Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For about an hour there was blissful silence. Face sat at the dining table of the small house they were renting in the suburbs, morning sunlight streaming through the windows and three dozen sets of forms spread out neatly across the tabletop.

Hannibal was sitting on the couch a little way away, reading the morning paper, only the occasional faint rustle any indication he was there.

Face had got up early specifically to do their accounts. He always tried keep on top of them, since he could never be sure when he might get the chance and he didn’t want to risk leaving it all till the last minute. They already had enough people after them without the IRS, too. Though usually he put the radio or TV on in the background, he sometimes found the silence distracting in itself, he wanted to be absolutely focussed on keeping everything straight. With dozens of names, accounts and investments to keep track of he wanted to make extra sure it was all done right.

That’s when Murdock woke up.

At first Face didn’t even notice, the low murmur of Murdock’s voice coming down the stairs until he appeared in the kitchen, stretching expansively with a content sigh.

“Oh boy oh boy!” Murdock spoke in a pitch-perfect Donald Duck impersonation that tore Face out of his accountancy zone, “what a beautiful day.”

The effect was uncanny, though Murdock was well known to have a knack for voices.

“What’cha doing there, Facey?” Murdock asked in Donald’s signature voice, hands on his hips and elbows out as he lent over the paperwork.

“I’m kinda busy here, buddy,” Face said carefully.

“Hey I can help,” Murdock quacked, signalling his intent to keep this up for as long as it held his interest, “I’m good at whatever it is you’re doing!”

“Uh, no thanks,” Face smiled, trying to shoe him away, “please don’t touch anything.”

Murdock straightened up and shrugged, “have it your way.”

Face sighed with relief, “thanks.”

BA wandered in, pausing when Murdock fixed him with a wild grin.

“Good morning BA,” Murdock quacked, “it’s a bright beautiful day.”

“Oh hell no,” BA grumbled, shaking his head and walking towards the fridge. He cast a glance over the paperwork as he passed but said nothing.

“Aw come on BA, everyone loves Donald Duck!” Murdock said, hopping around in a waggling chicken dance, “wak wak wak wak wak!”

BA pulled the carton of milk out of the fridge and turned to him, “Donald Duck’s fine, it’s you I got a problem with.” He put the milk beside the blender and took a tin of powder off the side.

“Hey I can help,” Murdock said, strutting up beside BA, “I got some anchovies-”

“You ain’t putting anchovies in my breakfast shake!” BA turned on him and Murdock hopped backwards with a playful quack.

“Guys, please, I just want to get this done,” Face said, “it’ll only be another hour or so.”

“What is that?” BA asked.

“It’s our accounts,” Face said, “I like to go through them whenever I have… had a quiet moment.” He said pointedly.

“I dunno why you bother with all that stuff, man,” BA said, “why we gotta pay taxes anyway?”

Face put his pencil down, “Because, firstly, the more legitimate we appear the less likely we are to get investigated, and second, because we have investments in real, actually legitimate business. We default on our taxes and we’ll get audited, that means our investments get audited, and that means a lot of nice little mom and pop business suddenly have the IRS breathing down their necks.”

“That’d be bad!” Murdock said, “in fact, it’d be quackers!”

BA frowned slowly, then put the milk back in the fridge and grabbed Murdock by the collar, “c’mon, Murduck, we’re going for a walk.”

Murdock quacked in surprise as he was dragged towards the front door, then started flailing his arms, quacking furiously, until finally the door closed behind them.

Hannibal turned from where he’d watched them leave to meet Face’s gaze. “He’s really good at that.”

Face shrugged, shaking his head before returning to his work, “let’s hope he doesn’t keep it up all day.”

Chapter Text

Colonel lynch couldn't help the vicious smirk creeping across his face as he stood in front of the storage locker by the docks, flanked by his men. The A-Team were inside, and there was absolutely no way they could escape this time. He even allowed himself a chuckle before raising the megaphone to his lips

"Come out, Smith! I've got you completely surrounded!"

There was no sound from within but he was content to wait. It was a bright clear day, and though the sun was in his eyes there was a breeze off the sea that made it very pleasant. Surely a great deal more pleasant than the unventilated storage unit in front of him. He imagined Smith sweating as he tried and failed to come up with a plan of escape.

Lynch had finally cornered him.

