Disclaimer: I don't own the A-Team. Wish I did.

Summary: Based on a comment made by one of the editors of "The Shadow That Follows," after reading the paragraph in which the team drugs Murdock and removes him from DC General. How would they do it, where would they put him at Langley, and how would Murdock feel about it after he woke up. This little story's for you, Wookiee. Addendum: This was supposed to be a one-chapter short story. It has other ideas though

Episode Spoiler: "Without Reservations"

Rating: PG just to be safe

Counting Ten

The room was dark, but sharp slits of light outlining the window shades indicated that it was probably early afternoon. He stretched, and the muscles in his right shoulder and side protested. He was disoriented, but it was a vaguely familiar disorientation. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, willing his spinning brain to settle and pin down his thoughts.

There it was. A couple of times at the VA hospital-when he'd gone too far with some of his stunts-he'd been given a sedative of some sort. Sedatives always left him kind of foggy. Not like BA, who always came out of his induced sleep roaring mad. No, those things gave him a headache and sent his delicately balanced sense of reality for a real ride. Okay, disorientation accounted for..

He opened his eyes again, searching for some clue of his surroundings. He was lying in a bed--a normal, everyday bed. Throwing back the covers, he started to sit up, then thought better of the idea. Damn, I must've gotten the dose on an empty stomach, a couple gallons of coffee, or both. He lay back, closed his eyes, and counted to ten, then--for good measure--to twenty.

Eyes still closed, he reached out to both sides. One hand felt bed and more bed. The other he whacked on something hard next to the bed. He cursed and pulled his hands back, rubbing the one ruefully. Opening his eyes again, he turned his head just enough to make out the dim outlines of an ordinary night stand.

"Okay, muchacho," he muttered. "One big bed, one night stand. Looks like a bedroom to me."

He sat up cautiously, easing himself backwards until his back was supported by the headboard and glanced around the room. A dresser, a couple of chairs, a desk. Lamps scattered throughout the room, including a small one on the night stand. Assorted pictures hung on the wall, along with a full-length mirror over by what was probably a closet door. There were two other doors. One had to lead out of the room, and other might be a private bath. In spite of its motel-like neatness, the room was disturbingly familiar.

He reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. A circle of light pushed back the dimness, throwing shadows on the walls and softening the slices of daylight from the windows. He ran a hand over his face and head. He needed a shave, probably a shower too. Looking down at the rest of himself, he noted he wore black socks, black trousers, and a white button-down shirt, tails untucked. No shoes, though. He looked around the room again, and then it hit him.

He was at Langley.

And this was Face's room.

But that didn't make sense. Why knock him out, just to bring him here? And why Face's room? Murdock puzzled on this for a moment, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He paused, but his head didn't threaten to roll off his shoulders as it had before. Feet on the floor, hands braced on either side to steady him, he looked around the room again. A pair of black dress shoes had been tossed under one of the chairs. That same chair had what looked like a vest draped over the back. He rubbed his forehead, trying to push the headache away. It must have been one hell of a dose, he thought. He hadn't felt this bad for a long time. An elusive thought nagged at him, but he couldn't pin it down.

He stood, and shakily made his way to one of the doors. Leaning against the wall, he opened it. "Wrong guess, muchacho," he said, looking into the closet. It was definitely Face's closet, though. No doubt about that.

With one hand on the wall to steady himself, Murdock made his way toward the door by the mirror. Feeling light-headed, he stopped by the chair with the clothes and shook his head to clear it. That was a mistake. He sat in the chair, put his head to his knees and counted to himself. He straightened up, leaning back into the chair, and felt something stab into his back. He twisted around, and pulled the garment off the back of the chair.

It was a vest, a red one, and he had been poked by a pen in one of the pockets. He threw the vest on the floor, stood again, and irritably tucked the tails of the shirt into his pants. Face's shirts were always too short on him.

Another mental click. He looked again at the rest of his clothes. He picked up the vest, searched the pockets again, and pulled out a guest check pad with some of its pages ripped out. He dropped them both and sagged back into the chair, remembering.

