Chapter Text
Murdoc’s body was rigid as he sat in a plush leather chair, the office smelled like artificial lavender and linen, the kind of scent that was supposed to be comforting, but just ended up being off-putting instead.
Dr. Evelyn Clarke sat across from him, scratching down notes on her clipboard.
“I’m glad you came, Mr. Niccals.” She said, quietly but firmly, “admitting you need help is often the first step.”
Murdoc scoffed, shifting in his seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Yeah, well. Don’t go thinking this means I’m having some great personal revelation or whatever. I’m only here ‘cause people won’t get off my back about it.”
Dr. Clarke didn’t react, just gave a small, patient nod as she jotted something down. “And do you believe you need help?”
Murdoc exhaled sharply, looking off to the side. “Dunno. Suppose you’re gonna tell me, aren’t you?”
“Well, you’ve come today. That tells me, at the very least, some part of you is open to this.” She said, calmly.
Murdoc rolled his eyes. “Or maybe I just like the free biscuits at the front desk.”
Dr. Clarke gave a small, knowing smile but didn’t rise to the bait. She’d been very stead fast in her resolution to not take his bait.
That was getting a rise out of Murdoc. It made his skin crawl, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, something about being cornered, lacking control, made him feel like his brain could melt at any moment.
“Mr. Niccals.” Dr. Clarke began, “Why don’t you start by describing some symptoms you experience, you’ve expressed concern–”
“That I’m crazy?” Murdoc cut her off.
“No.” she said, firmly but not unkindly, “Not at all”
Murdoc scoffed, running a hand through his greasy hair gripping at the roots before letting the hand drop limply back into his lap.
Symptoms.
Symptoms, like this was just some common illness, something with a neat little label and a set of bullet points.
Murdoc let out a sharp breath, his fingers tapping against his thigh. His mouth twisted around the words before they even came out.
“Alright,” he hissed. “Fine.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, because looking at her was too much.
“You ever get the feeling like your head’s a radio? Tuned into a hundred different channels at once but none of ‘em are playing the same fucking song? Just this constant static, voices, sounds, shit that don’t make sense, but it’s all there, all at once?”
Dr. Clarke nodded, encouraging him to continue. Murdoc exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
“Sometimes it’s just noise. Y’know, whispers, humming, the TV on in another room but there’s no TV. But then, sometimes, it’s like—” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “Like someone’s right fucking there.”
His chest felt tight, his leg bouncing harder.
“I see ‘em, sometimes,” he admitted, voice low, rough. “Not always. But they’re there. Just… watching.”
Dr. Clarke didn’t react, didn’t look at him like he was insane, just continued listening.
Murdoc clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep going.
“And the mood shit,” he muttered. “Satan, don’t even get me started. One minute, I’m up, y’know? Can’t sit still, feel like I could tear the world apart with my fucking hands. But then it’s like I blink and suddenly—” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Suddenly, it’s all worthless. Everything feels wrong, like I’m not even in my own fucking body anymore.”
His hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists to make it stop.
“I—” He swallowed, his throat dry. “I get stuck, sometimes. In loops. Thoughts that won’t fuck off, stuff that doesn't even make sense but it feels real. Like—” He laughed, but it was brittle, hollow. “I know Satan isn’t sitting outside my door waiting to drag me to hell, yeah? But you try telling that to my brain when it’s decided that’s what’s happening. ”
He let out a sharp breath, rubbing at his temple.
“And the paranoia,” he muttered, quieter now.
Dr. Clarke waited, giving him space.
Murdoc’s voice dropped lower, like someone might overhear.
“Sometimes I swear everything's connected. Y’know, like there’s this whole picture I’m not seeing’ but it’s right there, just outta reach.” He exhaled sharply. “It’s bollocks, yeah? I know that. I know I’m just trapping’ myself in my own head, but—”
He shook his head, fingers pressing into his temples.
“But it feels true–sometimes I get these moments of clarity, yeah? But it all feels real.” and with that, he finally fell silent.
Dr. Clarke, as always, didn’t look shocked or unnerved. Just steadily processing, absorbing it all.
After a beat, she set her notebook aside, folding her hands together.
“Thank you for sharing that, Murdoc,” she said, her voice calm, unwavering. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
Murdoc scoffed, slouching back in the chair. “Yeah, well. S’not like I had much choice, did I?”
