I wrote stuff
I'm going through old WIPs and trying to decide which ones I should finish and which ones I should bury deep down in my files and forget about.
Here's one I just finished for the ateam_prompts. Unbeta'd, ~2500 words, gen teamfic, set directly after the end of the movie:
It’s the first time since they broke out of prison that they’ve actually had the time to stop and breathe and the strain of the past days is hitting hard now.
The last trembling notes of the jazz fade out and leave nothing but empty, bitter numbness. One moment, Hannibal is grinning, high on the rush of their escape. Then he blinks, and the next instant it’s like the colour just drains out of the world, leaving him with heavy limbs and a splitting headache.
There’s no plan anymore, just a purloined car, and B.A.’s knuckles gripping the steering wheel a little too tight, and red marks around their wrists where the cuffs chafed, and the distant look in Face’s eyes, like he’s miles away, and the sour stink of smoke in their clothes, and Murdock perched on the edge of his seat, hunched over with his forehead pressed against his drawn-up knees.
Hannibal watches the road in front of them, tries to find that place in his head that’ll tell him where it’s going to take them. Nothing is there. Blank.
B.A. is the first to break the silence and his voice seems impossibly loud when he mutters, “We’re running low on gas.”
It takes Hannibal two full minutes to realise that it was meant as a question and that his Sergeant is watching him expectantly, wordlessly asking for orders. He swallows, closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them again when he discovers how very tempting it is to just stay in the darkness. He can do this, as natural as breathing. Just find the answers, make the decisions, the same thing he’s done all his life.
Okay. Murdock has a concussion and B.A. is beaten half to hell and Hannibal has no idea how long it’s been since Face last slept. They need to stop, rest and regroup, figure out where to go from here.
Hannibal spots a sign by the side of the road and points to it. “Pull over here.”
It might be just his imagination, but Hannibal thinks he can hear just the tiniest little sigh of relief when B.A. slows down and drives into the parking lot in front of a shabby old motel.
“Aw, Hannibal,” Face groans from the backseat. “Can’t we find something better? I bet this place doesn’t even have running water.” The complaint is all for show; the next moment he’s opening his door and staggering out of the car.
“Go get us a couple of rooms,” Hannibal tells him, and then turns to B.A. and says, “We need to ditch the car. It has to be reported stolen by now.”
“Got it,” B.A. says, and Face waves off a sloppy salute before he disappears in the direction of the motel reception.
Hannibal opens his door and climbs out of his seat, has to take a moment to steady himself against the side of the car before his head stops spinning, and then moves over to help Murdock out. Murdock squints blearily against the setting sun and makes a movement as if to pull his baseball cap down over his face before he seems to remember that he doesn’t have it anymore.
“You okay, Captain?” Hannibal asks. The EMT:s declared him all right, but head injures can be sneaky.
“Instruments are a little wobbly.” Murdock taps his temple a few times, like it would help him gain back his equilibrium. “I’ll be just fine.”
Hannibal still takes him by the elbow, just in case, and leads him into the shade of the motel wall. Only Murdock could take being shot in the head in such stride, like it’s something that happens every day. Hannibal’s ribs are killing him and he doesn’t even want to think about how much Murdock’s head has to hurt.
B.A. takes off to dispose of the stolen car. Hannibal doesn’t like to see him go, would prefer for all of them to stay together right now, but it needs to be done and B.A. can take care of himself. He tries to think ahead again, waits for a plan to present itself and come together, but the place inside his head that usually handles those things feels like it’s been soaked in ice water, numb and empty. All he can think about is pulling the bag off the Arab’s head and finding himself face to face with Russ Morrison, the man he’d mourned for, the man he sought vengeance for, the man who betrayed him in the end.
The heat from the day still lingers in the air and Murdock is sagging against the wall, a little too pale for comfort. When Face turns up, dangling a room key from one finger, his shoulders are slumped and there are dark circles under his eyes. It’s the first time since they broke out of prison that they’ve actually had the time to stop and breathe and the strain of the past days is hitting hard now.
