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!
Part Three: The Con
Don’ know why they call it the front room, way out
here at the back of the house, Murdock thought.
He stood in the doorway, looking in. The back wall of
the front room (back room?) was all window, looking
out on the Pacific Ocean. A crescent moon, tinged
yellow, floated just above the horizon. Its light
gleamed softly on the water.
The elegantly understated furniture had been
rearranged since Murdock’s last visit to the house.
Two easy chairs had been pushed out of the way. A
reading lamp sat stranded in the middle of the floor.
And the couch. . . the couch had been shoved clear
back into the farthest, darkest corner of the room.
Face sat motionless on the couch.
Murdock watched him for a moment. Face’s legs were
drawn up under him. He balanced a tumbler of brandy
on his knee and his eyes seemed to have lost their
focus in the depths of the dark liquor. His face
seemed pale and drawn in the dim light, and almost
bruised where the shadows lay. He was very still.
How to say, how to say, how to say, Murdock thought.
He and BA’s frontal assaults the last few nights had
gotten them nowhere. Just "I’m okay" and "Sorry I
woke you" and "No, I’m fine." Shuttered eyes, and a
chin that jutted dangerously, daring them (who?) to
hit him again, hit him again, give him their worst, he
could take it, he’d take all of it. Take all of it
and hold it inside him till it ripped him apart.
No way, Jose, Murdock thought. Not this time. Not
this time.
Face looked up.
His eyes were unfathomable pools – blue made black by
shadow. Murdock wasn’t even sure Face recognized him.
What to say, what to say, what to say?
Face stared silently at him.
What to say?
Murdock took off his cap and clutched it in his hands.
He looked down at the floor, then raised his eyes to
Face’s sheepishly. "I had a bad dream," he said.
Murdock held his breath.
The eyes were blank – then they weren’t blank. Then
Face was setting the drink down on the floor beside
him. Then Face was opening up his arms.
The tightness in Murdock’s chest eased. Face would
refuse comfort if he were dying (I’m fine), if his
guts were hanging out and his arm was falling off (I’m
okay, really). But he’d never, ever refuse to give
comfort. He’d never, ever refuse to give Murdock
comfort. Murdock went to him, sat beside him on the
couch, then leaned over and let himself be closed in
that warm embrace.
If Face had stopped to think, (if he’d been capable of
thought), he might have wondered how Murdock (and his
bad dream) had made their way clear to Malibu from his
bed at the VA to tell him about it. But he asked no
questions. Just clung to Murdock like he was the only
life preserver in the whole dark ocean.
Murdock smiled happily to himself.
He might not have the face, the soft touch, the golden
halo of wavy hair or that sweet blinding smile. But
it was amazing what you could do with one "aw, shucks"
and a pair of puppy dog eyes. Facey wasn’t the only
conman on the A-Team.
The ocean murmured softly and as Murdock lay there in
Face’s arms, he watched the sliver of a moon rise over
it.
Over the last half hour, his friend’s desperate grasp
had loosened. His head had fallen back against the
couch. His breath had become even and soft and slow.
Murdock had sunk a bit deeper into Face’s lap, his
head cradled in the crook of Face’s arm. He felt warm
and comfortable. But then, he’d always felt
comfortable in Face’s arms, he thought. Always.
It was good that Face was sleeping. Hopefully having
a warm body next to his, a friend touch-close, would
keep the memories at bay for one night, at least.
Murdock watched as a plane, bound for parts north,
maybe Portland or San Francisco or Seattle, eased
slowly across the dark sky. He was comfortable, but
not really tired – he drifted down into memory, not
sleep. To the first time a certain Howlin’ Mad pilot
flew with a certain dashing young Lieutenant. And how
a flight in a chopper and a very important con and the
rescue of a lady in distress and the fight that ensued
immediately afterwards had led to a rather surprising
striptease. . .
