Night Won’t Set Me Free

Rated: NC-17 Violence, angst, swearing, war memories, m/m slash (Face/Murdock) Disclaimer: All characters belong to Stephen J. Cannell and Universal. Title taken from the song "And I Love You So" by Don McLean

Summary: When Murdock tries to help Face ward off his nightmares, he is bombarded by memories of when the two of them met in Vietnam. The past and the present begin to interweave. . . Note: This is set about six months before either of my other stories. It’s my first attempt at a longer TAT piece. Plus, it’s my first attempt at (partially) setting a story in Vietnam, during the war. So any constructive comments are very welcome!

Since he’d joined Colonel Smith’s "A-Team," the pilot had been going in-country more and more. As a chopper pilot, he was used to dicey situations. Flying under fire, transporting bleeding, screaming boys back from missions that had gone south on them, making life or death decisions and sticking by them, even with the brass chewing him out in one ear and adrenaline junky marines firing M-16’s in the other. But when you were on the ground, when you were in the jungle, not over it, everything was more personal.

Everything was a fuckin’ lot more personal. The job had been a "hit and run" on a moving target not far from the base camp. Two hour hump, take out a supply shipment that would be running through the pipeline at 0900, and be home in time for mid-day dinner. It was also a chance for Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith to try out his new team.

He’d gathered his heavy muscle first. BA Baracus, black, heavily built and mean-tempered had come from the motor pool, where he had a reputation for fixing anything that moved and beating up anyone who got in his way. Ray Brenner could have been his brother if they’d looked anything alike. The tall, broad-shouldered soldier could hump more gear than God, according to he himself, but had a hellish temper once you got him going. They were both on their second tours and had been hand-picked by the Colonel six months before for his very own "special" force.

"Howlin’ Mad" Murdock had pulled them out of some dicey shit a couple months before. The team had run out of the dodge flat out toward his pick-up position, followed by what looked to be the entire complement of the North Vietnamese Army. He’d taken them out with a burning chopper that kept lunging toward the trees unexpectedly, and given them a landing that, while not precisely graceful, was at least more landing than crashing. The Colonel, for better or for worse, had asked him then to be on his team.

Murdock was still pretty green, at least on the ground. But the Colonel’s latest acquisition didn’t look like he could be out of the Boy Scouts yet, much less a member of the Special Forces.

"Gentlemen, I’d like to introduce the final member of our team, Lieutenant Templeton Peck. He’ll be in charge of. . . requisitions."

BA and Ray exchanged incredulous glances. Murdock wondered what Hannibal could possibly be thinking. This kid looked like he belonged behind the bleachers, boffing the head cheerleader, not in Vietnam. Definitely not watching their backs.

Hannibal looked around the room appraisingly. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and the kid, who’d been standing quietly, seemingly unaffected by the other men’s comments, pulled out a silver lighter and offered him a flame.

"Don’ look like nothin’ but a pretty face to me, Colonel. Good if it’s your girlfriend back home, but not worth much when it counts."

The kid never stopped smiling genially at the men in the tent, a sweet, back home sort of smile with a hint of trouble around the edges. But Murdock thought he’d seen a glimmer of emotion pass through the kid’s eyes as he’d spoken. Pain? Anger? Shame? But then he thought he’d imagined it. Just another too-young kid, cannon fodder for the blood-hungry enemy guns. Just a pretty face. He turned back to the comic book he was reading. The good guys were actually winning in the Marvel universe.

"Well, gentlemen, we soon shall see. In the dodge in one hour for a nice little hit and run maneuver on the VC supply line. Rumor is they’re running rifles through today, and I want to make sure they never get where they’re going. Be ready to ride in forty-five."

Hannibal left the new kid in the tent. The kid walked over and set his duffle on the empty bunk beneath Murdock’s. Quietly, efficiently, he began to unpack his belongings.

The kid’s smile broadened. He glanced at Murdock, and again Murdock thought he saw something (what was it?) behind those clear blue eyes. "Then why don’t you call me Face?"

