Templeton "Faceman" Peck

2002: Mexico
Late 2003: Toy Store
Early 2005: Just Two Guys in a Hammock
Mid 2005: Los Angeles - The First Touch/Like a Virgin Mix
Mid 2005: Moo
January 2006: New Year's Resolution
Mid 2007?: The Other Woman
Early 2009: Totally Not A Date. Date.
2010: Shot to the Heart (Or Torso... whatever)
2010: Just a Little Talk
2010: Things Unsaid - Why Not Me Mix
2010: The Fix
2010: Breakdown
Late 2010: Breaking Out the Broken
Late 2010: Calm Before The Storm
Late 2010: (Untitled - Before the Finale)
Late 2010: Boundaries (Start of Post Canon)
Late 2010: Thrift Shop Threads
Late 2010: Forest Porn (continuation of Thrift Shop Threads)
Early 2011: Best Laid Plans
Mid 2011: Learn the Steps/Wear My Ring
Mid 2011: The Love Boat - Day 1
Mid 2011: The Love Boat - Day 3
Late Mid 2011: A Long-Overdue Phone Call
Late 2011: So You're Having a Breakdown/So You're Losing the Fight

It's been five days since he was captured, and it feels like a lifetime of moving fast and then standing still always has. He doesn't feel any different, doesn't feel like a fugitive... doesn't feel a lot of things. The pain though, that makes it all a little more real to him.

Murdock's trying, he knows, and he plays along with everything with no doubt in his mind that it's all true... but there's nothing even tickling around his brain to confirm much of any of the big things. The plates. Prison. Countless missions on the run. Love. But he's always been good at playing along, putting on a face that everything is going to be fine and it all feels totally normal.

Physically, he's getting around. The smaller wounds have gone to annoying scabs, and the bigger ones are mostly left to cling to his t-shirt and occasionally open up when he pushes himself to hard. The worst is his ribs, but still he forces himself to get up and try to do what he can around the shack while they wait for the Colonel's plan to fall into place. He wants a week... a week of just waiting in the middle of nowhere. A week where it's all he can do to try and feel normal.

It's led him to now, in the middle of the night, watching Murdock sleep under then sheen of unfiltered moonlight through the dusty window and wondering just where things changed between them. What must have happened in prison to make the things he remembers pushing back come bubbling back up like a geyser. There's always been something - hell, as long as he's known the guy they've had something totally different than anything else in his life. It makes sense. He just doesn't know how.

"I miss this..." he whispers, reaching out to his sleeping partner and gently rubbing his fingers over the hairy belly exposed in his tossing to get comfortable - letting his fingers dance close to the waistband of his boxers; "I think. Damn it, I should. I would."

Downtime was a blessing, and after being laid up and then a couple hard jobs in India, Face was glad to get back on American soil. At least there he could count on a few familiar things in and around the fleabag motel where they were holed up for the next few days until the boss was able to drum up another job to do.

Fast food, a decent burger, a movie theater a couple blocks away... hell, even the shady looking 'adult novelty' store next to the carryout piqued his curiosity.

At least that's what he tells himself when he on their late-night walk he drags Murdock inside. Hey, even their amazing sex life could use a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.

"Don't touch anything," he cautions before flashing a smile at the bored clerk behind the counter stickering DVDs, knowing full and well he won't be heeded.

Leaving Canada was about the hardest thing he'd done yet - harder still knowing that they were all flying into heavy enemy territory where not only would there be insurgents breathing down their necks there would almost certainly be a US Military ambush to capture them.

The mission itself was straightforward, two non-combatant civilians (reporters, Hannibal thinks) were captured three months before and being held in a camp a few miles outside of Baghdad. Three teams had already been sent in to extract them; two came back wounded and empty-handed, the third didn't come back at all. By Hannibal's reckoning the problem was that they were sending in too many people and taking the small compound through a single strategy - the first by air, the second full frontal, the third undercover. The real trick - and the trick to getting out of the trap - was to divide forces.

