If Only
by lamardeuse

Rating: NC-17


Author's Note: Lyrics to "Swingin' on a Star" by Van Heusen and Burke and "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix used without permission.  No copyright infringement is intended.  Thanks to the wonderful people at The Cascade Hospital, who provided most of the medical jargon for this story.  Any errors are mine.









May 16, 1978



Templeton Peck stared into his glass of scotch and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

He tried to concentrate on the amber liquid, and on making himself as invisible as possible. The bar was seedy enough that his fellow members at the Beverly Bay Country Club would be appalled to know he was gracing one of its stools tonight.  When he'd gotten in the Buick three hours ago and started driving, he'd had no idea of his destination.  After a while, he'd noticed he was barreling along the coast highway, and that his tank was almost empty.  He'd turned off at the next town, bought some gas and stretched his legs.  It was past seven, and the shadows were lengthening, anticipating a glorious Pacific sunset.  If he turned around right now, he'd be back at a decent hour.  Leslie would be—

He shook his head to clear it.  Leslie wasn't there.  Of course she wasn't there.  That's why he'd been driving the damn car for three hours.

Leslie had gone away for the weekend; she wouldn't tell him where.  She'd called him at the hospital, at the end of his shift.  His last shift of residency.  On Monday, he was joining one of the more prestigious clinics in Pasadena, where he would spend his career performing surgery on the rich and the influential.  It was the culmination of everything he'd ever worked for, fought for.

He raised the glass to his lips and winced at the flavour of the whiskey.  When he'd asked for a single malt, the guy had stared at him as though he'd spoken Martian.  This stuff had to be straight out of a Kentucky still.  

Taking a deep breath, he downed it in one gulp.

It wasn't supposed to work out this way.  He had a plan, and the plan had been going smoothly for the past ten years, just the way he liked it.  Control was the key to everything he'd become.  If he gave it up now—

But he hadn't counted on the fact that Leslie wouldn't go along with the plan any more.  And that he would be sitting on a bar stool in a seedy bar in a seedy coastal town, dreading the Monday to come and all the Mondays after.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening.  A shaft of angry, blood-red light stabbed into the bar, and a man followed it in.
 
Peck's gaze tried to stay impartial, clinical.  About six foot one, about his age, maybe a little older, with dark hair just starting to thin.  A nicely proportioned face, with a strong nose and not too generous mouth.  He was lean to the point of being rangy, his long limbs graceful.  He turned toward the back of the bar first, and Temp noticed a striking design on his leather jacket, an intricately painted tiger's head with some lettering above it.  His wide brown eyes scanned the room, not with aggression but something very close to it.  When his gaze settled on Templeton, the doctor was surprised to feel his pulse jump.

The man stuck out his lower lip for a moment, his eyes never leaving Peck.  Temp stared back with what he hoped was a matching intensity, then returned to his senses in a rush of self-recognition.  What the hell was he doing?

He signalled the bartender.  "Another one," he growled, suddenly angry.  Turning back to the bar, he focused on his empty glass.  

He watched the stranger out of the corner of his eye as he ambled over to the counter and took the second stool on Temp's right.  Determination suffused his body; it had served him well in the past, and would again.  Just because his carefully constructed life was coming crashing down around his ears was no excuse to—

"You come here often?"

Peck closed his eyes briefly.  Stupid, he told himself, stupid, stupid.  Then he turned his head to fall into that brown gaze again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bingo.

Maybe, thought Murdock, there'd be something worth looking at in this one horse town after all.  He and the guys had parted ways at the local diner; another lengthy cat-and-mouse session with the MPs had left him feeling restless and volatile, and bugging BA while he tried to stuff a hamburger in his face wasn't going to be enough to dispel it.  

No, what he needed, the big guy definitely wasn't interested in providing.  He smiled inwardly, where the beautiful specimen sitting to his left wouldn't see it.  It had been a while since he'd indulged in one of his favourite ground-based pastimes.  Gay bars weren't his scene, and the fella he'd met at the rap session at the VA had taken a job in New Jersey a couple of months ago.  There was a jazzy feel to messing with one of these ‘straight' guys, he mused, the ones who'd convinced themselves they were made for the white picket fence life.  And ruffling feathers was another of his favourite pastimes.  

He'd seen a lot of variations of that in ‘Nam; the adrenaline rush got ‘em every time, and they were hooked.  Everything had been intensified, amplified there, and there could be no hiding from what you really were.  Back in the World, though, things were easier to cover up, and camouflage was more effective.  

One look at this guy, though, and Murdock could tell he'd been stripped bare.  He could sympathize with that, having spent several years living exposed to the elements himself.  The day the doctors had released him last December had been like autorotating a dead slick; until that blade caught again, you were helpless, watching the Earth rise up to clobber you.  But with Hannibal and BA's help, he'd slowly remembered how to live and breathe and exist on land.  The man beside him had the same look on his face that the pilot had seen in the mirror last Christmas.  Only Murdock didn't think there was anybody covering his back or walking point for him.

Despite his sympathy, though, he couldn't help the smartass question that escaped his lips.  After all, the best way to a man's heart is to piss him off.

"You come here often?"

The guy closed his eyes for a second, then looked up at Murdock.  

Jesus, he thought, inadequately.

"No," the man replied. "And I'm not here now."

Murdock flashed a grin.  "What a coincidence.  Neither am I."

The guy sighed, and Murdock took a second to study him again.  The hair was impeccably styled, maybe a little out of place, as though he'd been running his hands through it.  The suit was too much; who wore a three-piece suit on a Saturday night?  He certainly was from out of town, maybe even LA, because he had more class than this whole place put together.  Some kind of professional, obviously; so why was he wound up?  A stock deal gone bad?  A patient suing him for a messed-up nose job?

And why did Murdock keep trying to get inside this guy's head when all he wanted was a way inside his pants?

"Look," the professional was saying, his voice low, "I, ah, I just came in for a drink."  There was a note of pleading in the words, and something in Murdock's gut twisted.  How pathetic was he, trying to pick at this poor bastard like some kind of horny vulture?

"Yeah," he muttered.  "So did I."  Nodding to the bartender, he ordered a Bud.  When it came, he chugged about a third of it before setting it down.

They both turned to each other in the same instant.

"Sorry, I—"

"Listen, I didn't—"

They trailed off, stared, then cracked up.  Murdock liked the guy's laugh; it revealed him to be younger than the suit implied.  "Listen, why don't I rewind the tape here?"  He stuck out his hand.  "H.M. Murdock."

The guy hesitated for only a split second.  "Templeton Peck."

"Doctor, lawyer, or Indian chief?"

He looked a little sheepish, and that made him appear younger still.  "Doctor.  I start in private practice Monday."

"Well, hell, that's somethin' to celebrate."  He held up his glass.  "To Doctor Templeton Peck."

The kid—he had to be about thirty, but somehow he had been transformed—looked away, then back, then raised his glass.  "Yeah.  To Doctor Templeton Peck.  Long may he wave."  Murdock clinked his stein with the shot glass, lightly.

"You gettin' drunk to celebrate?"

