Tidal Forces
by lamardeuse
Rating: Big ol' NC-17 for language and graphic consensual M/F sex.
Author's Note: I know I'm digressing a bit from canon. I'm basing this on the Doctor's first appearance on the A-Team, "Black Day at Bad Rock." The second encounter in "Deadly Maneuvers" never happened in my little world. Also, Kelly appears in the timeline of the second season rather than the third. Welcome to my world.
Lyrics from "The Lady Loves Me" by Tepper and Bennett, "You Do Something to Me" by Cole Porter and "Illusions" by Friedrich Hollander used without permission.
The lady loves me and it shows
In spite of the way she turns up her nose
I'm her ideal, her heart's desire
Under that ice she's burning like fire
She'd like to cuddle up to me
She's playing hard to get
The lady loves me
But she doesn't know it yetThe gentleman has savoir faire
As much as an elephant or a bear
I'd like to take him for a spin
Back to the zoo to visit his kin
He's got about as much appeal
As a soggy cigarette
The lady loathes him
But he doesn't know it yetThe lady's got a crush on me
The gentleman's crazy, obviously
The lady's dying to be kissed
The gentleman needs a psychiatrist
I'd rather kiss a rattlesnake
Or play Russian roulette
The lady loves me
But she doesn't know it yetShe's falling fast, she's on the skids
Both of his heads are flipping their lids
Tonight she'll hold me in her arms
I'd rather be holding hydrogen bombs
Would someone tell this Romeo
I'm not his Juliet
The lady loves me
But she doesn't know it yetShe wants me
Like poison ivy
Needs me
Like a hole in the head
Anyone can see she's got it bad
Ohh! He's mad!The gentleman is an egotist
I'm simply aware I'm hard to resist
He's one man I could learn to hate
How's about having dinner at eight
I'd rather dine with Frankenstein
In a moonlight tete a tete
The lady loves me
But she doesn't know it yetOh yes, she loves me
(Tepper/Bennett)
Dig that shrinking violet
She really loves me
Here's one gal you'll never get
The lady loves me
Would you like to make a bet?
I said the lady loves me
The gentleman's all wet
March 16, 1983
"Hey, Doc. Remember me?"
I wasn't shocked to hear his voice coming out of the darkness when I came home that night. In fact, I'd been expecting him for three weeks, since he and his team of modern-day Merry Men had gunned it out of town just barely ahead of a gaggle of MPs. The endless nights that followed were ones in which I'd lain awake staring at photostats of two pictures I'd found in the Sacramento library archives. In one, he was young, cocksure, barely twenty years old; it was taken when he received a Silver Star in Korea. The black and white image failed to capture the hue of his eyes, but the pale coldness of them was evident even then. What had he seen to cause them to take on that shadow of don't-give-a-damn almost cruelty?
In the second, released after his prison break, the shadow nearly eclipsed his gaze. He seemed dead, lifeless, a walking spectre. Somewhere in between the two, I thought, was the man I had met last month. Re-animated by a purpose and a code of ethics I didn't pretend to understand, he was a lion released from his cage, knowing that eventually the bars would surround him again, but determined to live every moment outside of them to the fullest.
And then there was the surprising resurrection he had accomplished in me. I replayed the moments with him over and over in my head, and I wondered at the ease with which the mask I'd created had crumbled in his presence. How had he known that I had been alive once, that I had enjoyed prowling outside the cage as much as he? The relative safety and comfort of China Beach had been purgatory for me, and so I had requested ever more dangerous assignments during my three tours in Vietnam. Eventually, the blood had stained my soul to the point where even I couldn't wash it off, and I had retreated, surrendered to peace and anonymity in a country town. Until he had arrived with his wounded comrade and brought it all flooding back in a tide of red emotion.
"I'm glad you got rid of that guy."
What guy? What guy? Oh, yes. I had gone out with Mike, a colleague and friend from a neighbouring town, had only just gotten in the door. The scent of his after-shave still lingered on my flesh where he had kissed me good-night. How could I have forgotten something that happened less than three minutes ago?
Simple.
He emerged from the shadows of my examining room, into the dim light cast by the hall lamp. The icy blue eyes assessed me. I suppressed a shiver.
"Yes, well, I didn't invite him in because I'm tired." Liar. I usually invited Mike in after our occasional dates. We had an agreement that satisfied us both. I didn't invite him in tonight because three weeks ago I had discovered he was no longer enough.
"Yeah? Just how tired are you, Doc?" he smirked, making tissue paper of my defences. He came closer, and I felt his heat. I flashed back to the most blatantly sexual move I had made in over a decade. Disarming him in front of his buddy and the town sheriff should have been a matter-of-fact affair, but when I had stepped within his sphere of influence our surroundings had dissolved, and my fingers had sparked with the electricity of our contact as they roamed his body seeking weapons. My hands itched now, remembering the tautness of the muscle under his shirt and the weight of his hard steel 9 mm as I tugged it loose from his waistband. My gaze dipped to his jeans and a flush betrayed me, stealing into my cheeks.
His palms raised slowly in a gesture of surrender just as they had that day. Reading my mind, he growled, "Go ahead. Take it off me."
"Hannibal..." The moniker suited him better than his commonplace given names. I hated and loved that he saw through my disguise so easily. My hand moved forward of its own accord, but it was caught before it reached its target. I looked up to see blue eyes consumed by fire rather than darkness.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he whispered harshly.
"Hiding," I whispered back.
"Not any more," he replied as his mouth came down on mine.
My hands forgot the gun in their search for other surfaces and textures. Fingers dug into his short silver hair, kneaded the cords of his neck, and sampled the muscles of his forearms. His roamed up my sides and back, deftly removed my jacket. The first touch on the bare skin of my shoulders elicited a hiss from one or both of us, the sound of a brand hitting flesh.
I was dimly aware of being pushed backwards, slowly, until the backs of my thighs met the edge of my examining table. His big hands encircled my waist and lifted me effortlessly. In the darkened room, his face was unreadable.
"Please. I need to see you." Who was that begging, pathetic woman? Silently acquiescing, he moved to my desk, where he flipped on a lamp. Leave it to Hannibal Smith to have scoped out all of the mood lighting in the house. The warm glow bathed him in sympathetic colours that diffused his sharp lines. Despite that, he still resembled a hungry predator as he approached.
When he was within striking distance again, I reached for the buttons of his shirt, finding a smooth, solid male torso underneath. My fingers brushed the pucker of a scar over his right pectoral muscle, the skin there even hotter than the rest of him. It was an old one, but it went deep. Without thinking, I leaned forward and traced the line of it with my tongue.
"Jesus," he murmured, though I knew the scar would have no feeling. He undid the zipper on my skirt and slid the garment smoothly off my legs. He sucked in a breath and I felt the feather-light touch of a fingertip over the tops of my stockings. They were a daring switch from my regular, sensible panty hose; I had bought several pairs along with the garter belt on my trip to Sacramento.
"Did you wear these for him?" he demanded.
I shook my head. "You know damn well who I wore them for. I've been...." I trailed off, my pride not allowing me to make this admission of my need.
But he knew. Suddenly he cupped me, and I rose off the table with a muted scream. "You've been..." he prompted relentlessly, the pad of his thumb caressing my clitoris through the silk.
"I've been waiting for this for three weeks," I panted, angry at my own weakness. "Is that what you want to hear?"
"It's a start," he grinned, moving to pull my top over my head. My breasts tingled in anticipation of his touch, but he didn't unhook my bra right away. Whimpering softly, I shuddered as he traced the edge of the lace. He knew he was in control this time, and so did I. Next time I would wipe that macho grin off his face, but for now I was helpless in my need for what I knew he could give me.
Leaving the garters and stockings on, he tugged at my panties until they slipped down my legs. He laid one hot palm on my quivering belly, then teased my nest of curls with a maddening pressure. The other hand stole around my back, drawing me forward for his mouth, which latched onto one nipple and suckled it through the fabric. I clutched at his head as he nipped and bit, feeling my centre clench involuntarily, rhythmically, and sensing moisture swiftly descending to drench my labia.
He must have smelled me. After a minute or so he lifted his head and smiled like a satisfied cat, though I knew he was far from being satisfied.
