Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Physically, B.A.'s first session with Charlie hadn’t left any lasting damage. Not really. He'd been trussed up on the floor for hours, body folded in half and hands chained to the ground, but other than that they hadn't done much. The pain had been bad. Worse than he had thought possible given how little effort they'd put into it. But while he'd been unable to stand, much less walk, when it was over, the crippling effects hadn't lasted. None of his joints had come out of socket and, once feeling returned to his lower limbs, they seemed to work pretty much like they should. The pain continued to linger, of course. A bone-deep ache that saturated his muscles and made them spasm long after it was over. But he could deal with that.

There were other hurts, though—deeper ones that had nothing to do with his body. Nameless things that left him feeling ripped open without a single mark to show for it. And those he had no idea how to handle.

"It's not your fault, Sergeant."

Hannibal almost sounded angry this time. Not commanding or gentle or even pleading like he had the first dozen times he'd said it. The anger didn't last, though. It slipped away with the Colonel's next breath.

"B.A., there was nothing else you could've done."

The quiet words were meant to reassure him. Instead, they felt like an indictment. Because the Colonel was right: there was nothing else he could've done.

Nothing.

Grinding his jaw, B.A. turned his head away. He and Hannibal had both been dumped back in the Team's cell around dawn. Neither of them had been able to move at first, so they'd simply laid there asking between gasps and groans how badly the other was hurt. Hannibal had been treated to a variation of the same punishment as B.A., but with a pretty hard beating thrown in. The guards had stuck to just using their fists, though, and had purposefully spread their punches around. Hannibal would be tender for a while, but it could've been worse. Much worse.

They might not’ve brought him back at all.

The thought was enough to make B.A. roll his head toward the ventilation slats. The glare of daylight wasn't as harsh as it had been; the sun well past the point of slanting into their cell. Which meant hours had past. Hours.

"Any sign of them?" Hannibal murmured.

"No." Given his position on the floor, there was no way B.A. could've actually seen The Hall. But there were always other signs when prisoners were being taken in or out: the shout of the guards ordering the door to be opened; the scrape of limp bodies being dragged across the dirt; the mocking laughter that came whenever a prisoner tried to walk and failed. They were sounds B.A. had come to hate—until today.

Today he craved them.

His whole body twitched with need in their absence, the continued silence making his skin crawl. He was seconds away from doing something stupid (like punching the wall or tearing off his own skin) when, finally, he heard a muffled shout.

The noise had him stumbling to his feet in an instant—and crashing into the wall the next. With a grunt, he braced himself against the stone. Fought against his own shaking legs and pounding head to stay upright.

Hannibal said something. The urgency in his tone bled through, even though B.A. couldn't understand the words.

"They comin'," B.A. muttered. Or tried to. His voice, like the rest of his body, seemed to be lost in a storm of melting colors and rushing blood.

A hand clumsily rubbed at his back. He blinked, sucking in a breath as the world slowly began to settle. When he could finally lift his head again, he stared out at the yard. But where he should have seen the enemy—and hopefully one of his missing teammates—there was nothing. The yard was completely empty. "Where are they? I heard 'em. They was comin' out, I know they was!"

The hand on his back shifted, rubbing a bit more steadily across his shoulders.

"Take it easy, Sergeant. They did come out. You were just too busy fighting with the wall to notice. I... I think it was Face."

B.A. blinked again; shook his head. Hannibal just thought it had been Face. He wasn't sure. The man who had once picked Face out of a grunt-filled rice paddy in the dark wasn't sure. Or so he said. The way his arm wrapped around B.A.'s shoulders, though, as if one or both of them might fall apart if he didn't, put the lie to his words. No, there was no doubt it was Face. Hannibal was only hedging because he wished he was wrong. And, given the hours they'd spent waiting for some sign of their friends, that could only mean one thing.

Slamming the heel of his palm against the wall, B.A. glared at the empty yard. "How bad?"

"I don't know. He might be unconscious. It was hard to tell." A beat of hesitation, then, "Looks like they messed up his face."

This time it was B.A.'s fist that slammed into the wall. It didn't strike with nearly enough force; not in comparison to the rage burning inside him. But that arm around his shoulders tightened its hold, pulling him away from the wall, and suddenly he didn't have the energy to fight it.

By the time Hannibal had maneuvered him back into a sitting position on the floor, they were no longer alone.

