Concessions

As usual, it was Hannibal who first noticed that something wasn't right.

It was five weeks after the team's baptism by fire in Mexico, and if the mood amongst the soon-to-be-official A-Team's members wasn't exactly relaxed, it had at least settled into a kind of acceptance. Hannibal was pleased to see Face put aside his reservations about their two new teammates, using the time they were temporarily stationed at a military base at California to get to know BA and Murdock as reams of paperwork made its sluggish way through the system.

BA had grumblingly accepted a tenuous truce with Murdock after Face promised to hook him up with a new, identical van by the time BA was officially reinstated in the Army. He still bristled around the pilot though, and Face wasn't sure if Murdock's constant flitting around BA were deliberate attempts to antagonise the (much) larger man or symptoms that his survival instinct was as erratic as his sanity.

Hannibal, for his part, just found the whole thing amusing. It might be an issue if BA continued to insist that he wasn't gettin' on no plane as long as that crazy fool was in the cockpit, but surely that was just bluster and would fade away in no time. As long as the team was able to function when they needed to (and he had no doubt that they would), Hannibal happily indulged a few little quirks in its members.

And none of them was more quirkful than Murdock. Those first few weeks, the pilot seemed to oscillate between manic excitement and nearly-tearful gratitude towards Hannibal and, by extension, Face. When Hannibal had shown him the official signed forms that would begin the process of reinstating Murdock's pilot's licence and allowing him back into active service, Murdock had spend twenty minutes scrutinising the form with his nose nearly touching the paper. Once he seemed satisfied that it was genuine, not some cruel and pointless trick or hallucination by an equally cruel and pointless part of his mind, Murdock had marched up to Hannibal, handed back the form and saluted crisply.

"I won't let you down, sir," he promised earnestly, face shining with conviction and eyes bright.

Five minutes later had found him running in circles around the base with his arms out, shouting, "ZOOOOOM!" at the top of his voice. Not making an airplane noise (as though that would be more normal): Actually saying the word "zoom". Face thought it was strangely endearing. Hannibal thought this was one of his best decisions yet. BA thought they was all crazy, must be contagious, stop kickin' sand on me, fool.

There was none of that manic excitement radiating from the pilot now. Hannibal watched, chewing on a cigar, as Murdock fiddled with his Army-issue Sig, worrying his fingers over the barrel like he was reading Braille. His shoulders were slightly hunched and his gaze darted around the rifle range like it was following the spastic flight of a bumblebee Hannibal couldn't see. In booths on either side of him, Face and BA were oblivious to his behaviour as they practiced with their own weapons. Despite the earplugs they were all wearing, Murdock flinched slightly at every crack of the rifles beside him.

Hannibal frowned but decided to see what Murdock would do before making a move. He didn't want his men to rely on him unconditionally, and if he hadn't thought that Murdock could take care of himself, he wouldn't have gone to the effort of hacking through all the red tape to acquire him for his team. No, Hannibal had read Murdock's file, but he trusted the Captain to know his mental health better than Hannibal did. It was why he'd handed over the prescriptions and small suitcase of medications to Murdock himself, allowing the pilot freedom to medicate and manage his "quirks" as he saw fit. That time, he hadn't gotten a salute, but the bowed head and muttered, "Thank you, sir," had been just as rewarding.

So now, Hannibal watched and waited.

Inside the booth, Murdock locked his arms at the elbows and clutched his Sig tightly, trying to stop the tremors rattling their way through his thin frame. Any pretence of actually using the rifle range for practice was beyond him – at the moment, he was just trying to steady his breathing and stop the dark edges from intruding too far into his field of vision. He took a deep breath and tried to exhale slowly, but it spluttered like an old jalopy backfiring. Someone had thinned the air out. It was making his hands and feet go numb. He was sure they were blue, turning black, rotting as his nails yellowed and his fingers atrophied into twisted claws around the Sig. When they tried to take the gun from him, his fingers would snap off and all his rotted bits would come out from the inside.

His saliva was gone and Murdock could feel his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His heart wasn't hammering; it was vibrating, like he'd sat too close to a water jet in a spa. He was cold but his goosebumped flesh was pouring out thick, sicky-smelling sweat. It was trying to exorcise him through his pores. His body knew there was something not right inside him.

Oh god, not now. Come on come on come on come on come on come on. Don't do this now. Murdock clenched his teeth against another tremor. You're fine. Breathe. Stop it. You're fine. Don't do this now.

The numbness crept up Murdock's arms and his face started to tingle. The blackness throbbed at the edges of his vision, whirling with negative colours and making him seasick. He realised it was a choice between leaving the booth and pulling himself together, or fainting right there. Fainting's not what Rangers do. Too close to swooning. Unacceptable. Right. Okay then.

Murdock didn't register the excuse he gave to Hannibal as he handed the Colonel his weapon and made a beeline for the barracks on the other side of the camp. He'd removed the earplugs but everything was still muffled and warped. He hoped he was speaking in English and not Spanish or Navajo or Swahili or just moaning nonsense sounds. But Hannibal took the gun and nodded, and okay he looked concerned but he didn't physically stop Murdock or worse, ask if everything was okay, which was good because right now Murdock probably would have thrown up or passed out in the time it would have taken to answer that he was fine, everything was fine, it was all fine.

When the black spots were sucked back behind his eyeballs where he couldn't see them, Murdock realised that he hadn't made it to the barracks at all. Oops. He was hidden from sight from the rifle range at least, which was good – that was important for some reason that he couldn't remember right this second, but it would come to him. Murdock was counting small victories at the moment: He wasn't passed out (yay!), he hadn't thrown up (yay!), he hadn't pissed himself or otherwise done anything embarrassing or unseemly in the vicinity of his new team (yay! Oh, that's why he needed to be hidden! Remembering: Yay!). He wasn't sweating anymore, but the thick, unhealthy sweat that smelled of shame and wrongness was cooling on his skin and making him shiver. That was okay though – nothing a quick shower couldn't fix.

However: Uh oh. Here came Hannibal, and Murdock was still squatting on the ground beside the supply shed. How undignified. He pulled himself to his feet and managed to be standing upright without leaning on anything by the time Hannibal had made his way over (yay!).

Casting a critical eye over his Captain, Hannibal noted slightly trembling hands, a forehead beaded with sweat, damp patches around his collar and underarms, and a sickly pallor to the skin. Murdock's eyes were clear, though, and a faint flush was already returning to his cheeks. Hannibal had seen worse panic attacks from greenies in their first firefights. Hell, in their first days of training. This was acceptable – as long as it didn't happen on the field.

"Problem, Captain?" he asked mildly, chewing an unlit cigar.

Murdock shook his head. "No, sir," he replied emphatically, straightening his shoulders.

Hannibal nodded approvingly. "Good." He kept chewing his cigar, looking at Murdock as though he was waiting for something.

Murdock met his gaze, if not levelly, then at least without fidgeting. After a few beats, Hannibal gave a ghost of a smile. "Okay, kid. Grab a quick shower and we'll meet you back at our tent."

With a sloppy salute and a, "Sir!", Murdock was trotting off to the showers on slightly shaky legs.

Later, both he and Hannibal would feel very stupid for thinking that the worst was over.