Then the door of the locker slowly rolled up and Lynch peered inside, unable to make anything out against the glare from the sun. He tried to shade his eyes but the interior still looked completely dark. His men readied their weapons.

Quietly at first, then building in volume, an assortment of engine sounds and metallic clanging heralded something bursting from the darkness. Lynch's men opened fire only for the bullets to ping harmlessly from what appeared to be a metal wall rapidly approaching them.

Lynch threw himself aside as it barrelled towards him, something like a body falling behind as his men hosed it down with rifle fire.

They could not stop the forklift, however, which hurtled past Lynch, the metal sheet welded to the front glinting in the sunlight, and the machine ploughed straight into Lynch's car and carried it over the breaker, straight into the bay.

Lynch could only watch, horrified, as both vehicles landed with a splash and sank out if sight. Then he remembered the driver and turned back just to see his men flip over a roughly assembled dummy in a hard hat and high-vis vest, the words 'ha ha' written across the stuffed sack that made its head.

The sound of tyres screeching made him turn again, and the van, that damned van sped away from the storage lockers.

With a cry Lynch moved to run to his car, only to remember it was now in the sea. With a cry of pure frustration he threw the megaphone down and kicked it after his car.

Chapter Text

Face seemed uncomfortable.

He hid it well enough. Adele Baracus hadn’t noticed it at first, too busy dealing with everything, and then the clean-up, which seemed to take twice as long, frustrated further by her broken arm. In all that time Face had floated around the house, helping, sure, but not really settling, looking like he was afraid of touching something he shouldn’t or taking up too much space.

She admitted at first she’d jumped to conclusions and assumed he simply didn’t approve of her home. Scooter had told her Face preferred the finer things, champagne and fast cars, penthouses with swimming pools and she had thought that her humble apartment hadn’t met his standards. When she’d asked Scooter about it he’d just laughed gently.

“Nah, ain’t nothing like that, ma, he just doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

So she’d paid Face a little more attention and yes, it seemed like he was either waiting for orders or to be thrown out. Well, if he needed something to occupy him then Adele could certainly find him something to do.

“Honey, will you lend me a hand in here?” Adele asked from the kitchen doorway, and Face startled from his examination of the photos in the living room to hurry over with a smile.

“What do you need?”

“Well, I wanted to do a little baking, but this damned arm…” She sighed, “so, help a lady out, huh?”

Face hesitated, looking uncertain, then nodded, “of course.”

She recognised that look. “You never baked before?”

“No ma’am,” Face replied, already rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands in preparation.

“And why not?” Adele said lightly, teasing, “momma kept you out of the kitchen, huh?”

“Ah, no,” Face shook his head, watching the towel as he dried his hands, “I was raised in an orphanage.”

Adele had turned away to open a drawer and her hand stilled on the handle. Well, Scooter hadn’t told her that. She was going to give that boy a talking to. Need to know, that’s what they called it in the army, wasn’t it? We’ll she’d needed to know that before she made a fool of herself. She turned back to Face, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he just smiled and gave a little shrug, lifting and dropping his hands at his sides in a gesture that said ‘here I am, where do you need me?’

He didn’t seem uncomfortable, and she figured her pity probably wouldn’t be appreciated, so she smiled instead. “Well, never too late to learn.”

He chuckled and she congratulated herself on a smooth recovery.

“You like chocolate cake?” She asked. Thankfully Scooter had already done a grocery run.

“Yes ma’am,” Face said.

She nodded, “good. Scooter never had much of a sweet tooth, but nobody turns down a chocolate cake.”

She opened another cupboard and took out a stack of bowls, placing them on the counter. Scooter used to look up at her, eyes pleading, to scoop the leftover frosting from the bowl and eat it off his fingers. She always let him, even if it was bad for him. Just a little treat for being good, even if it didn’t matter if he’d been good, the way she’d sometimes buy him a candy bar on the way home from work or let him stay up a little late to watch a movie. A thousand tiny things she shouldn’t have done, by the rules of good motherhood, and she did anyway to be a good mother.

Each time she said ‘yes’ to something she shouldn’t have, a little extra, a little treat, she wasn’t just saying ‘yes’.

She was saying ‘yes, I love you’.

She looked at Face waiting for his instructions. They hadn’t baked at the orphanage, and she doubted they’d bought him candy on the way home from work, or let him stay up to watch movies, carrying him off the couch when he fell asleep before the end and tucking him into bed, or putting a blanket over him when he got too big to carry.

