he will fall out of the sky (face/murdock)
he will fall out of the sky
face/murdock (a-team movie!verse)
pg-13; 4,537 words
He sat there, in what was left of his seat, hearing the metal of the helicopter walls that once enveloped him and his other team creaking and whining, the controls sparking and fizzling in front of him and, for a minute, he was convinced he was dead. requested here (the second prompt) at a_team_kink.
notes: when I found this community one evening, I nearly died of joy because, up until then, I had pretty much given up on finding fic for the new movie. There were (and still are) some absolutely amazing prompts looking for an owner but then I saw this one and knew I had to scoop it up. I also knew that it would be impossible to get it finished in under a thousand words so this happened. I could have made it even longer but I didn’t want it to get out of hand. I hope this is at least close to what you wanted phantom_scribe! (any and all mistakes are my own fault and will be fixed as I catch them).
Murdock was pretty damn sure that one of the worst sounds he could ever hear was the deafening noise of the engine of the helicopter he was currently piloting sputtering dead in the middle of the air. It didn’t quite help that, while he was attempting to figure out exactly what was going on and how he could fix it without jumping out the door and banging around on it while floating to his death, the team he was currently (‘assigned’ was what Hannibal had said but it definitely felt like ‘forced’ right then) working with were all shouting and crying and telling him that he had to fix it or they would kill him.
Usually this was just the kind of motivator that Murdock needed but it sounded different, more threatening and sincere, when it was coming from the mouths of people who weren’t his friends and it only made him more panicked because Hannibal wasn’t there to act like everything was going according to plan and B.A. wasn’t asleep, head lolling around and Face’s glorious blue eyes weren’t just over his shoulder, wide but encouraging as he informed him that he was so dead if they survived this.
So he let go of the controls, adjusted his helmet and closed his eyes, letting out a final laugh because that was all he could do and it felt kind of like he was dreaming and the last thing he heard was a string of curses and a scream that would have driven him mad if he wasn’t already.
Hitting the ground was kind of like being submerged in a lake; his ears popped and everything was muffled, he couldn’t breathe and he felt like fifty tons of pressure was weighing down on him as every inch of his skin and bones jerked and tugged and tingled. There was a sharp pain in his side and his arms, a shooting spasm (that was probably more than that) traveling up his right leg and then everything just stopped.
He sat there, in what was left of his seat, hearing the metal of the helicopter walls that once enveloped him and his other team creaking and whining, the controls sparking and fizzling in front of him and, for a minute, he was convinced he was dead because the possibility of him surviving from the height they had dropped from was very, very slim (although, he had never been an expert at math of any kind and it was probable that he had miscalculated their distance from the ground and only fell a few feet rather than a hell-of-a-lot of feet).
Opening his eyes took longer than it should have and he coughed, not realizing he was shaking until he attempted to remove the helmet still secured tightly to his head but it wouldn’t budge so he didn’t force it. He started humming a song he didn’t even know that he had heard before and he had gone through practically the whole thing, whispering the final verse to himself under his breath, looking down at himself to finally see what kind of damage he had caused.
The entirety of his right arm was bleeding, the shattering of the windows embedded in his skin, something he would, eventually, have to pick out one by one (a job he would usually give to Face and a pair of tweezers) and he could feel a bruise already beginning to blossom across the side of his face. He tried to adjust, just a little, and he clutched the remaining arm of his chair, knuckles white, as a blinding pain drifted all through his muscles and bones. Somewhere in there he had shifted songs, muttering what lyrics he remembered, lowering and raising his voice as he tried to get the same inflection the singer had when he had heard it on the radio.
A deep breath and a look around with one eye closed and everyone else was dead. He was positive until he heard a groan from the rear of the shredded machine.
. . . .
“This isn’t good,” Face said, walking into Hannibal’s side of their base camp (a dirty and grimy building that was seemingly in the middle of nowhere, sand pushing against the doors and windows, blocking the light), flipping a walkie-talkie back and forth in his hand, almost dropping it once or twice.
“He’s fine, Face,” Hannibal assured for what felt like the thousandth time, lowering his cigar but not lifting his head from the large swaths of paper he had been studying. Face jogged over so he was standing on the other side of the table, directly in the light that Hannibal barely had in the first place and he slammed his hands down on the flat surface, “you’re acting like a nervous father who just sent his kid off to school for the first time.”
“Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Face snapped through a clenched jaw but he quickly relented, dropping his head and blowing out a heavy rush of air, “We haven’t heard anything from that team in over three hours. Three hours. He was supposed to call in as soon as they landed,” Face insisted and Hannibal peered up and raised his eyebrows, “something isn’t right,” he said after a minute of complete silence. Hannibal sighed, chewing on the end of his cigar, staring at a spot over Face’s shoulder, puffing a cloud of blue smoke out into the air and watching it dissipate.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to find him, Hannibal. We have to. I can’t just-”
“Alright, kid. Go find B.A.. I’ll pack up the van.”
. . . .
“Hello?” Murdock called out, turning the best he could, twisting his neck around the headrest, squinting into the rubble of what used to be the tail, “you’re not a hallucination are you? Because I don’t know how I feel about those yet and they’re only fun when they’re unicorns.”
“Shit,” he heard the voice cough out, “they weren’t kidding when they said you were nuts.”
“Nobody ever is.”
“Did we really crash?”
“Yep.”
