Fic: Everybody Knows (A-Team)
Title: Everybody Knows
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Implied Hannibal/Face, OCs
Warnings: Violence
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadface.
Summary: He knows the type
Notes: Written for this prompt on a_team_kink, which owns my soul.
~*~
He knows Templeton Peck.
Not the man, of course. Not specifically. But the type. He's seen a hundred of them: the kind of soldiers - and he uses that word in the loosest of senses - who think smooth talking can take the place of honest-to-god effort. Who think they can get away with all sorts just because they can charm the pants off their COs...both literally and metaphorically. No speculation necessary about how the lieutenant got his commission. He's seen the way Smith looks at the kid. It's disgusting.
But unlike some, Sgt Mike Yarrow is a soldier down to his bones. Peck outranks him - what he thinks of the man is completely immaterial. He'll salute and "sir" and take any goddamn order he's given, because that's how it works. He's not required to like any of the officers, so long as he does what they tell him.
Still though. When he's told that his unit will be accompanying Smith's team on a recon mission...he doesn't exactly do a jig.
He heads back to his unit and tells them the joyous news, and it's a little heartening to see his own private opinion flash momentarily across every face in the tent. It's Cpl Davey Napier who summarises the prevailing feeling with characteristic eloquence. "With respect sir, you have got to be fucking joking."
"No joke, corporal," Mike says wearily. Davey's young. He hasn't quite got the hang of keeping his mouth shut and doing as he's damn well told yet.
The rest of the unit filters out in pairs and trios, grumbling amongst themselves. The corporal stays, sitting on the edge of a table with his arms folded. Mike raises an eyebrow at him.
"Seriously though, what the hell?"
"I know." Mike sighs. "Listen, Davey, we've got our orders and we follow them. We watch each others' backs, we stay sharp...just the same as any other mission. Got it?"
Davey sighs in turn. "Yeah, I got it sarge."
~*~
The mission itself goes off without a hitch. They head back to the compound in the convoy that had met them several miles out from the site, and Mike finds himself with the misfortune to be in the second hummer with their guests: he grits his teeth and keeps his eyes fixed on the lead, trying valiantly to ignore the ridiculous banter and bickering. Over the last few hours he's revised his first impression of Peck to include "stupidly reckless" and "smartass", and upgraded whatever the fuck he's clearly got going on with Smith from "disgusting" to "a fucking disgrace". Laughter fills the truck and he feels a muscle jump in his jaw. For the love of god, if they don't reach the compound soon-
The lead truck explodes.
The windscreen shatters from the force of the blast, smaller detonations of grenades and the stacatto crack of gunfire underpinning the cries of ambush! Mike's already diving out of the truck, rolling as he hits the dirt and scrambling for cover.
He puts the inferno that was the lead to his back, silently mourning for privates Kyle and Bryson even as he flicks the safety off and pulls night-vision goggles down over his eyes. Lead convoy is dangerous duty, everyone knows that...but no-one ever really believes they'll be the one to hit the roadside bomb.
There haven't been any other trucks taken out; that's good. That means they've exhausted all their big explosives on the IED. There's still gunfire flying overhead, though, and the odd grenade. No call to go getting cocky. He finds two of their assailants by tracing muzzle flashes and takes them both out from behind. They'd had a good vantage point - too bad for them they'd lacked the sense to watch their backs. Mike doesn't make the same mistake, scanning the surrounds very, very thoroughly before turning to assess the scene below.
The trucks are all emptied, though a few soldiers are using them for cover. He spots Baracus picking his shots and dropping enemy fighters with steady inexorability: whatever he might think of Peck, Mike is quite willing to concede that the rest of the team really know their jobs.
He feels a faint swell of pride when he sees Davey, pressed against the hood of the fifth truck and firing over it, calm and competent just like he'd been taught. The fourth had swerved when the lead blew and the fifth had hit it, forming a corner shielded on two sides that Davey's taking full advantage of.
Satisfaction turns to cold fear as he sees the grenade.
It sails in a neat arc and lands noiselessly in the loose dirt behind Davey, who doesn't notice a thing. Mike breaks cover and races towards it, knowing even as he runs that it's futile, that there's not enough time, that Corporal David Napier is already dead.
