& finally
title: the trials at hand
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: A-Team (2010)
rating: pg
character(s): Face + team
warnings: mostly ‘fuck’ & fly-by non-graphic emesis
word count: 643
notes: um so more Face!fic bc lbr i have a lot of Face!feels … always. & okay the fly-by saliva ref seemed like a good idea @ the time. set during the post title card scenes aka ‘let’s go steal (back) some plates: take 1.’
The adrenaline gets Face through most of the night.
For the past week he’s been running on saline, saltines, and a couple beers Bosco slips him while Murdock’s busy with the grill. He never gets around to his steak, antifreeze marinade notwithstanding. Charissa’s visit leaves a sour taste in his mouth that makes his gut lurch. In minutes, she manages to kill his buzz and any appetite he’d scrounged up in defense to Murdock’s mother-henning. He watches her walk away and half wishes she’d shot him instead.
Once Hannibal shows up with the mission - Charissa’s mission, Face snorts then winces when one of his ribs twinge - food takes a backseat to the planning and the supply run and the building, thrumming rush of an upcoming op. Face has never been able to eat much before they head out, anyway. He smirks when Murdock clunks a plate down next to Hannibal’s arm; the sandwich on it is cut into little triangles with the crusts cut off. The boss grabs two absently while he studies the map. Shoves the plate Face’s way without looking up. Face ignores it. He’s gotta finish his id and double check the supplies for their packs. Going out running on empty isn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done; it’s not the stupidest either.
That’s before the general’s humvee blows, then the container. After, they’re just fucked.
MPs handcuff all of them but Hannibal and toss them in the back of a transport with a guard on either side. Murdock jitters beside him, mumbling to himself about Billy. Face swallows. There’s a buzz starting at the back of his head. He knows what’s happening, can fucking feel it, like there’s a dimmer switch in him someone’s cranking down by degrees. Not that there’s fuck all to do about it now.
Face squares his shoulders, clenches his fists behind his back. No one needs to see how bad his hands are shaking. He’s charmed his way underneath a nun’s habit; he can handle this.
He manages to pull it off until they’re being unloaded. Click: he’s standing at the back of the truck. Click: the MP grabs his arm and pulls him down past the tailgate. Boom: the crash drops him hard on his ass as soon as his feet hit the ground. The other guards move toward him; Face is too busy fighting swamping nausea to give a damn. He forces a breath out. Bites down on his tongue ’til the pain takes the edge off the worst of it.
Face squints up into the half dozen flashlights pointed in his direction, is too tired to give a damn about the gun barrels just under them. Bosco looks like he’s two seconds away from ripping somebody’s head off, cuffs or not, before Hannibal gets between them and the MPs and gets Face on his feet. He loses the battle with his stomach then, jerks out of the boss’ hold just in time to throw up bile in the sand instead of all over Hannibal’s boots.
He gags, spits. Murdock tries to hover - half concerned and half freaked out of his fucking mind after everything that’s gone to hell tonight. Can’t do more than wipe at Face’s mouth with the outside of his sleeve.
Face wants to press his face into Murdock’s belly and let him rub his head the way he does when Face has a migraine. He wants Bosco bitching at the shitty reception on the tv in their tent during American Idol, and the smell of Hannibal’s cigars that’s as close to home as he gets. He'd even take one of Murdock's steaks now, antifreeze and all. But none of those things are happening any time soon.
“I’m fine,” he croaks. Spits in the sand again. “It’s all good, boss.”
Later, he laughs himself sick again at the lie.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
fandom: A-Team (2010)
rating: pg
character(s): Face + team
warnings: mostly ‘fuck’ & fly-by non-graphic emesis
word count: 643
notes: um so more Face!fic bc lbr i have a lot of Face!feels … always. & okay the fly-by saliva ref seemed like a good idea @ the time. set during the post title card scenes aka ‘let’s go steal (back) some plates: take 1.’
The adrenaline gets Face through most of the night.
For the past week he’s been running on saline, saltines, and a couple beers Bosco slips him while Murdock’s busy with the grill. He never gets around to his steak, antifreeze marinade notwithstanding. Charissa’s visit leaves a sour taste in his mouth that makes his gut lurch. In minutes, she manages to kill his buzz and any appetite he’d scrounged up in defense to Murdock’s mother-henning. He watches her walk away and half wishes she’d shot him instead.
Once Hannibal shows up with the mission - Charissa’s mission, Face snorts then winces when one of his ribs twinge - food takes a backseat to the planning and the supply run and the building, thrumming rush of an upcoming op. Face has never been able to eat much before they head out, anyway. He smirks when Murdock clunks a plate down next to Hannibal’s arm; the sandwich on it is cut into little triangles with the crusts cut off. The boss grabs two absently while he studies the map. Shoves the plate Face’s way without looking up. Face ignores it. He’s gotta finish his id and double check the supplies for their packs. Going out running on empty isn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done; it’s not the stupidest either.
That’s before the general’s humvee blows, then the container. After, they’re just fucked.
MPs handcuff all of them but Hannibal and toss them in the back of a transport with a guard on either side. Murdock jitters beside him, mumbling to himself about Billy. Face swallows. There’s a buzz starting at the back of his head. He knows what’s happening, can fucking feel it, like there’s a dimmer switch in him someone’s cranking down by degrees. Not that there’s fuck all to do about it now.
Face squares his shoulders, clenches his fists behind his back. No one needs to see how bad his hands are shaking. He’s charmed his way underneath a nun’s habit; he can handle this.
He manages to pull it off until they’re being unloaded. Click: he’s standing at the back of the truck. Click: the MP grabs his arm and pulls him down past the tailgate. Boom: the crash drops him hard on his ass as soon as his feet hit the ground. The other guards move toward him; Face is too busy fighting swamping nausea to give a damn. He forces a breath out. Bites down on his tongue ’til the pain takes the edge off the worst of it.
Face squints up into the half dozen flashlights pointed in his direction, is too tired to give a damn about the gun barrels just under them. Bosco looks like he’s two seconds away from ripping somebody’s head off, cuffs or not, before Hannibal gets between them and the MPs and gets Face on his feet. He loses the battle with his stomach then, jerks out of the boss’ hold just in time to throw up bile in the sand instead of all over Hannibal’s boots.
He gags, spits. Murdock tries to hover - half concerned and half freaked out of his fucking mind after everything that’s gone to hell tonight. Can’t do more than wipe at Face’s mouth with the outside of his sleeve.
Face wants to press his face into Murdock’s belly and let him rub his head the way he does when Face has a migraine. He wants Bosco bitching at the shitty reception on the tv in their tent during American Idol, and the smell of Hannibal’s cigars that’s as close to home as he gets. He'd even take one of Murdock's steaks now, antifreeze and all. But none of those things are happening any time soon.
“I’m fine,” he croaks. Spits in the sand again. “It’s all good, boss.”
Later, he laughs himself sick again at the lie.
- end