The restaurant, Villa Cucina. The mobsters, and the failed first attempt at getting rid of them. Face on the kitchen floor, dying. Hannibal and BA conning their way into the restaurant, and the cop-that damn cop--turning the whole mess back over to the mobsters. And then, five minutes before the Attorney General walked into the place, finally getting the upper hand. He and Frankie racing to DC General, hoping that the others had gotten there in time. The waiting. That doctor, that surgeon, said something about Face that he didn't quite remember. But he remembered BA practically sitting on him afterward. Watching in the intensive care unit; the machines with their beeps and hums and clicks. Watching Face.

That didn't explain why he was in Face's bedroom, though. Murdock stood and made his way to the other door, the one that had to lead out of the room. He paused, hand on the handle. There was a muffled voice on the other side; someone talking as though not to disturb others. He smiled grimly to himself, and opened the door.

The afternoon sunlight illuminated the great room of the complex. It would have been blinding, had he not turned on that lamp before leaving the bedroom. As it was, he blinked several times, trying to adjust his vision. The room seemed empty. Then he spotted a silhouetted figure on the far side of the room, its back to him. The posture indicated the person was talking on a telephone. Murdock listened intently, recognizing the voice.

"No, Johnny," Frankie was saying, "I haven't heard a peep outta him." A pause. "He is? But he's going past the apartment first, right? I mean...." Another pause. "I don't know....yeah, okay." He paused again, listening, nodding his head. "Okay, man, gotcha." He hung up the phone, staring at it.

Murdock had walked across the room, as quietly as his still aching head would allow him. He was a few feet from Frankie when the other turned toward him.

"AAHH!" yelped Frankie. He blanched, then recovered. "Don't do that to me, man!" he gasped, looking at Murdock. "You scared me outta a year's growth."

"What's going on, Frankie?" Murdock asked.

Frankie peered at him closely. "You look like death warmed over," he said. "Uh, forget that, bad choice of words." He made as if to guide Murdock to a seat. "Look, maybe you'd better sit down." Murdock looked at him, and Frankie backed off. "Okay, okay," he said, raising his hands, "but if you fall on the floor, I ain't pickin' you up." He retreated a few steps, watching.

Murdock swayed, and Frankie instinctively stepped forward to catch him. Murdock's hand shot out and grabbed Frankie's shirt, pulling him in until they were nose-to-nose. Frankie's eyes widened, and he gulped. Murdock was still in one of THOSE moods.

"What is going on, Frankie?" Murdock repeated, each word crisp and distinct.

"All right, all right," Frankie surrendered, "Just sit down, man, okay? BA'll kill me if you crash out here."

Murdock's grip loosened slightly. He moved toward the sofa, towing Frankie with him, and collapsed on it. He released Frankie, who scrambled to the opposite end of the sofa, out of Murdock's reach. Frankie eyed Murdock warily, muttering a wish that Hannibal had left BA to do the babysitting rather than him.

"Talk," said Murdock.

"You sure you don't want some aspirin or something," Frankie stalled, "A glass of water, uh, something to eat? How 'bout a shower, huh?" He tensed, ready to spring off the couch if Murdock moved. "You know, you look like you could use another nap. Why don't you...."

Murdock looked at him again, and Frankie shut up. Murdock kneaded his forehead. The ache had dulled, and he knew some food and a shower would probably take care what was left of it. But first, he had to know what was going on.

"What day is it" he asked.

"Tuesday," Frankie said, "Ah, afternoon."

Tuesday. That meant that the takeover was yesterday. Murdock looked at Frankie. "Face?" he asked.

"Still unconscious, according to Johnny," Frankie said, "I was talking to him on the phone when you, uh, you..." he searched for a euphemism, "...woke up."

Questions swirled in his head. He pinned down one. "Why'd you knock me out?"

"Hey, that wasn't my idea," Frankie sputtered, "That was Johnny's. You were making the nurses nervous, and they told you to leave, and you wouldn't. You got real violent about it. So Johnny arranged with them to get something. You were guzzling coffee by the bucket anyway, and he slipped it in your cup.' He shrugged. "He said it'd hit you like a ton of bricks and, man, it did"

That figured. Coffee, no food, and Hannibal knew how sedatives affected him. And he would not have expected Hannibal to slip one to him. BA was usually the recipient of those moves.