Dr. Clarke’s expression softened just slightly. “You always have a choice.”
Murdoc hated that.
“Have you done anything that’s ever helped you manage these symptoms?”
Murdoc answered too quickly, too easily. “Drink.”
She just nodded. “And does it help?”
Murdoc grinned, a sharp, ugly thing. “Oh yeah. Helps loads. I don’t hear the voices when I’m blacked out, do I?”
Dr. Clarke didn’t look amused. Murdoc waited for the lecture. Waited for the same recycled lecture he’d heard before— That’s not a healthy coping mechanism, Murdoc F. Niccals. You’re just numbing the symptoms, not managing them. But it never came.
Instead, she just asked, “And what happens after?”
Murdoc’s smirk faltered. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Because he knew the answer.
The awful mornings, the shaking hands, the pounding headaches, the gaps in his memory, the guilt he never admitted to feeling.
The way he hurt the people he cared about. Over and over again.
The way the voices always came back twice as loud.
Dr. Clarke gave him a moment, watching as he worked through it, as he ran himself straight into the truth he didn’t want to say.
Eventually, he muttered, “S’not like I got many other options, is it?”
Dr. Clarke tilted her head. “What about music?”
Murdoc snorted. “Oh, sure. I’ll just play a D sharp and cure myself. Brilliant.”
Dr. Clarke let out a short breath through her nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
Murdoc clicked his tongue, staring off toward the bookshelf behind her, picking at the frayed edge of his sleeve. “Dunno,” he muttered. “I mean, yeah. When I get stuck in it—when my head’s a fucking mess—I play, I write. S’what I’ve done for years. S’what keeps me from—” He stopped himself, cutting the sentence off before it could go somewhere dangerous.
Dr. Clarke raised an eyebrow. “From what?”
Murdoc clenched his jaw, his knee bouncing again. “From making it worse,” he muttered. “From, I dunno. Falling into it.”
Dr. Clarke nodded, like that made perfect sense.
“So,” she said, “you already have a strategy that works for you. Something that doesn’t hurt you.”
Murdoc rolled his eyes. “Right. Guess I’m cured then. Fantastic work, doc.”
Dr. Clarke ignored the sarcasm. “You don’t have to be cured, Murdoc. You just have to manage it.”
Murdoc huffed. “So. I’m bat shit, right?”
“Absolutley not. Based on what you’ve been describing…”Dr. Clarke said, tapping her pen against her chin, “I believe we’re looking at Schizoaffective disorder.”
Murdoc let the words fall over him, rolling them around in his head, testing the weight. Schizoaffective, Schizoaffective . Murdoc had assumed he’d be diagnosed with stupid asshole bastard disease, severity? Terminal.
“Do I look like a bloody medical textbook? The hell does that mean, doc?”
“It’s a chronic mental health condition,” she explained, voice calm, practiced. “It involves a combination of schizophrenia symptoms—hallucinations, delusions, paranoia—along with bipolar disorder symptoms, like severe depressive episodes or manic states.”
Murdoc scoffed. “Great. So I got the worst of both worlds.”
Dr. Clarke ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve described episodes of paranoia, auditory and visual hallucinations, as well as what sounds like manic and depressive mood cycles. That, combined with the intrusive thoughts, disorganized thinking, and cognitive distortions, strongly suggests Schizoaffective Disorder.”
Murdoc clicked his tongue, looking away.
His fingers twitched, itching for a cigarette, a drink, something to make his brain shut up.
“Y’know, for all that,” he muttered, forcing his tone into something light, careless, “it’s funny, ain’t it? I always figured I was just an asshole.”
She smiled, just slightly, “You can be both.”
Murdoc laughed, actually laughed.
“People with this disorder live full, meaningful lives, Murdoc. With the right support, treatment, and understanding, this doesn’t have to define you. It’s just part of the picture, not the whole thing.”
Murdoc rolled his tongue over his teeth, his smirk lingering just a second longer before it faded.
“Yeah?” he muttered. “And what, that makes me fixable now, does it?”
Dr. Clarke tilted her head. “You were never broken.”
Murdoc looked away, the suffocating weight of the realization and the weight of his past sins pushing down upon him like boulder.
“Accountaiblity for ones actions is still crucial, of course” she added, “These disorders can be …explinations , not excuses.”