“Are the other two-” Murdock didn’t answer and apparently that was enough for the guy because he simply said, “fuck.” There was a thud. “Fuck.”
“Don’t break anything!” and Murdock didn’t know why he said that (but he was never sure why he said anything) because it didn’t really matter anymore.
“Did you seriously,” the guy coughed, made a spitting noise, “just say that?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Sometimes I think one thing and say something else.”
“Right.” There was pause, the only sound the metal twisting and droning, the wind whipping sand against the wreckage. “Are you alright?”
“Think I broke my leg. What… what about you?”
“I… uh… I think I’ve got some broken ribs and, man I don’t know,” he wheezed, which could have meant he had screwed up his lung but could also simply mean he was trapped under his seatbelt, “everything hurts.” Murdock hadn’t been with this team long enough for him to know who he was talking to. His team had been on a mini-break from their last mission, finally relaxing and tending to the wounds they had gathered along the bumpy ride when a large man dressed in dark green and thick black sunglasses had approached Hannibal, asking if they could borrow Murdock for the afternoon because they had a package to deliver and they needed the best pilot to get them to their destination. There had been a lot of arguing, mostly from Face but, in the end, Murdock said okay because it would take him no less than six hours and how the hell could he screw that up?
Apparently, pretty damn badly.
“Is anything working?” the man asked, pure, unsaturated hope wafting from his throat and Murdock flipped around on switches, punching buttons and the best that he got was a chirp and a slight beep.
“Depends on your definition of working, I guess,” Murdock said, finally fumbling with the buckle on his own seatbelt, cringing as every movement he made with his right arm was stiff and painful, the glass rubbing together to make an unpleasant reverberation, letting go of a long exhale once it popped open.
“I’m going to assume that’s a no,” there was a similar click of a belt unhinging from it’s lock, “jesus,” he said suddenly, taking in a gasping intake of breath.
“What?”
“It’s… Sherman. The guy who sat next… shit, he’s not going to have an open casket at his funeral,” every word the man stuttered out was accompanied by a wet cough and wheezing. “I’m gonna…” but anything else he was planning on saying just trailed off and all Murdock could hear was movement, grunts and the clatter of things being kicked and pushed out of the way and, suddenly, there was a man with slicked back blonde hair at his side, throwing a nauseated glance to the squashed seat next to him where their leader had been sitting earlier. Murdock hoped that the man didn’t cry because he wasn’t good at dealing with people crying.
“Don’t cry,” Murdock said, “because if you cry, then I cry and then we’ll both be crying and things will just get messy.”
“I’m not going to cry,” the man assured, crouching down a little further, flinging his arm over the back of the torn apart cushion, “jesus. look at your arm,” he said and then: “we gotta get out of this thing.”
“Will you carry me?”
“I can barely carry myself, you’re gonna have to help me out here a bit.”
Somehow, after a lot of what Murdock mentioned sounded like porn noises - not that he would know, really because he’d never seen one before, not that he could remember anyway, it was possible he just blocked it out, you know how that happens sometimes - which only made the guy frown and grumble and maybe blush a little which was just an odd thing for a soldier, they managed to get out into the sand and Murdock sat down because he had no other choice, brushing sand off his tongue and out of his eyes, watching as the man he still didn’t remember the name of stood, unsteady, surveying their surroundings.
“Baby won’t you tell me, what am I to do? I’m in the middle of nowhere, getting nowhere with you.”
The man turned, an eyebrow raised in only the way someone could get it with years of practice, “Dusty Springfield?”
“Is that where that was from? I thought I made that up years ago.”
“I don’t understand you. At all.”
“Neither do I. What’s your name?”
“You forgot my name.”
“It happens.”
“Troy.”
“No, I’m Murdock.”
“Wait, what? You…” Troy ran a hand over his face, rubbing furiously, “I don’t have the patience for this bullshit.”
Murdock finally managed to yank off his helmet with one hand, his right one too stiff to bother moving even a few inches, and he ran his fingers through the hot sand. Something wet and sticky trickled down the side of his head and he didn’t have to touch it to know what it was and it was as if the helmet had been keeping his skull together. Murdock contemplated putting it back on just to make sure. Whatever had happened up there, it was certainly making him tired.
. . . .
“Can’t you drive faster,” Face pressured from his spot in the backseat, leaning forward and jiggling B.A.’s headrest to get his attention; not that he needed to over-exaggerate because he was talking loud enough for the plane that just buzzed above them to hear what he was complaining about.
“Look,” B.A. started, using his elbow to push Face back out of his personal space, “we’re drivin’ on sand, do you even realize this? I can’t go faster. I couldn’t go faster if wanted to.”
“We’re in open territory,” Hannibal continued, arm balanced carefully on his open window, fingers lazy against the side of the truck, “we’re drawing enough attention to ourselves as it is. The last thing we need is to get gunned down or captured by the enemy while on our way to a possible rescue mission.”
“Possible… Murdock is absent-minded, but he’d never forget to stay in contact. You know that, Hannibal. You both know that.”
“We have the coordinates he was traveling. We stay on course, we’ll find them.”
“Stay on course,” Face reiterated, “how do we even know we’re going in a straight line?” He thrust his arm forward between Hannibal and B.A. just to make his point. Hannibal stared into the rearview mirror, frowning, not in a disappointed or discontent kind of way that he was used to handing out to anyone who he felt deserved it (which was, at some point, usually everyone) but in a ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you this worried before, what the hell is going on here’ kind of way. Although, Hannibal hoped that he was given a bit more credit than that to be able to figure it out.
