hey there, sugar

Young Hank appreciation post

So, it seems it would have to be war. Donovan had been…witness to Hannah’s performance and the corresponding reaction of Hank. Maintaining himself throughout the next week, slowly formulating a plan to tempt the man to him. Sacrificing a costume to slightly hot wash and a cycle in the dryer and stretching his back to stop it from popping when he tests the waters.

“I’m sorry Mr. Overton, sorry, Hank. I just can’t help myself, I’m too used to it at the theatre. They’ll turn you from the lead dancer to a chorus understudy if you miss a title.” Donovan glances over his shoulder, giggling as he manages to get his lovely supervisor closer to him. Stretching out his back to expose even more skin, raising his arms above his head and arching his back.

"Hmm... sounds a bit stuffy, to be honest. Don't worry, you only ever gotta call me Mr. Overton if you're in trouble. Even then... Sir is just fine." There's a hint of something mischievous in Hank's voice, but he doesn't draw more attention to it. Instead, he focuses on untangling and tying the laces with deft fingers.

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

No matter how many times it happens, a call from Hank always brightens Harlen's mood. Even after over a full day of driving, getting stuck in traffic every couple hours — he supposes that's what love will do to a guy.

Holy shit, he's really here. Hank's heart does something funny in his chest, stuttering like an old car engine that hasn't run in a while. Pumping out whatever dark shit was hiding inside, giving way to... something. He was in love with Harlen at some point. Still is, apparently.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the silence until Hank starts talking again, and by then he's caught off-guard by Hank's correction, evidenced by the confused hum. "No no, 's fine, Puddin', ya don't have t' do that," he reassures him, typing the address into his GPS.

"Twenty-six h... Harlen Vincenzo." Hank can practically feel the will of his mama reach across from Texas and take hold of him. That is way too long to be on the road. Fuck, what if something had happened on the way? "New York ain't goin' nowhere, you coulda stopped to rest."

If Harlen's entirely honest, having Hank almost full-name him puts the absolute fear of god in him for a split second, though it's almost immediately softened by the genuine concern in Hank's voice. "Yeah, I shoulda stopped at some point; sorry."

Any tinge of annoyance born from worry evaporates out of Hank's system at the meek apology, slightly gripping his hair in a fist. He almost wants to apologize for... fuck if he knows what. Instead, he just listens as that nickname rolls off his tongue.

Harlen doesn't get a chance to respond before Hank hangs up but that's fine; traffic is moving again anyway. New York drivers are dicks. And they all seem to drive slower than a snail moves, which is extremely infuriating to an extremely tired Harlen who is used to people driving over 80mph all the time. He thought New York was meant to be lively.

Hank is surprised he hasn't carved out a trail on his floor with the way he's pacing around the living room, still tugging on his hair here and there. Fuck, why's he so nervous? Hidden feelings aside, there's a lot that Harlen doesn't know about him. A whole other life.

Harlen only manages to make it halfway up the first flight of steps when he sees Hank — he'd normally be quicker but his bag's really heavy and he nearly forgot how to walk in the time it took to get here.

Hank only hesitates for a second, mostly because his brain is still trying to process that this is actually happening. Before seeing Harlen now, he didn't think he had been away from home for that long. A few years isn't long.

Harlen almost melts at the way Hank hugs him. Gods, he's missed hugs like this: firm and comforting — they feel like home. Not home as in Texas, home as in his grandmother's old house in Italy. Home is where the heart is and he supposes a part of his heart resides in Hank.

Hank smiles until dimples show, and he wishes the scruff on his face was a little more substantial to hide the flush of pink that rushes to his face. Shit, he really needs to get it together if Harlen is going to be in town for a while.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the flush that rises to Hank's face, on account of him blinking for just a little too long before Hank starts leading him to his apartment. God, he might just pass out the moment he sits down at this rate.

"Just food? More like a gift from the gods if it's stuff your mamma made." Having proper home cooked meals is one of the many things Hank misses about home. He knows his way around the kitchen thanks to his mamma, but he rarely has the time or ambition to put that much effort into a good Sunday dinner for just himself.

Harlen can't help but chuckle at Hank's comment about his mother's food. Not because he's wrong — no, Harlen's mother can cook — but because he's so enthusiastic about it. He's missed that: Hank's enthusiasm. He also isn't really awake enough to give a proper response that's in English. He should teach Hank Italian at some point.

Hank chuckles softly as he watches Harlen, and if the latter had been awake, he'd see a fond tenderness in Hank's eyes that would be hard to explain as anything other than what it is; Love. Not only born of friendship, and not like a brother... more than all that.

Was having a drink at his favorite dive bar with little to no interruptions so much to ask for? Apparently, it was, according to the man seated on his left.

While Hank absolutely should and occasionally does tell him to shut the fuck up, it’s spaced out enough that Murdock still can get an essay and a half out. It’s all exciting, the world around him and everything he gets to do. All half spat between his drinks, looking over and pretending that the other man is listening. “They’ve got all kinds of sunglasses in there, it’s fucking crazy. Like a warehouse or some shit. I stole a pair before the job, don’t you think they look good?”

Hank doesn't think much about the sunglasses, especially with whatever shit is going on with his eyes. He's also seen plenty of guys wear them when trying to hide just how high they are, no matter what time of day it is.

“Late twenties. You should’ve been checked into a nursing home already. Or a morgue.” Proudly grasping Hanks prized drink but he never gets a single sip. The wage gap between them was just enough that Murdock could only ever buy shitty bottles of beer and Hank could drink equally shitty whiskey.

Hank stares at him with dead eyes, hardly even blinking. The morgue thing isn't too far off, he thinks. Even closer for Murdock if he doesn't shut the fuck up.

Since his daring escape from the gangs basement, there’s been no need to keep quiet. Murdock can’t stop talking, spitting out everything and anything that crosses his mind. His grin shows off nearly every single one of his teeth. Laughing loudly, he puts the bottle back on the counter. “You couldn’t get in ten foot of any pussy. Or ass. Or dick. Or mouth. You probably give that bat of yours a nice squeeze and a kiss goodnight though.”

Hank just continues to give him that dead eyed stare, the only other movement being a twitch at the corner of his eye. The fucker would be funny if he wasn't also so goddamn annoying.

“Having a stroke or something? Need an aspirin?” Murdock can’t stop smiling, laughing to himself when the other man’s gone quiet. That twitch in his eye usually means terrible things or fantastic things. He’s good for either. Dragging his fingers across the rim of the glass bottle, a few seconds of silence.

Hank sighs, but he's already reaching into his inner jacket pocket to get his pack of smokes out once they're outside. He's lost count of how many times Murdock has bummed a cigarette from him. After the next job, he's going to make him buy a pack for him so he can't say he's broke. "Yeah, sure."

A shred of common sense kicks in as he’s offered the pack, deciding against trying to steal two out of the box and save the other for his walk back home. One less reason for Hank to kick him upside the head and finally acquaint him with that bat. Lighting up his cigarette before pocketing the lighter. One more reason for his nose to meet the pavement. Balance restored.

Hank wrinkles his nose at the mention of that... 'job'. Even if the thought of seafood didn't turn his stomach, he would like to find the guy just so he could beat the shit out of him for free. "Pff... that has got to be the most piss poor excuse of a fuckin' job I've ever heard. Last time I'm askin' you."

A seafood gift card was kind of cheap, but the man’s name was McGill. Murdock had already signed himself up for a dubious night of surf and turf next week. It was work and a free meal of grey shrimp. “Yeah, fucking terrible job. Fucking loser hiring other losers. Thought you’d like it.” Grinding the end of his cigarette with his teeth, catching some of the tobacco on his tongue and spitting it into the various grimes and fluids on the ground. Coughing and hacking into his hand like it was his first time breathing in smoke.

