simple and somehow sublime.

they step out, a tall vision vested in dark, deep red with the sleeves pushed up, and silently assess the situation. only to peer at the full spectacle of his own car do they finally lower their shade, their brows slowly lifting -- impressed. but not with him.

"uh huh. FC7 plum crazy."

he doesn't finish before zeveth books it inside. his opening line pitifully crumbles into, "wh—ahhhh. well." beat. he shrugs to himself. "alright."

it was a rare treat. no deadlines or commitments. no military police chasing him, no madmen shooting at him. no crazy plans, no frantic life or death missions. just a boy, his 'vette, and hannibal's promise that he didn't need to report in for the next few days. it was a rare vacation, and he intends to make the most of it. take everything smooth and easy.

he stretches some when he stands, then he shoulders his duffel bag. after taking a couple snapshots, he strolls inside. he makes his way to the t-shirt wall first, and catches a tall shadow lingering at the other end.

❝ Mr Murdock - ❞

HE TRIED TO AVOID INTERRUPTING SOMEONE IF HE COULD HELP IT. If the person in question, such as the gentleman in front of him, had allegedly just emerged from a paranormal encounter, this unwritten rule was particularly paramount. Witnessing an apparition first-hand and being able to form calm, coherent sentences afterwards was a rare occurrence. The last thing they needed was even the slightest demonstration of impatience.

HOWEVER, THERE WERE INSTANCES IN WHICH IT WAS UNAVOIDABLE. For now, he needed details. He'd have all the time in the world to talk about it after the danger had been dealt with. On his part, he tried to render his tone to be as reassuring as possible:

❝ -- I'm here to help, but I need you to slow down. Tell me exactly what happened, one step at a time. ❞

"roger wilco. i've definitely had a dose'a the freaky ghost. y'see, jack, sometimes i see these li'l purple wobblies 'n they get real wobbly when i'm tense," his hands gesture in a way somehow both dismissive and urgent, "so i thought i needed to high-tail it outta the subterranean station and just walk, but it did somethin' no purple wobbly has ever done in their storied history: it looked at me! with eyes! an' it flew—" he makes a quick, very impressive noise that sounds like a sports car zooming by, "right through me and up an' out the exit. i ain't never felt more strange then i did right after. and here i was always bein' told i make a better door than a window."

"Haven't heard that one in a hot minute." A smile comes to her slow and easy, much her friendship with the Texas boy currently elbow deep in the guts of a plane. If anyone's the 'sweee-ee-eet' one between the two of them, it's definitely Murdock. She doesn't care what B.A. says. "That's so nice, but you didn't--" Welp. There he goes. Dolores sighs and rolls her eyes (the fond sort of eye roll the guys back in Manhattan are all too familiar with), but still she honors the rules of surprise. "If it's furry, scaly, and/or multi-limbed, you can keep it!" She calls back, eyes shut and glasses resting on her crown for emphasis.

he comes back, arms laden with a medium cardboard box. "couple months back," he begins, "we helped out hannibal's nephew. he's a race car driver. real fine boy." oh-so casually, "i was an italian for a day!" for a few seconds, he shows her the swaggering wink-and-smile (with an appropriately-accented "hello. how are you today?") of the alter ego him and face spent a whopping six minutes formulating: signore giancarlo figoratti. (he thought it was funny his last name was literally forget about it.)

look, stop snowing me.

i’m so tired, my eyes keep slamming shut.

honestly, when you live in a cruddy situation like this long enough, you get to love a few people, and even hate a few.

just come inside and let yourself heal for a few days.

for me to do my job, i’ve got to know what’s bothering you, if anything.

come out of the sun. your brain is getting a tan.

your bruises. you’ve been brawling.

if this hurts, you’ll be the first to know.

boy, that gripes my cookies.

watch your language, or i’ll wash your mouth out with soap.

how’d you like a nose full of nickels?

i’ll thank you to mind your P’s and Q’s.

you’re the only one who ever comes to sunday services.

these monthly check-ups are a pain.

i’ve watched you around the hospital. you care about people.

you waited too long. now you’ve got a fever on your hands.

it’s my job to say no.

you can’t talk to me like that. not and get away with it.

guess i’m your bunk buddy for tonight.

why don’t you have some food first? best medicine in the world.

listen, the only thing G.I. about me is my athlete’s foot.

you look like an ad for death.

look, if you want to be a hero that much, you go.

that’s for me to know and for you to find out.

you just go back there and become the best possible “you” you can.

is that what you said, or do we have a bad connection?

this is the first time i’ve cried since i came to this crummy place.

just don’t talk to me for the rest of the war!

⚖️You’ve Reached Durán Law: @choicescreen liked this post for a starter. // T. Joplin

"Does it ever bother you that they never send the guys out to skeevy places in skimpy outfits?"