Author's Note: This story is a loose sequel to my other POW Era fic, "Together". But it can be read on its own without any confusion. Hope you enjoy!


Nights filled with sound were nothing new to B.A. Baracus. From the Chicago apartment he grew up in, to Army barracks, to the jungles of Vietnam, his nights had always been filled with noise. The Camp was no different.

But the sounds here were harder to block out. Haunting and pitiful in ways B.A. had never heard before. Humans shouldn't make sounds like that. Shouldn't have to.

Jaw clenched, B.A. focused on the rock and strip of metal in his hands. They were both pieces of the Team's carefully gathered supply stash. The metal was soft—softer than B.A. would've liked for the job—but it was the best they had. He scraped the stone along the metal's edge. Slow, rhythmic.

He'd been at it for an hour already. In another two, the metal might actually look like the lockpick it was destined to be. Face would need to oversee the final touches. He was the expert when it came to picks. But B.A. had the patience and the skill to make it happen.

The passing thought of his teammate had B.A. scanning the cell. For the first time in almost five weeks, he could lay eyes on all three of his friends in the gloom.

It had become a habit. If a noise came too close, he looked for them. If the screams became too much, he looked for them. If their names passed through his head, he looked for them.

Like tonight.

Hannibal was leaning against the wall closest to the door, knees drawn almost to his chest. His upper body was bent awkwardly, protecting his left side. He'd been doing that ever since his last session with Charlie—and trying his best to keep any of them from noticing.

B.A. scowled as he caught the slight hitch in the Colonel's breathing. Stubborn fool.

Still scowling, B.A. turned to the rear of the cell. Face and Murdock were there, pressed into the corner as far from the door as they could get. It hurt, in a strange way, seeing them like that. So desperate, even in sleep, to feel some kind of safety.

For once it seemed to be working.

Face had made sure Murdock was the one most hidden in the corner. It left his own back exposed to the door, but B.A. knew that wouldn't matter to Face. Since they'd gotten Murdock back, nothing much mattered to him except keeping the shattered pilot safe. He still hadn't told them what happened. How he'd gone from being dragged out of their cell by his neck to, not an hour later, being escorted back with a sobbing, but otherwise unresponsive Murdock hanging on his arm. A price had been paid, that much was certain. But what that price had been, what Face had done or agreed to do, and whatever horrors Murdock had been through, weren't being talked about. Even the Colonel hadn't dared ask. Not yet anyway.

B.A. hated himself a little for hoping he never did.

Fingers continuing to slide the piece of metal across the stone, B.A. let himself really look at Murdock. It was so hard to do that when the pilot was awake, staring at them with vacant eyes. But when he was asleep, it was easier. And sometimes, like now, it even made B.A. smile.

Murdock was on his side, curled almost into a ball, and had his forehead mashed into Face's shoulder. Both of his arms were wrapped around one of Face's, and his mouth was ajar. Every once in a while he twitched, like an exhausted puppy having a dream—or a nightmare. B.A's smile twisted into a frown as the man began to whimper.

Almost immediately, Face came awake and started talking. His voice was low and thick with exhaustion, but steady. Soothing.

Murdock didn't seem to notice.

Shifting onto his knees, B.A. hurried to slip the rock and piece of metal back into their hiding place in the wall. If Murdock started screaming like he had the night before, the guards could be on them any minute.

Across from him, Hannibal came awake with a hitching inhale.

B.A. glared at him, angered all over again by the obvious pain he was in and the fact he kept trying to hide it.

But the Colonel couldn't be bothered. With a pointed look at their teammates, he effectively dismissed his own health from possible discussion.

Which just ratcheted up B.A.'s anger even more.

The sound of a solid punch and a yelp coming from the other side of their cell made it even worse. Being torn apart by the VC was bad enough. Being punched by one of your own teammates because they couldn't tell you apart from the enemy was a whole different kind of hurt.

Gritting his teeth, B.A. shifted into a crouch. This needed to stop. Now. Before something worse happened. But a hand landing on his arm brought him up short. He hadn't even noticed Hannibal had moved that close. With a frown, he tried to ignore how uneasy that made him feel.

Because he should have noticed.

Shoving the thought—and all the exhaustion it carried with it—away, B.A. twisted to face Hannibal.

The Colonel met his look with a tired smile. Then he tapped his ear and nodded toward the others.

Still frowning, B.A. tried to pick up on what Hannibal was saying. It didn't take long.

He could tell Face had started talking again—the murmur of his voice even softer now than it had been before. But it was the gasps petering into broken apologies that had B.A. sinking to his knees.

Murdock was awake.

Numbly, he watched the pilot draw into himself, shaking. Face didn't miss a beat. Just wrapped the trembling man in his arms and kept going with whatever he'd found to ramble on about this time. B.A. would've run out of things to say the first night this happened.

And just like that, the anger came surging back.

Hands tightening into fists, B.A. had to swallow the urge to scream; to pound his knuckles into a wall until they hurt more than the world around him.

The grip Hannibal had on his arm tightened, and it took more effort than it should have for B.A. not to rip himself away. To keep holding back the soul-deep need to scream.

Hannibal must've sensed something was wrong, because almost immediately his hold loosened again. But he didn't let go. Instead, he began sweeping his thumb over B.A.'s pulse point. "You with me, Sergeant?"

