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Fever Dreams

Fever Dreams
by Dusty Tyree


Rating: NC17 -
Just to be on the safe side. Nothing graphic.
Summary: Face's thoughts while lying on the kitchen floor in the Villa Cuchino.
Warnings: Nothing graphic. Mention of violence. Hey this is the A Team after all. A few swear words . Angst.
Disclaimer : The A-Team belongs to Stephen J Cannell and Universal Television. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you haven't heard of before, are copyrighted to me.
Comments: Yes, please.

Author's Notes: Words between // // usually indicate a character's thoughts. But most of this is Face's thoughts anyway.
Words between * * indicate Bold Emphas
Copyright: (c) Dusty Tyree 19th June 2002

 

The floor of the Villa Cuchino was cold and hard. Face felt the chill
seeping through his whole body.
He was so cold! Where was Murdock? Why had he left him here? The girl
was nice, but she hurt him every time she pressed down on the wound in his
abdomen.
God it hurt!
Some night off!
Why hadn't he stayed at Langley and watched the Football Game with
Hannibal and B.A?
Because Hannibal had a girl who wanted to watch the Game with him. Yeah!
Right!
Face would've snorted but it would take too much energy: energy he didn't
have.
It would've been nice to sit with Hannibal on the couch, with the
Colonel's strong right arm around *his* shoulders -yeah that would be perfect.
He floated for a while, listening to the pulse thudding in his brain.
Well, at least he still had a pulse, no thanks to that short guy in the
window. Who'd have thought it would take three men to rob this little
restaurant?
Oh yes, it wasn't a robbery. Now he remembered - something about a
'hit'. That could only be a Mob Hit on the Attorney General. He vaguely
recalled hearing that name too.
Oh God! It hurt so much.
A sob tried to force it's way past his throat, but he fought it down. He
wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing his distress. He couldn't help
the way he looked - that tall thin guy he'd taken the gun from - was watching
him from the side of the room. He looked really tall from his position on
the floor: cold-hearted bastard - eating pizza while he was dying.
Cold...he was so cold...yet he could feel the sweat on his face - running
down his chest...or was that blood? No, blood was hot, like the hot place
in his left side...
He bit back another moan...
What had he been thinking, it was so hard to concentrate. Oh yes, he
knew he'd groaned a few times, but he couldn't help that, but he wouldn't cry
out for help that wouldn't come. These guys didn't care that he was hurting;
didn't care if he died on this hard, cold floor.
Where had Murdock gone? He and Frankie had just dumped him here on the
floor - surely his friend would come back...
He had felt the pilot's strong hands holding him - pressing against the
wound, heard his voice, unusually hard, giving orders of how to take care of
him...
Why wasn't Murdock taking care of him? That would've been okay.
Oh yes, the bad guys - they were still in the restaurant.
Even Frankie had left him. He had heard the lie in the younger man's
voice when he'd said he'd seen worse accidents on the set.
Frankie had forgotten that he, Face, was an ex-Special Forces soldier -
he knew a serious wound when he saw it - or in this case - felt it. If he
didn't get professional medical help soon, he wouldn't survive.
It would've been nice to have seen Hannibal again, before... before...he
left this vale of tears. He might, one day, have been able to tell his
Colonel how much he loved him, had loved him for years...too late..too late...
His eyes shot open as a commotion at the back door rallied him from his
near unconsciousness.
"How's Face?"
Hannibal? That was Hannibal's voice. Great. He'd be able to talk with
him after all. Relief and strength surged through him. His Colonel had come
for him...
"I don't think he's got fifteen minutes..." Murdock's voice tightly
controlled against hysteria.
Face waited...and waited. Through a haze he saw Hannibal's silver head
outlined against the dark cabinets of the kitchen.
But the Colonel didn't speak to him. "Hannibal, I'm here...." he cried
soundlessly, but Smith didn't hear him. He was busy coordinating the attack
on the other members of the gang.
Face slumped inwardly. As usual - too busy to hear him; on the Jazz.
Didn't hear, maybe didn't ever want to hear what his lieutenant wanted to
say....
The blood-red darkness closed in again...
"Ten minutes till Liebstre gets here."
Hannibal's voice was back.
Then Murdock's voice came through the darkness, a gentle hand on his,
fingers checking the pulse in his throat...
"His pulse is almost a hundred and fifty - I can't believe I'm
responsible for all this."
Drifting again as Hannibal spoke again - but not to him, not to him -
something about a distraction...
BA's voice. "How's he doing, Hannibal?"
Hey Big Guy nice to hear you again...
Was that him they were still talking about....
"He's done better..."
You can say that again Colonel...Face's thought dwindled away again on a
red mist of pain.
He was roused again as hands picked him up off the floor. Hands that
tried to be gentle, but hurt him just the same. Through half open eyes he
saw that it was BA holding his feet - so who was that holding his shoulders,
hefting him like that, didn't the idiot know how to pick up a wounded man...
Behind BA, he saw Hannibal and Murdock looking serious. This was it
then; he was going to hospital - maybe?
No...another bit of floor. God didn't these places have a couch? Or
even a comfortable chair would've been nice to rest on for his last few
minutes on Earth....
He listened, but a strange silence had fallen, he heard the ticking of a
clock...then a smell....
The sudden explosion hardly caused him to stir; he was so damned
tired....too much blood, lost too much blood, he knew the scenario...
Suddenly, Hannibal's silver head appeared, hovering over him. A hand
opened his shirt , lifting his own blood-stained hand away from the saturated
pad of tablecloth and checked the still bleeding wound in his stomach...
Over Hannibal's shoulder B.A's dark concerned face peered down at him.
Vaguely he heard his Colonel's strained voice. "He's weak, but we can
move him. Get the van BA, we gotta get him to DC General right away...."
"He'll be there in five minutes...."
BA's head disappeared and Face was left looking up into concerned
sapphire blue eyes, eyes that were pleading with him for something...
He smiled slightly....as the eyes and the silver hair disappeared into a
whirling blackness....

Ten days later, Face was again smiling into those same sapphire blue
eyes. He was lying on the long couch in the lounge of their Langley
cottage, having just been discharged from the hospital. Stockwell had
arranged for the rest of his convalescence to be taken with his Team mates.
Ah, this couch was definitely more comfortable than the floor of that
horrible kitchen.
Hannibal was sitting at the far end, near his feet, with BA and Frankie
leaning over the back of the couch.
"How's the pain?" asked Hannibal quietly.
"Oh, it only hurts when I breathe." He could say that now, when he knew
he was going to recover.
"You was out cold for a day and a half in the hospital," BA told him
seriously.
"They say you hit on two nurses while you were sedated," Frankie told him
with a grin.
Face lifted up two fingers in query.
Hannibal nodded.
"Really? How'd I do?" he asked, not really caring.
"You evoked great sympathy," smiled Hannibal. "They left their telephone
numbers."
Face grinned. He didn't think he would be ringing any of those number;
he had something a lot more important to think about. If the promise in his
Colonel's vivid blue eyes had anything to do with it; his time and his heart
would be more than adequately taken care of...
Yes, dreams did come true, even the more exotic ones dreamt in a fever -
on a cold floor...

Dusty Tyree
19th June 2002
After just watching Without Reservations

 


Fever Dreams by Dusty Tyree

 

 


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