Archive of Our Own

Things really do go in slow motion when you’re about to die.

He’s known this fact for awhile, has seen this happen so many times that he’s tempted to call it the Murdock Effect, solely because when it happens chances are he’s with, near, or in association with the crazy Texan.

Right now is no exception and was even anticipated this time the minute he heard that drawl in his headset ask, “How do you feel about unorthodox landings, Faceman?”

Sure enough things slowed down after that.

Suddenly he has the time to ask himself exactly why he dressed in his third best suit for a mission up north to help a cabin rental company. He knew there would be dirt and water and general natural elements that didn’t mesh well with Italian silk, so why did he wear it again? And yes, he could be looking at the slideshow going on in his mind, but he’s seen it before and if he’s going to go out he might as well go out with the feel of soft, tailored suit pants between his fingers and an answer to this burning question in his mind.

Who did he dress up for again?

He’s vaguely aware that Murdock is babbling something about the fact that most helicopter accidents are not crashes into water but wires and isn’t he glad they’re outside the normal statistics right now and how the pilot’s just taken a CPR course so they’re covered just in case things go from crash to near-fatality.

All he can do is turn to stare at the man at that last part, particularly as the altimeter creeps to zero. Aren’t they at that latter definition already?

It’s in that look that he notices for the first time that day that the pilot’s lips are chapped, again. The Texan can never seem to keep his lips smooth, even with all the romantic advice and presents of cheap chap stick, and for some reason he finds himself rolling his eyes at this small breach of love faux pas.

Murdock takes the eye roll as a reaction to something he says, however, and there must be something in his eyes that causes the older man to flash a reassuring smile and lean in for just a moment, breaking through that line between rage and serenity with, “Don’t worry, Faceman. Just think of this as your cardio for the day! Ain’t nothin’ for getting the heart going like engine failure.”

“Well, if that’s the case then I’m surprised I don’t have a six pack by now!” It’s not like sarcasm really does anything for the situation, but at least he feels a little better.

Even if Murdock is now looking forward and the various warning lights and horns are starting to bleed back into his senses. “That’s because you don’t do enough crunches, Faceman. You’re more of a push up kinda guy, if you know what I mean.”

The novelty of Murdock – Murdock – making a dirty joke is something he never gets to comment on, however.

Because the helicopter’s nose is pitching up, Murdock is chanting “Come on, come on, come on!” under his breath and everyone knows that those particular words are really the universal sign for a shit storm under way.

Sure enough, they hit the water and before he knows it the serene feeling is gone and is replaced with an overload of sensation.

Metal twists and screeches and crunches as the rotors hit the water and severe something large. Glass crashes and fragments and shock races up his spine as he’s jolted forward, seatbelt digging into his chest and headset flying forward as his neck tries to follow. He knows his knees are going to hate him in the morning as they crash into the instrument panel and part of his soul dies just a little at the fact that he hears clothing ripping over the sound of water slamming in through the crushed nose and window. But what catches most of his attention is the fact that the water is cold, colder than should be allowed in California, and definitely wet. There go those shoes.

Hannibal is definitely getting a dry cleaning bill.

Things move fast now, as they always do, and he’d think about naming this part of the near-death experience the Hannibal Effect if he didn’t have to worry about unlocking the seat belt before his hands numb over and before they sink further.

They’d been flying with the doors off at Murdock’s insistence – it’s easier to shoot a gun that way – and that much had been true. But doors off also invite things in, things like cold vicious water that likes to destroy expensive clothing and, oh yeah, sink the helicopter with a loud slurp that he’s fairly certain he didn’t imagine. There’s not even time to quip about landings before they’re in over their heads in frigid, dirty water.

Shaking fingers find the release latch and blinded by the initial water pressure he finds the frame and manages to kick out of the wreckage before it can pull him further down into the blue maw.

Breaking the surface with a gasp, he blinks rapidly against the sun and water and coughs as he manages to remember how to tread water. He finally manages to get out, “Not your best landing, Murdock!”

Yet over the ringing in his ears he realizes there is no reply.

Nothing but a tinny pitch to the air.

Turning his head he realizes there is no lop sided grin ready to note that he’ll live to work out via Hannibal’s method again. No sing-song voice informing him that the jazz is alive and well in the pilot. Not even a gasp or a splutter of air-choked lungs enjoying the wonderful thing that is oxygen.

Relative silence on the fellow human front.

And just like that his gut is twisting in on itself. “Murdock?” No answer and suddenly the cold seems inconsequential. “Murdock!”

Water laps at his face and as metal bits and plastic float to the surface he takes a deep breath and plunges in after the disappearing bubbles.

It’s cold and murky due to churned up dirt from the crash, but at least he hits grounded metal shortly after diving and for that he’s thankful. Hands scrambling to find an entrance, he pushes in and finds that the only sound in his head now is his own heart pounding in his chest.

The cockpit is destroyed. Chairs crumpled, instrument gauges broken, window gone, he’s not sure if the long part poking through is part of the main rotor or the tail, but it doesn’t matter because the form in the pilot’s seat is what has his attention.

Murdock is still in his seat, sans headset but still snug in his seat belt and looking none worse for the wear besides a new added line to his forehead. Bubbles race to the ceiling while the pilot tries to, what is he doing, shimmy out of his seat belt? It makes no sense and for a moment he wonders if the man isn’t trying to become a fish now and join Thermidor for good now.

Yet as he brushes a hand to the pilot’s shoulder he realizes that the bubbles are coming rapidly and Murdock’s long legs are hyper extended. And as the man’s eyes turn to his he finds himself looking at blown, almost black eyes.

Despite that, despite the jerky movements and panic that are rolling off Murdock in waves, a smile meets his gaze. A few more bubbles than earlier indicate that there’s a greeting to go with the smile and he can’t help but roll his eyes at that. But while Murdock reaches out to touch his shoulder the man makes no move to undo his belt.

He frowns at that and swats the hand away to tug on the wrist because it’s time to get going before his lungs begin to burn more. But Murdock shakes his head and glances down to his side. Ignoring his protesting knees and twisting slightly, he realizes why the man hasn’t moved toward his belt since his arrival.

