#Amy/Face--With You I'd Withstand All of Hell to Hold Your Hand

[avictimofthejazz]

Amy: Face! I'm a reporter! I have a constitutional right to know what's going on!

Face: You're absolutely right! And when I find out what's going on, you'll be the second to know!

[avictimofthejazz]

Amy: WHO ATE MY BREAD?!

Amy: I'M GOING TO K-

Face: I did?

Amy: Kiss you and buy some more, you haven't been eating anything today Face.

*walking away*

Face:

Face: She's gone Murdock.

Murdock, coming out the closet with bread stuffed in their mouth: Twankh uh!

[ecoamerica]

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[avictimofthejazz]

The Christmas Sweater

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether​ (For Amy)

“Now you can’t laugh when I come out, Amy.” Face lingers in the bathroom a few minutes longer then necessary while he tries to extract that promise from the brunette. “Murdock gave me this sweater, and it means a lot to him that I wear it at least once a year during the Christmas season.” The sweater is a work of chaotic, abstract art as every vaguely seasonally appropriate theme seems to have been jammed onto this red-and-green abomination. He has gingerbread cookies, poinsettias, tinsel, snowmen, candy canes, packages, Christmas trees, reindeer, Santa Clauses, and snowflakes all vying for a point of prominence. The overall effect feels more like a Christmas hangover than anything else… Still… his best friend bought it for him, and it really does mean a lot for the pilot to see Face wear the gift at least once a year. After every Christmas, Face packs it back in his trunk in the orphanage, and hopes the moths will take care of the problem for him. So far, they have not obliged… A glance at his watch tells him that he cannot stall any longer, or they will be later than he usually is. Coming out of the bathroom, he hurries across the room in the hopes of grabbing his overcoat and slipping it on before Amy gets a good look at the sweater. Even pairing it with a sedate white shirt, black pants, and black tie does little to tone it down… if anything, the low-key nature of the rest of his clothes just puts more emphasis on the sweater. “Are you ready?” He goes to grab his coat, glancing at Amy as he speaks.

[avictimofthejazz]

The Hug

[avictimofthejazz]

Hannibal: Face isn’t answering his phone

Amy: I’ll call

Hannibal: BA and I have both tried six times each, what makes you thi-

Face: Hello?

[avictimofthejazz]

Tawnie: Ooh, somebody has a crush

Amy: Pfft, I don’t have a crush on Face. I just think he's cool. It’s not like I stay up at night thinking about him.

*Later that night*

Amy, very much awake: Uh oh.

[ecoamerica]

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[avictimofthejazz]

Murdock: Ooh, somebody has a crush

Face: Pfft, I don’t have a crush on Amy! I just think she's nice! It’s not like I stay up at night thinking about her.

*Later that night*

Face, very much awake: Uh oh.

[avictimofthejazz]

Face calling Amy late at night

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether (Amy)

Flopped against the wall of the phone booth, Face tiredly shoves the last of his spare change into the machine. When the operator picks up, he gives Amy’s number, and waits again. The seconds are ticking by… hopefully he has enough change to survive the connecting process, and manage a conversation with the reporter.

Amy’s sleepy ‘hello’ sounds like music to his ears, and he automatically starts smiling just from the sound. “Hi. It’s me. Heard anything from BA yet?” The mechanic has been missing for three days now. Murdock is on high alert at the VA in case BA reaches out to him there, the van phone is manned constantly by either Hannibal or himself, and they have brought Amy in to on the off chance that he tries to get ahold of her, or shows up at her apartment. So far, the combination of searching and phone-sitting has not produced anything useful. Unfortunately, LA is a very big town. Trying to find one guy, even one as distinctive as BA, is akin to trying to find a needle in neon-lit haystack. All they can do is keep trying though, and hope that either they get a few clues down the line, or BA is able to reach out to them in some useful way or another.

[avictimofthejazz]

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether​ (for Amy)

“Stay behind me.” Face gently pushes Amy behind him, “And get ready to run when I tell you to do so, okay? Just make for that emergency exit… can you see it?” He keeps his eyes trained forward, but hopes Amy remembers where the stairwell is in the hotel’s corridor, their escape route marked by the glowing neon sign. This enemy is different from some of the other ones the pair have tangled with in the past, a new Colonel sent by the military to capture the elusive A-Team. Where Lynch was a buffoon, and Decker’s ruthlessness made him predictable, this new guy is a wild card… and quite possibly just wild. There is definitely something off in that man’s head, but whatever it is, Face does not want to examine it too closely. He also cannot afford to let this lunatic find out about Amy. The corridor in front of him is not straight—there is a ninety degree corner that he is focused on for the moment. Face waits until he hears the sound of military boots thumping into the soft carpet, and raised voices coming from around the obstruction as they systematically check every room on this floor. Six voices… they are all there so no one has doubled around and tried to sneak up on Amy and himself. That is what he needed to be sure of before they flee. Reaching down, he finds Amy’s hand and squeezes it before letting go. “Run.” The order is whispered, but leaves no room to question it. “I’ll be right behind you.”  