Hannibal pushes away from the wall and forces weary limbs to move. He might not know what the hell they’re going to do next, but he knows they all desperately need to rest. If he can’t do anything else, he can at least take care of his team until his brain starts working again.
Face got them a double room, mumbles something about everything else being booked. Hannibal accepts the lie without question. Right now, he’s not too keen on splitting up either. It’s a shithole of a motel, the kind that accepts cash and doesn’t ask questions. There’s dust in the corners and the towels haven’t been changed and there’s a big fat spider crawling around in the bathtub.
Murdock sinks down onto one of the beds and rubs his temples slowly, muttering something to himself. Whatever the EMT:s gave him for the headache must be wearing off. Hannibal should have thought of that earlier, should have taken the time to stop for supplies, for meds and food and ice packs for B.A.’s bruises.
It turns out Face has already taken up the slack for him, like he’s been doing ever since the boathouse blew up. He fishes a blisterpack of painkillers out of his pocket and hands it to Murdock. “Here, I got these from the reception. I’ll get you some water.”
It takes B.A. an hour to return and Hannibal doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath until the big guy steps through the door. He’s doing his best to hide his limp and he’s carrying a plastic bag stuffed full with bags of chips, water, pre-packaged sandwiches. “Found a gas station,” B.A. says and puts the bags down on the table. Face dives for it and fishes out a sandwich, offers Murdock another one, but Murdock shakes his head no, one hand pressed against his stomach. Probably nauseous then. They’ll make him eat something later.
No one says much. Murdock lies down on his side and closes his eyes, falling into a light doze. Face grabs the icebucket and heads out to hunt for a working ice machine. B.A. sinks into a chair and waits for him to get back.
Hannibal doesn’t know what to do. He eats half a sandwich and a handfull of chips, every bite growing in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he was this exhausted and he’s never been this lost. There has to be a plan somewhere, there always is, but he can’t see it. His boys depended on him, trusted him to fix the mess he got them into, and he let them down. He has no idea why they’re still even here.
Russ betrayed him, betrayed them all and Hannibal should have seen it before. The thought never even crossed his mind. And Face, who always knows exactly when to leave before people leave him, asked... asked...
“Boss, how’re your ribs?”
Hannibal looks up, blinks the fog from his eyes. He’s been pacing, walking the length of the room back and forth, as if keeping his legs moving would help get his brain in gear. It’s not working, and now that Face mentions it, Hannibals ribs are hurting like someone wrapped a steel band around his chest and tightened it until he can’t breathe, thank you very much.
“I’m fine,” he says instead. “Nothing to worry about.”
Face has been by his side long enough not to believe him. “Why don’t you lie down, get some sleep? I’ll take first watch.”
Murdock’s sleeping now, curled up on one of the beds and B.A. is drowsing in his chair, a towel of ice wrapped around his bad knee. Hannibal eyes the other bed and thinks about lying down. If he does, he probably won’t get up again and if he’s not entirely mistaken, Face has already been up for three days straight.
“I’m good. You get some rest.”
Face doesn’t like that, not at all. His washed-out face takes on that stubborn expression that Hannibal has learned to recognise and that probably means that they’re both going to be awake all night.
“C’mon Boss, you’re...”
“I’m fine,” Hannibal interrupts. “You’re dead on your feet, kid. Get some sleep, you’ve earned it.” A pause, and then, because Face needs to hear it over and over again to believe it, “You did good. I’m proud of you.”
Face opens his mouth to protest again and Hannibal can’t take any more of it, the care and concern he doesn’t deserve, so he turns his back and heads for the bathroom, figuring he can hide out there for a few moments until he can think again.
