CHAPTER TEN

October 17, 1968

Face stood silent in the hotel room shower, hands forward on the tile wall as the cold water ran through his hair and over his face, washing away the heat and the layers of dirt and sweat that had been accumulating for days. They hadn't been able to get out of the camp fast enough for his liking and thankfully, Hannibal hadn't asked questions. They were in the air within ten minutes of their return, just as soon as they'd confirmed Hannibal and Boston had found no sign of the missing men at their slightly more distant camp.

There had been no debriefing, no conversation. Cipher hadn't said a single word and Face had only managed a succinct, "Let's go." Decker had substantially more to say. Face heard the raised voices from the chopper, where he waited with Cipher, but he couldn't tell what he was saying. In any case, he didn't figure it was too different from the story he'd be giving Hannibal. He didn't regret his insubordination in the least, regardless of what it cost him.

Da Nang was the closest place to find a bed for the night. Cipher had immediately gone out, still without a word. He hadn't specified where, but Face had a feeling it would be the bar in town - the one with the particularly young whores. He would probably drink himself into a coma by morning. He hadn't asked for company, and Face wouldn't have been very good company anyways. At the moment, he had too many other things on his mind. The last place he wanted to be was in a bar. All he wanted was a shower and a good night's sleep. He'd deal with all the ramifications of this hellish day tomorrow.

He didn't hear the door open. The first indication that he wasn't alone was the sound of Hannibal's voice. "Westman wants to know why Colonel Decker's going up the chain of command about you," he greeted.

Face dropped his head forward, closing his eyes.

"And I'd like to know why we were in such a hurry to get out of that camp," Hannibal continued when Face didn't reply.

"Can we not do this right now?" Face pleaded.

"What's the matter, Sergeant?" That tone, almost playful, made it clear that Hannibal was not unhappy about leaving Decker's camp ahead of schedule. Nor did he seem terribly worried about Decker going up the chain of command. "Am I interrupting you?"

"As a matter of fact," he turned his head away from the shower spray, "I'm in the shower and having a private moment. Get out."

Hannibal chuckled. "Sure you are."

He didn't leave. Face hadn't expected him to.

Face sighed and ran his hands through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Decker opened fire on a bunch of kids playing in a creek," he stated. "And I lost it. The two Yards had to pull me off of him."

Hannibal hesitated for just a beat. "Where was Cipher?" he asked with interest.

Face laughed without humor. "Cipher was ready to put a bullet in him before that even happened."

"Why?"

"Because he blew up a hospital!" Face could feel his blood pressure rising as his calm slipped through his fingers. "That camp we went to? It was actually a village that the VC took over. There were still civilians there. There was no way in hell they were keeping POWs there, but he wouldn't turn back. And he blew up the goddamn hospital just for the hell of it!"

Hannibal didn't answer. Face ground his fist against the tile. He wanted to hit something. But if he hit this wall, he would probably hit it hard enough to break his hand. "It didn't have a damn thing to do with his men," Face growled. "He just wanted to kill. And when he shot those kids..."

Still, Hannibal was quiet. Face took a few deep, calming breaths, letting the water cool his head. His skin was flushed again with the hot anger. "We both," he finally started again, pausing at every few words for a slow, calming breath, "told him, in no uncertain terms, to go to hell. And he probably will file charges. And I don't even fucking care."

"Did you hit him?" Hannibal demanded.

Face snorted with laughter. "Cipher pulled a gun on him."

"Did you hit him?" Hannibal asked again, clearly enunciating every word.

Face swallowed, and shut his eyes as he took a deep breath. "I tried, but I didn't really have a chance," he said quietly. "I went for his gun. Tried to stop him." His eyes drifted down to the burn marks on his palm where he'd held the barrel while it fired.

"If it's any consolation," Hannibal said after a lingering silence, "I don't think he'll get around to filing charges. Not when he'd be risking a story like that coming out. He's just blowing smoke."

"I don't give a damn about him filing charges," Face growled back. "If he wants my stripes, he can fucking have them. If I could do it all over again, the only thing I'd do differently is to be a little faster."

"He's here in Da Nang, you know."

The sudden change of topic caught Face off guard. As he slowly processed the words, he laughed, without humor. "Shit, that didn't take long."