The latch is mangled, destroyed, and more importantly, unable to open.

Trapped.

Brown eyes try to grab him but he’s moving, hands wrapping around the buckle and lifting, tugging, pulling to try to dislodge the metal. Not for the first time he wishes he had B.A.’s muscle, increased shirt size or not, but short of a miracle or the big guy showing up himself, the buckle isn’t moving via physical force.

He pulls back at his failure and glances around, searching for something, anything with an edge to cut the seat belt off. Yet there’s nothing but the headset in the destroyed cockpit and nothing close enough or sharp enough to make it through the thick stretch.

A hand shoving his shoulder catches his attention and he finally lets those brown eyes catch his. They don’t look any less panicked, but the corner of Murdock’s mouth are less tense and he realizes exactly what the man is trying to communicate even as the pilot shoves him again.

Part of him is loathe to leave, chants of no man left behind parading through his mind. But his lungs are burning and the bubbles coming from Murdock’s mouth are lessening. So he nods before allowing a shove to propel him back and without another glance back he swims for the surface with dual purpose.

The oxygen is just as sweet as last time but there’s no time to enjoy it. A quick glance to shore shows that while the men they were after haven’t bothered to come Hannibal and B.A. aren’t here yet. A fact made up for when he spots a piece of sheet metal floating by his arm that would serve as the perfect makeshift ka-bar. Good enough for him, and hopefully good enough for Murdock.

It feels like he’s back down in no time with a new lungful of air and a brand new knife, but while surface time is seconds underwater time is apparently not so.

Murdock is no longer thrashing, body stock still and double over as far as he can go. Long fingers grip the pilot’s khaki and he frowns for a moment wondering if the head wound wasn’t more serious than he thought. Yet as he grabs for the strap keeping the Texan from the surface, finding his eyes going back to the man’s lips and noting that even underwater they were still chapped, he realizes that something else is missing from the man’s countenance.

Bubbles.

Air.

A shake finds Murdock scrunching tighter, head shaking in the water in a clear indication that there’s not much time. Too slow. He was too slow to figure out a solution, to plan an escape, and not for the first as well does he wish that he were Hannibal, a man with a plan and a share of luck that would make the Irish jealous.

This time panic finds him as he struggles to move against the pressure and cut away the seat belt. Metal bites into his hand to add more blood into the water but that’s not what frustrates him. What frustrates him is the sheet metal is thin and bending instead of cutting and how is anyone supposed to do anything with metal that won’t cut and bends too much? Particularly him, right now, right here.

As the metal bends and he swears with a large spurt of bubbles Murdock jerks forward, spasming, eyes opening in pure, unadulterated panic. Hands grip at the straps and tug and he almost gets kneed by a flailing knee. But he can’t take his eyes off or move away because he knows what this is.

Drowning.

Murdock is drowning.

And just like that everything slows down.

He watches as Murdock bucks against the seat belt, eyes squeezed shut and head thrashing as lips purse against the searing burn. Hands twist into the straps and those long legs extend even further, and all he can do is shut down and wonder just how long those crows feet have been in the corner of the pilot’s eyes.

Pictures are moving through his head now, but they aren’t ones that he knows as well as the slideshow before. These ones are newer, more recent from the past few years.

Scene after scene of Murdock: acting like a dog, coughing into a paper bag, waving a lobster claw, calling for big foot, blind and talking a commercial jet liner down from the co-pilot seat. And him there every time, wondering how the pilot did it. How Murdock managed to retain that part of himself through a war, the camps, and a breakdown that would leave anyone with the right to curl up and die in their bed. How the pilot always managed to smile that genuine smile or laugh a genuine laugh when he found himself having to fake just to get through.

There’s never been anything fake about Murdock, not even now, when Murdock spasms once more then raises his head to look at him and give the barest trace of an apologetic smile. As if he’s sorry for not having the lung capacity of Aquaman or the gills of the Aquamaniac. Like Murdock has done him wrong by being trapped in circumstances no one can control.

It’s a smile that sees him moving forward, metal drifting away as hands cup the pilot’s face. The last of the air drifts up and away in a slow dance, the life force of a man reduced to a thin trail of bubbles.

So small and delicate for a man that is neither.

A man he suddenly doesn’t want to see the life story of, doesn’t want to watch die, and certainly doesn’t want to lose just because some stupid nylon stands between the pilot and freedom.

Time snaps at that panicked, quiet declaration and suddenly things are moving so fast he can’t focus. Can barely feel his own body much less follow the shuddering jerks of Murdock’s as the pilot begins to take in water. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say. It’s not like you can talk air into being.

Or…can you?

Granted, Hollywood is rarely based in true fact, and Hannibal’s always telling them about some new trick or another to get a good shot. But he knows he’s seen underwater scenarios that breathe air into existence before and he’s out of ideas.

So he leans forward now and passes a thumb over Murdock’s lips, partly in warning and partly because his hand has a mind of its own, and then presses his own mouth to the pilot’s. Right over those chapped lips and in with a forceful thrust of his tongue that he doesn’t normally use until date number four and/or drink number five.

Murdock grunts in surprise, jerking back into the hold Face has on the man’s face. He had been anticipating it though and he follows, breathing air into the gasp and tightening his grip in hopes that the pilot uses that high IQ and realizes that they are working on survival here.

Fortunately, Murdock has always been a quick study, and the pilot takes a shuddering breath in as those brown eyes watch him, wide and trembling.

He pulls back and they stare at the other for a good few seconds, not sure what to make of the situation or the action. Or of the fact that Murdock’s lips must be tingling just like his are because the pilot’s hand is inching toward them in a way that reminds him strongly of a blushing Southern belle.

Stabbing pain brings him back from that confusing image, however, and he pushes away and up toward the surface in what seems like hours now. Hours to fight to the top, hours of gasping and coughing and rapidly breathing in air with the hope that his lungs grow enough to supply two with oxygen. Even the scan of the shore that he knows takes mere seconds seems to drag on for days before he catches his breath and heads down once more to the man waiting.

And all the while, in those hours and days that fly by, he thinks of Murdock.

