Hannibal opened his eyes to a dim hospital room, the pain still gripping his body like a vice. He took a moment to orient himself. The sharp tang of antiseptic and the quiet hum of medical equipment grounded him in the present. He absentmindedly traced the layout of the hospital on his blanket, assessing its worth as a possible makeshift rope. Old habits died hard.

The door creaked open. Dr. Bailey walked in, clipboard in hand, trailed by Colonel Mitchell. Hannibal adjusted his position with a soft grunt. It hurt to move.

"Colonel Smith, how do you feel?" Dr. Bailey asked.

Hannibal snorted. "Rough."

"Good analogy for your medical status." Bailey pulled out his penlight. "Let's check those pupils."

Hannibal rolled his eyes, then winced as he shifted his ribs. "Are you about to give me another headache?"

"Humor's a good sign," Bailey replied.

"Yeah, well, it's the only thing holding me together at the moment," Hannibal quipped, squinting against the light. "Well?"

"Better." Bailey stepped back. "But you're still concussed. I saw your seat on the plane—it broke at the base. That's what caused most of your injuries."

"Yeah," Hannibal muttered, absently touching his knee. "I came to with my face glued to the seat in front of me, and my leg caught under it. How long until I can walk?"

Bailey scribbled a note on his clipboard. "A few days. I'll have a physical therapist assess your range of motion tomorrow. But for now, Colonel, you're grounded."

Hannibal gave a dry chuckle. "Trust me, Doc. I'm not going anywhere."

The door opened again. Colonel Decker entered the room, a newspaper tucked under one arm and a cup of coffee in the other hand.

"How are you feeling, Smith?" Decker asked.

Hannibal arched a brow. "Like crap. But thanks for asking."

"Someone's in a bad mood. But I get it. You've been through hell," Decker said, setting the coffee and paper on the small table by the window.

"Let me guess," Hannibal said, his voice dry. "You're here to hurry me out of here. Bullen's orders?"

Decker sighed, crossing his arms. "No, I'm not. That's Bullen's game, not mine. Believe it or not, I came to check on you."

"Check on me?" Hannibal echoed, leaning back against the pillows. "That's rich, coming from you. And here I thought pigs couldn't fly."

Decker hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a moment, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the machines.

"Look, John. I know we haven't been on good terms since Da Nang," Decker said in a quieter voice than normal.

Hannibal was taken aback by Decker's use of his given name. It had been decades since Decker had called him that. A memory surfaced: them as West Point cadets, laughing over beers at Benny Havens' Tavern, their futures still full of promise. "Since Da Nang? You mean since the fight in the DOOM club?"

Decker nodded slowly. "Yeah. That."

Hannibal tilted his head, studying Decker's face. "You were blowing up Cong hospitals like it was a damn sport. I couldn't stand by and watch you do it."

Decker drew a deep breath. "I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I thought... Oh, hell, I don't know. That it would turn the tide of the war. But now—" He gestured at Hannibal, frustration and regret mingling in his voice. "I saw you on that plane, giving everything for strangers, and I can't help but think I got it all wrong."

Hannibal pressed his lips together. "And I was wrong thinking it was worth fighting you over it. We were drunk off our asses. Maybe neither of us knew what the hell we were doing back then."

"Maybe not," Decker admitted. "After what you did on that plane, I think it's time we bury the hatchet. Life's too short. You've got more guts and heart than I ever gave you credit for."

Hannibal extended a hand. "You're not wrong. Life is too short. Let's bury it."

Decker clasped his hand firmly. "Agreed."

A faint, mutual smile passed between them, the years of bitterness lifting to reveal mutual respect.

Dr. Bailey cleared his throat. "Well, I'd call that progress—for both of you. Now, Colonel Smith, let's focus on getting you back on your feet."

Hannibal leaned back against the pillows. "Sure thing, Doc. And Decker, since we're friends again, how about you smuggle me in a decent cigar? The hospital's no smoking policy's killing me."

Decker chuckled. "Some things never change."

"Not in the ways that matter," Hannibal replied.

"John, the crash survivors have been contacting their representatives, senators, even the Secretary of the Army. Bullen's got a PR nightmare on his hands. Would you be agreeable to attending a press conference? It might help calm things down."

"Why would I do that?" Hannibal shot back. "It doesn't do me any good."

Before either man could say more, the door swung open again. A brigadier general stepped in, his bearing stiff and authoritative, followed by another man in a crisp civilian suit. Both men surveyed the room, their eyes landing on Hannibal.

"Colonel Smith," the general said in a deep voice. "I'm General Keeler, Judge Advocate General of the Army.' He pointed at the man next to him. "This is Secretary Cooper."

Hannibal smirked. "Well, if it isn't my fan club. What can I do for you?"