Hank raises an eyebrow as Murdock looks him over... not that he hasn't thought about shutting that mouth of his in a particular way before. A release of stress and anger, that's it. But listening to his proposition for a 'tradesies' has him clenching his jaw and ready to break his.

“God, I’m doin’ you a favour! You’re too drunk to drive back home, so you might as well let me give you a ride back.” Murdock nearly screams back at him, pulling back at the lighter and watching it light. So nicely too. Not a struggle to get the spark out. Another nice thing he wants to snatch away. “You couldn’t hit me if you tried, all that arthritis you’ve got. Lock up like a bike in the rain. And it’s just a lighter man.”

Right. Like Hank would believe for one fucking millisecond that Murdock is making the offer out of the goodness of his heart. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. He watches as the lighter is pocketed, and that fucking grin is ripe for being knocked off his face. It's 'just a lighter', but it's also the principle of the matter.

As Murdock grinds the end of the cigarette between his teeth, he happily pats the pocket holding the lighter. It’s a momentary win, a little bit of control and a prize for his efforts. It doesn’t stop either. He’s filled to the brim with more jabs at Hanks perceived age and stud abilities, barely able to contain them behind his stupid grin. A few degrees away from giggling about it.

Hank is drunk, so he doesn't completely miss the elbow. Instead of it hitting his temple and possibly stunning him, though, it grazes his cheekbone as he attempts to dodge. Still fucking hurts beneath the haze of alcohol, but not as bad as it could of.

Trying to hit Hank should’ve been easier than this embarrassment. Only one drink in but he’s missing his shots. Murdock keeps swinging out at him, elbowing and reaching to smack at Hanks face. Blindly smashing his head forward, hoping that he breaks that stupid nose off his face. He’s way too happy about a slight graze against his face, stupidly grinning at him. Soaking in his temporary win long enough that he gets a front row seat to being absolutely fucked.

"Continue the lesson it is, then," Hank says with a huff, keeping his body pressed against Murdock. One leg slots between his, looking to further limit his movements and bracing against one of his legs. Keeping his arm pinned behind his back and bent over the car, Hank's other hand grabs a fistful of his hair, pressing his cheek against the hood.

A flash of horror runs through his spine, one quick hot jolt tearing through his back and forcing him to bend over the hood of the car more. Trapped. Pinned like a bug to a piece of card with the sharp sensations to match. Shoulders rounding over and pressing into the car when he’s forced to meet the metal with a sudden twisting pull to his hair. Murdock could swear it’s fused to his skin already like a tongue to an icicle, hissing put his displeasure.

Hank makes a noise akin to a growl, closer to Murdock's ear now as the other man smacks at his arm. He feels it even less than the stinging on his cheek, the alcohol making things nice and numb.

This wasn’t the time to start feeling things. Not the time to figure out this nonsense. He’s praying that he’s gotten frozen to this car and dies out here. Murdocks hand retreats and splays flat on the hood of the car. Bracing. He almost wants something that he has to prepare for. Try and stay standing and not bend and kneel. It feels like he can’t even move.

Well. Isn't this an interesting sight... did Hank actually go and break the annoying bastard?

Nothing has managed to shut up him since he got out of that house. Where silence was survival, leaving him ready to die just for a few more words. Murdocks started fights with only one or two words, his newest profession was a one word agreement to start more fights. But he couldn’t stop the dictionary of stupidity leaving his mouth.

Oh, this is good. The shit talking has been reduced to barely coherent mumbles, but Hank will fucking take that over the alternative. As long as it will last, anyway. It's probably going to take a few ass whoppings to make the lesson stick... and he's more than happy to oblige.

Murdocks unfortunately not carrying a knife or a gun in his pocket. So he’s not able to excuse the change in his appearance, continuing to hide behind Joes car. Pulling his coat lower and trying to cover himself up, one hand leaning against the car as he tries to get rid of this newest revelation over himself. Chewing at his lip when he’s trying to start up any sequence of a conversation. Something to get Hank to stop staring at him.

Hank... could leave it here. Go back inside, have a few more shots, and maybe find someone cute to take home and fuck. But he's got a good mean streak going, and unfortunately for Murdock, his focus is completely on him right now. Not to mention, his bullshit meter is through the fucking roof. "Sure, sure..."

Glancing around them, he’s starting to search for an escape route. Or a high speed car that can quickly end his misery. Murdock crushes the toe of his boot against the car, chewing on the inside of his cheek in search of anything distracting. A bitter taste of cheap beer lingers on his tongue. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” he coughs out a laugh, continuing to sidestep around the car.

"Are you a virgin, pretty boy?" Hank is grinning now, stubbled dimples on full display as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Honestly, it wouldn't be a surprise with the way he fucking acts sometimes. He'd annoy any chick half to death before dipping his wick. Or dude.

Murdock hopes that the cold air eventually gets him to calm down, staying behind the car as his excitement finally dies down. Kind of. “Course not, fucker. You’ve probably gone so long without it you’re practically a virgin, old man.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he leans over the hood of the car to watch Hank drunkenly stumble over to the curb again. It should just be relief…but a feeling he isn’t ready to explore until he’s completely black out drunk stays heavy in his chest.

"Haha, there he is! Wouldn't be any fun if I beat all the piss out of you right away!" Hank's mood is all over the fucking place, he's vaguely aware. Finally starting to settle somewhere away from grumpy and belligerent. Apparently, putting a mouthy little twerp in his place does wonders.

There is no standard at which this is normal. Murdock steps over unsteadily, still lightheaded from activities outside of their fight. There wasn’t a lot of touch in his life, so he still has to adjust his clothes to cover his…pecker. Look a little less like a sexual deviant and more like a violent deviant. Overwhelmed by the lingering scent of Hank, he’s made even dizzier by his whispered offer.

"I said what I said, fucker. Anything more expensive is at my place, and like hell you're gonna convince me to invite you over." Yeah fucking right. If Murdock tries to steal a lighter right in front of him, then Hank would have to watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn't swipe anything else. Not that he has much other than his fish, but still.

“I’m pretty damn convincing when I wanna be, Hanky,” he chides, sliding right back into his seat next to Hank. Testing out how annoying this nickname is, he happily leans against the counter and side-eyes him. Hopefully he’s not going to get his ass beaten immediately, but nothing can shut Murdock up for more than a few minutes. Clicking the side of his shoes against the barstool, he starts following Hanks gaze.

Hanky. He fucking hates that, and of course that's exactly what Murdock is going for. It's almost like he wants to go outside again and test his patience. "Only thing you've convinced me to do so far tonight is whoop your ass. So in that regard... sure you are."

Tapping the counter, he nods over to Hank and gestures for a drink. Hopefully a nice glass of whiskey. He’s never even had one before, so hopefully it doesn’t taste like absolute ass. “See? Once you’ve stopped being a grouchy little fucker, we’re practically best friends!” Murdocks stupid grin is back, plastered on his face and revealing the cracked canine tooth he hasn’t gotten rid of.

There's a lot of shit that Hank would tolerate coming out of Murdock's mouth, but that... oh, certainly not that. He pauses mid sip, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joe pause in the middle of wiping down the counter. Probably getting ready to tell them to take it outside again and to not come back for the night.

A drinks on the counter, one he can’t tell if it’s for him or not. So he snatches it anyways, fingertips catching on the stupid little garnish as he pulls it over. Murdock didn’t even flinch as he pulled out his latest insult, rolling right off his tongue before he turns his attention towards the drink. Poking at the leaves and trying to determine its edibility.

There's a brief pause where Hank just stares at Murdock, blinking a few times like he's trying to get a proper look at... whatever the fuck is next to him. He really is a clueless little shit, isn't he?