His best friend, his team mate, his pilot in the camaraderie sense of the phrase. The man who has busted him and the others out of sticky situations, single handedly, more times than he’s proud to admit, and who has held him through more personal crises of the moral, physical, and mental kind than most patients at the Westwood V.A. have on their own records. Funny how war makes you stronger then sucker punches the bits of you that are steel into glass.

Speaking of steel, his hand hits the frame again, crushing his pinky painfully into a sharp edge and alerting him that other things need his attention right now.

Murdock is fidgeting again as he uses what is left of the cyclic to pull himself in. He can’t blame the man, because he’s been gone for much too long and has too little air to make this comfortable for either. Not to mention the fact that it is him delivering life this way and not someone with a smoother chin and more supple lips. There is (or should be) nothing sexy about kissing your best friend, no matter how you look at it.

He just wishes he knew why that fact, that simple, common, rational fact causes a heart string to snap with hesitant remorse.

No matter, he’s – for lack of better term – kissing Murdock now, hands cupped and thumb soothing water-softened lips before moving in. The pilot is ready this time, head staying still even as the Texan’s lanky form twists and twitches beneath him. It’s those small movements, compounded with the fact that Murdock’s hand is now clutching his shirt in a way that can only be described as needy that cause that heart string to twang again and again and again.

If he were with a woman he would call this arousal.

But with Murdock, he’s not sure what to call it because it can’t be the same thing…

Despite this assertion to himself that it is different, the feelings are not the same, they are mutually exclusive, he feels heat rising to his cheeks despite the cold water. And when he pulls back and catches sight of those brown eyes watching him with a thankful smile, the hand still twisted into his shirt, the warmth increases and he’s not entirely unhappy that he has to push off and out back to the surface.

He doesn’t know what to make of this war in himself. This battle between what these feelings are is not necessarily old – there are a few times he can remember wondering on some level exactly how deep and how far these feelings for the pilot run. But reality would always smash back into play and remind him that it’s women who stay the night in his bed and therefore it is women who run deeper into that place in his heart.

But the problem with life and death situations like these is that reality has a nasty habit of not playing by the rules.

The world moves in slow motion as he swims back up and back down to ask himself what he would do without Murdock and reminisce about the times the man has been there for him as well as the times he has been there for the pilot. How he’s spent hours talking Murdock out of corners and from under beds and back to the cliff side from a half-step over the edge. How Murdock is that special friend to him, the person that he trusts inexplicably with both heart and soul and with no explanation as to why other than the years between them and the fact that the man counters his own false front with a pure, unfiltered genuine one that is a long lost art for most people in the world.

His mind reels with the answers that each new avenue of thought brings him to until he’s not sure if he’s light headed from the dawning realizations or the physicality of the task at hand. He suspects the latter and tries to hang on to that rationale, but if he thinks too hard about exactly what he’s doing he finds his own lungs constricting and panic clawing at the door.

So back to the metaphysical, the hypothetical, and the scarily, scarily growing possibilities.

Yet every time he thinks he’s reached the end of his tether and won’t be able to take the hours that stretch between surface and chopper crash, he finds himself at the door frame once more and time speeds up into double, triple, quadruple over time.

And then he suddenly doesn’t even have time to make sure he’s not cutting his hand on that nasty piece of sheet metal over the door frame because Murdock is there watching the door, waiting for him, hand stretching out as he pushes in to grab his shirt and draw him closer in a movement that sweeps him off his feet, quite literally. Not that it’s hard to do just that when you’re underwater and unable to get good traction with water logged shoes.

Yet he doesn’t dwell on the fact that he’s a man and should never be getting swept off his feet – it doesn’t matter – because only Murdock matters in what seem like the seconds he has left before everything falls apart. Not even when his ripped pant leg catches and rips off completely does his attention waver from that long face waiting for him.

It takes seconds to reach Murdock and milliseconds for their mouths to find each other, the pilot moving to meet him with the desperation of–

Oh god, he can’t even think that it or he’ll panic himself.

Then air is moving, sucked into a vacuum from him to Murdock, and ok, perhaps it’s not the most elegant of analogies. But it doesn’t matter, he’ll be Murdock’s Hoover if it means those brown eyes stay open and that mouth smiles after him as he thumbs the pilot’s chin unconsciously before moving back.

Out and up through the settling blue water, away from the chaos and urgency of the chopper cabin and into the floating, slow serenity that is the rest of the world.

His head is definitely light headed now, breathing is harder, he’s not able to catch his breath as well as he wants when he breaks the surface into the afternoon sun, but nothing registers anymore. Nothing but the rush of oxygen into his lungs, the chill of metal under his fingers, and the feel of cracked lips on his, drawing a lifeline from him to the pilot that could be broken with one wrong movement if he didn’t want, need to have that mouth breathing into his.

Nothing matters more than having that body under his, alive, anymore.

As his body adapts to this new primal drive to swim, breathe, swim, breathe, he finds that his mind also begins to adapt to the underlying fact that he needs this man in his life. He can’t even call this need a desire or a want because it’s more than that. An essential that extends beyond his need to have that the closet full of designer clothing to distance himself from the single box kept under failing box springs in the church dormitory. A requirement that runs deeper than the tendency to surround himself with the flashiest of things because it helps assure himself that he still can appreciate the beautiful in life.

There is no instinct more clear to him now than the one that screams at him to protect H.M. Murdock at all costs.

So he follows it.

Follows it through the oscillating time shifts, through the light headedness, tight chest, numbing extremities, and fuzzy wonderment that this is what dying feels like. Tries to focus on the pulsating drive within himself to stay the course, damn the consequences and shoes lost, to cheat the lady one last time.

Swim, breathe, swim, breathe, swim, breathe.

Over and over and over again until there are no more sensations. No smell, no taste, no sound, and no sight except for blue and brown, melding into one another. Punctured only by the fact that touch is the last to go and goes out with a bang when those lips fail to press back, fail to stop the water, and fail to accept the air he is so frantically pushing into the limp body he’s gripping.

There is panic there, he knows there is.

But when he realizes those brown eyes are no longer moving something snaps and he can only drift in the unforgiving water, his own weak breath obscuring the brown. Those precious bubbles taking the last of his humanity with him to disappear when those fragile orbs hit the ceiling and dissipate into the grander scheme of things.