[avictimofthejazz]

🌛 Amy to Face

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether (Amy)

Sleep is not coming tonight. Face accepted that nearly two hours ago. Some nights he is fine… but other nights… other nights, the ghosts linger too close for him to rest. Tonight, phantoms in his own head are keeping him awake, and every time he dozes off, he ends up back in Vietnam. Accepting surrender, feeling it is more dignified than having a panic attack in the bathroom, he has settled for a chair in the living room of the plush penthouse suite he got for himself last week. They think he is a yacht salesman from the Hamptons, considering a relocation to the Beverly Hills market, and offered him their one-month trial run on the apartment. No rent for a month… if he likes the place and decides to make his move, they can arrange a lease then. Of course, in a few weeks, he will admit that study has convinced him the Hamptons are his best market for now… but if he ever changes his mind, he will be delighted to rent a property from them. Then Mr. Ernesto Houston will vanish, and he will pop up somewhere else under a different name… or take one of his house-sitting gigs again… Swallowing a sip of scotch, he turns his attention back to the number place puzzle book in his hands. Scratching a nine into the proper square, he sighs. Hopefully Amy is still asleep… he had slipped out so carefully that she likely has not realized he left. Perhaps in a bit he will try to sleep again… or at least go back and join her. At any rate, it will be more comfortable then sitting here on his own… A sound in the hallway catches his good ear, and he turns. Squinting past the halo caused by his lone light, he relaxes as soon as he recognizes the figure.

“Did I wake you?” he asks Amy worriedly. “I was trying not too…”  

[avictimofthejazz]

Amy: Face and I don’t use pet names.

Hannibal: I see. Hey, what do bees make?

Amy: Honey?

Face: Yes, dear?

Amy: ....

Hannibal: Don't ever lie to my face again.

[avictimofthejazz]

The Hunting Grounds

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether (Closed for Amy)

Slumped up against the doorframe, Face thanks whichever angels he has not already worn out when he hears footsteps from inside the apartment. Amy is home. In his current state, Face is nearly unrecognizable. Instead of his usual suits or his favorite leather jacket, he is wearing old fatigues that have definitely seen better days and the week’s worth of stubble on his face is quickly graduating into a proper beard. After a shower takes all the mud, blood, and grime off, he can properly assess which body parts are actually injured and which ones merely ache. Right now, he has no idea. The apartment door swings open and, without waiting for a proper invitation, he flops inside. Literally flops, landing in Amy’s entry way with a thud that shakes something off the coat rack (he is too tired to look up and see what it was), and evokes an audible groan. “Hey Amy…” He squints up at her outline, silhouetted against the early morning light. “Hannibal still out lookin’ for me? Or is he talking to Father O’Malley about my funeral?” The last week has been a nightmare straight from hell. Some crazed Major who found retirement too hard to cope with, and somehow met a group of fellow psychos, had developed a nasty game of kidnapping people off the street, and turning them loose on his private chunk of ground. Then he and his buddies spend a jolly few days hunting their victim… Face can only assume they dispose of the dead bodies when they are done, and then toast the killer over a bottle of scotch.   That idiot though—Major Washburn Face thinks his name is—clearly had no idea who he grabbed when he and his buddies decided to nab Face. More then likely, they saw the Armani suits and the nice hotel choices, so assumed they were grabbing a business executive or someone with a similar level of softness. The nice suits are merely Face’s favorite façade though, a nod toward respectability that he wants and will likely never achieve fully. The Green Beret is always near the surface… and the Green Beret has been running things for the last few days. Face sighs, his eyelids flickering tiredly as he waits for Amy’s reply. Hopefully he can get the Green Beret put away again… that side of his personality hardly mixes well with polite company… and it will probably stress Murdock out to see him like that again…

[avictimofthejazz]

“  i’m not letting you go alone.  ” Amy to Face

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

“Amy—” The protest dies on Face’s lips when he takes one look at the reporter. She is not taking ‘no’ for an answer… she usually doesn’t. He remembers all too well the way Murdock described how she forced herself onto the plane with him when the team got hauled to Borneo. The pilot is still in admiration over that. The only other woman to surpass Amy’s actions in his mind is probably Kelly, when she tried to bluff him with a toy gun instead of turning him into the bounty hunters, all on the strength of Homer liking him.

Instead of fighting with her, Face slips his Colt into his shoulder holster, and pulls his leather jacket on to cover everything up. “Fine… I won’t go alone, but you have to wait for me to catch up!” he protests.  “Why are you charging headfirst into my crisis, and leaving me behind?” Long strides catch him up to Amy, and then he grabs the door before she can go marching out. “Now you know I haven’t brought Hannibal in on this one, right?” He asks worriedly. “BA knows, and he knows where to go if I don’t check in by six but don’t expect immediate backup.” Face knows that logically he should bring Hannibal in, but after all the trouble he went through getting help to go find Leslie, he feels a bit tentative about bringing his boss in again… especially since a lot of explanations are needed on this case. Leslie was just an ex-girlfriend who vanished out of his life abruptly. Mena is a whole other situation. It was difficult enough admitting the basics to BA and Amy, though the latter demanded the information. He does not want to explain this twisted tale to Hannibal if he can at all help it.  