Thankfully, he manages to get through this minor threat without suddenly having to hide behind a car. Murdock struggles to escape the pinching grip of his shoulder, forced to smell the overwhelming scent of alcohol pouring off of Hank. He should’ve fought harder to keep the keys away from him. He’s already an old man, he doesn’t need an actual hip replacement.

Hank barely pauses or bats an eye at Murdock's question. Whether it's rhetorical or not, he's going to answer it honestly. Brutally so. "'Cause you fuckin' try too hard, princess," he responds dryly. If Murdock was going to call him a faggot, then he could be compared to a pretty little thing in a dress.

Grumbling, he continues to through back the rest of the nightmarish concoction of a cocktail he’s picked up. Bitter and biting alongside Hanks brutal comments. Itching for something to take away the taste, something more pleasant like spat out tobacco or the underside of the bar. Shoving his sunglasses further against his face, the plastic digging into his face and the bump of cartilage still raised against his nose.

The insult bounces right off, landing flat even compared to Murdock's earlier attempts. He's getting under the little shits skin... good. It pleases him greatly, over the small sober voice somewhere in his mind that's telling him he's being an absolute prick. Oh well.

“Like you’d fucking what?” Murdock glares up at Hank, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping in the air. He’d hoped that at least if, and an entirely hypothetical if, he was to have anything to do with another man in bed, there wasn’t a single way in hell he was being fucked. Leaving the syrupy mess of a drink on the counter, he starts closing the distance between them again. Leaning in closer, any intimidation lost from the plastic sunglasses on his face. “You couldn’t fuck anyone, either way. Those hips would snap like a fucking twig.”

Hank only smiles at Murdock as he gets closer, much like one would smile at a small dog barking at its own shadow. Amused and anything but intimidated. "Guess you won't ever find out, huh," he responds with a tilt of his head. Murdock couldn't phase him now, at least tonight. Not when he's finding out the delectable little tidbits he is.

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

No matter how many times it happens, a call from Hank always brightens Harlen's mood. Even after over a full day of driving, getting stuck in traffic every couple hours — he supposes that's what love will do to a guy.

Holy shit, he's really here. Hank's heart does something funny in his chest, stuttering like an old car engine that hasn't run in a while. Pumping out whatever dark shit was hiding inside, giving way to... something. He was in love with Harlen at some point. Still is, apparently.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the silence until Hank starts talking again, and by then he's caught off-guard by Hank's correction, evidenced by the confused hum. "No no, 's fine, Puddin', ya don't have t' do that," he reassures him, typing the address into his GPS.

"Twenty-six h... Harlen Vincenzo." Hank can practically feel the will of his mama reach across from Texas and take hold of him. That is way too long to be on the road. Fuck, what if something had happened on the way? "New York ain't goin' nowhere, you coulda stopped to rest."

If Harlen's entirely honest, having Hank almost full-name him puts the absolute fear of god in him for a split second, though it's almost immediately softened by the genuine concern in Hank's voice. "Yeah, I shoulda stopped at some point; sorry."

Any tinge of annoyance born from worry evaporates out of Hank's system at the meek apology, slightly gripping his hair in a fist. He almost wants to apologize for... fuck if he knows what. Instead, he just listens as that nickname rolls off his tongue.

Harlen doesn't get a chance to respond before Hank hangs up but that's fine; traffic is moving again anyway. New York drivers are dicks. And they all seem to drive slower than a snail moves, which is extremely infuriating to an extremely tired Harlen who is used to people driving over 80mph all the time. He thought New York was meant to be lively.

Hank is surprised he hasn't carved out a trail on his floor with the way he's pacing around the living room, still tugging on his hair here and there. Fuck, why's he so nervous? Hidden feelings aside, there's a lot that Harlen doesn't know about him. A whole other life.

Harlen only manages to make it halfway up the first flight of steps when he sees Hank — he'd normally be quicker but his bag's really heavy and he nearly forgot how to walk in the time it took to get here.

Hank only hesitates for a second, mostly because his brain is still trying to process that this is actually happening. Before seeing Harlen now, he didn't think he had been away from home for that long. A few years isn't long.

Harlen almost melts at the way Hank hugs him. Gods, he's missed hugs like this: firm and comforting — they feel like home. Not home as in Texas, home as in his grandmother's old house in Italy. Home is where the heart is and he supposes a part of his heart resides in Hank.

Hank smiles until dimples show, and he wishes the scruff on his face was a little more substantial to hide the flush of pink that rushes to his face. Shit, he really needs to get it together if Harlen is going to be in town for a while.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the flush that rises to Hank's face, on account of him blinking for just a little too long before Hank starts leading him to his apartment. God, he might just pass out the moment he sits down at this rate.

"Just food? More like a gift from the gods if it's stuff your mamma made." Having proper home cooked meals is one of the many things Hank misses about home. He knows his way around the kitchen thanks to his mamma, but he rarely has the time or ambition to put that much effort into a good Sunday dinner for just himself.

Was having a drink at his favorite dive bar with little to no interruptions so much to ask for? Apparently, it was, according to the man seated on his left.

While Hank absolutely should and occasionally does tell him to shut the fuck up, it’s spaced out enough that Murdock still can get an essay and a half out. It’s all exciting, the world around him and everything he gets to do. All half spat between his drinks, looking over and pretending that the other man is listening. “They’ve got all kinds of sunglasses in there, it’s fucking crazy. Like a warehouse or some shit. I stole a pair before the job, don’t you think they look good?”

Hank doesn't think much about the sunglasses, especially with whatever shit is going on with his eyes. He's also seen plenty of guys wear them when trying to hide just how high they are, no matter what time of day it is.

“Late twenties. You should’ve been checked into a nursing home already. Or a morgue.” Proudly grasping Hanks prized drink but he never gets a single sip. The wage gap between them was just enough that Murdock could only ever buy shitty bottles of beer and Hank could drink equally shitty whiskey.

Hank stares at him with dead eyes, hardly even blinking. The morgue thing isn't too far off, he thinks. Even closer for Murdock if he doesn't shut the fuck up.

Since his daring escape from the gangs basement, there’s been no need to keep quiet. Murdock can’t stop talking, spitting out everything and anything that crosses his mind. His grin shows off nearly every single one of his teeth. Laughing loudly, he puts the bottle back on the counter. “You couldn’t get in ten foot of any pussy. Or ass. Or dick. Or mouth. You probably give that bat of yours a nice squeeze and a kiss goodnight though.”

Hank just continues to give him that dead eyed stare, the only other movement being a twitch at the corner of his eye. The fucker would be funny if he wasn't also so goddamn annoying.

“Having a stroke or something? Need an aspirin?” Murdock can’t stop smiling, laughing to himself when the other man’s gone quiet. That twitch in his eye usually means terrible things or fantastic things. He’s good for either. Dragging his fingers across the rim of the glass bottle, a few seconds of silence.

Hank sighs, but he's already reaching into his inner jacket pocket to get his pack of smokes out once they're outside. He's lost count of how many times Murdock has bummed a cigarette from him. After the next job, he's going to make him buy a pack for him so he can't say he's broke. "Yeah, sure."

A shred of common sense kicks in as he’s offered the pack, deciding against trying to steal two out of the box and save the other for his walk back home. One less reason for Hank to kick him upside the head and finally acquaint him with that bat. Lighting up his cigarette before pocketing the lighter. One more reason for his nose to meet the pavement. Balance restored.

Hank wrinkles his nose at the mention of that... 'job'. Even if the thought of seafood didn't turn his stomach, he would like to find the guy just so he could beat the shit out of him for free. "Pff... that has got to be the most piss poor excuse of a fuckin' job I've ever heard. Last time I'm askin' you."

