Charlie Foxtrot
Chapter 13
The mission debrief was a short yet tense affair. Hannibal habitually included every team member, whether or not they were on the missions. It often provided outside perspectives that could prevent issues next time around.
Murdock was uncharacteristically quiet during the debrief, his gaze flicking around the room to focus on nothing in particular. Face did nothing but grunt during appropriate times. BA provided the lion's share of input. Afterwards, Hannibal pondered his ailing team over a cigar as BA began tinkering with a small engine of some sort. Murdock discussed post-mission menu options based on what he was able to scrounge.
Face remained still and silent, meeting no one's eyes. He ignored Murdock's questions about choice of mystery meat. Instead, he stood suddenly and hightailed it out of the tent, muttering something about going for a long jog and that they shouldn't wait dinner for him.
Murdock watched as his friend bolted out of the tactical tent and then exchanged an exasperated look with Hannibal and BA. "My God, he's an idiot, ain't he?" Bosco snorted and Hannibal remained stoic but did not disagree.
Murdock pulled himself up from his seat on top of Hannibal's desk, a position that had strategically hidden the chipped humidor from the Colonel's piercing gaze. Brushing his hands together, he stretched experimentally, testing the pull on his chest underneath his black tank and flannel shirt. "Well, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, I'll guess I'll go try to knock some sense into that blockhead."
"You get him, Captain," Hannibal muttered, ignoring the mixed metaphor as he studied a document in his hand.
"Just remember you're still healing, Fool. You're not cleared for anything strenuous," Bosco reminded, looking up briefly as he twisted a screw on one of his projects. "Get him before he finishes changing."
"You got it, Big Guy. Quarters it is."
Murdock's check of their living quarters revealed a distinct lack of Face and he marveled at the lieutenant's unusual alacrity at changing, especially compared to his ponderous routine when they would go out to a bar for the evening.
No matter, Murdock thought, grinning. He knew Face's jogging route always took him behind the women's barracks. He would always slow his pace at that point and ensure that he was shirtless. Dude just loved to show off.
Murdock threw his flannel shirt on his messy cot and headed out of the tent in his boots, cargo shorts, and black tank top. Picking up a light jog, his body felt tight and not as steady as he would have liked as he wove through the canvas maze to take the most direct route to the women's barracks. Face's route would probably take him around the edge of the camps, but the man could really haul ass when something was bothering him. Murdock wanted to make sure he would catch him at the right place.
It felt great to be moving again, his leg muscles tight from the forced inactivity but loosening as his boots pressed into the soil below him. He lengthened his stride, picking up the pace as he smiled. And those doctors had refused to clear him for even the lightest cardio. Murdock wins again!
He reveled in his heart pumping and his lungs expanding with barely a twinge of pain as the ground fell away behind him. He felt so good that the boring monotony of running did not even cross his mind.
He was out of shape, though. He felt winded long before he should have as he ran into the setting sun in the desert. He turned another corner and the shadow of the women's barracks rose into view, as did a small, dark form springing along the packed sand path that ran behind the building.
Murdock stretched out a little more, his breath coming hard even as he worked to deepen his inhalations. He waved his arms above his head to get Face's attention, despite the complaints of his chest muscles.
Face's dark outline against the red sunset did not slow down so Murdock stretched out more, veering off the path into loose and shifting ground. Face's form became clearer and his head turned to take in Murdock's outstretched hand. Face slowed, confusion and worry darting across his expression as he debated whether he should stop his friend running on a still-healing collapsed lung.
Face recollected himself and his eyes hardened. He dug his feet into the earth and he started sprinting.
"Fucking A, Face," Murdock gasped. Physically, Murdock had the quickest reflexes in the group, while Bosco had the strength and Hannibal the skill. But it was Face who could beat any of them in a dead sprint, especially over distance.
