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Title: "Strictly for my own aMUSEment"

Strictly for my own aMUSEment

By Lemonhead

 

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Summary:  BA, Face, Hannibal and Murdock and the return of the truant muse.

Disclaimer:  I don't own the ATeam and mean no intellectual property infringement.  I don't do this for the money, which is good 'cause there isn't any.  I do it for the jazz, man, for the jazz.

 

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"No, you have to do it this way." A woman in a flowing, tunic took BA's arms and moved them to a different position. Blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she used both hands to reposition the gun he held, 'til it was just so.

 

"Why I gotta do that?" the sergeant growled impatiently. "Been handlin' guns for 15 years. I think I know how to hold a revolver." The big man tried to pull his hand back as they both ducked behind the trunk of a large tree, gunfire spraying around them.

 

"You think so," the woman replied, slapping his hand gently as he tried to pull free. "But if you don't hold it exactly this way, it won't get shot out of you hand, and then this won't go the way I want it to."

 

BA looked at her incredulously. "The way you want it to? What kinda crazy talk's that?"

 

"Listen," she said firmly, tapping a sandaled foot. "Who's the Muse here? You or me?" Crossing her arms, she turned her back on him.

 

"Fine," she chirped. "Do it your way. You work out the kinks then when the gun doesn't get shot out of your hand. You seem to know better anyway." She stood, nose in the air, until she finally heard a heavy sigh of resignation.

 

"This way?" he asked meekly.

 

She inspected his grip from different angles. "Perfect!" She smiled at him radiantly, and gave his cheek a gentle pinch. "I'll be back," she said, exiting in a swirl of her ankle-length toga through a door which magically appeared in the middle of the woods. "Make sure your friend Murdock finds that helicopter," she called over her shoulder.

 

"Helicopter?" BA's voice floated behind her as the door closed. "I ain't flyin!"

 

Muse sighed in satisfaction. She'd let that story go too long, and it had been a bit of a mess before she stepped in and cleaned it up. But everything should be back on track now.

 

She put a finger to her chin as she gazed down a long passageway. Doors lined each side; unmarked, handless, and white as the walls, giving the impression of a long hall, as far as the eye could see.

 

"Hmmm. Where now...." She strolled by the doors, speaking softly to herself as she passed each one.

 

"No. She's fine." The next door. "No. I was there yesterday. That needs to sit a little." She stopped at the third door, her face composed and serious. "This one," she said, using a slight touch of her hand; it swung open....

 

....into a bedroom. Moonlight shone gently on a lone figure in the bed. His chest was bandaged, and his breathing was light and shallow. The young man seemed to be sleeping, except that his brown eyes were half open. His skin shone from the fever brought on by infection, which had followed being shot.

 

Another figure was seated in a chair faced away from the window, moonlight glinting off silver hair. His face was a mask of guilt and concern. The tip of his cigar glowed gently in the dark. Muse squatted down next to the chair and put a hand on his arm.

 

"You know, you shouldn't smoke in a sickroom," she said quietly.

 

Hannibal looked up, noticing her for the first time. "I was wondering when you'd get here," he smiled softly. "Kid's in rough shape. What're we gonna do?"

 

"Well," she smiled again, "the first thing is to get you out of here. I think we need someone else."

 

"Really?" Smith seemed to brighten a little. Muse offered him both her hands, and he stood.

 

"I think I'm moving you down the hall a bit. You've been brooding too much lately. Wait here a minute; let me get your replacement. Don't want to leave him alone, you know."

 

She laughed to herself - like anything would happen here she didn't direct!

 

She disappeared through the door, returning almost immediately with Face in tow. "Now." She stood by the bed, hands on her hips as she surveyed the surroundings. "It's too dark in here," she said quietly. The draperies became sheer.

 

"And more moonlight." Suddenly, the moon outside the window went from half to full. "Better." She looked around, and nodded her head. "Not bad," she stated, rubbing her hands together in satisfaction.

 

Muse took Face by the shoulders.

 

"You," she said, "here," and sat him down on the edge of the bed. "Now hold his hand," she said, taking the pilot's limp hand and placing it gently in Face's.

 

"Isn't that a little - well, less than masculine?" Face hoped his smile was convincingly charming. "He and I don't - you know - we're, that is, we're not...uh...."