A seafood gift card was kind of cheap, but the man’s name was McGill. Murdock had already signed himself up for a dubious night of surf and turf next week. It was work and a free meal of grey shrimp. “Yeah, fucking terrible job. Fucking loser hiring other losers. Thought you’d like it.” Grinding the end of his cigarette with his teeth, catching some of the tobacco on his tongue and spitting it into the various grimes and fluids on the ground. Coughing and hacking into his hand like it was his first time breathing in smoke.

Hank raises an eyebrow as Murdock looks him over... not that he hasn't thought about shutting that mouth of his in a particular way before. A release of stress and anger, that's it. But listening to his proposition for a 'tradesies' has him clenching his jaw and ready to break his.

“God, I’m doin’ you a favour! You’re too drunk to drive back home, so you might as well let me give you a ride back.” Murdock nearly screams back at him, pulling back at the lighter and watching it light. So nicely too. Not a struggle to get the spark out. Another nice thing he wants to snatch away. “You couldn’t hit me if you tried, all that arthritis you’ve got. Lock up like a bike in the rain. And it’s just a lighter man.”

Right. Like Hank would believe for one fucking millisecond that Murdock is making the offer out of the goodness of his heart. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. He watches as the lighter is pocketed, and that fucking grin is ripe for being knocked off his face. It's 'just a lighter', but it's also the principle of the matter.

As Murdock grinds the end of the cigarette between his teeth, he happily pats the pocket holding the lighter. It’s a momentary win, a little bit of control and a prize for his efforts. It doesn’t stop either. He’s filled to the brim with more jabs at Hanks perceived age and stud abilities, barely able to contain them behind his stupid grin. A few degrees away from giggling about it.

Hank is drunk, so he doesn't completely miss the elbow. Instead of it hitting his temple and possibly stunning him, though, it grazes his cheekbone as he attempts to dodge. Still fucking hurts beneath the haze of alcohol, but not as bad as it could of.

Trying to hit Hank should’ve been easier than this embarrassment. Only one drink in but he’s missing his shots. Murdock keeps swinging out at him, elbowing and reaching to smack at Hanks face. Blindly smashing his head forward, hoping that he breaks that stupid nose off his face. He’s way too happy about a slight graze against his face, stupidly grinning at him. Soaking in his temporary win long enough that he gets a front row seat to being absolutely fucked.

"Continue the lesson it is, then," Hank says with a huff, keeping his body pressed against Murdock. One leg slots between his, looking to further limit his movements and bracing against one of his legs. Keeping his arm pinned behind his back and bent over the car, Hank's other hand grabs a fistful of his hair, pressing his cheek against the hood.

A flash of horror runs through his spine, one quick hot jolt tearing through his back and forcing him to bend over the hood of the car more. Trapped. Pinned like a bug to a piece of card with the sharp sensations to match. Shoulders rounding over and pressing into the car when he’s forced to meet the metal with a sudden twisting pull to his hair. Murdock could swear it’s fused to his skin already like a tongue to an icicle, hissing put his displeasure.

Hank makes a noise akin to a growl, closer to Murdock's ear now as the other man smacks at his arm. He feels it even less than the stinging on his cheek, the alcohol making things nice and numb.

This wasn’t the time to start feeling things. Not the time to figure out this nonsense. He’s praying that he’s gotten frozen to this car and dies out here. Murdocks hand retreats and splays flat on the hood of the car. Bracing. He almost wants something that he has to prepare for. Try and stay standing and not bend and kneel. It feels like he can’t even move.

Well. Isn't this an interesting sight... did Hank actually go and break the annoying bastard?

Nothing has managed to shut up him since he got out of that house. Where silence was survival, leaving him ready to die just for a few more words. Murdocks started fights with only one or two words, his newest profession was a one word agreement to start more fights. But he couldn’t stop the dictionary of stupidity leaving his mouth.

Oh, this is good. The shit talking has been reduced to barely coherent mumbles, but Hank will fucking take that over the alternative. As long as it will last, anyway. It's probably going to take a few ass whoppings to make the lesson stick... and he's more than happy to oblige.

Murdocks unfortunately not carrying a knife or a gun in his pocket. So he’s not able to excuse the change in his appearance, continuing to hide behind Joes car. Pulling his coat lower and trying to cover himself up, one hand leaning against the car as he tries to get rid of this newest revelation over himself. Chewing at his lip when he’s trying to start up any sequence of a conversation. Something to get Hank to stop staring at him.

Hank... could leave it here. Go back inside, have a few more shots, and maybe find someone cute to take home and fuck. But he's got a good mean streak going, and unfortunately for Murdock, his focus is completely on him right now. Not to mention, his bullshit meter is through the fucking roof. "Sure, sure..."

Glancing around them, he’s starting to search for an escape route. Or a high speed car that can quickly end his misery. Murdock crushes the toe of his boot against the car, chewing on the inside of his cheek in search of anything distracting. A bitter taste of cheap beer lingers on his tongue. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” he coughs out a laugh, continuing to sidestep around the car.

"Are you a virgin, pretty boy?" Hank is grinning now, stubbled dimples on full display as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Honestly, it wouldn't be a surprise with the way he fucking acts sometimes. He'd annoy any chick half to death before dipping his wick. Or dude.

Murdock hopes that the cold air eventually gets him to calm down, staying behind the car as his excitement finally dies down. Kind of. “Course not, fucker. You’ve probably gone so long without it you’re practically a virgin, old man.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he leans over the hood of the car to watch Hank drunkenly stumble over to the curb again. It should just be relief…but a feeling he isn’t ready to explore until he’s completely black out drunk stays heavy in his chest.

"Haha, there he is! Wouldn't be any fun if I beat all the piss out of you right away!" Hank's mood is all over the fucking place, he's vaguely aware. Finally starting to settle somewhere away from grumpy and belligerent. Apparently, putting a mouthy little twerp in his place does wonders.

There is no standard at which this is normal. Murdock steps over unsteadily, still lightheaded from activities outside of their fight. There wasn’t a lot of touch in his life, so he still has to adjust his clothes to cover his…pecker. Look a little less like a sexual deviant and more like a violent deviant. Overwhelmed by the lingering scent of Hank, he’s made even dizzier by his whispered offer.

"I said what I said, fucker. Anything more expensive is at my place, and like hell you're gonna convince me to invite you over." Yeah fucking right. If Murdock tries to steal a lighter right in front of him, then Hank would have to watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn't swipe anything else. Not that he has much other than his fish, but still.

“I’m pretty damn convincing when I wanna be, Hanky,” he chides, sliding right back into his seat next to Hank. Testing out how annoying this nickname is, he happily leans against the counter and side-eyes him. Hopefully he’s not going to get his ass beaten immediately, but nothing can shut Murdock up for more than a few minutes. Clicking the side of his shoes against the barstool, he starts following Hanks gaze.

Hanky. He fucking hates that, and of course that's exactly what Murdock is going for. It's almost like he wants to go outside again and test his patience. "Only thing you've convinced me to do so far tonight is whoop your ass. So in that regard... sure you are."

Tapping the counter, he nods over to Hank and gestures for a drink. Hopefully a nice glass of whiskey. He’s never even had one before, so hopefully it doesn’t taste like absolute ass. “See? Once you’ve stopped being a grouchy little fucker, we’re practically best friends!” Murdocks stupid grin is back, plastered on his face and revealing the cracked canine tooth he hasn’t gotten rid of.

There's a lot of shit that Hank would tolerate coming out of Murdock's mouth, but that... oh, certainly not that. He pauses mid sip, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joe pause in the middle of wiping down the counter. Probably getting ready to tell them to take it outside again and to not come back for the night.