"Open wide," he growled, and his hands stroked and parted my thighs as he knelt before me.
The first touch of his tongue on my clitoris almost brought me to orgasm. I bent my head to watch him as he began a series of long, wet laps, then switched to a gentle, tugging suction, then a circular motion that had me rotating my hips mindlessly. He looked up to see me watching him, and he stopped. I nearly sobbed in frustration.
"You like to observe the procedure, Doc?" he asked. "Then observe this." And I stared, transfixed, as he took three, God, three, of his thick, blunt fingers and drove them inside me until they disappeared. His thumb came down on my clit with each downstroke, and I screamed for real this time as he filled me again and again. My hands dug into the edge of the table, seeking added leverage for his thrusts.
"Come on, Doc," he implored silkily. "Show me that fire." And I exploded into the night, shamelessly crying out while my inner muscles milked his fingers. He held me until my convulsions subsided, then sensitized me all over again with a last flick of his thumb. Boneless, I allowed him to pull me off the table, then turn me. I realized what he was going to do when he pressed me face down on the metal surface, and I became even wetter, if such a thing were possible.
I heard the sound of a zipper being drawn and realized he hadn't even removed his jeans. At the first touch of his hard penis to the entrance of my vagina, I pushed back frantically, needing him to fill me more than I'd ever been filled. Chuckling, he drew back, then murmured, "Not so fast, sweetheart." I felt my bra being undone, then the lace loosened as his hands slipped around me to cup my breasts.
"You Special Ops boys know how to torture a girl," I managed to gasp, my back bowing in response to his clever fingers teasing my nipples.
His jeans-clad thighs pressed against my stockinged ones, and the sensation of him still clothed was carnal. "You got that right," he whispered, his hands leaving my breasts to knead my buttocks. I reveled in the progress of his fingers as they travelled the backs of my knees, up my thighs, over my cleft, then dug in to grip my hips. I felt his length slide between my legs, gliding along the wetness to prod at my sopping clit. God, he was huge, long and thick just like I'd dreamed. Somehow not being able to see it, only to feel it, was even more erotic.
He pulled in and out smoothly, slowly, the friction exquisite against me. I pushed back experimentally and he didn't draw away, so I grew bolder, my hands reaching back to grip his hips. His zipper dug into my ass and I sucked in a harsh breath.
"Oh, God," I groaned, unable to stand it any more. "For Christ's sake, Hannibal..."
"Yeah?" he enquired, still in maddening control. He was going to make me beg for it.
"I want your cock," I ground out, too far gone to be shocked at my coarse demand.
"You've got it," he declared innocently.
"Dammit!" I yelled, bucking back against him. "I want it inside me. Filling me. Please. Please. Please." My gasping entreaties were punctuated by sharp, swift rolls of my hips.
Suddenly he withdrew with an animal growl, and I heard the soft sound of a plastic package tearing. I nearly came from the anticipation as he sheathed himself. Then he spread the folds of my labia and drove his shaft home, all the way in, beautifully, mercilessly. I called his name over and over as he pumped into me with jackhammer thrusts that shook the table and reached another shattering orgasm just ahead of him.
His big body draped over mine for a moment, then he kissed me between my shoulder blades and released me. I lay there, shivering, shuddering at the force of my feelings and the realization that he had brought me back to the land of the living whether I liked it or not.
July 10, 1983
It wasn't going to be one of my better days.
The bitter, breath-stealing heat and smog of an L.A. summer afternoon crept into my pores and forced the sweat from my rapidly dehydrating body, reminding me of the reason I had chosen the mountains for my exile. Gulping another half-glass of iced tea, I sat and watched the stoned, the lame, the barely-there of Los Angeles pass by the sidewalk café. Across the table, two people who had saved my sanity more than once eyed me expectantly. I attempted to come up with something to tell them, but my brain had shut down from lack of oxygen.
"Well?" Abby demanded. She was a petite, redheaded firecracker, only a couple of years behind my forty-five, but she had the audacity to look a good decade younger. Watching her spit piss and vinegar made me feel indescribably old.
"Don't rush her," Dora grumbled, shoving an elbow in her partner's direction.
"I'm not rushing. Who's rushing? I want to see if everyone's done so we can drive like hell to the nearest air-conditioned mall."
"I'm done. Done to a turn," I drawled.
"Yeah, well, we don't get the breezes in the barrio, sugar."
"Dammit, Abby," warned Dora, pulling back the elbow in preparation for another thrust.
I sighed heavily, then regretted the intake of air that had preceded it when my lungs burned. "Look, you don't have to pussyfoot around. I'm the one who asked to meet with you about this." Say it, you pathetic coward. "I thought I was serious about it, but I'm just not ready."
"Just not ready to take your head out of your ass, you mean," Abby murmured.
I barked a laugh. Abby and Dora had been two of my closest friends in country, and even though we rarely saw each other nowadays, we infallibly resumed our old camaraderie the instant we got together. They had seen as much blood and death as I, but where I had buried myself in Bad Rock, they had gone straight from the jungle into public health services in some of the toughest neighbourhoods in L.A. Fleetingly, I asked myself if their strength might have anything to do with their love and commitment to each other, but I stomped on that girlish notion. My eyes smarted with the grit in the air, and I blinked repeatedly to clear them.
Dora was the Earth Mother of the two, a zaftig Latina with brown eyes you could drown in. She reached across the table to lay a hand on mine, and I could feel her empathy flowing over me like a balm. "No pressure, OK? Just come with us, see the clinic. The last doctor we interviewed tucked his fat gringo tail between his legs and ran, huffing and puffing. If you run, at least you'll look sexier doing it. You can meet Esteban and some of the other staff, get a feel for the place."
I smiled, feeling light-headed in the atmosphere of her caring. "All right. Take me to your DMZ."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Esteban Ramirez was every woman's dream. Tall, dark and devastating, he manufactured charm the way the sun manufactures light. The trouble was, he knew it. Together, he, Abby and Dora were the primary medical staff of East L.A.'s biggest clinic, a multi-function centre that dispensed everything from pills to teen anger management counselling. They were busting at the seams, and another doctor had been badly needed for six months. Thankfully, the funding had finally come through last week, and from that moment on the search for another MD had been in earnest. I knew how it would be working with my old friends, but I wasn't so sure about the Latin Lover. From the first ten seconds of our meeting I could see him for exactly what he was: another cocky SOB.
However, as Abby and Dora assured me, he was also a damned fine doctor. I saw that within another fifteen minutes as we accompanied him on his rounds of the projects. His skill and confidence were evident, but luckily so was his dedication to the people of this neighbourhood, or he wouldn't have gotten anywhere with the residents. I was grudgingly impressed by his rapport with men, women and children of all ages and ethnic backgrounds. I envied him the kind of trust I had once enjoyed, the trust of human beings on the edge of existence, whose decision to place their lives in your hands was not easy or automatic just because you wore a spotless white coat. Or a captain's bars.
We entered the shabby, run-down apartment of the last patient of the day, a child whose mother seemed to be absent in mind and spirit when we arrived. The girl had the old eyes of the baby-faced soldiers I used to tend, the boys turned men in the time it took their buddy's head to be blown off in front of them. But she also had a life and colour in her that defied her gray surroundings, and I felt something inside me softly shatter at her infinite patience with the poking and prodding my colleague put her through. Suddenly, the girl disappeared, and in her place was another girl, with bloodstained thighs and cigarette burns on her–-oh, Christ. The walls began to orbit my body, and the oxygen in the room became as thin as Everest's. After an eternity, the good doctor finally finished with her, and it was all I could do to keep from sprinting for the stairs. By the time we reached the street, I was close to an anxiety attack the likes of which Helen's little girl Maggie hadn't experienced in a very long time.
Of course, it was Dora's hand that rubbed small circles on my back until I could breathe again without wanting to vomit. "You're not ready. That's all it is. It's OK, it's OK," she soothed.
At least, her words were meant to soothe, but I wasn't to be mollified. "It's not OK. I want to do this. I have to do this. I want to feel again!" The nausea returned and I realized I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Collapsing on the ground, I rested my head on my knees and tried to imagine peaceful surroundings. The interior of a satin-lined coffin. Mine. That's what Bad Rock was to me now. If I didn't make this move, I would end up in a real one soon enough. I was tired of living in the shadows.