Murdock cut through a square grouping of tents, dodging a startled Staff Sargeant Giovanni, a mechanic in the hanger, and called back an apology as he passed. His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest as he took a turn, ignoring the protests of soldiers as he kicked up sand where they were sitting. He rounded the corner and found his shortcut had gained him the expected ten yards on Face's position. He had another ten yards to close, but he was out of shortcuts and Face had nothing but open space. "Face!" he bellowed around panting breaths, now within easy earshot. "Face! Stop running from me, man! Just come …"
A ripping line of pain erupted under his ribs, knocking him off his feet. His arms shot up instinctively to protect his injury, his momentum taking him down and over and over, rolling down an incline. Sand and pebbles scoured his hands and forearms, each jolt reverberating through his battered chest.
He settled on his stomach, sharp coughs bursting into the parched earth. He felt hands on his shoulders – familiar hands, trusted hands – and he was rolled on to his back before he could even try to right himself.
"Jesus Christ, Murdock, you okay?" Face worried and brushed the dirt off Murdock's shoulders and arms. "C'mon, man, just breathe for me right now, okay? Look at me. Deep and slow, like the physical therapy. Deep and slow."
He tried to breathe deep but he couldn't. A vice had clamped on his chest and the coughing fit had lanced pain through his torso all the way down to his tippy toes. He felt Face grab his arm and pull him up to a seated position, patting his back. His ribs screamed, but it became easier to breathe. He wrapped his arm around his left side, feeling his heaving breaths and listening to his heart rate slow. Shit. Maybe those docs have a point.
As his final cough faded away, he looked up into Face's pinched and terrified eyes. "Thanks, Face," he heaved, smiling ruefully.
The charm was lost on Face, whose expression shifted from terror to anger so quickly Murdock almost got whiplash. "What the hell, Murdock?! What part of 'not medically cleared' do you not fucking understand?" He paced, breathing hard, sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose to land on the ground beneath him. He bent over Murdock, shooting out his arm for Murdock to grab. "C'mon. Let's go. The docs will want to check you out *again*. Jesus."
Murdock grabbed Face's outstretched hand but used the awkwardness of the gesture to pull Face down the ground with him. "Nope, nope," he wheezed, his breath slowly coming back to him and DAMN it hurt. "You don't get to get out of this by being condescending. You've been avoiding and ignoring me for a damn month. You get to sit your ass down, Templeton, so we can have a freakin' chat."
"Templeton? Templeton!" Face spat. "Now who is being condescending, James?"
Murdock coughed again, failing to hide the burning lance that shot through him.
Face got to his feet, grabbing Murdock's arm again to haul him up. "Let's go, Murdock. You reinjured something in there. Be a good Captain and get your ass out of the sand."
He ripped his arm out of Face's grasp and breathed through the resulting pain, his skin paling. "Let go of me. I'm not going anywhere until you and I talk." He paused, then spat, "Lieutenant."
Murdock remembered the last time he had used Face's rank, remembered the feeling of the MI-8's pedals under his feet and the collective in his hands, sticky with his own blood, remembered wrestling with the chopper, blood pouring from him, his breath stopped within him as his body shut down. He remembered that desperate emergency landing, pain warring with his desperation to keep the team safe. He remembered Face in the cockpit, ignoring his pleas to strap in the back, restricting his movements, getting in the damn way.
Murdock huffed out a breath. He hadn't forgotten about it, but he hadn't thought about it either, and the memories came rushing back until he was there again. More scars – Ranger, baby! – more trauma. At least someone, *someones*, really, were there to get him to safety this time.
He looked at Face and he saw the same emotions in his expression that he had seen in the chopper – anger, fear, and debilitating frustration with an underlying spark of something – guilt? – in his blue eyes and furrowed brow. Face was back there too, he realized, could smell the heat and blood so thick it stuck in the back of your throat and no amount of drinking could dislodge it.
Face's expression cleared and a wall went up as he forced his expression into a neutrality that failed to con Murdock. Face sighed, adopting a stance that could not be ignored. "Get up, Murdock. We need to get you checked out."
Murdock propped one knee up in the sand but otherwise made no move. "Nope," he said casually.
"You did something to your wounds. Let's go."
"Not happenin'." He breathed shallowly, each inhale cutting.
Face sighed. "Don't play this game, Murdock. Get off your stubborn ass and let's go!"
"I'm not moving. Not until you sit down right here and *talk* to me."
"I have nothing to say."