"Okay," said Murdock. Frankie started to rise from the couch. "Sit," Murdock commanded, "we're not finished." Frankie sat. Murdock thought for a second, then asked, "How'd I get here?"

"We brought you here in the van," Frankie said, "Johnny couldn't leave you at the hospital, and he wasn't gonna leave you at your place. He figured we'd bring you here and, ah, watch you so you were okay. So I stayed, and he and BA went back to the hospital. They've been there all morning." He hesitated. "BA's on his way back here, but he's stopping by your place to get some stuff for you."

Murdock's brain pinned down another question. "Why Face's room?"

"Well, he wasn't using it," Frankie said defensively. Murdock looked at him, and he stopped, realizing how it sounded. "Hey, I didn't mean it that way. We figured, ah, nobody'd bother you with running in and out. I mean, we all showered and stuff before they went back. And, uh, well, Johnny just thought you'd be more comfortable in there than on the couch. You know...." his voice trailed off nervously. He fidgeted on the couch, looking toward the door.

Murdock sat silently, eyes closed. A range of emotions swirled through him; anger, frustration, fear, hope. His thoughts were disorganized, and he couldn't seem to stay on one subject at a time.

Frankie leaned forward. "Hey, why don't you go take a shower, huh?" he suggested.

"I will when I am ready!" Murdock snapped.

"Okay, okay." Frankie sat back, looking as though he wanted to be somewhere else. He watched Murdock for a moment, then said tentatively, "You, ah, want a aspirin or something? You look like you need one."

Murdock opened his eyes. "Ah, right," said Frankie, "Shut up. Right?"

The door opened, and BA strode in, carrying several bags. Spotting the two on the couch, he walked over and dropped the bags on the floor. The clothes and personal items in them spilled over the floor. "Hey, man," he greeted them, "I got some stuff from your place for you." He looked at Murdock sympathetically, but with a hint of amusement in his eyes. For once, their roles were reversed, and BA couldn't help being slightly smug about it. "You better get changed. They ain't gonna let you near that hospital looking like that."

BA turned to Frankie. "You go fix somethin' for Crazy Man t'eat," he ordered. Frankie left, glad to be out of the room, "Fool ain't gonna be no good for anything," he grumbled, "'Less he get some food down him." He paused, then yelled to Frankie's back, "And don't bring him no coffee neither. Bring some milk."

Murdock looked up at him, scowling. "Why'd you take me outta there, BA?" he asked angrily, "You had no right to do that. What if Face dies? You don't think I should be there? I don't have the right to know what's going on with my fellow team member, my FRIEND?" He stood, his anger building. "Just when did I become a second-class member of this team, anyway? When?"

BA said nothing. He was reminded of the kids at the youth center, the angry ones. Murdock was just a big, angry kid and he would have to deal with him as such.

Unfortunately, BA's silence further irritated Murdock. "Answer me, damn you!" he yelled. He grabbed at BA, who knocked his hands away.

"I ain't sayin' nuthin'," BA snapped, "I come back to see if you awake, 'cause me and Hannibal know you oughta be there. You done flipped out last night, man, and they was ready to haul you back to that crazy house, till Hannibal knocked you out. We brought you here so's they couldn't take you there."

Murdock glared at BA, who held the gaze. He knew that his brute strength could handle Murdock easily, but he didn't want to hurt the man. Not with Face still fighting for his life. No, they all needed to be there, and Murdock had to snap out of this fast.

"Look, man," BA said gruffly, "That doc, he didn't give Faceman much chance to make it last night. But Face, he still fightin'." He paused, the words coming hard. "He need us, Crazy Man, all of us. And that don't mean you locked up in some nuthouse. He need you right there, right now."

Murdock stood still for a moment. His hands dropped to his sides, and he sighed. He closed his eyes, and BA knew he was counting ten, maybe twenty. Then his eyes opened and met BA's. "I think," he said softly, and paused, "I think I'll go take a shower." He turned and walked into Face's bedroom.

BA whistled silently. He scooped up the scattered clothes and started toward the bedroom, pausing to yell to Frankie, "Get a move on, Movie Man! I ain't waitin'!"

to be continued