Chapter Text
London, 1998. The air in Uncle Norm’s Vinyl Emporium was thick with dust and the faint whiff of stale coffee, the kind of place where time seemed to stall out somewhere between punk’s last gasp and Britpop’s overblown encore. Rows of records, some pristine, some warped from neglect, lined the shelves, their covers a kaleidoscope of faded rebellion. Behind the counter, Stuart Pot, blue-haired, gangly, and all of twenty, leaned back in a creaky chair, humming a melody that was half Radiohead, half something he’d made up on the spot. His black eyes, wide and a bit dreamy, flicked to the shop’s door as the bell jingled with a violence that suggested someone was trying to punch it off its hinges.
In stormed Murdoc Niccals, all leather jacket and bad attitude, his green-tinted skin catching the dim light like he’d crawled out of a swamp and decided to make it everyone’s problem. His boots thudded against the scuffed floor, and he carried the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey, like a walking dive bar. Stuart straightened up, not out of fear but because he was the sort of bloke who thought every customer deserved a smile, even ones who looked like they’d just lost a fight with a badger.
“Oi, mate,” Murdoc growled, voice like gravel scraped over asphalt. “You got any proper music in this dump, or is it all Spice Girls and Oasis knockoffs?”
Stuart blinked, unfazed, his grin lopsided and genuine. “Proper music, eh? Got a stack of punk in the back, some krautrock if you’re feeling weird, and, hang on, you look like a bloke who’d dig something proper dark. Lemme guess…” He tilted his head, sizing Murdoc up with a squint that was more playful than judgmental. “Sisters of Mercy? Or, nah, bit too gothic. Maybe… Throbbing Gristle?”
Murdoc froze, one eyebrow arching like a cathedral spire. He hadn’t expected the kid to know his stuff. Most shop clerks were spotty teens who thought “alternative” meant Nirvana’s greatest hits. But this lanky git with hair like a Smurf and a smile that could disarm a bomb was throwing out Throbbing Gristle like it was nothing. Murdoc’s usual scowl twitched, caught between irritation and something uncomfortably close to intrigue.
“Close,” he said, leaning on the counter, his rings clacking against the wood. “I’m after a specific record. Satan’s Arsehole by The Devil’s Rejects. Limited press, ’79. You got it, or am I wastin’ my time?”
Stuart’s eyes lit up like he’d been handed a puzzle. “Satan’s Arsehole? Blimey, that’s a deep cut. Gimme a sec.” He hopped off his chair, all limbs and enthusiasm, and disappeared into the back, humming again. Murdoc watched him go, his gaze lingering a beat too long on the way Stuart’s too-big T-shirt slipped off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Bloody hell, Murdoc thought, shaking his head. Get a grip, Niccals. He’s just some shop rat.
But there was something about the kid, Stuart, according to the name tag pinned crookedly to his shirt, that stuck like a burr. Maybe it was the way he moved, all loose and carefree, like the world hadn’t kicked him in the teeth yet. Or maybe it was those eyes, black as vinyl, that seemed to see right through Murdoc’s carefully curated bastard routine. Whatever it was, it made Murdoc’s stomach lurch in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and that pissed him off more than anything.
Stuart reemerged, triumphantly holding a battered sleeve with a garish red-and-black cover. “Got it! Bit scratched, mind, but it’s playable. You want me to spin it, check the condition?”
Murdoc snorted, crossing his arms. “You think I trust your tinny shop speakers? Just hand it over.”
Stuart chuckled, unfazed, and slid the record across the counter. “Fair enough. You a collector, then? Or just really into songs about Satan’s, er, anatomy?”
Murdoc’s lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Bit of both. I play bass, see. Got a thing for bands that sound like they’re gargling broken glass. You play anything, Smurf?”
The nickname slipped out before Murdoc could stop it, and Stuart’s grin widened, like he’d been gifted a rare coin. “Smurf, eh? ‘Cause of the hair? I’ll take it. And yeah, I mess about on a keyboard. Nothin’ serious, just… y’know, noodling.”
“Noodling,” Murdoc repeated, voice dripping with mock disdain, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity. “What, like you’re tryin’ to summon aliens with a Casio?”