Hannibal goes in undercover, giving BA just enough time to create a nice explosive distraction for Face to set up with a sniper rifle and start taking out anyone that stands between the prisoners and the gates - no matter whose uniform they're wearing. Murdock had the most important job of all; air support. He'd have to wait undetected as close as possible before coming in and laying down enough cover to get everyone safely in the chopper before getting them the hell out of there... while being shot at.

"Think we can pull this off?" Face whispers quietly as they load magazines together in the relative privacy of their tent - less than two hours before going in.

The new job isn't bad, he's only been working a week and they've already upped his hours to almost full time - working the happy hour till after dinner shift six nights a week. Somewhat as he'd expected, the tips are good... really good, and getting better as he starts to draw a regular crowd of people that are drawn to the kind of guy that does what he does.

Which is essentially being shameless.

As it is, it's almost six-thirty and he's already stripped down to his jeans and a bar towel slung over his shoulder - sweat (and just a little bit of the tequila a VIP asked to take a shot of off his abs) shining up his torso. It's kind of his element... like it or not. And admittedly, he kind of likes it... even with his rings on he's the center of attention.

"You missed your calling as a stripper." The owner smirks, handing off a pair of empty glasses to pass back to the dishwasher. "There's more money in it."

"I like this!" He protests, pouring out a double and a vodka martini. "Besides, I'm married." He holds up his finger as though she hadn't clearly seen the evidence when he applied.

"Honey, you think they care?" She raises an eyebrow toward a group of women approaching the bar - clearly ready to party.

"On it, boss."

It's been a long couple years, and it's starting to wear on Face - it's starting to wear on all of them, he thinks. And no matter how hard the boss pushes it feels like they're never going to get close to the ultimate goal... to clearing their names and being anything but men on the run.

The natural instinct, the instinct of a con-man, is to find a place and dig in. Start over. New identities, new roots. Of course, that's something he can't voice - not even to Murdock. He knows they wouldn't understand why it's the most viable option when as far as they're concerned freedom could possibly be right around the damn corner.

Still, a little settling down doesn't sound like a half bad idea.

They're just over the US-Mexico border heading into Texas on day four of job that only seems to be getting longer. They won't be stopping until Canada, save for maybe a night in a hotel when they're all so tired and angry at each other they can't think straight. It's Hannibal's shift to drive and BA's tucked into the passenger seat beside them, leaving Murdock and Face to fight against the sway and bump of the dark cargo hold with a few pillows and blankets and their limited baggage.

Groping blindly Face finds Murdock's hand and wraps his fingers around it, squeezing gently. "I'll be glad when this is all over."

It was an easy gig, by their standards at least. They all had their assignments - Face was saddled with his specialty, scamming two days in a suite in Vegas that was well beyond their budget. There were a few ways he could go about it, before things got deep he wouldn't have batted an eye at the thought of seducing some high roller and swiping a key and credit card number. But, things were different. He had to work harder, to get as many leads as he could and carefully select his mark.

Tiffany Connors, a name he won't forget after what he did, came up the most obvious for the scam. Twenty-two, maid of honor for a wedding party that had gotten pretty out of control the night before. According to the night staff he'd hung out with at the blackjack table, being rather generous with cigarettes and drinks for a steady stream of information that seemed worthless to them, they were planning on kicking them out but her Daddy had a standing reservation that sat empty half the year - and they weren't about to lose his business over a daughter that couldn't stay in line.

Of course, they didn't know how to deal with her type - he was pretty sure he did. Sure enough that when he put on his good suit and brass tag calling himself 'Michael Ashton, Manager' he figured they'd be setting up shop by afternoon. If only things went that easily.

"Miss Connors?" He called, knocking loudly at the door with an air of polite authority. "Management, please open up." Several requests and a loud scream of annoyance later, she opened the door in a silk kimono that barely covered her pale, flawless skin.

"What?" She demanded, raking her fingers through her long, dark, bedraggled hair. "What the fuck do you want?"

