Send Comment Card

Please Send This Author Comments!
This page last viewed: 2017-12-11 and has been viewed 1289 times



By lamardeuse


Rating: NC-17

Pairing: F/M


Disclaimer: The A-Team does not belong to me, but I enjoy playin’ with ‘em. All characters, alarums, excursions and concepts belong to Stephen J Cannell and Frank Lupo.

Warnings: Language, explicit m/m slash

Summary: PWP, WP (Whitman Poetry!). In honour of Labour Day, the people’s poet helps our guys sing of themselves.





He paused in the doorway, breath catching at the sight of Face in his bed.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen him there before, but something in his pose, relaxed and easy, as he thumbed through a book, pierced Murdock in deep places. He looked like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged, only they’d been too blind or too scared to know it.

No regrets. He was here now.

Face’s eyes rose to him, unsurprised. You couldn’t sneak up on a Greenie. "Are you gonna buy," he enquired, his lips curling in amusement, "or are you just lookin’?"

Murdock smiled back, enjoying the newly added dimension to the tease. "Who says I can’t do both?" he drawled, taking a step closer, then another. Bare feet silent on the cheap, worn shag.

He watched as Face’s own gaze took him in, reveled in the sensation of heat that travelled outward from the centre of him. "Not me," Face replied.

Grinning, Murdock pulled his t-shirt swiftly over his head and threw it in a corner.

"Slob," accused Face.

"You know it," he retorted, and continued his advance on the bed.

"Murdock," Face sighed, when he was close, so close, mouth hovering.

"Whut?" Brown eyes danced with mischief.

A hand came up to caress his cheek. "Just--you."

There was nothing else to do then but kiss him, kiss him until they were both gasping, until their lungs were screaming for air.





"I didn’t know you read Whitman," Face told him, later.

"Mmmhummm." The vibration tickled his chest where Murdock’s cheek pressed against it.

He reached over to pick up the worn paperback copy of Leaves of Grass. "He’s always been one of my favourites."

"I know." Murdock raised his head, then flopped himself over so that he was lying beside the other man. He touched the book gently. "I, ah, I was never much for poetry, but when I saw you readin’ it in Nam, I figured there must be something in it, so I started. I like him, and ee cummings, and Langston Hughes." He wrinkled his nose. "Not T.S. Eliot, though. He’s too damn full of himself."

Temp chuckled. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

"Anyway, we never read Whitman’s stuff in school. Too controversial."

"Why, because of his bisexuality?"

"No." Murdock waggled his eyebrows. "‘Cuz he wrote nice things about President Lincoln."

Face’s mouth twitched. "Damn Yankee." He held the book out to Murdock. "Have you got a favourite?"

Murdock’s eyes suddenly dropped.

"What is it?" Temp asked.

"I--uh, I--nothin’," the pilot stammered. "I don’t need the book." Face watched, transfixed, as the other man began to speak, clearly and with feeling:

"As Adam early in the morning,

Walking forth from the bower refresh’d with sleep,

Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach,

Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,

Be not afraid of my body."

Murdock kept his eyes trained on a spot near the foot of the bed.

Face debated with himself for a moment, then, taking the pilot’s hand in his own, pressed it against his heart. "I never liked to be touched, Murdock. It was something that helped me transcend a lot of--situations, something that kept me sane in the orphanage, where there was nothing you could call your own. And later, not even the women--well, maybe a few of the women," he smiled, "but they didn’t reach inside and twist my gut the way you did with just a look, or a hand on my shoulder."

He met the startled brown gaze. "What I’m saying is, you made me understand, finally, how much I needed that. I always told myself I could live without affection, without closeness, but that was a lie. You gave those things to me every day, and I needed them, hell, I craved them. When we fought, and I thought I’d lost your friendship for good, I don’t know, it was like one of your cartoons. Like Wile E. Coyote, the dumb bastard, still running like crazy, only he’d just run off the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, there was nothing under me but air." He squeezed Murdock’s fingers, took a deep breath. "Well. I’m sorry it took me such a long time to realize it."

When the other man spoke, his voice was husky. "Life’s too short for what ifs, muchacho."