Keeler folded his arms. "We've been getting flak from survivors, senators, and even the media wanting to know if the man who saved those lives on the plane is being treated properly. I came to see for myself."

"Good to know you care, sir. But something tells me this isn't a welfare check." Hannibal caught Decker's nod. Something was up.

"I'm also here to ask a few questions, the general asked.

The other shoe dropped. Hanoi. "Fire away," Hannibal said.

"I pulled your service record, Colonel. I wanted to compare the hero on the plane and how that aligns—or doesn't—with your fugitive status."

"And what did you find?" Hannibal gave Decker a slight nod, hoping he understood to keep their truce a secret.

General Keeler opened a folder from his briefcase. "West Point graduate. A spotless record before Hanoi. All the top medals for bravery. A Medal of Honor in the Korean War. Yet here you are."

"And I'm guessing you don't know the full story behind Hanoi?"

Keeler shook his head. "Enlighten me."

Hannibal leaned forward, ignoring the twinge of pain in his ribs. "It wasn't about the money. It was an order—a classified mission to destabilize North Vietnamese operations. The bank job? That was about crippling their economy. We didn't steal a damn thing."

Keeler's eyes narrowed. "Proof?"

"Would the Pentagon reference number help?"

"Of course."

"72000191. Look it up. But don't hold your breath. People have tried to dig into this before and hit a wall."

Keeler scribbled down the number. "We'll see about that. Anything else you'd like to add?"

"Yeah," Hannibal replied, his tone biting. "I don't like being confined. Ever been a POW, sir?"

Keeler hesitated. "No."

"Then we have nothing else to talk about," Hannibal leaned back into his pillows. Decker met his look with a slight nod, the unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Colonel, you've stirred up quite a hornet's nest. It would be in your best interest to answer my questions."

"Questions about my medical care? Or about why I'm not in a cell?"

"Your reputation at being able to outthink an adversary is well earned."

"If you consider me an adversary, sir, we aren't going to get much done. I'm not your enemy."

Keeler nodded. "Okay, tell me your side of the story."

Hannibal nodded. Listening means having an open mind. As I said, it was never about the money. The mission was an order—to blow up the bank in Hanoi, not to rob it. The goal was destabilization. Somebody high up thought crippling their economy might help turn the war. But when it all went sideways, they needed a scapegoat."

Keeler cocked his head. "You're asking me to believe this was all part of some grand conspiracy?"

"Believe what you want. But the orders came directly from the Pentagon. Check it yourself."

Keeler pulled out a notepad and jotted something down. "I will. But let's say you're telling the truth. Why didn't you fight harder to clear your name?"

Hannibal pointed at himself. "I did. They wouldn't listen. By the time I realized how deep the cover-up went, I was already a fugitive."

Decker, standing silently near the window, turned to face the general. "He's telling the truth. I was there when he got back from Hanoi. The MPs hauled him off while he was still in a hospital bed with a broken ankle swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. They didn't bother to hear him out."

Keeler turned to Decker. "And you believe him?"

Decker nodded. "I've known Smith since West Point. He's a pain in the ass, but he doesn't lie. And he doesn't steal. If he says the mission was sanctioned, then it was sanctioned."

Dr. Bailey stepped forward. "And let's not forget what happened before all of this. The man was a POW for four months. The injuries he sustained during that time weren't only physical—they were brutal. The records don't capture half of what he endured."

Keeler glanced at Hannibal. "You were captured before the Hanoi mission?"

"Yeah, about nine months prior," Hannibal said. "Me, Peck, Baracus, and Murdock. We were ambushed near Da Nang and ended up in a camp deep in the jungle. They worked us over pretty well, trying to break us. Didn't succeed. We escaped."

"They tortured him. Starved him. Tried to break him. But they didn't. He held that unit together and kept those men alive. When they finally got out, they were barely standing, but they made it. That's not the kind of man who deserves to be treated like a criminal."

Keeler looked at the doctor. "Can you confirm this?"

Bailey nodded. "His medical records from that time are extensive. The injuries—broken ribs, severe lacerations, malnutrition—are consistent with what he described. And given the psychological toll of being a POW, I wouldn't be surprised if he's dealing with some form of PTSD."

Hannibal chuckled. He wasn't about to admit to those four letters, even though it was true. "Don't worry, Doc. I've got it handled. Learned how to deal with it a long time ago."

Keeler studied Hannibal for a long moment, then sighed. "If what you're saying is true, Colonel, then you've been dealt a raw deal. I'll look into it. But if I find out you're lying…"

Hannibal shook his head. "You won't."

Keeler nodded, tucking the notepad into his pocket. "For your sake, I hope not."

As the general turned to leave, Decker stepped closer to Hannibal's bedside. "Don't screw this up, Smith. If Keeler finds something, it might be your only shot at clearing your name," he whispered.

