Chapter Text
There are three things you notice when you exit your room that night.
The first is Cyborg Noodle plugged into her charging port, the gentle green light from her charger signifying that she was fully charged yet so eerily still, waiting ever so loyally for one of Murdoc’s commands. She always gave you the creeps but in the darkened hallway, she seems even more spooky than usual. As you continue to tiptoe towards the exit, you become very aware of her gaze on you so you quickly duck into the kitchen to sneak out the back door.
The second is that the light is on in the kitchen despite nobody else but you being awake. Murdoc had gone to bed early that night, mumbling something about we’ve got to record tomorrow, bright and early, y’understand that faceache or are you too stupid to know what i’m even talkin’ about. You were pretty sure he was drunk. In fact, you were very sure he was drunk. However, his plausible drunkenness doesn’t explain why he’d leave the lights on. He hadn’t been in the kitchen all day. But you assume it was probably just a mistake, so you flick off the lights, ignoring the smattering of multicolored pills on the kitchen table.
The third you don’t notice until you step outside and turn back to look at your plastic prison from the outside. And that’s when you notice Murdoc perched precariously upon the railing surrounding the poor excuse for a rooftop balcony atop the building. He stands there shakily, staring blankly into the water. Well, shit, is your first thought. Your second thought you don’t even dare to acknowledge.
You find yourself running back inside, flying down the hallway past the once-bright kitchen and the lurking cyborg, racing up the stairs and shoving open the trapdoor that leads to the balcony. Murdoc seems to have completely ignored your sudden presence, and he slowly edges forward just the slightest bit.
You throw your arms around him in an attempt to pull him back onto solid ground, well aware that if he jumps you’d fall with him due to your lack of strength. He struggles in your grasp and then turns his head to stare at you with glazed eyes.
“Murdoc,” you say softly. “You ain’t tryin’ to off yourself, are you?”
“M’not,” he replies, his voice slurring. “I just liked the view. S’real pretty up here.”
“You could fall and die,” you explain.
He grins, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “No, I couldn’t,” he says, laughter bubbling up behind his words. “I can’t die.”
You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Yes, you can.”
“No,” he repeats, his smile widening. “I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals, and I can’t die. I could jump from here a million times and I won’t be dead.”
“Yes, you would be dead. If you jumped from this height then you’d die on impact,” you counter. “All your bones would break.”
“Not true.” He twists his head back around to look at you, and gets real close to your face, close enough for you to feel his hot breath on your face. You shy away nervously, your grip on him still not faltering.
“C’mon, Murdoc, you and I both know you’re bein’ silly,” you begin, attempting to remain calm. You have never seen Murdoc like this before and it scares you. You can barely imagine how much he would have had to drink to act like this.
“Am I?” he inquires. “I can show you. I can show you I’m right.” He bends his knees to jump, and you anchor your feet into the ground, pulling with all your strength until he wobbles on the railing and tips backwards, falling back onto you.
You slither out from underneath him, and hold him tightly, preventing him from making his way back up onto the railing. “Let me go,” he grunts, thrashing in your grasp. “Don’t touch me.”
“Murdoc, I’ve got to. I don’t want you doin’ anythin’ stupid and I can’t trust that you won’t do it if I let go,” you clarify. “I’d rather you not die.”
He looks at you with a blank expression. “Faceache?” he asks, as if noticing for the first time that you’re there. His pupils are huge and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“How drunk are you?” you say. “I’ve never seen you this plastered before.”
Murdoc grins again, draping an arm around your shoulder. “Haven’t had a drop,” he purrs. You are very uncomfortable by his touch, flinching away at the sudden contact. You stare at him worriedly, becoming increasingly concerned for his mental wellbeing. Was this it? Had the great Murdoc Niccals finally cracked?
“It’s nice to see you’re so worried about me, love.” He says it so casually you barely catch it.
Your concern and worry quickly turns to anger. “I’m not your love.” Because you really aren’t. All chances of that were long gone. Because once upon a time, a blue-haired boy fell in love with an angry old bassist, and they shagged, once, twice, three times. Three times it took for you to confess your feelings. Three ribs cracked that night (but they didn’t hurt as much as your heart). What you and Murdoc once had was destroyed after your confession. Your feelings had long since faded, and there was no way you could ever love him again like you used to, especially after he killed Noodle and forced you onto this beachy trash heap with him.
“You sure?” he says, grazing a finger lightly across your chin. The touch makes you shudder and your anger grows even more.
“I’m fuckin’ sure.” You quickly shove him away, turning your back but still watching him out of the corner of your eye to make sure he doesn’t try to idiotically hurl himself off the railing again. “If you’re not drunk then what’s your deal? Why are y’actin’ so weird?”