Peck shook his head.  "I'm not getting drunk.  I have to drive back to Los Angeles tonight."

"When you get here?"

He studied his watch.  "Thirty-three minutes ago."

"The town that exciting, huh?"  The bartender narrowed his eyes, but Murdock ignored him.  "Why did you come, then?"

Peck raised his eyes to him then, and the look in them was raw, bleeding.

"Fate," the kid told him.

Murdock remembered to breathe after about a minute.  "Let's get drunk," he said.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"She wants a baby."

Murdock's warm brown gaze, unsettling and comforting at the same time, didn't waver.  He took another swig from the bottle of whiskey he'd bought off of the bartender, then passed it back to Peck.  Temp had noticed the other man wasn't drinking as much as he pretended to be, but he was way past caring why.

A momentary flash of panic burst behind his eyeballs.  You know why, idiot. He wants to have his wicked way with you. Get you drunk and fuck your brains out.

He met Murdock's gaze again.  No.  He couldn't say why, but no.  Peck had always been an excellent judge of character, from the time he'd been in the orphanage until now, when understanding what made people tick mentally as well as physically made him a better doctor than most.  He'd only known this man for a couple of hours, most of which had been spent talking about himself, but he was certain Murdock would never hurt him.

He almost laughed at the corny thought.  Never was a damned long time.  Never say never.

"I take it the feeling isn't mutual."

"No, I want kids.  Eventually."  It was the answer he'd given for a long time now, like a prerecorded message on an answering machine.  His gaze wandered over the room, seeking distractions.  His gaze wandered over the room, seeking distractions.  The motel room he'd rented for the night was serviceable, clean at least.  The bedside lamp lent an orangish glow to the room, its weak bulb hiding a multitude of decorating sins.  The tall man sat folded in one of them, a purple chair which resembled a sagging, oversized plum.  Murdock had stopped in at the diner across the street on their way here, engaging in a brief exchange with two men, one silver-haired, handsome, hawklike, the other huge, black and fierce.  Together, they looked like members of an odd tribe, different but similar.  And for an even odder moment, he yearned to be one of them.

"What did you tell her when you married her?"

Peck was brought up short by that.  He wasn't the only one in the room who knew people.  "I told her we'd have kids when I finished my residency."

"Which finished yesterday."

"Yeah."  He ran a hand through his hair.  He'd never talked to anyone about this, not even his priest.  "I, ah, well, like I told you, we're practicing Catholics.  Leslie is, especially.  When I convinced her to go on the Pill, well, it doesn't seem like a big deal to most people, but..."  He trailed off, the weight of his guilt heavy on his lungs.

Murdock's voice was soft.  "I understand."

"She did it for me, for us, because we couldn't afford a baby, at least I thought we couldn't, but I knew it took something out of her to do it.  She got even further away after that."  He took another drink, shook his head.  "That was one of the things I loved about her, y'know?  That air of mystery, the sense that she was keeping a secret.  But after we got married, I realized it wasn't something she was ever going to tell me, because it was something she was missing."  He took a deep breath, let it out. "Something I wasn't going to be able to give her."

He looked over at Murdock, who was staring at the lamp, his pupils shrunk to small points.  "Everybody's missing pieces, Doc.  We just hafta find the path that leads to 'em, then bend
down and pick 'em up, like pennies in the parking lot."

Peck snorted.  "That simple, huh?"

Murdock speared him with a look.  "No.  It isn't."

Temp inspected the bottle—about halfway there—and tipped it to his lips for a particularly long swallow.  "The, ah, the thing is, I spent the last ten years telling myself I wanted the home, the wife, the kids, the job, the country club, the Mercedes, all of it."  He shook his head.  "Ten years?  Hell, longer than that.  I remember when I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, they took us to movies with rich, beautiful people who lived in big houses and smiled all the time, and I thought, this is where I was supposed to end up.  Not stacked like a fucking sardine in a room with nineteen other kids who cry in their sleep.  And now that it's all within reach, I don't even know if I want it any more."

Murdock didn't comment, and Peck snorted.  The booze was starting to suffuse his limbs with a pleasant numbness.  "It's a big joke, y'know?  The guys from my graduating class who work the ER with me, they all joke about it.   They laugh about the gunshot wounds, the knife wounds, the babies born addicted to heroin, the old men who come in with food poisoning from eating out of a dumpster.  I suppose it's a way to get through it.  They're falling over each other to get out of the place, start their cushy practices.  I should be too.  So how come I'm not?  How come I hate the thought of leaving?"

The other man's eyes sparked.  "I know somebody who's got a theory 'bout that.  Maybe I'll tell it to you sometime."

"Where'd you get that jacket?" Temp asked, annoyed to hear his voice pitched barely above a whisper.

"This?"  Murdock lifted it off the dresser where he'd dropped it. He tossed it to Peck, who put down the bottle just in time and caught it awkwardly.

Temp turned it over in his hands.  The leather was worn, cracking in a couple of places.  He trailed his fingers over the tiger's head.  "Danang," he breathed, as though the word had the power to conjure.  "Vietnam."  He lifted his head, understanding.  "That's where you three are from."  Stupid.  Of course they weren't from Vietnam.  "I mean—"

"I know.  You're right, though.  We're from there, in more ways than one."

"I never went."  Stupid again.

Murdock shrugged.  "Lots of people didn't.  You're better off."

"I thought about going over, once.  As a medic.  But I told myself...."  He trailed off.  "I can't remember, now.  Something selfish, I suppose."

"You Catholics like to beat yourselves up, don't ya?"  He reached for the bottle, snagging it from the table.  Peck watched his long fingers wrap around the clear glass.

"Self-flagellation will get you a sure ticket to Heaven," Temp opined. Yup, he was drunk, all right.  He loosened his tie and slid it off, then started unbuttoning his vest.

"You gettin' ready for bed?"  The question was casual, but something in the way he spoke the word 'bed' send a thrill down the back of Temp's neck.  He didn't answer, just kept undoing buttons.  There were a lot of them.

He felt—dangerous.  He hadn't felt dangerous since he was sixteen and beat the crap out of the orphanage's biggest bully. The kids had cheered him on; he had been a fucking hero.

Last week, he'd brought a seven-year old back to life after she'd been caught in the crossfire of a drug deal gone bad.  Her mother had hugged him until he'd started crying, too.

"Are you a hero?" Peck demanded.

The brown gaze warmed him from head to toe, exposing him, understanding him, scaring the hell out of him.   "That's what they told me," Murdock replied, finally.

"Do you believe it?"

The other man stood, unfolding himself from the chair, and crossed the few feet to where Peck sat cross-legged on the bed.  The lamp's light spilled upwards, casting his features into sharp relief.

Slowly, slowly, he descended, knees bending, until they were eye to eye.  His long-fingered hands rested on the edge of the mattress, inches from Temp's legs.  A muscle in Peck's thigh twitched.

"I need to know if you believe it," murmured Temp, urgently.

"Why?"

The last button came free and Peck leaned sideways, falling into warmth.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Oh.