Drawing on the authority of his assumed position, Face pushed himself into the room and closed the door behind him when she only glared. "Thank you, Miss Connors... I've, uh, I spoke with the night manager this morning and it seems there were a few complaints from other guests about the noise level in your suite last night..."

"Oh fuck them. My sister's getting married!"

"I understand, but the problem is that your father did not authorize charges for damages made on this suite and..."

"Come on... it's not that bad..." the young woman frowned, her shoulders slumping low enough to show the pink flash of a nipple peeking out from under black silk.

Forcing himself to remain on task - and definitely not to look - Face assessed the obvious damage he could see just from the entry way. It was time for the kicker. "I understand, Miss. I'll go ahead and contact your father about covering this... it shouldn't be more than four or five thousand."

"No!" She shrieked, grabbing him by the wrist as he turned to leave. An instinctive smile crossed his lips, she'd been even easier than he'd expected. "Please! You can't tell Daddy we were here... he'd flip..."

"I'm sorry, but someone has to pay for the damages." He turned back toward her, flashing steady blue eyes that had charmed so many.

The girl looked like she was about to cry, but instead she asked; "Just wait, okay? Go sit on the couch and I'll get my purse. I can pay cash."

"Of course, Miss Connors." He obeyed, casually sitting in the corner of the couch where various articles of clothing and an empty wine bottle had been tossed on the opposite end. Whatever they'd done the night before, it sure had been a hell of a party.

"Call me Tiff," she smiled, returning with a small pink clutch. "Look, I know this looks really bad... but you've gotta understand, my Dad's a real tight-ass..."

"Oh, I understand... no problem..." Face shook his head, his voice stopping dead in his throat when she unexpectedly straddled his lap, pushing him back against the sofa. "Miss... Tiff..."

"You're cute, you know that? You look way too young to be the manager..."

"You... you still have to pay for this, I can't make any kind of..." he stammered, fighting the combination of his confidence and suppressing his libido when faced with a mostly naked very attractive woman in his lap; "...deal..." his voice cracked, lifting high when she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and kissed him.

"I'll pay..." she whispered, tossing aside her purse before sliding something thick and hard in his pocket. "I just want to thank you for keeping this between us without Daddy finding out..."

"N... no problem, no... no thanks needed."

Grinning like a tiger on it's prey, the girl let both shoulders of her kimono drop, showing the perfect slopes of her bare breasts without pause. "Come on, Mister... Ashton..." she flicked his name badge, grinding down against him hard enough to make him ache. "Let me thank you."

"I... I really can't..." he sighed, already feeling the rise of his cock as her small hands tugged at his pants. "I'm... I'm gay. Really. Really gay."

"So not gay," she rolled her eyes, yanking open his fly to grab his growing manhood. "Don't be shy, man... I won't tell if you don't."

"No..." he whimpered, biting down into his lower lip - knowing full and well things were getting out of control. "I... I have a boyfriend and I... love him so fucking much..." She squeezed his cock hard, stroking the cotton of his briefs over the thick shaft to draw out a silencing moan.

"Let me give you what he can't..." She grinned, grabbing his hand and forcing it under the fine silk. What he felt was softer than silk, softer than he ever remembered the warm slide of a smooth mound under his fingertips.

She was warm, wet... ready to have him even though he just walked in. "Jesus..." he moaned, flushing hot. "I... I really... really..."

"Want to fuck me?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. His fingers shifted forward, stroking over her slit and she let out a soft, pornographic groan.

"God yes."

***

He stayed with her a few hours... a few long, really athletic hours that left him aching in more ways than one when he left to her promises that she'd be out of the room by two o'clock and nobody ever had to know that Mister Connors' room had been trashed the night before. Finding the last cigarette in the pack he'd brought to the tables the night before, he took his first puff in a decade to try and calm his frayed, guilty nerves.

