Paint It Black

by Mizhowlinmad (HBF), 2010

Rating: G

Summary: There are two ways to make B.A. really angry, really fast…mess with his ride or be a needlessly crazy fool. Murdock has just done both. Will the fool get pitied, or pounded? Drabble fluff, written for Kiss and Make Up Day.

Disclaimer: TAT belongs to SJC and Universal. I do this for the jazz, fool, and not for profit.

Everything was black.

A black van, carefully parked on a black stretch of asphalt in a black patch of night away from the prying eyes of the Rezkalla gang compound's spotlights and security cameras.

One powerfully built black man, his muscular figure clothed from head to toe in all-black combat garb and boots.

In the blackest of black moods.

"I'm gonna kill you, fool!" B.A. snarled, not raising his voice any higher than a harsh whisper. If he had, the guards or their dogs on the other side of the compound walls might have heard him. "What'd you do to my ride?"

Inside the black van, where the upholstery was normally a pleasant shade of grey, was a gigantic black splatter which looked as if the Aquamaniac or some other monster had vomited the entire contents of its stomach onto the seats. It had begun to smell.

Murdock couldn't answer him, so tightly were B.A.'s hands clutched around his throat.

"You mess up my van, you're gonna pay!"

"Ah…uh….ehhhh….."

Another man in black appeared, landing on cat's feet behind them from his perch on the wall. "Hannibal says we can move in pronto, piece of ca…B.A., will you stop choking Murdock for a sec and listen?"

"You stay outta this, Faceman…"

"F-Face…ack…save me…"

"B.A., this is a four-man op, remember? C'mon, let him go."

He let go his death-grip, leaving Murdock to gasp like a beached fish.

"So what's the problem?" Face asked, unaware.

B.A.'s brows tightened. "Ain't got no problem but this Crazy Man messin' up my ride," he growled, pointing to the damage.

Face looked at the stained seats as if he were appraising a brand-new tailored suit. He half-smiled. "Murdock, what do you have to say for yourself? Looks, um, pretty black in there,"he said.

"It's his fault, didn't even duck or anything," Murdock defended himself, still gulping in lungfuls of air. "Big mudsucker's gotta know when he's under fire, ya know? If that'd been a live round, we'd be writin' out his epitaph right about now."

"Live round?" Face was confused. "Are we under fire? Hannibal and I never heard…"

B.A. cut him off. "Ain't no live rounds. Fool been playin' around and shootin' at me with a water pistol."

"Water pistol?"

Murdock huffed, his accent migrating from East Texas to East London in a nanosecond. "What this angry sucker of mud is in fact calling a 'water pistol' is a highly calibrated weapon carried only by Her Majesty's finest, wot."

"Gimme that!" barked B.A. He yanked the little pistol from its holster at Murdock's hip and handed it to Face. "Nothin' but a water pistol, fool! You gonna be cleanin' my van till it sparkles, fool!"

Face turned the little weapon over, examining it. Not a 1911 Colt like Hannibal's or even his own favorite .357 Magnum. This didn't even appear to be a real weapon. Its maker stamp read simply "Splatmaster."

"Splatmaster?" Face said aloud, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "No more Beretta for you, huh?"

"Carried by all the MI5 professionals in the line of duty, old chap."

Face realized what it was. It was the kind of paint gun ranchers used to mark cattle or lumbermen used to mark trees. Where Murdock had gotten it, he neither knew nor cared to know. The issue at hand was placating B.A., who appeared ready to explode.

"Well, B.A., Murdock did mess up your van," he conceded, "but maybe he was just a little angry at your little stunt last week feeding his baseball cap to that Doberman as bait?"

B.A. glowered. Murdock stood icily. They were at a standoff, and only Face could negotiate a reasonable truce. He continued.

"What about…" He stopped, considering carefully. "Murdock, if you agree to clean the van, B.A., you'll buy him a new ballcap. Fair?"

Neither man moved. Face sighed.

"I know that stuff comes out pretty easy. Used to date a kindergarten teacher; once had to get finger paint out of my Pierre Cardin tie."

He sensed a slight drop in the freeze, but no thaw.

"C'mon, guys, Hannibal will be wondering what's keeping us. Just kiss and make up, OK?" He was desperate.

"I ain't kissin' no crazy man!"

"That's a figure of speech, good fellow, a mere metaphor, a dalliance of the tongue…"

"Shut up, fool!" B.A. thrust out his hand, clenched Murdock's hand for the briefest moment, and let go. "We got a client to help right now, but don't you forget your promise."

They left behind the paint-splatted van and tossed Face's grappling hook over the twelve-foot wall, ready for action. B.A. began to smile at last.

One new black ballcap was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of seeing Crazy Man hard at work on his hands and knees with a toothbrush and a bucket of soapy water.

He climbed, and giggled.

Fini