CHAPTER SEVEN

April 19, 1985

Before she was even awake, Kelly realized the bed beside her was empty. She wondered for a moment why that seemed strange, then remembered. Murdock was supposed to be with her, tucked into an oversized, exceedingly soft and plush bed in a cozy little room of the cabin. It had taken her more than an hour to fall asleep, and she'd only managed when Murdock finally crawled under the blankets beside her and cradled her wordlessly until sleep finally came. He still hadn't spoken a word to her, directly, about his brother. She could only assume he'd talked to Face when he followed after him to make sure he was alright. Something about that lost, painfully raw look in his eye prevented her from asking any questions.

All of this came rushing back to her conscious mind before she was even fully awake. Worry set in as she felt the empty bed, but she waited a few minutes to see if he'd return. When he didn't, she finally drew in a deep breath, steeling herself for any possibility of his whereabouts and mental state, sat up, and put her feet on the floor. She dressed in the clothes from the day before, noting his were missing as well, then carefully picked her way through the unfamiliar halls and rooms of the cabin.

"Murdock?"

A brief flicker of fear crossed her consciousness. She trusted Murdock's team, and wandering around in the dark with them nearby didn't worry her, even if she didn't particularly know them. But this newcomer was an altogether different story. Murdock didn't seem to trust him, and she wasn't sure whether she should be afraid of bumping into him here, in the dark. Was he a threat? Should she be worried? At least she knew all she'd have to do is yell and others would come running.

Luckily, she wasn't forced to actually navigate the scenario. She found Murdock on the back porch, lying flat on his back and staring up at the sky with one arm under his head for a pillow. Staring blankly into space, he looked like he was in another world, not flinching even as she opened the door and called his name softly again. "Murdock?"

They both jumped, startled, as the door closed behind her with a loud crack! she'd not been expecting. As she held a hand loosely to her rapidly-beating heart and waited for the brief adrenaline rush to subside, he studied her. "Hey, sweetheart," he said quietly. "Come out here to watch the stars with me?"

She took a step closer and sat down on the wooden floor beside him, choosing not to point out the fact that he really couldn't see the stars through the canopy of trees. He hadn't come out here to stargaze. "Murdock, it's three o'clock in the morning," she pointed out. "And it's cold out here. What are you doing?"

He held out a hand, inviting her to lie down beside him. Reluctantly, she lowered herself. He snaked an arm around her shoulders and guided her until they shared the warmth of their bodies. With a sigh, she rested her head against his neck, nuzzling him gently.

"Anything I can do to help?" she asked hopefully.

He sighed audibly, chest rising and falling beneath her loose embrace. "I just wanna know why," he finally whispered after a long silence. "All these years I thought there was no chance he was still alive. If I'd known, Kelly, if I'd even thought there was a remote possibility..."

"What?" she prodded gently when he trailed off. "What would you have done?"

He was silent for a long moment, as if considering it. "I would've... known."

As weak as the answer sounded, it held a tremendous amount of weight at the same time. She couldn't even begin to imagine how she would've felt in his place. The grief of losing a sibling was foreign to her in and of itself. But to add the uncertainty of never knowing how it happened and now the betrayal of realizing all the grief and healing was in vain... Kelly didn't think she'd ever be able to truly understand. But if she'd learned one thing in her life, it was that the past need not determine the future.

"You know now," she pointed out, snuggling a bit closer to him for warmth. "What will it change?"

She expected an answer - ideally, a realization that things would be better now. Instead, Murdock stared blinkingly up at the sky as if caught without an answer. "Nothing," he finally admitted. "It won't change a damn thing. He'll get what he wants, he'll go on hating me, he'll walk away, I'll never see him again..."

Kelly frowned deeply at the overwhelming pessimism. "It doesn't have to be that way," she replied. She wanted to paint a different picture for him, but didn't have a chance before he continued.

"Yeah, it does," he said with bitter conviction. "It was always gonna be that way. It just wasn't supposed to be my fault."

Now it was her turn to be caught off guard. "Your fault?" she repeated, pulling away and sitting up. With a deep frown, she peered down at him through the darkness. "How is any of this your fault?"

Murdock's jaw twitched. Eyes closed, he drew in a deep breath before uttering his confession. "I didn't save him."

"You couldn't save him," she corrected. "It's not quite the same thing."

"I gave up on him," Murdock clarified. "I wrote him off. And I think in a way..."

