Type: Angst/Adventure/Supernatural

Pairing: Face/Murdock…. but nothing graphic

Summary: Third part of my About Face series in which Templeton meets a number of phantoms from his past but which are more dangerous, the living ones or the dead?

Warnings/Content: Contains male/male relationship plus torture and drug abuse. Also some full-bodied soldier type language.

Disclaimer: I do not own the A-Team characters and am making no profit from this story, which is a work of fan fiction only.

ABOUT FACE AND OLD GHOSTS

"God, I am too old for this!"

The thought echoed unchecked around Peck's head. He didn't have the energy to stop it since everything he had was focused on continuing to keep his legs running along the wet street. His breaths were coming in short, sharp gasps and his lungs, straining at the waning supply of oxygen, were set to explode at any moment. Sweat was leaching out of every pore of his skin and his head was beginning to thump sickeningly in time with each fall of his feet.

He risked a glance behind him, could see the dark shadows gaining. It was a fair assumption they would – those guys were at least half his age and although Peck had kept himself fit, he knew he didn't have the stamina to keep this pace up for long.

He turned the corner pelting into an unlit alleyway. There were puddles on the sidewalk here and the way ahead was obscured by the gloom of the darkening night. Peck's legs were shuddering and threatening to give out at any moment. His desperation intensifying, he lifted the cell phone in his hand and pressed the last number redial button.

His voice was wheezing as he spat out. "Murdock! Murdock; where the hell are you?"

No answer. "Shit!" Peck stumbled on the slippery surface, nearly falling, he managed to right himself and keep on running.

A bullet whistled past his shoulder. Involuntarily Peck ducked his head lower as if that could make a difference. There was a point on his back mid way between his shoulder blades that started to itch as if waiting for the bullet to hit. Peck gulped, glanced behind him and then forwards again. His guts knotted as he saw the wire fence that stretched right across the alleyway looming up in front of him.

Shit! He couldn't climb that, not now! His legs were going to give up and dump him on the floor at any minute. An iced vein of fear shuddered down his backbone as he slid to a halt. Behind him he heard the deep, humourless laugh of his assailants over the raw harshness of his own laboured breathing.

He turned back, shivering as the hot sweat on his skin froze to the air temperature around him. He had blown it, screwed up again. He couldn't do this, not on his own. He should never have even tried, should have seen that this was the only way it was ever going to end; a dirty, dark alley stinking of piss, a shattered body only capable of vaguely remembering its physical prowess of yesteryear and a cold bullet delivering the ultimate punishment for his over inflated confidence.

"Hands up, Peck!" A voice called. "This is the Police. We got you surrounded!"

Peck started, puzzled. But it had been the bad guys chasing him into the alley – where had they gone? And where in hell had the cops come from? Suddenly the final solution of a bullet seemed a better option than the years of imprisonment the police were touting.

Peck gulped, his lungs were still burning and his legs felt like jello. He didn't want to move, not to go back there. Desperately he glanced around and it was then that he saw it……

….. the smaller alley snaking away behind the building to his right. But this one wasn't dark and dingy, oh no, this one was white and spotless and glowing so brightly through the gloom that Peck had no idea why he had not noticed it before. It promised sanctuary and warmth; an escape from both the law and the bullet. And then the voice came to Peck's ears, enticing him, pulling him forwards.

"Face," the voice said and Peck beheld the brilliant bright figure before him, so vividly drenched with light that Peck could not make out the features. Still he knew the voice. "Hannibal?" he whispered hoarsely.

The figure of light appeared to beckon to him. "Do not be afraid, kid!" the unworldly voice continued. "Accept…"

Peck shook his head to clear it, turning back from the light. Away coming from the blackness there was the harsh rapport of a gun and an instant later Peck felt his chest finally explode but not from his own exertion, from the violent impact of a deathly bullet. His blood splattered out and up, decorating the wall behind him and covering his own face. It was everywhere, the stench of sharp gore up his nose, the echo and the squelch as it hit deafening his ears and the sting of blood in his eyes, blinding him, sending him into blackness; straight to hell…….