Murdoc swallowed hard, jaw clenching so tightly his teeth ached. Because there it was. The thing no one ever says outright.
It would have been easier if she’d just lied to him, if she’d said it’s not your fault and let him off the hook, let him sit comfortably in the idea that he was just a victim of his own brain chemistry.
But she hadn’t. Because she knew the truth. And so did he.
You were never broken. But you still have to answer for what you’ve done.
Dr. Clarke merely waited quietly, and patiently for a response.
Murdoc stared down at his hands. “So what, then?” he muttered. “Pills and therapy and some self-help books? That’s the plan, yeah?”
Dr. Clarke’s expression didn’t waiver. “The plan is whatever gets you better. I can make some recommendations. But that’s not something I can decide for you, Murdoc.”
Murdoc scoffed. “Right. ‘Cause I’m so good at making the right choices.”
Dr. Clarke tilted her head. “You made one today.”
Murdoc sighed and leaned back in his chair as Dr. Clarke crossed and uncrossed her legs.
“Medication can make it manageable. But you’ll still need to seek out therapy. Talk therapy can be a start–but we’ll also want to look into cognitive behavioral therapy.” She said, as she moved to take a sip of her water which was perfectly perched on a meticulously staged table next to her chair. “It can help you recognize unhealthy patterns, teach you how to navigate your moods before they escalate.”
Murdoc huffed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Satan, that’s a lot of homework, doc.”
Dr. Clarke smiled slightly over the rim of her glass. “Think of it more as… training. You’re learning how to live with this in a way that doesn’t make your life harder than it already is.”
Murdoc snorted. “Hate to break it to you, love, but my life’s already a lost cause.”
Dr. Clarke set her glass down with a soft clink. “I don’t believe that.”
Murdoc scoffed, shaking his head. “You don’t know me.”
Dr. Clarke just watched him. Measured. Unshaken. “I know you walked in here today when you could’ve walked away.”
“Fine,” he muttered. “S’pose I’ll take the pills. See if they make me less of a menace to society.”
Dr. Clarke’s lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s not the goal.”
Murdoc raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“The goal,” she said, meeting his gaze, “is to make it so you don’t feel like you have to be.”
Murdoc grumbled as he tensed his shoulders, watching Dr. Clarke with his mismatched eyes.
“We’ll start you on mood stabilizers, an anti–psychotic too. It’s likely there will be some trial and error here. It can take time to find the right combination—what works for you, what doesn’t.”
Murdoc huffed, crossing his arms. “Brilliant. So I get to be a bloody guinea pig on top of everything else.”
Dr. Clarke barely blinked. “That’s not how I’d put it. But yes, it will take adjustment. Some meds may not work for you. Others might have side effects. But the goal is to get you to a place where you’re not constantly fighting yourself.”
Murdoc tapped his fingers against the chair’s armrest, fidgeting in a way he wasn’t even aware of. His mind was already running through the worst-case scenarios—what if it made him a zombie? What if it took away the highs, but didn’t stop the lows? What if it made him feel like nothing?
Dr. Clarke seemed to sense the spiral happening in real-time.
“You won’t lose yourself, Murdoc,” she said, voice firm but patient. “You’re not going to stop being who you are.”
Murdoc scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what if ‘who I am’ is just… this? What if I was always just a bastard with a broken head?”
Dr. Clarke tilted her head slightly, studying him. “Then let’s make sure you’re a bastard who’s still around long enough to figure out who else you could be.”
Murdoc, uncomfortable and still working on a quip back, gazed out the window. Thinking about how badly he wanted a smoke–or better, a drink.
Dr. Clarke was scribbling something down on a slip of paper, “I’ll send these to your pharmacy, and the front office will print you out a visit report.” She adjusted her glasses, “I will note the possibility of weight gain–and the need to cut back on drinking alcohol.”
“Well, isn’t that a kick in the head.” Murdoc quipped.
Dr. Clarke didn’t so much as blink. “These meds and heavy drinking don’t mix well, Murdoc. In fact, your history of alcohol abuse most likely has exacerbated your symptoms. You’ll need to moderate. That means cutting back significantly.”
Murdoc let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right. So, first you tell me my brain’s broken, then you tell me I can’t even drown it out? Real cruel, doc.”
Dr. Clarke set her clipboard down, folding her hands in her lap. “Alcohol has been your coping mechanism for a long time. But it’s also part of what’s made your episodes worse. If you want to get better, you have to give yourself a real chance. That means letting go of the things that are dragging you down.”
