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The damp, heavy heat of the South Carolina backwoods clings to the peeling paint of the shed, smelling of pine needles, wet earth, and the metallic tang of the rusted power mower Face is currently guarding. Templeton Peck—known to the world at this moment as Father Peck—adjusts the stiff collar of his clerical shirt with a grimace. The Blue Ridge Mountains are proving to be a logistical nightmare for a man of his refined tastes.
H.M. Murdock leans against a stack of moth-eaten feed bags, his flight jacket open, eyes dancing with a manic, localized thunderstorm of ideas. He holds out a crumpled piece of yellow legal paper, waving it like a peace treaty.
"Facey," Murdock says, his voice a low, melodic conspiratorial rasp. "The mission is hitting a snag. A technical snag. We need supplies, and I’m not talking about the kind you find in a general store."
Face sighs, leaning the handle of the mower against his hip. He takes the paper with two fingers, eyes scanning the frantic, looping scrawl. His eyebrows slowly climb toward his hairline. "Are you nuts?" Face asks, his voice flat, deadpan, and echoing with the exhaustion of a man who has spent the last three years officially married to the chaos currently grinning at him.
Murdock’s grin widens, bright and jagged. "Absolutely and totally. Certifiable, remember? I’ve got the papers to prove it, and you’ve got the ring to match."
Face looks back down at the list. It’s an impossible inventory of electronics, specialized lenses, and high-grade accelerants that shouldn't exist within fifty miles of this remote mountain pass. He looks at Murdock, and the exasperation in his chest softens, replaced by that familiar, heavy ache of devotion. He worries. It’s a constant, background hum in Face’s life, like a radio station he can’t quite tune out. He remembers the vacant stare in Murdock’s eyes when they finally climbed out of the jungle in '72; he remembers the way Murdock’s hands used to shake before he learned to channel the energy into these wild, elaborate personas.
Face feels the weight of Murdock’s sanity in his own palms, a fragile thing he’s sworn to protect. He mothers him because he has to, because if he doesn't keep a hand on Murdock’s shoulder, he’s afraid the man might just float away into the clouds he loves so much.
"Murdock," Face says softly, his tone shifting from annoyed partner to protective spouse. He reaches out, brushing a stray bit of hay off Murdock’s shoulder. "I want to help you. I do. But look around us. We are in the middle of a literal thicket. There isn't a town for miles that has more than a post office and a bait shop."
"Hey," Murdock says, stepping closer into Face's personal space, his shadow falling over the priest’s robes. "You always say you can get anything, anywhere, anytime. That's the Peck Promise, isn't it? The Scrounger’s Creed?"
"Yeah, but I—" Face starts to protest, gesturing vaguely at the dense wall of greenery outside the shed door.
"Think of it as a challenge," Murdock interrupts, tapping a finger against Face’s chest, right over his heart. "A test of your legendary prowess. I mean, come on, Templeton. How did you get that '53 Cadillac convertible in the jungles of 'Nam? We were surrounded by VC and leeches, and suddenly there’s a Caddy with white sidewalls."
Murdock pauses, his head tilting to the side like a curious bird. His brow furrows as the memory actually hits him.
"Wait," Murdock says, his voice dropping an octave. "How did you get that '53 Cadillac convertible in the jungles of 'Nam?"
Face feels the corner of his mouth twitch. The stress of the local militia, the government official they’re currently hiding in the cellar, and the absurdity of his own disguise seem to melt away under Murdock’s intense, focused gaze. He loves this—the way Murdock looks at him like he’s the most fascinating puzzle in the world.
Face lets a slow, oily-smooth smirk spread across his face. It’s the look of a man who knows exactly what he’s worth. "Professional secret, baby."
The air in the shed shifts. The humor is still there, but it’s suddenly layered with something thicker, something that has nothing to do with scrounging or the mission. Murdock’s eyes darken, the playful spark turning into a slow-burning fire. He forgets about the list. He forgets that outside, there are men with hunting rifles looking for them. He forgets that his husband is currently dressed as a man of the cloth, holding a piece of lawn equipment.
Murdock moves fast—faster than most people expect from him. He grabs the lapels of the black clerical coat and yanks Face forward, spinning him until Face’s back hits the rough-hewn timber of the wall. The power mower rattles as it falls over, but neither of them looks at it. "I love your noodle brain," Murdock murmurs against Face’s lips, his breath warm and smelling of the bitter chicory coffee they’d shared that morning.
Face doesn't resist. He never really does. He drops the list, his hands finding purchase on Murdock’s waist, pulling him flush against the stiff fabric of the disguise. He’s the "man with the plan," the one who keeps them in silk shirts and fine cigars, but when Murdock holds him like this, Face feels like he can finally let go of the reins. Murdock presses into him, a hard, demanding kiss that tastes of desperation and deep, abiding history. He loves when Face gets into character, loves the slickness of the con, but most of all, he loves the man underneath the many masks. He can’t get enough of the way Face’s heartbeat thuds against his own, a steady rhythm that says I’m here, I’ve got you, we’re okay.
The wood of the shed wall is scratchy against Face's back, a sharp contrast to the soft, urgent pressure of Murdock’s mouth. For a few minutes, the Blue Ridge backwoods disappear. There's no military court-martial hanging over their heads, no B.A. waiting in the van, and no Hannibal checking his watch. It's just the two of them, locked in a private, messy, beautiful world where the scrounger finally found exactly what he needed, and the pilot finally found a place to land.
Murdock pulls back just an inch, his nose rubbing against Face’s. "So... about those vacuum tubes and the liquid nitrogen?"
Face lets out a breathy, ragged laugh, his hands sliding up to cup Murdock's face, his thumbs tracing the line of his husband's jaw. "I'll see what I can do," Face whispers, his eyes bright with affection. "But you're going to owe me. Big time."
"Put it on my tab, Father," Murdock quips, before leaning back in to seal the deal with another kiss, effectively silencing any further talk of logistics in favor of the much more important business of being home.