notjustaface | Shot To The Heart (or torso... whatever)

Shot To The Heart (or torso... whatever)

They didn't talk, deployment came before it came to that. And with another mission came another brush with death.

In Face's case, playing bait for a small terrorist cell holding some very important documents. Always the bait... and that always goes well.

"C'mon boys... any time now..." he mutters under his breath, twisting his wrist against the tight metal cuff linking him to a pipe he can't seem to budge. Best guess, he's got about ten minutes before the leader is back with a few of his goons and then the guns and well... that part's not so pretty.

There was a snag, there had to be a snag because there was always a snag. But really, any time the boys want to show up with a chopper or anything is just fine with him.

"Fuck this..." he groans, closing his eyes as he focuses everything he's got into bearing down on his fingers until they separate and he can pull free. "Son of a bitch... that fucking hurts..."

And the footsteps coming right toward him aren't exactly friendly sounding.

What seems like seconds later, he's curled up on the floor in his own blood waiting for the third shot. When it comes, it's not for him.

"Get me outta here guys."

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Oh shit...

"Face, you hear me? Don't you even think about checkin' out on me now."

He forces himself to remain calm as they head towards home... towards safety.

Home away from home at least, nothing like the middle of the desert to set up shop.

"Eyes on the sky, Captain." Hannibal barks, digging out the bullet with blunted tweezers before pushing down as hard as he can on a thick gauze patch. "Get us there in one piece."

"Right."

It's all he can do to take his eyes off his friend, but he does, and after a frantic flight where he comes frighteningly close to testing out the craft's top airspeed, they're ready to come in for a landing.

"Colonel...?"

Hannibal's already moving him, letting his weight rest against his shoulder before the rotor's even stopped.

"Help me out here," he calls back calmly, one arm around Face's waist to hold the gauze onto him.

Dragging him to the med tent is easy enough - troops know to clear a path when there's incoming wounded and Hannibal's more than happy to be ushered out when the doctor swoops in on him.

Still wiping blood off his hands, Hannibal digs a cigar out of his shirt pocket and looks to where Murdock's hovering near the closed flap for a peek.

"He'll be fine, soldier. Stand down."

"I know."

He turns to look at Hannibal briefly, eyes shining brightly.

"I need to stay with him, sir."

He knows that look all too well, and that there's more to it than's being said.

"Let them do their job, Murdock." He sighs through a plume of smoke. "He was gut shot, lost a lot of blood."

He acquiesces slightly, knowing there's nothing he can really do here, but he doesn't back down entirely.

"I don't want him to wake up alone."

"It's not a suggestion," he casts his eyes back up to Murdock. "That's an order."

If that's what it takes, he'll make sure that it counts.

"You don't need to see it."

He knows Hannibal's trying to protect him, and he loves the man like the father he never knew... but for a few brief moments the order makes him unbearably angry.

"No."

He draws himself up, ready to back up his words if necessary.

"I'm sorry... I can't."

It's as bad as he thought it was... maybe worse. And there's going to be words about it soon. Not today.

"You can." His voice rises slightly, not angry - more frustrated with his boys' tendencies to go off the rails than anything.

"Let it go, Murdock. Let him go."

And that hits home more than Hannibal can possibly know.

Numbly, he moves to stand next to his CO, wrapping his arms around himself like he's cold even though they're in the middle of a desert.

"Promised I wouldn't leave him."

It was never spoken aloud, but he intends to keep it.

He's got blood on his hands, blood that's his responsibility for not being there when they were needed. The last thing he needs is to see Murdock break down over what he's edging to see inside that tent.

"I'm not going to warn you again, Captain." Hannibal's voice pitches harder, stern and serious.

"I know you're worried about us, sir, but if you try to take me away from him I really will lose it."

If something happened and he wasn't there...

But the 'no more games' look in Hannibal's eyes is one he knows well. Reluctantly, he edges away from the tent flap.

The corners of his lips wrinkle with a frustrated frown and he puffs out another sigh.

"The second, and I mean the absolte second, you are asked to leave you will do so or I will personally see that you are disciplined for violating my direct order. Do you understand?"

He won't outright give permission, but seeing as though Murdock's bent on doing it regardless, he may as well set a boundary. "Stay out of the medic's way."

"Yes sir."

For the moment, he's content to watch from just inside the entrance, staying well out of the way as the medics do their jobs. He's managing to stay fairly calm, despite all the blood and chaos.

Just keep breathing...

It looks worse than it is, the problem with a gut-shot is usually the blood loss more than actual damage. Still, not fun.

When the crisis has passed, the medics move him to recovery where Hannibal's already waiting for Murdock to follow.

"Nurse says he'll be up and about in a couple days." Which knowing Peck will mean as soon as he can stand up without falling down he'll be putting himself back on the roster for the team's next mission.

"Good."

At which point Murdock will tell him he's being an idiot. Affectionately.

He won't be the only one.

For a long moment the Colonel is silent, watching Murdock fidget and the slow rise and fall of Face's chest. Then, he says; "After he wakes, I want you to check in with BA at the 67th and meet up with them tonight."

Sitting by someone's bedside never solved anything, the best thing they can do is finish the mission.

He looks up, nodding. As much as he'd rather stay by his side, he knows Face doesn't like people trying to coddle him while he's recovering. And they do still have a job to do.

Hannibal rises up, squeezing Murdock's shoulder before heading out to report to the General.

For his part, Face is quiet - asleep this time thanks to the anesthesia while they'd been stitching him up and making sure nothing vital got clipped.

It could have been a whole lot worse, but as always his luck kept him mostly in the clear.

He's just afraid that someday that luck's gonna run out. Fate is an unreliable son of a bitch.

"Hey, buddy."

He knows Face is pretty much out of it, but talking makes him feel better.

There's no response at first save for the slow rhythmic breaths. Then, almost half an hour later, Face's eyelids flutter, managing to open halfway before he groans; "Made it."

He's halfway through the story about the stray dog in the mess tent (which, again, is being told mostly for his own sake) when he hears the quiet words.

"Yeah... yeah you did."

"What's his name?" He asks with a groggy smile, just a little high on good old morphine.

He's not really feeling much of anything at the moment, but the relieved look on Murdock's face tells him it's not so great.

'Relieved' isn't the half of it. He rests a hand on top of Face's, careful of his bandaged fingers.

"The dog?" He smiles. "Never did get his name. Billy seemed to like him though."

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