They probably didn’t say yes.

“If you do a good job,” she said, smiling, “I’ll even let you lick the spoon.”

Chapter Text

Murdock came running into the kitchen, almost skidding over on the linoleum as he came to a stop. He stood for a second, frowning slowly at Hannibal standing by the open back door, arms crossed, looking out onto the back porch. He moved to stand beside him and saw both what had brought him into the kitchen at speed and what Hannibal was now frowning at.

A large pot sat on the back porch, black smoke rising slowly from within.

Murdock stood for a moment, then slowly took off his hat and pressed it against his heart, mournfully lowering his eyes.

Hannibal was silent a moment longer, then clicked his tongue. “I thought…”

Murdock looked at him expectantly and set his hat back on his head.

“If it was supposed to be 120 for three hours and I put it on 500…”

Murdock winced.

Hannibal sighed, still studying the pot. “You know, supposedly, people do this for fun.”

“I guess most people follow the instructions,” Murdock ventured, following his gaze back to the pot.

“What’s fun about that?”

“Well,” Murdock paused, “they get something edible out of it.”

Hannibal furrowed his brow, spreading one hand towards the smoke, “I followed the instructions.”

Murdock sucked his teeth, “as much as usual.”

Hannibal shrugged, crossing his arms again.

“Ended up about the same as usual, too.” Murdock said, tilting his head.

The doorbell rang, and from somewhere else in the house Face called out “I got it.”

Hannibal and Murdock frowned at each other.

A minute later Face poked his head around the kitchen door. “Dinner’s up.”

Hannibal turned to him, “you ordered out?”

Face looked at him, then past him to the pot and back, cackling a laugh as he disappeared back into the sitting room.

“He must have ordered that as soon as I said I was making dinner,” Hannibal said indignantly.

“Yeah,” Murdock said gratefully, walking to the kitchen door, “he’s always been smart.”

Chapter Text

The looming figure of Godfrey Gopher was almost black against the rising sun, casting a long shadow over the green at Fun In a Million Mini Golf, Arcade, and Bowling Alley. He stood on the castle that marked the eighteenth hole, holding up a gold cub like Excalibur, marking the centre point between two groups of armed men.

Hannibal, flanked by BA and Murdock one one side and Colton Gaines and three of his men on the other. All of them stood at faux ease, holsters plainly visible, guns ready to be snatched up at a moment’s notice.

“Your little friend is gonna be staying with us till I get what I want,” Colton said, “but I wont promise we’ll treat him good. I ain’t a hotel.” He gave a nasty chuckle and Murdock’s hand twitched into a fist. “So you just hand over them deeds and your boy gets released with only a few bruises.”

“He better not have any bruises,” Hannibal said icily, “or you’re gonna end up making this personal.”

“Is that right?” Colton smirked, “I’d say it’s already personal. You and your men standing between me and what I’m owed. That feels mighty personal.” He smiled without humour, “more of my time you waste the nastier them bruises are gonna get.”

BA clenched his teeth and drew a deep breath in and let it out slowly.

“I’m gonna give you ‘till tomorrow to shape up and give me those deeds,” Colton said, “otherwise you’ll start getting him back in pieces.”

“You don’t want to make an enemy out of us, Gaines,” Hannibal said, “you wont like us when we’re angry."

Murdock thought he could hear a swarm of bees. Or a lawnmower. Or a swarm of bees driving a lawnmower.

“You don’t get to make threats,” Colton snapped, “so you give me those papers or we’re gonna see how well pretty boy bleeds.”

The bees were getting closer. Murdock threw a look across at BA, who was busy trying to glare Colton to death.

“You want a war you got it,” Hannibal replied. “First we’ll take our friend back by force, second we’ll make you regret the day you were born.”

“You don’t scare me,” Colton gritted, “now I’m only gonna give you until tonight. If I don’t have those papers in my hands by ten pm, I’ll…” he paused, frowning slightly, “I’m gonna…” he looked towards the direction of the sound, beyond the eighteenth hole. His men did the same.

Now BA looked across at Murdock, then Hannibal. Hannibal made a discreet nod over his shoulder, and the three of them began to take slow steps back.

“What in the hell is that?” Colton asked.

Godfrey Gopher exploded.