A drinks on the counter, one he can’t tell if it’s for him or not. So he snatches it anyways, fingertips catching on the stupid little garnish as he pulls it over. Murdock didn’t even flinch as he pulled out his latest insult, rolling right off his tongue before he turns his attention towards the drink. Poking at the leaves and trying to determine its edibility.

There's a brief pause where Hank just stares at Murdock, blinking a few times like he's trying to get a proper look at... whatever the fuck is next to him. He really is a clueless little shit, isn't he?

Thankfully, he manages to get through this minor threat without suddenly having to hide behind a car. Murdock struggles to escape the pinching grip of his shoulder, forced to smell the overwhelming scent of alcohol pouring off of Hank. He should’ve fought harder to keep the keys away from him. He’s already an old man, he doesn’t need an actual hip replacement.

Hank barely pauses or bats an eye at Murdock's question. Whether it's rhetorical or not, he's going to answer it honestly. Brutally so. "'Cause you fuckin' try too hard, princess," he responds dryly. If Murdock was going to call him a faggot, then he could be compared to a pretty little thing in a dress.

Grumbling, he continues to through back the rest of the nightmarish concoction of a cocktail he’s picked up. Bitter and biting alongside Hanks brutal comments. Itching for something to take away the taste, something more pleasant like spat out tobacco or the underside of the bar. Shoving his sunglasses further against his face, the plastic digging into his face and the bump of cartilage still raised against his nose.

The insult bounces right off, landing flat even compared to Murdock's earlier attempts. He's getting under the little shits skin... good. It pleases him greatly, over the small sober voice somewhere in his mind that's telling him he's being an absolute prick. Oh well.

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

No matter how many times it happens, a call from Hank always brightens Harlen's mood. Even after over a full day of driving, getting stuck in traffic every couple hours — he supposes that's what love will do to a guy.

Holy shit, he's really here. Hank's heart does something funny in his chest, stuttering like an old car engine that hasn't run in a while. Pumping out whatever dark shit was hiding inside, giving way to... something. He was in love with Harlen at some point. Still is, apparently.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the silence until Hank starts talking again, and by then he's caught off-guard by Hank's correction, evidenced by the confused hum. "No no, 's fine, Puddin', ya don't have t' do that," he reassures him, typing the address into his GPS.

"Twenty-six h... Harlen Vincenzo." Hank can practically feel the will of his mama reach across from Texas and take hold of him. That is way too long to be on the road. Fuck, what if something had happened on the way? "New York ain't goin' nowhere, you coulda stopped to rest."

If Harlen's entirely honest, having Hank almost full-name him puts the absolute fear of god in him for a split second, though it's almost immediately softened by the genuine concern in Hank's voice. "Yeah, I shoulda stopped at some point; sorry."

Any tinge of annoyance born from worry evaporates out of Hank's system at the meek apology, slightly gripping his hair in a fist. He almost wants to apologize for... fuck if he knows what. Instead, he just listens as that nickname rolls off his tongue.

Harlen doesn't get a chance to respond before Hank hangs up but that's fine; traffic is moving again anyway. New York drivers are dicks. And they all seem to drive slower than a snail moves, which is extremely infuriating to an extremely tired Harlen who is used to people driving over 80mph all the time. He thought New York was meant to be lively.

Hank is surprised he hasn't carved out a trail on his floor with the way he's pacing around the living room, still tugging on his hair here and there. Fuck, why's he so nervous? Hidden feelings aside, there's a lot that Harlen doesn't know about him. A whole other life.

Harlen only manages to make it halfway up the first flight of steps when he sees Hank — he'd normally be quicker but his bag's really heavy and he nearly forgot how to walk in the time it took to get here.

Hank only hesitates for a second, mostly because his brain is still trying to process that this is actually happening. Before seeing Harlen now, he didn't think he had been away from home for that long. A few years isn't long.

Harlen almost melts at the way Hank hugs him. Gods, he's missed hugs like this: firm and comforting — they feel like home. Not home as in Texas, home as in his grandmother's old house in Italy. Home is where the heart is and he supposes a part of his heart resides in Hank.

Hank smiles until dimples show, and he wishes the scruff on his face was a little more substantial to hide the flush of pink that rushes to his face. Shit, he really needs to get it together if Harlen is going to be in town for a while.

Was having a drink at his favorite dive bar with little to no interruptions so much to ask for? Apparently, it was, according to the man seated on his left.

While Hank absolutely should and occasionally does tell him to shut the fuck up, it’s spaced out enough that Murdock still can get an essay and a half out. It’s all exciting, the world around him and everything he gets to do. All half spat between his drinks, looking over and pretending that the other man is listening. “They’ve got all kinds of sunglasses in there, it’s fucking crazy. Like a warehouse or some shit. I stole a pair before the job, don’t you think they look good?”

Hank doesn't think much about the sunglasses, especially with whatever shit is going on with his eyes. He's also seen plenty of guys wear them when trying to hide just how high they are, no matter what time of day it is.

“Late twenties. You should’ve been checked into a nursing home already. Or a morgue.” Proudly grasping Hanks prized drink but he never gets a single sip. The wage gap between them was just enough that Murdock could only ever buy shitty bottles of beer and Hank could drink equally shitty whiskey.

Hank stares at him with dead eyes, hardly even blinking. The morgue thing isn't too far off, he thinks. Even closer for Murdock if he doesn't shut the fuck up.

Since his daring escape from the gangs basement, there’s been no need to keep quiet. Murdock can’t stop talking, spitting out everything and anything that crosses his mind. His grin shows off nearly every single one of his teeth. Laughing loudly, he puts the bottle back on the counter. “You couldn’t get in ten foot of any pussy. Or ass. Or dick. Or mouth. You probably give that bat of yours a nice squeeze and a kiss goodnight though.”

Hank just continues to give him that dead eyed stare, the only other movement being a twitch at the corner of his eye. The fucker would be funny if he wasn't also so goddamn annoying.

“Having a stroke or something? Need an aspirin?” Murdock can’t stop smiling, laughing to himself when the other man’s gone quiet. That twitch in his eye usually means terrible things or fantastic things. He’s good for either. Dragging his fingers across the rim of the glass bottle, a few seconds of silence.

Hank sighs, but he's already reaching into his inner jacket pocket to get his pack of smokes out once they're outside. He's lost count of how many times Murdock has bummed a cigarette from him. After the next job, he's going to make him buy a pack for him so he can't say he's broke. "Yeah, sure."

A shred of common sense kicks in as he’s offered the pack, deciding against trying to steal two out of the box and save the other for his walk back home. One less reason for Hank to kick him upside the head and finally acquaint him with that bat. Lighting up his cigarette before pocketing the lighter. One more reason for his nose to meet the pavement. Balance restored.

Hank wrinkles his nose at the mention of that... 'job'. Even if the thought of seafood didn't turn his stomach, he would like to find the guy just so he could beat the shit out of him for free. "Pff... that has got to be the most piss poor excuse of a fuckin' job I've ever heard. Last time I'm askin' you."

A seafood gift card was kind of cheap, but the man’s name was McGill. Murdock had already signed himself up for a dubious night of surf and turf next week. It was work and a free meal of grey shrimp. “Yeah, fucking terrible job. Fucking loser hiring other losers. Thought you’d like it.” Grinding the end of his cigarette with his teeth, catching some of the tobacco on his tongue and spitting it into the various grimes and fluids on the ground. Coughing and hacking into his hand like it was his first time breathing in smoke.

Hank raises an eyebrow as Murdock looks him over... not that he hasn't thought about shutting that mouth of his in a particular way before. A release of stress and anger, that's it. But listening to his proposition for a 'tradesies' has him clenching his jaw and ready to break his.