"NO!"

Peck sat up in the bed, heart thumping, drenched in sweat and mind reeling at the nightmare. Beside him Murdock stirred, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and reaching out a supportive hand to lay it on Peck's shuddering shoulders.

"The dream again, eh?" he asked softly.

Peck nodded, his arms tightly stretched across his chest protectively, he dare not trust his voice not yet so he just turned to look over his shoulder at the other man.

Murdock's heart leapt when he saw the look of complete consternation in his lover's eyes. "Hannibal?" he ventured nervously.

Peck nodded again. "I can't …."

"Sshhhh!" Murdock placated as he reached forwards to envelope his friend in his embrace. "You don't need to talk about it, Facey. It's just a dream that's all."

Peck sighed. "You know what Father Carreras told me about nightmares," he said finally, voice raw.

Murdock nodded. "If you tell a friend, a nightmare will never come true," he replied warmly. "You don't have to tell me now, Face. It was the same one wasn't it, the one you told me about before?" Peck nodded. "The one you've been having for weeks."

Peck sighed, a long deep release. "Maybe a shower," he said. "I feel kinda dirty."

"Good idea!" Murdock beamed. He glanced over at the clock. "It's nearly time to get up any way."

Peck gently peeled himself out of the other man's arms. He stood and moved toward the bathroom but hesitated at the door. "Thanks, Murdock," he said softly.

"It's OK, Faceyman! All part of the service!"

Murdock sat in the diner steadfastly demolishing a hearty breakfast of waffles and syrup. He had left Face in the shower in their room, the feelings of inadequacy and frustration washed over him as they did frequently following the nightmares.

It was six months since Hannibal had died and Face had gone on the run. Six months since Murdock had given up everything he had built and followed his friend like a loyal lap dog. Murdock sighed as he thought back over the time, not allowing himself to question whether he had been right about the decision, it was the one he had made and the one they both had to live with.

They had argued the first weeks – Face insistent that Murdock should leave him and go back to his 'real' life. Murdock just as adamant that he would not, that he had nothing to go back for. They had talked it through countless times and many had ended with them screaming at each other. Peck had even left one motel in the middle of the night but Murdock had stoically followed him, hiring a car and turning up the next night at Face's new motel room door. Peck had tried to turn him away, shut him out, but in the end he could not find the strength to do it, for though the rational side of his mind could quite easily justify such action, his spirit ached for the closeness. To say they were both stubborn was quite an understatement and yet very slowly Face had come to accept what his heart told him; Murdock would not be denied.

It had gotten easier after that. They settled down a little and had some good times together – there had always had a deep friendship between them but that was intensified by the closeness of real intimacy. To use Murdock's own analogy they had spent a good deal of time reading together!

Murdock had known he would win the argument eventually because, no matter how obstinate Face was, after a lifetime bereft of tenderness and the shock of losing the only man who had been a father to him, Face could not reject what was being offered so selflessly by his best friend.

They travelled continuously across the country and back again – a different motel every night, a new city each day. Murdock watched his friend closely for signs that the constant change was getting to him but Peck was cool and controlled, scamming what they needed with ease, and though he never would quite be the man he once had been – but hell who was after what life threw at you? – he was getting closer to it. Being relentlessly on the run seemed to inspire Face. In a way it was like old times…. except half the team was missing – while BA was just a phone call away, Hannibal was gone and he was never coming back.

Peck dealt with the loss as he had everything else of importance in his life; he ignored it, pushed it away and refused to feel the pain, hiding behind his walls to stop himself from acknowledging it – some things would never change! And though he did not subscribe to it as a strategy, Murdock understood that it seemed to work for his friend. He had even begun to dare to think that they would survive; that Peck really did have such immense inner strength that he could endure, prosper even, after all. And then the goddamn dreams started.