A golf cart burst out of the gopher’s chest, sunlight streaming around it as the statue shattered. The cart landed with a crunch, ploughing a short furrow in the green. Bits of plastic and plaster showered down around it, Godfrey’s head bounced off the cart’s canopy, then the hood, and rolled to a stop at Colton’s feet. Godfrey’s golf club narrowly missed two of Colton’s men, who jumped back with a yelp.

Face, with a black eye and a split lip, switched off the engine, levered himself out of the golf cart and punched Colton square in the face.

As Colton staggered back in surprise, blood streaming from a broken nose, Face straightened his jacket, turned, and walked away, between the rest of the Team who had pulled their guns to cover him. Colton cradled his nose, staring at them, his men in stunned silence behind him.

“I think that concludes our business, gentlemen,” Hannibal said lightly, smiling as they backed away, keeping Colton and his men covered, “we’ll be back later, for the war.”

Chapter Text

The LA County Small Business Fair was bustling. Self employed businesspeople from all over had gathered for three days of networking. Stalls had been set up in the main conference centre, as well as the three large parking lots surrounding it. Bryce Redford had a stall in what had been designated the ‘market garden quarter’, where the best of his apples were piled into boxes he’d bought specifically for the event. He looked across at his wife, Lisa, who gave him a knowing smile, and he winked back before heading out towards one of the many collections of refreshment stands.

“Bryce!” Karen Stanwell was dressed in a crochet top and denim dungarees, and she lifted her Styrofoam cup of coffee in greeting.

“Hey,” Bryce grinned, toasting her with his own cup.

“Well, you’re looking a lot better,” Karen said, “you figure out your ‘problem’?”

“Yeah,” Bryce said with a relieved sigh, “I hired in some help.”

“Yeah?” Karen smirked, “and?”

“And… it was just like you said,” Bryce replied. He sipped his coffee, “I decided to armour my crop duster.”

“Oh?” Karen giggled.

“Yeah, after what you did with your mini-excavator, I just really thought it could do with an update.”

A woman with wild red hair and a long tie-dye dress paused as she swept towards the coffee truck and moved to stand with them, “did you say you armoured your crop duster?”

Bryce hesitated, “oh I was just-”

“I carved a beautiful cannon,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, “it was the form of a tiger.” She smiled, “to symbolise strength and grace. It fired balloons full of paint from its mouth, and it accidentally hit a helicopter.”

Bryce and Karen shared a look.

The woman smiled wistfully, “I was inspired, you see. So unusual to find someone who understands both the Spirit of the Wood and heavy ordinance, don’t you think?”

“Oh for sure,” Karen said with a side glance at Bryce.

The woman smiled, “you see my workshop was plagued by pests,” she said with a pointed look, “and I feared for my art.”

“And the tiger helped?” Bryce asked.

“Oh immensely,” she said, “you see, I met him,” she paused, sighing wistfully, “tall, lithe, intensely… creative. We spent a feverish day locked in my workshop,” she clutched her hands together at her chest, “I don’t believe the Spirit of the Wood has ever touched me so deeply before-”

“I didn’t even know that was a service they provided,” Bryce said with a snicker.

“You created a tiger cannon?” Karen interjected quickly.

“Exactly.” The woman said, “and you know the pests never came back.” She grinned, “of course it wasn’t just the cannon, but it certainly helped.”

A man in blue overalls stopped on his way back from the coffee truck. “Did you say a tiger cannon?”

“A work of art,” the redhead woman said, “with surprising practical applications.”

“I have a cannon,” the man said, “to be honest I’m not sure what to do with it.”

“Where did you get it from?” Karen asked.

“It was, uh, left, by some contractors,” the man shrugged.

The three others shared a look.

“Was your business also beset by pests?” The redhead woman asked.

“Pests?” The man looked between them, then smiled shyly and rubbed his hand through his hair, “I guess you could say that.”

“I’ve heard there’s a guy who buys those for his private collection,” Bryce said, “he calls it the Folk Militaria museum.”

“Is that legal?” The man asked.

“No idea, but I heard the army visit him every other week.” Bryce replied.

The man nodded thoughtfully. “Does he pay cash?”

“Speaking of the military,” Karen said quietly, taking a sip of coffee so her directional nod didn’t appear so obvious.

The redhead woman glanced in the direction of two MPs walking through the crowd.

“I wonder who they could be looking for?” Karen said airily.

