A/N: Hey guys. So this literally exploded in my head while playing one of my favorite songs earlier. It hit me. We see Face playing piano rather well in two episodes...could it be there's a pianist buried deep down somewhere? Anyway, this is best read with some meloncholy piano tune playing in the background. I'm rather fond of Dustin O'Halloran or Helen Jane Long, personally.

Also, as a sidebar, this is set in the timeframe just after "Recipe for Heavy Bread".

Disclaimer: Don't own the guys.

Face's Song
StriderX

The keys felt like porcelain under his fingers as they flew across the notes. One by one he felt his heart race in rhythm to the tune radiating from the worn strings. It'd been years since he'd played the song, but memories of faded black lines and dots flashed before his eyes clear as a hallucination.

Vaguely, he felt the tears heat his cheeks and splash; the white keys were slick with the salty water.

He remembered the last time he'd played it: the lullaby from so long ago. The smaller kids in the Orphanage would fall asleep to it so often. He remembered the little girl who'd managed to curl up in his lap one night. He really didn't like playing nanny, but those big green eyes…he just couldn't turn down such a tiny thing, not after a nightmare.

He'd tried playing it again once, back in 'Nam, one night when the officer's tent was empty. The guys had thought it was odd that he'd gone so far out of his way to find that beat-up old piano for a rec-room that could very well explode at any given moment. He'd never said anything. Just waited; waited for just the right night when everyone was gone and he could sit on that make-shift piano bench and play.

The night came five days after their escape from the Camp. His team was busy mending and rebuilding; the rest of the unit was out fighting the war or getting wasted enough to forget it.

He was beaten and bruised, aching in body and soul, but that night…it would be his healing to play. To remember the good times…for him; the best nights when his fingers darted over meticulously tuned notes among the protectors and friends of his youth.

He'd been shaking when the first notes tinged out behind the warping wood. In the Camps, he'd played that song over and over in his head; anything to escape. But right then…it was too soon.

Notes thick and harsh rang like gunfire in his head. Five measures and he was a sobbing mess, arms banging down on the keys with a curse to the void.

Murdock had helped him through that night. When the pilot found him, he'd been crashed on the floor with a bottle of liquor half empty, a splintered heap of decimated piano carpeting the floor.

No one asked what had happened to the thing the next day.

They didn't need to.

Today, he played again for the first time in ten years.

The guys had noted that the condo he'd scammed was rather plain for his usual tastes, but they knew. Murdock knew.

The piano was grand; deep mahogany right there in the middle of the living room. When they'd first entered, while Hannibal and B.A. scouted out the rooms, Murdock noticed him dare to grace his fingers over the wood.

The look on his face was pure and lost and ready to move on.

It was the look of a man remembering a love long ago destroyed.

They'd been in the condo three days before he went near it again. They guys were all there; the day had been long and everyone was just hovering about sleep. He'd been quiet all day, Hannibal commented, but he didn't hear him over Murdock's soft coax as they drove home: "Sometimes ya' just got'ta let it out, ya' know?"

He was lost in the window throughout the drive. Seeing Lin Duk Coo again was bittersweet. He was happy the little man was alright at the end, but seeing him…being so close to General Chow…memories he'd padlocked away in a tiny box at the darkest corner of his mind swelled and burst like a thousand little grenades.

When they'd all washed and settled into couches and chairs in that modest little home, he knew sleep would never come easy.

First Hannibal tried to coax conversation, than B.A. mentioned he needed more milk. Murdock wore a frown two sizes too big; they watched Face warily as he peeled himself off the couch around midnight.

The lights were dim; the full moonlight poured in through floor-length windows like a floodlight on the aging instrument in the center of it all.

He'd wavered a little as he stood beside it. If he was aware of the guy's eyes on his back, he didn't register it.

Tentatively, his fingers caressed the edges like touching a glass feather. He was so afraid it might collapse under him.

Around the curves he ran his fingertips; from afar it appeared a gentle dance of passion and curiosity. Murdock saw it for what it was: a man come to face that which he'd lost…a man come to finally reach out for the heart he'd burned.

Closing his eyes, he let his fingers drop without weight on the striped keys. Pressing down one by one, so slow and soft there was no sound; they all saw him singing the melody in his mind.

With a shuddering sigh, he dropped to the bench and felt the memories burn his eyes. Vietnam. The Orphanage…even now.

The melody was always there, always following him.

But after so long…could he really still remember?

Violently, he shook his head. He had to do this. Murdock was right…just let it go.

Taking a deep, trembling breath, his feet found the pedals and ten fingers kissed ten keys; the blend of white and black spelling out an eerie melancholy only he could see.

He couldn't help—didn't feel—the tears as the song wrapped him in the warm embrace of years passed. Slowly, with each measure, each chord, he felt little pieces of himself lifting from the shattered grave of his mind into the puzzle he'd forgotten how to solve.

It was like being born again, Murdock decided from his place on the couch. His eyes were misting. It was beautiful; like the gentlest opera from an angel's voice.

In slow seconds his foot would lift and step; the gentle dampener cushioning the room with the rhythm of a dream.

Proudly, Hannibal smiled. He remembered when Morrison told him his Lieutenant would never really heal; he'd adamantly refused to believe the kid could never play again.

Suddenly, at that very moment, ten years didn't seem like that long at all.

B.A. was breathing deep and slow. His dreams were so sweet with every note; he could almost hear the harp voice singing just below every string.

When the melody drifted past its close, he'd hung onto the epilogue like his saving grace.

At last, when there was nothing left, he held the key with sinking eyes; his foot held the damper to the floor; the echo enveloped the drowsy room in a color not unlike twilight blue.

As the last twinkle faded away, he sighed; the smile hanging on his lips was purer then any he could ever remember. Suddenly he was back in the Orphanage that night a three-year-old pixie snuggled into his coat.

It had been his last night there; his last night before running off to college and to war too soon after.

He remembered it fondly as he saw that little girl for the first time in years; curly blonde hair, big green eyes full of hope and despair.

His song had saved her that night…he wondered if she'd remember it still; he didn't even know her name.

Staring at the keys with brows lifted sadly, he snorted a silent little laugh.

The good times.

There'd been a lot of bad in between, but if he could just hold on…if he could just remember…

The faint touch on his shoulder tore his eyes upward. Murdock was standing there; eyes glassy and shimmering in the night.

"You see?" he whispered, afraid his voice would chase away the angel still hiding in the strings. "It came back…I promised you it would."

Face grinned openly then. It had come back. He hadn't believed Murdock when he'd swore to him that night back in 'Nam.

But tonight, his song came back to save him too.

End

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! I hope its not too difficult to read...it's 1am and I'm on the jazz. Please review if you like!

~Strider