"He'll go see Sandgone tomorrow afternoon. Westman's already heard that something's going on. I told him I would call him in the morning once I heard the story of what happened out there. He was more than a little curious."

Tired of the shower, Face turned off the water and ran his hands over his hair, ruffling the water out. "Well, I guess you can tell him that I very politely and respectfully told Decker to shove his rank up his ass. And I'm not sorry."

Hannibal chuckled, and paused for a long moment. "You want to go with me to the DOOM club?"

"If I wanted to drink, I'd be plastered already."

"I'm not going there to drink."

Face froze as he realized what the colonel was implying, and stared for a moment at the opaque shower door before pushing it open and stepping half-out, just enough to look at him. Hannibal was leaning against the sink in clean civilian clothes, arms crossed, with a thoughtful look on his face.

"You're fucking serious?" Face asked incredulously.

Hannibal smiled and shrugged. "No sense in involving Westman if we can work this out amongst ourselves."

Face continued to stare at him for a moment longer before grabbing a towel off the wall and wrapping it around his waist. Finally, he shook his head, sighing as he passed into the room. "How do you think that's gonna go over with Westman?" he challenged.

"Is that a yes?"

Face looked back, and Hannibal smiled wickedly.

August 28, 1978

Face's eyes shot open and immediately, he was reaching under his pillow. Still too asleep to think, he nearly panicked when he didn't find his gun. He was fully dressed, he evaluated quickly, with no pain and no restraints. He wasn't a prisoner and he wasn't in his bed or in a bed at all so it was not a hotel. Sitting up abruptly, eyes darting, his mind caught up with his body and the racing beat of his heart a few seconds later. He was on a sofa in a bare, dark room. His living room, he realized as his eyes made out the grey shadows.

"Nice to know I'm not the only one who still has nightmares."

The voice startled him so much in his half-awake state, he lost his balance, crashing to the floor and hitting his head on the cinderblock end table. It didn't do much to help his disorientation, but the pain woke him up a little more quickly. A small figure was sitting on the floor in the corner, huddled in the square of moonlight filtering through the window, with a bottle of wine and a glass in front of her. Jessica...

Checking his fingers to make sure he wasn't bleeding, he muttered curses under his breath as he sat up and attempted to extract himself from the blanket wound around his legs.

"You okay?" she asked without much concern.

He was drenched in sweat, and his hands ached from being clenched so tightly. Shutting his eyes, he leaned forward, fists clenched in his damp hair. He hadn't dealt with nightmares so vivid in months, at least. The dreams built around memories were always the worst kind, but normally he went out of his way to avoid the triggers that brought them back. He wasn't even sure what had brought them on this time.

"Face?" she tried again, a bit more sincerely this time.

"I'm fine!" he shot back. He realized the harsh tone too late, and took a deep breath, letting his arms drop across his knees as he sat up. With a sigh, he shook his head before repeating, more gently, "I'm fine."

After a long moment, he opened his eyes, and looked across the dark room at her. She'd turned her gaze to the window, hugging her knees as she stared out into the night sky. Finally finding his feet in the tangled mess of blanket, he stood and headed to the bathroom.

The figure staring back at him in the mirror wore a deep frown. His hair was plastered to his forehead and the collar of his shirt was wet, all the way down to his chest. Face drew in a long, cool breath, closed his eyes, and saw the child's face again.

His fists clenched. He'd buried that memory so deep, he'd all but completely forgotten about it. Why should he remember her - only one of many casualties of war. It wasn't nearly the most dramatic of the deaths he'd witnessd. Children died in war. It was the nature of war. It was hell. And it was over.

He drew in a deep, slow breath, realizing he couldn't hide in the bathroom much longer. With fresh determination, he splashed water in his face, and discarded the shirt, using a rag to cool his shoulders and chest. As he studied his reflection in the mirror, it suddenly occurred to him there were two kids about the same age as the ones in his dream sleeping right here in his apartment. Tension in his shoulders made him stand up straight, and he drew in a deep, calming breath.

Stop it, Face.

He left the rag in the bathtub and the shirt on the floor, then flicked off the light as he stepped back into the living room.