Gone.

Murdock is gone.

His lifeline and necessity, gone.

And as the angel of death appears into his vision, a black spectral hand reaching to take him away, he realizes the pilot is not the only one who has passed on.

So has he.

***

He doesn’t remember much about the afterlife.

It’s a patchy place, if he says so himself, and while he vaguely remembers death literally staring him in the face – big, black, and gold? all right then – the whole passing over thing is fairly free of typical cliches. No light at the end of the tunnel, no angelic choir, no fire and brimstone. The only thing he isn't cheated out of is being naked, though when his clothing was taken he doesn't really know. Typical that he get robbed of his pants and the usual experience for a cold fullness in his stomach and a painful rushing in his head.

Even death cheats out on him.

There is sound, however, plenty of it in this muddled, slow moving passage, and he remembers a particularly insistent voice that shouts, “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Answer me, damn it!” But if this is heaven (or even hell) he’s not going to answer drill sergeants, he’s already had to do that once before. So instead he closes his eyes and passes back into floating unawareness.

When he finally comes too things are much quieter and much calmer and for a moment he has to smile because there’s the fog and the white and the soft lighting that must indicate heaven. Or at least what he imagined it would be like.

What he didn’t count on, however, was the annoying beeping sound.

Or the thing on his face.

Or the pain.

His throat is raw, breathing induces burning pain, his chest feels like someone beat the shit out of it, and oh, that's not fog, it's just fuzzies. And then it hits him, all at the same time, that he's breathing, breathing, as in oxygen into lungs and back out. There's no water, no wreckage, and no shoes, but that's a different matter because he's warm and awake and alive and he could sob in relief. He does give a soft sob that sounds more like an asthmatic cough and his eyes slide shut in overwhelmingly heavy peace.

Alive and well.

They made it. Another near-death experience to add to the collection, another tick mark against lady death (or gentleman, that arm hadn't exactly been a size four). He turns to make a remark to Murdock about how near-drowning makes for a much more vigorous work out than engine failure but he pauses mid-croak at the sight of the bed next to him.

Empty.

Equipment away, railings down, there's no evidence anyone has been there. No hairs on the pillow, no crease in the sheets, nothing but him in this tiny two person room.

It's a discovery that has him suddenly moving, causing a sudden, "Face?" and a rushing black that takes care of the panic quite easily for him. The next thing he knows a pen light is being shined into his eyes as murky, distorted voices trail along in the air above him.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Alvin?"

"What's happenin'? What's goin' on? What did you do to him?"

"We didn't do anything, sir, he-"

"You've been sticking needles in him for the past two hours!"

"Those are-"

"B.A., let's play nice now with the very competent medical staff."

He squints against the noise and the light and the latter is taken away to be replaced with a smile from the youthful face in front of him. "There you are. You're in the Mountain Community Hospital, Mr. Alvin. How are you feeling?"

Like he’s been sucker punched by hope, but he’s assuming that isn’t the answer the doctor wants to hear, and it’s not the one he’ll give unless he really is ready to follow Murdock’s steps. Instead he blinks a few times and gathers himself into the careful shell he’s so used to. “Alive.”

The doctor mistakes the higher pitch at the end of the word for joy. “Ah, well, that would be because of your friends here. You had quite a close call, but I expect you’ll make a full recovery. We’ll know in the next four hours or so.”

The man continues to go on about him being a category B, about the oxygen mask, the hypothermia, the drugs being pumped in via warmed up I.V. and how, overall, he’s lucky to have friends who know CPR and first aid otherwise he may not get a chance to ‘land the big one’ again. How he’s lucky, lucky, lucky, the word ringing over and over again in his ears over the rush of the oxygen mask until he wants to ask what is lucky about watching your best friend die in front of your eyes.

What is lucky about waking up knowing you failed?

The doctor’s words continue to ring inside him, that barely contained pride in the monologue echoing through the drained hollowness inside as a hand covers his. He glances up as a face that he knows very well leans over him.

Blue eyes see instantly through that veneer of pulled together charm and the doctor finds himself interrupted with a smooth, “Thanks, doc. We’ll take it from here and let you know if any of those symptoms pop up that you were telling us about.”

The doctor sputters for a minute even as the nurse turns to hide the twitching smile and he finally stammers, “W-What?”

B.A. steps into view now at the end of the bed and something inside Face recognizes the fact that the angel of death and the Sergeant share a lot in common…

Right now, however, B.A.’s right hand is curled into a fist and a glint inhabits those dark brown eyes that indicate the man is at his breaking point. Shit tends to fly when the last strand breaks. “You heard him, doc. Ain’t you got someone else to be lookin’ at anyway?”

He almost feels sorry for the doctor, caught between calm and steely and fire and furious. It’s the A-Team version of a rock and a hard place and is best met with a strategic retreat. Most people tend to pick up on that fact after a moment. Including the doctor, which just goes to show that medical school seemed to pay off after all.

“Yes, but…I…I’ll just go check on…” And he’s gone out the door after the nurse.

Hannibal’s hand tightens over his, drawing his eyes back to those sharp blue ones. “Lieutenant, how you feeling?”

There is no better answer for that then there was moments ago, but with the way Hannibal and now B.A. are watching him he knows a one worded answer won’t do. “Like I swallowed the entire lake.”

A pang zings through him at the thought of the wreckage, twisted up, curled in, trapping the pilot inside until there’s nothing left and he knows that the half-smile on his face is false, completely and utterly put on for everyone here, including himself. If he puts on a mask perhaps he can melt into that lie until it’s real. He hasn’t lost the man he’s known for over a decade of his life; the man he’s still struggling to sort out his feelings for. Everything’s ok, everything’s fine.

Nothing’s wrong.

Nothing at all.

“Between you and crazy, you probably did. Surprised there’s anything left in the lake at all.” The gruff tone is gentle for B.A., but the comment almost breaks his smile. How can B.A. be so glib over this?

“We were lucky the hospital was only a few minutes away,” Hannibal steps in, patting his hand once more before pulling away.

“And lucky we ain’t picked up Decker yet,” B.A. grunts.

