Headaches and Heartaches
	by rita (mommacita1@juno.com)

	Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just play with 'em.

	Summary: Face is badly injured, sending the A-Team to parts unknown to
	grieve and leaving Stockwell to take care of the injured Lieutenant. When
	the Team returns, Face isn't sure he wants to reveal himself. PG (almost G)
	for minor references to violence.

	A Note of Explanation: I've always liked Robert Vaughn (albeit not as much
	as I like David MacCallum and nowhere *near* as much as I like The Man),
	and I felt he was given a raw deal by A-Team fans. His character was
	dropped in to "revive" (which is networkese for "bury") the A-Team for its
	fifth season. The character of Hunt Stockwell was never well developed, nor
	were the reasons that Hannibal trusted him, while the others didn't. So I
	thought I'd write a story where his "true" character is shown, as I think
	it *must* have been.

	BTW and apropos of nothing, my favorite season 5 episode is the one with
	David MacCallum as Stockwell's ex-partner and probable traitor. The ending
	made me cheer, since the missing body meant a potential for further use of
	MacCallum's character. Alas, the network gurus succeeded and there was no
	sixth season to explore this. But in fanfic ... (Not here; but now I've got
	yet *another* idea.)

	Archive: Yes, please.

	As always, many thanks to my marvelous beta-reader and first-class
	cheerleader, Melissa!

	And now, on to the story:

	The news was bad. Hannibal could read it on the surgeon's face. Stockwell
	stood a step behind him and to the left, his hand on Hannibal's shoulder in
	support and comfort. For once Hannibal was glad he was here. The surgeon's
	words skimmed the surface of Hannibal's brain. "Massive head trauma . . .
	definite signs of brain damage . . .coma . . . possibly irreversible.

	Hannibal reacted at the wordless cry - a grief-filled howl - behind him. He
	turned in time to see the heavy wooden coffee table crack in two and fall
	to the floor before its destroyer turned his attention to the sofa.

	"See to your men, Colonel," the soft voice at his shoulder ordered. "I'll
	make sure that the Lieutenant gets the best care available - for the rest
	of his life if necessary." Hannibal nodded and Stockwell squeezed his
	shoulder once before signaling to the surgeon and leaving the distraught
	men.

	"BA," Hannibal was surprised to find his voice strong and level. "Not now.
	Help me with Murdock."

	BA pulled his punch, leaving the wall intact and moved toward the keening
	figure rocking himself on the floor. He easily picked him up and turned to
	Hannibal. "VA?" he asked, unconsciously stroking the pilot's back.

	Hannibal considered. "No," he finally said. "I think we need to work this
	through together." He gestured and BA walked past him out of the lounge.

	As Hannibal walked by Stockwell, the General's soft voice stopped him.
	"Colonel, take all the time you need. I'll continue depositing funds to
	your accounts. Contact me when you're ready."

	Hannibal turned towards him, surprised at the General's compassionate
	attitude. "Thanks," was all he managed to say. He turned to go, then had a
	final thought. "General, don't dump Face in some institution somewhere. He
	deserves better."

	"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort, Colonel," Stockwell
	assured him.

	***

	For six months, the weekly visits to the expensive, private research
	facility were identical: there is brain activity; it is not deteriorating;
	but there is also brain damage, primarily in the communication centers.
	Stockwell could have received the reports over the phone or by mail, but he
	needed the visual and tactile verification only a personal visit could
	bring. This was not something he could leave to others.

	This week, however, was different. A call came to Stockwell's private line.
	"There's been a change in the patient's condition."

	Stockwell nearly dropped the phone and ran to the car right then.
	Fortunately, ingrained discipline kept him on the line. "What kind of
	change?"

	"He appears to be coming out of the coma. Brain activity has increased.
	He's been experiencing waking and sleeping cycles. Although he hasn't
	regained consciousness yet, we expect him to at any time now."