He stumbles over his own feet then, slow and clumsy, and his shoulder slams into the side of the bathroom door and the wooden edge of it hits the bruises on his chest and his world goes white and he can’t get any air into his lungs and some ugly cowardly little part of him thinks that maybe it would be best to just stop breathing altogether, to let the entire screwed up thing end here. The rest of him, all the parts that are still Lieutenant Colonel Hannibal Smith, the stubborn bastard who doesn’t know how to give up, screams at him to pull yourself together, damnit, you’re not done yet.
The next he knows, he’s on his knees on the floor, blinking moisture from his eyes and gasping for breath, black dots dancing in his vision. He needs to get up, but his legs won’t work the way they’re supposed to and he feels like he’s seconds away from eating carpet, sick and dizzy and weak.
Face’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel, faint and far away with a strange kind of echo to it and Hannibal can’t make out the words. There are hands on his shoulders, keeping him from doubling over and he’s absurdly grateful for them because otherwise he’d be on the floor.
By the time Hannibal has blinked the worst of the pain out of his eyes and gotten his breathing under control, both B.A. and Murdock are wide awake. Murdock’s sitting on the edge of his bed, blinking worriedly with owlish eyes and B.A. is kneeling on the floor, grunting when it puts pressure on his bad knee.
Hannibal swallows around the hard lump in his throat, ashamed that they have to see him like this. If they had no reason to trust his judgement before, they have even less reason now. He’s the one who’s supposed to look after them, not the other way around.
“It goes both ways, man,” B.A. rumbles, and Hannibal realises that he’s been saying it all out loud, babbling hysterically like a madman - no, not a madman, even Murdock can control himself better than this.
“Hannibal,” Face interrupts. “Don’t do this.” There’s something in his voice, like he’s five years old again, being handed off to strangers. The Army was the only family Face ever had and now, because of Hannibal, he’s lost that too.
“I’m so sorry,” he manages, choking on the words. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
Face gives him a long look and there’s more emotion there than Hannibal is up to interpreting right now. “Boss, you couldn’t let us down if you tried.”
“I did... I should have known...”
“The problem with claircognizace,” Murdock says gently. “Is how unpredictable it is. There’s always a risk that the spirits will give you the wrong intel.”
Hannibal stares at him, tries to follow, but he’s in a lot of pain and his brain is not really up for a trip to Murdock-land. “What?” he blurts.
“You can’t know everything, Hannibal,” Face translates, sharing a quick grin with Murdock. “No one can. And no one blames you.”
They should blame him. If he hadn’t tried to be so goddamn clever and stopped for one moment to think, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. If he’d made other choices back in Iraq. If only Russ hadn’t gotten greedy, maybe Hannibal’s team wouldn’t have had to doubt him in the first place.
“Hey,” Face lowers his voice. “We trust you, okay? I’m sorry I said that thing, back at the boathouse. We all know you’d never betray us.”
“You’re nothing like Morrison, Colonel,” Murdock says. “Your compass works they way it’s supposed to. Worth a lot in a world like this, a good compass.”
“We got you,” B.A. says, helping him up from the floor and Hannibal allows himself to lean, just a little bit, lets B.A. take some of his weight. It turns out to be almost all of it; his legs are still wobbly and every little movement sends spears of agony through his broken ribs.
“You OK?” Face asks, reaching out to help B.A. steady him.
Hannibal can’t hold back a chuckle. “Need to stop getting shot,” he wheezes, forcing a smile. “Let’s work on that, shall we?”
“There’s a plan I can get behind,” Murdock agrees, rubbing his temple with a grin.
Next, Hannibal is lying on the second bed, propped up on a mountain of extra pillows Face begged from the reception. He’s been force-fed the remaining painkillers and the pain in his chest is bearable now, enough that he should be able to get some sleep.
That has to be the first course of action, sleep. Tomorrow, they need to find new transportation and a new baseball cap for Murdock, and they need to let B.A.’s mom know he’s all right. Then they need to find a safe place to lie low until they can come up with a way to clear their names.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s a beginning. Sooner or later, it’ll all come together.