Face doesn’t miss the look that passes between the two, that knowing look that comes with all of these close calls. A reminder look that they’re not out of the woods yet.

“I’m not sure we would have made it otherwise…” Hannibal trails, voice heavy with implication.

It shouldn’t bother him, but the continuous use of we is starting to grate on that nerve B.A. rubbed. We indicates more than one; we indicates all four of them; we does not apply anymore and he wishes they would just stop so that he can start getting over this and moving on. It’s too painful to drag it out, already enough of a struggle to find a new rhythm to move too without the constant reminder of how the last one worked out.

“Glad you’re ok, Faceman,” B.A. was saying, much softer now, a hand moving to pat his knee in an awkward display of affection. “We was worried, man.”

He finds himself grabbing on to the strongest driving force inside of him now, bubbling up through the hollowed out points until he’s full. Angry is better than numb, after all, even if it is a reminder that he can still feel and Murdock cannot. “Would you stop it already?”

B.A.’s mouth shuts immediately and Hannibal’s head snaps sharply to him. Full attention from them both, all eyes on him, as Murdock would say- Licking his lips he ignores that thought and squeezes his eyes shut to let out a breath through his nose. It causes him to cough lightly, but he ignores the water suddenly offered by Hannibal.

“Just stop with the ‘we’. I know, all right? I can handle it, I’m not a greenie anymore, Hannibal.” He looks right at the Colonel with that, more to convince himself than the older man. “Just tell me what you did with him.”

Confusion clouds blue eyes and it is B.A. who speaks first in a bristled, defensive tone, reacting to the anger laced one Face is using. “Did with who? What you talkin’ about, Face?”

He squeezes his eyes shut and balls his hands together, noting somewhere in the back of his mind that he didn’t manage to avoid that shredded part of the door frame after all. “Thermidor. Really, B.A., who do you think?”

Thankfully, Hannibal gets it, and says quietly, lowly, “Murdock?” He nods, anger falling away into broken shards of grief at the spoken syllables. “Face, Murdock is-”

The Colonel doesn’t get to finish as wheels squeak in the hallway and the nurse appears once more, pushing a bed, voice chipper and soft, “Here we are!”

And he has to close his eyes because it’s too cruel, too soon, too unfair to see the body already. He’s not ready, needs more time to figure out exactly how to say good bye to his friend. Friend? Yes, friend now. There’s no choice in that anymore because there is no point in exploring further. Just another set of unresolved emotions to bundle away and behind a dust covered façade.

Yet just as a strangled sob slips through, unbidden and unwanted, time slows when a single, fragile word is voiced into the air.

“Facey?”

Every part of him freezes, from his fingers to his toes, and the sob is cut off into a ragged breath at that familiar tone, that annoying, hated nickname. A nickname only one person uses and even then only sometimes. His heart is beating in his ears and for a moment he can’t breath, can’t speak, can’t get his eyes open because he’s not sure exactly what he’ll see, if he sees anything at all. But just as a hand touches his shoulder in what can only be concern, he manages out an equally airy, equally fragile word of his own.

“Murdock?”

His eyes open and he looks over to find a lopsided, shaky smile waiting for him in another bed. “I think I’ve got a six pack now…”

A downed chopper, a near drowning, and a possible brush with death and the first thing out of those still chapped lips is a stupid, stupid joke. He could kill the man for making him worry, for making these tears roll down his cheeks like they are now.

But instead he laughs.

Laughs so hard he can’t breath for real this time and that’s when time speeds up again. People are saying things to him, to Murdock, but only a few of them register through the hysterical wheezing his laughs have turned in to. He knows he’s upset Murdock – they’re threatening to put the pilot on the ventilator again if he doesn’t calm down – and the doctor is by his side now trying to get him to take a few deep breaths and lie back down.

Yet all he can do is shake his head and laugh as the tears run down. Letting out the anger and sorrow and grief and relief in the staccato, muffled barks heard through the mask.

He only settles down when something is slipped into his I.V. and a vaguely familiar heavy feeling invades his senses. His eyes begin to droop and his body sags back into the pillows but he doesn’t give in. Doesn’t let the drug tide take him until after he’s caught those brown eyes with his blue and assured himself that there is depth and warmth and focus in them.

Those eyes, so very much alive.

When he wakes up again the room is dark and quiet. Blinking wearily against the heaviness, he stays still as he was taught until he determines that, yes, the past few hours did happen, and not only is he in the hospital, oxygen mask over his face, but if he looks to the right…

Murdock lies in the bed next to him, tucked in under a thick blanket and sleeping peacefully despite the god-awful machine shoved down his throat. A shiver runs up his spine at the slight hiss of the ventilator, but at least Murdock’s chest is rising and falling and though the pilot’s skin is pale he’ll take what he can get.

A slight grunt stops him from leaning further to assess the rest of the damage.

To the left is Hannibal, asleep in a straight backed chair, arms folded and chin resting on his chest. The Colonel looks tired and he knows the rest the man is getting probably won’t help the bags already under the man’s eyes. It’s been awhile since Hannibal has looked this old, this graying, and he feels a slight twinge of guilt at the fact that he probably helped add a few more white hairs to that gray haired head.

But the grunt hadn’t come from Hannibal. It came from across the room in the other chair, currently occupied by an awake and watchful B.A., dark brown eyes glittering in the limited light.

They watch each other for a long moment before B.A. speaks, voice thick and gravelly. “You all right?”

He nods, remembering vaguely that he had been in pain and no longer is. At least that and the lingering tranq explain the lethargy. “Fine, fine. Think I’ve only got half the lake now.”

If B.A. notices the slight slur to his words he’s too polite to say anything. “Scared us all half to death, man. What you doing laughing like that?”

His only response is to shrug and glance over at Murdock because what do you say? It was the only thing he could do that released the rush of emotions without tears or babbling or something else equally embarrassing and unfitting for the person he is.

B.A. grunts but rises silently and when their eyes meet he sees something akin to understanding there.

“How is he?” he croaks, returning his gaze back to the pilot.

“Better,” says B.A. “Nurse said they’ll take him off that thing in the morning. If all goes well, you’ll both be out by tomorrow afternoon.” Brown eyes slide back to him. “That is, if nothin’ gets him all excited and worked up again.”