. . . .
They had been sitting out there for what felt like hours, the smell of blood and burning electrical equipment twirling around them. In between then and now, Troy had attempted his best at putting a splint on Murdock from what he could salvage (but it was barely helping) and then walked off for a few minutes, seemingly evaporating over a small hill, the heat coming in waves from every surface. He returned, coughing and pale, saying that there was nothing out there and their best - their only - option was to wait. Murdock told him that he probably could have said that without the fuss of walking.
After that, he tried to get the radio (which had somehow separated from the rest of the machine) to send out to anybody until he realized he wasn’t getting out to anywhere and he probably wouldn’t unless someone fixed it. If it was even possible for it to be fixed at all.
“We have to get this glass out of you,” Troy was saying and Murdock looked up, pushing a hand over his eyes and he glanced down because, heck, he almost forgot those were there, he was too busy wondering why his leg was going numb. It still hurt when he poked it though.
“Are you offering?”
“That was the implication, yes.” Troy lowered himself slowly, clutching his chest and stomach until he had made sure he was properly sitting and he sighed, spitting blood and staring as it just seemed to roll around like mercury on the ground. He reached over and Murdock pulled back, purely out of instinct. And Troy raised that perfect eyebrow again.
“If we survive, you’re teaching me how to do that,” and Murdock tried to do it right then, but all he could feel himself doing was lowering and wiggling both at the same exact time and Troy nearly laughed and shook his head. He threw every piece of glass - the big ones and the tiny ones he had to pick out with the very tip of his fingernail - back into the helicopter because it wasn’t like he was going to put them in is pocket to hold on to for later.
Murdock probably would have held onto them so he could count them. He tried to while they were being picked out, but Troy told him not to look because it was just easier that way.
“Alright,” Troy said, wiping his fingers on his pants, sliding nail under nail to get out as much blood as he could, bouncing on the edges of his heels, “gotta wrap this up…” and he was talking more to himself than Murdock and Murdock was going to say something but then Troy disappeared. He said something anyway.
“I’m bored.”
“You’re bored,” Troy reappeared, hands empty, “we just got into a helicopter crash, we got two dead bodies, no food, no water and the two of us are banged up worse than a trampled bullfighter and you’re bored.”
“Well, if you put it that way…”
“Right. Look… we can’t just sit here.”
“You’re the one standing, I’m sitting. I would levitate if I could, pretty sure I did once but who knows what actually happened then, right?” but Troy put up a hand that Murdock knew right away was a signal for him to shut the thing he called his mouth and he was going to ask what Troy was hearing because he was the only one with hallucinations around these parts but then he heard it, too: the heavy thunk, thunk, thunk of an engine and he almost smiled until he heard a language that definitely wasn’t English being shouted from the what could have been the passenger’s seat.
“Fuck me,” Troy said quietly, but loud enough that Murdock could clearly make them out, “you wouldn’t happen to have a gun, would you?” But Troy didn’t wait for an answer, stumbling into the debris, throwing out another string of curses before emerging with an item that definitely wasn’t a gun, “here,” he gently threw a fragment of the helicopter at Murdock’s lap: a long, pointed piece of heavy metal.
The truck stopped a few good feet away and then there was nothing, as if the people inside were gauging possible reactions or just trying to toy around with them a bit and Murdock tried to sit up straighter but knew the worst damage he could currently do was prod someone in the ankle. A man jumped smoothly out from the back, dabbing against his face and forehead with a cloth, a long and skinny gun pulled over his shoulder. He began speaking in a language that, for once, Murdock didn’t understand and it was apparent that Troy didn’t get it either because all he did was clutch at his stomach and tighten his grip on his weapon.
“You don’t think he’s offering to help us, do you?” a shot went flying over Troy’s head as soon as the words left Murdock’s mouth.
“Probably not.”
The man spoke again and it sounded vaguely like he was repeating himself, only louder, and it was possible he ended the sentence with a question mark.
“We crashed!” Murdock tried, pointing behind him as if it wasn’t entirely obvious. Another gun shot went off and it was difficult to tell both where it came from and where it went. Murdock searched himself, just in case.
“We just need some help, that’s all. Help. Do you get that?” Troy took a single step forward, holding his arm outstretched in front of him, palm flat in the air, when about five rifles popped out from behind windows, followed by the people clutching them. They started walking and it didn’t look like they were planning on stopping. “I don’t like where this is going.” But then the man, with his loose-fitting clothing and broad shoulders said something that wasn’t difficult to misunderstand:
“Sit down.” And Murdock figured that he hadn’t been talking specifically to him and he watched as Troy backed up slowly, wincing as he dropped down next to Murdock, still gripping onto the fuselage like it would still be helpful. Troy scratched at his beard and sniffed, clearing his throat.
“Got any ideas?” Troy asked once their captors were occupied with having an argument with themselves and Murdock gaped for a minute.
“What?”
“A plan. You and your team, I thought you always had a plan or something.”
“Oh no, no that’s Hannibal. He’s the one with the plans, not me. I just follow through, mostly with the flying,” he locked his thumbs together and flapped his fingers and didn’t stop until Troy grabbed his hands and lowered them back down.
