Lying Together

By Elizabeth Kent 

Rating: NC-17 

Archive : yes 

Comments: please 

Warnings: m/m slash, language 

My thanks to Lark and Roady for their comments and suggestions. 

*********************

Murdock sat on the floor in the back of the van and watched the scene play out before him.  Face stood in front of A.J.'s grave, his arm around Ellen's shoulders, speaking quietly to her.  He was telling her.  How was he telling her?  Bluntly?  "I'm your half-brother.  Sorry for the lifetime apart."  Or was he leading her to it gently, talking around the subject, drawing her out on her feelings about this before he actually said what he needed to?  It was probably the latter.  Face could do that with people, get them to talk to him, tell him how they felt, tell him what they loved, what they feared, what they dreamed of.  Murdock should know.  How many nights had he lain by Face's side, especially in the early days at the VA when he was still really messed up and full of medication, and told Face everything?  None of it had made much sense at the time to either of them, but the talking had helped.  

And how had he missed noticing how little Face ever said about his own hopes, dreams, and fears?  How little Face shared of his own life while he got others to talk about theirs?   But he had known Face better, longer, and differently from anyone else on earth.  He knew this was one of Face's dreams, one he'd cherished since the day he first wandered into the orphanage, one he'd given up on long ago.  Finding a family member, someone who shared his blood, who could tell him something, anything, about himself, about his background.  Despite Murdock's screwup in not telling Face about A.J., not telling him the man who lay sick in the cabin was his own father, this still might work out.  Ellen had responded well to Face so far, had allowed him to care for her, to advise her.  Because of him, she had taken the time to make her peace with her father, to get to know a little about him before he died.  She had to at least be grateful for that.  She had to know, had to notice, how badly Face wanted to share that experience, even if only second-hand.  She had to recognize how much he ached for that kind of connection. 

As Murdock watched, Face withdrew, keeping his hand on Ellen's forearm and speaking softly.  Ellen wiped at her eyes with her other hand, shook her head, spoke in her turn, but wouldn't look at Face.  This didn't look like it was going well.  Murdock groaned inwardly.  Couldn't she see how much Face was hurting?  Couldn't she get past her own pain and do the right thing?  She was Face's sister.  How could she not want to get to know him, to be with him?  How could she not love him instantly? 

He saw Face nod, say something, squeeze Ellen's hand as she stepped away from him.  Then she turned, walking away.  She didn't stop and didn't look back.  Face watched her for a moment then crouched beside A.J.'s grave.  His father's grave.  Absently he smoothed the soil over the top.  Murdock blinked back tears as he watched.  What had he stolen from Face by keeping A.J.'s identity from him?  What would Face have done with the opportunity to know his father? 

He hoped that wherever A.J. was, he was watching this play out and that he understood what he, what they both, had done to Face.  He hoped A.J. appreciated the fact that his son had taken the responsibility for preparing his father's body for the grave, sparing Ellen the pain.  Face and Murdock had worked together in the silent room, washing the body, dressing it in freshly laundered clothes, wrapping it carefully in a sheet.  Face had treated the body with as much care and respect as he would have treated the body of one of his friends, had helped dig the grave and lower the body, helped cover it.  Would it have helped him to know that it was his own father he was preparing for eternity? 

Face stayed beside the grave for a long time, silent, unmoving, until a light mist began to fall from the overcast sky.  Finally he rose and walked back toward the van, hands jammed in his pocket, head down.  When he reached the van where Murdock stood waiting, Face met Murdock's eyes briefly, then looked away.  He ran a hand through his hair, an unconscious gesture than telegraphed his distress more clearly than words. 

Murdock didn't speak.  He didn't know what to say, didn't know how not to make the problem worse. 

Face opened the passenger door and climbed into the van, obviously expecting Murdock to follow suit.  Murdock slid the back door shut then walked around, climbed in, and started the van.  Face rubbed his hands together briskly.  "Well," he said, "I think she'll be alright now.  She's got a good head on her shoulders.  She was really nice about it, all things considered."  He stopped for a moment and buttoned his jacket.  "She says she's glad to know about me and all, but she doesn't really think we should see each other again.  It just wouldn't work out." 

It just wouldn't work out.  She'd brushed him off as if he had been a blind date instead of her brother.  Damn.  How could she? 

"And she's right, you know," Face continued.  "It'd be dangerous for her to be associated with us.  She'd be a target for anyone out to get us.  And you know she's got some political ambitions.  Can you imagine what it would do to her reputation for anyone to know her brother was a member of the A-Team?  Even one they all thought was dead?  Do you mind if I turn up the heater?" 

Murdock shook his head, afraid even to glance in Face's direction as Face fiddled with the heater controls.  Face's voice was too bright, too calm, as if he were discussing the merits of a stock purchase instead of the final loss of his only chance to have a real family, a real connection.  He only talked like that when he was just about to lose it, when he was trying to distract himself from something he didn't want to hear or didn't want to think about. 

"Nope, she made the right choice, Murdock.  She's a smart girl."  He leaned forward and adjusted the heat again.  "Yep, it was the right choice.  Damn, it's really cold out today.  Don't you think it's cold out?" 

Murdock wanted to reach out to Face, to touch him and comfort him.  But he knew Face wouldn't allow it.  Not right now.  Not when things were so close to the surface.  Maybe later, when he'd had a chance to mull it over, to somehow come to terms with it himself, then he'd be ready to be comforted.  But not now. 

Their fight had been brief.  Too brief, perhaps, for Face to get it out of his system.  When they had tried and failed to apologize to each other, Face had sat on a log, his back to Murdock, silent and unmoving.  Finally Face had said, "I had a list of questions for him." 

"What?"  That made no sense.  He didn't even know who AJ was. 

"In my wallet.  Just in case I met him." 

Suddenly Murdock had understood.  He'd found the list of Face's questions years ago, before he and Face had become a couple.  They were traveling in the van, and Face was asleep.  The others were hungry, and as they were heading through a small town, they decided to stop and eat.  Murdock had lifted Face's wallet to look for cash for the drive-in.  When he'd pulled out two ten-dollar bills, he'd found a small slip of paper between them. 

"Ah, what have we here?" he'd asked, waving the list as Face woke abruptly and made a grab for it.  He opened the list and read aloud.  "Name.  Date of birth. Place of birth.  Mother's name.  Father's name.  Any siblings.  Childhood illnesses.  Vaccinations.  First word.  Date first walked.  Nicknames. Why?" 

"Give it back, Murdock," Face growled. 

"What is it?" 

Hannibal turned around in his seat.  "I'd like to know, too, Face," he said mildly.  "Odd list." 

Face looked away, adjusted his tie, and met Murdock's eyes.  "It's dating questions." 

"Dating questions?" 

"Things I want to know about the person I'm seeing." 

"Childhood illnesses?  Vaccinations?"  Murdock laughed aloud. 

"You never know when those might have an effect on someone's ability to…perform," Face said.

B.A. held his hand out from the front seat.  "Gimme the money," he said. 

