Hannibal sat on the padded table in the rehabilitation room, his cane leaning against the wall beside him. He removed his sweat-soaked t-shirt, revealing the multitude of scars that covered his chest and torso. Constant reminders of past battles in Korea and Vietnam. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead. His silver hair was mussed from exertion.

Sergeant Ortega stood a few feet away with a clipboard in his hand. His Army fatigues were spotless despite the rigorous nature of his work. "Colonel Smith, you need to slow down. This isn't a sprint."

Hannibal waved a dismissive hand, more exaggerated than he intended, thanks to the frustration bubbling under the surface. "I'm fine, Ortega. A few twinges here and there, but nothing I can't handle."

Ortega sighed, crossing his arms. "With all due respect, sir, the 'twinges' are your body screaming at you to take it easy. You're healing from major injuries. If you push too hard, you'll undo weeks of progress."

Hannibal smirked and picked up the heaviest dumbbell on the rack, testing its weight in his hand. It was too heavy for him, but he couldn't back down. "Progress? Ortega, I'm not trying to set records here. I want to get back to my life. Sitting around doesn't suit me."

"No, what doesn't suit you is following instructions." Ortega countered. "You're lucky your knee's holding up as well as it is after reconstruction. Most people would be grateful they're even walking."

Hannibal chuckled. "Most people aren't me."

"No, sir," Ortega shot back, his frustration peeking through. "Most people wouldn't try to climb stairs without a cane a week after getting out of a wheelchair."

"That was one time," Hannibal grumbled.

"And what about last week, when you thought you could jog on the treadmill?" Ortega asked, arching an eyebrow.

Hannibal winced at the memory. His knee gave out, and he fell face first on the belt, traveling at three miles an hour, losing the skin on his chin and the tip of his nose. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Ortega ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. "Look, I get it. You're used to being in control. But your body's not the same as it was before that crash. If you keep ignoring its limits, you're not going to be ready for anything."

For a moment, Hannibal didn't respond. He stared at the dumbbell in his hand, turning it over slowly. The silence stretched on for several seconds.

"I know it's frustrating," Ortega said, his tone gentler. "But you've made a hell of a lot of progress. You're walking without a brace, your strength's coming back, and your coordination's improving every day. Just... trust the process. You'll get there."

Hannibal set the dumbbell down, his movements slower than before. "You know, Ortega, you remind me of my first TAC officer at West Point. He had the same knack for telling me what I didn't want to hear."

Ortega grinned. "Did he ever manage to get you to listen?"

Hannibal chuckled. "Not a chance. But he sure made me think about it."

"Well, I'll take that as a win." Ortega scribbled a note on his clipboard. "Now, how about we try something less likely to end with you on the floor and back in the operating room? We'll start with resistance bands. Seated, controlled motions only."

Hannibal gave him a sidelong look but complied, shifting into position with a grumble. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"A little," Ortega admitted. "But mostly, I don't want to explain to my CO why my patient's back in surgery."

As Hannibal began the exercise, moving the resistance band with deliberate effort, he muttered under his breath. "You're tougher than you look, Ortega."

"And you're more stubborn than any officer I've ever met," Ortega replied, unfazed. "Let's call it even."

Hannibal smiled despite the ache in his muscles. For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—Ortega was right. He'd get there, one step at a time.

###

Hannibal sat on his uncomfortable hospital bed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a towel. His physical therapy session had left him more drained than he cared to admit. The ache in his knee was a relentless reminder of his limits.

"I'm sorry we had to do the session in your room, sir," Sergeant Ortega said, packing his equipment. "The broken water pipe in the gym left me without options."

"No problem, Sergeant. Call it a change of pace with no one watching." Hannibal had spotted photogs on occasion camped outside the therapy room windows. He hated being photographed.

"You're getting stronger, Colonel." Ortega slung his bag over his shoulder. "Keep at it, and you'll be ditching that cane in no time."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather ditch the whole damn hospital," Hannibal muttered, flexing his knee, stopping when pain shot up his leg. He did too much today. Like he did every day.