He'd imagined kissing him would be good.  But the gap between imagination and reality was as wide as the Grand Canyon.

The first touch of his lips was a tentative pressure that increased slowly, then abruptly disappeared.  Murdock figured that was it, experiment finished, because it was pretty damn clear this altar boy had never had another woman besides his wife, let alone—

And then strong hands cupped his face and the mouth returned to devour him alive.

Peck kissed like an angel, his lips brushing, gliding, tugging, suckling in a perfect, maddening rhythm, and then the tip of his tongue pleaded for entry, and Murdock was lost.  Their mouths opened together, on a shared groan, and the pilot plunged his hands into the soft blond hair he'd been dying to touch for hours.  His fingers spread across the back of Peck's skull, exerting the lightest pressure, not to trap him, only to envelop him.

The good doctor's hands moved to his chest, then descended toward his waistband, grabbing fistfuls of t-shirt and pulling upwards in a jerky motion.  Murdock felt cool air caress his belly, then warm fingers.

Warm, trembling fingers.

"Whoa, muchacho," murmured Murdock, disentangling himself with great difficulty.  Peck's arms dropped bonelessly and he sat there, eyes closed, hair mussed, lips swollen and red.  It would've been Murdock's wildest erotic fantasy, except for the fact the kid was shaking, terrified out of his socks.

"I thought y-you—" he stammered, eyes still screwed shut.

"Oh, hell yeah," Murdock agreed fervently.  "I do.  Somethin' awful.  But this is wrong, wrong, wrong."

The eyes, blue as the water at Cam Ranh Bay, opened to study him.  The fear was there, along with barely admitted desire, and desperation, and loneliness.

"I know it's wrong," he growled.  "But who cares?  You're here, I'm here, I'm going to hell anyway."

"So you might as well fuck the skinny guy, add sodomy to your list of big-ass sins?  Thanks a whole lot," Murdock laughed.  "You won't get a lot of action with that line, I'm tellin' you right now."

"I'm sorry," Peck whispered, his face suddenly crumpling.  Murdock watched, startled, as the other man broke down in front of him, his whole body shuddering while silent tears tracked their way down his cheeks.

Shit, thought Murdock.  Always did have a soft spot for strays.  Must be some kinda radar I have, sniffs ‘em out.

"Shove over," he muttered, perching on the edge of the bed and bumping Peck with his hip.

"I don't need—" the other man began, his limbs stiffening, though he complied with the order.

"Like hell," Murdock returned, throwing an arm around the other man's shoulders.  "I was six and a half years in a VA psych ward, Doc.  I know the signs.  Shut up."

It took a few minutes, but Peck relaxed against him, his head finally resting on his shoulder.  Gradually, his breathing became more even.  Murdock reached up to stroke his hair.

"I am sorry, you know," Peck told him after a while.  "This isn't anything like what you wanted."

"Yeah, well, this ain't half bad," Murdock mused.  "I mean, meeting the most beautiful guy you've ever laid eyes on, gettin' yourself invited back to his hotel room, then drinkin' whiskey nastier'n cat piss, hearin' about his perfect, beautiful wife and having him cry all over your t-shirt.  I'm comin' to this town for all my vacations."

Peck barked a laugh.  "You're crazy."

"That's not what the paper says.  But you ‘n me ‘n BA, we know different, don't we?"

The other man sat up self-consciously, wiping at his eyes.  Murdock watched him try to put the mask back in place.  He was good at hiding, and soon the fact he'd slipped up in front of a complete stranger would rankle.

"I should get goin'."  He swung his legs off the mattress and stood.  Peck followed him, joining him on the same side of the bed.  Stepped close so that they were toe to toe, chests barely a heartbeat apart. Murdock absorbed his warmth, his breathing shallow.

"You don't have to," Peck told him, confident, meeting his gaze.

The pit of Murdock's stomach gave way.  It was the last thing he'd been expecting to hear.  This guy had guts, and he liked the edge more than he wanted to admit, to himself or anyone.  Murdock could teach him to love the edge.

Slowly, he reached up to trace a finger along that flawless jawline.

Peck closed his eyes.

"Yeah," Murdock replied, "I do."

Peck's eyes snapped open.

"Go make up with your perfect, beautiful wife.  She'd have to be crazier'n I am not to take you back."

The clear blue eyes searched his face for a long moment.  Then Peck nodded, slowly, and stepped back, and Murdock felt the loss of something he'd never have.  The doc bent down, then picked the leather jacket up off the mattress and handed it over.

"Thanks for answering my questions," he said, when Murdock took it from him.

"Which ones were those?"

"I asked whether you were a hero, and if you believed you were one."

"And?"

"You don't believe it."

"Bingo."  Murdock slipped on the jacket.  Nights were cool along the coast.  He smiled, turned to go, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

God.  Didn't he know that the longer he stayed, the harder it was to leave?

Yeah.  He probably did.

"Well, you're wrong," Peck murmured, leaning in close.  "Because you were mine, tonight."

"Oh, Christ," Murdock moaned, pulling the other man in for a hard, bruising kiss.   His hands roamed of their own volition, memorizing planes and angles and soft, soft blond hair.

Ten seconds later, he was outside, breathing heavily in the cold, salty night.  He started walking, and didn't look back.

November 16, 1978


"No!  Don't take him!  Don't take him!"

Rudy Kowalchuk filled his arms with the screaming woman, holding her up, holding her back.  

He hated doing that.  He wanted to turn her loose like a Fury on the animals who descended on the village.  But then there would be even more people dead.

The bastard in front of them laid a possessive hand on little Antonio's shoulder.  "You have raised him well, Señora," he crooned in silken Spanish.  "He is strong.  He will make good money for your family in the mine."

"You have enough of our children already," one of the old men shouted from the crowd.  Rudy cast a glance at him.  Ten years of bloodshed had destroyed a generation of  young men.  It was a village of widows, children and the elderly, like a hundred other villages in these mountains.  The people were battered by pain and loss, but still, some of them had fight left in them.  

Some of them, but not nearly as many as they needed.  He looked over at Ortega, who stood in the doorway of his shack, observing the proceedings, but not participating.  Stood there like a spectre, haunting them all with the reminders of broken promises for a better future.  The Communists, the military, everyone had failed these people, drawn their brothers and husbands and sons into wars that hadn't led anywhere but to another grave.  He couldn't blame people like Ortega for giving up.  For wanting to be left alone to exist for as long as they could.

But was that living?  The woman trembling with rage in his arms didn't think so.

And then the chief python stepped forward.  Ramirez.  His malevolent gaze slithered over the villagers, and gradually silence descended.   His close ties to the current regime's secret police earned him a respect which barely managed to cover the seething hatred of the villagers.

"Our operation is expanding," he told them.  "This will mean jobs for San Pedro.  Food on your tables."

"But at what cost?" the old man returned.  He flung a withered arm in the direction of the community centre.  "There are a dozen of our boys with broken bones and worse, lying in beds, with no one to treat them.  And last week Ramòn—"

There was a sob from Ramòn's mother, standing a few feet away.   The woman Rudy was holding shrugged him off and went to console her.  