"Then you know what you have to do." Abby's voice was gentle, but firm.
"I know," I sighed. "The Goddamned VA hospital."
August 26, 1983
Another session, another mindfuck. I strode through the antiseptic corridors of the Hospital, my boots clicking and clacking on the tile. I was venting my anger the way I'd been taught to do these past few weeks. The truth was that the sessions, both group and individual, were extremely helpful. Also painful, excruciating trips through the barbed wire encampment of my neuroses and the neuroses of the dozen or so assorted shell shock types I had fallen in with. I was surprised to find that my group was to be solely comprised of medics of one sort or another, rather than combat vets. I had to finally admit that I wasn't a helpless female who couldn't stand the guff, that the experiences I had had, while different from those of the grunts, were nonetheless traumatic in their own way.
The Southern California heat had dissipated a little with the decline of the sun when I finally got outside. Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I strode over to a little bench, where I figured I might as well stop to smell the flowers. I would be pulling the eight to four shift tomorrow, only the second one I'd had at the clinic without either Abby or Dora hovering over me. The girls were treating me like breakable merchandise, which should have offended me. Truth be told, though, I was enjoying being the object of someone else's caring for a change.
I hadn't allowed myself to think much about the catalyst of my resurrection. There was nothing else to call him, nothing else to call the effect he had precipitated in me. I didn't try to explain it in any terms but those of alchemy. Emotions were messy, inconvenient; mine hadn't served me well in the past, and I refused to listen to them at my time of life. We had spent one night together, and it had brought back memories of a vitality I had denied myself. I would always be strangely grateful to him, but that was all I could allow it to be, or the knowledge of it would gradually sap my strength. And I needed every ounce of that right now.
Taking in the view, I watched the approach of an elderly, stoop-shouldered gardener pushing a large garden cart. The barrow was completely filled and covered by an olive drab tarp, and it occurred to me that it was a burdensome load for someone of his advanced age. He stopped in front of the huge peony bush beside the bench and set to tending the plant, the swishing sound of the shears interrupting my woolgathering for now.
"You don't look like one of the loonies," he barked in a cracked tenor, not looking up from his task. I turned my head from side to side, searching for the person he was talking to, but the two of us were alone.
"Well, you're wrong, because I am," I laughed, responding to the mischief in his quavering voice.
"Nah. You look like a doctor. I knew a lady doctor once."
Snip, snip. Two peonies were suddenly beheaded. What the hell?
The hairs on the back of my neck rose inexplicably. "What was she like?"
The shears fell silent for a moment. Then another. My gut tightened.
He shook his head. "She was pure fire," he murmured, his voice turning low and familiar. He turned toward me then, and blue eyes paralyzed me.
My God.
The canvas covering the cart shifted suddenly, and I watched a head emerge over the edge. "Uh, Colonel? I don't mean to be insubordinate here or nothin', but it's gettin' powerful hot under this thing." Murdock's too-bright gaze lighted on me and he broke out in a guileless smile. "Hey, Doc Sullivan! Long time no see."
Hannibal.
The eyes still held me, wouldn't let me go, began to devour my flesh.
"I went back and there was a For Sale sign on the lawn," he told me matter-of-factly. No hurt, no disappointment, no betrayal of self.
My mouth moved to form words. "When?"
"About a month ago."
"I moved down here. I'm living in Long Beach."
The eyes narrowed. "Did you track us down?"
The question startled me from my stupor. "What? I don't understand–"
He shook his head again, more forcefully this time, as if to clear it. "I have to go. Meet me. Rudy's on Vine at ten o'clock."
It wasn't a request, and I bristled. "If you think I–"
"‘Bye, Doc," he grinned, and pushed against the cart. A last wave from Murdock and they were off.
I sat for several more minutes, wondering if I had conjured him.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
On my radio, Elvis and Ann-Margret were sparring to a jaunty rock ‘n roll beat.
The lady's got a crush on me
The gentleman's crazy, obviously
The lady's dying to be kissed
The gentleman needs a psychiatrist
I'd rather kiss a rattlesnake
Or play Russian roulette
The lady loves me
But she doesn't know it yetSwitching them off with a vicious flick of the wrist, I turned to peer out the window of my Chevette. I had sold the Mercedes convertible when I moved: first of all, it wouldn't have lasted ten minutes on the streets of East L.A. Secondly, the profit I had made from my status symbol had gone toward a down payment on my dream home, a modest Craftsman in a quiet neighbourhood of older houses. I loved the creak of the hardwood floors and the patterns thrown by the stained glass window onto my breakfast table every morning. I loved the way the house was completely mine, too, removed from my work.
I'd be lying to myself if I didn't admit I hadn't imagined him sitting there in the dappled sunlight of the kitchen as I sipped my tea one morning. The domestic notion vanished almost immediately as I realized the ludicrousness of it, but for an instant it was overpowering. I'd never been married, and for most of my life had lived alone, sometimes with arrangements like the one I had had with Mike. I didn't think I was built for marriage and picket fences. The ones who I had thought over the years might end up being "the one" hadn't been. Usually, the fact I wanted to have a life that didn't completely revolve around home and hearth eventually became a sore point, and we parted. I'd had the good grace to be devastated a couple of times, but eventually I mended and went on breathing and walking and talking. I liked men just fine, but more than a quarter of a century's experience with them told me there was no indication they weren't pretty much interchangeable.
Which didn't explain why the hell I was parked outside a swanky night spot at nearly ten o'clock waiting for–what? At least I had enough backbone to sit outside rather than perch on a bar stool nursing a scotch while he failed to show up. After all, there was only so much humiliation I would endure for the prospect of mind-blowing sex.
Precisely at ten, a military rap sounded on the window of my passenger door, nearly vaulting me from my skin. Oh well, I thought, trying to calm my heart rate, at least he was punctual. Without looking up, I reached over to flip the door lock.
He slid in beside me, a soft curse escaping him when his knee collided with the glove compartment. Served him right for being so damned tall.
I turned to survey him in the dim light. He's just a man, just another man, my mind chanted idiotically. What's the difference?
The ice-blue gaze travelled over me, and I fought down a visceral reaction. All right, so there's a tiny difference.
"How've you been, Doc?" he breathed.
I had been sure how to answer that five minutes ago. "Peachy," I managed.
"Mad at me?" he asked.
I stared, confused. "Why would I be?"
"I'm not exactly the most reliable beau."
It took a few seconds for his words to sink in, then I found myself laughing. "Hannibal, believe it or not, I never expected to see you again."
He arched an eyebrow. "Or wanted to?"
I shook my head. "I never considered it. It wasn't an option." Only a small lie.
He nodded, seemingly satisfied. Indicating the restaurant, he asked, "Want to go in?"
I pursed my lips thoughtfully. "Not all that hungry, actually."
He grinned. "Neither am I, Doc. Neither am I."
August 27, 1983
The first fingers of dawn light were coming in my window when I awoke. Awareness of him struck me like a blow; I wasn't expecting him still to be here. I reached out to disable the alarm before it went off, then turned over with careful, slow movements to avoid disturbing him.
I drew in a startled breath, then held it when he stirred. I had watched enough people sleep to know that the old adage about innocence revealed was true, but with him it was nevertheless unexpected. Somehow it had seemed impossible to me for him to be anything but what he was, to play the role for which I had cast him. But the evidence of the boy he had once been was there in his face, in the way his hair spilled, undisciplined, over his forehead, in the way a slight smile hinted at joys revisited. It lasted no more than a moment, because his training would not permit the weight of someone else's gaze on him while he was vulnerable, and his eyes opened to return my scrutiny. But in that moment, I felt my perspective tilt like a trick camera angle in a Hitchcock thriller, and I wondered what, exactly, I was going to do now.
"Hey," he offered. The syllable climbed up my spine, and I resisted the urge to shake it off violently.
"Hey yourself," I returned intelligently. "You're here." I bit my tongue at the slip.
"Mmmm," he acknowledged, pushing the hair back into place. "I've got to meet the guys near your clinic later on; thought I'd ride in with you. That okay?"
"How did you–" I began, then cut myself off. We hadn't spoken about my job here in L.A. "Oh. You did have about four hours to have my whole life investigated, didn't you?"