He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of the words he left unspoken. Concerned curiosity made her lean forward expectantly. "In a way?" she prodded.

Sitting up, he pulled his baseball cap off, ran a hand over his hair, and replaced it again. Suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin, he avoided her gaze. "I didn't want him to die," he said firmly. "But it was easier when he did."

"What was easier?" she asked, confused.

"Everything," he replied, shaking his head. "Living. Being who I am, what I am. He hated - hates - everything about me."

Kelly shook her head. "That can't be true."

"You don't know him," Murdock said dryly.

"He wouldn't be here if -"

"He wants something, Kelly," Murdock interrupted, shaking his head as he turned away, still avoiding eye contact. "He's got a problem; he wants my team to fix it."

"Will you?"

She hadn't meant to ask such a confrontational question. It had just slipped out, without thought. Immediately, she regretted it. The long silence that followed didn't help to ease her discomfort.

"I don't know," Murdock finally admitted.

"Will you at least hear what it is?" Kelly tried.

"It doesn't matter what it is," he answered with a sigh. "What matters is, it's him."

Kelly looked away, trying hard to reconcile this bitter, angry side of Murdock with the generally happy and self-confident man she knew. Crazy or not, he had never looked so badly scarred as he did right now.

"Hannibal didn't let him tell any details about what he wanted," she informed quietly. "He kept trying but... it's up to you whether he even gets a chance to say what kind of help he wants."

Murdock didn't speak. Watching him recede into the dark, empty parts of himself, deep beneath the blankets of anger and resentment and hurt, her heart broke. Maybe this was a side of him she'd never seen, but he was still the man she loved. More than that, he was the man she knew. When the pain died down (or simply went numb) and the light found him again, he'd have to live with the decisions he made right now. Alan had done wrong, and Murdock had every right to be angry. But he wasn't the type of man to be comforted by retaliation.

"It may be easier to just make him go away," she whispered. "I wouldn't blame you. I don't think your team would. But I think you would."

Remaining silent, Murdock looked at her through the darkness.

"You didn't give up on him," she continued softly. "Right or wrong, good or bad, he never gave you the chance to follow through. But this time, it's different. This is your choice. And maybe you're right; maybe he'll walk away again when it's over. But it won't be because you didn't save him."

Murdock studied her for a long moment, but the distance in his eyes made it clear his thoughts were a million miles away. "No," he finally agreed, looking away sadly. "It'll be because he'd rather die than let me have the satisfaction of saving him."

September 24, 1969

The vaguely familiar voice of Murdock's new commanding officer, heavy with disapproval, cut through his blurry oblivion like a bolt of lightning. "It's seven o'clock in the morning, Lieutenant."

Opening his eyes, Murdock blinked a few times and wondered whether the room was actually spinning or if someone had put him on a merry-go-round in his sleep as a sick practical joke. The thought might have elicited a chuckle if not for the fact that if he laughed, he would end up both dizzy and covered in vomit.

From where he was sitting, just outside the door of the team room, Smith looked like a towering skyscraper blocking out the early morning sun. Good thing, too, because Murdock would've been blinded by the brightness. Flexing a hand around a near-empty bottle of vodka, Murdock closed his eyes again before managing the most articulate response possible under the circumstances.

"Huh?"

"Cipher?" Smith turned away, calling off into the distance. The shout made the pounding in Murdock's head unbearable and the words exchanged by the two men were lost to the pain.

Tipping his head back, Murdock searched for the wall behind him, but his neck was like rubber. His head bounced from side to side, leaving him dizzy. Finally, he gave up and let his chin rest on his chest. Without conscious thought, he raised the bottle to his lips again. He didn't even notice he wasn't holding it anymore until he almost hit himself in the face with his empty hand. "Wha...?" How had that happened?

"Up and at 'em, Murdock." The authoritative voice was only vaguely familiar. "Face, give me a hand here."

Murdock opened his eyes to see the hazy outline of the man standing over him. "Here's my hand," Murdock offered, holding it up. He blinked a few times in confusion upon realizing he couldn't feel his fingers, and wiggled them a few times to see if the feeling would come back. "Hey, look! They move!"

"Let's go, LT," the towering man said dryly.

Suddenly, he was lurching forward and upward. His stomach flip-flopped and the whole world tilted back and forth as if on a seesaw. Wobbly legs gave out from underneath him and he would have clawed for something to grab onto if he could've moved his arms. He realized belatedly that they were immobilized by a man on either side.