 

"Yes, you are." Her response was a statement, not to be questioned.

 

"We are?" Faces eyes grew large and questioning, blue irises catching and reflecting the moonlight in a way even Muse admired. He turned back to Murdock, the look of question replaced with a look of deep concern and love as he stroked the pilot's hand comfortingly, and began murmuring endearments to his nearly unconscious lover.

 

Muse leaned over Murdock, smoothing his hair back with a fond smile. "You'll be okay," she said quietly.

 

The pilot's unfocused eyes sought her out. "You sure?" he rasped. "I feel pretty bad."

 

"Who do you think you're talking to?" she smiled. "I do know, you know."

 

She straightened up and took Hannibal's hand. "Come on, cutie. You have somewhere else to be."

 

The Colonel placed his cigar between his teeth, grinning. "Lead on, my lady!" He bowed graciously towards the door.

 

They went down four doors more ; the fifth led into a barn. Face and Murdock were pulling different pieces of farm equipment together in the middle of the floor, joking in a good natured way as they followed the instructions BA called out to them. Smith grinned widely. "Now that's more like it!"

 

Muse smiled back. "I thought you'd like it. Have a ball!" She stopped on her way out the door, turning back to the four men. "BA!" She raised her voice a little to get his attention. "There's an old tractor under that tarp - all it needs is new plugs. Look in the little cardboard box next to the barrel!"

 

"Thanks!" he called back, without looking up from the pile of pipes and scrap metal before him. "Don't suppose there's a welding torch anywhere around here?"

 

"Use your imagination," she laughed, exiting to the white hall. After all, she couldn't do everything.

 

She wandered past several more doors, peeking in occasionally. Firefights, airplane cabins, embraces of various passionate lovers; all subject to her direction, sometimes waiting hours, weeks - occasionally longer - for her deft touch to grace them, to get them back on track.

 

Finally, she came to a door which gave her pause. She frowned, and stood before it. This door; this one was always a problem. Was it simply a case of her being too demanding? Did the occupants sit around and do *nothing* when she was not here? She hoped not, but it certainly seemed that way sometimes. She couldn't resist a quick look through the door, though. She cracked it open, just as the young pilot was walking into a dingy little kitchen, his arm around his Colonel's shoulders.

 

"I love pickles," Murdock said, "and they never put enough of them on my burger...."

 

Muse opened the door wide as the two sat to join their friends at the small table. A virtual feast of burgers and fries - and one order of chicken - was laid out in front of them. The four men sat at the table silently, and picked at their food.

 

She looked fondly from one to the other.

 

BA Baracus - a big man with a bigger heart. A mechanical wizard, who could fix anything ever built, and make it work better. Why, he could even make a deadly weapon out of popsicle sticks and ping pong balls. She knew - she'd had him do it once.

 

Templeton "Face" Peck - handsome, intelligent, not as suave as he'd like to think, but smart enough to know it. He could con anyone out of anything, and make them feel like it had been their pleasure to part with it.

 

HM Murdock - pilot extraordinaire. He could fly anything ever built, and would fly it through fire for his friends. Hmmm - Muse pulled out a little book and made a note to herself.

 

John "Hannibal" Smith. Perhaps the most talented of the three, as he was the possessor of the "jazz," and also had earned the loyalty and devotion of the three men at the table with him. His ideas, their skills. It was a combination that worked so well....

 

Murdock turned his dark eyes towards the Muse. Such simple, utilitarian things, eyes, she thought; and yet how very much a person's hallmark.

 

"What now?" he asked simply.

 

Muse looked at each man's face; looked around the kitchen. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She waved her hand, but nothing happened. Muse stood, hands on hips, and tapped her foot. She looked around the room again, and finally spread her hands and shrugged her shoulders.

 

"I got nothin'," she said. The four men looked momentarily nonplused; then returned to eating their dinner.

 

Oh well. That happened every now and then - even to her. She waved a hand and a chair - not too much fancier, but certainly cleaner than the ones the four men sat on - appeared. She scooted it towards the table.

 

"Hand me a burger, Face," she said. "This might take a while...."

 

 

Fini! (or so my Muse says....)

 


Strictly for my own aMUSEment by Closetfan

 

 


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