[avictimofthejazz]

😴 - climbs into bed with my muse (Amy to Face)

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

Face raises his head, squinting into the dark when he hears the bedroom door open. The silhouette, just a shade blacker than the light in the hall, catches his attention and he groans. “Murdock, for the last time, it’s two in the morning and I really don’t care about the astronomical and mathematical significance of Stonehenge right now. I know you’re obsessed, but we can figure the numbers once the sun comes up, okay?” Dropping back down on his pillow, he grumpily adds, “Besides, all the neopagan hacks who believe in that stuff think the monument has solar significance, not lunar significance.” Of course, neither Murdock nor he are in that category. Just, Murdock’s latest fascination is with the math connected to great monuments, and the pilot has dragged Face and his numerical skills down with him. They have already worked through the Pyramids at Giza, and multiple pyramids in Mexico including the ones at Teotihuacán, Chichen Itza, and the giant one at Cholula. They have insufficient data to calculate how much water is in Old Faithful, and they are still gathering information on species living on the Great Barrier Reef. Mount Saint Helens, they must wait for the scientists to finish releasing information before they can figure out the full volume of debris and ash from the explosion. Stonehenge is next on the list followed by whichever one catches Murdock’s attention next… unless an entirely new subject seizes his friend’s mind and distracts him. Face pauses, fully expecting Murdock to fling himself bodily on the bed now that he has been caught, and launch into an explanation about why it is imperative that they do the math tonight… but none comes. Instead, the footsteps approaching his bed are much softer than any Murdock can make, even when he is trying to be stealthy. Blinking, a whisp of a grin steals over Face’s features. When he and his friends have the luxury of private rooms (like right now when a client is putting the team up in their house), there is only one other person who bothers to sneak into his room. A few seconds later, the familiar whiff of floral shampoo and her perfume confirms the identity of his visitor.

Rolling onto his opposite side, he grins at Amy’s silhouette. “Well…I suppose for you, I’m willing to do the math on Stonehenge… but only if you ask nicely.” He is already pulling down the blankets on the opposite side of the bed for her. This has become enough of a routine that he no longer sleeps in the middle of his bed, but keeps Amy’s side open for her.

[avictimofthejazz]

 “What are you doing in my room?”, Amy to Face

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

Face holds up his left hand in a pacifying gesture, his right hand tucked in protectively close to his chest, as soon as he makes Amy out from behind the glare of her flashlight. “Please don’t send me away…I don’t have anywhere else I can go.” Closing Amy’s window with his good hand, the con artist leans a bit too heavily against the sill for a moment. Trying to stay standing proves to be too much of an effort. Face wavers for a moment before sinking down to the floor, sprawling his legs out in front of him. He hardly looks at his best, his ruined, mud-splattered suit a testament to the hell he has just been through.

“I just spent about six hours stuck in the mud flats out south of here…literally stuck.” he mumbles, leaning his head back against the sill. “Guess those idiots Hannibal decided to poke thought that would be a good way to get me out of the picture… they stole my Vette and stranded me out there. After sloughing out of that, I managed to convince someone to give me a ride back to LA but… well…” he made a vague gesture with his good hand. With the theft of his beloved Vette, he is personally compromised on most levels he can think of. While he has nothing in the car or his scammed hotel room that ties him to the A-Team, the crooks know where he lives now. In fact, they have probably already gone through the place with a fine-tooth comb, looking for non-exist clues about the A-Team’s next move. Amy’s apartment is the closest to where he got dropped off. If she turns him out, he has just enough energy to crash on a park bench for the night, and try to figure things out after the sun comes back up.

[avictimofthejazz]

♤ (your choice)

@iloveitxwhenaplanxcomestogether

“I don’t want to know you.”

Face pronounces the words hesitantly, avoiding the all-too knowing gaze of the brunette. It is easier to focus on the speckled table-top they are sitting at, and let his eyes trace the rings left by twenty years’ worth of coffee mugs and soup bowls. It is safer. “I don’t want to know you, Amy.” He repeats the words hesitantly, feeling rawer and more exposed than he has felt since… well… probably since he had been stuck in that POW camp. He had worked most of his adult life to never feel so vulnerable again but somehow Amy, with a few soft smiles and funny quips, had wormed past almost fifteen years’ worth of defenses and nestled herself dangerously close to his heart. “It’s not you.” He corrects himself quickly, before the reporter can draw the wrong conclusions. “But… If I get to know you then I have to let you get to know me. That is a terrifying thought to me, and it should be one to you as well. I’m not exactly a pleasant person under it all.” The blunt honestly falling from his lips startles himself enough to look up at her. He is never so frank with anyone…yet all Amy has to do is sit down with him and he starts spilling truths he thought were locked away safely in his heart. Face averts his gaze again after an instant, eyes now drawn to the battered windowsill and the quiet street beyond it. The little house on the humble side of town is serving as a good place for the team to lay low a couple of weeks while several injures mend… he just never dreamt that having so much downtime would lead to these kinds of complications in his life.