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This page last viewed: 2017-10-17 and has been viewed 1899 times
Rating: PG language
Summary: Hannibal gets something in the mail (I'm new at this)
Feedback: yes please
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, dagnabbit
Warnings: Character death, angst, first fic
Once or twice a week he drove into the city to collect his mail. Never on a consistent schedule, sometimes in disguise, always cautious and alert. He might be retired now, but John Smith had made many enemies in the course of his life. He had no intention of being easy pickings for just any two-bit punk with a grudge. He scanned the lobby warily one last time, before emptying his p.o. box. After inspecting the contents Hannibal's eyes began to gleam. Along with his usual accumulation of bills and junk mail there was something unexpected--a notice of a package waiting for him at the counter.
Hannibal waited until he was about halfway home before he pulled over and studied his package once more before opening it. He had performed a cursory inspection before leaving the post office and hadn't learned much. It was an ordinary brown box. The return address was unfamiliar. Nothing rattled inside, it didn't smell funny, and when it came down to it, none of his instincts told him it was real trouble. Only the hard learned caution of an ex-fugitive was making him this careful.
While his hands were busy pulling out his pocket knife and opening the box, Hannibal's mind was once again going over the obvious sources of his little gift and rejecting them. Face had recently restocked Hannibal's cigar supply in person. Murdock's gifts had the name of the company he ordered from on the label. Except those Aquamaniac collector's plates: where did he find those? B.A. wasn't prone to impulse shopping and only sent things on the usual occasions. Hannibal's birthday and Christmas were both months away. Besides, the rest of the team shared his distaste for surprises in the mail. Mail bombs might be clichÈ, but few of their old foes were trendsetters. Hannibal's mental ramblings thudded to a halt when he caught his first glimpse of the contents of the package. There were only two things in the box, and only one that gave him pause, a book. "The A-Team" by Amy Allen.
Despite his eagerness to learn what the hell Amy thought she was doing, Hannibal managed to restrain his curiosity long enough to complete his drive home. Only after he made himself a cup of coffee and had settled on his sofa did he rip open the envelope that had come with the book. Annoyance and amusement both faded as he read the opening lines.
If you are reading this letter and have seen the book, it means I am dead.
Don't be upset if you hadn't heard before; my instructions were to keep the
fuss over my death to a minimum. I always hated saying good-bye.
Of course, this isn't a complete shock, the whole team was there for me when
I was first diagnosed with cancer six years ago. I understand that some of
your exploits at the hospital have passed into legend. The doctors did their
best, but a few years ago they told me there was nothing else they could do
for me. I was terminal.
I went through all the textbook stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining,
and spent a long time in the tequila and self-pity stage when I somehow
made it to acceptance. I realized I wanted to leave something more tangible
than my articles behind. I wanted to
thank the four men who changed my life.
What you have before you is the best piece of investigative reporting I have
ever done. I tracked down sources: interviewed anyone I could reach: read
every memo, file, report and transcript that even mentioned you. I loved every
minute of it. But, I always knew you guys would hate it if I published
"Damn straight," Hannibal muttered.
Which is why this is an extremely limited (4 copies) first and only edition
of my book.
Love and regards,
paused to light a cigar as a gentle version of his trademark grin settled on
his face. One finger traced the angled path of the red streak that helped
relive the stark black of the cover.
"Nice, Amy, real nice."
His grin widened as he opened up the book and began to read.
"In 1972 a crack commando unit was sent to prison for a crime they didn't commit..."
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