The Colonel stood, purposefully putting himself between B.A. and the guards at the door. Then he fired off a few cheerful insults because he was Hannibal Smith and that's just what Hannibal Smith did.

B.A. huffed. Sometimes he swore the man was crazier than Murdock. He was on the verge of telling him so, too, when a pair of guards pushed their way to the front of the group and into the cell. Hannibal immediately moved toward them. It was a mistake. Even with his arms held wide and his voice dropping to a whisper, it was still a mistake.

B.A. growled as one of the guards landed a solid kick to Hannibal's side.

The Colonel grunted, staggering back, but didn't fall. As soon as he caught his balance, his body coiled like he was actually planning some kind of counter attack. But in the end, he didn't do that either. He couldn't because the guards chose that moment to throw Face's body at their feet.

The world blurred a little after that. The slam of the cell door and the retreat of the guards barely registering as B.A. stared at their Lieutenant. Face had fallen in a twisted heap: chest down, face in the dirt, one swollen arm bent above him, the other twisted behind his back. Rope marks littered his forearms. Hannibal had come back with marks like that, too, but none of his had been quite so deep or bruised.

Numbly, B.A. watched the Colonel drop to his knees. The motion was stiff and a bit uncontrolled, but it got Hannibal to their Lieutenant which was all that mattered.

“His pulse is sluggish. Heart rate probably dropped when he passed out,” Hannibal muttered. “But he'll live.”

B.A. wasn't sure if that last part was meant as a simple statement about the present or a long-standing order for the future. Knowing Hannibal, it was probably both.

“I don't think he's feverish.” With a frown, the Colonel pressed his fingers against the Lieutenant's half-hidden cheek. “If anything he seems too cool, but maybe that's just me.”

There was a hint of frustration in that last part. Enough to spur B.A. to push away from the wall and army-crawl his way to Face's side.

Hannibal shot him an apologetic look. “I'm sorry, I'm just not sure. What do you— ”

A soft moan brought them both up short.

“Face? Face it's Hannibal, can you hear me?”

A string of hurt noises came in reply, each one punctuated by a quick, panted breath.

Hannibal leaned close, cupping the back of Face's head with his hand. “Easy, easy. I know it hurts, but I need you to breathe for me, kid. Just take it slow.”

Face’s whole body stiffened as he visibly fought for control. Then finally—thankfully—the spasm seemed to ease. With a shaky exhale, his muscles began to unlock.

“That's it,” Hannibal said. “You're doing fine. Just lie still for a minute.”

“And here I was… hoping to go dancing.”

With a chuckle, Hannibal ruffled Face's hair. “Sorry, kid, you're not my type.”

Face laughed at that; soft and stuttered, but real.

The sound hit B.A. like a punch to the chest; stealing his breath even as it soothed that aching wound inside him. Face was okay. He really was okay. Hurt, yes, but not broken. After last night, after the sounds he'd made and the way he'd cried out—

“Sergeant?”

Snapping his head up, B.A. found the Colonel staring at him expectantly. The sight made him uneasy. That was twice now he'd drifted so far into his own head, he'd lost touch with the present, and he didn't like it. With a growl, he met Hannibal’s stare. “What?”

“I asked if you can feel your hands,” Hannibal said patiently. “Really feel them.”

Scowl deepening, B.A. considered the question. After the fight he'd put up trying to keep the VC from taking Face and Murdock, the guards had put him in manacles. They’d yanked on the chain more than once resulting in a ring of bruises around his wrists. But the cuffs themselves hadn't been tight enough to cut off his circulation. Not like the ropes had with his legs and back. Come to think of it, the muscles in his hands and lower arms were just about the only part of him that didn't feel shredded. "I can feel 'em just fine, Hannibal. They didn't do nothin' to my hands.”

The Colonel's shoulders visibly dropped at that, and he flashed a smile. "Good. Once we get Face onto his back, if you can double-check his temperature for me, and then check his arms. There's enough heat in his elbows, even I can feel it. But it’s hard to tell with all of the swelling, whether there's actually anything broken or out of place, and I don't trust my hands right now to be able to tell the difference. My fingers still feel like they're wrapped in cotton.”

“Han’bal?” Face's voice twisted with the name. Questioning; fearful almost. His breathing picked up again, too, as he suddenly tried to move.

“Hey, now, didn't I tell you to lie still?” Hannibal scolded. “We’ll get you turned over in a minute, but you've got to let us do all the work, you hear me?”