Admonishment delivered, he ducks his head at B.A. and turns back to crane over the railing towards Murdock, hands shaking slightly as he grips the cool metal, but he can work on that. Right now, he just wants to see Murdock properly, face to face, to reach out and touch with a hand that is already twitching unconsciously at the thought. Just to be sure the man is alive, he tells himself. Just to settle his own mind so he can go back to sleep and so that tomorrow he can sort out the mess that he is.

Sudden movement causes him to panic momentarily until he realizes the shaking is the bed moving, gliding with a squeak or two across the floor to Murdock’s bed. The rails clank lightly causing Hannibal to stir, but Murdock is gone in the throes of drugged sleep and stays as he is.

With a glance at B.A., Face finds himself smiling at the retreating back of the Sergeant before he turns back to Murdock.

Pale and still a bit cool to the touch, up close he can see that the man’s cheeks are colored slightly. Though there is a bandage on the head wound, overall the knicks and scrapes are nothing worrisome or troublesome enough to stop him from placing a suddenly weak hand on Murdock’s cheek. At that the Texan shifts a bit, hampered by tubes and drugs, but it’s enough of a twitch for Face to smile down at the man and brush a piece of hair away from the man’s cheek. Proof enough that Murdock is, indeed, living.

He pauses as his fingers round the pilot’s ear, pads settling at the soft skin there as the feeling from what seems like days ago laps at his awareness. That weird arousal-esque emotion that seems like it’s a cross between protectiveness and slowly built love of some kind. He can admit that now, he realizes.

Love of some kind.

Just what kind he’s not sure. Not anymore.

Can’t be sure when the person in question causes this wide a gamut of emotions to rage through his system.

A yawn pinches the mask on his face, however, and brings him back to the fact that there is no good way to analyze this situation right now. Not like this. There’s too much excess still in him to efficiently dissect the important parts.

So he lets himself settle back and drape an arm over the double railing to grasp at Murdock’s hand. His fingers find an elbow but that’s ok too. He’ll take what he can get, so long as it has a pulse point and warmth coming from it. And he swears that Murdock shifts, just a little, so that the crook of the man’s elbow is more accessible to his fingers. But he couldn’t say for sure.

And he drifts off this time with no help from anything but the steady pulse of Murdock’s arm, allowing that slow rhythm to take over his own drive and need until it fills the hollow points back up.

Despite his best intentions of being awake when the pilot woke up and being there for moral support when they took the tube out, he wakes up in true cat fashion just in time for breakfast and having missed everything important. Hannibal is there as he eats with discharge papers and idle conversation that has the same general message to it: Murdock's fine, you're fine, don't panic (again). It makes him roll his eyes, particularly when B.A. stops in to announce, loudly, that crazy is in x-ray and will be back soon, giving a pointed look at Face as he does.

There isn't much to say after that, however, because the doctor is in right behind B.A. with new, clattering bottles of pills, an inhaler, and an unnecessarily long list of what to look for, what to do, what not to do, and general instructions that boiled down to: rest, and, if anything feels wrong go see someone.

A quick few signatures and a downed glass of juice sees him a free man after that, giving him free time that he takes to grill Hannibal and B.A. on what had happened.

"Got to the lake just as you were going back under," says B.A., glancing at Hannibal. "Went in after ya, both of us, and managed to find you just as you passed out."

"Good thing both of us were there," Hannibal adds, pausing for a moment. "You know, I would like to know, though, how Murdock held his breath for ten minutes..."

B.A. looks to him as well but he's not sure what to say. Oh yeah, I just kissed him and we shared oxygen like a pair of teenagers. Don't worry, it was totally platonic! Saw it in a movie after all. It's not like I enjoyed it. Not only does that sound weird, but he's not entirely sure how accurate all of it is.

Instead he just clears his throat - he'll let Murdock tell. It sounds better coming from a crazy man. "Big lung capacity, I suppose. You know how he is."

Hannibal's eyes glint in amusement and B.A. just frowns. "Fool's loud, but ain't no way he's loud enough to have that much room for that much air."

"Well, whatever you did, you did good, Lieutenant," Hannibal intercepts, ending the conversation with a clap on his shoulder. "The Captain owes you his life."

And it's something he does think about too, as B.A. and Hannibal start in on how they're going to leave and what routes and where they're going to stop for the night.

He can still remember most of yesterday's events. A few parts are fuzzy, particularly at the end, but there are enough residual feelings there for him to know that he would, did, do everything in his power to keep Murdock alive. Had pushed himself as he's done so many times before. Murdock would do the same for him, in a heartbeat, in less than a heartbeat. While there is a certain amount of pride in being so close to someone that you don't have to worry about whether the effort will be there or not, he’s not sure if Murdock would do it with the same queasy pull at the pit of his stomach over exactly what he thinks of the measures that needed to be taken.

He can lie to almost anyone, but never to himself.

There had been some other driving force this time besides the affection that comes from ten plus years of comradeship. Something more than brotherly love, and something he isn't sure how to name.

What does Murdock mean to him?

Why did those kisses – sorry, exchanges underwater cause a tightness in his chest and an overwhelming sense of loss so profound he had been unable to see through it the night before? He’s not prone to emotional displays, hasn’t been since he learned that tears make you a target. Yet over twenty years of holding back, learning to control the responses into something he can use, all abandoned last night. And sure, he’s had outbursts before during the camps and once, maybe twice, afterwards. But since coming back stateside, he can only remember crying once. Over ten years, and he’s cried once, and that was when-

His mind grinds to a halt as he realizes when that was.

Nine and a half years ago, 1974, in a car he no longer owns on a familiar corner as the clock switches to two in the morning.

Outside the V.A.

After his first visit with Murdock.

When he saw for the first time what damage usually hidden on the inside looks like on the outside. A shell of a man trembling, eyes unseeing, lips moving in phrases he’s long since tried to forget. Lost to the world and lost to him.

Something had splintered inside of him after that visit.

