seeing, diagnosing, planning the next dose of sedative.... Murdock hoped he brought enough for the big guy. When he saw what Facey had done to himself....
Murdock looked away.
B.A. glanced at the doctor, then back to his friend. With a growl he slammed the back doors of his van close. Snatching his tool kit from the ground, he maneuvered his way around to the front of the van, feeling with every move, the eyes of that head shrink on him. Trying to figure him out so he could tell him what he was feeling. Like B.A. Baracus needed someone to tell him how he was feeling. His mama didn't raise no idiot! he didn't need no one to tell him he was mad!
And he was mad. He knew that most people thought he was mad all the time, but that wasn't true. He was just gruff, blunt, abrupt... Face once called him uncivil. B.A. tried to convince him otherwise by offering to rebuild his fancy corvette... after he had tossed it in to a river. The Sergeant almost smiled at the memory.
He slid under the front of his van and began to tinker with this and that. There wasn't really anything that needed to be fixed. He just didn't want to be left with nothing to do. And working on engines had always made him feel good. The rough and tough streets in Chicago, in Vietnam after the camps, running around all over the country with the MPs on their heals, all those crazy missions the Colonel kept sending them on... his tools and busted up engines had always gotten him through it all.
B.A.'s hands paused, holding a wrench just over a bolt. It wasn't the engine that needed looking out for. It was the Faceman! Damn it, every time things got tough, B.A. climbed under some damn engine. And what did his lil' brotha do? He did THAT! When the big, bad Sergeant should of been looking out for him, when he should of been protecting him, should of been there for him, should of... should of... just should of, B.A. grabbed his tools and headed the other direction... leaving Face to do THAT to himself!
"We can't let him do THAT again." Murdock declared from where he had appeared on the ground beside the tool kit. He had one of the Sergeant's grease rags and was absent mindedly curling it around, shaping a nest in the tool kit for his egg. He leaned over so he could see the man under the van. His soft brown eyes blinked at him like a child waiting for an adult's approval.
B.A. sighed, sliding out from under the van. He sat up and leaned against the bumper. "That's why we locked up the sharp stuff, fool." He tried to sound his usual gruff, but he just didn't have it in him. He had never been overly thrilled with the pilot, but he had always been fond of him. And when he or Face got hurt, B.A. always felt he should of stopped it. Or, in the very least, beaten the crap out of whoever did it.
But what was he supposed to do now? Who was he supposed to beat the hell out of now?
He reached out and gently squeezed his friends shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it, man." he said softly. "We'll get him through this."
Murdock looked up at him, his eyes showing the complete trust he had in the big guy. If B.A. said everything was going to be alright... But he had one more question: "Why does he do THAT to himself?"
B.A. Baracus stared at him for a long, silent moment, his mind frozen with the realization that he just didn't have the answer. If there was an answer there was only one person who had it. And B.A. had to wonder how willing he would be to give it up.
With a sigh, the big man shoved himself to his feet. "Get your egg out of ma tool kit, fool." he growled, before stomping off to find something else to fix.
Sergeant B.A. Baracus glared at the cheese grater. Could it...? Couldn't it...? Could it...? Couldn't it...?
With a growl, he tossed the grater into the locker along with all the knives, razors, ice picks, letter openers, scissors, and everything else that could possibly, in the slightest, be used to... to... to do THAT.
Shaking his head, he shut the locker and slid the bolt in place. He was just putting the lock in place when...
"Facey can pick that."
B.A. glanced up sharply at Murdock who sat in the back seat of his van, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped securely around his legs, rocking softly back and forth. He considered snapping at him about the egg that rested on top of his knees, just for some resemblance of normality, but, after one look at the pilot, he just didn't have the heart. With a sigh, he jerked the lock into place. "We'll just have to watch him." he growled.
"What if we can't?"
The big man's fists balled up. "There ain't no can't, crazy man! When it comes to one of our own, there ain't ever a can't!" he growled. "Now, why don't you go bug that doc of yours, and leave me alone?"
Murdock moved his head just enough so that he could see the cabin through the open door of the van. Dr. Richter sat in the rocker on the front deck watching them that way doctors always watch you: watching, seeing, diagnosing, planning the next dose of sedative.... Murdock hoped he brought enough for the big guy. When he saw what Facey had done to himself....
Murdock looked away.
B.A. glanced at the doctor, then back to his friend. With a growl he slammed the back doors of his van close. Snatching his tool kit from the ground, he maneuvered his way around to the front of the van, feeling with every move, the eyes of that head shrink on him. Trying to figure him out so he could tell him what he was feeling. Like B.A. Baracus needed someone to tell him how he was feeling. His mama didn't raise no idiot! he didn't need no one to tell him he was mad!
And he was mad. He knew that most people thought he was mad all the time, but that wasn't true. He was just gruff, blunt, abrupt... Face once called him uncivil. B.A. tried to convince him otherwise by offering to rebuild his fancy corvette... after he had tossed it in to a river. The Sergeant almost smiled at the memory.
He slid under the front of his van and began to tinker with this and that. There wasn't really anything that needed to be fixed. He just didn't want to be left with nothing to do. And working on engines had always made him feel good. The rough and tough streets in Chicago, in Vietnam after the camps, running around all over the country with the MPs on their heals, all those crazy missions the Colonel kept sending them on... his tools and busted up engines had always gotten him through it all.
B.A.'s hands paused, holding a wrench just over a bolt. It wasn't the engine that needed looking out for. It was the Faceman! Damn it, every time things got tough, B.A. climbed under some damn engine. And what did his lil' brotha do? He did THAT! When the big, bad Sergeant should of been looking out for him, when he should of been protecting him, should of been there for him, should of... should of... just should of, B.A. grabbed his tools and headed the other direction... leaving Face to do THAT to himself!
"We can't let him do THAT again." Murdock declared from where he had appeared on the ground beside the tool kit. He had one of the Sergeant's grease rags and was absent mindedly curling it around, shaping a nest in the tool kit for his egg. He leaned over so he could see the man under the van. His soft brown eyes blinked at him like a child waiting for an adult's approval.
B.A. sighed, sliding out from under the van. He sat up and leaned against the bumper. "That's why we locked up the sharp stuff, fool." He tried to sound his usual gruff, but he just didn't have it in him. He had never been overly thrilled with the pilot, but he had always been fond of him. And when he or Face got hurt, B.A. always felt he should of stopped it. Or, in the very least, beaten the crap out of whoever did it.
But what was he supposed to do now? Who was he supposed to beat the hell out of now?
He reached out and gently squeezed his friends shoulder. "Don't worry 'bout it, man." he said softly. "We'll get him through this."
Murdock looked up at him, his eyes showing the complete trust he had in the big guy. If B.A. said everything was going to be alright... But he had one more question: "Why does he do THAT to himself?"
B.A. Baracus stared at him for a long, silent moment, his mind frozen with the realization that he just didn't have the answer. If there was an answer there was only one person who had it. And B.A. had to wonder how willing he would be to give it up.
With a sigh, the big man shoved himself to his feet. "Get your egg out of ma tool kit, fool." he growled, before stomping off to find something else to fix.