Disclaimer: Young, Broke, Definitely not the Owner of this Franchise: A Memoir
My apologies for the lateness of this chapter, I've been a bit busy with midterms and such. Also, we've only got one more chapter left! To be quite honest, I'm going to miss this little fic.
5.
It's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, supposedly. Murdock has half a mind to try, but the look of regret that decorated Face's features right after he said the words dissuades the pilot for the time being.
Fried egg notwithstanding, it is definitely hot enough to go without some layers. Murdock is known to stay resolute in his shabby jackets, wearing his leathery letterman well into the high seventies, but if the shimmery wetness of the highway is anything to go by, it's at least ninety-five and that's where he draws the line.
Murdock declares it official t-shirt weather around one o'clock in the afternoon; stripping off his flannel shirt and shoving his baseball low on his forehead to keep the sun out of his eyes. Hannibal sends him to check on B.A. around two, because Hannibal likes drama just as much as the next guy and Face loves schmoozing more than anybody. He's the best at it too, which apparently gives him a perpetual excuse for anything one might ask him to do.
This makes Murdock the gopher slash odd-jobs man in just about every situation, but he really doesn't mind. He likes bothering B.A., as a matter of fact, and he hasn't seen him all afternoon. He's considering introducing the man to his newest persona (Captain Cab; also, Dr. Vern the Veterinarian), but the idea slips his mind as he walks into the garage.
The first thing Murdock notices is that B.A. doesn't believe in t-shirt weather. Or maybe his disbelief extends to shirt weather in general, since he's wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans and some Air Jordan's. There's a red handkerchief hanging out of his back pocket, and Murdock can see the band of some bright purple Calvin Klein's peeking over the top of his pants.
The splash of color holds Murdock's attention but briefly. He's much more interested in the musculature of B.A.'s back as it contorts and writhes in the heat of the sun. The sergeant is bent over the inner workings of a taxi-cab, the hood thrown up like a sun-shade and Murdock can see, perfectly contoured, the trapezius, deltoids, lattisimus dorsi, and the thoraco-lumbar fascia undulating under smooth brown skin. He wonders if B.A. would let him outline each one in chalk and watch the lines ripple as he worked.
New personas forgotten, he decides to get a closer look. "Hey, B.A.," he yells, trotting over to where the sergeant has the hood thrown up, "B.A., is the battery dead?"
The sweat beading B.A.'s brow makes him look less intimidating and more uncomfortable. Murdock notices this partly because it's one of the things Murdock likes to notice, and also because he's trying admirably hard not look anywhere below B.A.'s collarbone.
"The battery ain't dead, fool," B.A. snorts, wiping at his forehead with a grubby red bandana, "it's a problem with the engine. I'm pretty sure it's a starter motor relay failure, but—"
Murdock interrupts him with a deceptively endearing grin, "Oh that's real interesting, B.A., but a little out of my league. Now, if you're battery's ever dead let me know."
B.A. considers this a moment, arm draped over the raised hood of the car like the metal wasn't solar-surface hot. If the look on his face is anything to go by, he's apprehensive, but Murdock keeps the innocence on his face just long enough for B.A. to get curious.
"Why would I ask you about a dead battery?" he says, each word slow, suspicious, and measured. Murdock, salacity seeping into his expression with each passing second, finally lets his eyes drop, taking in firm pectorals, taut obliques, and the flat line of B.A.'s abdominals with lazy delight.
"'Cause," he grins, leaning against the car's bumper with an audacity bordering on flirtatious, "I'd jump you anytime."
B.A. is surprisingly silent for a moment, head tilting to the side, eyes squinted almost shut. The shake of his head is near imperceptible, but the sigh he emits is more than distinct.
"Fool," he groans, "get outta here before I slam your arm in the radiator."
NB: This little tidbit might make a bit more sense if y'all watch season 2, episode 8 "The Taxicab Wars". It's one of my favorites, and I use the "this is my talking fist, knockout" line all the time. Disclaimer: I know there's been shirtless!BA in several episodes, but I can't remember if this is one of them.