Ortega chuckled. "Careful what you wish for. Scuttlebutt around the water cooler says you won't be here much longer."

Hannibal wondered what Ortega meant. "What kind of scuttlebutt?"

Ortega hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "Word is the brass might be planning to throw you in a cell. Something about the JAG and the Secretary of the Army not buying your story."

The words hit Hannibal like a gut punch. He gave the therapist a lopsided grin, hiding the simmering anger beneath. "Well, isn't that just peachy. Thanks for the heads-up, Sergeant."

"Don't shoot the messenger." Ortega pointed at Hannibal. "Take care of that knee, Colonel. You'll need it." With that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone, Hannibal's smile faded. He stared at the sterile ceiling, his mind racing. The idea of being locked up—again—gnawed at him. He'd endured prison before, but this time felt different. The stakes were higher, the betrayal sharper.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening again. Colonel Roderick Decker strolled in, his green fatigues starched like boards with regulation creases. His polished combat boots clicked on the floor. There was something uncharacteristically relaxed in his demeanor, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Decker," Hannibal said cautiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Here to escort me to my new accommodations?"

Decker raised an eyebrow, pulling a folded newspaper from under his arm. "You always were dramatic, John. I thought they taught us better at West Point."

"Yeah, well, I guess I missed that class. What's the news?"

Decker didn't respond immediately. Instead, he tossed the newspaper onto Hannibal's lap. The bold headline screamed at him:

"HERO OF THE CRASH CLEARED: COL. SMITH HAILED AS A SAVIOR!"

Hannibal blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. "What the hell is this?"

Decker crossed his arms, his face lit up in a rare smile. "Exactly what it looks like. You're cleared. The Secretary of the Army and the JAG reviewed the evidence, tracked down those classified orders you mentioned, and corroborated your story. Turns out you were telling the truth all along."

Hannibal leaned back, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief washed over him, though he quickly masked it with his usual nonchalance. "Well, I'll be damned. Guess even the brass can get something right now and then."

Decker chuckled. "Don't get too comfortable. I'm the one who leaked the scuttlebutt about your impending arrest."

Hannibal's head snapped up. "That was you?"

"Consider it payback." Decker leaned casually against the wall. "All those times you slipped through my fingers? All those snarky remarks you lobbed at me? I figured I owed you a little heartburn."

Despite himself, Hannibal laughed, shaking his head. "You're something else, Rod. I didn't think you had it in you."

Decker's expression softened, a rare moment of vulnerability flashing across his face. "West Point taught us to fight for what's right, even on opposite sides. And watching you on that plane…seeing what you did for those people? It reminded me why I respected you in the first place."

Hannibal decided to rib him a little. "And here I thought you'd lost all your charm. You ever think we might've stayed friends if things had gone differently?"

Decker nodded. "Yes. But maybe we don't need to think about what could've been. We've got a second chance, John. Let's not waste it."

Hannibal extended a hand, and after a brief pause, Decker clasped it firmly.

"You've got yourself a deal, Colonel," Hannibal said.

Maggie entered the room, her eyes moving between the two men. "Am I interrupting some kind of brooding bromance?"

Hannibal laughed. "Just tying up some loose ends."

"Well, good." Maggie smiled, kissing his cheek. "Because I'm here to ensure you're not late for your big debut. The world's waiting, Colonel Smith."

Hannibal glanced at Decker. "You told her before me?"

"I sure did." Decker mimicked a basketball free throw. "Two points."

Looks like I've got a lot to live up to."

"And you will," Maggie said, taking his hand. "But first, let's get you out of this hospital."

###

Hannibal stood in front of the bathroom mirror. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across his rumpled hospital bed. The steady hum of activity outside the door was muffled. He adjusted his tie. The freshly pressed green class A dress uniform felt heavier than it should. The weight of the medals and ribbons of a lifetime of service and memories pressed down on him.