	"I'll be right there," Stockwell barked, breaking discipline by slamming
	the phone down, grabbing his coat, and running out of his office past the
	astonished secretary. Grabbing the car keys from his chauffeur, he slid
	into the driver's seat and took off, weaving through Washington traffic
	into the Maryland countryside. There he floored the limo, skidding into the
	institute's parking lot at 105 mph.

	"General," the chief neurologist greeted him, briefing him as they walked
	briskly down the hall. "The patient regained consciousness a few minutes
	ago. It looks promising. He seems to understand what's said to him. He
	hasn't spoken, but we didn't really expect him to. We were waiting for you
	before questioning him."

	Stockwell nodded as they entered the private room. Face was propped up in
	bed, his head turned towards the window. At the sound of the door opening,
	he turned his head, frowning in concentration.

	"Hello, Lieutenant. Good to see you awake," Stockwell greeted him. The
	doctor stood back, observing.

	Face stared at Stockwell silently. Just when Stockwell was about to turn
	away, Face spoke. "General." It was the Lieutenant's standard one-word
	greeting to the man he regarded as yet another prison warden. Standard down
	to the intonation, which acknowledged Stockwell's existence and nothing
	more.

	The doctor stepped forward. "Do you know who you are?"

	After a long silence, Face managed a single, slow word. "Peck." He
	swallowed and frowned. After another silence, he answered more completely.
	"Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Special Forces."

	As the doctor made rapid notes on his clipboard, Face tried to form a
	question. Finally, looking at Stockwell, he asked, "Why?" and gestured at
	his mouth and throat.

	"Why are you having trouble speaking?" Face nodded. "Do you remember your
	last mission?"

	The Lieutenant frowned again. Then his eyes went wide and he reached up
	anxiously to his face. His fingers found the seamed scars and he pressed
	his lips together. He continued his tactile exploration, following the scar
	lines up into his hair. He patted the top of his head, clearly relieve to
	find he had a solid skull and a full head of short hair. He lowered his
	hands and looked at Stockwell for more information.

	"You were badly injured on the mission. Until today, we couldn't tell how
	badly." Stockwell glanced at the doctor, who shrugged. "You have brain
	damage. Now that you're conscious, we'll be able to determine the extent
	and what we can do about it."

	Face digested this for a few minutes, unsurprised. He remembered hanging by
	his wrists and the two baseball bats, cracking into the sides of his head.
	He remembered nothing after that. But . . . "the others?" he asked.

	"They're fine," Stockwell assured him.

	Face looked at him closely. There was something Stockwell wasn't telling
	him. Well, when was that not true? Face didn't have to search for his next
	question, "They know?"

	Stockwell grimaced. "Not exactly. You were in what was believed to be an
	irreversible coma. I'll contact them now, of course."

	"How long?"

	"The coma? Six months." Stockwell paused. "The Team? I haven't heard from
	them since they got the news in the hospital. I know they're all right,
	though." He chuckled. "They keep spending my money."

	That got a smile from Face. Turning serious, he touched the facial scars
	again and quietly said, "Don't tell."

	Stockwell frowned. "You don't want them to know you're recovering?"

	Face shook his head no and looked down. He struggled with the words. "Not
	like this," he finally said.

	"My patient needs to rest," the doctor interrupted. "We'll be conducting
	extensive tests over the next few days and then we can decide how to
	proceed to bring him to his full potential."

	Stockwell approached the bed and laid a hand on Face's shoulder. "I'll be
	back tomorrow."

	Face looked up and nodded. "Don't tell, please," he repeated urgently.

	"I won't. You have my word."

	Outside the room the doctor asked about the whereabouts of the rest of the
	Team. "They could provide critical motivation for his recovery," he pointed
	out.

	"I didn't want to say anything to the Lieutenant, but I don't know where
	they are. I told Smith to do what he needed to do and take whatever time it
	required. In any case," Stockwell concluded, "I just gave the Lieutenant my
	word I wouldn't contact them and I won't. I'll be here every day for as
	long a period as I'm useful. And when he can be released, you'll release
	him to me."