Lady of our Consolation, Rudy thought.  He'd seen three years of this.  Memories came flooding back; almost completely submerged in a rice paddy, watching the women screaming over their dead kids lying in the road.  They could scream for hours.  

They were still screaming.

"And what about you, Saint Gringo?"  Ramirez drawled, coming closer.

Rudy remembered twisting the neck of a guy who got too close.  

"Do you want to fight me too?"

Rudy said nothing.  Just smiled, slowly letting it build, the way he'd seen a man do many years ago.  A smile that said, you are about to be in the shit.  But you'll never see it coming.

Not until your nose is right in it.

November 20, 1978


"Come on, come on!" he growled through gritted teeth as the bird descended.

One skid, then the other hit the roof, gentle but fast.  He ran toward the chopper, ducking down to avoid the deadly swish of the rotors.   

Had they made it in time?

The door opened and one of the paramedics jumped to the ground, turning swiftly to his charge.  Templeton Peck reached him an instant later.  He bent over, studying the unmoving form on the stretcher.

"We've got her stabilized!" yelled the other man.  "But we need to get her into OR, NOW!"  Moving as a team, he and Peck pulled the stretcher out, then held it as the other medic secured the wheel assembly that unfolded from the bottom.  They headed for the rooftop door and the elevator which would take them directly to Emergency.

Temp looked down at the girl—woman—whose life was now in his hands.  She had been stabbed repeatedly in the face and torso by her husband.  She had lost a great deal of blood.  
She no longer resembled a human being.

He checked her vitals as they descended.  Wondered, for a split second, if she had been pretty.  If she would ever be pretty again.

If anything like that even mattered anymore.

The doors opened, and the doctor sped toward the OR, issuing orders as he went.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Murdock both hated and loved it when Hannibal was right.

Today, though, it was mainly hate.  "You know I'm right, Captain," he'd said, in the Tone of Command.  And he was.  But Murdock still hated it.

Okay, it wouldn't be all bad.  He'd get to see that beautiful kid again.  But he didn't want to admit he'd been thinking about him all these months, like a puppy, standing outside in the rain, yearning for the warm fireplace he could see through the window.  Peck had been that, all right, and Murdock was at a loss to explain why a man he knew for a handful of hours should feel so very much like home.  

The hell you don't, he told himself.  You spent such a long time gettin' yourself taken care of, it felt good to be on the givin' end for a change.  Made you feel like you got a connection to somethin'.

Not that he didn't have connections; the guys had kept him alive, literally, when he didn't care one way or the other.  BA showed it in his usual gruff way, Hannibal was more open about it, but he knew they both cared about him, would lay their lives on the line for him.  And it wasn't one-sided; he'd do the same for them, anytime, anywhere.  Had even told the shrinks all the crap they wanted to hear because he knew they needed him more on the outside than on the inside.  After all, there were only two of ‘em, and a fella who could pretend to be just about anybody came in handy.  Sure, there were times he wondered if that had been the smartest thing to do, but it was the right thing.  End of story.  Only guys who'd been through a war or something similar could pass judgment on their choices, made through the years, under all kinds of circumstances, good, bad and ugly.

He didn't like the choice he'd made five minutes ago, though, and he figured he was qualified to criticize himself.  When Hannibal had told them about the latest job, he should've kept his mouth shut.  But there were kids.  And they needed a doctor.  They knew a couple of good ones, vets, but they were either on jobs just as urgent or, well, Dutch had been diagnosed with leukemia last month.  Agent Orange?  Naw, hell, ain't no such thing.

So when Hannibal had asked if anybody knew of a doctor who might be willing to go to Central America, Murdock had felt his hand go up like the brown-nosed teacher's pet.

"How do you know we can trust him?"  Hannibal had asked.

A fair question, but one he had no way of answering.  "I—I don't.  But he's a surgeon, and a good one.  He works the emergency at City of Angels."  

Okay, so maybe he'd checked up on him.  To see how he was making out.  Didn't mean anything.

"How long have you known him?"

"I met him a few months ago."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed, and Murdock squirmed.  "When?"

"Uh, back during the Bakersfield job."

BA's brows knit.  "Didn't meet no doctors on the Bakersfield job, fool."

Murdock began counting backwards from one hundred.  He didn't even make it to ninety-seven.

"Well, you and I didn't, BA," Hannibal chimed in archly.

There was another beat.  "Oh, man."  BA sighed heavily.  "Jus' because you had him bent over a chair, don't mean we can trust him with our lives, crazyman."

"It wasn't like that!" Murdock exploded, surprised to find himself on his feet, looming over the big man.  "Nothin'—oh, Christ.  You don' wanna know, and it ain't none of your business anyway."

—I asked whether you were a hero, and if you believed you were one.—

He shook his head forcefully, to clear the image.  "Look, forget it, just forget it.  It wouldn't be right, anyway, to ask him."

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder.  "Murdock."

He turned away from angry brown eyes to face understanding blue ones.

"Go with your gut on this one.  What's it telling you?"

Murdock took a deep breath, let it out. "That's not it.  I should never have—the thing is, I just remembered, he figures he owes me.  Don't ask me why; it isn't important.  But this is some dangerous shit, Colonel.  And I don't want to be responsible for anybody bein' where they aren't supposed to be."

—"Why did you come, then?"

Peck raised his eyes to him then, and the look in them was raw, bleeding.

"Fate," the kid told him.—

"That's all right, then," Hannibal replied.  "Because the responsibility's just been taken out of your hands."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When he let himself into his apartment, he didn't even bother turning on the lights.

It wasn't the most luxurious one he could afford, but it had a damned nice view, twenty stories above the street.  Despite the fact that the job at City of Angels wasn't nearly as well-paid as the one he would have had in private practice, the salary was still more than enough for one person to live in comfort. Leslie had refused to let him support her when she left, even though he argued that he made more money than she did as a social worker.  She'd never cared about money, and he'd always thought he'd never have enough.  Slowly, so slowly he didn't realize it was happening, she'd taught him to care more about what he couldn't see, and touch, and wrap his fingers around.  He was grateful to her for that; he was grateful for all the things he'd learned by listening to her pure, straightforward wisdom.

The last thing she'd told him was to follow his heart.  And he had listened to that too.

Kicking off his shoes, he padded over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the bay.  Well, there were a few buildings in the way of a really good view of the water, but technically it was a water view.  There, between those two towers, gleaming in the city's artificial glow, there, right there. A sliver of what might be the Pacific.

He smiled to himself.  There you go, caring about those things you can't see.

Tired muscles creaked as he walked over to the couch and collapsed, full length.  He'd been negligent; it had been a week since he'd last been to Gold's.  He was just so tired at the end of these long nights, but that was no excuse.  The runs before his shift weren't enough.  He was going to be thirty-one next month; he couldn't keep taking his body for granted.

He reached behind his head, fingers closing around the small wooden box on the end table.  Lifting it, he opened the lid and took out a Corona.  It was a filthy habit; as a doctor, he should have been ashamed of himself.  But a good cigar every once in a while was a necessity, calming him in a way nothing else ever did.   He cast a glance at the coffee table, looking for—

The lighter kissed the dark air, igniting a foot from his nose.