Murdoc rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, jaw tight. He could already feel the resistance curling up inside him, the instinct to push back, to tell her to sod off and let him handle things his own way. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? His way had never worked. His way had landed him in this chair, in this office, with a doctor calmly diagnosing him with the thing he’d spent years trying to outrun.
He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to unclench his fists. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll cut back. ”
Dr. Clarke nodded, approving but unsurprised. “That’s a start.”
Murdoc glanced at the clock that had been ever ticking on the adjacent wall, he stood antsy to leave as the end of his scheduled appointment time drew nearer.
“I’ll recommended a few therapists. It’ll all be in the paperwork you’ll get in checkout.” Dr. Clarke said as Murdoc made for the door.
“Right.” Murdoc said, “cheers.”
__________
Murdoc stood outside the office, paperwork crumpled slightly in his grip, the wind biting at the edges of his coat. The air smelled like exhaust fumes, wet pavement, and bad coffee from the café across the street—a far cry from the clinical, suffocating scent of lavender and linen that had filled Dr. Clarke’s office.
The session was over, but it hadn’t left him. The words still clung to him like damp cigarette smoke, curling around his ribs, weighing him down in a way he hadn’t quite figured out how to shake.
Schizoaffective.
The prescriptions were shoved deep in his pocket, folded twice over. Like if he kept it hidden, it wouldn’t be real. He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, his foot tapping restlessly against the curb as he waited.
Noodle was late.
Or maybe she wasn’t. Maybe time just felt longer when he had nothing to do but sit with his own thoughts. Murdoc pulled a cigarette from his pocket, rolling it between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear instead. He’d been trying—keyword: trying—to cut back. Didn’t need Dr. Clarke to lecture him about how smoking wasn’t exactly good for his mental health either.
A car horn honked sharply down the street.
Murdoc looked up just as a familiar car pulled up to the curb, Noodle at the wheel, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, chewing gum like she owned the city. 2D in the passenger’s seat, licking away at a disfigured cartoon character popsicle that Noodle had no doubt gotten for him at the petrol station on the way here–most likely the only reason 2D was in the car to begin with.
“Hey!” Noodle called, grinning past her gum. “Need a ride, Niccals?”
Murdoc scoffed. “Nah, think I’ll walk. Good for my mental health. ”
2D let out a snort, dragging the popsicle from his lips with a lazy, satisfied hum. “"Y’mean it’s still got hope? Thought it’d been declared legally dead by now.”
Murdoc flipped him off, but he was already stepping toward the car, grabbing the door handle and sliding in with a dramatic huff.
The door slammed shut, and instantly, Murdoc felt the shift.
The comforting mess of the car, the familiar scent of cheap air freshener and Noodle’s perfume, the sound of some old Britpop song playing low on the radio.
It was normal, and for once, he needed that.
Murdoc tossed his paperwork onto the cluttered dashboard, settling into his seat. “Thanks for the ride, love,” he muttered, shooting a glance at Noodle. “Appreciate the escort service.”
Noodle popped her gum, putting the car back in gear. “Didn’t do it for you, granddad.”
Murdoc arched a brow. “Oh?”
Noodle grinned, tilting her head toward 2D. “Someone wouldn’t stop whining about needing a snack.”
2D, mid-lick, looked up. “…She said we were stoppin’ anyway.”
Murdoc’s smirk widened. “So, what, I’m just secondary to the fucking popsicle?”
2D blinked at him, then grinned, all teeth and tooth gap. “Mate, you’re tertiary to the popsicle.”
Murdoc barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Well, at least you’re honest.”
Noodle rolled her eyes, taking a smooth turn onto the main road. “Alright, children. Settle in, we’re heading home.”
The ride through the London streets wasn’t quiet, nor peaceful. Had migrated from Britpop to some old rock album Murdoc had gotten her into when she was just a kid. 2D gnawed on his popsicle, bright coloring dripping all over his graphic T-shirt.
“So,” she started, tone casual but loaded, one hand still on the wheel as she reached out and grabbed a page. “What’d the doc say?”
Murdoc caught the movement immediately. His eyes widened in slow-motion horror as she tilted the paper toward herself, skimming through it—while still driving.
“Noodle.”
She hummed. “Mm?”
