(no subject)
[Author's note: Yes, I'm aware I switched up two songs on the album. But I don't really like the song that plays before Wild is the Wind and I really like Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair, and yes, I know it got filled, but I've been trying to write this fic since the 31st, so sue me. T__T I'm so slow. ]
- the purest eyes, and the strongest hands -
Nina Simone's voice coiled up, smokey and blue, from the old record player in the middle of the spacious, Jetson-like-modern living room, the thick black cord snaking out across the wood and through the moonlight coming in from the large, open windows.. Everything was still save for the subtle, balanced spinning of the record on its axis, the line of which was a dull steel-grey - is the color of my true love's hair - and the slow flutter of floor length fabric that served as curtains, no colors save for various shades of black and sometimes blue where the night had sapped away all else. Wasn't even the yellow of street lamps nor the flash of cars passing by: the owner was rich enough that he had a view that wasn't clogged with the city.
A quiet, drawling voice picked up the melody softly enough that it cracked in and out of existence.
Murdock rolled onto his side to face the record player, to watch it in that unnaturally still way that only the (possibly) insane could manage, eyes as black as the hair Miss Simone was singing about in that voice that tasted of smoke and gum on the tip of his tongue. His lips were still moving around the words, - I love my lover, and well he knows - face rapt as Saul's must have been on the road to Damascus, eyes just as unseeing.
As her voice dissolved into the cracks and pops of the record, whatever spell he had had been under was broken, leaving him free to move again. He sat up and reached lazily for the cover, fingers caressing cardboard as smooth as skin, but reading the back was a futile endeavor in this light and the pilot had no desire to turn on a lamp. Besides, he knew the next song like he knew the controls of a Pave Hawk. His head turned to the shallow hallway, light reflecting dully off of what little hair peeked out under his leather aviator's cap, but his mind was far, far away.
- love me love me love me, say you do--
Murdock pushed himself up to his feet and carefully, quietly made his way to Hannibal's door - let me fly away with you - the colonel was asleep, no, more like unconscious, exhausted from an injury earned on their last job. Eyes wide as half-dollars and face uncharacteristically still and serious, Murdock watched the gentle rise and fall of the Boss's chest; they'd almost lost him to a stray bullet, and the pilot could still feel hot blood the color of fresh boiled tomatoes on his fingers. Frank blood was fine, Hannibal had twisted his head to whisper in Murdock's ear, voice firm because Murdock was nearly panicking, because, because it was Hannibal that was hit and, and, dark blood would be bad, they just needed to stop the flow. Murdock let that memory drip off his hands and into the dark as he turned away from the Boss and back to the record player in the middle of a sea of moonlight and hardwood.
-more than one caress. Satisfy this hungriness -
He found himself swaying, to the music and to his own beat of exhaustion. His eyes were dry and his muscles ached, but the song sent an arc of electricity up his spine and down it again in a way not too dissimilar from jump starting the ambulance with the defibrillator all those years ago.
First time he'd heard the song had been back on base in Iraq, only the second time in months that they'd had reliable access to hot water, electricity and fresh food. Murdock could remember slipping into the colonel's tent after months of very careful flirting (on the colonel's part, Murdock's homoerotic affection was chalked up to one of the less dangerous symptoms of insanity by most folks) and then the both of them slipping into real sheets while Nina crooned into the night (thank God and computers for the repeat button), barely covering up the pilot's giggles, even with help from the colonel's mouth.
John's mouth. He closed his eyes, remembering the way the colonel's lips felt on the skin right beneath his eyes: chapped, split down the middle and a little gummy from dehydration, but he'd swallowed down the hysterical noise Murdock had made when Hannibal had stepped into his personal space - you touch me - had rested large, heavy, warm hands on his shoulders, hands that had slid down his arms to steady him. Remembered the nose, uneven and dry as paper but hot as an engine of a jeep in the sun - I hear the sound of mandolins - ghosting along his, bumping into his, breath that smelled of coffee and cigars and gum (a habit the colonel had pulled back on in public when he found out from one of the translators that it made him look “like a bitch”).
