Disclaimer: Even after all the months between updates, I still cannot claim ownership of this franchise.
Friends! It's been how many months since I've updated this fic? Wait-don't tell me, I don't want to know. My utmost apologies, lovely readers! Here I am, with virtual chocolates, apology champagne, and the last little snippet of this saga. Many, many thanks to those who've taken the time to join me on this journey. À la prochaine!
+1
Murdock is basking in the aftermath of a close escape—one of many and much closer cut than the last. It always seems as if he's soaring through life by the skin of his teeth, and latching on to Hannibal's wild-eyed team of marauders (no less wild had they been, even in the army) only exacerbated the alacrity and heat of this devil's tailwind Murdock continues to ride.
If this most recent getaway proves anything, it is that Murdock is beyond lucky; on this particular Wednesday he is even luckier still. The air, always tasting sweeter, and cleaner, and crisper after any brush with death, flows heavy and quick through his lungs as he stumbles out of the van and onto dusty earth. Hannibal, sliding out of the side door with chapped lips already wrapped around a cigar, is smirking like a cat with a mouse, eyes lit up like a jack o' lantern. Face looks a little worse for wear, but not as bad as his suit, and despite his irate grimace, Murdock knows the conman will recall this moment fondly, if he chooses to recall it at all.
B.A.—beautiful, beautiful B.A.—is beaming, gold chains glistening with sweat and lying like regalia on his collarbone. His driving was spectacular (as always), and his van is in one piece, therefore his mood is nothing if not exuberant. He strides around the front of the car, teeth gleaming bright white against charcoal skin, and throws a heavy arm over Murdock's shoulders.
"You did good, fool," he congratulates, giving the pilot a firm shake, "We did real good."
He follows this announcement with a wild, almost child-like victory whoop, throwing his unencumbered fist up to the sky in a fierce thrust. Murdock's joy is eternal and exultant, and he looks up at B.A. from under the brim of his baseball cap.
"Hey B.A.," he grins, so stupidly wide it hurts his cheekbones. He's got a pickup line primed and ready, sinuous snark twitching on the tip of his tongue, when B.A. looks down at him.
The shadows in his eyes, those sharp, unforgiving shades that have guarded B.A.'s inner dialogue since he and Murdock met, are gone. Crows feet crinkle up softly at the edges of his eyelashes, warmth glows bright and bubbly in earth hued irises—there are no curtains hiding the spirited affection in B.A.'s face, and Murdock, for one life-altering moment, is lost for words.
"Um," he falters, brain moving at light-speed; B.A. continues to stare at him, not unkindly, but expectantly—
You're so sweet, I forgot my pickup line."
For almost four seconds, Murdock thinks he's said the wrong thing. The recent aftermath of his sentence is filled solely by B.A.'s languid blinking, but the sergeant's smile does not diminish, it broadens, and he tightens his grip on Murdock's angular shoulders
"Thanks, Murdock," he says, with the utmost sincerity, and Murdock melts, slipping his arm around B.A.'s waist and tapping out his 'you're welcome' with the pads of his fingers.
It's the very last pickup line he uses. Of course.