Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Collections:
Whumptober 2025
Stats:
Published:
2025-10-25
Words:
1,561
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
9
Kudos:
22
Bookmarks:
3
Hits:
119

Last One Standing

Summary:

The sun is shining; the sky above an unbroken slate of blue. Just like the day his world shattered...

("Firing Line" episode tag — cross-posted on FFN)

Notes:

So, when Noxbait picked this prompt for me, I told her I would *not* be writing a fic where one team member was left standing alone in a graveyard, because I do *not* write tragedies! But, then I thought of the episode "Firing Line" and, behold, a loop-hole was born, lol.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

The sun is shining; the sky above an unbroken slate of blue. Just like the day his world shattered.

He hasn't stopped reliving that day. Even all these weeks later, all he has to do is close his eyes and he’s there again: the sun warming his skin, the gentle pitch and sway of the boat beneath him. The crack of twelve shots being fired as one. He still flinches every time. Still holds his breath as if that will somehow keep it from being true. It never works. The next breath always comes and with it the crushing reality of knowing his friends are dead.

The path to their graves is steep, but that isn't what makes his lungs tighten or his heart pound. It’s the life-stopping echo of those twelve shots.

Three headstones welcome him. Each of them is gray and, like every time before this, that almost makes him smile. These days it's the only part of his life that still makes sense. Because he feels gray, too, just like them. He doesn't belong with the rest of the world anymore. Maybe he never really did. But it's more obvious now than it's ever been. The world with all of its colors and shining lights can't possibly begin to understand him. But the guys still do. It's why he's never brought them flowers. If he gave them flowers they wouldn't be gray anymore and then they wouldn't be his. Just the thought makes him feel like he's losing them all over again.

He shuts his eyes, desperate to escape that feeling, but it's a mistake. Because, behind his eyes, the echo of those twelve shots waits for him. Over and over it plays. His throat closes. It's the only reason no one hears him sob.

He can't lose them again. Not again. Please, not again. Please—

He opens his eyes and gasps into the silence. For once, the echo of death doesn't follow him. But, then, neither does anything else—not the sun or the slate blue sky; not the world with all its colors.

Not the headstones.

Instead, he finds himself in a world draped in grays and midnight blue. There's no swaying boat beneath him; no steep path to climb. There's just… a couch. One of those big long jobs that could probably fit seventeen people if you tried hard and didn't mind getting cozy. There aren't seventeen people on it now, though, which is just as well. There are only three people he wants anyway.

And all three of them are here.

Murdock takes a deep breath—the first, it seems, in a long, long time—and drinks in the sight of them. Hannibal is at the far end of the couch, slumped low against the back. His feet are propped on the coffee table, still clad in his favorite pair of boots. Murdock’s not entirely sure how the boots got here. But, then, he isn't sure how B.A.’s gold got here either, or how the van somehow crossed the country without them. He's just glad B.A. hasn't insisted on sleeping with his ride the way the Colonel sleeps with his boots. No matter how much Murdock loves the van, there's no way she would fit on the couch.

“Sorry, big guy,” he murmurs, eyes drifting to B.A.

Their Sergeant scowls a little in his sleep even as he burrows closer to Hannibal; his head on the man's shoulder. It's a rare sight. One Murdock doesn't think he's seen since the Camp. The thought is dangerous ground tonight. Murdock can feel it. So, he keeps his mind and eyes moving.

Most of Face is on Murdock's other side. Well, maybe not ‘most’ of him exactly. Percentage-wise, Murdock really isn't sure how you would break something like that down. But, all of Face's important parts are over there, like his head and his steadily beating heart. His legs, though, are a different story. They’re laid across all three of them like a safety bar on a roller coaster.

Murdock smiles as he remembers how Face had been the first one to stretch out on the couch. He'd somehow managed to take up all four cushions and had looked as pleased as a cat at the accomplishment—right up until Hannibal had thumped him on the foot and told him to ‘move over, kid’. B.A. had followed suit, even though there was a perfectly good (and totally empty) second couch in the room. And Murdock had followed him because no way was he missing out on the chance to puppy-pile. Face had protested the invasion, of course, but none of them had listened. The Lieutenant had gotten his revenge in the end, though, politely asking if they were all quite comfortable, before plopping his legs across all three of their laps. It said everything you needed to know about their state of minds that none of them had even tried to dump him on the floor. They'd simply grabbed onto the impromptu safety bar and held on.