"Woah, baaaaaaad move muchachos, I..." Oh God, he could feel the liquor sloshing in his stomach. "I'm... I don't feel so good."

"Yeah, I bet you don't." At least one of these two men seemed to find this funny. Murdock didn't think it was very funny. He was going to be sick.

"Where are...?" His legs gave out as he tried to take a step, and the two men dragged him, feet barely touching the ground. "Whaddaya want you? Can't we...? Where we goin'?"

"You're going to take a shower, Murdock."

A shower? He needed to lie down, not take a shower. "Noooo... bad idea." Eyes closed, he hadn't the slightest idea where he was as they propped him up against a wall.

"Bad," he declared again. "Dunna like it."

His eyes flew open as the lukewarm water hit, and he jerked forward, losing his balance and nearly collapsing in the tiny stall. But a pair of hands shoved him back against the wall, holding him under the merciless attack of the spray.

"I got him," the disembodied voice drifting through his confusion declared.

"You sure?" the second man asked.

Murdock was sputtering, eyes wide and panicked as he struggled to figure out what the hell was going on. His insides twisted in funny ways again and this time, he couldn't hold it back. He bent forward, pushing against the hands that gave way enough to let him lean and empty all the vodka from his stomach. The few seconds of gagging, his throat and mouth burning, gut tying in excruciating knots, took his mind off of the water. But as soon as the heaving subsided, he was pulled up again, his face stuck right into the spray. He coughed and gasped, trying to get away but too dizzy and sick to really fight against the men who were apparently trying to drown him. Adrenaline kicked in as he wondered, in his confusion, if they truly didn't realize - or didn't care - that he couldn't breathe.

"Rinse your mouth," one of the voices instructed patiently.

He decided to trust that voice in the hope it might tell him how to get out of this water. Soaked to the bone in his olive green fatigues and combat boots, Murdock did as ordered. Finally, his assailants dragged him out of the shower and shoved him, none-too-gently, onto the wooden bench outside of the stall.

"You know, when I said I'd buy you a drink, this wasn't what I had in mind."

A towel hit him in the face. He saw it coming, but didn't have the reflexes to grab it. Still shivering, barely able to hold the towel around him, his eyes came to rest on the boyish features of the young lieutenant he'd met just a few days ago. Face was putting on his shirt, which he'd apparently removed to hold Murdock upright in the shower. So it was his voice Murdock had heard. It had to be his voice. He was the only one here; the owner of the other voice had left.

"Here."

There was the other voice. Murdock had the sense to turn his head very slowly as he looked toward it. Cipher held out an Army-issue coffee cup, putting it right up to Murdock's mouth instead of handing it over. "Drink," he ordered, tipping it up.

The shit tasted like lukewarm motor oil. Murdock almost gagged, stomach twisting in knots again. But he didn't throw it up. A couple of familiar pills dropped into his hand with the order to swallow, and he obeyed without thought, boosting the coffee's effects with a healthy dose of amphetamines. In a few miserable seconds, it was all sloshing around in his stomach - coffee grounds and all. A pile of dry clothes hit him in the face.

"Get dressed," Cipher ordered. "We've got orders."

Those words did more than all the other interventions combined to sober him up. "Orders?" he repeated, eyes wide. "Wha-? I can't fly like this!"

"Well, then you'd better get your shit together in one quick hurry," Face advised coolly before turning away.

Cipher gave him a quick look up and down before following the young lieutenant out. The panic quickly overcame Murdock's confusion. Orders? They wanted him to fly? He couldn't even walk on his own two feet! He was having difficulty finding the right hole in the shirt to put his arm into! Still wet, still drunk, but now absolutely terrified on top of it all, he froze as he heard a new set of footsteps on the cement floor. Daring a quick look at the entrance, he forced himself to take a slow, calming breath as he recognized the figure.

Another slow breath did little to calm Murdock's nerves as he suddenly realized he was trapped - dripping wet, half-dressed, and drunk - in a room with his CO. The look on Smith's face spoke volumes. Murdock shrank back, trying to make himself small, as Smith put one black boot up on the bench and towered over him.

"Let me tell you about Special Ops, Lieutenant," Hannibal began conversationally, reaching into his pocket for a cigar.