“Yeah, well, he’s not here. It’s just you and me, buddy. We can-” he was cut off, though, when Murdock began pushing his elbow painfully (for both of them) into his side because they were being paid attention to again. “I don’t think they can understand us,” Troy lowered his voice, “I need you to distract him, I’ll be right back.” He crawled off, much to Murdock’s very, very slight horror and he smiled when the man in charge’s brow furrowed, teeth bared and he walked over, pulling his weapon just a bit closer to himself. He bellowed something, pointing and stabbing the air with a finger.
“Bathroom,” Murdock said, “you know? He had to go.” The man didn’t seem as amused by this that Murdock did and he growled, moving as if he was going to investigate, but Murdock stopped him. “Ihre Mutter hat einen behaarten Rücken, wie ein Gorilla!” That was definitely enough to make the man pause, but his hand curled around the wooden grip, face scrunching up and Murdock knew that if he didn’t say something else in the next two seconds, that was going to be it and, while he wasn’t very clear on what the entire plan was, he knew that he at least had to hold up his end of it anyway. “I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough water! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries! Now leave before I am forced to taunt you a second time!”
The man leaned closer with one ear, head tilted downwards as if he would be able to understand better but it was obvious he didn’t because he straightened his back, speaking softly and it was more menacing than when he was yelling and Murdock just blinked, hearing an English word every now and then but nothing he could take an appropriate meaning to and, just as he began to insult him in Dutch because he figured he might as well try any language at this point, Troy hurtled out from the shadows, managing to catch the man by surprise and, somewhere in the struggle, he dug a dark piece of steel into his shoulder. The man fell to his knees, taking Troy down with him and Troy climbed on top of him, his nose bleeding but he ignored it, and was about to attack once more, preparing to deliver a blow directly to his heart, but Murdock said “wait!” at the exact same time that the man cried out:
“Kill them!”
Murdock really did try to defend himself but, with a broken leg and practically unusable arm, just waving around his pretty-much-sword was proving to get him absolutely on the wrong end of nowhere. Troy was doing most of the work and even he wasn’t doing that well and Murdock was beginning to wonder if this was the failing engine in the helicopter all over again where he just had to close his eyes and let shit happen.
The butt of a gun collided with the back of his head and, just like before, all he could manage was to laugh.
. . . .
When his eyes fluttered open, the last thing he was expecting to see were the bodies of their attackers littered around them, a few face up, but most of them with their heads buried in the sand like they were attempting to dig their way to safety and he thought the shadow clouding his vision was just another symptom until he realized that it was, instead, a vehicle, a different vehicle, a familiar vehicle and doors were slamming and people were talking and Murdock could see Face running so rapidly that he was tripping over himself.
“Murdock!” Face called like he wasn’t expecting a response so Murdock smiled and waved and Face looked like he was somewhere between crying and punching in right in the mouth. Face finally reached him, throwing himself down to his knees and grabbing Murdock by the shoulders. “Oh, shit. What happened? I mean, you crashed but what happened.”
“We crashed.”
“You’re alive,” Face said instead.
“It’s a miracle.” There was a pause between them, a look in the edges of Face’s eyes that was a lot like he had been spending the past hour or so of driving preparing himself for the worst. “Is what’s-his-name alright?” Face blinked, squinting, finally getting what Murdock was trying to ask and he nodded his head.
“Yeah, he’s fine. Were you two the only ones…”
“’Fraid so.”
“How bad is it?”
“How bad is what?”
“Everything. No, you. How bad is it.” Face was still holding him like he never planned on letting go. “No, just…” he looked him over, “a broken leg and your head and… shit, Murdock,” Face said, picking up Murdock’s right arm by holding onto his hand, inspecting it closely, eyes wide, “we have to get out of here.” They hobbled along, Face offering, finally, to carry him the rest of the way and took the pained silence as a yes, bending over gradually, slipping an arm carefully under Murdock’s legs, the other arm sliding over his shoulders. Murdock grinned and Face, in an uncharacteristic moment, pressed his forehead into Murdock’s hair.
“The prince has at long last come to rescue the princess and carry her away! It’s just like a real fairytale. If only I had been asleep, I could have been kissed awake,” Murdock sighed.
“I could knock you out again,” came B.A.’s voice as he stepped into view, observing what was happening in front of him - Face standing there, back bent slightly under the weight of holding onto Murdock - “what were you thinking, fool! I told you to check the helicopter before taking it out and you didn’t listen and look what the hell happened!”
“I’m so glad you care,” Murdock replied slowly but cheerily and B.A. simply growled and helped Face get Murdock into one of the seats farther in the back of the van where he could keep his leg stretched. Hannibal appeared, pushing open the back doors, leaning forward and explaining that the two of them were going to have a very serious discussion later and Murdock saluted, hitting his head too hard and feeling himself sway and go cross-eyed.
Face insisted on sitting with Murdock the entire ride back and nobody argued. When he told the doctors he wasn’t leaving once they brought Murdock in, nobody told him to get out.