The feline smile made an appearance. "Well, you took me by surprise, Doc. It doesn't usually take us that long."
Us. Jesus. Us. I was lying here naked with a man who moved as a platoon. What was I thinking?
He sensed the shift in me. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing," I muttered, sitting up abruptly and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. "I left the Army a long time ago, that's all."
"So did I," he growled.
My shoulders slumped under the weight of this–everything. "I'm sorry. It's just–it's a lot."
One big, warm hand landed on my bare back and began a slow circling pressure. "Yeah." His touch was soothing, completely without innuendo. "You picked a tough neighbourhood."
I grunted, leaning back in spite of myself. "No tougher than some I've worked before."
He didn't answer, just kept up the light massage, and I felt my consciousness slipping away. Shaking myself, I fought to stay awake.
"Shhh," he soothed. "C'mere."
And in seconds I was wrapped in an embrace that I shouldn't have needed, but did.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Later that day, while bandaging a child's scraped knee, I found myself staring into space like an old maid with memories.
Which I suppose I am; however, mine are luckily, or perhaps unluckily, more recent than the norm.
Dappled sunlight in sharp, jagged colours tumbling over my kitchen table, and blue eyes studying me over the rim of a coffee cup.
Oh, hell.
Now what?
September 30, 1983
"Have you ever considered meatloaf? Seriously considered meatloaf?"
It was a measure of my current mental state that Murdock's tangential topics of discussion were starting to make sense to me. It was a measure of my current mental state that he was turning into one of my better friends. For some reason I'd gravitated toward the pilot, who spent large portions of his life in the VA hospital where I had my counselling sessions, and the rest of it as an unofficial member of Hannibal Smith's A-Team. He represented a tie to the past I was currently trying to unearth. We didn't talk about our mutual demons, but the connection seemed to serve us both well. I found Abby and Dora to be too mothering right now for me to truly let loose in their presence.
Realizing he was waiting for my response, I admitted, "Meatloaf has never been a subject I've given much thought, no." I wondered if he was talking about the singer or the food, and decided my answer would fit either definition.
"I'm disappointed in you, Doc." The pilot shot to his feet, hands moving in time with the rhythms of his softly accented speech. "I've been all over this great U.S. of A., and wherever I go, I pursue my study of meatloaf. And I've decided that every region, every person, has their own definition of meatloaf. No two people make it exactly the same way. Pork, beef, maybe even lamb. Cayenne, chili, plain ol' salt, tomato sauce, onion soup mix. The varieties are endless." Brown eyes swung toward me, intent. "It's my feeling that meatloaf is the essence of America."
I nodded, only slightly frightened that I could see his point immediately. "The celebration of individuality. Dissenting voices living in harmony, united by a democratic ideal."
"Exactly!" he shouted, pointing at me triumphantly. "You do understand."
"Oh, I understand, all right," I told him as he flopped back down on the grass.
"You fixin' to see the Colonel soon?" he asked, and I started at the abruptness of the question. His changes of direction still surprised me.
I attempted a smile, but wasn't entirely successful. "It's not exactly up to me."
He shook his head. "They all think I don't notice things, but I am tuned to the mental energies of my team." Tapping the side of his skull, he grinned. "I know when somethin's new, somethin's different. Sometimes even before they notice it themselves."
Now he was losing me. "You mean, when they're on a–case?" What was the correct term for the work they did? Operation? Mission? Insanity?
"Naw. I'm talkin' ‘bout emotional stuff. I know when B.A. is worried about one of his kids, or when Face has a nightmare that won't let him go." He pinned me with an unusually level stare. "And I know when the Colonel isn't on his game."
"Wh-what do you mean?" I stammered, wondering if this was the lead up to some sort of warning. I'd been around enough military types to decipher some of the signs. To some of them, Murdock included, I could be trying to horn in on their tight-knit little boy's club.
"Well, y'see, I haven't got it all figured out yet. Our C.O. is a tough nut to crack. Wouldn't be the C.O. if he wasn't. But something–or someone–" he raised an eyebrow "has got him turned in on himself. He's lookin' inside, and he usually looks out–for everything and everyone."
"That kind of thinking could get a person killed," I ventured, trying to show him I spoke his language.
The pilot nodded soberly. "Yes ma'am. But I have faith in the Colonel. He won't fail us when the time comes. He'll pull his head out of his–I mean to say, he'll sort out his emotional turmoil."
My mouth tugged upwards at his near-slip. "I don't know what sort of emotional turmoil you could be talking about, Murdock. Hannibal and I–it's not that complicated."
He looked at me, then, and in a flash his face was transformed from glum to ecstatic. "That's it! I knew it was somethin' I wasn't thinkin' to look for! It's you! Of course it's you!"
Several heads swivelled toward us at his outburst. "Murdock..." I began cautiously, but he had already calmed to an acceptable level.
""M ashamed of myself," he muttered. "Should hang up my shingle. It's as plain as the nose on my face."
"What is?"
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Woman trouble. It's always the way. No offense, Doc."
"None taken," I told him dryly. "But honestly, it can't be as bad as you say. It's not as if–" I cut myself off abruptly. It's not as if what? Not as if we're going to pledge our undying love and live in a house with a white picket fence? That was certainly indisputable. But what exactly was going to happen? What was I hoping for from all of this?
"Oh, it's nothin' against you," Murdock continued, missing my state of emotional turmoil completely. "Women are wonderful, and Hannibal–well, he's not usually too lonely, if you know what I mean. But this is different. It's as if he's trying to finish a puzzle, fit all the pieces together. That's the only way I know how to say it."
"He's usually good at puzzles, isn't he?" I bit out, wincing at the sarcastic tone. The offhand comment about the dear Colonel's track record stirred feelings I didn't want to acknowledge.
"Yes, I guess he is. But not when there's an extra piece."
I snapped my head up to look at him.
Murdock's features softened with sympathy. "You have to understand. We've had to pare away all the non-essentials in our lives. Travel light. And I'm not just talking about how many pairs of socks you pack in your duffel bag. It's a hard thing to remember just how much you had before it all started. If you thought about it too much, you'd get so's wanting it back was all you could think about. And that's no good for any of us."
I was amazed when my vision clouded with tears, which I rapidly blinked back. "That's what I'm trying to do, Murdock. I'm trying to remember. I'm trying to pack a whole damn steamer trunk again."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then you're braver than any of us, Doc. And I wish you luck."
October 6, 1983
"Damn! I love this song. Dance with me, Mag."
"You're a nut."
"And you're no fun," Dora pouted. "Come on, Esteban. Shake your money maker."
I poured myself into a chair and watched as one of my oldest friends cut the waiting room linoleum to an old Etta James tune on the clinic's ratty old eight-track. The powerful sandpaper of the singer's voice scoured my nerves clean after a long trying day. Two gunshot victims that had to be sent to Emergency, one pregnant woman who was slowly killing her baby with heroin, and several lacerations, concussions and bruises from a brawl at the local high school had made this my most eventful day yet. But at ten we shut our doors and the chaos of the world would be kept at bay for a few hours.
At least that's what we hoped.
Esteban didn't need much encouragement to shake various parts of himself. I tried to remain detached, but a small piece of my brain had to concede that he was a luscious specimen. It wasn't as though I couldn't appreciate him as a work of Nature, but younger men who still had a lot to learn about themselves had never been favourites of mine. However, the good doctor was more than just a pretty face; he was also dedicated and damn good at his job. After a couple of weeks, he had even been gracious enough to stop propositioning me and start relating to me as a colleague rather than a potential conquest.
He spun Dora effortlessly, no mean feat, and reached out a hand to me. I sighed heavily.
"C'mon, Sully." What was it about me that inspired nicknames? Christ. "You're not on the shelf yet."
"Not yet," I drawled, checking my watch. "I've got another week before my expiry date."
He smiled, and I was reminded of another cocky grin. The wattage was similar, but the electric shock was milder. "I'm not gonna take no for an answer." Dora gyrated closer and he spun her again without taking his eyes off me.
I nodded at my friend. "Think you can handle both of us?"
"I've been taking vitamin supplements."
The laugh surprised me, coming from the depth of my soul and bursting free. And suddenly, incongruously, I thought: maybe this was going to work. Maybe I can live like this again.
