Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was almost sunset, which meant Lieutenant Thomas Angel was in a foul mood. After spending eleven days stuck in a cell, the past twenty-four hours of pampered living he'd been granted felt like poor compensation. True, the pheasant Lin had prepared for lunch had been exceptional. And the hours he'd spent nursing glasses of rice wine as native workers bathed and massaged his body had been as close to heaven as one could get in this sewer.

But now it was over.

Scowling as 'A' Barrack came into view, he slackened his pace. It still irked him that he had to play spy for Kao on top of handing him access to the best drug route in North America. But the General had been adamant. He wanted a set of eyes and ears among the prisoners, and Tom was it. There really hadn't been that much to report, though, until Kao had shifted him out of 'C' Barrack to eavesdrop on their newest prisoners.

A sense of satisfaction curled inside Tom at the memory of getting to see the infamous A-Team dragged away, member by member. Those four had cost him eleven straight days in a cell. Eleven! Kao had refused to grant him so much as an hour's reprieve during that time. The only comforts he'd been allowed, if they could even be called that, were larger cups of rice and water than the other prisoners. It was insulting. Not that Kao cared. When Tom had tried to protest, he'd swiftly been told that he would get more when he had earned it. Which, according to Kao, meant finding out the identity of the three-ring circus act in 'A' Barrack. Until Tom accomplished that, the taste of prison life would serve him well as both a reminder and an incentive.

To a point, the General had been right. But, more than anything else, the treatment had made Tom resent the four prisoners he'd been sent to spy on. If it hadn't been for them, Kao never would've stuck him in this hole. To make matters worse, the whole lot of them had seemed intent on making his mission ten times harder than it should've been. How was he supposed to figure out who they really were when all they used were those ridiculous nicknames? Then there were the hours they'd spent talking about nonsense, playing games, or arguing over whose turn it was to deal. The fact they didn't actually have any cards never seemed to occur to any of them.

It was idiocy like that, which had left Tom struggling for days just trying to figure out which of them was in charge. There were no obvious signs of discipline in their ranks; no respect for superior officers. They were just one big, happy train wreck.

Perhaps that's why it had taken him so long to connect the four idiots in 'A' Barracks with the legendary A-Team. Then again, given that Tom was a Navy man (with zero interest in this stupid war) it might not have mattered. He'd rarely paid attention to war news of any kind, much less the heroics of a pack of Army grunts. Eventually, though, he'd made the connection.

It should've been his ticket out of there. His pass to at least a week of easy living in Kao's personal quarters. But the General'd had other ideas. He was intrigued by the idea of watching theses so-called legends break. He wanted to know their weak points. What made them bleed the most—not just physically, but spiritually. How often they cried when they thought no one was listening.

How many times they screamed.

Which is why Tom found himself on the threshold of 'A' Barracks with the taste of smoked almonds still fresh on his tongue.

The guards shoved him inside. He tripped, falling to his knees, and they laughed. It was all for show. Every bit of it. But his pride still rankled at the humiliation. His one consolation was knowing that The A-Team had suffered far worse. Usually, having to look at the other prisoners turned his stomach. But after what these four had cost him—and were continuing to cost him—Tom was going to enjoy watching them rot.

The guards pulled him to his feet. He made a show of staggering between them as they marched on toward his cell. As they drew near where the Team was being kept, Tom tried to imagine what he would see when he passed. At his suggestion, they weren't getting their pilot back. The man was a walking USO show. His zany antics had raised (and/or confounded) the morale of the entire cell block. The only place to keep someone like that was in solitary. His loss would undoubtedly hurt the others and make it even easier to—

"Not again, Hannibal."

At the sound of Peck's voice, Tom subtly signaled for the guards to slow their pace. He wanted to hear this.

"Again, Lieutenant. You know the drill. Once every hour, like clockwork."

"Clockwork," Peck grumbled. "You don't even have a watch."

"True, but I've got great instincts."

"Ugh. B.A. will you do something with this man and his instincts, please?"

"Like what?"

"Sit on 'em."

A throaty chuckle and something that sounded suspiciously like giggles answered this request, and Tom's mouth fell open. They'd just been tortured, they weren't supposed to be laughing. What did they have to laugh about?