And later (they were all sitting outside, drinking cheap, bitter alcohol that made their tongues numb even though Murdock was on painkillers and was told not to touch the stuff for a few weeks) when Face leaned over in front of everyone (or, at least, everyone who mattered to him and also that other guy who had survived because they couldn’t just walk away from the guy who helped keep their pilot cognizant) and kissed Murdock when he was sure the licks and orange glow of the fire were flickering in a direction that pushed them momentarily into darkness, nobody said anything about the fact that just because the two of them couldn’t see anything didn’t mean nobody could see them.
face/murdock (a-team movie!verse)
pg-13; 4,537 words
He sat there, in what was left of his seat, hearing the metal of the helicopter walls that once enveloped him and his other team creaking and whining, the controls sparking and fizzling in front of him and, for a minute, he was convinced he was dead. requested here (the second prompt) at a_team_kink.
notes: when I found this community one evening, I nearly died of joy because, up until then, I had pretty much given up on finding fic for the new movie. There were (and still are) some absolutely amazing prompts looking for an owner but then I saw this one and knew I had to scoop it up. I also knew that it would be impossible to get it finished in under a thousand words so this happened. I could have made it even longer but I didn’t want it to get out of hand. I hope this is at least close to what you wanted phantom_scribe! (any and all mistakes are my own fault and will be fixed as I catch them).
Murdock was pretty damn sure that one of the worst sounds he could ever hear was the deafening noise of the engine of the helicopter he was currently piloting sputtering dead in the middle of the air. It didn’t quite help that, while he was attempting to figure out exactly what was going on and how he could fix it without jumping out the door and banging around on it while floating to his death, the team he was currently (‘assigned’ was what Hannibal had said but it definitely felt like ‘forced’ right then) working with were all shouting and crying and telling him that he had to fix it or they would kill him.
Usually this was just the kind of motivator that Murdock needed but it sounded different, more threatening and sincere, when it was coming from the mouths of people who weren’t his friends and it only made him more panicked because Hannibal wasn’t there to act like everything was going according to plan and B.A. wasn’t asleep, head lolling around and Face’s glorious blue eyes weren’t just over his shoulder, wide but encouraging as he informed him that he was so dead if they survived this.
So he let go of the controls, adjusted his helmet and closed his eyes, letting out a final laugh because that was all he could do and it felt kind of like he was dreaming and the last thing he heard was a string of curses and a scream that would have driven him mad if he wasn’t already.
Hitting the ground was kind of like being submerged in a lake; his ears popped and everything was muffled, he couldn’t breathe and he felt like fifty tons of pressure was weighing down on him as every inch of his skin and bones jerked and tugged and tingled. There was a sharp pain in his side and his arms, a shooting spasm (that was probably more than that) traveling up his right leg and then everything just stopped.
He sat there, in what was left of his seat, hearing the metal of the helicopter walls that once enveloped him and his other team creaking and whining, the controls sparking and fizzling in front of him and, for a minute, he was convinced he was dead because the possibility of him surviving from the height they had dropped from was very, very slim (although, he had never been an expert at math of any kind and it was probable that he had miscalculated their distance from the ground and only fell a few feet rather than a hell-of-a-lot of feet).
Opening his eyes took longer than it should have and he coughed, not realizing he was shaking until he attempted to remove the helmet still secured tightly to his head but it wouldn’t budge so he didn’t force it. He started humming a song he didn’t even know that he had heard before and he had gone through practically the whole thing, whispering the final verse to himself under his breath, looking down at himself to finally see what kind of damage he had caused.
The entirety of his right arm was bleeding, the shattering of the windows embedded in his skin, something he would, eventually, have to pick out one by one (a job he would usually give to Face and a pair of tweezers) and he could feel a bruise already beginning to blossom across the side of his face. He tried to adjust, just a little, and he clutched the remaining arm of his chair, knuckles white, as a blinding pain drifted all through his muscles and bones. Somewhere in there he had shifted songs, muttering what lyrics he remembered, lowering and raising his voice as he tried to get the same inflection the singer had when he had heard it on the radio.
A deep breath and a look around with one eye closed and everyone else was dead. He was positive until he heard a groan from the rear of the shredded machine.
. . . .
“This isn’t good,” Face said, walking into Hannibal’s side of their base camp (a dirty and grimy building that was seemingly in the middle of nowhere, sand pushing against the doors and windows, blocking the light), flipping a walkie-talkie back and forth in his hand, almost dropping it once or twice.
“He’s fine, Face,” Hannibal assured for what felt like the thousandth time, lowering his cigar but not lifting his head from the large swaths of paper he had been studying. Face jogged over so he was standing on the other side of the table, directly in the light that Hannibal barely had in the first place and he slammed his hands down on the flat surface, “you’re acting like a nervous father who just sent his kid off to school for the first time.”
“Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Face snapped through a clenched jaw but he quickly relented, dropping his head and blowing out a heavy rush of air, “We haven’t heard anything from that team in over three hours. Three hours. He was supposed to call in as soon as they landed,” Face insisted and Hannibal peered up and raised his eyebrows, “something isn’t right,” he said after a minute of complete silence. Hannibal sighed, chewing on the end of his cigar, staring at a spot over Face’s shoulder, puffing a cloud of blue smoke out into the air and watching it dissipate.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to find him, Hannibal. We have to. I can’t just-”
“Alright, kid. Go find B.A.. I’ll pack up the van.”
. . . .
“Hello?” Murdock called out, turning the best he could, twisting his neck around the headrest, squinting into the rubble of what used to be the tail, “you’re not a hallucination are you? Because I don’t know how I feel about those yet and they’re only fun when they’re unicorns.”
“Shit,” he heard the voice cough out, “they weren’t kidding when they said you were nuts.”
“Nobody ever is.”
“Did we really crash?”
“Yep.”
“Are the other two-” Murdock didn’t answer and apparently that was enough for the guy because he simply said, “fuck.” There was a thud. “Fuck.”