It was hard to tell whether Face heard him or not. Either way, he kept right on struggling and grunting until, between the three of them, they finally got him on his back. The effort left their stubborn Lieutenant fighting another rush of pain.

And B.A. fighting to control his anger.

Half of his friend's face was almost unrecognizable; the perfect features everyone seemed to fall for, hidden beneath an angry welt that stretched from temple to chin. The wound was so swollen the enflamed skin looked ready to burst. But it was the straightness of the mark that outraged B.A. the most. Only a baton or some other kind of rod could've made a mark like that. Just the thought had him seeing red. It didn't help matters that the strike had fallen dangerously close to the corner of Face's eye. Just a little farther over and a strike like that could've blinded him.

Based on the sharp hiss and round of muttered curses coming from Hannibal, the Colonel was thinking the same thing.

The only one who didn't seem to care was Face. Scraping at the floor with his heels, he tried to… do something. Turn onto his side or sit-up maybe. Whatever it was, the dead weight of his arms kept him pinned down. With a frustrated whine, he thumped his head back against the floor. “Han- Hannibal?”

“Easy, Face, I'm here. Right here.” As the Lieutenant slowly stilled, Hannibal encouraged him with smile. “We've got you. You're going to be fine.”

“Wha- what about… you?”

Hannibal froze. The bold, devil-may-care gleam he never seemed to be without faded a little, as something almost soft rose to take its place. “I'm good, kid.”

Face stared up at Hannibal, one eye wide and uncertain, the other half-swollen shut. “Promise?”

“Yeah,” Hannibal murmured. “I promise.”

With a sigh, Face's eyes fluttered shut. Then he shivered, muscles drawing tight, and gritted his teeth. The pain was still tying him in knots when his eyes flew open again. Only Hannibal wasn't his target this time.

B.A. swallowed as the full force of that searching, uneven gaze landed on him. Usually, the conman's eyes betrayed nothing. Today, they betrayed everything.

It felt wrong, seeing Face like that. All raw and exposed. It made him look young. With less than a year's difference between them, that wasn't a word B.A. usually thought of when it came to Face. Or himself for that matter. Being a teenager wasn't anything special in this war. Even more so when it came to the two of them. In their own ways, he and Face had both left being kids behind a long time ago—and for reasons that had nothing to do with the army.

But right now, their suave, street-wise Lieutenant barely looked half of his nineteen years. It made it far too easy for B.A. to let his own mask slip a little. “Hey, man. It's good to see you.”

“You, too.” Face's lips pulled into a brief smile. “You… okay?”

“I'm fine. You was the one had us worried.”

Face's brow furrowed as if he wasn't quite sure why that might've been, but he didn't question it. Just kept studying B.A. like he was some kind of puzzle. It took a noise from one of the other cells to finally break his concentration. With a twitch, his focus began to drift. The puzzled look only grew deeper, though, as he tilted his head to the side, then up, down, and back again; gaze roving around like he'd lost something.

Catching the Lieutenant's good cheek with his hand, Hannibal stopped the wandering motion as gently as he could. “Face, look at me.”

Face did, though, like before, he seemed confused about why the matter had been brought up.

“I need you to focus for me, kid.”

“ ‘M focused.”

Hannibal flashed the same patient smile he'd given B.A. “Of course you are. But I'm beginning to think you may have a head injury that's making it kinda hard for you. What do you think?”

“I… I dunno. M’tired.”

“I know you are,” Hannibal said. “And I promise you can sleep as soon as I'm sure it's safe.”

“Safe? Here?” With a snort, Face aimed a half-lidded look at Hannibal. “There is no way I'm staying awake that long.”

The Colonel grinned. “It's a relief to know they didn't break your smart mouth, Lieutenant. Now, let's see about the rest of your head. Can you tell me what happened with this?” he asked, brushing back the hair above the kid's bruised temple.

Face flinched, pressing into the hand still holding his cheek. “Kao. Yesterday when they came for us. He used a- a cane.” Face’s voice caught as another shiver shook his frame. “Didn’t like… me lying to him.”

“You lie to everyone.” Hannibal sounded thoroughly affronted. As if someone doubting his Lieutenant was anything less than a consummate liar was ridiculous and how dare they be offended by it.

Face seemed to find that funny.

B.A. didn't. Because Face had lied to Kao. “Fool! What were you thinking?”