“Oh my,” the redhead woman said suddenly, “I just remembered I’ve left my woodcarving tools unattended. I’d hate for someone to steal my chisels and jam them into some poor man’s tires,” she waved as she walked away, “lovely to meet you all!”

“I like her,” Karen said with a giggle.

Another man walked up, acid washed jeans and a neat blue shirt. His smile was a little too stiff, and he glanced towards the MPs before he spoke to them.

“Good morning,” he said, “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

“Which conversation was that?” Bryce asked.

The man’s smile faltered just slightly. “I was wondering, have any of you ever had to use ‘outside help’?”

Bryce, Karen and the other man glanced at each other.

“I’ve been having some problems on my farm,” the newcomer continued, “and I’ve heard that help could be available for the right price.”

“I better get back to my stall,” the man in the blue overalls said, throwing a frowning glance at the newcomer. “See you around.”

The newcomer looked expectantly at Karen and Bryce.

“You’re looking for the A-Team?” Bryce asked.

“Yes, do you know where I could find them?” The newcomer asked quickly.

“Buddy,” Bryce shook his head, “you’ve been duped.”

“Duped?” The newcomer frowned.

“The A-Team don’t exist,” Karen said, “it’s just made up fluff to sell newspapers.”

“Just go to the cops,” Bryce added.

The newcomer shifted, clearly thinking about the best way to argue, “I was told you might have first-hand knowledge.”

“Sure, and they asked you to pick up a left handed screwdriver, too, I guess?” Bryce shook his head. “Sorry buddy, you’re on a wild goose chase.”

The newcomer looked put out, “oh. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

Karen and Bryce smiled politely and watched him leave, even as he ‘discreetly’ spoke to the two MPs as they got close to the coffee truck.

Karen rolled her eyes, “and they wonder why they’ve never caught up with them.”

Bryce laughed, “I better get back. Nice to see you again.”

“See you next market,” Karen said, toasting him with her coffee again.

Lisa was putting out more jars of apple sauce when Bryce got back.

“How was Karen?” She asked.

“Good,” Bryce said, “saw a couple of MPs around the coffee truck.”

“Funny the army would turn up at something like this,” Lisa said, “I heard all their tires were slashed.”

“Is that right?” Bryce said casually, “did they catch who did it?”

Lisa shook her head, picking up one of their apples and smiling, “that’s the crazy part. Two cars and all the tires gone, and nobody saw a single thing.”

Chapter Text

Face’s formally snow white smock was now a little soot smudged and grass stained, and only a few of the daisies remained in his hair. He glared at the back of Hannibal’s head as he teased the rest of the flowers out with his fingers, dropping them into Murdock’s lap so he could add them to his chain.

“You cut it a little close, didn’t you?” Face said, finding another daisy and scowling at it before tossing it to Murdock.

“You were fine,” Hannibal said, waiving him off.

“You smell nice,” Murdock ventured, earning a glare of his own, “like a bonfire.”

“Well there’s a good reason for that,” Face said, extracting another two daisies.

“They’d hardly started,” Hannibal replied, smiling at him in the rear view mirror.

“They had a bear,” Face said. He looked down at himself, a daisy falling into his lap. He grunted, “how many of these things are there?”

“You got one at three o’clock,” BA said, risking a look over when they stopped at a turning.

“Ugh,” Face sighed, finding the offending flora and pulling it out, “thanks.” He dropped it into Murdock’s hand, then examined the hem of his smock with a frown. “Oh god I think I’m singed.” He looked at Hannibal again, “I’m singed.”

Hannibal sighed, “you’re not singed. The fire was nowhere near you.”

“I am singed,” Face said, showing the offending smudge to Murdock.

“I dunno, he does kinda look singed,” Murdock said, then lent over to pluck another daisy from Face’s hair.

Hannibal twisted around in his seat and Face stretched the hem of his smock to demonstrate the singe with a challenging glower.

“Hm,” Hannibal frowned lightly then settled back around, “must’ve caught a stray spark.”

“A spark?!” Face said indignantly, “I was almost immolated!”

“Ooh, that’s a good word,” Murdock said, threading the daisies together.

“The fire was getting pretty high,” BA said, and Hannibal cast him a sidelong look.

“The fire was nowhere near him,” Hannibal said, “the plan went perfectly.”

“Plan?!” Face almost squeaked, “you’re gonna get me killed!”

Hannibal rolled his eyes, “stop being so dramatic. If you’d been killed every time you said that you’d be dead by now.”