“Don’t break anything!” and Murdock didn’t know why he said that (but he was never sure why he said anything) because it didn’t really matter anymore.
“Did you seriously,” the guy coughed, made a spitting noise, “just say that?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Sometimes I think one thing and say something else.”
“Right.” There was pause, the only sound the metal twisting and droning, the wind whipping sand against the wreckage. “Are you alright?”
“Think I broke my leg. What… what about you?”
“I… uh… I think I’ve got some broken ribs and, man I don’t know,” he wheezed, which could have meant he had screwed up his lung but could also simply mean he was trapped under his seatbelt, “everything hurts.” Murdock hadn’t been with this team long enough for him to know who he was talking to. His team had been on a mini-break from their last mission, finally relaxing and tending to the wounds they had gathered along the bumpy ride when a large man dressed in dark green and thick black sunglasses had approached Hannibal, asking if they could borrow Murdock for the afternoon because they had a package to deliver and they needed the best pilot to get them to their destination. There had been a lot of arguing, mostly from Face but, in the end, Murdock said okay because it would take him no less than six hours and how the hell could he screw that up?
Apparently, pretty damn badly.
“Is anything working?” the man asked, pure, unsaturated hope wafting from his throat and Murdock flipped around on switches, punching buttons and the best that he got was a chirp and a slight beep.
“Depends on your definition of working, I guess,” Murdock said, finally fumbling with the buckle on his own seatbelt, cringing as every movement he made with his right arm was stiff and painful, the glass rubbing together to make an unpleasant reverberation, letting go of a long exhale once it popped open.
“I’m going to assume that’s a no,” there was a similar click of a belt unhinging from it’s lock, “jesus,” he said suddenly, taking in a gasping intake of breath.
“What?”
“It’s… Sherman. The guy who sat next… shit, he’s not going to have an open casket at his funeral,” every word the man stuttered out was accompanied by a wet cough and wheezing. “I’m gonna…” but anything else he was planning on saying just trailed off and all Murdock could hear was movement, grunts and the clatter of things being kicked and pushed out of the way and, suddenly, there was a man with slicked back blonde hair at his side, throwing a nauseated glance to the squashed seat next to him where their leader had been sitting earlier. Murdock hoped that the man didn’t cry because he wasn’t good at dealing with people crying.
“Don’t cry,” Murdock said, “because if you cry, then I cry and then we’ll both be crying and things will just get messy.”
“I’m not going to cry,” the man assured, crouching down a little further, flinging his arm over the back of the torn apart cushion, “jesus. look at your arm,” he said and then: “we gotta get out of this thing.”
“Will you carry me?”
“I can barely carry myself, you’re gonna have to help me out here a bit.”
Somehow, after a lot of what Murdock mentioned sounded like porn noises - not that he would know, really because he’d never seen one before, not that he could remember anyway, it was possible he just blocked it out, you know how that happens sometimes - which only made the guy frown and grumble and maybe blush a little which was just an odd thing for a soldier, they managed to get out into the sand and Murdock sat down because he had no other choice, brushing sand off his tongue and out of his eyes, watching as the man he still didn’t remember the name of stood, unsteady, surveying their surroundings.
“Baby won’t you tell me, what am I to do? I’m in the middle of nowhere, getting nowhere with you.”
The man turned, an eyebrow raised in only the way someone could get it with years of practice, “Dusty Springfield?”
“Is that where that was from? I thought I made that up years ago.”
“I don’t understand you. At all.”
“Neither do I. What’s your name?”
“You forgot my name.”
“It happens.”
“Troy.”
“No, I’m Murdock.”
“Wait, what? You…” Troy ran a hand over his face, rubbing furiously, “I don’t have the patience for this bullshit.”
Murdock finally managed to yank off his helmet with one hand, his right one too stiff to bother moving even a few inches, and he ran his fingers through the hot sand. Something wet and sticky trickled down the side of his head and he didn’t have to touch it to know what it was and it was as if the helmet had been keeping his skull together. Murdock contemplated putting it back on just to make sure. Whatever had happened up there, it was certainly making him tired.
. . . .
“Can’t you drive faster,” Face pressured from his spot in the backseat, leaning forward and jiggling B.A.’s headrest to get his attention; not that he needed to over-exaggerate because he was talking loud enough for the plane that just buzzed above them to hear what he was complaining about.
“Look,” B.A. started, using his elbow to push Face back out of his personal space, “we’re drivin’ on sand, do you even realize this? I can’t go faster. I couldn’t go faster if wanted to.”
“We’re in open territory,” Hannibal continued, arm balanced carefully on his open window, fingers lazy against the side of the truck, “we’re drawing enough attention to ourselves as it is. The last thing we need is to get gunned down or captured by the enemy while on our way to a possible rescue mission.”
“Possible… Murdock is absent-minded, but he’d never forget to stay in contact. You know that, Hannibal. You both know that.”
“We have the coordinates he was traveling. We stay on course, we’ll find them.”
“Stay on course,” Face reiterated, “how do we even know we’re going in a straight line?” He thrust his arm forward between Hannibal and B.A. just to make his point. Hannibal stared into the rearview mirror, frowning, not in a disappointed or discontent kind of way that he was used to handing out to anyone who he felt deserved it (which was, at some point, usually everyone) but in a ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you this worried before, what the hell is going on here’ kind of way. Although, Hannibal hoped that he was given a bit more credit than that to be able to figure it out.