- fin -
Here's one I just finished for the ateam_prompts. Unbeta'd, ~2500 words, gen teamfic, set directly after the end of the movie:
It’s the first time since they broke out of prison that they’ve actually had the time to stop and breathe and the strain of the past days is hitting hard now.
The last trembling notes of the jazz fade out and leave nothing but empty, bitter numbness. One moment, Hannibal is grinning, high on the rush of their escape. Then he blinks, and the next instant it’s like the colour just drains out of the world, leaving him with heavy limbs and a splitting headache.
There’s no plan anymore, just a purloined car, and B.A.’s knuckles gripping the steering wheel a little too tight, and red marks around their wrists where the cuffs chafed, and the distant look in Face’s eyes, like he’s miles away, and the sour stink of smoke in their clothes, and Murdock perched on the edge of his seat, hunched over with his forehead pressed against his drawn-up knees.
Hannibal watches the road in front of them, tries to find that place in his head that’ll tell him where it’s going to take them. Nothing is there. Blank.
B.A. is the first to break the silence and his voice seems impossibly loud when he mutters, “We’re running low on gas.”
It takes Hannibal two full minutes to realise that it was meant as a question and that his Sergeant is watching him expectantly, wordlessly asking for orders. He swallows, closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them again when he discovers how very tempting it is to just stay in the darkness. He can do this, as natural as breathing. Just find the answers, make the decisions, the same thing he’s done all his life.
Okay. Murdock has a concussion and B.A. is beaten half to hell and Hannibal has no idea how long it’s been since Face last slept. They need to stop, rest and regroup, figure out where to go from here.
Hannibal spots a sign by the side of the road and points to it. “Pull over here.”
It might be just his imagination, but Hannibal thinks he can hear just the tiniest little sigh of relief when B.A. slows down and drives into the parking lot in front of a shabby old motel.
“Aw, Hannibal,” Face groans from the backseat. “Can’t we find something better? I bet this place doesn’t even have running water.” The complaint is all for show; the next moment he’s opening his door and staggering out of the car.
“Go get us a couple of rooms,” Hannibal tells him, and then turns to B.A. and says, “We need to ditch the car. It has to be reported stolen by now.”
“Got it,” B.A. says, and Face waves off a sloppy salute before he disappears in the direction of the motel reception.
Hannibal opens his door and climbs out of his seat, has to take a moment to steady himself against the side of the car before his head stops spinning, and then moves over to help Murdock out. Murdock squints blearily against the setting sun and makes a movement as if to pull his baseball cap down over his face before he seems to remember that he doesn’t have it anymore.
“You okay, Captain?” Hannibal asks. The EMT:s declared him all right, but head injures can be sneaky.
“Instruments are a little wobbly.” Murdock taps his temple a few times, like it would help him gain back his equilibrium. “I’ll be just fine.”
Hannibal still takes him by the elbow, just in case, and leads him into the shade of the motel wall. Only Murdock could take being shot in the head in such stride, like it’s something that happens every day. Hannibal’s ribs are killing him and he doesn’t even want to think about how much Murdock’s head has to hurt.
B.A. takes off to dispose of the stolen car. Hannibal doesn’t like to see him go, would prefer for all of them to stay together right now, but it needs to be done and B.A. can take care of himself. He tries to think ahead again, waits for a plan to present itself and come together, but the place inside his head that usually handles those things feels like it’s been soaked in ice water, numb and empty. All he can think about is pulling the bag off the Arab’s head and finding himself face to face with Russ Morrison, the man he’d mourned for, the man he sought vengeance for, the man who betrayed him in the end.
The heat from the day still lingers in the air and Murdock is sagging against the wall, a little too pale for comfort. When Face turns up, dangling a room key from one finger, his shoulders are slumped and there are dark circles under his eyes. It’s the first time since they broke out of prison that they’ve actually had the time to stop and breathe and the strain of the past days is hitting hard now.