And then out of nowhere there's a figure in desert camo pelting down the road at a dead run, hitting Davey in a full flying tackle mere seconds before the grenade goes off.
Mike tears off his goggles, half blinded by the detonation, and sprints the last ten yards to skid to a halt on his knees by the two prone soldiers. Davey is blinking up at him, stunned and a little singed but alive, alive and not even badly injured. The other guy though...he's face down on the ground, utterly limp and motionless, burns and spreading blood where shrapnel tore through his fatigues. Mike rolls him over to check his pulse and nearly drops his rifle in shock. It's Peck. Of all the men and women in the US Armed Forces, it's fucking Peck.
He'll deal with his own shock later. Right now he's too busy to think, hands flying as he rips open a field dressing to try and stem the worst of the bleeding. Where the fuck are the rest of his team? Where the fuck is Smith?
When the gunfire stutters to a stop, he figures he has his answer. And it's then, only then with the attackers dead or fleeing and the rest of the unit safe, that Smith and Baracus and that crazy-ass pilot are suddenly all around him, politely but firmly pushing him back as they close ranks around their injured teammate.
The remainder of the convoy heads back to the compound under a cloud of jittery paranoia, skirting around the blazing wreckage of the lead and rumbling along the road a little faster than is strictly safe. Someone must have radioed ahead, because as soon as the gate closes behind them they're surrounded by medics. Peck is whisked off to the OR. His team follow, expressions daring anyone to try and stop them.
~*~
On the other side of the compound, Sergeant Mike Yarrow sits down heavily and meets his miraculously uninjured corporal's gaze across the mess hall table.
It's Davey who looks away first, voice low and troubled. "He saved my fucking life, sarge."
"I know. I- Jesus." Mike shakes his head. In Davey's eyes he can see a hint at the same frantically stunned activity that's going on in his own head, a hurried and thorough rewriting of the mental ledger headed "Lt. 'Faceman' Peck". He'd had no idea. No goddamn idea.
He's man enough to admit when he's wrong. His corporal is alive and well. And tomorrow, when the army doctors have worked their magic, he's going to man up and take a walk over to the medical tent to thank the stupid, reckless, smartass, suicidally brave lieutenant who'd saved his life.
~*~
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Implied Hannibal/Face, OCs
Warnings: Violence
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadface.
Summary: He knows the type
Notes: Written for this prompt on a_team_kink, which owns my soul.
~*~
He knows Templeton Peck.
Not the man, of course. Not specifically. But the type. He's seen a hundred of them: the kind of soldiers - and he uses that word in the loosest of senses - who think smooth talking can take the place of honest-to-god effort. Who think they can get away with all sorts just because they can charm the pants off their COs...both literally and metaphorically. No speculation necessary about how the lieutenant got his commission. He's seen the way Smith looks at the kid. It's disgusting.
But unlike some, Sgt Mike Yarrow is a soldier down to his bones. Peck outranks him - what he thinks of the man is completely immaterial. He'll salute and "sir" and take any goddamn order he's given, because that's how it works. He's not required to like any of the officers, so long as he does what they tell him.
Still though. When he's told that his unit will be accompanying Smith's team on a recon mission...he doesn't exactly do a jig.
He heads back to his unit and tells them the joyous news, and it's a little heartening to see his own private opinion flash momentarily across every face in the tent. It's Cpl Davey Napier who summarises the prevailing feeling with characteristic eloquence. "With respect sir, you have got to be fucking joking."
"No joke, corporal," Mike says wearily. Davey's young. He hasn't quite got the hang of keeping his mouth shut and doing as he's damn well told yet.
The rest of the unit filters out in pairs and trios, grumbling amongst themselves. The corporal stays, sitting on the edge of a table with his arms folded. Mike raises an eyebrow at him.
"Seriously though, what the hell?"
"I know." Mike sighs. "Listen, Davey, we've got our orders and we follow them. We watch each others' backs, we stay sharp...just the same as any other mission. Got it?"
Davey sighs in turn. "Yeah, I got it sarge."