. . . .
They had been sitting out there for what felt like hours, the smell of blood and burning electrical equipment twirling around them. In between then and now, Troy had attempted his best at putting a splint on Murdock from what he could salvage (but it was barely helping) and then walked off for a few minutes, seemingly evaporating over a small hill, the heat coming in waves from every surface. He returned, coughing and pale, saying that there was nothing out there and their best - their only - option was to wait. Murdock told him that he probably could have said that without the fuss of walking.
After that, he tried to get the radio (which had somehow separated from the rest of the machine) to send out to anybody until he realized he wasn’t getting out to anywhere and he probably wouldn’t unless someone fixed it. If it was even possible for it to be fixed at all.
“We have to get this glass out of you,” Troy was saying and Murdock looked up, pushing a hand over his eyes and he glanced down because, heck, he almost forgot those were there, he was too busy wondering why his leg was going numb. It still hurt when he poked it though.
“Are you offering?”
“That was the implication, yes.” Troy lowered himself slowly, clutching his chest and stomach until he had made sure he was properly sitting and he sighed, spitting blood and staring as it just seemed to roll around like mercury on the ground. He reached over and Murdock pulled back, purely out of instinct. And Troy raised that perfect eyebrow again.
“If we survive, you’re teaching me how to do that,” and Murdock tried to do it right then, but all he could feel himself doing was lowering and wiggling both at the same exact time and Troy nearly laughed and shook his head. He threw every piece of glass - the big ones and the tiny ones he had to pick out with the very tip of his fingernail - back into the helicopter because it wasn’t like he was going to put them in is pocket to hold on to for later.
Murdock probably would have held onto them so he could count them. He tried to while they were being picked out, but Troy told him not to look because it was just easier that way.
“Alright,” Troy said, wiping his fingers on his pants, sliding nail under nail to get out as much blood as he could, bouncing on the edges of his heels, “gotta wrap this up…” and he was talking more to himself than Murdock and Murdock was going to say something but then Troy disappeared. He said something anyway.
“I’m bored.”
“You’re bored,” Troy reappeared, hands empty, “we just got into a helicopter crash, we got two dead bodies, no food, no water and the two of us are banged up worse than a trampled bullfighter and you’re bored.”
“Well, if you put it that way…”
“Right. Look… we can’t just sit here.”
“You’re the one standing, I’m sitting. I would levitate if I could, pretty sure I did once but who knows what actually happened then, right?” but Troy put up a hand that Murdock knew right away was a signal for him to shut the thing he called his mouth and he was going to ask what Troy was hearing because he was the only one with hallucinations around these parts but then he heard it, too: the heavy thunk, thunk, thunk of an engine and he almost smiled until he heard a language that definitely wasn’t English being shouted from the what could have been the passenger’s seat.
“Fuck me,” Troy said quietly, but loud enough that Murdock could clearly make them out, “you wouldn’t happen to have a gun, would you?” But Troy didn’t wait for an answer, stumbling into the debris, throwing out another string of curses before emerging with an item that definitely wasn’t a gun, “here,” he gently threw a fragment of the helicopter at Murdock’s lap: a long, pointed piece of heavy metal.
The truck stopped a few good feet away and then there was nothing, as if the people inside were gauging possible reactions or just trying to toy around with them a bit and Murdock tried to sit up straighter but knew the worst damage he could currently do was prod someone in the ankle. A man jumped smoothly out from the back, dabbing against his face and forehead with a cloth, a long and skinny gun pulled over his shoulder. He began speaking in a language that, for once, Murdock didn’t understand and it was apparent that Troy didn’t get it either because all he did was clutch at his stomach and tighten his grip on his weapon.
“You don’t think he’s offering to help us, do you?” a shot went flying over Troy’s head as soon as the words left Murdock’s mouth.
“Probably not.”
The man spoke again and it sounded vaguely like he was repeating himself, only louder, and it was possible he ended the sentence with a question mark.
“We crashed!” Murdock tried, pointing behind him as if it wasn’t entirely obvious. Another gun shot went off and it was difficult to tell both where it came from and where it went. Murdock searched himself, just in case.
“We just need some help, that’s all. Help. Do you get that?” Troy took a single step forward, holding his arm outstretched in front of him, palm flat in the air, when about five rifles popped out from behind windows, followed by the people clutching them. They started walking and it didn’t look like they were planning on stopping. “I don’t like where this is going.” But then the man, with his loose-fitting clothing and broad shoulders said something that wasn’t difficult to misunderstand:
“Sit down.” And Murdock figured that he hadn’t been talking specifically to him and he watched as Troy backed up slowly, wincing as he dropped down next to Murdock, still gripping onto the fuselage like it would still be helpful. Troy scratched at his beard and sniffed, clearing his throat.
“Got any ideas?” Troy asked once their captors were occupied with having an argument with themselves and Murdock gaped for a minute.
“What?”
“A plan. You and your team, I thought you always had a plan or something.”
“Oh no, no that’s Hannibal. He’s the one with the plans, not me. I just follow through, mostly with the flying,” he locked his thumbs together and flapped his fingers and didn’t stop until Troy grabbed his hands and lowered them back down.