"Stop fussing." Maggie Sullivan stood in the bathroom doorway with a garment bag slung over her shoulder and a small box in her other hand. She was dressed in a tailored navy blue suit. Her dark hair was pinned up neatly. "You look fine, Hannibal. Well, as fine as a man who insists on ignoring his physical therapist can look."

He shot her a wry smile. "I've been through worse. Besides, I've got you keeping me in line."

Maggie smirked, laying the garment bag on the chair. She opened the box to reveal a pair of highly polished black jump boots. "You'll need these. Your old ones at home look like they've been through a war zone."

"Appropriate, don't you think?" he quipped, taking the boots from her. He sat on the toilet, put on the boots, laced them up, and tucked his uniform pants into the tops. The Army called it blousing.

She knelt to adjust the laces. "You know, you don't have to do this today. If you're not ready—"

"Maggie," he placed a hand on her arm. "I need to do this. For the team, those people on the plane, and maybe even myself. It's time to set the record straight."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. "You've already done more than enough, Hannibal. You don't have to keep proving yourself to anyone."

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "This isn't about proving anything. It's about finishing the job. You, of all people, should know I don't leave things half-done."

Maggie sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Stubborn as ever."

Hannibal winked. "And you love me for it."

She pulled out a blue hinged box with gold scrollwork encircling the outside edge. Three gold words adorned the lid. Medal of Honor. "Do you want to put this on?"

"Not really, but… you won't accept me saying no."

"Correct."

He bent over enough for her to place the light blue ribbon around his neck. The gold and green enameled Medal of Honor rested on his black tie. What happened to him tarnished the meaning of the Medal of Honor. His uniform just got heavier. Far heavier than he could imagine.

A sharp knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," Hannibal called. No one knocked in a hospital.

Colonel Decker stepped inside, his class A uniform looking sharp. The ribbons on his jacket were nearly identical to Hannibal's save one. His expression was a mix of respect and something more profound—friendship. "They're ready for you. The press is all set up. Cooper's opening remarks are about to start..." He glanced at his watch. "in five minutes."

Hannibal nodded, rising to his feet with the help of his cane. He tested his weight on his injured knee, grimacing but staying upright. Maggie hovered close with her hand out, ready to steady him if needed.

"You've got this," Decker said in an emotional voice. "And for what it's worth, I'm proud of you. Not just for today, but for everything."

Hannibal paused, studying Decker before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Appreciate that, Rod. Let's hope I don't trip over my words—or this cane."

Maggie slipped her arm through his. "If you do, I'll be there to catch you."

Together, they entered the hallway, where Face, BA, and Murdock waited. The team fell into step behind him, their easy camaraderie and quiet support a testament to their bond.

As they approached the cafeteria doors, the buzz of reporters grew louder. Hannibal paused just outside, taking a deep breath. Maggie squeezed his arm.

"You ready?" she asked softly.

He turned to her. "Always."

With that, the doors swung open, and Hannibal stepped into the lights, ready to face whatever came next.

###

Hannibal stood in the glaring lights in a large cleared space near the cafeteria buffet line. Reporters and cameramen jostled for the best position in front of him. He leaned on his cane, his painful knee a persistent reminder of everything it had taken to stand here.

Maggie stood on his right, her hand resting on his arm. Her presence wasn't only supportive—it was grounding, a visible declaration of their bond. Decker stood to his right, stoic and composed. Behind them, Face, BA, and Murdock stood shoulder to shoulder, their casual attire contrasting sharply with the military brass gathered around them.

The murmurs in the room stopped when Secretary Cooper moved to the podium. He adjusted the microphone, surveying the crowd of reporters, military personnel, and civilians.

"Good morning," the Secretary began, his voice steady and deliberate. "Today, we stand together to honor courage, service, and truth. We gather not only to set the record straight but to recognize a man whose actions remind us of the core values of this great nation."

The Secretary paused, glancing over his shoulder toward Hannibal with a brief nod. Hannibal inclined his head in return.

"Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith," the Secretary continued, "is a familiar name. The leader of the legendary A-Team, a man decorated for valor, and, most recently, the subject of scrutiny that cast a shadow over his exceptional career. Today, I am honored to announce that Colonel Smith has been fully exonerated of all charges related to the events in Hanoi. An exhaustive investigation has confirmed what Colonel Smith has steadfastly maintained: he acted under direct orders from his commanding officer, Colonel Morrison, to destroy the Bank of Hanoi. There was no robbery, no betrayal—only loyalty to his duty and his nation.

"The truth was obscured for too long, and this man's service went unrecognized. Colonel Smith and his team have exemplified dedication to the Army and the ideals it stands for—qualities that have, unfortunately, not always been reflected back."

The Secretary turned again, meeting Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal gave a subtle nod, shifting his cane to provide more support to his aching knee.

"A few weeks ago," the Secretary went on, "we witnessed a civilian tragedy—a plane crash in the wilderness of Washington state. Forty-four lives were at stake. Amid the chaos, one man rose to the challenge. Despite his severe injuries, Colonel Smith relied on his years of training and unshakable leadership to orchestrate the survival of nearly every passenger."

The Secretary's voice resonated deeply, carrying through the room. "In that moment, Colonel Smith reminded us all what it truly means to be a hero. His actions were not motivated by personal gain or accolades but by a profound sense of duty and selflessness. Whether on the battlefield, in the air, or in the face of impossible odds, Colonel Smith has shown time and again what it means to embody the values of courage, service, and sacrifice."

The Secretary turned to the audience. "It is my great privilege to introduce a man who has lived these values every day of his life. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith."

The room erupted in continuous applause as the Secretary stepped aside, gesturing for Hannibal to take the podium.

Hannibal limped forward and surveyed the room, taking in the sea of cameras and reporters. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Secretary Cooper. I'll make this short." My knee doesn't agree with standing this much. "It's not every day a man gets to have his name cleared. The truth about Hanoi is finally out. We followed our orders, not for glory, but because that's what soldiers do. We've faced the consequences of those orders every day since. But today isn't about justice. It's about ensuring the men and women who wear this uniform know that their sacrifices will never be ignored, forgotten, or buried under red tape."

The room erupted in applause as Hannibal stepped back.

Secretary Cooper reclaimed the microphone. "Colonel Smith and his team have been reinstated. They will have the option to continue their service or retire with full honors. Colonel Smith has been offered a posting at West Point as a military science and tactics instructor. It's a role that will allow him to pass his experience and wisdom on to the next generation of military leaders."

Hannibal exchanged a glance with Maggie. Her smile was filled with pride and encouragement. It was time to make their exit. That was one thing being on the run taught him, how to slip out of a room without being noticed.

In the quiet hallway outside the cafeteria, away from the press, Hannibal leaned against a wall, the cane resting loosely in his hand.

Maggie stood beside him with her arms crossed. "Are you going to take the posting?"

"I've got some time left in me." Hannibal smiled. "West Point feels…right. A chance to set these young kids on the right path. Maybe even teach them how to survive the insanity of life."

Maggie chuckled. "You mean the insanity you thrive on?"

He grinned. "Exactly."

"And what about us, Hannibal?" Maggie gripped his arm. "Where does this leave you and me?"

Hannibal straightened, using his cane to support his weight. "It leaves us wherever you want it to, Maggie. I've been through enough battles to know when to hold on to something good. You're that something good."

Her smile widened. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, opening it to reveal a simple gold engagement ring. "Then let's make it official. Marry me."

Maggie's eyes widened in surprise. "Yes," she whispered before throwing her arms around him.

As they pulled apart, the team appeared, their grins wide and unapologetically nosy.

"About time!" Face exclaimed, clapping Hannibal on the back.

Murdock twirled his hat in the air. "Does this mean we're getting a plus-one at family dinners?"

BA crossed his arms but couldn't hide his smile. "I hope she can keep you outta trouble."

Maggie laughed, her arm sliding through Hannibal's. "No promises, gentlemen. But I'll do my best."