~*~
The mission itself goes off without a hitch. They head back to the compound in the convoy that had met them several miles out from the site, and Mike finds himself with the misfortune to be in the second hummer with their guests: he grits his teeth and keeps his eyes fixed on the lead, trying valiantly to ignore the ridiculous banter and bickering. Over the last few hours he's revised his first impression of Peck to include "stupidly reckless" and "smartass", and upgraded whatever the fuck he's clearly got going on with Smith from "disgusting" to "a fucking disgrace". Laughter fills the truck and he feels a muscle jump in his jaw. For the love of god, if they don't reach the compound soon-
The lead truck explodes.
The windscreen shatters from the force of the blast, smaller detonations of grenades and the stacatto crack of gunfire underpinning the cries of ambush! Mike's already diving out of the truck, rolling as he hits the dirt and scrambling for cover.
He puts the inferno that was the lead to his back, silently mourning for privates Kyle and Bryson even as he flicks the safety off and pulls night-vision goggles down over his eyes. Lead convoy is dangerous duty, everyone knows that...but no-one ever really believes they'll be the one to hit the roadside bomb.
There haven't been any other trucks taken out; that's good. That means they've exhausted all their big explosives on the IED. There's still gunfire flying overhead, though, and the odd grenade. No call to go getting cocky. He finds two of their assailants by tracing muzzle flashes and takes them both out from behind. They'd had a good vantage point - too bad for them they'd lacked the sense to watch their backs. Mike doesn't make the same mistake, scanning the surrounds very, very thoroughly before turning to assess the scene below.
The trucks are all emptied, though a few soldiers are using them for cover. He spots Baracus picking his shots and dropping enemy fighters with steady inexorability: whatever he might think of Peck, Mike is quite willing to concede that the rest of the team really know their jobs.
He feels a faint swell of pride when he sees Davey, pressed against the hood of the fifth truck and firing over it, calm and competent just like he'd been taught. The fourth had swerved when the lead blew and the fifth had hit it, forming a corner shielded on two sides that Davey's taking full advantage of.
Satisfaction turns to cold fear as he sees the grenade.
It sails in a neat arc and lands noiselessly in the loose dirt behind Davey, who doesn't notice a thing. Mike breaks cover and races towards it, knowing even as he runs that it's futile, that there's not enough time, that Corporal David Napier is already dead.
And then out of nowhere there's a figure in desert camo pelting down the road at a dead run, hitting Davey in a full flying tackle mere seconds before the grenade goes off.
Mike tears off his goggles, half blinded by the detonation, and sprints the last ten yards to skid to a halt on his knees by the two prone soldiers. Davey is blinking up at him, stunned and a little singed but alive, alive and not even badly injured. The other guy though...he's face down on the ground, utterly limp and motionless, burns and spreading blood where shrapnel tore through his fatigues. Mike rolls him over to check his pulse and nearly drops his rifle in shock. It's Peck. Of all the men and women in the US Armed Forces, it's fucking Peck.
He'll deal with his own shock later. Right now he's too busy to think, hands flying as he rips open a field dressing to try and stem the worst of the bleeding. Where the fuck are the rest of his team? Where the fuck is Smith?
When the gunfire stutters to a stop, he figures he has his answer. And it's then, only then with the attackers dead or fleeing and the rest of the unit safe, that Smith and Baracus and that crazy-ass pilot are suddenly all around him, politely but firmly pushing him back as they close ranks around their injured teammate.
The remainder of the convoy heads back to the compound under a cloud of jittery paranoia, skirting around the blazing wreckage of the lead and rumbling along the road a little faster than is strictly safe. Someone must have radioed ahead, because as soon as the gate closes behind them they're surrounded by medics. Peck is whisked off to the OR. His team follow, expressions daring anyone to try and stop them.
~*~
On the other side of the compound, Sergeant Mike Yarrow sits down heavily and meets his miraculously uninjured corporal's gaze across the mess hall table.
It's Davey who looks away first, voice low and troubled. "He saved my fucking life, sarge."
"I know. I- Jesus." Mike shakes his head. In Davey's eyes he can see a hint at the same frantically stunned activity that's going on in his own head, a hurried and thorough rewriting of the mental ledger headed "Lt. 'Faceman' Peck". He'd had no idea. No goddamn idea.
He's man enough to admit when he's wrong. His corporal is alive and well. And tomorrow, when the army doctors have worked their magic, he's going to man up and take a walk over to the medical tent to thank the stupid, reckless, smartass, suicidally brave lieutenant who'd saved his life.
~*~