Murdock threw his head back and looked up to Face, silhouetted against the early evening sky. He laughed, a small and weak thing compared to his usual howl. "Well, both of us know that ain't true. I know you too well for that bullshit.
"I saw you shut off just then. Saw you build that wall between your eyes and your brain as quick as a bunny. The psych types call it compartmentalizing, I think. Depends on the 'why', I guess." He stared out over to the canvas city, the figures moving back and forth against the electric lights and the gathering dusk.
"You're seriously going to delay medical care until we *chat*?" Face's voice was disbelieving and exasperated.
"Yep. I suppose you could drag me, but I'm awful heavy and that would just make whatever I did to myself worse, so …"
Face threw up his hands and dropped to the ground four feet away from Murdock. He radiated tension. "You are a crazy motherfucker, you know that?!"
"That's what they tell me," he said lightly, refusing to allow Face to goad him into an argument. "Well, not the motherfucker part, because that's just rude, but the crazy part, definitely." He might not know what was going on with Face, but he was going to get down to the bottom of it before someone got hurt – probably Face from BA's fist.
Doc Murdock, Psy.D. in the house.
They sat in tense silence, Murdock biding his time as he traced the outline of an ultralight in the dust of the ground. Face fidgeted and glared at him.
"You're the one who wanted to talk, Murdock, so fucking *talk* already!"
And we open with confrontation, Murdock thought. He stayed silent for a couple moments before opening his mouth to speak.
Face beat him to it. "You know, you really are crazy, man." Murdock did not rise to the bait. "You could have really fucked up something that had been healing in there. Instead of getting it treated, we're sitting here, in the sand, having a chat in which you say *nothing*."
Face moved to stand, but Murdock's hand on his arm stopped him. Face looked at him, angry bafflement edging over his features. Murdock sighed. "Why didn't you stop, Faceman? Just now, when you were running and you saw me, you ran faster. Why?" Murdock kept his voice neutral, but he had to admit seeing Face speed up had hurt like hell.
Face smirked. "You're the one who was running against doctor's orders to begin with Murdock. Why the hell were you running in the first place?"
We've moved to deflection, Murdock thought.
"You shouldn't even be *lightly* jogging," Face continued, "let alone sprinting across the goddamn base for half a mile. You could have really messed up your lung! It could ground you permanently! You ever think of that?"
Dammit if Murdock didn't feel that one.
"And for what? A fucking CHAT?"
"Face," he snapped, "I have been watching you avoid me and be an asshole to everyone around you for weeks. It's not like you. You're going through shit and I am your friend. Remember I'm trying to help!"
"HELP?" Face cried, jumping to his feet and towering over Murdock's seated form. Murdock's hackles raised as he tensed. "Is this the way you help? Then STOP HELPING." Face's voice carried over the earth to the canvass edifices yards away. Murdock looked up in surprise at the unexpected turn of the conversation. "Right now, Murdock, your lung could be collapsing – again. No, no, don't deny it – I see how you're breathing. Instead of going to a doctor, we are sitting in the goddamn sand. CHATTING."
"Face …"
"No." Face started pacing, his hand making wild gestures in the air while the words came fast. "No. Just stop. Stop *doing* this shit you do over and over again. Stop being reckless with yourself! Stop assuming that's what we want. Stop valuing your life at a fraction of ours!"
Murdock shot to his feet, stepping into Face's path to stand him up. "Bullshit, Face. We're a team! We're Rangers! That's what we do and who we are." His accent punctuated every word and his anger chased away any chill from the falling desert night. "We watch each other's backs and we do everything we can for each other!"
Face looked at his best friend as he breathed shallowly and heavily, and his anger fell out from underneath him. It left him worn. The same feeling he had been trying to ignore for the last month – worry, grief, guilt - came screaming back and he reeled from it. "You got shot in the chest, Murdock. A fucking collapsed lung." His voice was quiet and tortured. "You were gray and bleeding out through my hands and I was fucking helpless."
Murdock took a step back, his breath exiting in a rush. He gasped to get it back. When he spoke, his voice was as quiet as Face's. "I was the only man for the job, Face, you know that. You guys are my team. My responsibility." Face looked at him, wide eyes filling with water. "Look, man. This life of mine - I should've died more times than I can count, so someone is either looking out for me or loves playing some sort of cruel trick on me. But the bottom line is that I can't lose you guys. Without you, I'm walkin' around in a straitjacket all day."