	***

	Stockwell looked thoughtfully through the one-way glass at the white-haired
	man sitting patiently in his reception area. 'Two years is a long time,
	Colonel,' he thought. 'Well, let's see how the Lieutenant feels about this.
	I'm afraid my allegiance is to him more than you now.' He reached for the
	intercom. "Marie, please ask the Lieutenant to come to my office - through
	the back door."

	A few moments later, Lieutenant Templeton Peck, Special Forces, retired,
	stepped into the office and quietly closed the door. Stockwell turned from
	the window and appraised him. Face met his gaze evenly, standing at relaxed
	attention, waiting for Stockwell to speak. Stockwell noted the serious
	expression and the ridged scars running from the cheekbones, barely missing
	the clear, blue eyes, into the dark hairline. The dark, wavy hair was cut
	longer than military style, but not by much. The eyes held a hint of query,
	and a hint of sad confusion, which almost always seemed to be there. 'To
	know what one has lost,' thought Stockwell, 'must be the worst torment of
	all.' Aloud, he said, "I want you to see something," and gestured Face to
	the window. "Do you recognize him?"

	Face stared, a frown of concentration on his face. A single tear rolled
	down his cheek as he held his hand up to the glass as if to touch the man
	he watched. "Han'bal."

	Stockwell put a comforting hand on his shoulder and waited. Finally, Face
	turned towards the General. "You told," he said accusingly.

	Stockwell was taken aback. He hadn't been sure the Lieutenant even
	remembered that first hospital conversation. However, he didn't let the
	younger man see his surprise. Instead, he answered as if insulted, "I gave
	you my word. I haven't told your team anything about you." He continued in
	a milder tone, "That's why I called you in here. Now that they're here,
	what do you want to do?"

	Face stared through the glass. Subconsciously, he touched the scars on his
	face. Another tear fell. He shook his head, never taking his eyes off the
	Colonel. "Can't let them know," he gestured at his scars, then his mouth
	and throat. "Your word. Don't tell," he whispered.

	Eighteen months after regaining consciousness, Face had recovered as much
	as he would. He no longer had to consciously process the words he heard to
	get the meaning from them, but his speech was hesitant. Rarely did he speak
	a full sentence; far more often he was unable to get words out at all.
	Frustration at his impediment had given way to resignation and he had made
	an almost indispensable place for himself in Stockwell's organization. He
	was popular throughout the organization with his pleasant, helpful manner.
	People were patient with his slow speech and he rewarded them occasionally
	with fairly fluent conversation.

	Stockwell was somewhat surprised that Face pointed out his scars. He had
	steadfastly refused the offers of plastic surgery, so the General had
	assumed the dark seams that marred his once-perfect face did not bother
	him. "Are you afraid they won't recognize you?" he asked.

	Face shook his head no. "Afraid - afraid, yes. Afraid they will."

	"You're hardly disfigured," the General pointed out.

	Face nodded, then searched for words. Finally he said, "But not the
	Faceman. No more scamming. Not who," he paused again. "Not who they knew."
	He was still staring hopelessly at his leader.

	Stockwell nodded to himself, seeming to come to a decision. "They won't
	recognize you," he asserted. Your hair grew in almost black and the shape
	of your face is different. If you want to be near them without their
	knowing . . . " he let the question hang.

	Face turned to him then. "How?" he asked, so quickly the General was
	surprised.

	"As I said, your looks have changed significantly, not even counting the
	scars. You walk differently. If you wear dark glasses and a visored hat -
	and if you don't speak - " he looked apologetically at the younger man, but
	was relieved to see a wry smile at his words. "If you don't speak, they
	won't know who you are. They're not expecting you."

	Face held up a hand, his signal that he needed to think. Although his
	cognitive skills were almost normal, he did sometimes get overloaded. He
	finally settled for repeating his previous question:. "How?"

	Stockwell grinned. "How would you like to become a chauffeur, Lieutenant?"