Murdock swallowed hard. He had no idea what to expect, but he knew it wasn't going to be pretty. He could feel his heart beating in his chest as Smith continued.

"We work hard. And we play hard." He paused just a beat to light the cigar with his Zippo. "But we do it in that order."

Dropping the lighter back into his pocket, the Colonel leaned in very slowly as Murdock backed up. Pressed as tightly against the wall as possible, truly trapped, he was nose-to-nose with Smith. Death didn't scare him. Torture didn't scare him. But in that moment, Colonel John Smith scared him.

"If I ever catch you drinking again at seven o'clock in the morning on the day we're moving out," Smith growled, "I'll ship you back to the States so fast, you'll still be drunk when you touch down. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Unable to pry his tongue off the roof of his dry mouth, Murdock nodded mutely, hoping against hope it would be good enough. Smith's eyes narrowed into slits. "I can't hear you, Lieutenant," he spat with obvious contempt.

"Yes, sir," Murdock managed, somehow.

Smith stood up straight again, and headed for the door. "You have one hour," he warned. "And if you're not perfectly sober by the time we're ready to leave, you're off my team."

One hour. Murdock's eyes slid closed as he listened to the frantic pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. How was he supposed to be sober in an hour?

With a determination borne of panic, he realized he needed more of that coffee. A lot more. And he was definitely going to need a couple aspirin, too.

April 19, 1985

Seven o'clock in the morning found Alan sitting on the front porch, already halfway through a six pack of Budweiser and a quarter of the way through a pack of Marlborough reds. Murdock glared him - at the entire spectacle - as he looked through the screen door. "Nice breakfast," he said dryly.

Alan took a long, slow drag off the cigarette and blew the smoke into the air, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the door. "After the way you was talkin' yesterday, I'm kinda surprised you care."

"I don't," Murdock retorted quickly, and Alan shrugged.

With a deep sigh, Murdock stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door clap closed behind him. Hands buried deep in his pockets, he clenched them a few times, ensuring he had a firm grip on his anger before daring to speak again. Hat pulled low over his forehead, he didn't actually have to look at the man who made that anger burn deep inside of him.

"Nice jacket," Alan grinned.

Murdock briefly considered telling him to go to hell, but swallowed the words. Instead, he leaned on the porch column and stared silently out at the trees and the cool fog hanging between them, blanketing the thick woods in grey. Finally, he drew in a deep breath and turned, putting his back to the railing and fixing his stare on the wooden planks of the floor.

"Look, uh... I just want you to know that..." He drew in a steadying breath and looked up, meeting his opponent face to face. To his relief, it seemed to help rather than hinder his ability to control the fury. In his dreams, Alan was always so much more intimidating than he was right now, finishing another beer and reaching for the next, unshaven and tired-looking with dark rings under his eyes.

"I'm still real mad at you," Murdock continued, keeping his voice even.

Alan nodded slowly, grabbing his Bic from the arm of the seat and expertly using it to pop the top off of the bottle. He took a drink before attempting a response. "I figure you got a right to be," he finally granted.

"You got no idea what it was like, goin' through all that, tryin' to accept that you were dead and gone," Murdock shot, his boldness growing as he maintained careful control. "An' don't think it was all over in the first few years either. I still think about it. And when I think that you weren't really dead and gone and that you just -"

He stopped abruptly, turning away to preserve the calm-but-angry mask threatened by the emotion welling up in his chest. There were simply no words to express his confusion and fury.

"What would it've taken to call me?" he demanded, withdrawing his hands and gripping the wooden railing tightly. "Just to let me know you were alive. It's not like we needed to do a whole family reunion, just... to tell me you were still breathin'!"

"I'm sorry," Alan replied lightly.

Bullshit! Murdock's nails dug into the stained wood. "Yeah, well, sometimes sorry ain't good enough," he snapped.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alan take another swallow of beer and reach for his cigarettes. Sorry was definitely not enough when it wasn't sincere, and Murdock couldn't see even the tiniest hint of remorse in the way the man carried himself. Shutting his eyes tightly, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath, remembering why he'd come out here in the first place. Once he'd had a few minutes to compose himself, he spoke again, picking up where he left off.

"But I guess in this case, sorry's all I'm gonna get," he said quietly. "So I guess I'm gonna have to make do. Just don't go thinkin' like everything's all peachy keen between us 'cause I still got a lot of stuff to work through in my head 'fore I'm okay with this."