The first few times both of them thought little of it. Hell, both men had lived through Vietnam; they knew that the terrors of the day could come back with increased viciousness in the dark hours while the rational mind slept powerless to resist. But the dreams began to increase in both frequency and intensity. Eventually Murdock persuaded Face to tell him their content and Murdock had spent enough time on the psychiatrist's couch to know that ignoring the pain was not going to work – Peck needed more than that.

Now they were in Oregon, travelling back south because Peck had decided that there was only one thing he could do to ease his aching soul. Murdock didn't like his proposal but he also knew that he could come up with nothing better. Still, going back to LA would surely only put Face in greater danger of detection.

Murdock chewed his waffle distractedly, his attention taken by a door banging shut across the parking lot. He stared towards the motel rooms and stopped with the next bit of his breakfast hovering half way to his mouth, transfixed by the sight.

Peck was walking towards him, dressed in tight jeans, and black leather jacket, he ran his hand through his shining damp hair as he talked casually on his cell phone. Oblivious of his adoring audience, Face appeared relaxed. Murdock drank in the sight of him – trim frame with no sign of middle age paunch, the jeans slung around the slim hips that could have been those of a teenager. The pilot's eyes moved upwards, he remembered when his fingers had run lovingly over that chest now covered by a t-shirt the exact colour of Peck's eyes. The familiar face was pale but still retained the ethereal beauty of its youth, made more durable but not diminished by the life experience, and though the golden hair was dimmed somewhat by the silver shot through it; he still looked good, damn good! Murdock itched at the vision so much that he lost the taste for his breakfast completely.

Face entered and smiled as he moved towards the pilot's table. "OK, I'll be there in about an hour. And I can't tell you just how grateful the President is gonna be over this one!" He was talking into his phone.

Murdock raised his eyebrows. Peck finished the call and sat down, as he did so he reached across the table and snaffled Murdock's coffee cup. He took a long slow drink, bright eyes beaming at the pilot from over the rim.

"I can get you one of your own," Murdock said.

"I prefer yours," Peck retorted smugly. "Always!"

"Want waffles?" Murdock offered the plate but Peck pulled a face and shook his head. "Your coffee's just fine," he said, emptying the cup. Murdock signalled for a refill.

"You gotta eat, Face," he tried but Peck just snorted. "So what's happening?" Murdock asked, not willing to push anything further than he had to; still wary.

Peck switched on his most dangerous smile. "Just sorting," he replied enigmatically.

Murdock shook his head. "The President?" he repeated. "Grateful?"

Peck nodded. "You bet!"

"Lord I hate it when you go like this, Face!" Murdock pouted. "It makes me nervous."

"Like what?"

Murdock speared him with his sternest gaze. "You are a man of very many words, Face," he began. "When you start giving two word answers to my questions instead of the usual six thousand, five hundred and seventy four, I know something's up!"

Amazingly the smile broadened. "Something's up?" Peck repeated, enjoying his little game.

"You're not gonna tell me, are you?"

Peck pursed his lips. "Might do." He took another long gulp. "Coffee's good!" he continued, looking around the room and smiling at the waitress. She stopped blowing bubble-gum bubbles long enough to smile back wanly.

"C'mon Face!" Murdock pushed now. "Who was on the phone and why are you taking Georgie Bush's name in vain?"

Peck smiled. "All will be revealed," he said.

"Hallelujah! Four words are twice as good as two!" Murdock said. "If you could double every time, we might get somewhere."

Peck sighed and stood up. "We going?"

Murdock looked frustratedly down at his half finished breakfast. "Why not? If you won't tell me, you might just show me."

Peck chuckled. "Of course," he replied, heading for the door.

Murdock snorted in annoyance as he left money on the table for the bubble blowing waitress. "Shit, Faceman," he muttered. "Why the hell did I ever get hooked up with you? You are one conceited, annoying little…" But as he walked out of the door that Peck had left swinging after his exit, his features curled into a languid smile as his heart thrilled at the thought of Peck's true self-belief returning. Wasn't that why he loved him in the first place?

TBA