	***

	Ushering the three men into the dark garage, General Stockwell nodded at
	the uniformed chauffeur, who touched the visor of his hat in response
	before opening the rear door of the limousine. He turned away to adjust the
	side mirror as they got in, closed the door behind them, and went around
	the car to enter the front compartment, where he turned on the intercom in
	time to hear BA grumble, "Still don't see why we need a driver. I been good
	enough all these years." It brought a smile to the chauffeur's face as he
	turned on the engine and awaited instructions.

	"Now, BA," Hannibal soothed. "If General Stockwell wants to pamper us, let
	him."

	"My pleasure, gentlemen," Stockwell replied. "Oh," he said, as if just
	remembering. "Let me introduce your chauffeur. The Lieutenant is a Vietnam
	veteran who was injured in the line of duty."

	The driver winced. That was so close to the truth that he wondered if the
	General wasn't trying to lead the team to what he had promised not to tell
	them.

	Stockwell continued, "He is, unfortunately, mute. He hears perfectly well,
	though, so you can speak to him through the intercom," he tapped the
	microphone, "and he'll respond with gestures. You'll be able to see him
	through the glass." The General spoke into the microphone, "Lieutenant,
	these gentlemen are the A-Team: Colonel Smith, Captain Murdock, and
	Sergeant Baracus." Through the frosted glass separating the compartments,
	the men could see their driver raise his hand in greeting. "So, the
	Lieutenant will take you to your new home. I've already given him the
	address. I hope you'll be pleased with it. If not, let me know what you
	want and I'll try to arrange for it." Stockwell started to get out of the
	limo, surprising all four men. "Just let the Lieutenant know what time you
	want to be picked up tomorrow and he'll be there. Have a good evening."
	With that, the General closed the door and tapped the roof to tell Face to
	move out. He watched the car exit the garage with a thoughtful look on his
	face.

	They rode to the house the General had provided in silence. Hannibal was
	skeptical about the chauffeur despite his words to BA in the garage. He
	signaled Murdock to keep his eye on the man. When they arrived, Hannibal
	spoke into the mike. "Thanks for the ride. Very smooth." A hand wave was
	the response. "Could you pick us up around 9:00 tomorrow?"

	With a clear nod, the driver got out to open the car doors. He moved
	quickly away from the passenger side as Murdock popped out and was reaching
	for the driver's side door handle, when BA pushed it open, nearly knocking
	him down. "I kin open my own doors, fool!" BA declared. The driver turned
	away, hands raised in a gesture that clearly indicated surrender. Murdock
	and Hannibal chuckled as BA glowered. BA slammed the door and Hannibal
	closed the one on his side. Sketching a salute, the driver got back into
	his seat and restarted the car, waiting until the others were clear before
	pulling away.

	"Murdock?" Hannibal called as he stood at the door to their new home. The
	Captain stood looking thoughtfully after the departing limousine. "Let's
	get inside and check this place out."

	Face silently thanked Stockwell for his idea as he drove away. Clearly, his
	friends had no idea who their driver was and even Murdock showed no
	interest in becoming friendly. He could be near them, even be useful in a
	small (if irritating to BA) way, and never have to confront their
	disappointment and pity at what was left of him. He pulled over once he was
	out of sight. There was one more small thing he could do for his friends.
	Quickly he removed and de-activated the electronic viewing and listening
	devices with which the General outfitted his cars. Face chuckled. This was
	part of his "real" job for Stockwell - researching and testing the latest
	technology. Of course, that included knowing precisely how to defeat it. He
	left the disabled devices in plain sight on the rear seat.

	***

	When the car pulled into the driveway at exactly 9:00 a.m. the following
	morning, BA was on lookout. He approached the driver's door and rapped on
	the window. When the window came part-way down, he threw the "bugs" he had
	taken out of their hiding places in every room at the driver. The driver
	ducked his head to collect them. Then he quickly did something to one of
	the devices and tossed it back out the window at BA before rolling the
	window back up.

	BA picked up the bug and looked at it. He glanced at the tinted window
	through which he could just barely see the driver looking at him and
	grudgingly nodded. "Hey, Hannibal," he called to the Colonel who was just
	emerging from the house. "Looky here."