He smirks. “Just been messin’ around with a bird,” he declares, grinning. “Y’might know her? Her name’s Molly.” He snickers at his own joke. “D’ya get it, faceache?”
So he’s high. Great. “Where did you find that shit?” you inquire. “Isn’t this place completely cut off from the world?”
“Brought it myself. Great idea, now that I think of it,” he explains.
“No. You wanted to jump off the railing. That’s not a good idea.” You glare at him. “In fact, it’s a horrible idea.”
He yawns. “I told you, I’m not gonna die.”
“I thought that ecstasy doesn’t make people hallucinate.”
“Thinkin’ you’re invincible ain’t hallucinatin’, love. Hallucinatin’ is when you see shit.” You pretend to have not heard the love at the end of his sentence.
“Oh.” You blink, feeling extraordinarily stupid. Even when Murdoc was high he seemed to be smarter than you.
“S’alright.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you tried to jump off the railing.”
“I wanted to prove to you that I can’t die. Because I can’t. I’m immortal.” He looks at you very seriously and it takes a lot of willpower to keep you from laughing.
“Okay,” you say. “You keep tellin’ yourself that then. Tomorrow when you’re sober I’ll remind you of this and you’ll probably hit me.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I won’t hit you.”
“That’s just the ecstasy talkin’.”
He gazes at you, his eyes very clearly traveling up and down your body. “Ec-sta-sy. Pretty word, huh?” He presses up behind you, so close that you can feel his chest against your back.
“Not particularly,” you answer uneasily.
“It’s a word that often correlates to sex, y’know. Ecstasy. As in, the feelin’ you get when you -”
You cut him off. “I understand what ecstasy is, Murdoc.” You don’t mention about not understanding what the word correlate means.
“But have you felt it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a sultry tone. “Because I’ve felt it.”
“You’ve shagged a lot of birds. I get it. Now I should really be takin’ you downstairs and have you get to bed or somethin’. Because you’re going to be right pissed in the morning if you don’t get enough sleep.”
“No, 2D, you don’t get it at all,” he says calmly, too eerily calm. He presses his lips to your ear. “I was goin’ to tell you how I’ve really only experienced true ecstasy, about, y’know, three times, give or take.”
Your face flushes and you internally reprimand yourself. “I’m not goin’ to shag you, Murdoc. You’re high. You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”
“I assure you I know exactly what I’m sayin’.” And that’s when he kisses you.
There are three things you notice when Murdoc’s lips meet yours.
The first is how awkward it is to make out sitting down. You have to like, lean over and tilt your head in a weird way that results in neck cramps. Both you and him seem to realize this, so he pulls you atop him and everything becomes thankfully much more comfortable.
The second is how touch-starved you had been for the past three months. Being locked up on a stupid plastic island with nobody but yourself, your abusive ex-fuckbuddy and a robot clone of your dead sister really does that to you. So when Murdoc’s hands begin roaming across your body, it’s intoxicating. You squirm under his touch, frantically grinding your hips down into his, craving the contact you had been so deprived of.
The third is how quickly faded feelings can rekindle.
“My room. Now,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss you again. The two of you stumble down the stairs and past the once-bright kitchen into the hallway. Cyborg Noodle looks at the two of you and reaches for her gun.
Murdoc pulls away for a split second. “Cyborg, at ease,” he says, and she quickly freezes once more as you and him fumble past her and into Murdoc’s room. He quickly pulls you onto the bed, climbing atop you and teasingly rutting his hips against yours.
You pull off your shirt fervently, taking his hands and pressing them against your bare chest. His skin feels like it’s burning, a side effect of the drug, and that heat against your skin elicits a desperate whine from you.
“God,” you pant, your breath hitching as Murdoc’s tongue drags slowly across your collarbone.
“Yes?” Murdoc answers. You feel him grin against your neck.
You roll your eyes in annoyance. “Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, sliding your hands underneath his shirt.
“Make me,” he retorts, and your mouths meet again, pressing together hotly. Ever the impatient one, Murdoc yanks off his shirt and feverishly undoes his belt, sliding his jeans off and leaving him in that godawful leopard-print thong he had taken to wearing recently.
“I really hate that thong,” you announce. “It’s ugly.”
“Then why don’t you take it off, faceache?” he purrs, lifting his hips to give you easier access. You slide the thong off of him and toss it into the corner of the room, not taking your eyes off of him. Even when you were fresh out of your coma you remember finding him stunningly handsome, a thought that often allowed the younger you to make excuses for his violent behavior towards you. But you now know better than to give him second chances. He may be beautiful but he’s a terrible person who deserves the same hostility that he forced upon you.