Hannibal and B.A. aren’t holding on as tight anymore now that they’re asleep. But Murdock is. He realizes he’s fisted his hands in Face’s pant leg, about the time he hears his name.

“Murdock?”

The whisper rips through the silence like a shot. He flinches and, for one terrifying moment, he feels the sun on his too-cold skin and hears the lap of water beneath the boat.

“Murdock, you awake?”

Is he? He chokes at the thought his best friend’s voice might not be real. That this is the dream and the sun and the boat and the graves are reality.

Fingers twisting even tighter around that safety bar, he looks down at Face. Billy is there, too, curled up on the Lieutenant’s chest. It makes Murdock wonder how Face can breathe. He is breathing, isn’t he?

“Hey,” Face says and a smile flashes in the dark. The rest of Face remains covered in shadows. It makes him look gray.

And, Murdock doesn’t want him to be gray. Not now. Not anymore. Not ever. Just the thought of either of them being lost in that colorless world again…

Somebody whines. Murdock thinks it’s Billy; Face thinks it’s him.

“Hey, easy, buddy. What’s wrong?”

Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. He isn’t sure anymore. All he knows is, “Billy doesn’t want you to be gray anymore, Facey.”

Face takes that in stride. Even nods a little, like he thinks it makes perfect sense. Then, his gray face creases with the weight of a thought and he pushes himself up on even grayer elbows. “You want some pancakes?”

The question makes Murdock blink—or maybe it’s the sudden touch of light. It’s faint, coming from somewhere behind them. Softer and so much warmer than the cast of moonlight through the windows. Now that Face is sitting up, there are traces of it reaching his hair; flecks of dark gold overlaying the gray.

Murdock cocks his head. “Can I have triple syrup and powdered sugar again?”

Face chuckles, the sound a mere wisp in the air. “You can have quadruple syrup with powdered and brown sugar if you want, but only if we find a different outlet for your sugar rush this time. I am not slide-racing you in my socks again.”

“Aw, but Faceman, that was the funnest part.”

“Uh huh. Well, if funnest was a word, I seriously doubt it would describe me almost breaking my nose or you losing your pinkie toenail.”

The only answer Murdock has for that is a grin.

Face shakes his head, but a smile slips out anyway. “What about them?” he whispers, gaze shifting from Murdock to the others. “Are they gray, too?”

Murdock nods vigorously.

“Ah, right. I was afraid of that.” For a second, Face’s expression pinches. Then, with a sigh of resignation and a grin, he flips on the light. The move earns him a quick trip to the floor, but when he rolls to his feet, the grin is still in place. “There how’s that?”

“Oh, that’s much better!”

“Better for who, fool?” B.A. growls.

“Better for you,” Face says easily. “You didn’t want to be gray anymore did you?”

Hannibal groans, laying a restraining hand on B.A.’s arm. “Face, isn’t three o’clock in the morning a little early for… whatever this is?”

“Sorry, Colonel. But that’s what you get for not sleeping in technicolor.”

Closing his eyes, Hannibal groans again. “I'm not even gonna ask what that means.”

“Faceman’s soundin’ crazier than Murdock,” B.A. mutters.

There’s a grunt of agreement from the far end of the couch, and Face widens his grin. Then, he rubs his hands together and cheerfully announces, “I'm making pancakes. Who wants some?”

There isn’t any more gray after that. There is, however, a stampede to the kitchen followed by a slight scuffle over who will get the first pancake. Face insists they turn on every light in the house before he will even touch a pan (because apparently illumination is the key to making fluffy pancakes) and Murdock could kiss him for that. He kisses B.A.’s mohawk instead, just to see what will happen, and almost ends up losing his other pinkie toenail. But it's worth it.

Every chaotic, shining, colorful moment is worth it.

Notes:

For the record, Frankie was asleep in his room during the entirety of this fic—earplugs in, eye-mask on. I thought about waking him up for the pancakes, but he just kept right on sleeping, LOL.