He paused and met his friend's concerned gaze. "I ain't afraid of dying Faceman, especially if it means you guys are still kicking. I ain't been afraid of it since the first time they locked me in a white room with white walls and white restraints and I couldn't see the sky. I'm more afraid of going back there and fading to white myself."
Face paused, dropping his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "Fuck, Murdock. That won't happen, man. We would get you out before that happened. But you ever think about what would happen to us if we lost you?"
Murdock took a step back, the question staggering him into silence. He had to admit that he had never given it a thought.
Face shook his head, warring between exasperation and desperation. "It would destroy us, man!" Murdock blinked, stunned. Face threw up his hands. "Seriously? Let me give you a glimpse. After the mission, Bosco barely slept for four days. Four days! Only after the docs confirmed you were out of the woods did he collapse in that cot so hard you could hear his snores down the hall.
"You know what Hannibal did? Hannibal became persona non grata around that hospital. People would skirt out of his way when he came down the hall just from his glare. He dressed down half a dozen people, and only one of them actually deserved it. It got so bad that the medical staff wouldn't say anything without Dr. Hwong in the room because she was the only one who could talk to him without getting her head bitten off.
"And you're still doing it. Even right now!" The pilot had an uncomfortable feeling that Face had taken control of the conversation without Murdock even noticing.
"What do you mean?"
"Your breaths are still shallow. You're trying to hide that you're hurting but your stance screams that your chest is on fire. Yet here we are." He gestured around himself. "Chatting."
"You wouldn't talk to me, Face. Wouldn't even look at me. Every time I woke up, you were gone. What else was I supposed to do?"
Face's expression pinched into anger, replacing the worry, grief and guilt. "What were you supposed to *do*?" he seethed. "What were you supposed to DO?" He started pacing again, his emotions tumbling over themselves. "Y'know, Murdock, every time I think back, I find myself asking the same questions, over and over and OVER again.
"You knew the intel was right and that second man was aboard that Mi-8. Your gut knew it. So why didn't you listen to it? Why didn't you fully clear the craft when you got on board, huh?" Murdock drew back as if hit. "Hannibal's leg wasn't that bad! Why did you ever drop your guard?" Face yelled, his words picking up pace, running quicker than his brain could stop him. "Why didn't you clear the craft? How insane can you be!" His words carried over the flat plains of sand and rocks, not realizing how hurtful his words were until he heard their echo. His head spun. Hannibal's words came back to him: "Never blame a man for his undying loyalty. Strive to be worthy of it." Fuck. He didn't understand.
Murdock went still except to tilt his head back and to the side, the way he did when he was analyzing a situation. The fresh scar low on his neck peeked out from underneath the collar of his tank top. Face winced. "Aww, Faceman," Murdock responded, looking his friend up and down. "Aw. You're so stupid."
"Look, Murdock …" Face stammered, realizing that he may have leapt over an uncrossable line.
The pilot interrupted. "Projection."
"Wait, what? Like a movie?" Face glanced around him as if looking for something. "You're not seeing things …"
Murdock's eyes narrowed, insulted. "Don't be a prick. This thing you've been doing the last few weeks ain't about me. I mean it is, in part, but it's mostly about *you*."
"About me? Murdock …"
"Shut up and listen." Murdock's tone brooked no argument. "You don't want to ask *me* those questions, man. You want those answers from *you*."
Face's own actions in the Mi-8 came back to him in stark clarity: Bosco helping Hannibal up the ramp in the back of the chopper, Face covering their backs; settling Hannibal in a jump seat as the ramp lifted and Bosco began tending to Hannibal's wound; Face turning his back to those lockers to check on his friend in the bubble of the cockpit.
Face stumbled back on his heels. It hit him like a brick to the gut. He hadn't cleared the craft, either, too concerned with the status of his team to open that damn locker to check. Fuck. The heaviness in his gut festered quickly and he lashed out.
"So you blame *me*? Is that it? It's my fault you got shot? That you almost died!" His cruel tone echoed back to him over the flat ground.