Murdock put the tens in B.A.'s outstretched hand and turned his attention back to the list.  "Well, I think we should answer these questions for you then," he said, avoiding another attempt to grab the list again.  "After all, you spend more time with us than you do with anyone else.  You should get to know us better, don't you think?  Let's see.  Name?  H.M. Murdock.  Date of birth?" He batted his eyelashes.  "That would be telling.  A lady never tells.  Place of birth? Texas.  What's this why?  Why what?" 

"Why the nickname," Face said.  "Sometimes there's a good reason someone has a stupid nickname.  I like to know in advance what I'm getting into." 

"You're really weird, Facey." 

Murdock went through the questions on the list then handed it to Hannibal.    Getting into the spirit of things, Hannibal answered the questions, too, between bites of hamburger.  Then he asked the questions of B.A., who rolled his eyes but also answered them.  It had led to a lively discussion of down home chicken pox remedies, goofy family nicknames, and how long was a reasonable time to wait for a kid to learn to talk before you took him to a specialist. 

The conversation died abruptly, though, when Hannibal handed the list back to Face and they all suddenly realized that he had no answers to those questions.  But Face, bless him, had taken the list and made up answers on the spot.  He was the love child of a British nobleman and an American actress.  His first word was `chardonnay.'  He'd never had a sick day in his life.  By the time he was done, the others were in stitches.  

Face had stuck the list back in his wallet and never said another word about it.  Murdock figured he'd thrown it away. 

Face pulled the list from his wallet now and read through the questions again.  "Why?" he finished.  "That was the most important one.  Why did they leave me?" 

He'd kept that list all these years.  Kept living the lie that they were for his dates.  Kept hoping he'd get a chance to ask those questions of the right person.  Could Murdock feel any more like a heel than he did now? 

Before they could say any more about it, Frankie's warning shout alerted them that company was coming.  This time Face hadn't put the list back in his wallet.  As they passed the trash can coming into the house for their weapons, Face had dropped the list into it. The chance was gone; that part of his life was over.  There was no reason to keep up the fiction any longer. 

It was a sixteen hour drive back to Langley.  At first Face messed with the heater controls and made small talk.  Murdock wasn't in the mood for talking, but for Face's sake, he tried to keep up his end of the conversation.  But he knew neither of them was really thinking about the conversation.  There was so much they needed to say, but they weren't saying it.  At last Face lapsed into silence.  Murdock turned on the radio just to fill up the silence between them and drove on through the night.  It was just after eight a.m. when they finally pulled into the long driveway of the Langley house. Face looked out the window, keeping his gaze averted, and said, "You won't say anything to the others, will you?" 

"Not if you don't want me to." 

"Okay."  With that, Face climbed out of the van, fixed a neutral statement on his face, and walked into the house. 

With a sigh, Murdock followed.  Some Thanksgiving this had turned out to be.  What the hell was he going to do?  He'd ruined everything.  Everything.  He should have known better than to keep this from Face.  They kept too many secrets from each other.  They always had, and it had always interfered with their relationship.  And it worse now that they were here in Langley.  Face was already feeling trapped, used.  He and Murdock were forced to live apart, and it was worse than it was when Murdock was in the VA.  There was no breaking Murdock out and taking him someplace private where they could talk, make love, be a couple. The long lazy Sunday mornings they had spent lying in bed, the times when Face would sometimes even open up, when they would be done making love, done making up, and just talk, were a thing of the past.  Now they were all under surveillance, and real privacy was a thing of the past.  Their time alone together was short, their lovemaking infrequent and somewhat perfunctory as they tried to make up for lost time, making love when and where they could whether the mood was right or not.  It wasn't even really making love; it was sex.  Sex on the go.  They joked about it occasionally, but it wasn't funny.  It was wearing on them both, interfering with their relationship.  Face was not coping well with the pressure; he was ready to bolt, and they all knew it.  Murdock wondered if this would be the final straw. 

He followed Face into the house only to find Stockwell and Carla already waiting for them in the living room with Hannibal, B.A., and Frankie.  Hannibal was chewing on a cigar, and B.A. was standing with his arms folded across his chest, staring Stockwell down.  This was not a good sign. 

Face said nothing, only flopping down on the couch and putting his feet on the coffee table, the picture of nonchalance and boredom.  Murdock sat next to him, glaring. 

"I'm afraid your Thanksgiving celebration is going to be cut short," Stockwell said. 

"Short?  We ain't even got it started yet," Murdock retorted. 

"It's a shame, too, since we've already got the turkey," Hannibal said around his cigar, gesturing at Stockwell. 

"Where are we going?" Face asked, studying his fingernails.  "Someplace warm, I hope." 

Frankie rolled his eyes.  "Face, you jack the temperature around here up any more, and the heat bill's gonna be higher than the national debt." 

"Leave him alone, Frankie," Murdock  snapped. 

"As a matter of fact," Stockwell continued, "it is warm in South America this time of year." 

B.A. groaned.  Stockwell smiled.  "If you're fast enough, you might make it back in time for leftovers." 

South America.  Drugs.  The usual.  When they'd gotten their instructions, Face stood wearily and headed up to his room to shower and change clothes.  They were leaving as soon as they could get ready. 

Frankie raised his eyebrows as Face prepared to leave the room without protest.  "Face, I thought you'd put up more of a fuss than this," he said.  "I thought maybe you'd be spending Thanksgiving with that hot chick Ellen." 

Face smiled faintly as he passed Frankie and headed up the stairs.  "So did I, Frankie.  So did I." 

Murdock followed Face to the stairs, shouldering his way roughly past Frankie.   Frankie looked at the others, bewildered.  "What did I say?" he asked. 

As Murdock passed by him, Hannibal restrained him with a hand on his arm.  "What's up with Face?" Hannibal asked.  "Did something happen I should know about?" 

Murdock hesitated then shook his head.  He'd promised Face he wouldn't say anything. 

"Is there any reason to believe he's not up for this mission?" 

Murdock shook his head again.  "He's just stressed out, I guess.  It's been a long week." 

Hannibal looked doubtful but let Murdock go, turning to give instructions to BA and Frankie.

Murdock trudged up the stairs after Face.  Face's bedroom door was ajar, and Murdock quietly pushed it open and stepped in.  Face's duffel bag sat open on his bed, a pile of dirty laundry beside it.  Neatly folded articles of clean clothing sat on top of the dresser.  Murdock liked Face's room.  It reflected his taste.  It was clean, elegant, with just the right style and number of paintings on the walls, all the furnishings and decorations tasteful and understated.  A small bookshelf held a dozen or so books that he had collected over the years, the only personal items he really owned. 

Each man had his own spot in the house, an area that was recognized as his own domain.  Hannibal's was the large living room.  He didn't mind sharing it with the others, but it was where he sat and smoked and schemed, his headquarters.  B.A.'s room was a converted garage that he used as a workshop, and in their down time he puttered around out there, making or fixing whatever suited his fancy at the moment.  Frankie had a small detached shed where he played with explosives and regularly scared the bejeezus out of the Abels.  But this small, austere room was Face's sanctuary, and the others weren't all that sure what he did in here because they were seldom invited in.  Of the five of them, Face was the most private, the most in need of solitude.  And he sought it more and more often these days, withdrawing from the others for hours at a time, sometimes not even joining them for meals.  Only Murdock was allowed in here regularly, and even he never took his welcome for granted. 