Hannibal pushes away from the wall and forces weary limbs to move. He might not know what the hell they’re going to do next, but he knows they all desperately need to rest. If he can’t do anything else, he can at least take care of his team until his brain starts working again.
Face got them a double room, mumbles something about everything else being booked. Hannibal accepts the lie without question. Right now, he’s not too keen on splitting up either. It’s a shithole of a motel, the kind that accepts cash and doesn’t ask questions. There’s dust in the corners and the towels haven’t been changed and there’s a big fat spider crawling around in the bathtub.
Murdock sinks down onto one of the beds and rubs his temples slowly, muttering something to himself. Whatever the EMT:s gave him for the headache must be wearing off. Hannibal should have thought of that earlier, should have taken the time to stop for supplies, for meds and food and ice packs for B.A.’s bruises.
It turns out Face has already taken up the slack for him, like he’s been doing ever since the boathouse blew up. He fishes a blisterpack of painkillers out of his pocket and hands it to Murdock. “Here, I got these from the reception. I’ll get you some water.”
It takes B.A. an hour to return and Hannibal doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath until the big guy steps through the door. He’s doing his best to hide his limp and he’s carrying a plastic bag stuffed full with bags of chips, water, pre-packaged sandwiches. “Found a gas station,” B.A. says and puts the bags down on the table. Face dives for it and fishes out a sandwich, offers Murdock another one, but Murdock shakes his head no, one hand pressed against his stomach. Probably nauseous then. They’ll make him eat something later.
No one says much. Murdock lies down on his side and closes his eyes, falling into a light doze. Face grabs the icebucket and heads out to hunt for a working ice machine. B.A. sinks into a chair and waits for him to get back.
Hannibal doesn’t know what to do. He eats half a sandwich and a handfull of chips, every bite growing in his mouth. He can’t remember the last time he was this exhausted and he’s never been this lost. There has to be a plan somewhere, there always is, but he can’t see it. His boys depended on him, trusted him to fix the mess he got them into, and he let them down. He has no idea why they’re still even here.
Russ betrayed him, betrayed them all and Hannibal should have seen it before. The thought never even crossed his mind. And Face, who always knows exactly when to leave before people leave him, asked... asked...
“Boss, how’re your ribs?”
Hannibal looks up, blinks the fog from his eyes. He’s been pacing, walking the length of the room back and forth, as if keeping his legs moving would help get his brain in gear. It’s not working, and now that Face mentions it, Hannibals ribs are hurting like someone wrapped a steel band around his chest and tightened it until he can’t breathe, thank you very much.
“I’m fine,” he says instead. “Nothing to worry about.”
Face has been by his side long enough not to believe him. “Why don’t you lie down, get some sleep? I’ll take first watch.”
Murdock’s sleeping now, curled up on one of the beds and B.A. is drowsing in his chair, a towel of ice wrapped around his bad knee. Hannibal eyes the other bed and thinks about lying down. If he does, he probably won’t get up again and if he’s not entirely mistaken, Face has already been up for three days straight.
“I’m good. You get some rest.”
Face doesn’t like that, not at all. His washed-out face takes on that stubborn expression that Hannibal has learned to recognise and that probably means that they’re both going to be awake all night.
“C’mon Boss, you’re...”
“I’m fine,” Hannibal interrupts. “You’re dead on your feet, kid. Get some sleep, you’ve earned it.” A pause, and then, because Face needs to hear it over and over again to believe it, “You did good. I’m proud of you.”
Face opens his mouth to protest again and Hannibal can’t take any more of it, the care and concern he doesn’t deserve, so he turns his back and heads for the bathroom, figuring he can hide out there for a few moments until he can think again.