"Lookin' for this?"

"Jszush!"  Peck exclaimed around the cigar, as he tried to scramble backwards over the arm of the sofa.

White light flooded the room, and Temp squinted.  "What the—"

"Hannibal, you always gotta get dramatic."  He jerked toward the sound of a gruff voice from the corner, which seemed to be owned by a large black man who enjoyed wearing large amounts of gold.  Swivelling back toward his assailant, he beheld a silver-haired, hawklike, handsome man, grinning around a now-lit Corona.

"Hope you don't mind.  I was out," he said, around the cigar.  "I'll pay you back sometime."

Temp vaulted off the couch and stood there, mute, while his stockinged feet sank into the deep pile.  He took out the cigar, crushed it in his fist to steady himself.  Finally, he croaked, "You—I remember you."  His brain was misfiring.  Where, where, where?

He spun toward the other corner, where a tall, lanky figure was emerging from the shadows of his kitchen.

Murdock.

His breathing started to even out.  Pulse rate slowed.

"Hi, muchacho," smiled the other man, his eyes concerned.  At least he thought they looked concerned.  

Focus.  Focus.

"Sorry to scare you," the silver-haired man drawled, sounding not the least bit sorry, "but we can't exactly walk up to people in broad daylight and start chatting."

He raised his eyebrows, trying to appear nonchalant.  This was a difficult look to achieve while holding a mangled Corona in your hand.  "No, I don't suppose you can.  You are wanted by the Army, aren't you?"

The older man flicked a glance at Murdock, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

"You're the A-Team."

"I'm Hannibal Smith, and this is BA Baracus," the man offered.  He didn't bother to introduce Murdock.  For an instant, he wondered how much they knew.

What was there to know?  His one brief foray into the world of forbidden lust had been a disaster from start to finish.  He'd cried all over the poor man.  Had they laughed about that afterward, with crude comments and jokes?

He met the warm brown gaze.  He'd thought it held concern, but that wasn't all there was in it. There was an apology, and a veiled, cautious kind of happiness, and...

Oh.

No.  They hadn't laughed about it.

Temp extended his hand.  "Templeton Peck."  Strong fingers closed around his; the handshake was firm without being bruising, not out to prove anything.  The other man didn't step forward, so Peck nodded to him.  "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"I don't know how much you know about the kinds of jobs we do," Smith began.

"There was an editorial in the Times a few weeks ago, criticizing vigilantes.  It named you in passing."  He smiled.  "I remember the volume of mail they received was—impressive."

"We love to hear from our fans," Murdock intoned, in a mock upper-crust accent.

"One letter stuck in my head."  Hell, he'd cut it out and stuck it in a drawer in his desk, but they didn't need to know that.  "A woman wrote about how you'd saved her son from a gang preying on local kids, shipping them to other cities to work as drug dealers and prostitutes.  She said she owed you her life."

"A lot of people could say the same about you," Smith returned.  

"That's my job," Peck answered.

"Yeah.  Beats gall bladder surgery on rich, blue-haired ladies, doesn't it?  Or did you take the job in ER because you love hospital cafeteria food?"

Temp's eyes narrowed.  "Cut to the chase."

"We need a doctor," the older man told him.  "An old Greenie buddy of ours has gotten himself in a little trouble down in Central America, and we need to go give him a hand."  Smith paused, blew smoke.  "He'd been working down there with the local folks—he became a missionary after he left the service—and he was doing fine, until one of the slimeballs who calls himself a businessman decided to recruit some of the village children to work for him."

"Why do you need a doctor for that?"

"Because the kids are dyin'."  Temp sucked in a breath at Murdock's soft words.  "He's set up a mine, carved into the side of the mountain, and he's got ‘em workin' for him.  Pays ‘em slave wages and doesn't bother with safety standards, but the villagers don' wanna cross him because he's got the backing of the government."

"The kids are gettin' hurt in the mine, and they ain't enough doctors in that part of the country to treat ‘em," Baracus rumbled.  "Things is gettin' bad.  One of the little fellas died las' week, ‘cuz they couldn't get him down the mountain to the hospital fast enough, an' Rudy called us."

Peck shook his head, confused.  "This sounds like a long-term problem.  I don't understand; how long are you expecting to be down there?"

Smith shrugged.  "A week, two, tops."

"But those children will need medical care as long as the mine stays open."

The silver-haired man grinned.  "Like I said, a week, two tops."  He took a puff on the Corona, let it out.  "Listen, Doc, you don't need to worry about the particulars.  But that mine, and that mine owner, are going to meet with an accident while we're down there, and it won't be working again anytime soon."

"An' neither will he!" seconded Baracus.

"But there are also some kids down there who need the services of a good doctor, yesterday.  I'm not going to play the violin for you, but it's pretty desperate, and Murdock figures you're the man for the job."  He paused, his ice-blue gaze making Peck feel exposed.  "And that's good enough for me.

"But I'm not going to lie to you, either.  This isn't going to be a walk in the park.  These guys mean business, and people could get caught in the crossfire, though we're going to do our damndest to prevent that from happening.  And if it were ever learned you were associated with us, it could have serious repercussions for you, both professionally and personally."

Peck wanted to laugh at that last.  Personal repercussions.  He'd had nothing but personal repercussions in the last few months.  It wasn't as though a couple of kisses shared with another man in a crappy hotel room had destroyed his marriage, but they had been the final nails in its coffin.  He couldn't keep on pretending that he was happy with the way things were.  And when he and Leslie finally sat down together and talked, he found out that neither could she.

He told himself it was better for both of them.  But it still felt like failure.  A huge, ugly failure, when he'd turned his back on failure a long, long time ago.

Murdock was watching him, he could feel it.  He looked at each of them in turn, remembered the night he'd seen them in the diner.  He could tell right then that they weren't ordinary acquaintances or friends.  And Green Berets; even this long after the end of the war, the words were still ones to conjure by.  Men who would die for one another without a moment's hesitation.  Each one of them belonging to the other, owning each other's lives, and being owned in turn.  He'd never belonged to anyone like that, not even his wife.  He'd always held some part of himself back, just as she had.

He met Murdock's gaze, searching for something he didn't know how to find.  And then he heard himself speak.

"I'll do it."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Murdock hefted another crate of explosives off the tarmac and thought, if I survive this, I can survive anything.  

He walked past Peck as he bent over a similar crate, the material of his jeans stretching tight across his ass.  

There was only so much nobility a guy could exhibit.  So he looked.

The doc had shown up at the crack of dawn this morning, fresh as the proverbial daisy, and with enough medical supplies to choke a horse.  No one had bothered to ask how he'd managed to get his hands on so much with so little notice.  When all the stuff had been unloaded from his car, Hannibal, standing in the middle of it all, had nodded, twice, and said, "Nice."  The kid had beamed like a lighthouse.

He'd fallen in with them effortlessly; a man who was used to putting on masks could assume any identity he wanted.  What interested Murdock was why he wanted this particular identity.  And if he took it on, would he hate himself for it?