Face was sitting in an armchair by his bedroom window, his head cradled in his hands.  He looked miserable.  Murdock watched him for a few seconds then crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder.  Face jumped and nearly came right out of his chair. 

"Whoa!  It's me!" Murdock said, stepping back. 

"Sorry," Face said.  "I didn't hear you come in."  He stood and walked to his bed, gathering up the dirty laundry and stuffing it in a hamper in his closet.  Then he closed the bedroom door and started stripping off his clothes. 

"Facey, are you okay?" 

"Of course I'm okay.  Do I look sick or something?" 

Murdock stood next to Face, touched his cheek.  "No, you look sad." 

Face turned away from him, pulled off his shirt, and tossed it in the hamper.  "Let's take a shower.  I have to finish packing and make sure we have what we need to take." 

Murdock undressed, laying his clothes on the foot of Face's bed, and by the time he got into the adjoining bathroom, Face was already undressed and getting into the shower.  Murdock got in behind him and watched as Face stepped under the stream of hot water, letting it wash over his head and shoulders.  Face sighed deeply and suddenly said, "I'm tired, Murdock.  I'm just so tired." 

Murdock stepped into the stream of water with Face and pulled him into his arms.  Face didn't relax into Murdock the way he usually did, but he didn't pull away, either.  Murdock didn't speak.  Speaking sometimes made it worse, and Face didn't want advice.  He just wanted to be held.  So Murdock held him, hands gently following the streams of water as they cascaded over Face's shoulders and back.  Face rested his hands on Murdock's hips, the contact intimate but not sexual, holding on but maintaining a distance at the same time.  It was so like Face.  So close, yet always keeping some small part of himself distant, untouchable, invulnerable.  Perhaps it was the distance Face insisted on maintaining that made it so difficult for them to really communicate and so easy to keep things from one another, to lie sometimes instead of saying what was in their hearts.  The times they were one physically, emotionally, and spiritually were rare, and Face could never stand that much intimacy for long.  It was as if it were painful for him, as if it touched some part of him that he could not bear to expose.  Years of therapy and a naturally-open disposition made that kind of intimacy easier for Murdock, but Face just simply could not do it.  Certainly not here under the watchful gaze of Stockwell and his staff where even what they ate for lunch was reported and catalogued.  Murdock knew what it had cost Face to try to be honest with his sister, to offer her a part of his heart he rarely offered anyone.  To be rejected once again, to be reminded that his family really did not want him, must be agonizing.  And until he had adjusted to it, Face would keep everyone, Murdock included, at a safe distance.  It was who and what he was, something he was probably not even conscious of, and over the years Murdock had learned to deal with it, giving Face only what he asked for and nothing more.  It was hard, sometimes, but better than pushing his luck and having Face bolt. 

Face finally sighed again and pulled back, reaching for the soap.  Murdock released him, and they finished their shower.  As they dried and dressed, Face began listing aloud the supplies he would need to get together, or rather, the supplies he would need to instruct the Abels to get together.  Since coming to Langley, Face's position as supply officer had become largely supervisory as he simply relayed Hannibal's instructions to the cadre of agents who did the actual supplying.  Even Hannibal recognized the Abels could assemble all the necessary supplies faster and more easily than could the lieutenant, which allowed the team to leave more quickly for missions and to do more of them.  It made perfect sense unless you knew how much of Face's self-esteem was tied up in his ability to procure supplies and do the impossible.  Hannibal's attempts to get Stockwell to allow Face to do the supplying were met with the curt reply, "That, Colonel, would be an inefficient use of time and resources." For such a brilliant man, Stockwell was sometimes very stupid. 

With none of his usual complaints, Face set about checking the supplies, not even snapping at the hapless Abel who brought him flares instead of smoke grenades.  As Face, Murdock, and Hannibal went over the map one more time, Murdock watched Hannibal study Face carefully, trying to gauge his mood. Face was uncharacteristically compliant.  Murdock knew Hannibal had expected Face to vigorously protest the mission, as it cut once again into their holiday time. Face never actually came out and said it, but they all knew those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were important to him.  Face had always wanted to be in one place during the holiday season, had tried hard to recreate in his scammed homes the Ozzie and Harriet holiday season he imagined other families had had when he was growing up.  Sometimes he even succeeded, and for a few weeks, he was content.  Murdock knew that it was for their sake that Hannibal had always tried not to take jobs during the holidays, wanting to provide for them some semblance of a family holiday season.  It had been more important when they were younger, just out of Vietnam, when Murdock had been isolated from his family by his hospitalization at the VA, BA had been separated from his mother, and Face had simply been alone.  It had become their tradition in the last fifteen years to spend the holidays together, down time that they all looked forward to.  That Face would so easily cave, especially to Stockwell, spoke either of a sudden uncharacteristic acceptance of their lot in life, or of a depression so deep that nothing else mattered to him right now. 

Face kept pretty much to himself on the plane to South America, his nose stuck in a book.  Murdock didn't doubt he was reading, that his eyes were taking in the words, but he doubted whether Face would be able to tell them what he'd read when he was finished.  He was too distracted, too upset.  Murdock could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he held his body, the way he picked at his food.  Murdock began to have second thoughts about the mission and seriously considered telling Hannibal they should scrap it and return home. But they were already on the plane and halfway to their destination. To tell him now would mean betraying Face again by telling Hannibal about A.J. and Ellen.  So he said nothing, only sat and worried. 

When he looked back on it later, when the damage was done and Face was near death, he knew he had made the wrong choice once again.  He should have said something, should at least have told Hannibal to keep a closer eye on him.  Hannibal might not have asked him for the full story.  He might still have been able to keep Face's secret.   But he hadn't, and suddenly it was too late.  Face's depression did put him off his game, made him less observant, less careful.  Before they'd been in the South American jungle twenty-four hours, they'd been captured, and during their escape, Face had suffered a machete wound to the underside of his forearm.  It sliced diagonally from the outside of his wrist to just above the inside of his elbow.  It was bad enough that the wound was both deep and painful, but they had been unable to retrieve their pack and first aid kit when they escaped, and without antibiotics there was no way to prevent or treat infection.  When the arm swelled, red streaks began to creep toward his armpit, and he developed a high fever, all they could do was finish the job and get him back home as quickly as possible.  The job was completed with ruthless efficiency, and an anxious Murdock cajoled, bullied, and half-carried Face back through the jungle to their waiting plane. 

Face finally collapsed as they got him on the plane.   Hannibal and Murdock settled him on a bed in the back and strapped him in for take off.  Whatever else they might think about Stockwell, he furnished them with good transportation.  As Hannibal cleaned and rebandaged his wound and gave him an antibiotic, Face lay staring up at the roof of the cabin, his eyes glazed and fever-bright, his skin flushed, dry, and hot.  Then Hannibal went forward to consult with the pilot about altering their route to save time, leaving Murdock to watch over Face. 

"How's he doin'?" Frankie asked, joining Murdock by Face's bed. 

