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The floor of the Villa Cucina was cold and hard. Face felt the chill seeping through his whole body.
He was so cold! Where was Murdock? Why had he left him here? The girl was nice, but she hurt him every time she pressed down on the wound in his abdomen.
God it hurt!
Some night off!
Why hadn't he stayed at Langley and watched the Football Game with Hannibal and B.A?
Because Hannibal had a girl who wanted to watch the Game with him. Yeah! Right!
Face would've snorted but it would take too much energy: energy he didn't have...
It would've been nice to sit with Hannibal on the couch, with the Colonel's strong right arm around his shoulders... yeah that would be perfect...
He floated for a while, listening to the pulse thudding in his brain.
Well, at least he still had a pulse, no thanks to that short guy in the window. Who'd have thought it would take three men to rob this little restaurant?
Oh yes, it wasn't a robbery. Now he remembered - something about a hit . That could only be a Mob Hit on the Attorney General. He vaguely recalled hearing that name too.
Oh God! It hurt so much.
A sob tried to force it's way past his throat, but he fought it down. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing his distress. He couldn't help the way he looked - that tall thin guy he'd taken the gun from - was watching him from the other side of the room. He looked really tall from his position on the floor.... cold-hearted bastard... eating pizza while he was dying...
Cold... he was so cold... yet he could feel the sweat on his face... running down his chest... or was that blood? No, blood was hot, like the hot poker in his left side...
He bit back another moan....
What had he been thinking, it was so hard to concentrate. Oh yes, he knew he'd groaned a few times, but he couldn't help that, but he wouldn't cry out for help that wouldn't come. These guys didn't care that he was hurting; didn't care if he died on this hard, cold floor...
Where had Murdock gone? He and Frankie had just dumped him here on the floor - surely his friend would come back...
He had felt the pilot's strong hands holding him - pressing against the wound, heard his voice, unusually hard, giving orders of how to take care of him...
Why wasn't Murdock taking care of him? That would've been okay...
Oh yes, the bad guys... they were still in the restaurant.
Even Frankie had left him. He had heard the lie in the younger man's voice when he'd said he'd seen worse accidents on the set...
Frankie had forgotten that he, Face, was an ex-Special Forces soldier, he knew a serious wound when he saw it - or in this case - felt it. If he didn't get professional medical help soon, he wouldn't survive.
It would've been nice to have seen Hannibal again, before... before... he left this vale of tears. He might, one day, have been able to tell his Colonel how much he loved him, had loved him for years... too late... too late...
His eyes shot open as a commotion at the back door rallied him from his near unconsciousness.
"How's Face?"
Hannibal? That was Hannibal's voice. Great. He'd be able to talk with him after all. Relief and strength surged through him. His Colonel had come for him...
"I don't think he's got fifteen minutes..." Murdock's voice, tightly controlled against hysteria.
Face waited... and waited. Through a haze he saw Hannibal's silver head outlined against the dark cabinets of the kitchen.
But the Colonel didn't speak to him. "Hannibal, I'm here...." he cried soundlessly, but Smith didn't hear him. He was busy coordinating the attack on the other members of the gang.
Face slumped inwardly. As usual - too busy to hear him; on the Jazz. Didn't hear, maybe didn't ever want to hear what his lieutenant wanted to say....
The blood-red darkness closed in again...
"Ten minutes till Liebstre gets here...."
Hannibal's voice was back...
Then Murdock's voice came through the darkness, a gentle hand on his, fingers checking the pulse in his throat...
"His pulse is almost a hundred and fifty - I can't believe I'm responsible for all this..."
Drifting again as Hannibal spoke again - but not to him, not to him... something about a distraction...
BA's voice.
"How's he doing, Hannibal?"
Hey Big Guy nice to hear you again...
Was that him they were still talking about....
"He's done better..."
You can say that again Colonel... Face's thought dwindled away again on a red mist of pain.
He was roused again as hands picked him up off the floor. Hands that tried to be gentle, but hurt him just the same. Through half open eyes he saw that it was BA holding his feet - so who was that holding his shoulders, hefting him like that, didn't the idiot know how to pick up a wounded man...
Behind BA, he saw Hannibal and Murdock looking serious. This was it then; he was going to hospital - maybe?
No... another bit of floor. God didn't these places have a couch? Or even a comfortable chair would've been nice to rest on for his last few minutes on Earth....
He listened, but a strange silence had fallen, he heard the ticking of a clock... then a smell....
The sudden explosion hardly caused him to stir; he was so damned tired.... too much blood, lost too much blood, he knew the scenario...
Suddenly, Hannibal's silver head appeared, hovering over him. A hand opened his shirt , lifting his own blood-stained hand away from the saturated pad of tablecloth and checked the still bleeding wound in his stomach.
Over Hannibal''s shoulder B.A's dark concerned face peered down at him.
Vaguely he heard his Colonel's strained voice. "He's weak, but we can move him. Get the van BA, we gotta get him to DC General right away...."
"He'll be there in five minutes...."
BA's head disappeared and Face was left looking up into concerned sapphire blue eyes, eyes that were pleading with him for something...
He smiled slightly... as the eyes and the silver hair disappeared into a whirling blackness....
Ten days later, Face was again smiling into those same sapphire blue eyes. He was lying on the long couch in the lounge of their Langley cottage, having just been discharged from the hospital. Stockwell had arranged for the rest of his convalescence to be taken with his Team mates.
Ah, this couch was definitely more comfortable than the floor of that horrible kitchen.
Hannibal was sitting at the far end, near his feet, with BA and Frankie leaning over the back of the couch.
"How's the pain?" aasked Hannibal quietly.
"Oh, it only hurts when I breathe." He could say that now, when he knew he was going to recover.
"You was out cold for a day and a half in the hospital," BA told him seriously.
"They say you hit on two nurses while you were sedated," Frankie told him with a grin.
Face lifted up two fingers in query.
Hannibal nodded.
"Really? How'd I do?" he asked, not really caring.
"You evoked great sympathy," smiled Hannibal. "They left their telephone numbers."
Face grinned. He didn't think he would be ringing any of those numbers; he had something a lot more important to think about.
If the promise in his Colonel's vivid blue eyes had anything to do with it; his time and his heart would be more than adequately taken care of...
Yes, dreams did come true, even the more exotic ones dreamt in a fever - on a cold floor...
19th June 2002
After just watching Without Reservations