"Well, as long as I'm not going to wear you out," I allowed, suppressing a groan as I swayed to my feet. Before he could whirl me about the linoleum, however, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"So much for fun ‘n games," sighed Dora. She ambled over to the door and peered out the glass. "We're closed for tonight, fellas," she yelled at whoever was on the other side.
"He's been hit!" I heard a man's voice shout back. My gut tightened.
Dora shot us both a look, and Esteban nodded. She turned the locks and opened the door.
Immediately after, a troupe of three youths barrelled in, carrying a fourth between them. His arm was covered in blood and clumsily tied with a blue bandana. Gang colours. We had a no-fault policy among the gang bangers and addicts around here, or else we would never see them when they needed us, but we kept a panic button under the desk that connected us to the police station. Something told me to start moving nonchalantly toward the desk while my colleagues attended to the wounded kid.
"Hey, where you goin'?" Obviously the leader, this one had kept his hands free while the others carried the victim. I made eye contact with him and met nothing but a dead, lifeless gaze.
"I left the antiseptic wipes over here somewhere," I told him, refusing to flinch.
His fists clenched, then unclenched spasmodically. "Okay, but hurry up." There was a pause, then: "He's hit bad." Shit. He had to think about that one. It had to be a coverup.
I made a fuss of looking in drawers, bending down and playing the absentminded professor to the hilt. "Now, let me see..." My fingers made contact with the switch under the wooden desk top while I made a show of fiddling. I knew if I was wrong and the guy was just nervous about his friend, I was risking our whole reputation with the community. But I was starting to learn to trust my instincts again. They were rusty from years of disuse, but they had been handy in a previous life, and I was pretty sure they would be again.
"You found it yet?" he ground out.
"No. I think maybe..." I trailed off while he grew more agitated. "Dora," I called, "you got the alcohol wipes over there?"
"Of course," she called back. Then almost immediately after, I heard an incoherent shout from Esteban, and the dull thud of someone being thrown against a wall.
Dead eyes produced a switchblade in the time it took me to blink. "Now, bitch, you gonna show me where you keep your pills."
Three of them. Four. It was a sure thing that the "wounded" man was in great shape. I couldn't do anything but stall until the police arrived. "You're not going to find anything you'll like. Our weekly shipment was supposed to come in today, but they didn't make it. Stocks are low." That part wasn't a complete lie. Stocks of various medications were low, but that was because of situations just like this one. The clinic only kept enough on the shelf for immediate need; for emergencies we could always call on the hospital. We'd even taken to putting a sign in the window listing all the meds we didn't have, drugs that often tempted criminals and addicts, but these guys were obviously illiterate or didn't believe everything they read.
"Look," I began slowly, trying to calm my breathing. I made a point of keeping my eyes trained on his and not on the blade, but it was tough. "We need those meds. They cost a lot of money, and you could probably make something off them on the street, even though the ones you really want aren't here. But the people who come in and out of here every day, they need them more than you do. There are lots of other ways you can get money, but there aren't any other ways for us to help them."
"You trying to fuck with me?" he said, low and slow, matching my rhythm. The knife moved in my peripheral vision, and I fought to keep my gaze level.
"I'm not trying to fuck with you. I'm trying to appeal to you as a human being. You're still human, aren't you? Then think like one. Think about your mother or your sister or your girlfriend or your hombres in here someday, and we can't help them because you keep coming in here and fucking us over."
The knife stopped moving. His eyes swept over me, burning into me, looking for weaknesses. The seconds ticked by at a glacial pace.
"Hey, man, I found the candy store!" shouted one of the kids in the examining room. The dispensary wasn't marked, but it was a simple process of elimination to find the correct door. Even these mental giants could figure it out.
The only reaction from the leader to this bit of news was a twitch. He smiled, and it was the smile of some of the Black Ops soldiers I had seen, devoid of humour or connection to the rest of the world. "Nice try. But you can get more of this shit any time you want."
I barked a laugh then, and had the satisfaction of seeing him startled. "You think so? Sure. We'll get more, but after a while they'll get tired of giving it to us over and over again and shut us down. And a year from now some rich, fat white guy will be sitting in his goddamned country club in Beverly Hills and telling his pals, ‘You know, we tried to help those fuckin' spics–'" I watched the knife with perverse satisfaction this time as it jerked in his hand "‘–but they can't even help themselves.'" I leaned forward so that I was within easy striking distance of the weapon. "I want to thank you in advance for proving that son of a bitch right."
As if in slow motion, I watched, detached, as the desire to slice me open crossed his features. Then before I registered the threat had passed, he had spun around and sheathed the knife. "Vamenos!" he shouted, and swept out the door, his confused cohorts following along a few moments later like wayward sheep.
After an eternity, I stood on rubbery legs and walked toward the examining room. The sound of sirens cut through the thick night air.
October 7, 1983
I wasn't surprised to see him when I got home from the police station. It was just after three a.m. and he was sitting up for me like Dad used to on the nights of the school dances. As I had with Dad, I knew there was a lecture coming. But if he thought I'd be in the mood for one any more than I had been at sixteen, he was sorely mistaken.
"Hi, honey, I'm home," I chirped, enjoying the banality of the phrase in the midst of a life that was no longer the least bit banal.
"You're turning into a real loose cannon, Doc," he murmured. The tone wasn't the one I was expecting. It wasn't patronizing, in fact it was the opposite. It warmed me in placed I'd forgotten were cold. But wariness set in right behind the warmth. Was he trying to derail me before this argument had even started?
"Yeah," I drawled, the word not an admission. "I'm not even going to bother to ask how you found out so quickly."
"Esteban Ramirez is a friend of BA's."
"Of course. All you alpha males are acquainted. Do you find each other by scent?"
"His cousin runs the day care where BA volunteers."
I sighed. Fifteen-love for the Colonel. "Look, Hannibal, this was already the mother of all days before those guys showed up, and now..." I trailed off, not sure how much energy I had left for a confrontation with this man.
"Now–what?" Blue eyes reflected the dim light, demanded an answer.
"Now is not the time for the fatherly advice to the weak little lady about the big, bad city."
He didn't respond for several seconds, just watched me while I tried not to shift from foot to foot like a guilty teenager. "Is that what you think I came here for?" he finally asked quietly. "To be your daddy?"
"No," I admitted. "That would be a little too Freudian, at least from my end. I'm just too angry and tired for this, Hannibal. Can we do it in the morning?"
He considered again, and I was annoyed to find myself holding my breath. "I've got a better idea," he told me, rising to his feet. "We won't do it at all. But for the record, Doc, I didn't come over here to tell you how to live your life. I'm not stupid or arrogant enough to think I've got the right to tell anybody anything on that subject. People are entitled to their own mistakes, as far as I'm concerned, and I've got no problem letting you make yours." He turned and started for the door.
"Wait!" I hated the sound of need in my voice, but suddenly I was desperate to know–everything. Anything. "Why did you come?"
He pivoted abruptly, and I could tell from the way he held himself that he was angry, suddenly, fiercely angry, as if the emotion had overcome his efforts to control it. "I came to see if you were all right. I came because when I heard what had happened, I wanted to–" He cut himself off abruptly and shook his head.
I didn't press him to finish. The look in his eyes had rendered me incapable of coherent speech.
When he spoke again, I had to strain to hear him. "I haven't wanted anything in a long time, Doc."
"Neither have I," I whispered back. "It's a pain in the ass, isn't it?"
A laugh barrelled out of him. "Yeah. It sure is."
I approached him cautiously, as you might a dangerous jungle animal. Of course, you would have to be partly insane to even consider doing such a thing. But I wasn't feeling all that stable right at this moment.
One of his big hands came up to cup my jaw, and I was reduced to nerve endings. His fingers stroking my cheek, his lips on the skin over my temple. The experience of that unexpected tenderness was a blinding, suffocating wave that robbed me of breath.
"Time for bed," he murmured.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I awoke with a start to find him gone. The midmorning light was streaming through my window, and for a panicked moment I feared I had overslept. Then, memories of the previous night washed over me, and I recalled turning off my alarm. We had earned a day off; the relief staff from the hospital had agreed to take over the clinic.