Murdock shook his head worriedly.  "He's really sick, Frankie.  Really sick." 

Face shook with chills, so Frankie went to find another blanket while Murdock stroked Face's forehead tenderly. 

"Hey, babe," Murdock called softly, "you with me?" 

Face's eyes shifted, tried to focus on Murdock, wandered about the cabin some more, and finally closed, but he tried to nod. 

"Good, good.  You just rest now, Facey, and we'll have you to a doctor before you know it." 

"Murdock?"  Face opened his eyes again, though his gaze remained unfocused. 

"Shh, baby, don't try to talk.  You need to rest." 

"Why didn't he want to tell me?" 

Murdock was confused for a moment, not sure what Face was talking about.  By the time he'd figured it out, Face had closed his eyes again and turned his face to the wall.  Murdock looked around to see that nobody was listening to their conversation.  Face was too ill at the moment to be circumspect.  He put his hand over Face's and squeezed it gently.  "He did want to.  He just didn't have enough time." 

"No," Face breathed, almost a moan.  "He didn't.  Didn't want me to know.  Didn't want to know me." 

Murdock didn't know how to respond to that.  He'd found Face's picture only by accident.  It was very possible that even though A.J. had insisted the team bring him Ellen, knowing his son was one of the team, he wouldn't have revealed that to him.  Why this burning desire to make his peace with his daughter but not with his son?  A.J. knew his time was almost up.  Did he fear Face's reaction?  Did he expect to be rejected in turn?  Was he waiting to see what Ellen's reaction was and use it to try to predict Face's reaction?  Murdock shook his head. 

"I don't know, Face.  I just don't know." 

"Is it me?"  Face's voice was low, small, as if he needed to ask the question but wasn't sure he wanted anyone to hear it.  He kept his face turned to the wall. 

"What?  Oh, no, Face.  No.  It's not you.  Don't even think that." 

Face shivered under the blankets and tried weakly to pull them up higher.  Murdock pulled the blankets up and tucked them around Face's shoulders then took off his own jacket and laid it over Face. 

"It's me." Face nodded, his voice fading.  "Gotta be.  It's…" 

"Oh, Facey."  Murdock cupped Face's face in his hands, turned it back toward him, but Face's eyes were already rolling up as he lost consciousness. 

Face's condition had not improved much by the time they reached the States and could get Face to a hospital.  But as soon as it was apparent he was not going to die, Stockwell  insisted he return to Langley to complete his recovery there. The doctor protested, Stockwell insisted,  and again, Face did not argue.  He dragged himself out of the hospital bed and allowed Murdock to help him into some clothes.  When they got him back to the house, it required two people to get him up the stairs and into bed. 

Shivering and exhausted, Face let the others strip off his outer clothes and then sank gratefully into the soft bed and curled up, mumbling something. 

"What?" Murdock asked, leaning closer. 

"Bed's warm," Face whispered. 

Murdock sat on the side of the bed and combed his fingers through Face's matted hair.  "Got you an electric blanket.  Kind of an early Christmas present." 

Face smiled a little but looked sad.  "Thanks.  It's nice." 

"I know how much you hate a cold bed.  This'll help you sleep when I'm not around." 

A strange look crossed Face's face as he closed his eyes and pressed his face into the pillow. 

Hannibal entered the room just as Face fell asleep.  "How'd he like the blanket?" he asked, putting a hand on Murdock's shoulder. 

Murdock smiled.  "Put him right out.  It's just as well.  I didn't want to have to argue with him about leaving." 

"Good.  Come downstairs with me, then.  I want to talk to you before you go." 

"Okay, Colonel, I'll be right down." 

Hannibal left the room, closing the door behind him.  Murdock bent and pressed a gentle kiss to Face's temple.  "Bye, Facey." 

As the door closed behind Murdock, Face opened his eyes, sighed, and shut them again.  Well, it was bound to happen someday.  Why not now?  It made sense.  Give you a nice gift and then leave you, give you a nice gift then take you back to the orphanage.  The pattern hadn't changed much over the years. 

They said bad things always happened in threes.  A.J., Ellen, and Murdock.  Three.  There was a certain amount of satisfaction in that, though.  He could stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.  He could be alone. He'd been alone before.  He was good at doing alone. 

It was the fever, he told himself when the first tears squeezed their way past his closed eyelids.  It was making him weak, making him emotional.  It would pass.  This didn't hurt that much.  He wouldn't let it hurt that much.  And hey, he'd gotten a blanket out of it, hadn't he?  So his bed would always be warm. 

He shivered and tried to burrow further under the covers.  He would never feel warm again. 

Downstairs, Hannibal lit a cigar.  "Stockwell, I don't like you jerking my men around like this.  They need time to rest between missions.  I've already got one man down." 

"It's a simple piloting job," Stockwell said. "In and out." 

"Yeah, right into Communist air space.  And you forgot to mention the little meeting between the part where I go in and the part where I go out," Murdock said, joining the others downstairs. 

"Think of it as a lunch date, Captain.  In an exotic location." 

"You don't have to do this, Murdock," Hannibal said. 

Murdock shrugged.  He did have to do it.  It was payback time, and he knew it.  He'd blackmailed Stockwell to get the information about Face's father.  He'd known then that Stockwell would find a way to punish him for it.  And if he didn't take it out on Murdock now, he'd take it out on Face later.  "It'll just take a couple of days, Hannibal.  I'll be as quick as I can." 

"After that, we're not taking any more jobs until after Christmas," Hannibal said.  "I'll tell you when we're ready to work again.  When I think Face is up to it." 

Stockwell inclined his head.  "Agreed.  We can't have the lieutenant off his game or distracted for any reason."  He met Murdock's eyes, and Murdock looked away.  "Be at the airfield in two hours, Captain."  He dropped a folder on the table and walked out. 

B.A. picked up the folder and scanned the contents.  "You goin' in with another of Stockwell's men?" 

"I'm goin' alone." 

"I don't like it, Hannibal," B.A. said.  "Sendin' a man in without backup. It's another suicide mission." 

Murdock took the folder from B.A.'s hands.  "Piece of cake," he said.  "Walk in the park." 

B.A. looked at him to see if he was going off on one of his manic speeches again, but he was deadly serious.  He'd been that way more and more often lately.  B.A. wasn't sure he really welcomed the change. 

"Let's see if we can work up a few little surprises for you to take along just in case," Hannibal said.  "B.A., you got anything suitable out in that workshop of yours?" 

B.A. nodded, smiling a little.  "Think I do, Hannibal.  Think I got just the thing." 

By eleven p.m. Murdock was long gone, dinner was over, and B.A., Frankie, and Hannibal sat around the table trying to play cards but really worrying about the others.  