Grief and fear and loss fear so strong that all he had been able to do was lean back in his seat and try to ignore the fact that his sleeve was wet where it lay over his eyes. He had eventually concluded that the fear was from the fact that he saw too much of a future for himself in Murdock. Saw what he could be if he ever lost control. And the grief was something he didn’t need to explain – who wouldn’t grieve at the sight of their best friend like that?

But the loss was something he had a hard time distinguishing from the grief, because they were the same thing in his mind. Or at least he tried to tell himself they were the same thing, for the same reason: over the breaking of Murdock’s fractured mind. Yet there had always been something that niggled him about that loss, and at times he wondered if that unexplained emotion was the reason behind why he broke the Texan out when they needed him and why he visited even when they didn’t.

As if he was hoping for something to come back.

That hope for something to come back, and then later for something more…

Something…that he doesn’t figure out right then because he falls asleep again and comes to still wondering to a small shake and a gentle, “Murdock’s back, kid.”

That gets him up and awake with an eager raise of his head that has B.A. watching him carefully. But he ignores the mother henning Sergeant as Murdock is wheeled back into the room, the pilot craning his head back to look at the nurse. “I’m tellin’ you, they’re only like that cause they decided to go on vacation! Got a bit overstimulated during the last day or so and decided that a plane crash and some hypothermia were worthy of leave to somewhere less worrisome. They’ll be back, they always are. These babies don’t ever leave a man behind!”

The nurse just stares, slightly overwhelmed as the pilot shoves his hands in her face. “Mr. Murdock, I don’t think damaged nerv-”

She never has a chance at finishing as Murdock spots him and smiles widely, hands dropping and shoulders perking up slightly. “Faceman! You’re awake!” A wheezy chuckle. “You'd give Lord Lionel a run for his money with the way you’ve been sleeping."

B.A. mutters something about crazy fool and Face can only blink at the pilot and those slightly glazed brown eyes and that cut off sentence from the nurse. Deal with the easiest thing first, the manic exhaustion in those eyes. "Lord Lionel?"

"Therapy cat they bring around sometimes. Most regal little tiger you've ever seen."

Vaguely he’s aware of B.A. and Hannibal glancing at one another, having another one of those silent conversations that sees Hannibal’s arm snaking around the nurse’s waist, guiding her out as B.A. slips out behind him to close the door. "I thought they used dogs."

"They do most of the time, but the cat kingdom filed a complaint about unlawful prejudice so they bring in a cat now." Murdock gives him a look, as if he should know that.

He decides he doesn't really need to know the real story after all. "Well at least they avoided a law suit."

And he places a hand on Murdock’s shoulder to assure himself, just once more, that the pilot is here. Just for as long as it takes his mind to catch up.

Murdock nods his agreement and fidgets with his hands, stiffly Face notices, glancing toward the door and away from face. "Gotta do that or they’ll lose the tapioca pudding, and then where would the V.A. be?”

He just snorts and refrains from answering to look over Murdock. There’s a bit more color in the pilot and no breathing apparatus is always a good sign. The cut on his forehead is bandaged and cuts and scrapes shining with salve, and over all while the man is pale and baggy brown eyes are shining with latent drugs, the agitated parts of him are settling down at the fact that he can feel Murdock underneath his hand. Alive.

It takes him a moment to realize Murdock was speaking to him. “Huh?”

Murdock licks his lips, voice already going hoarse and causing a ripple of guilt through Face. “Just wanted to say, uh, thanks for, you know, converting oxygen to carbon dioxide, helping me take in a lungful, breath deep, you know, all that."

Only Murdock would be able to say that without blushing. He hasn't even said anything about it to anyone and he can feel his own cheeks growing red. "Oh, well, you know, I was around so I figured I might as well help out a friend in need."

The pilot gives him the once over at that casual tone and for a moment he wonders why he said it like that. The snark had just been automatic, really. "Mighty noble of you, Faceman. You sure you weren't just after your Baying Wolf merit badge for savin' people?"

"You got me there," he teases, trying for a safe and platonic path. Which fails horribly. "Figured I might as well go for the pretty damsel in distress badge while I could."

Murdock just grins. "Awww, you think I'm pretty, Faceman?"

To his chagrin he blushes more and removes his hand. “Murdock…”

But the groan is not as strong as it should be and the pilot notices, raising an amused eyebrow even as he leans back into the pillows. “So how pretty we talkin’ about here? Cause I think my skin’s too pale to be goin’ to a beauty pageant any time soon.”

The thought of Murdock in a dress would be frightening if he hadn’t seen it happen already.

“I wouldn’t quit your day job,” he admits, drawing another wheezy chuckle from the pilot. With the initial excitement spent, he curtails any chance of the conversation following a white rabbit down a hole and gently reaches out to squeeze Murdock’s shoulder. “But how are you, buddy? You feeling ok? What did the doctor say?”

Murdock’s eyes dart for the briefest of seconds and he suddenly wonders exactly what the nurse had been saying.

“Now Faceman…” Nothing good comes from that tone, and it shows on his face because Murdock sighs. “Sit down, muchacho.”

He lets himself be tugged to sit by the pilot’s hips and finds that his hand doesn’t leave the Texan’s shoulder. “Are you getting discharged?”

“Soon,” says Murdock. “They just want to observe this rare specimen of crazy for awhile longer, since they aren’t sure when they'll get to next. You know how rare a crazy man of my particular caliber is."

And he does, he honestly does. "You are quite the catch, buddy." That's not what really an answer to the question, though. "But what was the nurse saying? What's damaged?"

"It ain't damaged so much as on a siesta," says Murdock, and again the man's fingers are kind of curling almost unconsciously. "They'll be back and probably with a tan and tales of distant lands and more stories about long nights on the beach with mai tais and beautiful tropical sunsets than should be legal for us poor non-vacationing types to have to listen to."

He's supposed to be rolling his eyes or snorting but instead he's frowning because sometimes getting answers out of Murdock is akin to pulling teeth, and this dance around is starting to make him nervous. "Murdock, come on. Why aren't they releasing you yet?"

A sigh meets him and one of Murdock's hands comes up to wrap around his arm in a motion that can only be described as clumsy. As if the pilot can't quite get his fingers to work. An observation that has his mind whirring and things clicking even as Murdock says, "Got a bit of trouble with my hands and feet, Faceman. It ain't nothin' to worry about, and they're better now than they were last night."