You suddenly sit upright. “Murdoc, no.”
“No what, love?” His fingers begin to work at the zipper of your jeans and you shove him away.
“No, I can’t do this.” You exhale sharply and shake your head.
“Why can’t you do this, dullard? I thought you cared.” If you didn’t know better you’d think Murdoc sounded a bit hurt. “I care.”
“First of all, I’m back to bein’ dullard now? Not love? And second of all, you don’t care. It’s just the drugs makin’ you say that,” you snarl bitterly. “If you cared you wouldn’t have brought me here. You would’ve left me the fuck alone.”
Murdoc seems unaffected by the harshness of your words. He only yawns and lets his fingers boredly trace patterns against your arm.
You continue your tirade. “If you ever cared, you would have fuckin’ told me when we actually had relationship bollocks happening! I told you I loved you and you told me to die. Who the hell does that?”
He laughs, and it infuriates you even more. “Faceache,” he croons. “I do love you, y’know.”
You freeze. “What?”
“I said I do love you. Ain’t it obvious? All I do,” he declares, gesturing wildly to nothing in particular. “All I do is for you.”
“But you hurt me,” you protest, unable to think of a more clever response. “It’s a fucked up way to show love.”
Murdoc leans his head against your shoulder. “I’m fucked up, what can I say?” He snickers and sighs, closing his eyes.
“I wish you were more like this all the time,” you tell him.
“Like what? Like wantin’ to jump off a railing to prove to you that I can’t die, which, by the way, I can’t.” You can feel his quicksilver grin against your neck.
“I dunno,” you reply. “More open, I guess. Nicer.”
“It’s not gonna last, y’know,” he states matter-of-factly. “It’s the drugs talkin’.”
“The ec-sta-sy.” You pronounce every syllable carefully just like he did. And then you guide his hands to the waistband of your jeans. “I wanna feel it.”
Murdoc’s mouth collides with yours again. He then plants kisses across your jaw and down your neck, slowly trailing down your body until he reaches your waist. Ever so cautiously, he unzips your jeans and slides them off your legs, tossing them onto the messy floor.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of your briefs, discarding them on the floor alongside the piles of other abandoned clothing.
“Am I?” you whisper, shivering as the air hits your exposed skin.
“Absolutely gorgeous,” he responds. “Hold on a sec, love.” He reaches over and digs through the open top drawer on the nightstand next to his bed, eventually pulling out a small bottle of lube.
You roll over and prop yourself up on your elbows. “How come it was always you fuckin’ me? Why can’t I ever fuck you for once?”
“Brings back bad memories,” Murdoc answers bluntly, squirting a generous amount of lube into his hand and coating himself with it.
“Oh, Murdoc, I…” Your voice cracks. “You could’ve told me.”
“Nah,” he responds nonchalantly, giving your hips a squeeze and lining himself up with your entrance. “S’not a big deal. I don’t like talkin’ about it.”
You arch your hips up for easier access. “Then don’t talk about it. Just focus on me.”
“Of course, love,” he purrs. “All on you.”
There are three things you notice when he presses himself into you.
The first is how gentle he is, gentler than you’ve ever seen. He caresses your body lovingly and strokes your hair after you wince due to the initial pain. He whispers to you words you’d never think to hear, sweet satan stu you feel so fuckin’ good i love you more than anything.
The second is how, once he moves his hips and hits a certain spot within you, the colors of the room begin to swirl around you and you find yourself gasping and whining beneath him, twitching with pleasure. It’s repetition, his careful thrusting and your delirious tears from the euphoria you hadn’t felt for so long. It’s you screaming his name as you cum, rooting your fingers into the sheets in a feeble attempt to cling onto something stable. This, you realize, is true ecstasy.
The third is a thought that only crosses your mind after he cums and pulls out, after the two of you re-dress yourselves and silently light two cigarettes, after you crawl under the covers and are soon joined by him. You close your eyes, exhaling smoke, and wonder how painful it will be when he becomes sober.
You wake up and you’re alone in your own shitty room. He must have dragged you out when you were still asleep. Great. Just great. But you’re not in pain. Instead you feel as if you were completely drained of everything and your only feeling is just numbness and regret.
He doesn’t speak to you for the next two weeks. He can barely even look you in the eye when the two of you cross paths in one of the many twisting corridors.
Until one night you slip out of your room to go stare at the stars, and as you walk down the darkened hallway, you see Cyborg Noodle eerily charging, and the kitchen lights are on. You step outside, and turn around.
There is one thing you notice, perched atop the railing of the sad excuse of a rooftop balcony and grinning.
There are three words you say.
I love you. I love you. I love you.