Murdock reeled back, a sour expression on his face. "What? No, of course not, Face. The chopper was taking fire. Hannibal was injured and Bosco was working on him. You had to confirm the craft and its pilot were fit to fly." Face's anger kept his shields up, but the logic of Murdock's words began to worm their way into his brain. He breathed harder. "The whole situation was a cluster fuck!" Murdock continued. "A Charlie. Fucking. Foxtrot! That's all! A shitty thing that happens in combat!"
Murdock watched as Face tore his gaze away, breathing heavily, the Lieutenant's head jerking as he glanced to the left and right across the flat ground, anywhere but Murdock.
"I don't blame you for anything!" Murdock continued. "But I do think *you* blame you. You have yourself so twisted around about it that you're bleedin' all over folks who didn't cut you." Murdock slipped his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts, the bottom of his tank top ruffling in the breezy, cooling air. He waited as his words finally, really landed.
Face's expression fell and he lowered himself onto the ground, moving as if sore. His hands went up to scrub at his eyes. Murdock was right, Face realized. He could have checked, but he was too busy covering the team, protecting Hannibal, checking in and covering their six, trying to make sure they all got up and got out okay – exactly what Murdock had been doing.
Face looked up. Murdock's breathing had finally evened out even as his stance was stiff and protective. Still, he met Face's gaze, his eyes crinkled in concern. "Look, Murdock, you may be right. How did you even figure out…" he began, feeling very small after everything he had done over the last month.
Murdock grinned. "I've been in a lot of therapy, Face, and I'm a quick study."
Face struggled to maintain his composure, his hands shaking as Murdock's words fully landed. The weight he had been carrying for the last month was dissolving, bringing his actions into stark clarity. A different guilt rose up and he felt nauseous as he remembered. "Murdock, buddy, I owe you an apology. I can't even begin to …"
"Faceman, you don't owe me anything. That's one of things I like about us. We don't have to fall all over each other apologizing." Eager to lighten the load, he reached out his hand to knead at Face's shoulder. "I mean, it's kind of flattering." He affected a film noir accent. "Didn't know you cared so much, sweetheart."
It did the trick. Face chuckled, enjoying the peace settling between them - the first real peace either one of them had known in weeks. Murdock sighed, sitting down next to him on the sand. They remained in companionable silence, allowing the weight of the conversation to settle. Murdock breathed against the pain in his chest and Face breathed against emotion finally released. He looked over to the pilot, not caring about the water in his eyes. "You really don't blame me?"
Murdock snorted. "For getting shot? Of course not. I really wish you would stop blaming you, though. Misplaced guilt turns you in to an asshole."
Face chuckled. "Yeah. Okay. I deserve that. But you need to stop running around and setting back your recovery. Hannibal has missions on the horizon and his batshit plans need you combat ready – in the air and on the ground."
"Aww, that'll be fun! Can't wait." Murdock beamed as he shifted uncomfortably.
Face sighed, picking up a fistful of sand. They both watched as it flowed through his fingers, the distance between them closing. His blue eyes bored into Murdock's green. "I gotta ask you a question, Murdock."
"Anything, Faceman. You know that."
"They didn't have scrub tops on you when you were, y'know …"
"Unconscious? Unresponsive? Insensible? Out like a light?"
"All of the above."
"What's the matter, Face? Jealous of me shirtless?"
Face snorted. "No, man. It's just that, well," Face chose his words carefully as he scrubbed the back of his neck, "you got some weird scars."
Murdock's grin disappeared and he seemed to retreat into himself as he stared into the middle distance.
"We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to, buddy. Just, you've never mentioned anything in the past that would lead to those scars."
Murdock continued to stare, but he shook his head. "Nah, man. It's okay. I think Bossman asked me about them once. I haven't been hiding it or anything, there just ain't much to say."
"Not much to say? Buddy, c'mon." He probed gently. "What the hell happened?"
Murdock sighed, still with that far-away stare. His voice flattened. "Got shot down in hostile territory. Location's probably still classified, but it seems like a long time ago. Most of us came through the crash fine, a little bruised and battered, but nothing serious. Until the folks who shot us down found us. Thought we had important information." Murdock snorted. "We didn't. Well, the Central Intelligence agents we had on board probably did, but they were the first to go."