Murdock had been tapped a time or two for solo missions since they'd entered Stockwell's employ.  They all knew he had some kind of history with the CIA, which implied training and experience in espionage, but they worried anyway.  It was a past he seldom spoke of, and when he spoke of it, it was never fondly.  He had, perhaps, shared more of it with Face than he had with them, but if that were the case, Face never shared that information with any of the others. And Face was another worry altogether.  Hannibal had checked on him several times that day, relieved to find him asleep.  He'd woken Face only to take his medication and once to try to get Face to eat.  Face had refused to eat, though, only sipping a little water and falling exhausted back to the bed.  He did not ask about Murdock, and Hannibal assumed Face believed Murdock had gone back to his apartment to sleep.  To keep Face from worrying, they'd keep up the fiction, telling Face that Murdock had had to go back to his job and wouldn't be able to be over for a couple of days.  Well, it was almost the truth.  He was working.  Hannibal hated lying to the kid, but he hated even more the anxiety it would cause Face if he knew where Murdock really was.  Face always worried about Murdock, just as Murdock worried about him.  At the moment, Face was just too sick to deal with it.  When Murdock came back, maybe they'd tell Face where he had been. 

Hannibal put his cards face-down on the table.  "I'm gonna go check on Face.  I'll be back in a couple of minutes." 

As Hannibal left the room, Frankie reached for his cards, but Hannibal's voice floated back from the stairs. "B.A, if he touches my cards, break his arm." 

Frankie snatched his hand back as B.A. growled at him.  He was shocked, then, when B.A. picked up the cards, looked at them, nodded, then laid them back on the table again. 

"B.A.!  You cheat?" 

"When you play cards with Face and Murdock, you got to," B.A. responded mildly.  "Ain't neither of them ever learned just to let things happen the way they do.  One or the other of `em's always tryin' to manipulate things, tryin' to make things turn out the way they want `em to instead of the way they should.  An' they mess everythin' up, every time." 

Frankie watched B.A., open-mouthed.  They weren't talking about cards anymore.  Actually, Frankie had no idea what they were talking about.  He'd seen Face and Murdock cheat in every game they'd ever played.  It was a game with them, moving the balls around on the pool table, sneaking cards into or out of their sleeves, moving the bases in their pickup softball games, each always knowing the other was watching.  It was just for fun.  Wasn't it? 

"I don't get what you're talking about, B.A."  Frankie said. 

"Just as well," B.A. answered gruffly, slapping at Frankie's hand as he again tried to reach for the cards.  "Don't need no more interference." 

"What?" Frankie said.  "Is this because Face keeps Murdock sane and off your back?  You worried that's gonna change?" 

"Face don't keep nobody off my back.  I do that for myself, especially with the crazy fool.  They keep each other sane.  Keep each other company.  They both alone, even when they're together.  Ain't normal.  Ain't even sane.  But it's all they got.  Don't want to see it messed up.  That's all." 

Frankie gave up trying to understand.  This was the weirdest crew he'd ever worked with in his life.  He'd worked with prima donnas, with tough, no-nonsense directors and actors, with stars that were dumb as a post and stunt men who quoted Shakespeare and Keats.  He thought he'd seen every strange permutation of personality there was, at least until he'd met the A Team.  If he worked with them for the rest of his life, which he sincerely hoped would not be the case, he would never understand them.  He picked up his cards again and peered at his hand, deciding to fold at his earliest opportunity.  He was going to lose, anyway, so what was the point? 

"B.A.!"  They heard Hannibal's alarmed shout from upstairs.  Throwing down their cards, they raced up the stairs to find Hannibal in Face's room and Face sprawled unconscious on the floor, an open and half- filled duffel bag on the floor beside him. 

"What was he doing?" Frankie asked, coming to help Hannibal lift Face back onto the bed. 

"Trying to leave, evidently," Hannibal said. 

"Why?" 

Hannibal shrugged.  "He's still running a fever.  Maybe he's hallucinating." 

"Or maybe he heard Murdock talking about leavin' and wants to go after him," B.A. said, picking up the clothes that had fallen out of the bag. 

Hannibal nodded.  "Could be.  We shouldn't have been talking about it in here.  Damned kid always hears things he's not supposed to." 

As B.A. picked up a handful of shirts,  a sheet of  paper slid out and floated to the floor.  It was heavy paper, card stock, and on it was penned a poem in fine, fancy script.  B.A. stooped to study it.  There was no title, only "Sonnet 52" across the top.

       So am I as the rich, whose blessed key

       Can bring him to his sweet uplocked treasure,

       The which he will not every hour survey,

       For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 

B.A. wasn't big on poetry and didn't understand the meaning of all the lines, but he knew a love poem when he saw it.  He read quickly to the end.

       Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,

       Being had, to triumph – being lacked, to hope. 

Under the poem were the words, "Remember that I love you and that being apart only makes me love you more.  H.M."  The date at the bottom was the previous Valentine's Day.  B.A. nodded to himself; this only confirmed his suspicions. 

B.A. heard Face moan.  He stood and turned, the poem still in his hand.  Face stirred, opened his eyes, and looked around the room as if he didn't remember where he was. 

"You're home, Face," Hannibal said.  "You're in bed." 

Face looked past Hannibal to B.A. and saw the paper in his hand.  His eyes widened in alarm as he turned white.  

"Face," Hannibal began. 

"Leave me alone." 

"In a minute, Face."  Hannibal sat on the side of the bed and reached for Face's bandaged arm.  "Right now, I need to see that arm.  And I need to know what you were trying to do." 

Face flinched as Hannibal cut away the bandage that covered his arm from hand to elbow, but he did not protest.  Hannibal sighed as he uncovered the wound.  It was still red and raw-looking, and now Face had pulled several of the stitches. 

Face kept his eyes closed and his head turned away until Hannibal was done.  Then he pulled his arm back and cradled it against his chest, rolling over so his back was to the others. Hannibal sighed again.  He hated it when Face got like this, when he shut everyone out.  "Face, what were you trying to do?  Why were you leaving?" 

"I'm sick of being here.  I want to go home." 

"Be patient a little while longer, kid," Hannibal said.  "Don't blow this chance for yourself by doing something stupid.  I promise, as soon as we get those pardons, I'll put you on a plane for L.A. myself." 

When Face didn't respond, B.A. laid a hand on Hannibal's shoulder.  "Lemme talk to him a minute," he said. 

With a nod, Hannibal wearily patted Face's leg, gathered up his bandages and antiseptic, motioned to Frankie to follow him, and left the room. 

B.A. sat on the bed behind Face and looked again at the paper in his hand.  "This is a nice poem, Faceman," he said.  "Ain't never heard you read this one before."  Back when they used to drive the van across the country on jobs, Face and Murdock used to sit in the back and pass the time reading poetry aloud.  B.A. liked to listen to them, even though he would never have told them so.  Sometimes it was heavy stuff that they'd read and debate the meaning of.  Face had some sort of fixation on "The Wasteland."  Sometimes B.A. swore if he had to listen to "Come in under the shadow of this red rock…./I will show you fear in a handful of dust," one more time, he'd drop a rock on both of them.  Other times it was silly stuff, like Murdock reciting, "The turtle lives twixt plated decks/Which practically conceal its sex/I think it clever of the turtle/In such a fix to be so fertile."  But other times they would read love poems, the sonnets of Shakespeare and the Brownings.  Face's voice was soft and smooth when he read, and he read as if he were speaking the words, as if he really meant them.  It was no wonder women swooned when he came near.  B.A. had glanced in the rearview mirror once and had seen that Face was not even looking at the words in the book.  Whatever it was he was reading, he had it memorized, and he was looking at Murdock, saying the poem directly to him as if they were the only two in the van.  Of course, Hannibal had been asleep in his seat, and B.A.'s attention was on the road, so they probably thought they were.  B.A. had thought then that something might be up between the two of them, or else Face was practicing for some seduction he had planned. 