“God, I’m doin’ you a favour! You’re too drunk to drive back home, so you might as well let me give you a ride back.” Murdock nearly screams back at him, pulling back at the lighter and watching it light. So nicely too. Not a struggle to get the spark out. Another nice thing he wants to snatch away. “You couldn’t hit me if you tried, all that arthritis you’ve got. Lock up like a bike in the rain. And it’s just a lighter man.”

Right. Like Hank would believe for one fucking millisecond that Murdock is making the offer out of the goodness of his heart. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. He watches as the lighter is pocketed, and that fucking grin is ripe for being knocked off his face. It's 'just a lighter', but it's also the principle of the matter.

As Murdock grinds the end of the cigarette between his teeth, he happily pats the pocket holding the lighter. It’s a momentary win, a little bit of control and a prize for his efforts. It doesn’t stop either. He’s filled to the brim with more jabs at Hanks perceived age and stud abilities, barely able to contain them behind his stupid grin. A few degrees away from giggling about it.

Hank is drunk, so he doesn't completely miss the elbow. Instead of it hitting his temple and possibly stunning him, though, it grazes his cheekbone as he attempts to dodge. Still fucking hurts beneath the haze of alcohol, but not as bad as it could of.

Trying to hit Hank should’ve been easier than this embarrassment. Only one drink in but he’s missing his shots. Murdock keeps swinging out at him, elbowing and reaching to smack at Hanks face. Blindly smashing his head forward, hoping that he breaks that stupid nose off his face. He’s way too happy about a slight graze against his face, stupidly grinning at him. Soaking in his temporary win long enough that he gets a front row seat to being absolutely fucked.

"Continue the lesson it is, then," Hank says with a huff, keeping his body pressed against Murdock. One leg slots between his, looking to further limit his movements and bracing against one of his legs. Keeping his arm pinned behind his back and bent over the car, Hank's other hand grabs a fistful of his hair, pressing his cheek against the hood.

A flash of horror runs through his spine, one quick hot jolt tearing through his back and forcing him to bend over the hood of the car more. Trapped. Pinned like a bug to a piece of card with the sharp sensations to match. Shoulders rounding over and pressing into the car when he’s forced to meet the metal with a sudden twisting pull to his hair. Murdock could swear it’s fused to his skin already like a tongue to an icicle, hissing put his displeasure.

Hank makes a noise akin to a growl, closer to Murdock's ear now as the other man smacks at his arm. He feels it even less than the stinging on his cheek, the alcohol making things nice and numb.

This wasn’t the time to start feeling things. Not the time to figure out this nonsense. He’s praying that he’s gotten frozen to this car and dies out here. Murdocks hand retreats and splays flat on the hood of the car. Bracing. He almost wants something that he has to prepare for. Try and stay standing and not bend and kneel. It feels like he can’t even move.

Well. Isn't this an interesting sight... did Hank actually go and break the annoying bastard?

Nothing has managed to shut up him since he got out of that house. Where silence was survival, leaving him ready to die just for a few more words. Murdocks started fights with only one or two words, his newest profession was a one word agreement to start more fights. But he couldn’t stop the dictionary of stupidity leaving his mouth.

Oh, this is good. The shit talking has been reduced to barely coherent mumbles, but Hank will fucking take that over the alternative. As long as it will last, anyway. It's probably going to take a few ass whoppings to make the lesson stick... and he's more than happy to oblige.

Murdocks unfortunately not carrying a knife or a gun in his pocket. So he’s not able to excuse the change in his appearance, continuing to hide behind Joes car. Pulling his coat lower and trying to cover himself up, one hand leaning against the car as he tries to get rid of this newest revelation over himself. Chewing at his lip when he’s trying to start up any sequence of a conversation. Something to get Hank to stop staring at him.

Hank... could leave it here. Go back inside, have a few more shots, and maybe find someone cute to take home and fuck. But he's got a good mean streak going, and unfortunately for Murdock, his focus is completely on him right now. Not to mention, his bullshit meter is through the fucking roof. "Sure, sure..."

Glancing around them, he’s starting to search for an escape route. Or a high speed car that can quickly end his misery. Murdock crushes the toe of his boot against the car, chewing on the inside of his cheek in search of anything distracting. A bitter taste of cheap beer lingers on his tongue. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” he coughs out a laugh, continuing to sidestep around the car.

"Are you a virgin, pretty boy?" Hank is grinning now, stubbled dimples on full display as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Honestly, it wouldn't be a surprise with the way he fucking acts sometimes. He'd annoy any chick half to death before dipping his wick. Or dude.

Murdock hopes that the cold air eventually gets him to calm down, staying behind the car as his excitement finally dies down. Kind of. “Course not, fucker. You’ve probably gone so long without it you’re practically a virgin, old man.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he leans over the hood of the car to watch Hank drunkenly stumble over to the curb again. It should just be relief…but a feeling he isn’t ready to explore until he’s completely black out drunk stays heavy in his chest.

"Haha, there he is! Wouldn't be any fun if I beat all the piss out of you right away!" Hank's mood is all over the fucking place, he's vaguely aware. Finally starting to settle somewhere away from grumpy and belligerent. Apparently, putting a mouthy little twerp in his place does wonders.

There is no standard at which this is normal. Murdock steps over unsteadily, still lightheaded from activities outside of their fight. There wasn’t a lot of touch in his life, so he still has to adjust his clothes to cover his…pecker. Look a little less like a sexual deviant and more like a violent deviant. Overwhelmed by the lingering scent of Hank, he’s made even dizzier by his whispered offer.

"I said what I said, fucker. Anything more expensive is at my place, and like hell you're gonna convince me to invite you over." Yeah fucking right. If Murdock tries to steal a lighter right in front of him, then Hank would have to watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn't swipe anything else. Not that he has much other than his fish, but still.

“I’m pretty damn convincing when I wanna be, Hanky,” he chides, sliding right back into his seat next to Hank. Testing out how annoying this nickname is, he happily leans against the counter and side-eyes him. Hopefully he’s not going to get his ass beaten immediately, but nothing can shut Murdock up for more than a few minutes. Clicking the side of his shoes against the barstool, he starts following Hanks gaze.

Hanky. He fucking hates that, and of course that's exactly what Murdock is going for. It's almost like he wants to go outside again and test his patience. "Only thing you've convinced me to do so far tonight is whoop your ass. So in that regard... sure you are."

Tapping the counter, he nods over to Hank and gestures for a drink. Hopefully a nice glass of whiskey. He’s never even had one before, so hopefully it doesn’t taste like absolute ass. “See? Once you’ve stopped being a grouchy little fucker, we’re practically best friends!” Murdocks stupid grin is back, plastered on his face and revealing the cracked canine tooth he hasn’t gotten rid of.

There's a lot of shit that Hank would tolerate coming out of Murdock's mouth, but that... oh, certainly not that. He pauses mid sip, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joe pause in the middle of wiping down the counter. Probably getting ready to tell them to take it outside again and to not come back for the night.

A drinks on the counter, one he can’t tell if it’s for him or not. So he snatches it anyways, fingertips catching on the stupid little garnish as he pulls it over. Murdock didn’t even flinch as he pulled out his latest insult, rolling right off his tongue before he turns his attention towards the drink. Poking at the leaves and trying to determine its edibility.

There's a brief pause where Hank just stares at Murdock, blinking a few times like he's trying to get a proper look at... whatever the fuck is next to him. He really is a clueless little shit, isn't he?

Thankfully, he manages to get through this minor threat without suddenly having to hide behind a car. Murdock struggles to escape the pinching grip of his shoulder, forced to smell the overwhelming scent of alcohol pouring off of Hank. He should’ve fought harder to keep the keys away from him. He’s already an old man, he doesn’t need an actual hip replacement.