	"What've you got, BA?" Hannibal asked, coming over.

	"One of the bugs I found las' night," BA replied. "Thought I knew how ta
	mess 'em up, but I guess not. Sure hope we didn't say nothin' you didn't
	want Stockwell to hear."

	"Hmm," said Hannibal, looking the device over. "Looks like it's dead now."

	"Yeah, thanks to him," BA growled nodding in the driver's direction.

	Hannibal looked surprised, but walked to the driver's window and tapped on
	it. "Thanks for the assist," he called through the closed window. The
	driver tipped his hat in response.

	Just then Murdock came through the door, locking it behind him. "Had to
	feed Billy and leave him some fresh water," he explained, opening the
	passenger side rear door and settling into the corner.

	Hannibal opened the other door and sat across from him, with BA getting in
	last and slamming the door. Only then did the team notice the small pile of
	bugs on the seat. BA rummaged through them. "All turned off," he announced.

	Hannibal spoke into the microphone. "Thanks again. Know any good places for
	breakfast?"

	Without responding, the driver started up the car and took them to an
	all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. As they got out of the car, Hannibal
	leaned back in. "Care to join us?" he asked into the mike.

	Face shook his head and put the car into Park. Hannibal took this to mean
	he would wait for them in the car. After he closed the door, Face watched
	him walk into the restaurant to join the others. A look of longing crossed
	his face, but he shook his head at his wishful thinking.

	Murdock watched the car from the window. "You know, there's something
	familiar about that guy," he said as they waited for their order.

	"Like what?" Hannibal asked. "He's certainly more helpful than I would've
	expected. Especially from one of Stockwell's lackeys, but I didn't notice
	much about him."

	"Don't know, Colonel," Murdock said thoughtfully.

	"Why don't you sic Billy on him and see what he does?" BA growled.

	"Now BA," chided Murdock. "For all you know Billy might like him. But I
	think I will try to get to know him."

	"Why don't you do that?" Hannibal agreed. "We could use some help,
	especially someone who knows Stockwell's ins and outs."

	"We don't need nobody else on the A-Team!" BA thundered, in real and sudden
	anger. Murdock looked down at the table silently and blinked rapidly.

	'Shit!' thought Hannibal. "I wasn't suggesting we replace Face. You know
	that."

	"Sorry, Colonel," Murdock said softly. "It's just that whenever we have
	someone help us, it feels like you're auditioning him."

	"I'm not," the Colonel stated firmly.

	"Yeah, we know," BA rumbled softly. "But it still don't feel right. Maybe
	it never will."

	***

	"Well, he's unobtrusive and seems to almost read our minds sometimes,"
	Hannibal answered Stockwell's query about their chauffeur. He put his legs
	up on the General's desk and blew out cigar smoke. "Even BA can't fault
	him."

	"Good, good," Stockwell replied briskly. "I was hoping you'd all get along.
	He's still quite shy because of his injuries, so I'm glad that didn't put
	you off. He's a good man."

	Hannibal nodded in agreement and BA muttered something about "making the
	best of a bad deal." Murdock just looked thoughtful. Hannibal reflected
	that he'd been doing that a lot lately, usually when their driver was
	discussed.

	"Well," the General continued, "tonight he's going to run some errands for
	me. Do any of you need anything?"

	Hannibal was about to say "no" when Murdock spoke up. "You know, I've been
	itching to see what's available for rental at the county airport - when
	it's not so busy like during the day. Think he'd have time to drop me off?"

	"I'm sure he would, Captain," answered Stockwell. He reached for his
	intercom. "Tell the Lieutenant to wait, please. He'll have a passenger
	after all."

	"Murdock, I'll fill you in on our new assignment -*if* we decide to take
	it," Hannibal looked meaningfully at Stockwell who spread his hands in
	acceptance, "when you get back."

	"Okey dokey, Colonel," Murdock said happily and left the office for the
	garage.