October 17, 1968

There were no words exchanged as Hannibal, Face, and Cipher stepped through the door of the Da Nang Officer's Open Mess. Two steps into the room, Hannibal located Decker. Five more steps and he took him by the shoulder, turned him around, and put his fist right through the bridge of his nose. Startled officers in fatigues and civilian clothes alike jumped back as Decker crashed onto the table he'd been sitting at. It gave way under his sudden weight, spilling beer and booze all over him, the floor, and the officers' shoes.

Face watched, a step behind Hannibal, for which of them would be the first to come to Decker's aid. He had to have some friends here, after all. It didn't take long. Fist pulled back, Face stepped between Hannibal and one of the men who'd been sitting with Decker. Cipher was on his other side in a similar posture.

Still stunned, and gushing blood from his badly-broken nose, it took Decker a few seconds to figure out that he needed to stand back up. But before he could manage it, Hannibal had him pinned to the floor by his throat. As the two men engaged with Face and Cipher fell back - one unconscious and the other bleeding almost as badly as Decker - Hannibal's team readied for more. Cipher used his sleeve to wipe away the blood from his mouth as Face glanced around quickly to see if anyone else would dare to step up. The entire bar full of soldiers stared, wide-eyed, but no one moved. Finally, both men looked down at where Hannibal had Decker pinned with one knee on his chest.

Still stunned - and slightly drunk, by the looks of it - Decker struggled in vain as Hannibal leaned down to hold a very private, very serious conversation.

"You file charges," he whispered, "on me or any one of my men, and I will personally see to it that you face a firing squad for what you did to those civilians."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Decker managed, coughing on the blood running down the back of his throat.

Hannibal slammed Decker's head back once more on the broken table. "Do not fuck with me, Decker!" Glaring down at him, he slowly rose to his feet. "You don't want me gunning for you. Not here. Not now. You just stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours."

"I never asked for you to interfere in my business in the first place," Decker scoffed, trying to pull himself up into a slightly more dignified pose.

"Well, you'd better pray to God that nobody ever finds it necessary to send me out to fix your mess again. 'Cause the next time I see you, Decker? We'll see who gets the last word."

Neither of them spoke as they glared at each other for a long moment. Then Hannibal turned and headed for the door, tapping both Face and Cipher on the shoulder as he passed. Face followed immediately. Cipher lingered a moment - long enough to spit a mouthful of blood in Decker's general direction before he turned and shoved his way through the startled crowd. Once outside, he immediately reached for his cigarettes.

"You think he'll still go to Sandgone?" Cipher asked, searching for his lighter with hands that were slightly shaky from the adrenaline.

"He won't take the chance," Hannibal answered simply, offering his lighter to Cipher. "Not with me."

Face's jaw was still tight. It was over, but his fists were still clenched. For the first time, he felt genuinely conflicted emotions about this man he reported to. How could the same man have the balls to stand up for his men so unquestioningly and yet be self-absorbed enough to spill the blood of his own team just for the thrill of it?

The simmering anger that had grown to be a normal part of Face's everyday existence flared unexpectedly in a chaos of emotions he'd never admit to, let alone sort through. He wanted nothing more than to stand in solidarity with this man, the way he knew Cipher did. He wanted to be part of this team on every level – fighting for a common goal and stronger together than they could ever be alone. That kind of connection would make moments like this so much more satisfying, and he wanted to believe these moments were what his team was made of. What would life be like, knowing someone always had his back – right or wrong, whether it was easy or hard, scripted or off-the-cuff?

It would never happen. Not for him and certainly not with Hannibal. Cipher could trust him, but that bridge had been burned before Face ever had a chance to speak to the man. Whether the colonel held some sort of moral high ground or not wasn't half as enticing to Face as it probably should have been. Morals alone didn't count for much; even he had morals. Trust wasn't built on morals. It was built on security and certainty. Maybe he could no longer be certain that Hannibal wouldn't support him, but that didn't necessarily mean the opposite was true. The colonel had surprised him with his willingness to confront the problem rather than deny its existence or join in the effort to make it go away. But only time would tell whether he'd do it again, or if his willingness was only because of his history with Colonel Roderick Decker. Until then, no matter how much he wished it wasn't so, Face couldn't even begin to envision a world where he truly trusted Hannibal Smith.