Face pressed his lips together and glared.

“He does look a bit singed,” BA said.

“Nobody has been singed,” Hannibal declared firmly, “anyway, how did you end up in there? I thought they went in for virgins.”

Face slumped back with a pout, a daisy dropping out and bouncing off his shoulder. Murdock caught it. “They said I looked pure.”

“Oof.” Hannibal winced, “sorry kid, I didn’t know they were going to get mean.”

“At least we got Susie and the girls out,” BA said.

Face sighed in defeat, “you could’ve been a little bit faster.”

“They had a bear,” Hannibal said pointedly.

“I’m glad the bear escaped,” Murdock said, connecting the ends of his daisy chain and hanging it around his neck, “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Hannibal said, grinning, “who wants barbecue?”

Chapter Text

Hannibal ejected the tape from the cassette deck and tossed it into the glove compartment with a grunt of dissatisfaction before rummaging some more, eventually pulling out a box with ‘Old People Music’ written across the front in Face’s neat handwriting.

“Asshole,” Hannibal muttered, grinning as he put the tape in and pressed play. He lent back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as the first bars of Gene Vincent’s ‘Baby Blue’ played over the speakers. “Now what the hell is wrong with this?” He asked the empty car. “Old people music,” he muttered, “just cause you would’ve been…” he thought for a second, trailing off as he did the math. “Jesus Christ,” he sighed, turning the music up instead.

He watched the wing mirror, foot resting on the gas pedal, and perked up as his target came into view. He jammed the car into gear and gunned the engine, wincing slightly as the tires ground themselves on the tarmac.

“Oops,” he muttered, pulling out right in front of the target car.

Or, as it turned out, target cars. It didn’t matter, he gripped the wheel and put pedal to metal, tearing away while the trailing cars immediately gave chase.

“That’s it,” Hannibal laughed, “come get me.”

The roads were open and dry, covered in a light coating of dust, and the wheels skidded as he took a corner at speed, kicking up dust behind him. The roar of the engine almost drowned out the music, so he turned it up again.

The Corvette bounced over a bump in the road and landed with a disconcerting crunch and Hannibal winced again.

“Probably fine,” he told himself.

Then someone in the chasing cars started shooting.

“Huh,” Hannibal smirked, slaloming the Corvette across the road, “I guess you’re angrier than I thought.”

He heard a bullet ping off the chassis and grimaced.

“It’ll buff out,” Hannibal told the imaginary expression on imaginary Face, just as he heard another bullet impact into the car, “ah shit.”

“Now Face,” he said, “a couple of bullet holes isn’t the end of the world. It’s just a car.”

The wing mirror exploded with a crack that made Hannibal flinch, and the remains dangled, bouncing off the door.

Hannibal let out a deep sigh, “Face is gonna kill me.”

He yanked the handbrake to take a sharp turn, the back wheels skidding out and spraying up dust behind him.

“Now Face, listen, this is a dangerous job and sacrifices have to occasionally be made. Remember how many times BA- No. No, no, no,” he chastised himself, “don’t remind BA how many times the van has been shot up.”

He thought for a moment and tried again, “look, if they weren’t shooting at the car, they’d have been shooting at you, and we can both agree-”

More bullets hit the back of the car.

“God damn it, you’re not helping,” he snapped at the men chasing him. He tutted, then tried again with more authority, “lieutenant, we have a mission to do, and there’s no point in getting precious about a-”

The back window shattered, followed by the tape deck as his pursuers managed to make a one in a million shot down the centre of the car.

Hannibal gaped at the tape deck, then threw a scowl into the rear view mirror. He shook his head.

“Face,” he said gently, “you know that old Corvette you used to have? Well, it was really beginning to slow down…” he threw a look at the centre console, “so we had to take it to a big parking lot up-state where it had plenty of room to run around. How about as soon as we get back we go to a dealership and get you a nice new one, huh? With cup holders and a tape deck that works...”

At least the plan was progressing, and the thud of helicopter blades heralded Murdock in a firefighting Huey, which subsequently dumped white paint over the two cars chasing Hannibal.

The sight of the two tail cars screeching to a blind halt didn’t please Hannibal as much as it might have done, since the tug of the steering wheel in his hands suggested a slow puncture in one of the right wheels.

“Face is gonna kill me,” Hannibal sighed again.