A shaft of pain lanced through his skull.  Too much heavy thinkin', too early in the morning.  Concentrate on the view.

Peck had shed the three-piece suit in favour of a faded jean jacket and a t-shirt that looked painted on.  In the unseasonably warm air, he'd removed the jacket early on, and once again Murdock found that reality exceeded imagination.  The pilot nearly groaned as he observed the play of lean muscle under the sinfully thin cloth.  This guy worked out, and how.  Not just aerobically, prancing along the beach like the other rich boys, but with weights, enough to give him power without excess bulk.  Something in his life had convinced him he needed that.

Or maybe he was put on this earth to torture me, he told himself.  Ever think of that?

He sighed, climbed the steps and maneuvered the crate into the plane.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Murdock wasn't happy he was coming on this trip.

That much was obvious.  He'd barely spoken two words to him since Temp had shown up at the airstrip.   But he was definitely not indifferent to his presence, as the covert glances the other man sent him proved.  Brief glances, but ones that heated his skin where they alighted.  Peck wasn't entirely sure why he'd worn these clothes today; he'd debated over it for several minutes before packing a small bag with essentials.  What did one wear to a small Central American dictatorship in November?  Could you waive the rule about no whites after Labour Day?  He finally opted for denim, figuring it would withstand wear and tear better than polyester or wool.  But the shirt was not so easily explained.  He supposed, if he wanted to be honest with himself, that it had been chosen to show them he was up to the job.

Unfortunately, he had no idea if this were true.

He lifted the crate with ease, pleased with his body's response; so far, he was doing his share, keeping up with men in top physical condition.  He hoped he'd be able to do the same in the mountainous jungles which lay ahead.   When he reached the door of the aircraft, Baracus plucked the crate from his hands as though it were made of tissue paper.  Temp clambered up the short steps, ducking his head as he went and trying not to laugh out loud at his own arrogance.  

The aircraft was a twin-engine prop, about twenty years old, but in good condition.  He'd only realized shortly after arriving that Murdock would be their pilot.  The tall, long-limbed man was crawling over the airframe when he pulled up, disappearing inside the wells of the landing gear, inspecting the cowlings and air intakes, climbing onto the wings.  It occurred to Temp that while Murdock was now privy to some of his deepest, darkest secrets, Peck knew next to nothing about him.  He'd mentioned being in a psych ward, he assumed as a result of his time in Vietnam.   It wouldn't be right to ask either of the others about it.  Doubtless they were living with their own demons.

Once the cargo was secured, Smith moved to pull up the stairs and secure the cabin door.  He took a seat across from Baracus, which left Temp no choice but to sit beside the huge man.

Murdock poked his head through the cockpit doorway.  "Five minutes, guys.  Then she's hittin' the big blue."  He cast an eye at Baracus.  "You OK, man?"

"Why wouln' I be?" snapped the other.

"Sure, sure, big fella."  Murdock disappeared directly after the softly-voiced comment, leaving the three men in silence.

Trying not to turn his head, Peck eased his eyes over slowly.  The first thing he noticed were Baracus' large brown hands, which were gripping his own knees so hard he thought the patellae might break.  Temp didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

"How much sleep you get in the last thirty-six hours?" asked Smith.

Temp looked up, belatedly realizing he was the one being addressed.  "Uh, not much.  A couple of hours."  Truth be told, he'd been on his feet since they left his apartment the night before last, making arrangements for a replacement, and using some of his more disreputable talents to secure the supplies he'd brought with him this morning.  He'd also spent a considerable amount of time vibrating from a constant adrenaline high, but Smith didn't need to know that.

"Uh hunh," Smith drawled.  "Well, get a few hours' worth now.  We'll be refueling in Mazatlán, and  I'll wake you then.  I want to go through a few procedures with you."

Procedures.  Dear God.  Did the man really think he'd be able to sleep now?   "Sure."  He tilted back the seat and closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself in his bed and not on a small plane about to begin the craziest chapter of his life.

Murdock's voice, smooth as silk, interrupted his thoughts as it was carried to them via intercom.  "Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin our preflight routine.  Please ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened, and that all stewardesses have been returned to their upright positions."  The powerful engines uttered a harsh thunk-and-whine as they turned over, and then unleashed a full-throated roar.  

He didn't know he'd dozed off until he awoke with a start when the ground dropped out from under him.  Momentarily disoriented, he squinted out the window of the plane to see America receding beneath him.  For a chilling instant, he wondered if he'd ever see it again.  Is that what they'd wondered, he mused, when they'd boarded the airliner for Southeast Asia?

He jumped when a joyous yell rent the air.   Beside him, Baracus huffed.  

"Crazyman's back in the sky," he muttered, and then Temp felt the darkness reach up to claim him once more.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Warm hands, warm heart.

That's what Sister Agnes had told him, when his class had gone on a field trip to Big Sur and he'd gotten to see snow for the first time.  He'd come in from making snowballs, the wool mittens soaked through from hours of scooping and shaping, and she'd plucked them off, afraid he'd been frostbitten.

"Sister, I'm fine," he'd chirped, voice reed-thin.  How old had he been?  Seven?  Eight?  He'd squeezed her fingers when she tried to inspect his hands for signs of the dreaded blueness.  "See, they're not even cold."

She'd said it then, and he'd been confused, because he'd read somewhere that the saying was different.  She'd answered that she meant he had been given a special gift.  Those hands would be used to heal, she smiled down at him, to heal the lame and the sick.

Right now, those hands were holding a rifle.

"This is a Ruger Mini-14," Smith informed him.  "It's one of the weapons in our arsenal, and we each carry one.  I'm just going to issue you a shotgun, because I know you don't have a lot of experience.  I'll go over that next.  But you should know how to use this one as well, in case one of us is unable to use ours."

"In other words, if one of you is shot."

Smith shook his head, chomped on his unlit cigar.  "Nah.  I mean if one of us is dead.  We can still fire it if we're shot."

Temp wrapped his hands cautiously around the weapon.  It chilled his skin.  "Are you expecting me to use one of these on another person?"

"I'm expecting you to do whatever you have to do to defend yourself, and the kids in your charge.  Because you have to understand, right now, that at some point you may be the only thing standing between them and some bastard who wants to hurt them.  When this is all over, a few of them, and their parents, are planning to testify to what's happened up on that mountain.  If Ramirez finds out about that beforehand, their lives are going to be in danger."  He pinned Peck with a gaze of steel.  "You took an oath.  I know that.  You have to choose between a rock and a hard place."

He took a breath, let it out.  "I'm going to need a few minutes to think about this."

"Sure, kid," Smith agreed amiably, patting his knee.  "Take all the time you need."  He rose from the chair and went out to join Murdock on the runway.

From the tail of the plane, Baracus emerged, having finished his task of checking on the cargo.  He moved to follow his commander, but before he could leave, Temp spoke his name.

"Yeah?"  Baracus asked, turning toward him.

"Can I, ah, talk to you for a second?"  He wasn't sure what the hell he was doing, but he knew he had to do something.  The rifle sat in his lap like a stone.

