FIC: Lost (Part 2 of 5)
TITLE: Lost
FANDOM: A-Team movieverse
GENRE: Friendship/angst
RATING: PG (language)
SUMMARY: 5 times the team loses their pilot.
(PART ONE)
Murdock stormed loudly into the team’s shared house in their current station in Bolivia, stomping his feet and kicking Face’s new bag of cosmetics (sorry, “grooming products”) out of the way. With a theatrical sigh, he threw a manila folder onto the coffee table and flopped onto the sofa next to BA. Without a word to anyone, he settled in, crossing his arms and glaring at the TV.
In the adjacent kitchen, Face and Hannibal exchanged a glance. After the kind of silent conversion-turned-battle-of-wills that they had so often, and that Face was loathe to admit he lost much more often than not, the Lieutenant headed to the living room and addressed the pilot.
“What’s wrong, Murdock?”
It was clear the Captain had been waiting to be asked.
“It’s these damn psych evals!” he exploded. BA sighed and turned off the TV. He was never going to get to watch the game in peace now, not with Murdock off on a tangent. “These doctors, they’re so short-sighted. They have no appreciation for anything outside of their perfect, numbered, coloured in the lines categorisation of the world. No, god forbid they encounter a little creativity, a little pizzazz. If it’s not in their manual under ‘Accepted responses’ then it must be loony tunes.”
He accepted the beer Face brought over for him and cracked it open, taking a long swig. Hannibal and Face settled into the chairs on either side of the sofa, Face tossing a can to BA.
“You didn’t go to your appointment with your clothes on upside-down again, did you?” asked Face. “I mean, I get the appeal of sweaterpants, but some people just aren’t ready for that kind of thing.”
Murdock shook his head. “Naw, it wasn’t like that this time, Faceman.” He hit the armrest of the couch in frustration. “Dammit, sometimes I wish I could just go in there and lie. Give them all the textbook answers that’ll make them break out the Sane stamp and stop trying to root around inside my head like they’re looking for brainlice. I know what they want to hear, I just can’t give it to them.”
“Why not?” BA found himself asking. “You ain’t dumb. I’ve seen you going to these quacks for two years now and hell, I think I know more than some of them by now.” Murdock gave him a quick, rueful smile. “Why don’t you just spin up some bullshit so they’ll leave you alone?”
“It’s not that simple, BA,” Face answered for Murdock, who didn’t seem to mind. “He can’t just go from crazy, no offense, to sane in a week. They’d know something was up.”
“No offense taken,” said Murdock. “And it’s not just that. I do need these doctors; the ones that know what they’re doing, anyway. My meds, therapy, I get that we’re not all just in this for the free lollipops. I’m just sick of being told I’m wrong when I don’t see the world exactly the way they think I should.”
Hannibal frowned. “Have you been having troubles, Captain?” There was no need for the euphemistic phrasing, really. Murdock was never fazed by questions about his mental state: Answering to torrents of faceless doctors who took note of his every intimate emotional, mental and physical state had desensitised him to that kind of embarrassment long ago. Plus, the team had seen the uglier side of Murdock’s mental condition(s) before. They’d soothed him through nightmares, coaxed him out of corners and helped him separate reality from the cruel tricks his brain played on him more times than they could count. It was just part of life now, like Hannibal’s cigar smoke, BA’s temper or Face’s aforementioned plethora of moisturisers. The team didn’t have secrets. They didn’t see the need to.
So Murdock, and Face and BA, understood what Hannibal was really asking when he referred to ambiguous “troubles”.
Murdock shook his head. “No, Hannibal. I ain’t seeing things except what’s really there, cross my heart. It’s more about what I’m not seeing.”
At the blank looks he received, Murdock sighed and leaned forward, flipping open the manila folder he’d dumped on the coffee table. “There. Look at that. What do you guys see?”
Face tilted his head. “I don’t know. It’s... two chicks making out.”
BA scoffed. “Yeah, you would see that.”
“What do you see?” countered the blond.
