A/N: This is a different style then what I usually write in, not sure it worked.
Murdock sat at the table in the kitchen. He had folded a piece of cardboard and stuck in under the leg to keep it from wobbling. The house was nowhere near as nice as the houses that Face usually scammed for them. It was run down and had been abandoned for quite some time, but no one blamed the conman as it was needed on extreme short noticed. The case they had just finished had gone bad. The guy they were taking down called the Army on them, and they barely got way from the MP's.
When they got here, Hannibal had assigned everybody jobs, telling Murdock the stay there. B.A. had returned an hour ago, but hadn't come out of the garage. When the Colonel and Face had returned they had disappeared upstairs. He gently lifted his leg and rested it on the next chair, being careful not to jolt the splint he was wearing. In looking around, he had found a ratty, beaten up box of colored pencils. Most were missing, but there was enough for him. He straightened the paper in front of him and picked up the first pencil and held the point at eye level.
Orange was underrated as a color. How many people said that it was their favorite color? Everyone judging it at first appearance and not taking the time to get to know it. He put the tip to paper, drew a box, and slowly started to color it in. It was a tricky color, orange. He kinda understood what they meant. It was harsh, intimidating, and didn't seem very friendly. But he knew, if you took the time, you could find the good part. The part that was dependable, warm, protective. Like fire. With out fire, man would never have survived. Once it was lit, a fire would burn until it died. Providing heat to cook on, light to see by and to scare away dangers.
He put down the orange and picked up two others. Next to the orange box he drew a black rectangle, then colored a red stripe across it.
Putting those three back into the box, he grabbed the next. A smile sparkling in his eyes, as he drew a steady circle on the paper. Stopping when he could just see the yellow on the white paper. If orange was tricky, yellow was deceptive. He drew a neck and chest. People thought yellow was a happy color. It was bright, airy, it was the color of sunlight, of daisy, of smiley faces, of happy little chick made of marshmallow.
The pilot knew, thought, that was what it wanted people to think. He knew that it had a hidden side. A side that wasn't all that light and airy. It was the color of caution, of warning. If you were unaware, it could dazzle you, leave you blinking, gasping for breath, not realizing what had happened for hours, thinking, wondering if it had really happened. He added a fish tail to the chest, and lightly colored the whole thing in.
Exchanging the yellow for the next pencil, he gave the drawing eyes. Two bright, piercing blue eyes. Then he drew a wide circle around the figure and gave the merman a watery home. He relaxed, shoulders slumping, head leaning forward and to the side, as he colored. Blue was a nice color. It exuded calm, a soothing presence, comforting. It was reassuring, like fire it was always there when it was needed. But like fire's enemy, water, it was fluid. Bending, flowing, changing, going with the lay of the land, going where it willed, until finality, it came to an unmovable object, and decided, 'No, I'm not going around'. Then it cut through the mountain, making it's own path, uncaring of what was thought, bringing those it thought was worthy along for a wide ride.
It could be dangerous. Rolling in, sweeping away anything in it's path, keeping everything and everyone safe. Commanding and commanding respect, which was easy to give, as it gave it right back.
He sat up, looking at the picture. Something was missing. He drew a larger merman hovering over the pond and gave him a trident. He put down the blue pencil, frowning. It was better, but it still wasn't right, but he didn't know how to fix it. With a fingertip, he caressed the blue and yellow figures.
They looked good together, like they belonged. The colors complemented each other. What each was missing the other had in full supply. Filling in all the gaps, leaving no room for anything else. His eyes darted to the stairs as a noise drifted down them. He closed his eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
With his eyes still closed, he reached out for the last pencil. He harshly jabbed it onto the paper and moved it around. Cracking his eyes, he snorted. Green. Some thought it was a good color. The color of life, growing things, of newness. Of health and harmony, he snorted again. But he knew the truth. Green was a horrible color. It was the color of greed, of lust, of envy. More sounds drifted downstairs, he pushed so hard the tip broke. Using the jagged point left he continued coloring.
It was the color of the canopy rushing up towards him. It was the color of the branches smashing against the cockpit, jarring the yoke out of his hands. It was the color of the copilots face just before he splatter his stomach contents across the instrument panel. It was the color of the algae growing on the tree trunk the plane came to rest on. It was the color that filled his vision as he turned his head and saw the tree branch protruding from the copilots chest.. It was the color of the smoke from the rescue flare, a rescue that didn't come for three weeks. And by then it was the color of what was left of the crew.
He threw the pencil down, staring disgustedly at the green airplane he had drawn. 'No, ' he thought, 'Green was not a good color.'