"I s'pose," the big man grunted, taking the chair opposite Peck.

Temp took a moment to marshal his thoughts.  "Listen, I don't mean to pry.  Just remember that I'm a doctor, and as such it's my job to..."  He trailed off, shook his head.  "Is there anything I can do for you?" he finally asked.  Please, he pleaded silently.  Let me do something I know how to do.

"What you gonna do for me?" Baracus demanded.

"I have sedatives.  They might make things easier."

Powerful jaw muscles clenched.  "Murdock tell you?"

No.  Your fear of flying was as difficult to miss as an H-bomb going off inside the cabin.  "I—can't say.  Confidentiality, you know."

Baracus nodded slowly.  His gaze strayed to the rifle.  "Hannibal been givin' you lessons, huh?"

"Not yet."

"Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do," the other man opined.  "You know what I'm sayin'?"

Wonderful, Peck sighed inwardly.  Philosophy 101.  "Yeah.  That's one way to look at it."

"Ain't no other way to look at it," he snapped.  "You think it's all ‘bout fancy ideals an' pieces of paper wit' yo' name on it.  Well, it ain't.  It's about livin' in this world in a way that lets you hold yo' head up.  That lets you do what's right by other folks, ‘cuz when it's all said an' done that's the only thing worth gettin' up for."  

Temp stared at the huge man, nearly forgetting to breathe.

"Crazyman's still crazy," Baracus continued.  "You wouldn't know it to look at him, on account of he's hidin' it pretty good.  He knew he wasn't ready to leave the hospital, but he did, ‘cuz he knew we needed him on the outside.  Nobody asked him, nobody talked to him ‘bout it.  But he also knew if we didn't have his help, one of us was gonna end up dead soon enough."  His gaze swept over the cabin as it might over the walls of a prison cell.  "So I get on the plane, even though I wanna jump out the side soon's the engines start up.  ‘Cuz he's doin' for us.  An' now I gotta do for us.  Simple as that."

"How?"  Peck demanded, suddenly angry, with Baracus, with all of them, with himself.  "How do you all make it so damned simple?"

"‘Cuz it is," Baracus growled, lifting himself from the seat and leaving Temp to his own churning thoughts.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"We may have to leave him here."

Murdock turned away from the guys refueling the plane to face his CO.  "Strand him in Mexico?"

"In Mazatlán, Captain; stranding doesn't get much nicer than this.  We can pick him up on the way back."  He chewed on the end of his cigar, probably annoyed he couldn't light up with all the av gas around.  "He looks like he needs a vacation anyway."

"He wants to go," Murdock countered.  Wait a minute.  This was what he'd been wanting to hear.  Wasn't it?

"He's in love with the idea of going, but the reality is starting to kick him right in the ass.  And he doesn't like it."

BA chose that moment to join the conversation.  "Hannibal gave him a gun, tol' him he'd have to use it."

"I told him he might have to use it," corrected Hannibal.

"Tha's too much, too soon," BA persisted.

"Tough," Hannibal said, his voice low.  He chewed some more.  "We don't have the luxury of time on this one.  Our medics weren't conscientious objectors, they were combat-trained Greenies.  I won't take anybody into a situation like this when he won't even defend himself.  That's not fair to us or to him."

"Hannibal's right."  Both men turned toward Murdock.  "He's right, an' you know it.  This isn't for everybody, this life we made."  He chuckled a little, but there was no mirth in it.  "You wanna play, you gotta pay, hunh?"

All three of them got quiet together.  Stared at the guys pumping gas.

"I'm gettin' somethin' to eat," BA said.  "You hungry?" he asked Murdock.

"Yeah.  There's a place down the road I heard serves bee-youtiful tortillas.  Let's go, big guy."

"You comin', Hannibal?"

"Bring me back something.  I want to keep an eye on the plane."

"I'll have two tortillas with extra cheese."  

Murdock's heart jump-started at the sound of Peck's voice.  He looked up to meet eyes sparking blue flame.  Jesus.  Didn't he know there was gas around?

The Mini was slung over his shoulder.  Slowly, he brought it around his body, and held it out to Hannibal.  "I'm ready," he stated.

"OK, kid," Hannibal nodded.

Murdock and BA headed off to the restaurant, walking with a matched, even rhythm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Temp started sweating from the moment he stepped off the aircraft.  Mazatlán had been hot, but at least it had been dry, like walking around inside a furnace.  The air in the coastal town where they landed was dripping with humidity, even though the light was starting to fade as the sun set over the water.  The shorts he'd changed into lost the pleat in them within minutes.  So much for style, he mused, wondering why the hell he'd ever thought shorts needed to be ironed in the first place.  His life as an up-and-coming surgeon with a wardrobe and a country club membership seemed a million miles away.

"Okay," Smith began, blue eyes taking in the terrain, "we need a truck.  Murdock, what do you say?"

He bowed to his CO.  "It would be a pleasure, sahib."  

To Peck's surprise, the Colonel nodded at him.  "Take the doc with you.  He might come in handy, seeing as how he speaks Spanish."  Temp felt heat rise in his cheeks; he'd mentioned his ability to Smith in passing, but now it sounded like shameless self-promotion.

The tall pilot's gaze swung toward him.  "He does, hunh?  Man of many talents."  Before Peck could think too much about the meaning behind that statement, he realized Murdock had started off without him.  He had to jog to catch up with his long strides.

"Murdock," he murmured, when he had finally reached him.  The other did not look at him, though he slowed his pace. "What's going on?"

"Well, see, this is San Pedro City , the capital city of San Pedro— "

"I know where we are," interrupted Temp, impatient.  "I wanted to know what's going on with you."

"Me?  There's lots goin' on with me, doc.  Always lots goin' on in my head.  But if I spent all night tellin' you about it, Hannibal wouldn't get his truck."  His legs continued to eat up the dusty road.

"Look, just—" Peck made a move to touch him, but jerked his hand away before it connected.  "I know you think I shouldn't have come.  But why?"

Murdock only shook his head.  "Uh-uh.  You're a sawbones, not a shrink."  He rounded on him, his face suddenly twisted into a parody of a movie gangster's.  "You dirty rat! You'll never make me talk! " he snarled, Cagney-like.

"Okay, okay," Temp relented, momentarily taken aback.

"Naw, c'mon, that was too easy.  You're supposed to shine the bare light bulb in my face, ‘til I see spots in front of m'eyes.  How'm I ever gonna get fried at Sing Sing if you back down so easy?"

"Sorry.  I wasn't aware of your ultimate goal.  I'll start heating up the chair right away."

Murdock slowed down a bit more.  Cocked an eyebrow at him.  "I don't think you should've come because this isn't the life you're supposed to have."

Temp thought about that for a moment.  "Did you get the life you were supposed to have?"

The other man barked a laugh.  "Well, I guess I did.  Always wanted to fly everything that had wings, and a few things that didn't.   It's not too many lives let you do that, and I've got my wish, just about."  He met Peck's gaze.  "And my life ain't over yet.  Maybe I'll fly the Goodyear Blimp one of these days."