	When he entered the dark garage, Murdock went to the passenger front door
	and tapped on the window. After a moment, it opened just an inch. "Mind if
	I sit in front since it's just the two of us?" he asked. After a pause, the
	door unlocked and Murdock opened it. He was surprised when no light went
	on, then shrugged and got in.

	As they drove through the night, Murdock attempted to both make
	conversation and get a good look at the man to his left. The conversation
	was one-sided, although the driver didn't seem impatient or annoyed at him,
	and the darkness, combined with the hat pulled low over his brow and the
	ubiquitous dark glasses made identification almost impossible.

	Murdock started petting the air between himself and the driver. At a stop
	light the driver glanced over to see what he was doing. "This is Billy,"
	Murdock explained. "Say hello to the nice man, Billy." Without thinking,
	Face reached over with one hand and patted Billy's head. Murdock's mouth
	dropped open. Very few people could see Billy and even fewer knew that he
	liked his head patted that way. "You must like dogs, mister," he said. The
	light changed just then and the driver returned his hand to the steering
	wheel as he stepped on the gas.

	They made a number of stops, at warehouses, a factory, and a private home.
	Each time the driver got out, waving aside Murdock's offers of assistance,
	and ran his errand. Finally, the driver half-turned to Murdock and cocked
	his head in question.

	"What? Oh, where do I want to go?" The driver nodded. "The county airport,
	if you don't mind." Without replying the driver put the car in gear and
	started down the quiet road they were on.

	Soon they were on a well-lit main thoroughfare. When they stopped for a red
	light under the bright circle of a street light, the interior of the car
	was illuminated and Murdock could clearly see the driver in profile.
	Everything clicked into place: the familiarity of gestures, the
	helpfulness, knowing what the team liked to eat, and, of course,
	recognizing Billy. "Face?" Murdock asked, hardly believing it could be his
	lost friend.

	Face frowned. He turned his head to look Murdock full in the face. He
	concentrated on finding the word he was looking for - a name, one he hadn't
	used since - before. Murdock sat still as Face looked at him, then away.
	Face pulled the car over; he couldn't think this hard and drive at the same
	time. He turned to Murdock again, still groping for his name. Finally:
	"Murdock."

	Murdock reached out and took Face's hat and glasses off. Wary blue eyes
	looked back at him for an instant, then dropped down. Face sighed and
	reached for the interior light switch. In the sudden brightness, Murdock
	could clearly see the scars running up his friend's face. He reached for
	them and gently stroked them. "Oh, Face," he said with great sadness.

	Face held still. No one had touched his scars since he had awakened from
	the coma a year and a half ago. They were already healed by then - as
	healed as they were going to get. There seemed no point in doing anything
	about them. With his real disabilities, handsomeness seemed minor. Now he
	was sorry he hadn't had them taken care of. He tried to soothe his
	distressed friend as best he could. "Doesn't hurt."

	"It hurts me," Murdock blurted out. Face looked down again and bit his lip.
	"Why didn't Stockwell tell us? Damn the man!"

	Face shook his head violently and tried to explain. "Promised. Don't tell."

	"He made you promise?" Murdock was outraged.

	Face shook his head again. When he was under stress, speaking was even more
	difficult than usual. "No. Promised *me*. Kept his promise."

	Murdock paused and looked at Face, as the words sunk in. "Why? Why didn't
	you want us to know you were all right?"

	"Not all right," Face corrected. "Missing . . . pieces. Here," he tapped
	his head. Then he looked into Murdock's eyes and saw, not the pity and
	disappointment he expected, but loving acceptance. The General had been
	right. "And here," he concluded touching his chest. "Missed you. So afraid
	. . . wouldn't want me."

	"You thought it was better if we thought you were still in a coma - or
	dead? You thought we wouldn't want you because you're hurt?"

	Face nodded. He looked up, blue eyes full of tears. Tentatively, he reached
	out to Murdock. Without hesitation, Murdock pulled him into his arms and
	held him tightly. Full explanations would wait.

	End

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