Face stayed still, waiting expectantly. Murdock's body tensed and his accent intensified.
"Don't remember much after they graduated from beatings to more serious past-times. Just flashes, some smells, really. Heat – humid, too, not like here - and pain. My body knows more, but those scars are all it says. Kept me alive when most of the others didn't get that privilege.
"You know how messed up it is to not have any memory of what someone did to you? Something so bad, so fucked up, that your brain just goes, 'Nope! Just going to shut that down! Not gonna remember that!'. But then it still lets little smidgens through at weird times, like just, 'Hey, by the way, here's that horrible thing again, good luck!'." Murdock snorted derisively.
The thought hung in the cooling air as Face stayed riveted to Murdock.
"Weirdest thing is, I remember a dog. I had no idea where he came from. Blocky-headed muscle-y thing with ears that stand up all on their own, y'know? Just the sweetest eyes," Murdock breathed, lost in memory. "When they were done with me, they would dump me back in this basement or whatever the hell it was, and that dog would settle himself next to me."
Face's heart ached for his friend, but he stopped himself from reaching out. Murdock often did not take kindly to uninvited touch.
Murdock huffed thoughtfully. "Don't remember much, but God I remember that dog. Medium-sized, like 50 pounds, maybe. Kinda fawn colored with white bands, like a tan tuxedo. Thick white patch at the end of his tail. He'd cuddle right up next to me, lay his head on my chest with his tail thumping against the floor just like that." Murdock's palm struck the ground in imitation. "Like a metronome." He smiled softly.
"His fur was so soft, y'know? Short, though, and I'd bury my head into his neck and listen to his panting, just to remind myself to breathe, too. Ran my hand all the way down his back over and over again when it got really bad.
"That dog didn't leave my side, would growl and snarl at them when they strapped me down, but they paid him no mind." Murdock nodded, his eyes filling with tears. "He tried to protect me, so I tried to protect him, too." Murdock looked down at the ground. "They thought that was funny. Didn't know what I was talking about. Told me he wasn't there.
"I knew he was, though, that's the thing. He was flesh and blood. I could smell his breath and feel him licking my face and my hands. He was there with me, no doubt about it. So I knew I had to stick it out as long as possible just to look out for that dog. Even named him. Billy. My Billy-boy."
Face could not tear his eyes away from his friend, sitting on the parched ground. "How long were you there?"
Murdock chuckled darkly. "No clue. More than days. Less than weeks. It's in a file somewhere, probably redacted. I don't remember if they came to get us, we found our way out, or what. Maybe a little of both." He shrugged.
"Billy was right there when I woke up in an army base hospital. Stuck around for a couple years after that, popping in every once in a while, through more missions, more flights, until eventually the powers that be decided they didn't have a use for my unique brain anymore and shipped me off to mental hospital after mental hospital. The multiple dissociations probably had something to do with that. And each time, Billy came with me." Murdock smiled again.
"Is Billy still around?" Face asked. Murdock clearly loved the dog and Face had dealt with things a hell of a lot worse than an invisible dog running around camp. Might be fun. They could have a field day with Bosco.
Murdock's face fell into an odd sad contentment. "I haven't seen Billy for years, Faceman. Last time was about six months after Mexico." The pilot looked over to his friend for the first time since he started speaking. "Right after the deal in Ecuador. The one near Cotacachi, not the one in Quito. You remember it?"
Face nodded. It had been a simple in-and-out and everything had gone smoothly. Murdock continued. "We had already toasted the mission back at base and gone to bed. Billy popped up when we were sleepin'. I opened my eyes and I look over, and there's Billy. He was jumping up and down right at my feet, happy as a clam, with his butt in the air like dogs do when they want to play. I sat up to pet him, and I'll be damned if his fur wasn't just as soft as it always was. He bolted around the room, barking, jumping, just absolutely the happiest damn dog." Murdock's grin widened and he relaxed a bit. "I won't ever forget it. He ran over to each of you guys, jumped up on your cots, but you guys didn't even notice. He bounced up and down on Bosco, did that play bow right by you, Faceman, and slipped his head underneath Hannibal's hand, like he was getting pets or something. Then, he ran up to me, licked my face one last time and ran out the door, too quick to follow."
