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Breakfast of Champions
by Lianne Burwell
June 2004
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Carl hated doctors. And right now, he hated Hal Brognola 
even more.

After all, Hal was the one who had insisted he check out 
the Farm's excellent medical facilities after they returned 
from their mission in Catalina. Of course, the moment the 
quacks got their hands on him, Carl had been trapped. First 
they'd practiced their cross-stitch on the bullet graze 
over his ribs, then stuck him in an incredibly 
uncomfortable hospital style bed instead of letting him go 
upstairs to a real bed because they wanted to wake him up 
every hour to make sure that the concussion hadn't sent him 
into a coma.

Now morning had arrived, and he was tired and pissed off. 
And they'd presented him with a tray of...

Oatmeal. Plain oatmeal, without even so much as some maple 
syrup to make it edible.

Carl prodded the unappetizing beige mush with his spoon, 
then dropped the utensil on the tray in frustration. They'd 
even refused to give him coffee to go with it. Instead, he 
had a glass of milk. Probably loaded with vitamin additives 
or something. He hadn't drunk milk with a meal since he was 
a teenager, and even then it had been unwillingly.

It was all too damned healthy to stand.

"I want a *real* breakfast," he muttered to himself, 
refusing to admit he was whining. He pushed the tray away. 
He was hungry, but damnit, he wasn't eating that slop. As 
soon as they let him out of this jail cell, he was going to 
find some *real* food.

"I don't blame you. That looks obscene."

Carl looked up at the unexpected voice. Andrej Konzaki, the 
CIA weapon-smith who'd supplied the gear for their recent 
mission, stood there, leaning on his crutches. Carl hadn't 
expected to see him again so soon. Hal had indicated that 
he was recruiting the man, but he would have expected that 
to take a little longer. The CIA brass were mostly 
assholes, but they didn't like to give up a good man, and 
from what Hal said, Konzaki was the best.

Carl pushed his breakfast tray aside, glad for the 
distraction. He'd been checked that morning, but they 
weren't going to let him go until lunchtime. "Come on it," 
he said, waving towards one of the chairs next to his bed. 
He winced as the skin over his ribs stretched.

Konzaki was in interesting man. He still had the stubble of 
a marine, even though he'd been out of the military since 
the loss of his legs. He had the wide shoulders and bulky 
arms of a pro-wrestler. Or a blacksmith. They were honest 
muscles, Carl thought to himself. Not the fake ones of the 
guys who practically lived at the gym. And his hands. They 
were large, and yet delicate at the same time. As Konzaki 
sat down and set his crutches aside, Carl found himself 
focusing on those hands, wondering what else they could do. 
In fact, he was so focused on those hands that he barely 
noticed the stiff way the man's legs moved; the click of 
the prosthetics locking into position.

"So, what brings you to the Farm? Not to mention my invalid 
bed," Carl asked, getting a hold of his libido. Besides, 
between his injuries and the painkillers, he wasn't going 
to be doing anything with his libido for a while. Damnit.

Konzaki shrugged those wide shoulders. "Inspecting the 
workshop before I decide if I'm moving here permanently."

"And?"

The older man nodded slowly. "The money isn't good, but the 
facilities are top-notch. I like it. And I like knowing 
that my work is being used by warriors, not politicians 
even better."

Carl laughed. "That's the good thing about being off the 
books: we don't have to answer to the politicos. Well, the 
big guy, but no one else. He tells us what needs to be 
done, then gets out of the way and lets us do it. No 
accounting, no testifying for Congress, and no left-wing 
press breathing down our neck screaming about brutality and 
American imperialism just because we shot the bad guys."

"Exactly," Konzaki said. "The only thing I really dislike 
about the CIA these days is the fact that the brass are 
politicians, not soldiers. Anyway, since I'm going to be 
moving here in a few weeks, I thought I'd go around and get 
people thinking. When we talked on the phone, you had some 
good ideas. I want you to think about your ideal weapon. 
Make a list of all the features you want, and we'll see 
what I can deliver."

Carl grinned delightedly. His fingers itched for pen and 
paper, but there was nothing handy. This was something he'd 
given a lot of thought to in the past, and the idea of his 
own customized firearm thrilled him.