The sharp words made Face jerk. He stared up at B.A., that young, vulnerable look shimmering through his eyes again.

It almost made B.A. regret raising his voice. If his anger—and the fear behind it—hadn't been so potent he might've even been able to stop. Instead, his mouth just kept going. “The man already knew who we was. There wasn't no changing that. What’d you try and lie to him for?”

“I- I thought I could help.”

The quiet admission only served to fan B.A.’s anger: at Face, at Kao, at himself. It wasn't right. Not Face risking his life over a lie; not Kao all but splitting his face open because of it; not B.A. being unable to stop it. None of it.

Hannibal shot B.A. a look. One that said he understood the Sergeant's rage, but now wasn't the time.

A stuttered breath from Face told him why.

Slumping a bit where he sat, B.A. shook his head. Lying to Kao had been reckless and stupid. But he hadn't exactly done any better attacking the guards the way he had. It had felt right at the time; natural, instinctive. But in the long run it had only made things worse. Was Face lying really all that different? As much as B.A. disapproved of the habit, he had been forced to accept that it was part of who his friend was. It was how Face provided for them. How he showed that he cared. Even, sometimes, how he protected them.

Shoulders falling in defeat, B.A. sighed. “Guess we both did some stupid things, tryin’ to help, didn't we?”

Face's lips twitched a little. “Yeah, I guess we did.” His gaze drifted again, the trace of a smile slowly fading away. “All of us did.”

The empty way he said it left B.A. cold. It also left him uncomfortably certain about what—or rather who—Face kept searching for. But B.A. wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. Maybe he never would be. So he kept talking. “What'd you try an’ lie about, anyway?”

“Doesn't matter,” Face muttered. “I failed. That's all there is to know.”

Except it wasn’t. Not even close.

Biting his lip, B.A. looked to Hannibal. The Colonel’s jaw was locked tight, but when he spoke his voice was calm and warm.

“Face?” he prompted. “I need you to think back. When Kao hit you, did you black out? Have any double-vision, nausea, anything like that?”

With a dull shake of his head, Face closed his eyes. “No, sir.”

The honorific left B.A. feeling even colder than before. As a Team, they weren't long on military formalities. Sure, they all called Hannibal ‘sir’ sometimes; in the field when the stakes were especially high or on base when there was enough brass around to make all of them itch. But there were other times with Face. Times when he felt uncertain or when he had too much going on in his head. He'd slip into military protocol then, subtly pushing everyone to arms length. Precise words promising he had everything under control; that there was nothing more to see. But if you ever took the time to look—truly look—you'd find the real Faceman tearing himself apart inside.

For once, B.A. understood exactly how his friend felt.

Chapter Text

Hannibal took a deep breath. Normally, he wasn't all that prone to anger—not in the traditional sense anyway. In most cases, a pleasant grin or cheerful remark had far more power to confound and infuriate the enemy. Being too quick to temper often meant wasting a grand opportunity.

But there was no grand opportunity today. There was just him, his two youngest boys, an enemy he couldn't reach, and a lot of hurt he had been powerless to stop. It was a combination that made B.A.'s favorite emotion uncommonly contagious.

Case in point, the sudden urge Hannibal had to rip Kao apart. His lip curled in satisfaction as he imagined how it would feel to pound the General's smug face into jelly. Not to mention every other Viet Cong who had laid a hand on his men; who had made them feel like they were less than.

Like they were failures.

Because men like Kao couldn't be satisfied with just trying to break their prisoners bodies—they had to try and break their souls. What was worse, if Hannibal couldn't find a way to get through to them, he knew the General would succeed.

Beneath his hand, Face shuddered. It was all the warning either of them had before another spasm hit the kid hard. Hannibal tried to soothe him; talk him through unclenching his body. It didn’t work. 

"Can’t,” Face gasped. “I can’t. M’sorry, m’sor—" The rest of his words died with a whimper through gritted teeth. Then he turned away. Body drawn up with pain, face twisted with it, and he turned away. 

The sight made Hannibal want to growl. Because B.A. had turned away from him, too—every time he'd tried to offer comfort or reassurance. As if all of that hurt was something he deserved. 

And now Face was doing the same thing.

Shoving back another storm of anger at the thought, Hannibal reached for Face. With deliberate care, he placed his hand back on the kid's cheek. "Apology denied, Lieutenant. I only accept apologies from my men when they've done something wrong."