He glanced sideways over at Face's expression and a breeze ruffled his hair. "Oh, don't worry yourself too much, man. I cognitively know that Billy's just my brain trying to protect me from the things they did to me, but he's also very real. Flesh and blood. I always thought that night in Ecuador was Billy saying goodbye. Letting me know I had landed somewhere safe with folks who had my back."
Murdock's eyes filled with tears before he chuckled again. "But damn do I miss that dog. One of the detection dogs in the kennels kinda looks like him. The ears and coloration are different, but it's the same blocky head, the same sweet eyes."
Face smiled. "Billy didn't come back last month?"
Murdock shook his head slowly. "Don't think so. Don't remember much from the medevac. Hannibal said I took out some medics. I feel kinda bad about that."
"Don't worry about it. They all mysteriously got weekend leave passes shortly thereafter."
Murdock laughed but cut it off when his chest complained. "Thanks, Faceman. 'preciate it." Murdock held his ribs. "There were snippets of sound before I woke up in the hospital, thinking I was somewhere else. Pain splitting me in two. I do remember voices, though. Hannibal in the medevac, all you guys in the hospital. But no Billy."
Face put his hand on Murdock's shoulder. "I'm sorry he didn't come."
Murdock shook his head. "Don't be, man. Because that feeling that Billy would give me when he would crawl on my chest to lick my face, that feeling that there was something out there that had my back, that gave a shit, that made me think I wasn't just a useful tool to some higher-up. That same feeling was there."
Murdock looked at Face. "That's you guys. That's Hannibal's leadership. That's Bosco's loyalty. That's your determination. And I'll do everything in my power to keep that feeling." Murdock leaned into his best friend's personal space. "Billy can go enjoy his retirement."
Murdock scratched at his ribs. Face sighed, the weight of the last month finally, fully lifting as he noticed Murdock's wince. "You're still in pain." It was a statement rather than a question, but Murdock deflected anyway.
"Naw – that's just itching from the hair growing back from where they shaved it."
Face nodded again, suddenly feeling very playful. "I have to say, Murdock, you are a hairy man. You could stand to lose some of that extra fur. Y'know, girls love the look of a waxed chest."
Murdock happily joined in. "Ain't going to happen, man. See, a lot women like the look of a man who has actually gone through puberty. Tell me, Face, has any of your body hair actually come in yet? Your voice has apparently dropped."
"Please, Murdock. The muscles? The definition? Gotta show it off. Girls love it."
Murdock laughed, squeezing his chest to stabilize it. "Firstly, they're women, not girls. Secondly, Mr. 0% body fat, I got plenty of tone on me *and* I won't freeze to death in the middle of a Texan winter. And thirdly – why the hell do you need a shaver in the tactical tent?"
Face froze but pivoted quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about. You must have seen something else. Maybe it was …"
"Don't pull that on me. I found it where you stashed it under the corner cabinet. Why the hell do you need a shaver in the tactical tent?"
Face dropped the pretenses. "Look, man, when you need a trim, you need a trim. You gotta keep things neat down there."
"Good God, man. There are other ways. Besides, that's only part of the answer, Face. Why the tactical tent?"
Face sighed again and deflated. "Well, I can't do that type of trimming in the shower, and there is no privacy in our quarters. Besides …" he trailed off, glancing around quickly. "Don't tell Hannibal or Bosco, but I take ladies in there sometimes. Y'know, to give them the full treatment."
Murdock shook his head. "Jesus, Face! Do you at least sanitize the surfaces afterwards?"
"Of course I do! I've had to replace the bottle of rubbing alcohol in Hannibal's drawer a few times, but if he's noticed, he hasn't said anything."
"How very considerate of you." Murdock did sarcasm very well.
"Whatever man. Just remember to thank me the next time you have a lady friend over and need a private place. But c'mon. Let's get your hairy ass to the docs to get checked over." Face stood and stretched, putting a hand on Murdock's shoulder to help him up.