BA and Ray laughed. Ray stood and punched him, not gently, in the shoulder. "Okay, Faceman. You got twenty minutes to round me up an extra M-16, seven hand grenades and a toothbrush."

They’d moved forty-five minutes later (with the extra M-16 and the seven hand grenades and the soft bristled tooth brush). The kid had only been on base for an hour, Murdock thought. How. . .? But he let it go. It was time to earn his C-rations.

BA had point. Hannibal and Ray followed. Although Ray could carry more gear than God, this was a short mission. The extra M-16 dangled from his shoulder and he had maybe fifty pounds of ammunition hanging off him just in case, but for him, he was traveling light. Murdock came next, and the kid brought up the rear.

They were hyper-alert as they approached the supply line coordinates. But the jungle was made to confuse the senses. Water dripped off leaves. The humidity, already high at eight in the morning, brought out a heavy mist that swirled slowly around the base of the trees. Sweat ran down their faces and down the backs of their necks. The standard issue steel-centered flak jackets hung heavily on their shoulders. Bugs hummed and chirruped and bit at their naked hands and faces. A loaded M-16 weighs almost ten pounds all by itself, and that was only the beginning of the gear they were humping. It was hot. They were in-country.

Murdock whirled and the kid grabbed his jacket and hauled back on it with everything he had. The two of them rolled as one down a steep embankment and when they were halfway down, the world exploded around them.

Heat. Hurt. Gunfire. Have to get up. Have to move. Blood. Jungle. Colonel? Have to get up. Where’s the guys? Gunfire close. Too close.

The kid knelt over him and fired into the jungle in quick three-round bursts. Murdock saw a flash of skin as a VC soldier fell, then another.

The kid stopped firing. He looked around him carefully, gaze trained on the green. A twig snapped above them and he lifted the M-16 to his shoulder and pointed it there. But he pulled it down when he saw it was Ray. He was breathing hard.

Murdock looked down at himself. His head seemed to be bleeding a little, maybe from a piece of shrapnel or hitting it on a rock on his way down, but he seemed to be in one piece. "Yeah, Ray. Jes’ rearranged the old marbles a little more."

A grenade exploded somewhere back behind Ray’s position and he turned and disappeared. The kid gave Murdock a hand and they started up the embankment.

The Colonel and BA took out the rifle shipment with a few carefully thrown grenades, the "shipment" being one box of 25 rifles hauled between four VC soldiers. But that was 25 rifles that wouldn’t kill American soldiers that summer. They walked silently back to base.

Ray and BA disappeared almost immediately when they’d gotten back, aimed for the base cantina. It wouldn’t be open yet, but that probably wouldn’t stop them. The Colonel went to make his report. Murdock found himself sitting on the new kid’s bunk (unable to climb up to his own), alone and trembling, his back pressed against the wall.

Warm, gentle hands wrapped themselves around his own. Those hands helped him lift the glass to his lips and he smelled the harsh scent of brandy as the liquid traced hot fire down his throat and landed heavily in his stomach. It focused him, somehow. He took a breath and looked up.

"Hey!" Murdock tried to remember the kid’s name, but his head still felt like someone had banged it a few too many times against the barn door. "Hey! Face!"

Murdock took another sip of brandy and stared at the door to their hooch for a long moment. Then he looked down and saw that a first aid kit had been spread out beside him, the aspirin and bandages and tape on top. He sighed. He was twenty three years old. He was in the army. He was in Vietnam. He was in the middle of a frickin’ war. Why did he suddenly feel like his life had gotten complicated?

That had been an easy memory. Meeting Face. Awkward to remember some parts – his young self seemed so thoughtless. Naming Face that way, judging books by covers and all that. Discounting people out of hand. But Vietnam had been a cruel place. People came there to die. People came there to kill people. You didn’t even want to become attached to your socks. "I managed to say all the wrong things to him, all the most hurtful things," Murdock thought.

But his chest still remembered the impact of the kid’s body as they’d hurtled down that hill. And his fingers still remembered the warm comfort of those hands.

He had a feeling those memories were lurking in the shadows, waiting till his guard was down to strike, and unconsciously pulled his flight jacket closer around his shoulders.