There was a hitched inhale as glassy eyes darted to his. Face didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The sudden loss of color from what had, only moments before, been flushed skin said it all.  

“You," Hannibal said, voice soft and deliberate, "have done nothing wrong.” 

Face’s eyes immediately filled. "But you don't know—"

"It doesn't matter. I know you, Lieutenant. And you have never disappointed me."

The broken sound Face made, left Hannibal aching in ways Charlie's worst punishment never could.

Sweeping his thumb over the kid's cheek, Hannibal tried to smile. The feel of sunken skin and too-prominent bone beneath his hand, though, made it hard. He supposed he should be used to it by now. They hadn't even been in captivity a week, before Face had dropped over twenty pounds; B.A., too. Hannibal wasn't even sure how, when they'd barely had ten ounces of fat between them to begin with. Once upon time, the pair's seemingly permanent leanness had been something to laugh about. There was no telling how many times Hannibal and Murdock had swiped extra rations for those two and then watched from the shadows as their younger teammates devoured every bite. Face had always been more subtle about it than B.A. (and far pickier at times), but there was no denying both of them had ravenous appetites. And yet neither one of them had ever gained a pound. That's just the way it was when you weren't quite through growing.

The thought made Hannibal's rage at Kao swell all over again. But he would have to deal with that later—preferably in a dark place, far from his Team's eyes and ears. Right now, he had two hurting boys to take care of and the last thing either of them needed to see was more anger.

So he shoved the storm away, yet again, and reached for B.A. The motion set off a burst of pain through his arm (a not so friendly reminder that his men weren't the only ones Charlie had touched) but he kept reaching anyway. When he finally made contact with B.A.'s shoulder, his fingers spasmed, twisting in the other man's shirt.

B.A. glanced over, worry carved in every line of his face. "Hannibal?"

"What I said goes for you, too." Carefully shifting his hold to the Sergeant's neck, Hannibal tried to drive his point home. "None of this, and I mean none of it, is your fault. Do you hear me?"

An unreadable look settled in B.A.'s eyes. His jaw clenched, but when he turned back to Face something seemed to soften.

The two of them stared at each other—one with growing resolve; the other with tears of apology.

"Yes, sir," B.A. murmured. "We hear you."

Determination underlined every word—every bit of which was aimed at Face. As if B.A. thought he could absolve his friend's sense of guilt by sheer force of will. Never mind that he was being eaten alive by guilt himself, the big-hearted hypocrite. Not that Face was any better with the tangle of shame and self-doubt he had wrapped himself in. Somehow neither of them could see that, if their situations were reversed, they never would have laid such faults on one another. It was only for themselves that they held no mercy.

With a sigh, Hannibal chewed the inside of his cheek and briefly mourned the loss of his last cigar. Strategy always came easier to him when there was a little smoke in the air. But, even as he pondered that thought, an idea slowly began to form. Perhaps a more lateral approach would be more effective? Something in the vein of a half-pincer movement inside the boys' guarded perimeters…

Tilting his head, Hannibal weighed his next words carefully. "B.A., I'd like to ask you a question. Can I do that?"

The Sergeant's brow pinched a little at the question, but he shrugged. "Sure, Hannibal."

The easy acceptance made Hannibal smile. He patted B.A.'s neck, then, with even more care than before, said, "There's just one thing: when you give me your answer, I want you to be honest—with me and with yourself."

"Hey, man. B.A. Baracus don't lie."

Hannibal grinned at the indignant snarl. "Thank you, Sergeant. The question I have is this: if you had gone down, and Face or Murdock had been the one standing between you and the VC, how would you have felt?"

"What?"

"You heard me. If they had been the ones who were outnumbered, if it had been their heads Kao threatened to blow apart if they didn't back down, how would you have felt?"

B.A. looked ashen. His mouth opened, then shut as he suddenly swallowed.

"It would have scared you, wouldn't it?" Hannibal said softly. Receiving only a tight nod in answer, he pressed on. "Would you have been disappointed or felt betrayed when they stood down?"

"No! Of course not."

"What about after? Would you blame them for the torture you went through? Would you ever think, 'if only my teammates had been stronger, this wouldn't have happened to me'?"

"No! Never."

"Then what right do you have thinking those things that about yourself?"

B.A. shifted his jaw, expression twisting with pride and stubbornness and so much grief.