Murdock stood gingerly, brushing small stones off his palms. "My ass ain't hairy, Face."
Face rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Dick."
"That ain't, either."
The medics at the base hospital were keen on keeping their professional aura when Captain Murdock walked in the door steadied by Lieutenant Peck, so they limited their reactions to rolling their eyes. Of course the Captain had reinjured himself. With as often as they had heard stories about the Captain's recent exploits, they had been taking bets as to when, exactly, he was going to walk through their doors again. It turned out Sergeant Bowman had just won a tidy sum.
They officiously loaded him up into a wheelchair and rolled him down the hallway to radiology, the pilot waving back to Lieutenant Peck with a crooked grin.
Face stood in the hallway, watching the point at which Murdock had disappeared with the medics. He did his best to stay out of the way of the bustle around him. He remembered the last time he watched Murdock be wheeled away – into the medevac flight in the middle of the desert – but tamped it down. This was different.
A familiar, rumbling voice behind him broke him out of his reverie. "What the hell did you two do?" Bosco's outward calm form, stiff and foreboding, was betrayed by his eyes flicking down the hallway where Face had stared, hands in the pockets of his running shorts.
"News travels fast."
"Yeah, it does. You got half the base chattering about the show you two put on. What happened?"
Face shrugged. "Nothing happened."
"Bullshit. We're not standing in the hospital because nothing happened."
"It was just a chat."
Bosco relaxed slightly, appeased. "Oh, good. It's about time you two fools talked. Long overdue."
Face looked behind Bosco, expecting the tall and severe form of their Colonel. "Where's the boss?"
"On the other side of the camp, lucky for you. Probably hightailing it over here now, though."
As if summoned by his mere mention, Hannibal appeared, his white hair conspicuous over the uniforms in the hall. "Lieutenant! Corporal!" he snapped. Face groaned at the use of ranks while Bosco muttered about doing nothing that deserved *that* tone. "Report! Where's the Captain?" Hannibal's eyes blazed.
"He's fine, Boss," Face replied. "Getting some tests and…"
"The tests would not be necessary, Lieutenant," even Bosco winced a little at the glare thrown at Face, "if the Captain were fine." Both the Lieutenant and the Corporal had the overwhelming urge to melt into the tent canvas at their backs. "The man is not cleared for even basic exercise and you lead him on a chase through the base? What were you thinking?"
"Boss, listen …"
"No, you listen, Lieutenant. All you had to do was talk to the man!" the bustle of the tent had quieted as some watched the great Hannibal Smith dress down his own in such an uncharacteristically public manner.
"Hannibal …"
"There are reports of you bringing him in unconscious! Unconscious! What the hell …"
A Texan drawl silenced Hannibal's tirade. "Reports of my unconsciousness have been greatly exaggerated." The man turned and Murdock stood from a wheelchair, a hand across his ribs. A dark-haired doctor hovered nearby. Murdock grinned. "Sir," he finished.
Hannibal immediately relaxed, turning and placing a hand on Murdock's shoulder. "Captain?"
The doctor spoke for him. "Captain Murdock has managed to partially reinjure his ribs and some of the underlying musculature." The doctor glared disapprovingly. "His lungs were spared any further reinjury as a result of to the Captain's …" a pregnant pause while the doctor thought of the right word, "actions."
"You mean stupidity," Bosco muttered.
The doctor nodded. "Yes. Exactly. Colonel, he's under *strict* medical orders to rest, recover, and to talk as *little* as possible."
Murdock and Face groaned simultaneously. Bosco beamed, his grin lighting up his entire face as he bounced with joy. "No talking?" he beamed. "For how long, Doc, because my birthday's coming up next month and it would be nice to celebrate it without sock puppets or constant jibber jabber.
"Sorry, Corporal. Not that long. A good forty-eight hours should be enough. Captain, we really do not want to see you back here. Ever. Alright?"
Murdock reeled back dramatically while Face looked on, beaming. "Doctor! You wound me! Surely you will miss my effervescent wit, my thought-provoking repartee …"
"Shut up, Fool. You ain't supposed to be talking, remember?"
"Aww, Bosco. You gotta remind me of that?"
"You're damn right, Murdock. Every chance I get."