Debating with myself for all of three seconds, I decided to get up. Lazing away the morning would give me too much opportunity for introspection. Housecleaning and other neglected chores would keep my mind occupied so that I didn't have time to think about anything that had happened last night.
Thoughts of the four punks who had invaded the clinic would be dispelled with laundry and window cleaner, but what about Hannibal? He had taken me to bed after our curious non- argument, but for the first time in our short history it wasn't for sex. I shivered, remembering the sensation of his strong arms wrapped around me, not to lend comfort, it seemed, but to take it, to reassure himself that I was still whole. The sense of power it conferred on me was heady–and frightening. But was I more afraid for him, or for myself? Would I be slowly destroyed wondering if the next job might be the one that finally killed him?
I forced myself to consider the possibility. What if I picked up the paper this morning, tomorrow, a year from now, and read that he had been killed, shot by some hood like Dead Eyes or by the army? He was a cat with nine lives just like the rest of ‘em, and he'd thought of more ways to use them up than anyone I knew. Would I be better off never having known his touch, his strength, even his heart, if he ever allowed it to make itself known? But how could I claim to want to reconstruct my life if I denied myself this chance to feel?
–It's a hard thing to remember just how much you had before it all started. If you thought about it too much, you'd get so's wanting it back was all you could think about. And that's no good for any of us.–
And what about Murdock's theory, that his C.O. was no longer on his game, shorn by Delilah and vulnerable to attack? What if he used up his ninth life because he was too busy worrying about me to think about himself or the rest of his team? Was this desire to pursue the relationship merely the ultimate display of selfishness on my part?
A stab of pain lanced through my temple. Obviously, it was time to get cleaning. I showered and dressed quickly, and literally bounded into my kitchen–
–where Hannibal Smith sat calmly reading the weekend Times.
"Jesus," I breathed.
"Nope," he deadpanned, folding the paper, "just me."
I placed my hands on my hips. "There is no ‘just you,' goddammit. That's my goddamned problem."
"You'll turn my head with all this sweet talk." He grinned the canary-eating grin that turned my insides to mush. My palms itched to touch him anywhere, everywhere. I had been cocooned in his embrace mere hours ago; how could the yearning have descended on me again so quickly?
Angry at my indecision and my need, cornered like a wounded thing, I pounced. "I don't even know what to call you anymore. Hannibal or John? Are you ten feet tall, spitting dynamite and bullets, or flesh and blood, real like the rest of us?"
Blue eyes saw through me as though I were made of glass; cornered animals were his specialty. "Which way is easier?"
"I don't know if I want easy." I'm tired of easy, my brain screamed. I want messy, with arms and legs and heartbeats and laughter–
He stood, stepped away from the table.
"But maybe it would be better for you–"
"I can make my own decisions on that," he ground out, taking a step closer.
"Can you?" I stayed still, not trusting my legs to carry me in either direction. "Can you?" I demanded this time.
"Yeah," he admitted. "I decided to walk out the door six times this morning. But I decided to come back six times, too."
I ventured a small smile. "That's a lot of decisions."
His eyes danced. "Hadn't made any for a few hours. I was out of practice."
"How do you do that?" I whispered. At his raised eyebrow, I elaborated. "Defuse me when I feel like a ticking time bomb, about to shatter."
He came closer, reached out to take my shoulders between his hands. "Dunno, Doc. But that'd be a real shame. I like all of your pieces where they are."
"Hannibal," I breathed, and his arms enfolded me. "John. Oh, whoever the hell–" I cut myself off when my mouth collided with his.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Sensing the change in me, the leader allowed himself to be led. I tumbled him back onto my bed and spent long minutes exploring him, still fully clothed, with the pads of my fingers. Then my parted lips travelled the places my hands had visited, seeking minute changes in temperature and texture. I did not speak, and he offered no wisecracks or wisdom; he knew this was different, this was important to me, a mapping expedition to chart new territory.
When I started to undress him, he did not reciprocate, merely sat up and watched me with those eyes of bottomless glacier ice. There was no savage attack, no rush to passion, only a slow fire that kindled in the centre of me and spread outward through nerves and blood and bone. I removed his Model 39 first, trailing my fingers around his waistband, then tugging it free and gingerly placing it on the bedside table. After discarding his shirt, I kneeled down to tend to his boots and socks, then slowly climbed his body, touching him only with my left cheek. When I reached his collarbone, I turned my nose into the hollow there and darted my tongue out to taste his flesh. My hands stayed on either side of him, fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically, digging into the mattress.
Without words, I pulled him to his feet, my next target his belt buckle. It seemed like an eternity before I managed to remove all of his clothing, but finally I was able to pause in my relentless advance to admire and marvel. Primitive emotion warred with complex as I beheld him; my first thought was: mine, mine. Then the wave of wonderment supplanted the desire, and I became fascinated by the signs of a life lived that made up his terrain. An immense pride washed over me, pride in my possession of such a proud man, scarred yet gloriously alive. On its heels came an overpowering feeling so vast it nearly knocked me down. Too much to think about, I admonished myself. Just–love him. Love him.
Hell.
"What is it?" I realized he had spoken the first words since we had entered my bedroom, and he had done so because I had gone completely still. I wasn't sure how long I had been that way.
Shaking my head to clear it, I found myself saying the only words that came to my head. "You're–you're more than I thought to hope for." Oh, God. Why had I blurted that? What had possessed me to breathe one of those four-letter words that made men tuck their tails between their legs and run for the hills?
But instead of retreating, he smiled slowly, without a trace of flippancy. The blue gaze warmed, caressed my face. "I know what you mean," he murmured, leaning in for a gentle kiss that quickly turned white-hot. I lost my sense of the horizon momentarily as the undertow dragged me down. My world narrowed to the friction of lips and tongue, the jut of his erection pressing against my jeans-clad stomach. It took all my will to break the contact.
"Ah, is this where we switch hitters?" he asked, trailing one finger down the front of my blouse.
"No," I growled. My resolve renewed, I revelled in the sense of power flowing through my limbs. I pushed him back on the bed so hard he bounced, then reached for my own buttons. "This is where you get to watch."
November 3, 1983
"Abby!" I called out as my friend passed the examining room door. "Could you grab me a box of gloves from the back?"
Abby paused and turned to me with a knowing grin, and I felt my face heat. "Sure. I was just going to get you some tongue depressors anyway. You're nearly out of those, too."
I sighed heavily, turning my attention back to the file in my hands. My next patient was due to come in in two minutes, and of course I had run out of something again. I used to have the capacity to remember simple things, to keep track of the minutiae of life without thinking about it, but for the past month that capacity had left me. Now I spent my spare brain power in contemplation of Big Questions, and that left no energy for mundane considerations such as rubber gloves and tongue depressors.
I was turning into a complete and total basket case. Not a terribly precise, medical term, but nonetheless accurate. Trouble was, I was enjoying myself too much to care.
"Doctor Margaret Sullivan?"
I didn't look up from the file. The voice was gravelly, harsh, and my patient was five. Dad must be getting antsy. "I'll be right with you, Mister..." I trailed off as my head lifted and I registered an olive drab uniform.
"Colonel Roderick Decker, ma'am. Can we talk privately?"
I tried to calm my heart rate, but my pulse rocketed. I was sure he could see my jugular pounding like a scared rabbit's. "I have patients, Colonel. Perhaps you could come back during my lunch break, in about an hour and a half." Or never, I silently added, willing him to disappear. Not now, not now, dammit, don't make this more of a mess than it already is....
"It really can't wait, Doctor. I'll only keep you from your patients a few minutes." He turned slightly to close the door, and I for an insane instant I was able to imagine what it was like to be hunted and cornered. Was this the feeling he carried with him, in the background of his consciousness, like a chronic, nagging ache?
"I know your time is valuable, so I'll stick to the facts. We know you know Smith, and that you've been seeing him."
I felt gut-punched. I had never been one to believe in government conspiracies, so the reality of it was even more shocking. "I've been under surveillance?"
Decker nodded curtly. "Off and on. We think you might wish to help us."
"And what might make you think that?"
The Colonel arched an eyebrow. "Patriotism, Captain?" He laughed at my expression, not a pleasant sound. "I didn't think so. How about the prospect of this clinic closing its doors permanently should you refuse to comply?"