Alan nodded once, definitively. "Sounds fair 'nuff."

"And don't call me Mark." Murdock rolled his eyes. "I hate that name."

Alan chuckled, but was silenced by a hard stare as Murdock spun on him.

"An' I sure as hell don't wanna have to explain it to any more of my team. 'Least not any more than you'd like to explain why you got a different last name from me." The threat was only implied, but Alan's nod made it clear that he understood. "So let's just leave Pandora's Box to stay the hell shut, got it? I go by Murdock, you go by Alan."

"Alright," Alan agreed. "Don't see why not."

In the silence that followed, Murdock watched the dew burn off the grass. Before long, he was absently testing out the theory that bad girls in songs were always called "Judy". Al Green had a song about Judy. So did Elvis. Then there was "Judy in Disguise" with the lemonade pies and the new car... He never did like that song.

"So who's your girlfriend?"

The question snapped him back to reality instantly, and his eyes narrowed until he was glaring daggers at the damp grass. "Her name is Kelly and you leave her alone."

Alan chuckled, unconcerned by the implied threat. Murdock was not laughing. "I mean it, Alan," he warned with every ounce of sincerity he possessed. "I don't want you around her. That's the line and don't cross it or you're gonna see why my bedroom door locks from the outside."

Finishing the rest of his beer, Alan lit up another cigarette before answering. "You know, I gotta admit," he said quietly. "All the places I thought I'd find you, I sure as hell wasn't expectin' you to be in a psych ward."

"Lotta people have written a lotta books on the effects of jungle warfare on sane people," Murdock answered dismissively. This was a conversation he knew well enough how to navigate with no feeling or, really, thought. "An' I've always been a little on the crazy side."

"Maybe. But even so..."

Murdock looked away, not wanting to encourage the small talk. Alan finished another cigarette.

"BA told me why you joined up with them," he started, trying a different topic of conversation. "Or at least when. Never thought I'd see the day when my baby brother was takin' orders from Hannibal fuckin' Smith."

Murdock could hear the snicker in his voice, but said nothing.

"Ironic as hell, don't you think?" Alan prodded. "You run off an' join the Air Force 'cause you don't wanna be like me... an' you end up on a fuckin' SOG unit."

There was no point in arguing or debating the facts with a man who was half-drunk at this early hour. Alan - like most others - probably had no idea what their unit in Vietnam had even been, much less what they did. At the time Alan had disappeared, SOG operations were still relatively new. Even at the end of the war, they had been kept pretty quiet for political and strategic reasons. Since then, there hadn't been a tremendous amount of interest in the nameless, faceless soldiers - many of whom had died without recognition. The real story of their deaths had too often been covered for the safety of those still living. Murdock's vision blurred out of focus as he considered that.

"So they ever teach you how to shoot a real weapon?"

Murdock rolled his eyes as he came back to the present in time to catch the snide remark. "Oh, don't give me that shit."

Alan laughed like a madman, and Murdock paused to let him revel in it for a few seconds before continuing. "And for the record, I will have you know that I outrank you by quite a bit, Sergeant." He spat out the title as if it were a curse word.

He opened his mouth to answer, but didn't have a chance before the door opened and Hannibal stepped out into the cool morning air. "Morning, Captain."

Alan shifted uncomfortably, and Murdock felt a twinge of sadistic satisfaction as he answered. "Mornin', Colonel."

Hannibal walked to the post of the porch and leaned on it, arms crossed. Clenching a cigar between his teeth, his gaze lingered for a moment on the beer at Alan's feet. "Glad to see you two getting along so well," he offered in the light and unassuming, purely "Hannibal" way that left no room for argument.

Although Murdock believed Hannibal had refused to listen to the request by their potential client out of respect for him, he also knew the Colonel would take a smug satisfaction in forcing Alan into silent submission after his impertinent kidnapping of Face and demands upon arrival. Murdock felt just as smug.

Tone still exceedingly polite, Hannibal cut through the remainder of the niceties and straight to the topic at hand with precision. "Since we're all getting along, I think it's time to have that conversation about what you're doing here and what it is you want."

Polite smile notwithstanding, Hannibal was anxious to hear what, exactly, was worth all of the drama the man's arrival had caused. Suppressing his own personal feelings on the matter and steeling himself for whatever might come next, Murdock gripped the wooden railing behind him with white knuckles... and waited.