He stumbles over his own feet then, slow and clumsy, and his shoulder slams into the side of the bathroom door and the wooden edge of it hits the bruises on his chest and his world goes white and he can’t get any air into his lungs and some ugly cowardly little part of him thinks that maybe it would be best to just stop breathing altogether, to let the entire screwed up thing end here. The rest of him, all the parts that are still Lieutenant Colonel Hannibal Smith, the stubborn bastard who doesn’t know how to give up, screams at him to pull yourself together, damnit, you’re not done yet.
The next he knows, he’s on his knees on the floor, blinking moisture from his eyes and gasping for breath, black dots dancing in his vision. He needs to get up, but his legs won’t work the way they’re supposed to and he feels like he’s seconds away from eating carpet, sick and dizzy and weak.
Face’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel, faint and far away with a strange kind of echo to it and Hannibal can’t make out the words. There are hands on his shoulders, keeping him from doubling over and he’s absurdly grateful for them because otherwise he’d be on the floor.
By the time Hannibal has blinked the worst of the pain out of his eyes and gotten his breathing under control, both B.A. and Murdock are wide awake. Murdock’s sitting on the edge of his bed, blinking worriedly with owlish eyes and B.A. is kneeling on the floor, grunting when it puts pressure on his bad knee.
Hannibal swallows around the hard lump in his throat, ashamed that they have to see him like this. If they had no reason to trust his judgement before, they have even less reason now. He’s the one who’s supposed to look after them, not the other way around.
“It goes both ways, man,” B.A. rumbles, and Hannibal realises that he’s been saying it all out loud, babbling hysterically like a madman - no, not a madman, even Murdock can control himself better than this.
“Hannibal,” Face interrupts. “Don’t do this.” There’s something in his voice, like he’s five years old again, being handed off to strangers. The Army was the only family Face ever had and now, because of Hannibal, he’s lost that too.
“I’m so sorry,” he manages, choking on the words. “I’m sorry I let you down.”
Face gives him a long look and there’s more emotion there than Hannibal is up to interpreting right now. “Boss, you couldn’t let us down if you tried.”
“I did... I should have known...”
“The problem with claircognizace,” Murdock says gently. “Is how unpredictable it is. There’s always a risk that the spirits will give you the wrong intel.”
Hannibal stares at him, tries to follow, but he’s in a lot of pain and his brain is not really up for a trip to Murdock-land. “What?” he blurts.
“You can’t know everything, Hannibal,” Face translates, sharing a quick grin with Murdock. “No one can. And no one blames you.”
They should blame him. If he hadn’t tried to be so goddamn clever and stopped for one moment to think, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. If he’d made other choices back in Iraq. If only Russ hadn’t gotten greedy, maybe Hannibal’s team wouldn’t have had to doubt him in the first place.
“Hey,” Face lowers his voice. “We trust you, okay? I’m sorry I said that thing, back at the boathouse. We all know you’d never betray us.”
“You’re nothing like Morrison, Colonel,” Murdock says. “Your compass works they way it’s supposed to. Worth a lot in a world like this, a good compass.”
“We got you,” B.A. says, helping him up from the floor and Hannibal allows himself to lean, just a little bit, lets B.A. take some of his weight. It turns out to be almost all of it; his legs are still wobbly and every little movement sends spears of agony through his broken ribs.
“You OK?” Face asks, reaching out to help B.A. steady him.
Hannibal can’t hold back a chuckle. “Need to stop getting shot,” he wheezes, forcing a smile. “Let’s work on that, shall we?”
“There’s a plan I can get behind,” Murdock agrees, rubbing his temple with a grin.
Next, Hannibal is lying on the second bed, propped up on a mountain of extra pillows Face begged from the reception. He’s been force-fed the remaining painkillers and the pain in his chest is bearable now, enough that he should be able to get some sleep.
That has to be the first course of action, sleep. Tomorrow, they need to find new transportation and a new baseball cap for Murdock, and they need to let B.A.’s mom know he’s all right. Then they need to find a safe place to lie low until they can come up with a way to clear their names.
It’s not much of a plan, but it’s a beginning. Sooner or later, it’ll all come together.
- fin -