Warnings/Content: Contains male/male SLASH. Also some full-bodied soldier type language. Adult themes are discussed here and relationships between men. If you don't like the thought of it please do not read. I do not wish to offend.

Part Eight

It was raining in Los Angeles, unseasonable weather and Peck thought that it was kind of appropriate; as if the very air was mourning the loss of a great man, a one off, an astonishing and original soul, a leader of men as no other. Hannibal hadn't like the rain much but his eyes would have sparkled at the irony as his friends and associates gathered for his funeral all dripping and awkward while he had the one dry spot!

It wasn't cold but Peck shuddered. He was standing to attention but his hands were desperate to move, to fidget, to express the pain and frustration that he was feeling. He was in full dress uniform but he did not feel comfortable. In fact, earlier that morning, he had dressed in a black lounge suit for the occasion. Murdock had been horrified when he presented himself at the breakfast table.

"Where's your uniform?" he had asked.

Peck shrugged. "Didn't feel right," he disclosed. "I was never a soldier, not really."

"Bullshit!" Murdock cursed. "You were the best of the best and you goddamn know it. Sometimes I think you only act this way to get me pissed!" Go put your uniform on, now!"

Peck hesitated, still unsure, his face suddenly losing its confidence immediately.

"Face," Murdock's voice was softer, not wanting to add further hurt to the tortured soul. "What would Hannibal want you to do?"

Without a further word, Peck had left the room and changed but it still felt strange to be in his uniform. He felt wholly unworthy of it.

Peck was standing in the front row, flanked by BA and Murdock beside the graveside. In front of them the flag draped coffin – the object of honour. A funeral with full military honours and at the other side rows of the very top military brass in all the required regalia, some covered by a number of black umbrellas and incongruously one coloured one sticking out near the back…. visions of a very wet, muddy rain soaked parade ground in Vietnam… no, Peck stopped himself, don't go there. Concentrate on the generals over the way, the rest of the congregation, all getting wet; Hannibal would have just loved it!

Amy and her husband Frank plus Tawnia and Brain Leftcourt were behind them. Somewhere was Eddy Santana and any number of slightly recognisable faces belonging to the people that the A Team had helped down the years. Everybody was there to pay their last respects. Over to his left, Face glimpsed the shining rifles that appeared unsullied in the damp atmosphere being presented by the guard of honour. He flinched despite himself as the loud crack of the salute pierced the air.

He leaned into Murdock's solid form beside him and the pilot held him up as Peck swayed a little. Murdock threw him a questioning and yet supportive look. Almost imperceptively Peck shook his head; he was OK. He would survive this, he had promised himself. He would do whatever it took for Hannibal. He always had.

The second volley came then, followed by smoke adding to the mist drifting carelessly on the soft breeze. Peck closed his eyes, willing his body to stand firm even though it screamed for action. He could do this – standing to attention was not difficult; he had done it for hours when Hannibal had commanded him to. He fought back further memories, could not afford to lose himself in thoughts of Vietnam and later. Even so he felt his eyes begin to sting. Hold it together, he told himself, don't think about what is lost, and push it away where it can't hurt you. He gulped swallowing down the pain. The third and final volley – only three for such a great soldier – cracked then. Peck let out his breath slowly, opening his eyes. The image before him was still the same – heart breaking.

Soldiers; they looked so young; just boys; what could they know of honour, were moving now to take their places to gently lower the coffin. Peck was working hard to keep his face impassive, to retain his air of military discipline and it hurt like hell. He was never a soldier; hell he only signed up because he liked the uniform, how stupid was that? Thought it made him look important and powerful. Was there any wonder that he didn't like to wear it now? Now everyone else was aware of what he had always known; just how inept and worthless he was.

Hannibal had saved him. Hannibal had kept him alive, from the clinging mud of Vietnam to the wispy smoke of LA. Hannibal had given him a reason to be, a purpose, an anchor and he was still doing it. Face could not explain his escape from Stepford with anything but Hannibal had saved him. Except it had been seven whole hours after BA and Murdock had watched the old soldier die, in that tiny room that he had inhabited for the past six months, when it had become obvious that Peck was incapable of looking after him. How could a soul that big and beautiful be lost in such an insignificant place? At least Murdock and BA had been there at the last, unlike his wayward lieutenant who had managed to get himself caught up in yet another catastrophic scam. At least they had done their duty. Peck had given up trying to analyse it, trying to come up with a rational explanation for there was none except while he had been unable to be where it mattered for his Colonel, Smith had come through for him, again!

Murdock had warned him not to dwell on it, not to beat himself up about it - Hannibal would not want that, but how could he not? He had screwed up yet again and this time the result was irreversible. And now he could not hold himself together enough even to honour his Colonel at his funeral. What sort of a man was he?

