Disclaimer: Chapter two and I still don't own anything. Alas, poor [me].
2.
They're backup, because B.A.'s in an even worse mood than usual and Murdock can't focus to save his life. Hannibal and Face are inside the warehouse, suited up in Dunhill and Dior, respectively; but Hannibal's got a cigar in his inner pocket and Face's watch is a fake. Murdock soothes his nerves by humming Prokofiev and making shadow puppets on the van door. He can see the bulge of B.A.'s masseter throbbing in his jaw, his eyebrows darker and more dire than usual.
"Stop it, man," he snaps, finally, his eyes so narrowed the lashes nearly intertwine, "Don't you know any good songs?"
Murdock mewls at him, the look on his face a cocktail of disgruntled, begrudging, and highly offended. "Prokofiev, I'll have you know, was one of the most influential composers of the twentieth century," he informs, British accent posh and clipped, reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth II and funny-tasting tea.
B.A. snarls, his thumb tapping out an arhythmic pattern against the steering wheel. "Then how come I've never heard of him?" he mutters.
Murdock sits on his hands before he answered, more than tempted to cover B.A.'s restless thumb with his warm, dry palm. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, grinning wide and toothy. "Oh, come on, B.A.! Piano concerto No. 3? Peter and the Wolf? The Cinderella Suite?"
"I don't listen to old people music, Murdock," he snapps. His masseter again gives him away, nudging his cheeks into the lush beginnings of a smile. Murdock's hands twitch under his thighs, and he crosses his legs at the ankles, because B.A. was nothing if not bitable.
"But Bosco," he protests, pale brows arching upwards, eyes wide, "your momma told me that you took piano lessons in sixth grade and everybody knows—"
B.A. grimaces at the mention of his mother, annoyance painting his features pensive and pearled. "That was one year, Murdock, I didn't learn nothing."
"Well, sweetheart," Murdock croons swiftly, all New York and 1940's fedora, "you can tickle my ivories any time."
His hand spreads across B.A.'s knee, his nose nearly brushing the swell of the sergeant's cheekbones. It's bold, and brazen, and he can feel the muscles in B.A.'s thigh writhe and tense. But Hannibal and Face are darting out of the warehouse—Face more than a little exasperated, Hannibal exultant—and B.A.'s buzzing with enough adrenalin to forget about Murdock, hands included.
Nota Bene: These little snippets are based in the movie!verse, but a lot of my inspiration comes from the 1980' TV show. If you haven't seen it, give it a try, it's actually quite endearing. I'll try and put the episode that inspired each chapter in the notes, for anyone who's curious.