Suddenly all the goofiness between the two of them, the times Murdock teased Face about his sex drive and his good looks, the way the two of them sat next to each other in every diner they went into, the smiles they exchanged when other people talked about their lovers, began to make sense to B.A.  He read again the first stanza of the poem.  Together but apart, a love so seldom indulged that it was made dearer by the separation.  Face and Murdock.  This was the story of their life together, and of their lives apart. 

He rubbed Face's back and felt him quiver under his hand.  "He ain't gone for good, Faceman.  He on a job for Stockwell.  Jus' didn't want you to know.  He knew you'd worry, so he figured he could sneak out and get back before you figured it out.  Stupid fool." 

"He won't come back," Face whispered.  "He's the third one.  He's not coming back." 

"Aw, Face."  B.A. grasped Face's shoulder and forced him to turn over on his back.  Face was white with pain, fatigue, and distress, and his eyes were red.  "He ain't leavin'.  He ain't leavin' the team, and he ain't leavin' you.  He flyin' a plane and pickin' up somethin' for Stockwell.  Didn't even want to go." 

"You know," B.A. continued, "I ain't got nothin' but a high school education.  Never was much good at anything I couldn't just do with my hands.  How come you two that both been to college can't figure out you need to talk to each other when someone like me can see it plain as the nose on your face?" 

Face remained silent a moment then licked dry lips.  "Where did he go?" 

"Czechoslovakia." 

"He…he doesn't even speak Czech." 

B.A. shrugged.  "You know him.  He'll probably put in a tape and have it learned before he gets there." 

Face almost smiled.  That would be so like Murdock.  And it wouldn't be just, "Hello, how are you?" or "Where is the American embassy?"  It would be, "Hello, I'm the Pope's sister.  You have a squirrel on your head." 

"You think he'll be okay?" 

"He'll be okay.  You know how he is," B.A. answered.  "He like a bad penny."  He gestured at the poem he had laid on the bed beside them.  "Besides, he say he loves you.  Why wouldn't he?" 

Face looked down at the poem, picked it up with his good hand, and laid it on his chest, looking away.  "Nothing lasts forever," he whispered.  

He was tired, so tired.  Tired and cold and empty.  He could no longer believe in or hope for anything.  He turned back on his side, curled around himself.  He felt himself sliding into sleep even as he fought it. Sleep brought him no rest; his dreams were full of goodbyes, of leaving and being left, of aloneness. 

Murdock completed his pre-flight checks and prepared for take-off.    He was expecting to fly alone, so he started and reached for his weapon when he heard a sound behind him. 

"Easy, Captain."  General Stockwell slid into the seat next to Murdock. 

"What are you doin' here?" Murdock asked grumpily.  "Come to gloat?" 

"I'm going with you," Stockwell said. 

"Instructions say I'm goin' alone." 

"And there's no reason for anyone else ever to know that you didn't.  While you're doing your job, I have something of my own to take care of." 

"What's that?" 

Stockwell just stared at Murdock without answering. 

"Another of your need-to-know-basis-only arrangements?" Murdock said.  "Fine." 

Both were silent as he taxied to the runway and took off.  When they were well on their way, Stockwell stood to go to the back.  "This may take a little longer than you originally planned," he said.  "I hope you packed plenty of clothes." 

Murdock pounded the instrument panel in frustration.  "You bastard!" he snapped.  "You knew that before we ever left." 

Stockwell shrugged.  "What are you going to do about it, Captain?" he asked.  "Leave me there?  What'll happen to the team's pardons then?  Whether you like it or not, you belong to me now, just as they do.  And until I release you, you will do as you're ordered." 

Two days later, Murdock paced back and forth in front of the plane, anxious to be on his way. But Stockwell, who was always punctual, was several hours late.  Finally Murdock stopped pacing and resigned himself to the truth.  Stockwell was in some kind of trouble, and he was going to have to go get him out of it.  Swearing volubly, he stalked off and drove to where he had dropped Stockwell two days ago. 

Hannibal closed the door to Face's room behind him as he and the doctor stepped out.  He was a worried man.  Face's recovery was progressing much more slowly than it should.  The infection had not responded to the first antibiotic the doctor had tried, so they had switched to another.  Though the second one seemed to work better on the infection, it made Face ill.  He couldn't keep anything down, so he wouldn't eat.  He was still sick and dizzy when he tried to stand and had to be helped to the bathroom and back whenever he needed to go.  The quack Stockwell had on call, the one who showed up when he felt like it, did as little as he could, and was prompt only with his bill, had insisted that Face stay on the medication and that the side effects would eventually go away.  Not satisfied with that, Hannibal had finally called in the doctor who treated Face at the hospital, and he had made a rare house call.  This doctor had clucked his tongue over Face's symptoms and apparent failure to respond to the antibiotics and had ordered something else. 

"I wish you had called me a couple of days ago," the doctor said.  "He's quite ill now." 

"I would have if we had been allowed to," Hannibal said as he led the doctor back downstairs and to the front door.  Stockwell's assistant Carla had allowed them to contact the hospital only after she had seen for herself how ill Face was as BA literally held him up over the toilet bowl while he retched.   "Stockwell has his own company quack." 

The doctor nodded.  He was familiar with both Stockwell and the quack and didn't like either of them.  "I'll come by again tomorrow evening and see how he's doing," the doctor said.  "I'll take over his care again for now, and I'll talk to Dr. Peters about it.  I doubt he'll have any objections since it'll save him some time and work."   He inclined his head toward the stairs.  "If he doesn't start feeling better soon, I'm going to insist he return to the hospital." 

As Hannibal closed the front door, he couldn't help but look toward the front walk, hoping to see Murdock.  Murdock was two days overdue, and Hannibal was beginning to wonder whether he was going to have to go to Czechoslovakia himself and find him. 

Face seemed to have some premonition about Murdock, mumbling sometimes that he wasn't coming back.  He was inconsolable, and Hannibal wondered if the depression was making him sicker than he needed to be.  He knew Face hated this place, the confinement, the way Stockwell ran every aspect of their lives.  He had tried to leave once before, and Hannibal knew that if he were well enough, he'd be gone now. 

Murdock pulled Stockwell from the back seat of the car, slinging Stockwell's arm around his neck as he all but dragged him to the plane.  Stockwell slumped in the copilot's seat as Murdock prepared to take off.  Their pursuers were only a few miles behind them by now, and he had to move fast. 

When they were finally airborne, Murdock headed them home then turned his attention to Stockwell.  Stockwell's forehead was beaded with sweat and his breathing was labored.  He clutched his shoulder, holding a wad of gauze from the first aid kit against the bullet wound there. 

"Lemme see," Murdock said, pulling away Stockwell's hand and tearing the shirt. 