I shuttered my features against further reaction, and hoped it worked. Over the past ten years I'd gotten exceptionally good at burying my feelings. I pitched my voice lower, speaking deliberately. "Cut to the chase, Colonel."
"All right. You've been attending sessions at the VA hospital. Counselling sessions to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder." He ground out the term as though it were akin to venereal disease.
Rage boiled up in me, but I fought it down. "That's confidential information."
"Yes, it certainly is. I don't think your current employers would be too happy if it were no longer confidential."
"My current employers know about the sessions."
"But the press doesn't. And information gets leaked sometimes."
I shook my head. "No. It doesn't matter. I'll resign, and that will be the end of it."
He leaned in close, and I willed myself to stand my ground. A slow, reptilian smile crossed his craggy face. "I can certainly see what keeps him coming around. But all your piss and vinegar won't protect this clinic when you get hauled up on charges for aiding and abetting a federal criminal. I'll make sure the stink in the press and the pressure on the city makes this little operation shut its doors–permanently." The smile was replaced by a brittle, cold determination that I'd seen in Hannibal's eyes. "I've been after Smith for a long, long time. Make no mistake, Doctor; I won't let anything stand in my way."
A sharp rap sounded on the door then, cutting off my reply, and Abby poked her head in. "Here you go," she announced, then her face showed surprise as Decker spun on his heel. "Rod! What in hell are you doing here?"
His eyes narrowed, then widened. "Abby?"
"Of all the people to run into in East L.A.," Abby laughed. Her gaze skittered over me, read me like a book, but her grin didn't falter. I remembered what a formidable poker player she had been. She laid the supplies on the counter, then walked forward to enfold him in a bear hug. "God, it must be a dozen years if it's a day. How are you doing?"
"Fine," he replied, returning her embrace uneasily. "Just fine."
Abby turned to me. "Rod and I go way back. Before I met you. He came into China Beach with wounds to his...well, that's not important, is it? He never told me how he got them anyway. But they healed up just beautifully." Her grin turned suggestive, and Decker shifted nervously. "By the way, how's Julia?"
"Great. Wonderful. We celebrated our twentieth anniversary last week."
"Good for you. Too many marriages break up nowadays." She let the silence build, then added, "You free for lunch? I'm off in about an hour. We could–catch up."
"Thanks, but no. I'm needed back at the base."
"Too bad," she pouted, trailing one hand down his arm and clasping his hand briefly. "Another time, maybe."
"Yes," Decker agreed, his gaze descending on me for a final blow. "Another time."
When he had gone, I collapsed into a chair, my muscles no longer functioning. "Jesus, Abby," I croaked, all the adrenalin draining out of me and leaving me shaking, "you screwed that?"
"Hey, what can I tell you?" she drawled, taking the chair opposite mine. "He was human once. And I thought I was straight once." She looked at the closed door, an unidentifiable expression on her face. "I barely recognized him," she whispered. Then she shook her head as if to clear it. "What did he want from you?"
I concentrated on breathing in and out. "Everything."
November 5, 1983
I had to wait until my next scheduled session to take a chance on getting to Murdock. If I went to the hospital on a day I wasn't supposed to be there, I would certainly arouse suspicion. Mind you, speaking on any day to the pilot associated with the A-Team wasn't exactly the height of discretion, but I knew no other way to contact Hannibal, and I was no good at this cloak-and- dagger stuff. Of course, my agonizing over the situation could be fruitless, anyway; they could be off on one of their jobs and both of them could be gone.
After a brief inquiry of one of the duty nurses, I was told Murdock was seeing a visitor on the grounds. I walked out of the building, trying to appear nonchalant, the folded note burning a hole in the pocket of my jeans. I had agonized over the writing of that, too. Oh, hell, enough. Just so long as it served its purpose.
There. I caught a glimpse of the lanky pilot over by a large bush, and changed direction as casually as possible. As I approached, I was taken aback to see him disappear in the foliage. So much for discretion. It would be just my luck to get myself arrested for assault on an unarmed shrub.
I was within about ten feet of the bush when I spied a young woman anxiously darting her gaze from me to Murdock's hiding spot. She was about thirty, with shortish dark hair and wide, blue eyes. Her manner reminded me of a deer, her carriage graceful even in her nervous state.
Howling Mad Murdock had himself a girl? At any other time, the thought would have made me glad for him; now it just depressed me. Or was that an ugly shade of green lurking just under the skin?
"You, uh, a friend of the man in there?" I asked her without preamble, cocking my head toward the greenery.
Her mouth formed a perfect O. "Wh-what man?" she stammered.
I smiled in spite of myself. "Why, the Slick jockey hiding in the lilac, of course," I told her sweetly.
She stared at me for a moment or two, then seemed to visibly yield to the absurdity of the situation. "Murdock," she stage-whispered, keeping an eye out for white-coated orderlies, "there's someone here to see you."
A high-pitched, lisping whine emerged from the bush. "But I'm not decent! I simply can't see anyone until I've gotten rid of this terrible shine!" A hairy hand poked out of the foliage. "Have you any Pan-Cake?"
I sighed heavily. "I don't want to know," I muttered. Rooting around in my purse, I dug out some liquid concealer. "How's this?" I demanded, slapping it into the palm.
Fingers wrapped around the tube, the hand receded again. "It'll have to do," pouted the shrub.
Turning my attention back to the younger woman, I decided to try to make conversation. "So, do you come here often?"
She surprised me with a burst of laughter. "I suppose this does look a bit strange, doesn't it?" she grinned. Her joy should have been infectious, but I was swiftly becoming immune to the disease.
"Well, I'm no longer competent to be a judge of that particular commodity," I demurred. "Is he going on a job with–" I cut myself off abruptly as I realized what I had been about to say. I didn't even know who she was. Besides, if she didn't know her flyboy was about to go off and risk his foolish neck, who was I to tell her?
But she only shook her head. "No. I'm helping him so that we can–ah, that is, so that he can visit me," she faltered, her cheeks turning pink. "You see, he can't just sign himself out any time he wants to. And I live–that is, some distance away, and–"
"I understand," I nodded, forestalling further embarrassing explanations.
Her eyes took on a faraway look. "I don't know how it happened. You go along living this quiet life, and it's all right, it's what you're used to, I suppose, and so you tell yourself you're happy. And then one day something completely unexpected happens and turns everything upside down, and when you can stand on your feet again you realize you've been living in this tiny, cramped box all this time. You couldn't see what was outside of it, but now–" She trailed off and smiled self-consciously. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to explain...you see, this isn't like me at all." Her gaze turned inward. "At least what I thought was me."
I swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. "Yeah," I rasped. "I've been having identity problems lately, too."
"That makes three of us, sugah!" exclaimed the bush, which trembled and shook and vomited out Murdock in a flourish of lace and a cloud of lavender perfume. As he dusted leaves off his crinolines, I marvelled at the transformation, which was actually fairly effective. He was a dead ringer for Granny Clampett. If she had been six feet tall and had a predilection for hi-tops.
"Oh no, I forgot the shoes!" exclaimed his girlfriend.
"It's all right," he soothed, shaking out the skirt so that it covered his sneakers. "I'll take small steps." He leaned forward to buss her on the cheek, and my throat tightened again.
"Murdock," I began, suddenly needing to get out of there as quickly as possible.
"Hey, Doc," he grinned, "can I keep that makeup? It worked wonders on my seven signs of aging,"
"Sure, sure," I agreed hastily. "Uh, listen, I know you're headed out of town, but could you get a message to Hannibal first? It's urgent."
The pilot snapped his fingers, then began digging around in his ample bosom. "‘Scuse me," he murmured, then turned his back to us. I rolled my eyes skyward. When he turned back around, he held a note identical to mine in his hand.
"What's that?" I demanded, my stomach churning because I already knew the answer.
"It's from the Colonel. He wanted me to give it to you."
"What does it say?"
"Well, I don't rightly know, but I think he wants you to meet him."
I blinked. "He doesn't understand. I'm being followed."
The pilot nodded. "Uh huh. He knows. That's why he wanted me to give you the message."
The ground I was standing on started to revolve slowly. "Now I know who I am. I must be Alice, down the rabbit hole."