"I think you woke him up on the wrong side of the cell, Hannibal."

"Well, I've tried all the other sides. This was the only one left."

Peck groaned theatrically. "I hate you both."

Tom scowled when this comment set off another round of snickers. Shuffling forward, he got his first look inside the Team's cell. Smith and Baracus were sitting against the far wall. Peck lay on the floor between them, his head propped on the Colonel's thigh and his body braced against the length of one of Baracus' legs. They all looked disgustingly comfortable.

Smith was the first to acknowledge Tom's presence. He looked up from his whining Lieutenant and flashed a grin. It was a bland sort of grin on the surface, but there was something dangerous about it, too. Something sharp and predatory that set Tom on edge.

"Hiya, Lieutenant. How's tricks?"

"Lousy," Tom spat. "Unlike you, I don't take to being tortured."

"Oh, we were just talking about that. Weren't we, B.A.?"

"Yeah, man. We gettin' real tired of the way this place is run."

"So we're working up a petition." Smith grinned even more sharply than before. "Care to sign?"

"I'll sign if you let me sleep," Peck grumbled. Then he shifted, leaning back against Baracus' leg and aiming a look at Smith.

The look somehow managed to remind Tom of a disgruntled puppy. Of significantly more interest, however, was the view this new position offered him of the Lieutenant's face. It was quite satisfying to see the damage Kao had inflicted on full display. Particularly since, aside from the rope burns on Smith's and Peck's swollen arms, and the smudge of a bruise on Smith's chin, it was hard to tell they'd even been touched. They certainly weren't acting like any tortured men Tom had seen. But the sight of Peck's face left no doubt that he, at least, had felt some retribution.

His appreciation of Kao's handiwork was thrown off course, however, when he realized Peck was staring back at him. It was unsettling how much the kid looked like Smith in that moment—all languid ease and hidden teeth. Just the sight of it grated on Tom's nerves. But the kid wouldn't stop. He just kept staring as if he were taking some kind of lazy, visual inventory.

"What?" Tom finally snapped.

"Nothing." Peck affected an innocent look with the side of his face that was still working and offered up half of a perfect smile. "Just admiring the manicure."

Baring his teeth, Tom lurched toward the bars—and cursed when the guards hauled him back. None of the Team even flinched. They all just sat there laughing. All that is, except Baracus whose ever present scowl simply carved itself deeper. He didn't even look angry just disgusted. As if Tom was so much dirt.

Yanking against the guards' hold, Tom cursed again and fought for a chance to at least spit on one of them: Peck, Smith, Baracus, he didn't care. He hated them all. But, at some point, his escort had changed gears. They weren't playing a part anymore. Now, they were serious. Tom yelped as his arms were roughly pinned behind his back and the leverage used to drag him down the hall. He wanted to yell at them; remind them all of exactly who they were touching. He could ask for them to beaten for this and the General would do it. The last guard who'd been careless enough to leave bruises on him without Kao's permission had been given fifteen stripes. But yelling out such a reminder here was impossible. So long as there was even one prisoner within earshot, Tom couldn't say a word. It was the crowning disgrace to a wholly insulting evening.

Behind him, the Team carried on as if he had never been there.

"Hey now, did I say you could close those baby blues, Lieutenant?"

"Aww, Hannibal..."

"C'mon, kid. How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three?"

Smith chuckled. "Nice try. Too bad your eyes weren't open."

There was a heavy and much aggrieved sigh. "Hey, my eyes were open when I noticed the stick in the mud had clean fingernails. Doesn't that count?"

"Depends. How many manicured nails were you seeing on each finger?"

"Oh, the usual amount. Three or four at least."

"Sounds about right to me," Baracus muttered.

"See?"

"Okay, you win, Lieutenant. But I'm waking you up again in an hour."

"Of course, you are."

"And if he don't, I will."

Peck moaned. But then, in a voice too soft to be anything close to annoyed, he said, "Thanks, guys."

"Any time, kid," Smith murmured. "Now, get some sleep."

The guards shoved Tom into his cell. A kick left him on his hands and knees in the floor.

Down the hall, Smith and Baracus traded whispers. Hushed laughter and warm tones followed. The sounds floated through the air, mocking Tom as surely as the filth beneath his hands.

This was going to take a long, long time.