Hank barely pauses or bats an eye at Murdock's question. Whether it's rhetorical or not, he's going to answer it honestly. Brutally so. "'Cause you fuckin' try too hard, princess," he responds dryly. If Murdock was going to call him a faggot, then he could be compared to a pretty little thing in a dress.

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

No matter how many times it happens, a call from Hank always brightens Harlen's mood. Even after over a full day of driving, getting stuck in traffic every couple hours — he supposes that's what love will do to a guy.

Holy shit, he's really here. Hank's heart does something funny in his chest, stuttering like an old car engine that hasn't run in a while. Pumping out whatever dark shit was hiding inside, giving way to... something. He was in love with Harlen at some point. Still is, apparently.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the silence until Hank starts talking again, and by then he's caught off-guard by Hank's correction, evidenced by the confused hum. "No no, 's fine, Puddin', ya don't have t' do that," he reassures him, typing the address into his GPS.

"Twenty-six h... Harlen Vincenzo." Hank can practically feel the will of his mama reach across from Texas and take hold of him. That is way too long to be on the road. Fuck, what if something had happened on the way? "New York ain't goin' nowhere, you coulda stopped to rest."

If Harlen's entirely honest, having Hank almost full-name him puts the absolute fear of god in him for a split second, though it's almost immediately softened by the genuine concern in Hank's voice. "Yeah, I shoulda stopped at some point; sorry."

Any tinge of annoyance born from worry evaporates out of Hank's system at the meek apology, slightly gripping his hair in a fist. He almost wants to apologize for... fuck if he knows what. Instead, he just listens as that nickname rolls off his tongue.

Harlen doesn't get a chance to respond before Hank hangs up but that's fine; traffic is moving again anyway. New York drivers are dicks. And they all seem to drive slower than a snail moves, which is extremely infuriating to an extremely tired Harlen who is used to people driving over 80mph all the time. He thought New York was meant to be lively.

Hank is surprised he hasn't carved out a trail on his floor with the way he's pacing around the living room, still tugging on his hair here and there. Fuck, why's he so nervous? Hidden feelings aside, there's a lot that Harlen doesn't know about him. A whole other life.

Harlen only manages to make it halfway up the first flight of steps when he sees Hank — he'd normally be quicker but his bag's really heavy and he nearly forgot how to walk in the time it took to get here.

Hank only hesitates for a second, mostly because his brain is still trying to process that this is actually happening. Before seeing Harlen now, he didn't think he had been away from home for that long. A few years isn't long.

Hank receives a voicenote. It's been a common occurrence since Harlen got his number, especially since Harlen's hands are usually busy when he wants to talk to Hank.

No matter how many times it happens, a call from Hank always brightens Harlen's mood. Even after over a full day of driving, getting stuck in traffic every couple hours — he supposes that's what love will do to a guy.

Holy shit, he's really here. Hank's heart does something funny in his chest, stuttering like an old car engine that hasn't run in a while. Pumping out whatever dark shit was hiding inside, giving way to... something. He was in love with Harlen at some point. Still is, apparently.

Harlen doesn't quite notice the silence until Hank starts talking again, and by then he's caught off-guard by Hank's correction, evidenced by the confused hum. "No no, 's fine, Puddin', ya don't have t' do that," he reassures him, typing the address into his GPS.

"Twenty-six h... Harlen Vincenzo." Hank can practically feel the will of his mama reach across from Texas and take hold of him. That is way too long to be on the road. Fuck, what if something had happened on the way? "New York ain't goin' nowhere, you coulda stopped to rest."

If Harlen's entirely honest, having Hank almost full-name him puts the absolute fear of god in him for a split second, though it's almost immediately softened by the genuine concern in Hank's voice. "Yeah, I shoulda stopped at some point; sorry."

Any tinge of annoyance born from worry evaporates out of Hank's system at the meek apology, slightly gripping his hair in a fist. He almost wants to apologize for... fuck if he knows what. Instead, he just listens as that nickname rolls off his tongue.

Harlen doesn't get a chance to respond before Hank hangs up but that's fine; traffic is moving again anyway. New York drivers are dicks. And they all seem to drive slower than a snail moves, which is extremely infuriating to an extremely tired Harlen who is used to people driving over 80mph all the time. He thought New York was meant to be lively.

Hank is surprised he hasn't carved out a trail on his floor with the way he's pacing around the living room, still tugging on his hair here and there. Fuck, why's he so nervous? Hidden feelings aside, there's a lot that Harlen doesn't know about him. A whole other life.

Was having a drink at his favorite dive bar with little to no interruptions so much to ask for? Apparently, it was, according to the man seated on his left.

While Hank absolutely should and occasionally does tell him to shut the fuck up, it’s spaced out enough that Murdock still can get an essay and a half out. It’s all exciting, the world around him and everything he gets to do. All half spat between his drinks, looking over and pretending that the other man is listening. “They’ve got all kinds of sunglasses in there, it’s fucking crazy. Like a warehouse or some shit. I stole a pair before the job, don’t you think they look good?”

Hank doesn't think much about the sunglasses, especially with whatever shit is going on with his eyes. He's also seen plenty of guys wear them when trying to hide just how high they are, no matter what time of day it is.

“Late twenties. You should’ve been checked into a nursing home already. Or a morgue.” Proudly grasping Hanks prized drink but he never gets a single sip. The wage gap between them was just enough that Murdock could only ever buy shitty bottles of beer and Hank could drink equally shitty whiskey.

Hank stares at him with dead eyes, hardly even blinking. The morgue thing isn't too far off, he thinks. Even closer for Murdock if he doesn't shut the fuck up.

Since his daring escape from the gangs basement, there’s been no need to keep quiet. Murdock can’t stop talking, spitting out everything and anything that crosses his mind. His grin shows off nearly every single one of his teeth. Laughing loudly, he puts the bottle back on the counter. “You couldn’t get in ten foot of any pussy. Or ass. Or dick. Or mouth. You probably give that bat of yours a nice squeeze and a kiss goodnight though.”

Hank just continues to give him that dead eyed stare, the only other movement being a twitch at the corner of his eye. The fucker would be funny if he wasn't also so goddamn annoying.

“Having a stroke or something? Need an aspirin?” Murdock can’t stop smiling, laughing to himself when the other man’s gone quiet. That twitch in his eye usually means terrible things or fantastic things. He’s good for either. Dragging his fingers across the rim of the glass bottle, a few seconds of silence.

Hank sighs, but he's already reaching into his inner jacket pocket to get his pack of smokes out once they're outside. He's lost count of how many times Murdock has bummed a cigarette from him. After the next job, he's going to make him buy a pack for him so he can't say he's broke. "Yeah, sure."

A shred of common sense kicks in as he’s offered the pack, deciding against trying to steal two out of the box and save the other for his walk back home. One less reason for Hank to kick him upside the head and finally acquaint him with that bat. Lighting up his cigarette before pocketing the lighter. One more reason for his nose to meet the pavement. Balance restored.

Hank wrinkles his nose at the mention of that... 'job'. Even if the thought of seafood didn't turn his stomach, he would like to find the guy just so he could beat the shit out of him for free. "Pff... that has got to be the most piss poor excuse of a fuckin' job I've ever heard. Last time I'm askin' you."

A seafood gift card was kind of cheap, but the man’s name was McGill. Murdock had already signed himself up for a dubious night of surf and turf next week. It was work and a free meal of grey shrimp. “Yeah, fucking terrible job. Fucking loser hiring other losers. Thought you’d like it.” Grinding the end of his cigarette with his teeth, catching some of the tobacco on his tongue and spitting it into the various grimes and fluids on the ground. Coughing and hacking into his hand like it was his first time breathing in smoke.