Murdoc sat up, jaw tight. “Eyes on the bloody road, sweetheart.”
Noodle ignored him completely, squinting at the small print. “Schizoaffective… mood stabilizers… ooo, ‘watch for potential side effects, may include weight gain, nausea, drowsiness—”
“Noodle.” Murdoc said
“—‘avoid excessive alcohol consumption—’”
“Noodle. .!”
Then a loud, frantic car horn. A car swerved violently past them, narrowly missing the front bumper.
2D yelped, nearly choking on his popsicle. “Jesus Christ!”
Noodle snapped the paper back onto the dash, correcting the wheel at the last second, completely unfazed.
“Oh, calm down,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I had it under control.”
2D clutched his chest, wheezing. “Almost died with a fuckin’ popsicle in my mouth. That’s—” he coughed, “that’s not how I wanna go.”
Murdoc smirked, slapping him on the back. “Nah, not dramatic enough for you. At least needs some fireworks.”
“I’m happy you went, y’know,” she said, genuine now. “Doesn’t matter what the doc said—just that you went.”
Murdoc stilled. She didn’t have to say it. Didn’t have to remind him that no one had ever been able to make him do this before. That he had never even let himself consider it before. Didn’t have to say that he’d spent decades running, and now, finally, for whatever reason… he’d stopped.
Noodle’s fingers tapped lightly against the wheel, her voice quiet, but firm.
“We’re all here for you, Mudz.”
Murdoc swallowed. The words settled deep, pressing against something old and buried.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, with a small, crooked smirk, he cleared his throat and nodded toward the road.
“Well, if you really wanna be there for me, Noods—maybe stop reading while you’re driving?”
Noodle laughed, shaking her head. “No promises.”
The ride home continued—loud, chaotic, full of music and bickering and the sound of 2D trying (and failing) to clean his shirt.
And, for once, Murdoc let himself sit back, let himself breathe, let himself believe it.
__________
The kitchen at Kong Studios was a mess , as always—papers and cigarette packs scattered across the table, dishes from last night still sitting in the sink, an overflowing ashtray next to an empty bottle of something that Murdoc was definitely not supposed to be drinking anymore.
Murdoc sat at the kitchen table, sleeves pushed up, sorting through the plastic orange prescription bottles lined up in front of him. Each one had his name printed in stark black letters, the instructions clear, the warnings clear. It was all real now.
Murdoc stared down at them, rubbing his jaw, fighting the immediate urge to shove them all back into the bag and pretend he’d never picked them up.
Instead, he pulled out a plastic pill organizer—one of those cheap, old man-looking ones with compartments for every day of the week. He’d bought it as a joke, but now he was actually using the damn thing.
Across from him, 2D sat perched on the counter, swinging his legs absently, watching. He wasn’t saying much—just licking idly at a lollipop (probably his third one today), blue-stained lips pursed as he eyed Murdoc’s little pharmacy operation.
“You look like a pensioner,” 2D finally commented, voice lazy but not mocking.
Murdoc snorted. “Cheers, faceache. Real supportive.”
2D grinned, but it softened at the edges. “Y’know, I used to ‘have one of’ those.” He nodded toward the pill organizer.
Murdoc quirked a brow. “Oh yeah? What, Flintstone vitamins?”
“Nah. Antidepressants.” 2D shrugged, tucking the lollipop into his cheek. “Didn’t like takin’ ‘em. Used to forget all the time, so my mum got me one of those so I’d stop skippin’ doses. Worked, mostly.”
Murdoc didn’t answer at first. Just flicked open Monday’s slot and started shaking out pills.
“…Did they help?”
2D blinked at him, surprised by the question. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Took a while to get ‘em right, but yeah. Made things… easier.” He tilted his head. “Reckon yours will too.”
Murdoc grunted, dumping the last of the meds into their compartments before snapping the lid shut.
“I’ll believe it when I feel it,” he muttered, leaning back.
“What’s schizoaffective anyhow” 2D said, overpronouncing the word stretching out the syllables like it was something foreign in his mouth.
Murdoc snorted, shaking his head. “Means my head is busted.”
2D frowned, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “That isn’t what the doc said.”
Murdoc shrugged, rolling his shoulders, keeping his tone light, like it didn’t really matter. “S’what it boils down to, though, innit? Brain’s got too many dials and half of ‘em are stuck in the wrong fucking places.”