Stockwell hissed as Murdock probed the wound.  Murdock checked both the entrance and exit wounds, bandaging them carefully and then starting Stockwell on some of the antibiotics in the first aid kit. 

"Thanks," Stockwell said, as he accepted the pills and a cup of water. 

Murdock said nothing, only covering Stockwell with a blanket and propping his head on a pillow.  He tried to move the briefcase Stockwell still carried to the back, but Stockwell wouldn't let go of it.  Whatever was in there, he had almost given his life for it.  Murdock had to admit to a grudging respect for Stockwell.  When he'd found him, Stockwell had already been worked over pretty well, but he still summoned up the energy to help Murdock take out the men between them and the door.  When he'd been shot, he still declined to simply escape, detouring instead to an office in the center of the complex to retrieve the briefcase.  He had displayed a remarkable amount of courage, cunning, and resiliency before the blood loss finally caught up with him in the car and caused him to pass out. 

The flight home was largely silent as Stockwell slept and Murdock fretted.  He had no idea how Face was or how he was taking Murdock's absence.  Had the others been able to convince Face that he had just gone back to work and hadn't been able to come see him?  For a day or two, maybe Face would believe it, but beyond that, he would get suspicious.  He knew Face.  By now Face would have convinced himself that Murdock was not coming back, that he had left Face like everyone else did.  And how could he blame Face for believing that?  He had.  He'd left without really saying goodbye, left for a mission he really might not have come back from.  It was only by the grace of God and incredible good luck that he and Stockwell were not both dead. 

Murdock shook his head at his own stupidity.  He should have learned from the fiasco with AJ and Ellen Bancroft.  He should have been honest with Face about where he was going and why, should have told him there might be a delay but that he would be back.  He should have given Face something to hang on to.  But Face was so hard to read sometimes.  What reassured him one day pissed him off the next, and he rarely ever said what he was really thinking, what he really felt.  Like the wind, he could change without warning, and even Murdock had a hard time keeping up with him sometimes.  He hoped BA and Hannibal were taking care of him, making sure he was recovering.  It was probably too much to hope Face would forgive him for this latest betrayal of his trust. 

"Do you think Peck will still be there when you get back?" 

Stockwell's voice startled Murdock, but he did not look at the other man.  "Of course he'll be there," he said, his voice tinged with anger.  "He's too sick to go anywhere else. That doesn't mean he won't leave as soon as he's well enough." 

"Without his pardon?" 

"You think he cares about that now?  You think he really believes you're ever going to give it to him?  I think he'd almost rather die than stay." 

"He'd leave Virginia.  He'd leave the team.  But would he leave his lover?" 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Christ, had he found out?  They had been so careful to avoid detection.  They had even gone so far as to take women to their beds, knowing the news would get back to Stockwell.  Face in particular hated it.  He saw himself and Murdock as married, his old-fashioned notions of what it meant to be a couple balking at the necessity of being unfaithful in order to be faithful.  He did it when he had to, and he was intensely jealous when Murdock did it.  He understood the necessity, but he never would be comfortable with it.  And he would never get past the fear that Murdock would suddenly realize he actually preferred those women to Face. 

"You underestimate the efficiency of my intelligence-gathering team," Stockwell said.  "I've known about you and Peck for some time." 

Murdock looked at him at last, but didn't answer. 

"What I didn't count on was Peck's willingness to go it alone.  I might have expected you or Smith to bolt, but frankly, I thought that where the two of you went, Peck would follow." 

"Face doesn't like to be kept anywhere he doesn't want to be.  He has never just blindly followed Hannibal's lead or gone where I go.  He could do just fine without us." 

"And without him?" 

"Without him, the team would fall apart," Murdock said without hesitation.  "He's the only voice of reason on the team, the only one of us who is really good with other people.  We need him.  You need him." 

"Then you need to make sure he doesn't run." 

"What do you expect me to do?  Like I said, he doesn't just go where I tell him to." 

"What do you think will work?" 

"He'll stay if I'm there, I think.  If he knows I won't leave." 

"You're not moving in." 

"What, then?  If your intelligence is so good, you know we've been a couple almost as long as we've known each other.  You know we've had to hide it from everyone, even the team.  But even when I was in the VA, we were never separated as long as you've been keeping us apart.  We might as well not be a couple for all the good it's doing either of us.  And this latest thing with A.J. Bancroft is just about enough to drive Face right over the edge.  If you want him to stay, you've got to let us be together." 

He knew he was forcing Stockwell's hand.  It might be a dangerous thing to do.  Stockwell could as easily give up on them all and return BA, Hannibal, and Face to the army to be executed.  Had he said too much?  He started considering ways he could disappear with Face, go to another country, live under assumed names.  

Stockwell sat in silence for a long time, then finally stirred.  "You will maintain a separate residence.  That means keeping a job.  You will inform Smith of your relationship with Peck.  Then you can stay at Langley when you wish." 

"That's it?" 

"You will make yourself available for solo missions when necessary, without protest.  And if Peck takes off, I will hold you personally responsible." 

"Bastard." 

"Take it or leave it, Captain." 

"No surveillance in our bedrooms or bathrooms." 

Stockwell shifted in his seat, moving his injured arm into a more comfortable position.  "I have no desire to see what the two of you get up to in the bedroom as long as it does not involve my female agents." 

"My old shrink Doctor Richter has retired and moved out here.  I want permission for Face and me to start seeing him.  And I want his fee covered." 

"You expect me to foot the bill for your counseling?  Besides, I thought you were declared sane." 

"I am sane.  I've been sane for a long time.  But I ain't well, and neither is Face.  We need to work through some things, and I think Richter can help us.  And it's to your advantage to foot the bill because it's cheaper than sending your men after Face." 

"You're saying your relationship isn't strong enough to keep him here?" 

"I love him.  He loves me.  It isn't enough." 

Stockwell sighed.  "Alright.  Make the arrangements." 

Murdock nodded, satisfied.  Now what would he tell Face?  How would he spare him the knowledge that Murdock's new job was to keep Face with the team, to keep him at Langley?  Surely he'd think that Murdock was moving in simply for that purpose and not because he really needed to be with Face.  What would he tell him? The truth.  Hard as it was, it was the only way.  He knew that was the first thing Richter would tell him.  

"Stop hiding," Richter would say.  Murdock had always hidden what he didn't want the world to see about him…his sexual orientation, his mental illness, his love for Face, his own insecurity.  He hated confrontations, hated saying what he thought would hurt others, make them angry, angry at him.  Funny, Richter had picked up on that in the early years of his therapy, had worked with him for years to overcome it, and he had never quite made it to that point before all hell broke loose and the team ended up in Virginia.  But it was time to stop hiding now, stop avoiding the pain of truth and confrontation. 

Face woke slowly, letting himself drift up from the drug-induced slumber his pain medication induced.  His arm hurt, but for the first time in days, he didn't need to vomit.  The new pills must be working.  And for the first time in days, he was warm, like he was when Murdock held him.  He opened his eyes, raised his head slowly to look at the alarm clock, then let his head flop back down to the pillow.  Five a.m.  He couldn't remember when he was supposed to take his pills.  Probably someone would be in when it was time.  Someone was usually there now when he woke up. 

