Fill your house with stacks of books, in all the crannies and all the nooks. - Dr. Seuss
If Stockwell knew about it - and Face was pretty sure he did - he wasn't saying anything. Which surprised the lieutenant, and frankly, made him look at the general in a new light. He still didn't like the man, or completely trust him, but maybe, just maybe, there was more to him than he'd first thought. At any rate, his secret was kept, and Face wasn't about to take that for granted. Oh, he'd still given him shit on a regular basis, but he'd drawn the line a little closer.
Right now he wasn't thinking about Stockwell, or anything to do with him. Not even the team. He was very carefully arranging books on the new shelving. Several boxes were on the floor behind him, all filled with romance novels, and he was more than thankful he only had to know the author's name to arrange them properly. It had taken hours of searching to ferret these out, but once these shelves were filled, he could move to the next genre. He was thinking mysteries, since he would probably take more than a few of those home.
He smiled at that. Home. He hadn't told any of the guys about it. Especially not Murdock. He might be Face's best friend, but the guy had no concept of personal boundaries. To be fair, neither Hannibal nor BA did either. Which is exactly why they didn't know about it. The last thing he wanted was his sanctuary invaded by the horde.
And sanctuary it was. A tiny one-bedroom bungalow in Arlington he'd taken a lease on. He didn't sleep there, or cook there. Kept a small supply of snacks and drinks, but nothing else. The only furniture was a deeply cushioned couch, an equally comfortable easy chair, a small table by each, and two floor lamps. But on every single wall were bookshelves. Okay, so it was only two rooms but still...
Today he was earning another half dozen to add to his personal library. As often as he could without raising suspicions, he'd make an excuse (usually a date) and head for the bookstore not far from his house. He'd spent hours browsing the rows and finally made his arrangements with the owner. He would organize the store for better sales, and instead of pay, he got books. And every day when he left the store, he took his books to his house and arranged them carefully on his shelves. And if he had time, he'd sit in his chair or lay on his couch, and read one of his books.
Some day, if Stockwell kept his word before he got them killed, Face would come here, pack up all the books, and ship them to LA. And there he would have another little house, another sanctuary, another personal library.
And that one he would never have to leave behind.