"Last night?" he echoes, trying to wrap his mind around exactly what trouble means. And the fact that if the pilot knew last night, so did Hannibal and B.A., and why hadn't they told him again?

Murdock is a mind reader though, at least in tones of voice, and the hand on his arm tightens a bit. "Didn't want to worry you, Faceman. Found out after wakin' up while they were warming me up last night. Did you know they have this nifty machine, Faceman, kinda like a mechanical vampire, that takes all of the blood out of you and-"

But he's not listening because that feeling of guilt is washing through him. If he'd been faster, stronger, better... "How bad is it?"

The pilot doesn't miss a beat. "Not bad, Faceman." Brown eyes lock on to him. "Promise. Just a thing that happens in the line of duty, and it's a whole lot better than not movin' at all."

There are still a million questions in his mind that all spurt out as that familiar panic starts to break through the guilt. "How bad is it, Murdock? Can you make a fist? Can you feel anything? What about specialists, exercises, medicine? We'll find someone, buddy, and make this work."

Will he be able to play catch, or snap on Billy's leash, or maneuver the delicate controls of a plane? There are so many avenues this can go, so many paths that lead to everything from full recovery to crippled for life. And he's not worried so much about what that would mean in terms of competence because Murdock can manage even with one hand tied behind his back, much less both with a little bit of limited movement. No, he's worried about the pilot dealing with it, or more specifically, of dealing with the fact that he, Faceman, had a part in making him this way.

Rationally he knows there was probably nothing he could do, that he couldn't heat up the water to stave off damage or drain the man's lungs while in the lake. He knows this if he sets aside the emotions and thinks with just the logical facts.

But he wishes he could have done more, still feels like some part of this is his fault, and part of him is convinced that if he'd moved faster, had been stronger, had anticipated a bit more and tried again with that piece of sheet metal, things would be different. That Murdock would be able to curl his hands without making that funny expression on his face like he is now. That he wouldn't feel the need to beg for forgiveness from his best friend and hope that whatever had been there, that something more, would still be around for him to discover.

To his surprise Murdock just laughs, dissolving quickly into coughs that have him gripping Murdock's hand, the one he hadn't even realized he had taken into his own. "Easy, buddy..."

Murdock just shakes his head a bit though and leans forward to awkwardly palm his face, one half-curled hand to each cheek. Forcing him to stay riveted on those brown eyes. "None of that, Faceman. This ain't anythin' I can't handle with ol' Doc Richter and the V.A.'s help." Those hands leave to wrap him in a tight hug he doesn't really deserve. "Don't worry 'bout me, Faceman. You already worried enough, and there isn't anything you could have done differently, so don't go gettin' it into your mind that ol' Murdock's problems are yours."

Surprise moves in as he feels the pilot's chin rest on his shoulder, that long lanky body finding a place to slot so neatly in against his ruined suit jacket. And even though his body begins to accept the contact entirely too quickly (if he thinks about it) he's still confused by the laughter and the way Murdock's tone can be so light, so cheery, so accepting of the fact that his best friend (is he still that now?) failed to protect. "Murdock, I'm-"

"What, sorry?" Murdock snorts into his neck, sending odd tingles down his spine. "For what? Rushin' in like a knight in white armor to save my royal hide? I'd give ya a kiss if that's what you wanted, but I still can't think of a reason why you'd be sayin' sorry to me. Stop being ridiculous, Faceman."

"I..." He's blushing again, damn it, at the comment about being a knight and a kiss and he's struck by the intensity in those brown eyes as Murdock pulls back to look at him. As if the man really would kiss him if he asked.

"Aye-caramba?" Murdock fills in, smiling teasingly. "I think your articulation has taken the same vacation my fingertips and toes have. Hope they're havin' fun together, cause they'll be needed soon enough if we're goin' by Hannibal's reckoning. Though there might be somethin' there to giving your voice box the day off. Poor thing works so hard I'm surprised they haven't unionized yet for better care."

He rolls his eyes this time despite the lingering confusion of guilty or not and that swept-away feeling he gets when Murdock talks like this. Sometimes, he's fairly certain this is what people he cons feel like as he talks, and he wonders if Murdock isn't a little bit more of a conman than they give him credit for.

Either way, Murdock smiles at the eye roll and after an uncharacteristic hesitation of a whole half-second the pilot leans in for another hug, wrapping in tighter this time.

"Promise me you won't go obsessing about it, baby. Don't want you beating yourself up over things outside of your control, even if you are exceptionally talented at it." A pause, followed with a grinned, "Besides, heightened obsessive behavior is my territory. Gotta license for it and everything."

He huffs softly and lets his chin bump against Murdock's head, those chills racing up his spine again at soft breath on his neck. He will worry, can't promise it because part of him will always worry. But it's hard to panic when the person you're panicking about leaving you is right there, holding you tightly and burrowing their head into the crook of your neck. And there is still guilt in him, but it's starting to fade a little as he realizes Murdock hasn't changed. Won't change because the man is stronger than that. Is the one supporting him here, even with drugs and half working extremities sliding over his back. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

Perhaps. But as he lets a hand wrap around and curl just so at the dip in the man's side, he feels the Texan's heart beat and smells plastic radiating from the ugly hospital gown that does nothing for the pale man's complextion to crowd out the panic and worry at the realization that Murdock isn't rejecting him. And as Murdock's chest labors against his and fingers ghost the top of his spine he begins to have an inkling of why that fear of rejection is so strong inside him when it comes to the pilot.

He also realizes - "Baby?"

Murdock just tightens his hold, a grin for sure forming on that long face. "Sweetheart? Darling? Lovely nightingale? Magnolia blossom in the spring? Jewel of the river?"

"Murdock!" He groans and pulls back, because really? Really?

The pilot just smiles wider and all he can do is admit that, yes, there might be something here. Something slow in coming and slow in building over years and years of blood, sweat, tears, and crazy. Something born in slow motion and still growing at the same speed it started.

But that's ok, there's always a point where time speeds up.

He just has to wait for it to happen.