Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to the A-Team, wouldn't want them even if I had them (my life is complicated enough), and am not making any money off this.
Amy Allen pressed the "play" button on the cassette recorder on her desk. It was currently holding a tape that had sat in a storage locker since 1984—six long years ago. The familiar whirr started up, and Amy determinedly picked up her pen.
"…living on the jazz, four restless romantics existing on the edges of society because it's the only place left where they can survive. They're being chased by the government, yet they take time out to help the downtrodden and the desperate…"
Amy winced. Had she really said that? How corny. Face had pocketed and presumably destroyed the first 90-minute tape she made, the one Amy had recorded in Mexico when she first met the team, but she'd attempted to recreate it from memory after she got back. This was the first time she'd listened to it since then. The cassette had waited long years for a time when she'd actually be able to write that book about the A-Team with which she'd once threatened them.
"…John 'Hannibal' Smith, the team's silver-haired leader, always brandishing a twinkle in his eye and a cigar in his mouth. With his skill at disguises and sense of the dramatic he could have become a big movie star, given half a chance—"
Amy sighed and shook her head, fast-forwarding the tape a little bit. How young she'd been.
"..and Lieutenant Templeton 'The Faceman' Peck, whose charm goes far deeper than his good looks and smooth tongue would imply. There's a sense that his flamboyant con man persona hides something deeper underneath, and it's this quality that draws people to him—people who wouldn't normally think they can be affected by someone so superficially winsome."
She thought of Face's clear blue eyes, which had mesmerized her more than once. If only…well, there was no point in dwelling on that, was there?
"You'd think B.A. Baracus was a dangerous thug by his size, his muscles, his Mohawk and the fifty gold chains around his neck, but his intimidating appearance isn't the whole story. He's kind and compassionate. Kids get it - they flock to him whenever he's working. His initials might stand for Bad Attitude, but no one under age 14, and no one really in trouble, would ever believe his name defines him."
Amy put her pen down to the paper, but only doodles came out. In the shape of As.
"H.M. Murdock is truly crazy—at least, I think he is. He certainly acts that way. But it's a goofiness that doesn't impair his loyalty, his intelligence or his ability to—"
And suddenly, a burst of feedback from the tape recorder startled her. A voice she immediately recognized came on, prattling like a fast-talking DJ.
"And here's Howlin' Mad on Jive 95 with the best of rhyme in local time. Here we go, don't be slow, 'cause here's a fine tune coming into your room. Brought to you by the Golf Ball Liberation Army." She heard the sound of a tambourine being thoroughly banged, followed by Murdock's voice crowing: "Come a ti-yi-yippee-yippee-ay-yippee-ay! Come a ti-yi-yippee-yippee-ay!" Then he launched straight into song: "The Chisholm Trail." Naturally. In a moment, Templeton Peck's tenor joined in querulous harmony, singing, "Oh, it's cloudy in the west and a-lookin' like rain, and my darned old slicker's in the wagon again…"
Amy couldn't help laughing, putting a hand over her mouth in a gesture of astonishment and mortification. She was glad no one on the team could see.
The voices continued for a few minutes, then receded into background humming as Hannibal's calm, even voice came on. "Now really, Miss Allen, you didn't think we were going to let you get away with a recording about us, did you?" His voice turned more serious. "Don't record anything else, and don't put any additional information in your personal notes. That's an order, kid. You know what's at stake."
Amy found herself grinning. He'd been right, of course.
Next she heard some muted scuffling sounds, a few incoherent protests—and B.A., as if from a distance, growling, "Don't worry Amy, I'll get these guys outta your house in a minute. And they're gonna put everything back in its place if I have to smash all their heads together. Hey, leave that alone, that's her private—" Then a click.
Trying not to think about how that sentence might have ended, Amy pressed the stop/eject button on the cassette player twice. She stood, took the tape and regarded it with bright eyes. "Hannibal, you did it to me again," she murmured softly.
Putting the cassette back into its plastic case, Amy Allen walked to her dresser. She opened the jewelry box on top, the one she reserved for very special treasures, and gently placed the tape inside.