“Yeah, well, he’s not here. It’s just you and me, buddy. We can-” he was cut off, though, when Murdock began pushing his elbow painfully (for both of them) into his side because they were being paid attention to again. “I don’t think they can understand us,” Troy lowered his voice, “I need you to distract him, I’ll be right back.” He crawled off, much to Murdock’s very, very slight horror and he smiled when the man in charge’s brow furrowed, teeth bared and he walked over, pulling his weapon just a bit closer to himself. He bellowed something, pointing and stabbing the air with a finger.
“Bathroom,” Murdock said, “you know? He had to go.” The man didn’t seem as amused by this that Murdock did and he growled, moving as if he was going to investigate, but Murdock stopped him. “Ihre Mutter hat einen behaarten Rücken, wie ein Gorilla!” That was definitely enough to make the man pause, but his hand curled around the wooden grip, face scrunching up and Murdock knew that if he didn’t say something else in the next two seconds, that was going to be it and, while he wasn’t very clear on what the entire plan was, he knew that he at least had to hold up his end of it anyway. “I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed animal food trough water! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries! Now leave before I am forced to taunt you a second time!”
The man leaned closer with one ear, head tilted downwards as if he would be able to understand better but it was obvious he didn’t because he straightened his back, speaking softly and it was more menacing than when he was yelling and Murdock just blinked, hearing an English word every now and then but nothing he could take an appropriate meaning to and, just as he began to insult him in Dutch because he figured he might as well try any language at this point, Troy hurtled out from the shadows, managing to catch the man by surprise and, somewhere in the struggle, he dug a dark piece of steel into his shoulder. The man fell to his knees, taking Troy down with him and Troy climbed on top of him, his nose bleeding but he ignored it, and was about to attack once more, preparing to deliver a blow directly to his heart, but Murdock said “wait!” at the exact same time that the man cried out:
“Kill them!”
Murdock really did try to defend himself but, with a broken leg and practically unusable arm, just waving around his pretty-much-sword was proving to get him absolutely on the wrong end of nowhere. Troy was doing most of the work and even he wasn’t doing that well and Murdock was beginning to wonder if this was the failing engine in the helicopter all over again where he just had to close his eyes and let shit happen.
The butt of a gun collided with the back of his head and, just like before, all he could manage was to laugh.
. . . .
When his eyes fluttered open, the last thing he was expecting to see were the bodies of their attackers littered around them, a few face up, but most of them with their heads buried in the sand like they were attempting to dig their way to safety and he thought the shadow clouding his vision was just another symptom until he realized that it was, instead, a vehicle, a different vehicle, a familiar vehicle and doors were slamming and people were talking and Murdock could see Face running so rapidly that he was tripping over himself.
“Murdock!” Face called like he wasn’t expecting a response so Murdock smiled and waved and Face looked like he was somewhere between crying and punching in right in the mouth. Face finally reached him, throwing himself down to his knees and grabbing Murdock by the shoulders. “Oh, shit. What happened? I mean, you crashed but what happened.”
“We crashed.”
“You’re alive,” Face said instead.
“It’s a miracle.” There was a pause between them, a look in the edges of Face’s eyes that was a lot like he had been spending the past hour or so of driving preparing himself for the worst. “Is what’s-his-name alright?” Face blinked, squinting, finally getting what Murdock was trying to ask and he nodded his head.
“Yeah, he’s fine. Were you two the only ones…”
“’Fraid so.”
“How bad is it?”
“How bad is what?”
“Everything. No, you. How bad is it.” Face was still holding him like he never planned on letting go. “No, just…” he looked him over, “a broken leg and your head and… shit, Murdock,” Face said, picking up Murdock’s right arm by holding onto his hand, inspecting it closely, eyes wide, “we have to get out of here.” They hobbled along, Face offering, finally, to carry him the rest of the way and took the pained silence as a yes, bending over gradually, slipping an arm carefully under Murdock’s legs, the other arm sliding over his shoulders. Murdock grinned and Face, in an uncharacteristic moment, pressed his forehead into Murdock’s hair.
“The prince has at long last come to rescue the princess and carry her away! It’s just like a real fairytale. If only I had been asleep, I could have been kissed awake,” Murdock sighed.
“I could knock you out again,” came B.A.’s voice as he stepped into view, observing what was happening in front of him - Face standing there, back bent slightly under the weight of holding onto Murdock - “what were you thinking, fool! I told you to check the helicopter before taking it out and you didn’t listen and look what the hell happened!”
“I’m so glad you care,” Murdock replied slowly but cheerily and B.A. simply growled and helped Face get Murdock into one of the seats farther in the back of the van where he could keep his leg stretched. Hannibal appeared, pushing open the back doors, leaning forward and explaining that the two of them were going to have a very serious discussion later and Murdock saluted, hitting his head too hard and feeling himself sway and go cross-eyed.
Face insisted on sitting with Murdock the entire ride back and nobody argued. When he told the doctors he wasn’t leaving once they brought Murdock in, nobody told him to get out.
And later (they were all sitting outside, drinking cheap, bitter alcohol that made their tongues numb even though Murdock was on painkillers and was told not to touch the stuff for a few weeks) when Face leaned over in front of everyone (or, at least, everyone who mattered to him and also that other guy who had survived because they couldn’t just walk away from the guy who helped keep their pilot cognizant) and kissed Murdock when he was sure the licks and orange glow of the fire were flickering in a direction that pushed them momentarily into darkness, nobody said anything about the fact that just because the two of them couldn’t see anything didn’t mean nobody could see them.