Hannibal smiled. "Sounds like you actually care, Rod."

Decker shrugged. "Maybe I do. Can't let an old West Point buddy go down without a fight, can I?"

Hannibal smiled. For the first time in a long while, he felt an elusive feeling—hope.

###

Six weeks. He'd been here six damn weeks. The therapy room smelled of antiseptic and worn rubber gym mats. Rows of therapy equipment lined the walls. While his shoulder and arm healed quickly without any issues, his knee was an entirely different story.

Hannibal sat on the edge of the padded table, his sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to his back. His knee was propped on a bolster, its swollen contours barely visible beneath the tightly wrapped ace bandage the therapist had secured after their session yesterday. The hinged knee brace sat on a nearby chair, waiting to be refastened.

Sergeant Brian Ortega, his physical therapist, a lean man in his mid-20s with brown eyes and an unflinching professionalism, crouched by Hannibal's leg, examining his injured knee. He was young, fresh-faced, and competent. His rolled-up sleeves revealed the muscled-up arms of a bodybuilder. But Hannibal had already decided that Ortega was too cautious for his liking.

"You're improving, Colonel," Ortega said, though his tone held a note of doubt. "Range of motion is still limited, but the swelling's gone down since last week."

"Then let's push it," Hannibal said, gritting his teeth. "I'm tired of baby steps."

Ortega looked up with narrowed eyes. "Sir, you're not ready for anything more than gradual progress. This isn't a sprained ankle. It's a significant injury. Your body needs time."

Hannibal waved a hand dismissively. "Time's a luxury I don't have, Sergeant. Get on with it."

Reluctantly, Ortega nodded and began manipulating the joint, moving it through its range of motion. Hannibal tensed as the dull ache in his knee sharpened with each movement, the pain flaring like a hot poker.

"Relax, sir," Ortega said. "You're working against me."

"Feels like you're working against me," Hannibal muttered, clenching his jaw.

Ortega gave him a small smile. "If it doesn't hurt a little, I'm not doing my job."

Then something shifted—literally. A sharp, audible pop echoed through the room, followed by an immediate wave of searing pain that radiated from Hannibal's knee to his hip. He let out an involuntary howl, instinctively gripping the table.

"Damn it!" Hannibal hissed, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Ortega's face went pale. "Colonel, what happened?"

Hannibal barely heard him over the pounding roar in his ears. "It popped...like something snapped," he ground out, biting his lip to maintain control.

Ortega's hands hovered over the knee, hesitant to touch it again. The joint was visibly swelling, the skin stretching taut beneath the wrap. He stood quickly. "Stay put, sir. I'm calling Dr. Bailey."

"Not…going…anywhere." Hannibal gripped the table with both hands, his breaths coming in short gasps. The pain was relentless, a sharp contrast to the dull ache he'd been enduring for weeks. He prided himself on his pain tolerance, but this...was different. His knee felt like the inside of a blast furnace, cooking from the inside out.

Dr. Bailey arrived minutes later, followed closely by an orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Anderson, a no-nonsense man with a steely demeanor.

"What happened?" Bailey asked as he approached Hannibal.

"Something popped," Ortega explained, his voice tight with guilt. "I wasn't pushing too hard, I swear. It just—"

"Relax, Sergeant," Anderson interrupted. "Let me take a look."

Hannibal winced as the surgeon's hands prodded the swollen joint, his fingers tracing the swollen contours of the knee.

"Damn it, Anderson, give me a warning next time," Hannibal growled, sweat dripping down his face.

"Sorry, Colonel," Anderson said. "But we need to know what we're dealing with."

After a few more excruciating moments, Anderson stepped back, his expression serious. "We need imaging. Bailey, get him scheduled for an MRI immediately."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "Imaging? For what? It's just a setback."

Bailey folded his arms. "Colonel, this isn't a setback. Something's not right. The swelling and the instability are concerning. We need to rule out structural damage."

Hannibal sighed, frustration boiling beneath the pain. "You're telling me I might be stuck in this damn hospital even longer?"

"Hannibal, I know you want to move forward, but pushing yourself too hard can do more harm than good. Let us figure this out," Dr. Bailey said softly.

By the time the MRI was complete and the results came back, the diagnosis was clear: a torn meniscus and damage to the anterior cruciate ligament. Surgery was inevitable.

Back in his hospital room, Hannibal stared at the ceiling, the news weighing heavily on him. His body ached, his pride stung, and his patience was worn thin. He hated being sidelined and feeling helpless. But most of all, he hated that his stubbornness might have made things worse.

Dr. Bailey entered the room and handed him the surgical consent form. "You'll come through this, Hannibal…but only if you let us do our jobs."