"Is that all you need?  Something to fly?"

Temp sucked in a breath.  Why in God's name had he asked that question?

Because he wanted to know.

"No, muchacho, that isn't all I need," Murdock answered, in a quiet, steady voice.  "But it's all I'm ever likely to get."  His strides lengthened again.  "Let's go get that truck, huh?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Why, looky, looky, what have we here?"

"What it looks like," Peck intoned primly, "is a junk pile."

Murdock grinned.   They stood before a lot crammed with all makes and models of cars, trucks and buses, most of them missing an important part, like a set of tires or an engine.  "Raw potential, just waitin' to be put in motion."  He started forward, aiming for what seemed like the proprietor's office, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

He fought to keep from closing his eyes and savouring the sensation.  

"I want to try it," Peck told him, voice edgy but determined.

Murdock was taken aback by that.  "What you know ‘bout scammin' stuff?" he demanded.

The look in the doc's eyes was wicked, and Murdock's pulse tripped over itself.  "How the hell do you think I got through medical school?  I had a scholarship, worked two jobs, and it still wasn't enough.  So I decided to go into business with a buddy of mine from the orphanage.  Stinky O'Hara had some fine little scams going on campus, and he cut me in on his action until I could branch out on my own."

Murdock stared at him.  "Stinky O'Hara?"

"His real name was Seamus.  Can you blame him?"  breezed the other man.  He waved a hand.  "Anyway, it was nothing illegal.  We just bent the college rules about parties.  All right, we broke them.  The betting pool was questionable.  But everybody knew what they were doing.  These people were adults, after all."  His eyes twinkled.  "And college kids with money from Mom and Dad burning a hole in their pockets will bet on anything, from the colour of the new football uniforms to the size of the quarterback's dick."

The pilot checked to see if he was still standing.  He'd built this guy up in his mind as some sort of pure, virginal white knight, without really knowing anything about him.  Now it was beginning to sound like his armor was in serious need of a polish.  "What are you sayin'?"

"I'm just trying to present my credentials.  I'm a bit rusty, but then I imagine the piece of shit truck we'll end up with will beat me on that score."

Murdock's mouth opened.  Closed.  Opened again.

"Okay.  Knock yourself out."  He made a grand gesture with one hand, and Peck stepped in front of him.  

Damn.  The shorts were worse than the jeans.   Even his fucking calves were beautiful.

Man of many talents, indeed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Are you in charge here?" Temp roared, in loud Spanish.  An instant later, the door he'd thrust open hit the wall with a loud bang, and the combined assault nearly jerked the man behind the desk completely out of his chair.

"I am the owner of this business," grumbled the pudgy, sweaty specimen, his eyes deeply embedded in fatty deposits.  "What do you want?"

"What do I want?  What do I want?"  blustered Peck.  "Do you mean to tell me you don't know who I am?"

"No," snarled the mound of flesh.

"The company must have called."

"What company?"

"Are you saying the company didn't call?"

"What company?"

"Ohh, Christ!" Temp exclaimed, turning to Murdock.  "The company didn't call!"

"WHAT COMPANY?!"

Peck swivelled slowly around again to face the junkyard owner.  "The company," he began, drawing himself up to his full height, "that is going to put San Pedro on the map!"  He sucked in a breath.  "The company that is going to make you and the seventy-five members of your immediate family rich beyond your wildest dreams of avarice.  The company that is going to transform San Pedro into a land flowing with milk and honey!"  He leaned forward suddenly, his palms flat on the desk, and the porcine man tilted backward dangerously in his chair.  

"Would you like to know the name of the company?" Peck enquired sweetly.

"I—"

"The name of the company," he boomed, pausing for dramatic emphasis, "is Club Med!"

"But—"

"I can see it now," he bulled on, his arm sweeping the room.  "A grand central structure with cathedral ceilings, ballrooms, games rooms, conference rooms, fitness rooms—"

"—jungle rooms," interjected Murdock.

Temp stumbled at the other man's words, delivered in perfectly accented Spanish, but recovered swiftly.  "A luxury hotel, overlooking the blue waters of the tropical Pacific.  And on the beach itself, four—no, five!  Five dozen exclusive cottages, with air conditioning, whirlpool tubs, magic fingers!  A paradise for the weary American, tired of the rat race.  And for the people of San Pedro...."  He trailed off, locking gazes with the now actively sweating proprietor.

"Yes?" the man prompted, timidly.

Temp slapped the desk with his palm, and the owner's jowls jiggled spasmodically.  "Only the finest that America has to offer!  A chicken in every pot, a flush toilet in every hacienda!"  He grinned his most winning grin, the one that no nurse could resist.  "Television," he breathed.

"But what can I offer you?"  the proprietor asked.  "I have nothing here for a hotel."

"My friend," Peck beamed, "you have more than you can imagine.  We at Club Med are prepared to let you in on the ground floor.  The ground floor.  You are an entrepeneur who has vision; everyone I've talked to says so.  And we will be needing men of vision.  I can see you providing all our transportation needs in this great undertaking.  I trust you can supply us with equipment?"  

"I—"

"I know you can.  I have no doubt in my mind.  The first groundbreaking should be in about three months; that'll give you ample time to get ready.  The company will be sending a list of their requirements within the next couple of weeks.  But for now, I've only brought a small survey team, and I'll just be needing a truck.  Your best, preferably..."  He cocked an eyebrow at Murdock.  

"One ton," the pilot offered.

"At least," he sniffed.  "I apologize that our lines of communication got crossed.  Do you have anything ready for us to drive off the lot?"

"Yes, I think I—"

"Wonderful!  Didn't I tell you this man was a team player?"  He smiled at Murdock, then stepped around the desk to shake the owner's chubby hand.  "The company will be sending you a cheque tomorrow, wired from our Los Angeles headquarters.  Thank you so much.  You won't regret this."  Still holding onto his hand, he pulled the other man to his feet.

"I will bring the truck around for you," he murmured, looking more than a little dazed.

When the owner had disappeared out the door and thumped down the wooden steps, Peck swung toward Murdock.

"Okay?"  he asked urgently.

Murdock's gaze bored into him for a long moment, while Temp held his breath.

The pilot broke into a wide grin.  Started chuckling, low and easy.

Temp liked that sound, and liked that he was the one who had made it happen.

"Yeah," Murdock told him, brown eyes appreciative.  "You're way past okay, muchacho."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Murdock lay in the back of the truck as it slowly ground its way up the mountain.  Rudy had provided them with a flawless map; one of the perks of doing a job for a Greenie was that you weren't gonna get lost.  A few feet away, stretched out between crates of equipment, Peck was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Who was this masked man?  He was, Murdock was beginning to realize, a complicated mix of pure innocence and tarnished experience that confused and irritated him.  

That same mix also excited the hell out of him.  That bit of business in the junkyard had been a sweet, beautiful piece of jazz.  The pilot had watched the blue eyes dance with barely veiled mischief and for an insane, spine-tingling second had imagined those same eyes hovering over him, while his surgeon's hands