By the time he got to the airfield the Corvette was almost driving on its rims, Hannibal pulled it to a stop beside the helicopter as Murdock hopped out, grinning wildly.

“Hoo boy, colonel, that was the most fun I’ve had since… since…” Murdock stopped by the car, his mouth slowly dropping open.

“What did you do?” Murdock whispered in horrified awe.

Hannibal made a small, vague gesture and ran his hand through his hair, just then noticing the trail of oil drooling from the underside of the car. “We can fix it.”

Murdock stared at the car, then at Hannibal, “Face is gonna kill you.”

Hannibal made an unhappy sound, “it’s just a car.”

“Face is gonna kill you twice.”

When the van arrived, carrying BA and Face, Murdock took a couple of urgent steps away, and Hannibal threw him a pleading look.

“Help me!” Hannibal whispered.

“Only a priest can help you now,” Murdock shook his head and backed away further.

Face got out of the van, his smile instantly dropping away the moment he saw his Corvette. He walked over, mouth open, then circled the car slowly. Finally, he turned to Hannibal, his expression like a punch in the gut.

“My car!”

Hannibal flinched, looking to BA for help, only for BA to scowl at him. He made a reluctant sound and smiled meekly at Face, “It’ll buff out?”

Chapter Text

“Face-”

"I don't care!” Face said fiercely, “I don't care about my- It's not even- It's arbitrary, isn't it? Just some day that doesn't mean anything.”

Murdock shifted, silent for a moment, watching Face fighting his emotions as he turned away. "Of course it's arbitrary,” he said easily, shrugging. “It’s all arbitrary. Days, weeks, months, years. They use a completely different calendar in China, you know? The Russians have Christmas in January. Some people count in moon phases. I got a buddy who uses metric time, but he’s kinda nuts.”

Face turned back to him, about to speak when Murdock pressed on.

"Lets say there's, dunno, five billion people on the planet," Murdock said, "they're all born sometime. Every day there's a few million people celebrating their birthday. A million more celebrating their anniversary, or their graduation, or the day they kicked their deadbeat husband to the curb and joined the circus just like they always dreamed of," he smiled, "there’s always some holiday or some observance. Somebody, somewhere, is always commemorating something. But let me tell you, nobody is celebrating march the fifteenth or January the sixth or April twenty third. Nobody’s looking at the calendar going oh boy, March eight is coming up, break out the March eight balloons and the March eight cake and the March eight marching band.”

Face was frowning at him.

“Days don’t matter,” Murdock explained. “Days are just a useful way to plan lunch dates and remember how long ago something happened. So pick a day, anything you want." He shrugged, "we'll call it Face day, or Temp day, whatever you like. Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t line up with anything in particular. Maybe something in the summer, I feel like you’re a summer baby,” he said, casting Face an appraising look, “you got sunny hair and you like being warm, like a cute little snake.”

Face furrowed his brow. “A cute-”

“Choose anything. The day you joined the squad, the day you called yourself Templeton. Choose your favourite number, or throw a dart, pick a new day every year. Just let us spoil you a little bit.” He said, and Face studied the carpet. He tilted his head to try to meet Face’s eyes, “because it’s not the day that matters, it’s you.”

Face’s gaze flicked up to meet Murdock’s and immediately flinched away again. “That…”

“Face,” Murdock sighed fondly, “I don’t know what the world would look like without you, but I can tell you right now I wouldn’t like it nearly half as much.”

Face swallowed, trying to look at him and failing. "Asshole," he said gratefully.

Murdock held a little parcel wrapped in newspaper out for him, "happy thanks for existing day."

Face stared for a long moment, then blinked hard, and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He took the parcel, "you’re just saying this so I’ll buy you birthday presents.”

“You like buying presents,” Murdock said with a knowing smirk, “and receiving them, so I don’t know why you’re so opposed to a day specifically designed for that.”

Face looked at the parcel, “I guess… I guess I got a little mixed up.”

Murdock nodded, “good thing you got me to straighten you out.”

“Yeah, it is,” Face nodded, eyes still fixed on the parcel, “I could say something cheesy right now like the best thing I ever got was you guys.”

“You could,” Murdock agreed, “but you’d never say anything that cheesy.”

Face looked up with a smile, “no, you’re right, I wouldn’t.”

Murdock threw his arm around Face’s shoulders and nodded at the door. “You ready to celebrate provisional inaugural international Faceday?”

Face laughed, “yeah, I am.”