Slowly he became aware that someone was there.  Someone was behind him, lying very close, their arm around his waist.  They must think they needed to keep an eye on him every minute now to keep him from taking off.  But at the moment, he couldn't have gotten out of bed even if the house were on fire.  His muscles were like water, his limbs heavy.  Only his heart was heavier; it lay like a stone in his chest.  Murdock was gone.  Even Hannibal had had to admit he was worried, and BA had told Face that there had been no word from Murdock since he'd left.  

They worried about him, and Face did too, even though he knew the truth.  Murdock had taken his chance to escape and had left. He hadn't liked being in Virginia any more than Face had.  He hadn't liked chatting up women, playing along with their advances, taking them to  bed.   But as time went by it had become easier for Murdock than it had for Face.  For some reason Face was no longer able to work up the charm or energy necessary to attract women.  But Murdock had found women liked him a lot. And why wouldn't they?  And why wouldn't Murdock want to be with them?  They were available.   They were beautiful.  It was really no wonder Murdock had decided to leave him.  Face knew he was getting older now, losing some of his youthful good looks.  He knew his attitude stank.  He was argumentative now, moody, hard to get along with.  He couldn't help himself.  He saw himself pushing Murdock away even as he berated himself for doing it.  If there was anything he was good at, it was pushing people away, and he was doing a masterful job of it with Murdock.  If Murdock saw a chance to make a clean break while he was an ocean away, why shouldn't he do it? 

Face felt the familiar prickle as tears formed behind his closed eyelids.  Would he ever get used to this?  To waking alone?  To living in a world without Murdock? 

The body behind him stirred and sat up, moving away a bit.  The arm that had been around his waist withdrew as the hand rolled him gently onto his back. 

"Facey?" 

Face opened his eyes and saw Murdock leaning over him.  He was too shocked to speak. 

"Hey, Facey.  I'm home."  Murdock kissed Face's forehead gently.  Face was still warm, too warm.  "God, baby, I missed you." 

"Murdock?"  Face lifted his good hand, traced Murdock's lips, ran his fingers over the two-days' growth of stubble. 

"It's me." 

Face looked around helplessly, waiting for someone to really wake him.  This wasn't right.  They never slept together in this bed.  It would be too easy for Hannibal to find out, for Stockwell to find out.  This couldn't be happening.  He tried to pull away, to roll over again, to get away from this nightmare.  But the hand on his shoulder held him still. 

Murdock started to speak.  He was still sleepy, exhausted in fact, but Face needed to know.  He told Face all of it, his mission in Czechoslovakia, the delay while he tracked down and rescued Stockwell, the deal he struck with the man to keep Face at Langley, the shocked statement on Hannibal's face when he had shown up with his small box of belongings and announced to Hannibal that yes, he was back from Czechoslovakia, and now he was going to be staying with Face, with his lover, as many nights as he could. 

"You…you told them?" Face finally squeaked out. 

"I had to, sweetheart.  I wish I could have talked to you about it first, but there wasn't time.  I'm sorry." 

Face considered that awhile then nodded, but his eyes were filled with tears.  "I thought…I thought you left me." 

"I know you did,  Facey."  Murdock stroked Face's hair gently, a tender, familiar gesture.   "But I'd never leave you voluntarily, no matter what.  I know it's hard for you to believe right now, but it's true."  He pulled Face toward him, careful of the bandaged arm, and held him close.  This time Face pressed himself against Murdock, held him tightly.  Murdock could feel Face's hot forehead on his bare chest, felt warm, wet tears on his skin as Face's shoulders began to shake. Later, finally exhausted, Face let Murdock wipe his tears and give him a pain pill, then they curled up again under the blankets, spooned together.  Face pressed his backside against Murdock's groin and his back against Murdock's chest.  Murdock kissed his neck and shoulders and wrapped both arms around Face, holding him close as they drifted toward sleep. 

Face stirred in his arms.  "Murdock?" 

"Hm?" 

"Did he…did my…father…ever tell you my name?" 

It was Murdock's turn to be moved to tears.  So simple a request, so little to want to know about yourself.  It had been so close, that knowledge.  With probably a hundred other things Face could have learned about himself if only AJ had been willing to reveal himself, to be honest.  Murdock couldn't rescue those things for Face, but he could give him this, this one little thing to make up for so many other things he had lost forever. 

"Your name is Richard." 

"Richard."  Face whispered it, then whispered it again.  Then with a small sigh, he relaxed, and soon his soft, even breaths told Murdock that he had fallen asleep.  Murdock knew he had a lot of making up to do, a lot of work ahead of him to reassure Face that he was worth keeping, that their relationship was worth saving.  But they were off to a good start.  Face was in his arms.  Their secret was out, and the people they'd been most concerned about hiding it from knew.  Hannibal had been shocked, but more angry at himself for not noticing it than at Murdock and Face for not having told him.  He had some reservations about the whole arrangement, but for Face's sake he was willing to set them aside, at least for now.  If it became a problem for the team as a whole, he'd address it then.  But it wouldn't.  They wouldn't let that happen. 

Of the two of them, B.A. had been the one Murdock had most expected to be upset.  But B.A. had simply thrust a paper into his hands as he went upstairs.  It was slightly wrinkled but still legible.  It was the poem he'd copied down for Face last Valentine's Day when Face had been having a hard time accepting their forced separation.  "Don't keep him waitin'," B.A. had said.  "He been havin' a hard time.  Go take care of him."  That was it.  No recriminations, no shock or hostility, no trying to talk Murdock out of his feelings.  He owed B.A. big time.  He thought he could see a lot of welding and hammering in his future. 

He had another solo mission coming up.  China this time, some double agent at the American embassy in trouble with the Chinese and unable to pass along to his usual contacts some important information.  So Murdock would get it from him, fly it out of the country.  A goofy American tourist visiting the American embassy.  It was a relatively easy assignment, but not entirely risk free.  

He was tempted, so tempted, to make up a story to cover his absence.  It had been easier when he lived in the little apartment and couldn't see the others often.  If he disappeared for a few days, they thought he was working at some dead-end job and didn't worry about it.  Now they would know.  Face would know.  And Face would worry, fret, and be angry that Murdock was going alone.  But he'd be there when Murdock returned.  His love and his fear wouldn't let him be anyplace else.  And Stockwell had known that when he'd drawn Murdock into the conversation on the plane, when he'd seemed to give Murdock the upper hand by letting him move into the house with Face. 

Murdock would keep Face with the team, and that would ensure that Murdock cooperated with Stockwell.  Stockwell had cheerily described it as a "win-win" situation, but Stockwell was the real winner.  He should know better than to match wits with Stockwell.  He could never really win.  The best he could hope for was to play to a draw. 

It was worth it, though.  Face was worth it.  They would survive this, as they survived everything else.  And one day Face would get that pardon and they'd be free of Stockwell, free to live where they wished, do what they wished.  He had to believe that.  As he pulled Face closer, buried his nose in Face's thick, soft hair, he decided he did believe it.  

FINI

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