The whisper combined with the stupidly gentle touch, had B.A. slumping back against the wall. "It ain't right, Hannibal. They never should'a hurt the fool like that. Never."

"No, they shouldn't have."

The simple agreement caught B.A. off guard. Usually, Hannibal wasn't quite so honest. Not since they'd been here anyway. He seemed intent on finding new ways to give them hope, every time they got overwhelmed by all of the evil. But tonight, when B.A. looked at Hannibal, he could see every bit of his own rage and desperation reflected in the Colonel's eyes.

"They never should've hurt you either," Hannibal murmured. "Or Face, or any of us."

B.A. swallowed. It was true. But somehow hearing Hannibal put it into words made his chest tight. Left his anger twisting into something closer to grief.

With a sigh, the Colonel settled back against the wall. "Of course now, when it comes to me, I can't really blame them too much. After some of the suggestions I've had for these slimeballs, I know I earned at least one of these." Breaking into a grin, he waved at the twin set of fading black-eyes decorating his face.

Two months. They'd been in Charlie's Camp for two months, and the man was still on the Jazz.

B.A. glared at him on principle, or tried to. But in the end he found himself smiling.

Hannibal's grin curled in that way it always did when he knew he'd won. His thumb picked up its rhythm again, sweeping back and forth over B.A's wrist; weaving its way between healing scrapes and rope burns to offer comfort. "Get some rest, Sergeant. I'll take watch."

B.A. nodded, senses too dull with fatigue to argue. But he didn't lay down. Just sat there with suddenly burning eyes staring at nothing.

"B.A.?"

"I wish I could talk to my Momma." The admission came out of nowhere; barely a whisper of sound as it slipped past his defenses. So bare he wondered if he'd even said it out loud. The broken part of him that was so homesick it physically hurt, hoped he hadn't.

But he had.

The sudden pin-drop silence of their cell made that clear enough. So did the faltered rhythm of the thumb on his wrist and the gut-punched look Faceman turned his way.

It made the ever-present ache in his chest pulse twice as hard. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I don't know why I said that."

"Don't... be sorry."

Murdock. That had been Murdock. Too shocked to move, B.A. stared at the pilot. And for the first time in far too long, his friend actually looked back.

"Should never..." Murdock trailed off, fingers twisting in an almost frantic hold on Face's shirt. "Should never be sorry for... for caring."

Even here.

Even when it made you break.

Even when surviving on anger—or insanity—alone would be so much easier.

"Hey, Face?" Hannibal whispered. "After we bust outta here, what're the chances of getting a call through to Mrs. Baracus? First thing, day or night."

The ache in B.A.'s chest did a little flip.

"You kidding?" Face huffed. "I'll have a call in to Chicago before the base commander even knows we're on the base. Figure maybe eight minutes to get through to an operator in the States; three minutes for them to find Chicago; maybe one, two minutes to ring through to Mrs. Baracus. Unless of course there's interference over Guam. Then we might be looking at a twenty, maybe thirty minute lag time to make contact with the States. Even I haven't figured out how to scam my way past bad weather in the Pacific."

He said that like it was a special case and if only Guam was in the Atlantic there'd be no problem at all. The thought made B.A. grin. He wasn't even sure why.

Beside him, Hannibal chuckled. "I have faith in you, Lieutenant. You'll find a way to make it work."

"Of course I will." Faceman grinned one of his million watt smiles. But it softened along with his voice when he said, "We'll string a new line all the way to Chicago if we have to."

The ache in B.A.'s chest swelled as it did another flip. He looked away, scrubbing at his eyes. They were burning again. "Thanks." The word came out hushed and a little mangled. More of a croak than anything. But the guys understood. They always understood.

"Umbrellas," Murdock muttered.

Okay, so maybe they didn't always understand.

B.A. traded a lost look with Hannibal, and a confused shrug with Face. It made him feel a little better that the Lieutenant apparently didn't know what the fool was talking about either.

"Um, Murdock?"

"Umbrellas," he muttered again, then lifted his head and gave Faceman an earnest look. "We could send umbrellas. To Guam. Cover the aerials when it rains. Then B.A. could talk to his Momma whenever he wanted."

Face's expression widened, eyebrows popping toward his hairline. A beat later, his brow furrowed. Like he was actually considering sending umbrellas to Guam.

So B.A. could talk to his Momma whenever he wanted.

It was ridiculous. It made no sense. And if it weren't for the stupid knot in his throat, B.A. might have mentioned it.

"Umbrellas." Face flashed another million watt smile. "I like it."

The answer lit Murdock's face up like a Christmas tree. It was all the encouragement their conman needed to start outlining a plan.

Three hundred green umbrellas were halfway to the Pacific courtesy of Montgomery Ward and some rather blurry financial arrangements, when B.A. began to fade.

He felt an arm wrap around his shoulders. It nudged him gently, and B.A. didn't resist. Just let his head slip down onto the other man's chest. Hannibal was a little bony these days—they all were—but B.A. leaned into the contact anyway.

The world still hurt. And B.A. didn't think he would ever stop being angry about all of the things that had been done to them. But there were still good things to dream about—and even better people to be grateful for.

Even here.