“Butterfly,” was the slightly smug answer.
Murdock turned to his commander. “Hannibal?”
Hannibal studied the paper. “Aerial view of an offshore Marine base.” The others groaned. “What? That’s what I see.”
The Captain gestured emphatically to the paper, nearly spilling his beer and looking agitated. “There, you see? All of you see something in that. You got it right,” he informed BA. “Apparently most people see a butterfly. Most SANE people, anyway.”
“Well what did you see?” asked Face. “I mean, it’s an ink blot. They can’t say you saw something wrong, can they? Isn’t it all about interpretation?”
“Yeah, if there’s something to interpret,” Murdock replied, throwing himself back into the couch cushions dejectedly. “What about if you can’t see anything? I don’t get it. All I see is ink.”
Face frowned. “Well, yeah, but what about the shapes the ink makes? Doesn’t it remind you of something?”
“That’s just what they say!” Murdock drained the rest of his beer in two huge swallows. “Surely I must see a cow or a plant or maybe an airplane! You like airplanes, don’t you Mr Murdock?” He snorted in disgust, then burped and coughed. “It’s nothing. I’ve done these stupid tests a million times and I’ve never seen anything except a blob of ink.”
BA rifled through the rest of the folder. It was a collection of ink blots, word association tests, number games, fill-in-the-blanks. At a glance, most of the questions looked like they were designed for children under ten. BA didn’t know how his friend could stand to go through this every couple of weeks. “Here,” he said, pulling out a different ink picture. “What about this one?”
“Ooh!” said Face excitedly, eager to share the latest undoubtedly-carnal image he’d found in the blot. BA shushed him. Hannibal grinned into his beer.
Murdock barely glanced at the paper. “Black blobs on white. That’s all it is.”
“Okay.” BA pointed to one of the squiggles. “I see a flower pot. See, here’s where the pot rounds out?”
“I can see that,” agreed Hannibal. He leaned across Murdock and traced a couple of blotches with his finger. “And those are the flower stems, right? Up there are the bulbs?” BA nodded.
“Oh yeah!” Face chimed in. “They’re kind of like tulips, right?”
Murdock stared. “You lost me. Do you seriously see all that?”
“Yes, son,” said Hannibal gently. “Do you see it, if we point it out to you?”
“Kind of.” Murdock sounded dejected. “But not really, and I definitely wouldn’t have seen it on my own. Aw, you guys suck! I’ve been doing these tests practically my whole life, and you come along and ace them. That’s not fair. Face, get me another beer. I have sorrows to drown.”
BA chuckled. “It’s not that bad, Crazy,” he said reassuringly as Face trotted off to the fridge. “There’s worse tests you could get wrong. You could tell them you like dressing up in your momma’s clothes or you can’t remember which side of the war you’re on.”
“There’s a war on?” Murdock deadpanned predictably. “And I’ll have you know that that evening gown brings out the warmth in my skin. Autumnal tones really make my eyes pop.” He nodded in thanks as Face brought over a beer.
“It’s true,” Hannibal agreed. “I thought you looked particularly glowing that night, Captain, but I didn’t want to say anything.”
“Oh great,” groused BA. “Now any time I see one of these ink things, I’m gonna think about this crazy fool in a dress. That’s real great, Hannibal. Thanks.”
“Ooh!” It was Face again. “I didn’t tell you guys what I saw in this picture. Check it out. I can’t believe they use this for psych tests. It’s so rude. Look.” He reached forward and pulled the picture over.
“You’re right, BA,” observed Murdock. “It could be worse. I could have Face’s brain. Can you imagine that? My obsessions and his perversions.”
Hannibal pondered that. “No one would be safe.”
“You’d get really chafed,” supplied Face helpfully, gesturing in the direction of Murdock’s pants.
“Oh, nice. That’s real classy, Faceman.”
“I’m a prince. Now pay attention, flyboy. I wanna show you how to read this inkblot so you can see what she’s doing with that flower."
PART THREE