"Looking for this?" Konzaki asked, pulling the paper and 
pen he wanted so badly out of his pocket. His eyes twinkled 
in perfect understanding.

"Thanks," Carl said, taking the offered tools. As the items 
changed hands, their fingers brushed against each other, 
and he was distracted by his damned libido again. Large, 
strong, and callused. Carl felt heat pool in his groin as 
images ran through his mind of what he'd like those hands 
to do to him.

Konzaki pushed himself upright, not seeming to notice the 
effect he'd had, and slipped back on the forearm clutch 
crutches. "Dream big," he said, stomping towards the door. 
"I've been told I'm the best at what I do," he said over 
his shoulder with a grin, and Carl wondered if he really 
meant for his words to be quite so.. suggestive.

"I'll bet," Carl said with a smirk, letting a little of the 
heat into his eyes. "And I look forward to seeing that 
proved."

The other man nodded, then brushed past the other two 
members of Able Team on his way out. Carl grinned as he 
watched the man's ass disappear out of sight.

"Nice guy," Gadgets said, as he and Pol moved over to join 
him.

"Yep," Carl said, grinning at him.

"Hey, I thought I was your 'Latin Lover'," Pol protested. 
Carl laughed. Pol had already turned him down twice, sot 
the complaint was a hollow one.

"You had your chance," Carl said before glaring at Gadgets. 
The other man was stirring his discarded oatmeal with a 
finger. "Hey!"

Gadgets stuck the finger in his mouth, then grimaced. "That 
tastes like wallpaper paste."

"Tell me something I don't know," Carl said sourly.

"Hey, be nice, big guy."

Carl glared at him. "And why should I be? I'm tired, I'm 
hungry, and I'm bored, and all I get to look at is your 
ugly mugs."

"And here we came bearing gifts," Gadgets said mournfully 
to Pol. "I'm not sure he deserves a gift."

"I agree," Pol said, nodding vigorously.

"Gifts?" Carl said suspiciously. "What, exploding 
thermometers and whoopee bedpans?"

Gadgets laughed. "Would we do that?"

"In a heartbeat," Carl shot back.

Pol moved back to the door and pulled a rolling cart into 
the room. On top was a covered tray. "Then I guess you 
wouldn't want this," he said, lifting the dome.

Immediately Carl's mouth started to water as the 
tantalizing aroma of fresh bacon filled the air. Then Pol 
put the dome back down on the tray. "After all, we might 
have spiked it. You wouldn't want to take the chance." he 
said mournfully. "I guess I'll just take it back to the 
kitchens."

"Don't you dare," Carl said, sitting up a little 
straighter, ignoring the resulting discomfort.

"Are you sure?" Gadgets asked between snickers.

Carl glared at them. "It's not nice to tease the Ironman. 
Remember, I know where you sleep," he growled.

He didn't really have to make any threats, though; Pol was 
already pushing the cart over to bed. The 'wallpaper paste' 
was unceremoniously dumped in the garbage, replaced by a 
tray with the crispy bacon, just the way Carl liked it, 
sausage, a three-egg omelet, toast and jam, and a pitcher 
of orange juice, along with three glasses. No coffee, but 
he could do without this time. For real food, he might even 
have drunk the spiked milk.

He dug into the oversized meal while the other two sipped 
glasses of juice.

"So," he said around a mouthful once he started to slow 
down. "Konzaki's joining up."

The other two exchanged knowing grins. Carl didn't care. He 
could take their teasing over his sexual preferences, since 
he knew it didn't really matter to them *who* he slept 
with.

"Yep," Pol said. "He's had the nickel tour and everything."

"Of course he didn't see *everything* on the tour," Gadgets 
chimed in. "But I'm sure you'll be ready to show him what 
he missed. Like your bed, maybe?"

Carl grinned as he downed his glass of orange juice. "Screw 
you," he said cheerfully, giving the man the one-fingered 
salute.

"Sorry. Not my cup of tea. But play your cards right and 
maybe you can get Konzaki to screw *you*," Gadgets said, 
waggling his eyebrows.

"One can hope," Carl said, relaxing back against his 
pillow. "One can hope."

THE END