The younger woman smiled up at Murdock and gave him a look that could melt the heart of a statue. "I know exactly how you feel."
November 7, 1983
The weather was unusually cold for November in L.A., and the wind bit at my stockinged ankles as I walked briskly along Rodeo Drive. I had memorized and destroyed the instructions Hannibal had passed to Murdock, and was now on a royal goose chase through the upscale shops. At the last one, his lieutenant, Templeton Peck, had greeted me with a megawatt grin and another set of directions. I felt like I was in a low-budget spy movie. At any moment Boris and Natasha would pop out from behind a potted palm, and I would be off to Siberia in a crate.
Not that the prospect of confronting Hannibal was any more appealing at this point. Somehow I had convinced myself that the Dear John letter would allow me to escape any messy scenes, but even if that particular plan had worked out, I was foolish to think he wouldn't have come after me to demand an explanation. Better to get it over with now, I supposed.
It wasn't long before I reached what I hoped was my final destination, a trendy clothing store that I ordinarily wouldn't be caught dead in. Thankfully, it wasn't likely the MPs had studied my shopping habits. Stepping inside, I surveyed the interior of the shop, which was decked out in the latest in ‘80s tacky: bright, eye-wounding colours, chrome in abundance, and a preponderance of over-the-hill women who were still trying to convince themselves they were hip. Too bad they didn't understand they had last been hip when the pillbox hat and the beehive hairdo were the living end. And ‘hip' had been a word that people used in conversation.
"Can I help you, madame?" I spun at the sound of the voice behind me, and was confronted by a pompadoured Hannibal, covered from head to toe in crushed velvet. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He loved nothing better than putting one over on the rest of the world, and I loved....well. Best not to think about that just this minute.
"Have you got anything in lime?" I enquired innocently. About half the store's merchandise fit that description.
"Hmmm...." He laid a finger across his lips in a pensive gesture, then scanned the racks. "We seem to be woefully understocked. However, I believe we might have something out back that would suit you wonderfully."
"I'll just bet you do," I muttered. Hannibal bowed and raised a hand in the direction he wanted me to go, and I willed my feet to move.
He guided me past the changing rooms to a small office, where he closed the door behind us. Once inside, he removed the wig and divested himself of the maroon jacket.
"Did you leave your car at home?" he asked.
I snapped off a salute. "As ordered."
He shot me a look but made no comment. "The van's out back. I apologize for putting you through all this, but it was necessary. This way, we can get out of L.A. for a couple of days, figure out–"
"–A plan?"
He nodded slowly, perhaps sensing my rising panic. "Something like that."
I took a deep breath. "You're taking a big chance on getting caught. I can't move every couple of months like you do. What happens after this?"
A Cheshire smile played about his lips. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet. But I will."
I forced myself to maintain eye contact with him. I couldn't afford to drag this out, or there would be nothing left of me by the end of it. "And what if I don't want to live that way? What if I don't want to always be one step ahead of the MPs?"
His jaw tightened, but there was no betrayal of emotion in his voice. "I've never let the Lynches and Deckers of this world dictate what I do."
I didn't miss the implied statement: Neither should you. "That's fine for you, Hannibal. You've got no ties to this world, except to men who live the same way you do. But I've got responsibilities. That son of a bitch threatened the clinic. I can't let him–"
"He can't do anything to you and he knows it. I know how MPs work, especially REMFs like him. They don't have the guts to follow through. It's only a scare tactic."
I shook my head vehemently. He was starting to sway me, and I promised myself I wouldn't let that happen. "No. If it was just me, I could take that chance. But I can't gamble with those peoples' lives. Don't ask me to. Please."
His gaze froze over. Good. That would make it easier. "I'm not asking you for anything."
"No," I admitted with more sadness than I was expecting, "you never have, have you? And maybe that's part of the problem. I'm not exactly sure where I fit in this puzzle that is your life. Murdock once likened me to an extra piece, and ever since then I've been debating about whether I would be a liability to you in the end. Well, it turns out I am. And it would be one thing if you needed me to be a part of the puzzle, if you wanted to pick it up and make it fit, but you're not comfortable with taking." I stepped closer to him, daring myself to brave his gravity. Reaching up, I caressed his cheek, then trailed my fingertips over that too-sensual mouth. "You've given me so much, Hannibal; God, you'll never know how much. It's just that after a while it's not enough to always be on the receiving end." I stood on tiptoe to give him a brief kiss, which he didn't return. "I suppose this is all I can give you."
I walked out the door, and mercifully, he didn't follow. But an hour later, sitting alone in my empty kitchen, I stared at the play of dappled sunlight over the surface of the table and wished with everything in me that he had.
June 12, 1984
The alarm clock shocked me awake with an obnoxious British disco tune. I rolled over and punched at it ineffectually.
"Jezush," I slurred. "Why've you got it on that shtashun?"
"I used to doze off with the buzzer, but this crap is sure to get me up." A big hand reached over me and hit the off button, then trailed back over my midsection possessively. "You want coffee?"
"Are you kidding me?"
He chuckled, then I felt the bed jiggle as he stood. "If you're not up in five more minutes, it's the cattle prod for you, honey."
"Promishes, promishes." Fingers brushed back my hair, and lips pressed against my forehead. I cracked an eye open and watched the view as he receded into the bathroom. Not bad at all, I conceded.
If I could just manage to stop comparing him to Hannibal.
"Frank?"
He spun around, sandy eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"
"Make it strong, will you?"
He stared at me for a moment. "Sure, babe."
I buried my head in the pillow and tried to muster the energy to get out of bed. I had met Frank at the VA counselling sessions; he had shown up just after Christmas, and I had gravitated to him instantly. He had been a medic in ‘Nam, and like many in the group, had drifted from job to job after coming home, never satisfied, running from demons. Finally, about four years ago an inheritance from his father had allowed him to transform a dream of his into reality. Today, he was the founder and CEO of a nursing home built on a radical principle: that the residents should actually control the day-to-day running of the facility. It kept the costs low and the retirees healthy by giving them a sense of purpose many had lost. He had already recruited a couple of the medical personnel from the VA sessions for his next project, which was under construction in Anaheim.
It was enough to make me wonder if I was developing an irresistible attraction to slayers of dragons. Saint George, look out; this gal is on the prowl.
Believe me, I had done a considerable amount of soul searching before getting involved with Frank. I had debated about the pros and cons of dating a vet, especially one with a history similar to mine. I wanted to confront my past, not immerse myself in it every waking moment. But Frank and I did have a lot more in common than the war, as I discovered through our initial, cautious, deliberately casual dates. And ultimately, the possibility of having a "normal" relationship was too tempting; I realized one day that I wanted to see if I could have the chance at a picket fence after all.
Enough navel-gazing. I pushed myself up on my elbows and surveyed the room. It was a gorgeous Southern California Saturday morning, and Frank and I were going to the wine country for the weekend, just like any other professional couple might do. It was so normal I wasn't entirely convinced it was my life.
The bedside phone rang, and I waited for Frank to get it. When the third ring came and went, I yelled, "Want me to answer that?"
"No, I'm coming," he shouted back, and I heard his footsteps pound down the hall, toward the kitchen. Why hadn't he chosen to take this phone, which was much closer? Something tingled along my spine, but I ignored it. Bouncing to my feet, I entered the bathroom he had just left for a quick shower.
When I emerged, he was already fully dressed, with an anxious expression I'd never seen on him before. He was the opposite of Hannibal in that respect; everything he felt was immediately apparent in his face. Abby loved playing poker with him.
"What is it?"
"I'm sorry, Mo. It's a bit of trouble at the home. One of my staff called in sick and I can't find anybody to fill in. Most people are–"
"On vacation?" I asked.
"Yeah," he muttered, his hands reaching out to clasp my shoulders. "I know you must be disappointed."
"It's okay. I had a ton of paperwork to finish anyway."
"Now I really feel guilty."
I brought his head down for a kiss. "You can't help it. There'll be other weekends."
His face registered an unrecognizable emotion. "Yeah. Mo–" he began, then cut himself off. "You, ah, got your key?"
I nodded.
"Coffee's almost ready. Take your time. I'll call you tonight if I get the chance." And after another brief, hard kiss, he was gone.