Kink Meme Fill #1
Murdock knows the colonel’s asleep because he can see the weak, curling smoke of the cigar at table-height instead of mouth-height (unlike Murdock, the Boss doesn’t put his chin on the table to stare at the blurry, stolen pictures of the Arab from a different angle, because the Boss always thinks from above) and the smoke isn’t moving, so Boss isn’t fidgeting so he’s either got to be asleep or he’s got to be too angry to move but he won’t be angry, not at this stage of The Plan (which is how he always thinks of it: other people have plans, the Boss has The Plan and The Plan always works, he trusts the Boss even if the fuckers-that-be don’t) so he’s asleep.
Makes perfect sense to a man whose thoughts jerk and zip like hummingbirds.
He considers pretending it’s a secret mission to get to the colonel’s coffee before he wakes (Operation Dirty Mug), but he can remember the Boss’ clear, hospital-room-wall blue eyes watching him seriously, so he doesn’t. It delights the Boss when he’s serious. Sometimes. Sometimes, it makes the Boss grin when he gives Bosco shit. Murdock knows the difference and knows the warmth that collects under his chin when he does what the Bossman likes.
Right now, he’d bet the Boss would love him to be serious. Or at least quiet. (Why, he doesn't properly understand, because he's been swimming through the air like a fishy after six months of concrete shoes and electric lakes, so he feels like dancing, not quiet, not when he's back with the boys.) Murdock can do both easily, even if the orderlies and nurses at the VA didn’t think so. They didn't take him seriously, so he didn’t take them seriously, fair’s fair and all.
The light’s still on, sputtering yellow. There’s dew, too, in this old barn they’ve conquered for The Plan. Murdock’s on his tiptoes, trying to keep quiet, because it’s so rare to see the Boss sleep. He sleeps like rock, like you expect him to be there forever and not move. Kinda like Mount Rushmore, ‘cause he keeps looking serious and noble and in control even when he sleeps, even though he musta fallen asleep without planning, ‘cause the cigars still smouldering and his coffee’s, black except for a grey creamer of ash, still undrunked.
Murdock says the last word with three syllables like he’s writing a saga. The Boss inspires that sort of thing.
Lovingly, he plucks the cigar from the Boss’ rough-hewn fingers, all delicate like there’s red lines of lasers around the Cuban and this is some big jewel heist, and the Boss barely stirs, granite-grey eyelids twitching. Must be dreaming. Probably about cigars and Plans and maybe even something funny Murdock did. He likes that last idea. The Boss has a face with more lines in it than a Walmart on Black Friday, but he thinks some of them don’t come from squinting in the sun all the time: too many around his mouth from grinning, usually at his boys.
Sometimes specifically at Murdock. And not because he thinks he’s nuts.
He smooshes the cigar (“Sorry, sir.”) against a poorly printed picture of Pike’s face, the cast off becoming an ash tray ‘cause the Boss said it made him feel a little bit better. Yeah, Murdock could feel why, it did feel pretty damned good. He left the coffee: when he woke up, the Boss would down it, ash and all because he had little interest in food tasting good when there was a Plan.
‘S why Murdock cooked. Weaker men like him liked their food to be tasty. Or at least Harry-Potter-green.
“Night, sir,” he breathes, more in than out because he can still taste the Boss’ cigar smoke in the air, and it tastes more like home than anything else he’d known, even the dirty socks of the boot camp barracks. You can’t remember tastes and smells like you can pictures, so while he could remember exactly what the colonel’s mouth looked like and the shade of brown of his cigars, he couldn’t remember what it tasted like. The cigars. Not the mouth. God, not the mouth. Face’d kill him if he kissed the colonel, because that was a Line You Didn’t Cross.
Didn’t know why, though. After all, you kissed people you loved and they loved him, right? Perfectly sense. Murdock and his hummingbird brain aren't nuts. They all loved him, maybe not in the same way. And, you know, spend eight years with a guy and you knew him, even without anyone doing any asking or telling. Because the Boss wasn’t like Face or BA. He was sorta like Murdock. They didn’t talk about it, but eight years was a long time, especially when you ate together, showered together, and in the case of the other three, shat your pants together when Murdock was at the controls. Just because he was discreet. Well. Murdock could be discreet, too, even when crossing lines.
The colonel’s lips feel dry like brown paper and taste like what he figured an actual Cuban on fire must taste like. Like. A really dirty one. Maybe Che’s beard on fire.
Murdock isn’t a smoker. He also isn’t Loco-with-a-capital-L, so trying it again is out of la pregunta, no-capital-p. He steps back because he isn’t afraid of falling through the sky in a tank, but he is afraid of the Boss waking up and getting angry at him and calling him Captain Murdock because he’s done something bad, because now, because now he’s feels like he’s stolen something and that he’d also like to have his hat back.
Shit. Talk about near-death-experiences. He turns away to rub his mouth because his lips still... still kinda tingle from where he kissed the Boss, and he figures that the colonel will just know if he, Murdock, can still feel the kiss. He rubs frantically, quietly, until his mouth is warm for a completely different reason, and it's only then that he's brave enough to turn back and see if the colonel's awake.
He is. Hannibal Smith is sitting at the ancient table, examining the damaged cigar in his hand, grey hair glinting under the light. His face is blank, stoney because of exhaustion and stress but Murdock doesn't see anything angry in his CO's face. The Boss turns his head to Murdock, eyes shadowed and says, serious as you please:
“That cigar’s worth more than a kiss, son.”