Could still feel the exhalation of air on his face as his commanding officer whispered, “Shh,” feel the way laughter bubbled up in his chest and how it tasted when he swallowed it down (like orange soda, like orange soda and pop rocks and cherry coke, that's what it'd tasted like). He'd been vibrating on the spot with too much energy, but Hannibal had coaxed him into a slow sway in time with the song, in time with the older man's slow, steady breathing, so very unlike Murdock's shaky, scratchy, arrhythmic wheezes, like the pop-cracks of the record in the present.
Murdock didn't let little details like that ruin the illusion of memory, better by far than recalling sex in the blank, flat room in the VA with its melted-white-chocolate off-white walls and lights that never, ever fully went out. Lessee. The Boss's - Hannibal's, John's - mouth had been right there (Murdock tilted his head up a few degrees), mouthing the words. - with your kiss my life begins - His arms, there and Murdock bent his arms at the elbow and pushed his forearms up a very solid, warm body, felt the low rumble of approval and suddenly, it was three years ago and they were swaying in Hannibal's raggedy-ass tent. A wide, manic grin flashed across Murdock's face like the line of a heart monitor, earning him a small chuckle.
-daddy, you're spring to me--
Low rumble of trucks going by. The sound of an army camp at night, something you couldn't avoid in such close quarters. Bugs, shouting, that sort of thing, bubbled away by Simone - all things to me - because they were safe and still, way too still for Murdock who, in his craziness, had taken all the little touches and looks and gone to his CO for sex and, even crazier, he'd been right and now, actually now, not then-now, there were strong hands on his hips, hooked into his belt loops and a body behind him.
He might have been worried, but Facey was the best and he didn't doubt teammates. Murdock let his head fall back onto the shoulder behind him, his neck exposed to the moonlight and his back warm from skin that was throwing off a little too much heat from injury - don't you know you're life itself - even through the thin undershirt. “Hey, Bossman,” he said, a crooked smile creeping up on his face while one of Hannibal's hands creeped up to his cap (only it didn't really creep because strong hands like the Boss' didn't creep, they went places with style and a general lack of creep).
“Cap's on. Worried?” His voice was quiet enough that Murdock didn't really hear the question, he felt it along the muscles of his back. He let his head flop towards Hannibal's, the grin exploding as familiar stubble rubbed against his cheek and fingers worked their way under his aviator hat.
“Nossir,” he lied, breathing in the familiar smell of coffee and cigars while Hannibal pulled off his hat and dug his fingers into the pilot's scalp. He was vaguely aware of the cap hitting the ground, but the thick, calloused fingers in his hair were way more important - like a leaf clings to - “Maybe a little, sir.” That earned him a yank, but Murdock just giggled because somewhere along the line the part of his brain that should have said “ouch” had crossed over with the part of his brain that generally said “ooh” when it came to the colonel.
His hands, palms warm and rough - oh, my darling cling to me - slid under Murdock's shirt and palmed the planes of his stomach - for we're creatures of the wind - and stayed there, wonderfully alive. “I'm not planning on leaving you boys alone anytime soon, kid” Hannibal said lowly with that special emphasis on “kid” that was entirely for Murdock - and wild is the - like the colonel could hear the thoughts in his head. He chuckled and wiggled around until he was facing Hannibal, so his face could slot right into the curve where neck met shoulder and every breath he took was entirely of the colonel.
“Yeah, I know, Bos-- John. I know.”
So wild is the wind.
When Face came home in the morning, smelling of alcohol and some rather nice fabric softener from the hotel sheets, he was pleased to see that Hannibal was still asleep (or his door was closed, which was as good as), Murdock was nowhere to be found and BA was still out. Fantastic. He picked up the record player and yanked out the cord. Now. Where was that Steely Dan album he had seen earlier...?