Stuart laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that made Murdoc’s chest tighten. “Maybe! Gotta keep the extraterrestrials happy, don’t I? Anyway, you in a band or summat? You’ve got that vibe, like you’re about to start a riot in a pub.”
Murdoc leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. “Oh, I’ve started plenty of riots, mate. No band yet, but I’m workin’ on it. Need the right sound, the right… souls.” He lingered on the last word, testing Stuart’s reaction, half-expecting him to flinch.
But Stuart just nodded, like Murdoc had said he was popping out for milk. “Cool. If you need a keyboardist who’s half-decent at not hitting wrong notes, lemme know. I’m Stuart, by the way. Or 2D, if you’re feelin’ fancy.” He stuck out a hand, all gangly confidence.
Murdoc stared at the offered hand like it was a live grenade. Nobody shook hands anymore, not in his world of greasy pubs and back-alley deals. But there was something about Stuart’s earnestness, the way he stood there with that stupid, hopeful grin, that made Murdoc’s usual defenses feel like overkill. He grabbed Stuart’s hand, his grip firm but not crushing, and shook it once.
“Murdoc,” he said, voice gruff. “And I’ll keep that in mind, 2D.”
The nickname felt right, like it belonged to the kid more than “Stuart” ever could. Murdoc let go quickly, his fingers tingling like he’d touched something electric. Stuart didn’t seem to notice, already flipping through a stack of records on the counter, muttering about how he needed to reorganize the punk section.
“How much for the vinyl?” Murdoc asked, fishing out his wallet, which was more duct tape than leather.
Stuart glanced at the record, then back at Murdoc, his expression softening. “Tell you what, ‘cause you seem like you actually give a toss about music, I’ll knock a quid off. Call it ten.”
Murdoc blinked, thrown. “You tryin’ to scam me, mate? Or just bad at math?”
“Nah, just… y’know, you’re cool. I like people who get it.” Stuart shrugged, his smile so genuine it was almost painful. “Music’s supposed to mean somethin’, right?”
Murdoc’s throat tightened, and he hated it. He hated how this kid, this nobody with blue hair and a voice like he’d never met a bad day, was making him feel… what? Seen? Wanted? It was bollocks, all of it. He shoved a crumpled tenner across the counter, avoiding Stuart’s eyes. “Keep the change, Smurf. Don’t spend it on rubbish pop.”
Stuart laughed again, tucking the money into the till. “No promises. Come back if you need more devil music, yeah?”
Murdoc grabbed the record and turned to leave, but something stopped him at the door. He glanced back, catching Stuart already back to his humming, one hand tapping a rhythm on the counter. The kid was a walking contradiction, spacey but sharp, soft but untouchable. Murdoc’s gut twisted, a mix of irritation and something he refused to name.
“Yeah,” he muttered, more to himself than Stuart. “I’ll be back.”
Outside, the London evening was all drizzle and neon, the kind of night that made Murdoc feel alive and miserable in equal measure. He clutched the record under his jacket, protecting it from the rain, and lit a cigarette with hands that were steadier than he felt. His mind kept replaying Stuart’s smile, those black eyes, the way he’d said “music’s supposed to mean somethin’” like it was a bloody prayer.
“Stupid git,” Murdoc growled, exhaling smoke into the damp air. He wasn’t some lovesick teenager, mooning over a pretty face. He was Murdoc Niccals, for Satan’s sake, king of chaos, master of his own destiny. And yet, here he was, already plotting his next excuse to visit that dingy shop, to hear that laugh again, to see if 2D’s handshake still felt like a spark.
He took a drag, long and slow, and let the nicotine burn away the edges of his unease. Maybe he’d go back tomorrow. Say he was looking for another record, something obscure to keep the kid talking. Maybe he’d ask about that keyboard nonsense, see if 2D was all talk or if he had something worth hearing. Maybe-
Murdoc stopped himself, cursing under his breath. “Get a bloody grip,” he muttered, stomping off into the night. But as he disappeared into the haze, the record under his arm felt heavier than it should, like it carried more than just music. Like it carried a possibility he wasn’t ready to admit.