Hank raises an eyebrow as Murdock looks him over... not that he hasn't thought about shutting that mouth of his in a particular way before. A release of stress and anger, that's it. But listening to his proposition for a 'tradesies' has him clenching his jaw and ready to break his.

“God, I’m doin’ you a favour! You’re too drunk to drive back home, so you might as well let me give you a ride back.” Murdock nearly screams back at him, pulling back at the lighter and watching it light. So nicely too. Not a struggle to get the spark out. Another nice thing he wants to snatch away. “You couldn’t hit me if you tried, all that arthritis you’ve got. Lock up like a bike in the rain. And it’s just a lighter man.”

Right. Like Hank would believe for one fucking millisecond that Murdock is making the offer out of the goodness of his heart. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. He watches as the lighter is pocketed, and that fucking grin is ripe for being knocked off his face. It's 'just a lighter', but it's also the principle of the matter.

As Murdock grinds the end of the cigarette between his teeth, he happily pats the pocket holding the lighter. It’s a momentary win, a little bit of control and a prize for his efforts. It doesn’t stop either. He’s filled to the brim with more jabs at Hanks perceived age and stud abilities, barely able to contain them behind his stupid grin. A few degrees away from giggling about it.

Hank is drunk, so he doesn't completely miss the elbow. Instead of it hitting his temple and possibly stunning him, though, it grazes his cheekbone as he attempts to dodge. Still fucking hurts beneath the haze of alcohol, but not as bad as it could of.

Trying to hit Hank should’ve been easier than this embarrassment. Only one drink in but he’s missing his shots. Murdock keeps swinging out at him, elbowing and reaching to smack at Hanks face. Blindly smashing his head forward, hoping that he breaks that stupid nose off his face. He’s way too happy about a slight graze against his face, stupidly grinning at him. Soaking in his temporary win long enough that he gets a front row seat to being absolutely fucked.

"Continue the lesson it is, then," Hank says with a huff, keeping his body pressed against Murdock. One leg slots between his, looking to further limit his movements and bracing against one of his legs. Keeping his arm pinned behind his back and bent over the car, Hank's other hand grabs a fistful of his hair, pressing his cheek against the hood.

A flash of horror runs through his spine, one quick hot jolt tearing through his back and forcing him to bend over the hood of the car more. Trapped. Pinned like a bug to a piece of card with the sharp sensations to match. Shoulders rounding over and pressing into the car when he’s forced to meet the metal with a sudden twisting pull to his hair. Murdock could swear it’s fused to his skin already like a tongue to an icicle, hissing put his displeasure.

Hank makes a noise akin to a growl, closer to Murdock's ear now as the other man smacks at his arm. He feels it even less than the stinging on his cheek, the alcohol making things nice and numb.

This wasn’t the time to start feeling things. Not the time to figure out this nonsense. He’s praying that he’s gotten frozen to this car and dies out here. Murdocks hand retreats and splays flat on the hood of the car. Bracing. He almost wants something that he has to prepare for. Try and stay standing and not bend and kneel. It feels like he can’t even move.

Well. Isn't this an interesting sight... did Hank actually go and break the annoying bastard?

Nothing has managed to shut up him since he got out of that house. Where silence was survival, leaving him ready to die just for a few more words. Murdocks started fights with only one or two words, his newest profession was a one word agreement to start more fights. But he couldn’t stop the dictionary of stupidity leaving his mouth.

Oh, this is good. The shit talking has been reduced to barely coherent mumbles, but Hank will fucking take that over the alternative. As long as it will last, anyway. It's probably going to take a few ass whoppings to make the lesson stick... and he's more than happy to oblige.

Murdocks unfortunately not carrying a knife or a gun in his pocket. So he’s not able to excuse the change in his appearance, continuing to hide behind Joes car. Pulling his coat lower and trying to cover himself up, one hand leaning against the car as he tries to get rid of this newest revelation over himself. Chewing at his lip when he’s trying to start up any sequence of a conversation. Something to get Hank to stop staring at him.

Hank... could leave it here. Go back inside, have a few more shots, and maybe find someone cute to take home and fuck. But he's got a good mean streak going, and unfortunately for Murdock, his focus is completely on him right now. Not to mention, his bullshit meter is through the fucking roof. "Sure, sure..."

Glancing around them, he’s starting to search for an escape route. Or a high speed car that can quickly end his misery. Murdock crushes the toe of his boot against the car, chewing on the inside of his cheek in search of anything distracting. A bitter taste of cheap beer lingers on his tongue. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” he coughs out a laugh, continuing to sidestep around the car.

"Are you a virgin, pretty boy?" Hank is grinning now, stubbled dimples on full display as he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Honestly, it wouldn't be a surprise with the way he fucking acts sometimes. He'd annoy any chick half to death before dipping his wick. Or dude.

Murdock hopes that the cold air eventually gets him to calm down, staying behind the car as his excitement finally dies down. Kind of. “Course not, fucker. You’ve probably gone so long without it you’re practically a virgin, old man.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he leans over the hood of the car to watch Hank drunkenly stumble over to the curb again. It should just be relief…but a feeling he isn’t ready to explore until he’s completely black out drunk stays heavy in his chest.

"Haha, there he is! Wouldn't be any fun if I beat all the piss out of you right away!" Hank's mood is all over the fucking place, he's vaguely aware. Finally starting to settle somewhere away from grumpy and belligerent. Apparently, putting a mouthy little twerp in his place does wonders.

There is no standard at which this is normal. Murdock steps over unsteadily, still lightheaded from activities outside of their fight. There wasn’t a lot of touch in his life, so he still has to adjust his clothes to cover his…pecker. Look a little less like a sexual deviant and more like a violent deviant. Overwhelmed by the lingering scent of Hank, he’s made even dizzier by his whispered offer.

"I said what I said, fucker. Anything more expensive is at my place, and like hell you're gonna convince me to invite you over." Yeah fucking right. If Murdock tries to steal a lighter right in front of him, then Hank would have to watch him like a hawk to make sure he doesn't swipe anything else. Not that he has much other than his fish, but still.

“I’m pretty damn convincing when I wanna be, Hanky,” he chides, sliding right back into his seat next to Hank. Testing out how annoying this nickname is, he happily leans against the counter and side-eyes him. Hopefully he’s not going to get his ass beaten immediately, but nothing can shut Murdock up for more than a few minutes. Clicking the side of his shoes against the barstool, he starts following Hanks gaze.

Hanky. He fucking hates that, and of course that's exactly what Murdock is going for. It's almost like he wants to go outside again and test his patience. "Only thing you've convinced me to do so far tonight is whoop your ass. So in that regard... sure you are."

Tapping the counter, he nods over to Hank and gestures for a drink. Hopefully a nice glass of whiskey. He’s never even had one before, so hopefully it doesn’t taste like absolute ass. “See? Once you’ve stopped being a grouchy little fucker, we’re practically best friends!” Murdocks stupid grin is back, plastered on his face and revealing the cracked canine tooth he hasn’t gotten rid of.

There's a lot of shit that Hank would tolerate coming out of Murdock's mouth, but that... oh, certainly not that. He pauses mid sip, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Joe pause in the middle of wiping down the counter. Probably getting ready to tell them to take it outside again and to not come back for the night.

A drinks on the counter, one he can’t tell if it’s for him or not. So he snatches it anyways, fingertips catching on the stupid little garnish as he pulls it over. Murdock didn’t even flinch as he pulled out his latest insult, rolling right off his tongue before he turns his attention towards the drink. Poking at the leaves and trying to determine its edibility.

There's a brief pause where Hank just stares at Murdock, blinking a few times like he's trying to get a proper look at... whatever the fuck is next to him. He really is a clueless little shit, isn't he?