2D didn’t look convinced. He rocked back on his heels, watching Murdoc closely—too closely.
Before 2D could say anything, Noodle poked her head out from the hallway, holding her laptop.
“I’ve been researching,” Noodle admitted, flipping her laptop open. “Just wanted to understand it better.”
Murdoc stared at her for a second, then laughed, shaking his head. “Should’ve figured. I get diagnosed, and you’re already halfway to a PhD in it.”
Noodle smirked. “Someone has to be the responsible one.”
Murdoc rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for a cigarette, twirling it between his fingers before tucking it behind his ear.
2D stepped up beside Noodle, glancing at her screen. “So what’s it actually mean, then?”
Noodle didn’t hesitate. “It’s a condition where someone experiences symptoms of schizophrenia, like hallucinations or paranoia, along with mood disorder symptoms, like extreme depression or mania.”
2D’s brows furrowed. “So… like, two things at once?”
“Basically,” Noodle confirmed.
2D looked back at Murdoc, his expression softer now, like something had just clicked in his head. “That why you’re always all over the place?”
Murdoc scoffed. “Cheers, mate. Real sensitive.”
2D shrugged, plopping into a chair. “Just sayin’. Y’got times where you’re up at three in the mornin’ writin’ a whole album in an hour, and then times where you won’t leave your room for a week.”
Murdoc looked away, uncomfortable about the acknowledgment and recognition of his behavior. Hated that 2D had noticed.
Noodle sat on the edge of the desk, legs swinging slightly. “It’s been happening for years, hasn’t it?”
Murdoc gritted his teeth. “Didn’t exactly keep a fucking calendar on it, love.”
Noodle frowned, but it wasn’t scolding, just… understanding.
“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.
Murdoc let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh yeah, right. Hey, mates, just a heads up—I’m completely off my rocker. Thought you might wanna know.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’d go down a treat.”
2D watched him for a long moment, expression unreadable.
Then, finally, he spoke, voice quieter this time.
“We coulda helped.”
Murdoc let out a sharp, bitter laugh, “Help? Mate I made an entire island out of pink plastic while you were terrified of a bloody whale.”
“S’not–”
Murdoc sat forward, grinning wide and mean, but there was no humor behind it.
“Oh, isn’t it?” He gestured wildly. “C’mon, mate, let’s call it what it was! A right fucking circus, that’s what! We were all off our rockers, weren’t we? I was having delusions of grandeur, building my own personal dystopia, you were popping painkillers like sweets, Noodle was off playing samurai, and Russ—fuck knows what Russ was doing.” He leaned back, voice flat and cold. “Point is, we were all too busy surviving to worry about what was going on in each other’s heads.”
The room went quiet. Murdoc kept his gaze locked on the floor, jaw tight. Because if he looked up, if he saw pity in 2D’s eyes, he might actually lose it.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then—“Still coulda helped.”
Murdoc’s head snapped up.
2D was watching him, steady, unwavering, no pity in sight. Just that same frustrating sincerity that made Murdoc’s chest tighten in ways he wasn’t prepared for.
Murdoc scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what exactly were you lot gonna do? Hold my hand? Tuck me in at night? Read me a bloody bedtime story?”
2D’s expression didn’t change.
“No.” He shrugged. “But maybe we wouldn't have let you feel like you had to do all of it alone.”
“Satan, Stuart, when’d you get so bloody insightful?” he muttered.
2D grinned. “Dunno. Guess I've been payin’ attention.”
Murdoc let out a slow breath, his hands finally relaxing.
Noodle continued to scroll on her laptop, “They have a therapist who does talk therapy over video calls,” she mused, scrolling. “Might be good for when we’re on tour.”
Murdoc groaned dramatically, rubbing his face. “Satan, already pushing for extra credit?”
Noodle smirked. “Well, you did say you wanted to get better.”
“Did I?”
She threw a balled-up napkin at his head. Murdoc laughed, low and tired, but it was real.
Somewhere down the hall, Russel was practicing in the studio, the distant sound of his drums thudding rhythmically through the walls, steady and grounding.
Murdoc let the noise settle into his bones, let it be something solid to hold onto.
It was a small moment. Quiet, unremarkable, just another afternoon at Kong. But for the first time in a long time, Murdoc didn’t feel like he was drowning in it. Maybe, just maybe, that was a start.