"You’re right," Face murmured, bending to capture the pilot’s mouth. He moaned shamelessly as hands sank into his hair and pulled him closer. There were times when he wanted to disappear inside Murdock, be swallowed up in his world of colour and light and laughter. Why the hell had he waited so long?

Temp pushed away the thought. Concentrate on the here and now. After all, it was pretty damn good, here, in Murdock’s bed, warm from their lovemaking, and now, Murdock’s tongue dancing a wicked tango with his.

He was right. Life’s too short.

Face broke the kiss abruptly, then sat up, straddling the other man. Leafing through the book, swiftly finding what he wanted, he began to read.

"We two, how long we were fool’d,"

Face’s fingers trailed down Murdock’s arms, and the other man gasped,

"Now transmuted, we swiftly escape as Nature escapes,"

He leaned forward to nuzzle the pilot’s hair,

"We are Nature, long have we been absent, but now we return,"

He nibbled an earlobe, then planted wet kisses along the side of Murdock’s neck,

"We become plants, trunks, foliage, roots, bark,"

Shifting position, he traced one collarbone, then the other, with his tongue,

"We are bedded in the ground, we are rocks,"

He savoured the groan against his mouth as he suckled a nipple,

"We are oaks, we grow in the openings side by side,"

Then rubbed his lips over rough chest hair until they ached,

"We browse, we are two among the wild herds spontaneous as any,"

And pressed his fingertips into the swells and hollows of the lean torso,

"We are two fishes swimming in the sea together,"

He met Murdock’s smoldering gaze, and lost the rhythm of the poem--or perhaps, found it--in an endless kiss,

"We are what locust blossoms are, we drop scent around lands mornings and evenings,"

He resumed his exploration, parting the other man’s thighs so he could move between them,

"We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals,"

And blew softly on the sensitive skin where leg met hip,

"We are two predatory hawks, we soar above and look down,"

Then grasping the hardening shaft in his free hand,

"We are two resplendent suns, we it is who balance ourselves orbic and stellar, we are as two comets,"

He took the tip of it in his mouth and tasted it,

"We prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods, we spring on prey,"

Then, hungry for more, he swallowed it down and rejoiced in Murdock’s sharp cry,

"We are two clouds forenoons and afternoons driving overhead,"

Urgency taking hold of him, he readied them with shaking hands,

"We are seas mingling, we are two of those cheerful waves rolling over each other and interwetting each other,"

Then, pushed into Murdock, inexorably, until they both sighed with the completion of it,

"We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious,"

He began to rock, increasing the speed and the depth in perfect agonizing increments,

"We are snow, rain, cold, darkness, we are each product and influence of the globe,"

And felt it build, felt Murdock rising up to meet him, their eyes never leaving one another,

"We have circled and circled til we have arrived home again, we two,"

Never leaving,

"We have voided all but freedom and all but our own joy."

Shouting their own joy for each other to hear.






Murdock awoke in the predawn blackness to the sound of a soft recitation, one not meant for an audience. As he eavesdropped, taking in the words, he forced his breathing to stay slow and even. It wasn’t easy.

"Are you the new person drawn toward me?

To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;

Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?

Do you think it is so easy to have me become your lover?

Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloy’d satisfaction?

Do you think I am trusty and faithful?

Do you see no further than this façade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me?

Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man?

Have you no thought O dreamer that it may be all maya, illusion?"

He clenched his hands into fists, unseen where they lay under the pillow, as he felt Face’s lips press against his temple. The mattress rose, and he stayed still, listening to the sounds of the other man getting dressed. Leaving to head back to Langley, leaving to regroup.

Murdock understood.

Face still didn’t like to be touched. Not all the time, not way down deep where there was no place left to hide.

Life was too short. But there was still time to convince him.

After the apartment door closed, Murdock smiled into the pillow, and breathed in the scent of Face.








Author’s Note: Thanks to stompy, whose amazing desktop is an inspiration. The poem on it got me to dust off my old copy of Leaves of Grass and read it on a seventeen-hour bus trip to Montreal. Talk about Song of the Open Road! "Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?" sounded so much like Face, I knew I’d have to work it into a story someday.

Camerado by lamardeuse



Send Comment Card

Please Send This Author Comments!