Gently tightening his hold on the man's neck, Hannibal tried to offer him comfort. But his touch only made the Sergeant look more conflicted.

"He's right, B.A.," Face whispered. "Listen to him. Please?"

It didn't happen right away, but finally—gradually—B.A.'s shoulders fell. The deep furrows along his brow eased and, at long last, he nodded. "Okay, Faceman."

The side of Face's mouth that wasn't swollen, twitched with a smile. It faded a little, though, when Hannibal called his name. The kid was smart. Even fatigued and possibly concussed, he still seemed to know what was coming. And he wasn't ready. The almost fearful way he bit his lip said as much.

But Hannibal had come too far to back down now. Keeping his voice soft and patient, he called him again. "Face? I'd like to ask you a question, too."

"'Bout time," B.A. muttered. "If I gotta listen to him, Face, so do you."

The statement actually made their Lieutenant laugh. The moment was brief and the sound a bit unsteady, but Hannibal held onto it all the same.

When Face finally lifted his eyes, he looked to B.A. first, as if there was a chance he might grant him a reprieve. But the Sergeant just gave him a wry grin and shook his head. Face huffed, rolling his one good eye, and turned to Hannibal. Some of the dread returned then, teeth once more tugging at his lip.

Hannibal tried to encourage him with a smile. "You don't have to answer me out loud if you don't want to, Face. But I would like you to promise that you'll listen and truly be honest with yourself. Even if you can't tell me or B.A. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir."

Hannibal didn't like how small the words sounded. Or how Face had reverted to calling him 'sir'. But he couldn't fault him for it either. Lying had always been a means of defense for Face. Sometimes, he used it as a weapon; other times, he used it as a shield. It was the one tool their captors hadn't been able to take from him.

And now, Hannibal had asked him to lay that down, too.

With a soft touch, he brushed at the dirt clinging to Face's hair. Focus never straying from his work, he quietly asked, "If Murdock had tried to protect you by lying to Kao, how would you have felt?"

Face's eyes, including the one that was swollen, widened.

Hannibal met the shocked stare with a steady look of his own. "That is why you lied, isn't it? You were trying to help Murdock?"

"How did you know?"

"You haven't been listening, Lieutenant," Hannibal said, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile. "I know you, remember? I also happen to know our Captain, and if you think he's mad at you for how things turned out, I can guarantee you have a head injury."

There was an unexpected huff at that—one that was a little too broken to truly be a laugh. Gaze drifting away, Face murmured, "No. I know he's not mad."

"Okay. Disappointed then? What good is a best friend if he can't even lie for you, right?"

There was another soft, broken sound as tears suddenly welled in Face's eyes. When a few slipped free and trailed into his hair, Hannibal swiped the evidence away with his thumb.

"Then again, maybe that's just how you think Murdock ought to feel. Because if the situation was reversed, that's what you would think about him. Is that it?"

"No, no."

"Then don't you dare think that about yourself." Hand once again holding the kid's cheek, Hannibal waited. As it had with B.A., the surrender came slowly—but it did come.

With an uneven breath, Face nodded. "Okay, Hannibal."

He couldn't help but smile at the sound of his name. It gave him hope that he truly had gotten through. But getting his boys to stop beating themselves up was only part of the puzzle. As it stood now, all he'd gained for them was a different kind of defeat. The real key laying in turning their surrenders into a battle cry.

Strengthening the hold he had on both of his men, Hannibal began laying the groundwork for one final question. "I need both of you to understand how important this is. Just trying to believe or even wanting to believe isn't enough. I need you to know it. Not up here," he tapped the side of B.A.'s head. "But in here," he patted Face's heart. "Because this is going to happen again—more times than any of us want to think about—and there's nothing we can do to stop it. Not yet. But the one thing we can do, starting right now, is to stay off of their side."

Twin looks of confusion met this statement along with a huh? and a what?

Hannibal kept going. "Kao is after this Team's spirit. If he can break that, he can break us. And the moment you start thinking you're not strong enough or good enough or that for some twisted reason you deserve to be hurt, you play right into his hand. He won't have to break you. You'll do it for him."

Hannibal waited until he was certain the truth of his words had finally taken hold. Then he asked just one more question. "So, who is this Team gonna fight for? There's no neutral ground. We only have two choices: we can fight for them; or we can fight for us. Which will it be?"

Do not gloat over me, my enemies! For though I fall, I will rise again.

Micah 7:8 (NLT)

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.