Hannibal took the pen and signed the form. "Fine, Doc. But you'd better make sure Dr. Anderson knows what he's doing. I've got plans that don't involve sitting in this bed forever."

As Bailey left, Hannibal closed his eyes, the throbbing in his knee a constant reminder of the road ahead. He knew he'd get through it—he always did—but for the first time in a long while, he wished for Maggie's calming presence.

###

The sun was dipping low over Fort Lewis Army Base, casting long shadows across the neat rows of barracks and administrative buildings. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine from the surrounding forests.

Hannibal sat propped up in his bed, flipping through an old issue of Stars and Stripes. His knee throbbed dully, encased in a brace after reconstructive surgery two days ago. A pack of his favorite cigars sat on the bedside table, untouched since the morning—a small but meaningful shift for a man who chain-smoked through missions.

Dr. Bailey entered the room, a clipboard tucked under his arm. "Colonel Smith, I don't suppose you've actually been resting like I told you?"

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth inching upward. "Doctor, resting is what I do best."

"Uh-huh." He glanced at the monitors before jotting down notes. "And I suppose that's why Ortega told me you tried to skip the therapy band exercises yesterday?"

Hannibal shrugged, wincing as he shifted in the bed. "I like to keep things interesting."

Before Bailey could respond, brisk footsteps echoed in the hallway. A moment later, the door swung open.

Maggie stood there with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and dressed in a white blouse and blue jeans. She locked eyes with Hannibal.

Hannibal sat up straighter despite the twinge in his knee. "Maggie?"

She strode in, her steps purposeful with equal parts relief and exasperation on her face. "John Smith, you stubborn son of a—" She cut herself off. "You really don't know how to do things halfway, do you?"

"Maggie," Hannibal said, his voice thick with emotion. "What are you doing here? …It's not safe."

"Who cares about safety. What do you think I'm doing here?" She crossed her arms. "I heard about the crash on the news. And then I heard about your injuries and the surgery. Do you think I'd sit around and wait for you to call me? Not a chance."

Dr. Bailey cleared his throat, clearly amused by the exchange. "And you are?"

Maggie extended a hand. "Dr. Maggie Sullivan. Army veteran, civilian doctor, and the person who's patched up this troublemaker more times than I can count."

Bailey shook her hand. "Well, Dr. Sullivan, it's a pleasure to meet you. And I have to admit, I'm relieved someone else is here to keep this one in line."

Maggie shot Hannibal a look. "Don't think I won't."

The door opened again, and Colonel Decker stepped in. He froze mid-step, his gaze switching between Maggie and Hannibal. "Smith, you've got a visitor? A civilian visitor?"

Hannibal smirked. "Decker, meet Maggie Sullivan. Maggie, this is Roderick Decker. He's the guy who's spent years chasing me."

Maggie extended her hand again, her grip firm. "Nice to meet you, Colonel Decker. I've heard a lot about you."

Decker took her hand, still looking slightly stunned. "That's nice. I think. But who are you to John."

Maggie grinned like a Cheshire cat. "I'm his…girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Decker stared at Hannibal. "You have a girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Hannibal said sheepishly.

"Well, the world must be spinning in the wrong direction. I didn't think any woman could corral you. She must be one hell of a woman."

"You have no idea," Hannibal said, watching Maggie grab his medical chart hanging on the wall.

Decker raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were married to your cigar."

"Not anymore." Hannibal picked up the cigars from the table and handed them to Maggie. "These are yours to toss. I'm done."

Maggie's eyes widened, her stern demeanor slipping. "You're serious?"

Hannibal nodded. "Dead serious. For you, Maggie. For us."

Maggie smiled, a warmth spreading across her face that softened her features. "Well, that's a start." She waltzed across the room and chucked the cigars unceremoniously into the garbage can.

Decker let out a low whistle. "I'll be damned. Never thought I'd see the day. Smith, you really do keep surprising me."

Maggie turned back to Hannibal. "Now, let me take a look at you. I want to make sure these doctors didn't miss anything."

Hannibal chuckled. "I'm in good hands, Maggie. But I'm glad you're here."

Dr. Bailey gestured toward the hallway. "I'll give you two a moment. Colonel Decker, care to join me? I've got some charts to update."

Decker hesitated, then nodded, throwing one last bemused glance at Hannibal and Maggie. "Smith, you've got more lives than a cat. Don't waste this one."

As the door closed behind them, Maggie pulled up a chair beside Hannibal's bed. She reached out, covering his hand with hers. "You scared me, John. Don't do that again."

"I'll do my best," Hannibal said in a low voice. "But you know me, Maggie. I've always loved a good plan. And right now, you're the best plan I've ever had."

For the first time in weeks, Hannibal allowed himself to relax, the weight of the crash and its aftermath easing. With Maggie by his side, he knew he could face whatever came next.