An hour and three shots later, he texted Hannibal with the room number and location of the key Tiffany had given him to 'personally service the room'. He couldn't go back yet, he couldn't face Murdock and explain just how he'd not only scored an excellent room but a nice stack of cash to go along with it. He could smell her on him, the clinging reek of sex and shame.

Only strong whiskey could cover it up.

It was only a matter of time, at least that's what Face tells himself when Hannibal corners him in the kitchen of a one bedroom apartment they've managed to scam for the last few weeks since tumbling into Chicago on a job. They'd been running almost a year without any major setbacks, sure they'd had their snags but everything was going well enough. Funny how a little thing can turn into a big problem.

"We need to talk about Murdock." Hannibal states flatly, twisting a spoon through his coffee with just enough sugar to kill the bitter bite of BA's strong brew.

Face already has files laid out in front of him on their mark and his associates, carefully making notes on a page of stationary from some motel in Boston. He doesn't bother looking up, assuming it's about to become another lecture on the dangers of mixing work and pleasure. "I'm listening."

"In case you haven't noticed, he hasn't eaten in two days."

He looks up from from his notes, going over the last couple days in his head - had it really been two days? It's hard to tell, they'd all been so busy getting things together to make their final move on a scumbag pimp that a cop friend of Hannibal's couldn't pin charges on. "I brought him breakfast a few hours ago, but he was sleeping."

"He's been sleeping for the last ten hours."

"So? That's a good thing, God knows I could use a good night's sleep."

"We all could. When's the last time he managed more then four or five hours?" Hannibal sets aside the spoon, but doesn't drink.

Face considers the question and then shrugs; "So, you think he's sick?" It's a possibility - they've been on the move almost nonstop for over a month before landing the gig and spent most of it sleeping in the cargo truck they'd bought with stolen salvage papers and living off fast food - it's enough to kill anyone's immune system.

"When was the last time he filled his prescriptions?"

Filling prescriptions was a laughable matter that over the last year has meant one exceptionally brief stay as a John Doe in an emergency room and a rather shady deal with a black market supplier. "Guadalajara. But those were really big... like dispensary sized bottles." Easily enough to cover him for a really long time.

"And when was the last time you counted them?"

He could see where Hannibal was going, and he didn't like. "Counted them? What, am I his mother? He's not off his meds."

"You're supposed to keep an eye on him, Face... when you decided that suddenly you two were..."

"Don't even go where you're going, man." Face pushes up from the table, glowering. "Just because we're together that doesn't mean it's my job to be his doctor!"

"It's your job to take care of him!" Hannibal shouts, drawing a low growl from where BA was sprawled across the sofa in the living room. "You took on that responsibility."

"I..." Face sighs, shaking his head. There's not even anything he can say to that - in all fairness, he more or less was taking care of him. He just never considered things like Murdock going off his medication without telling anyone.

Without further comment, he heads to the bedroom where Murdock's still curled on the bed with his untouched breakfast beside him.

"Wake up, man..." he states firmly, sitting on the edge of the bed behind him. "We need to talk."

It's supposed to be an easy mission, kick back - take a cruise, maybe work on their tans in the process. Baggage, check. Engagement rings, check. Wedding bands, check. Tuxedos, check.

Hannibal and BA boarded first thing in the morning as crew, giving them more than ample time to install some weaponry and a pair of clean cell phones in their cabin and start sweeping for suspicious signs of gun running.

The happy couple took the opportunity to sleep in and have a nice breakfast before heading down to the marina to board.

"It's a nice cabin," Face murmurs, depositing his suitcase on the large bed before heading to the closet to hang up their carefully wrapped formal wear.

[Continuation of Thrift Shop Threads]

Maybe it's the lack of alone time they've had, or maybe just the fact that he's been jerking off while everyone else is asleep for a couple weeks - but the idea of pulling off the road and finding a place to park sounds like a great idea.

"There's not much in the way of a view..." He mutters under his breath, trying to keep the van on fairly level ground as they cut through the empty wooded area - if he hurt BA's new baby they'd never hear the end of it and he might end up with some broken bones.