His eyes were stinging once more. He had to stop this wallowing in his own self-pity or else he would be undone. Had to get a grip, think of something else, look but not see them planting Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith into the ground.

Peck made himself review the other events of the past few days, while he stood motionless and aloof. No one would have known from looking at the immaculate solider the fears that were rushing through him, although Murdock suspected and continued to throw him supportive glances.

The drug that Stepford had given him had worn off with no side effects save that Peck was absolutely exhausted. He had slept for days, only really getting out of bed for any length of time the previous day. Murdock, knowing that Peck's physical and emotional collapse was rooted in far more than simple chemistry, had fussed about him like a mother hen.

The nights had been the worst – aren't they always? When the dark shadows of death and doubt creep into even the most hardy of hearts. Peck had woken frequently sweating and shivering, crying out for release from a god he had long since given up. Murdock had been there instantly, taking his wracked body in strong, sure arms and enfolding him with the promise of peace and security. Shamelessly Peck had clasped hold of him as if his life depended on close, physical contact. Murdock had given of himself selflessly and completely, loving their intimacy, hating the torment that twisted it.

Every night they had spent that close and often the tears had flowed silently but unchecked down Peck's pale cheeks. Murdock had never mentioned them, never let on he had seen them, instead he had whispered kind, comforting words and just held him. Peck had little doubt that without that pure comfort he would have been swallowed by his pain forever.

Now, the tears had stopped although the emptiness of complete loss remained. Peck had pulled himself together enough to attend the funeral and to appear in control. And he was beginning to believe that with Murdock's continuing care he could survive losing Hannibal. If that were the case, he knew he needed to sort out the rest of his life.

There was so much still to be addressed. Mo had come around to the beach house the previous day and asked for help. Since Peck's confrontation with Withers, the supervisor's behaviour had been worse. He was now completely out of control, bullying and abusing all of his staff. Mo had reported it but no one in the organisation was prepared to face up to him about it. Peck had felt immediately guilty and determined to help out in some way. But how?

And Stepford was still an issue. Peck had not been able to check his bank balance and he did not know whether the criminal had found a way to stop the payments. It did not really matter – Stepford would not rest until he made Peck pay; that much was obvious.

And yet there was hope – this was a time limited issue. If Stepford was to be believed and why would he lie? He was dying. If Peck could stay out of his way for long enough maybe it would be OK. Whoever inherited the criminal empire the issue with the conman would not be so raw; he would surely have bigger things to concentrate his mind. Maybe all Peck had to do was wait. But where? He had to disappear but how to do that when he was still on probation and had to meet his parole officer on a weekly basis? So many questions!

The coffin reached its final resting place. Peck had not listened to anything that had been said but as people started to move away, he pulled himself back from his reverie to the present. A shudder ran down his spine and he had a distinct sense of being watched. Spooked, he glanced over his shoulder nervously – surely Stepford would not try something in such a public place? But his well attuned alarm bells were blaring out loud and strong now.

"Murdock," he whispered trying to keep the sudden panic from his voice. "I got to go. Something is…" his voice tailed off.

The pilot nodded and said something to BA whose empathetic eyes met Peck's. "This was for them, Face," he nodded to the gathered brass with a scowl. "We got to get together and say good bye properly."

Peck nodded. "Of course, BA," he muttered, as ever the big man spoke a lot of sense, however he could not hesitate not now; he needed to move.

As they walked away, Murdock shyly reached across and rested his arm across Peck's shoulder. "It's gonna be OK, Facey, I'm gonna look after you now," he breathed. "Read any good books lately?" he teased.

Face smiled but the sound of a gruff voice clearing his throat behind them spun him around. "Templeton Peck?" a tall, lanky man of indeterminate age towered above him, with an air of authority that only came from wielding true power.

Peck looked past him, saw the two men that flanked him, recognised cops when he saw them and felt his guts knot tightly. He nodded as a numb incredulity flashed through him. What now?

"You're under arrest." The man continued, reaching out the long arm of the law to grasp hold of Peck.

"What the hell?" Murdock spluttered. "For what?"

"Embezzlement. We received a complaint from one James Stephens that we have been investigating for some time. We need to ask Mr Peck some questions."

"The hell you do!" Murdock snapped.

"Really I don't think this is an appropriate place for heroics, do you? Let's do this with some dignity, shall we?" The policeman began to reel off the tedious list of rights. Peck gulped and shook his head as his eyes flashed their disbelief towards Murdock.

"Don't worry Faceman," Murdock said. "We'll sort this out, I promise! How the hell can you arrest him when Stephens is the criminal here?"

But if they heard him they gave no sign as the cops clicked on a pair of handcuffs and herded Peck, whose face had assumed a bland, emotionless expression, towards the waiting patrol car.

TBC