Disclaimer: As we've already established countless times, Gorillaz don't belong to me :) Though a girl can dream...
"Pris!" Murdoc hissed through the letterbox, half-crouched on her doorstep. "Priscilla, y'in there?"
"Hold yer fuckin' horses, Murdoc," She drawled in reply, before he heard the bolt being drawn and the keys turn in the lock.
"You were in bed, weren't ya?" Murdoc demanded as soon as she'd shut the door behind him, observing Pris as she yawned and stretched her arms above her head.
"It's my day off, Murdoc, y'little twat." She smiled indulgently. "Anyway, what you round here for?"
He hovered for a moment by the coat rack, giving Pris the time to really notice things – the ruffled hair, the grazed cheekbone and split lip, the way he was still gasping for breath – before he spoke.
"Hannibal's fucked off." He said plainly.
"Really." Pris said, equally without inflection. If it had been the first time this had ever happened, she would have been surprised. She pulled inelegantly at the hem of the t-shirt she'd slept in, then sighed. "Well, fancy a cuppa?"
Murdoc smirked and nodded, following her into a tidy, though slightly grubby, kitchen and taking a seat at the Formica table, folding his hands.
"I must say, I admire your concern." He said smartly. Pris snorted.
"What's there to be bloody concerned about? He'll be back," she said, slamming Murdoc's cup of tea down onto the table in front of him. "He always is. Nice face, by the way. Your dad?"
"My brother." Murdoc spat. "He was in a fight with my old man, though. I try and stick up for 'im, and what do I get? Punched in the fuckin' face."
"Does that honestly surprise ya?" Pris laughed, taking a drink of her own tea. "Anyway, I know that's not why you're really here. Spill."
Murdoc laughed at how easily Pris could see through him, running a hand through his dark hair.
"Well, I was just thinking that even if Hannibal does come back, it'll be tonight at the very earliest... so I was wonderin', if, well, if y'wanted to spend the day together. Go to the park or summat."
"Cat's away, mouse'll play, hm?" Pris said with a smile, setting her mug down on the counter top. "If Hannibal found out, Murdoc, he'd fuckin' kill you."
"He doesn't have to know." Murdoc waggled his eyebrows. "It's not like I'm asking you to run away with me to bloody Gretna Green, luv, so make up yer mind."
"Fine," Pris shrugged, crossing the room to go upstairs and get changed. "But it isn't a date or anything, so don't get your hopes up, mate."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Murdoc lied.
And so, half-an-hour later, they set off, walking in no particular direction. Even if they had been the types to do so, they would never have dared to hold hands, so they simply walked nearby enough to each other that if they talked, they'd still be able to hear what was said. Pris was a few steps ahead, and it occurred to Murdoc that that's how it always was – she was always quicker, always faster, always more eager to place the distance between them. Not that he minded in this instance – her denim skirt was short, and even though the day was warm, for Stoke-On-Trent at least, Pris' veins still showed through the translucent skin at the backs of her legs and ankles. It did Murdoc good to see that there was at least something about her that was delicate. As if to deliberately contradict him, Pris spat at that moment, before lighting up yet another cigarette.
"Park's that way, if that's where you want to head."
"Might be nice," Murdoc said. "If you buy me an ice cream."
"Cheeky fucker," Pris cackled. "What are you, five?"
"Well, you're the one who always stresses the age difference here, Priscilla."
She gave him the finger then, her pink lipstick mouth twisting like she was sucking a lemon. She crossed the road, which was thankfully devoid of cars, and hopped up onto the kerb at the other side.
"Now where ya going?" Murdoc called. Pris turned back aroud, scowling.
"Do you want an ice-cream, or what?"
At that, he burst out laughing, running to Pris' side and elbowing her roughly.
"Race you."
As he sprinted down the road, Pris couldn't help but let a wry smile play at her lips.
"Whoever loses is paying!" She shouted after him, before breaking into a run.
"What about that 'un?" Pris asked as they lay together on the grass at the park, one of her hands pointing at an oddly shaped cloud and the other holding the ice-cream Murdoc had been forced into buying her.
"Looks like a shit, Pris." Murdoc said, then hacked up a nicotine-clotted cough. "Why the fuck are we playing this game, anyway?"
She shrugged, taking another draw.
"Alright then, fuck-face, we won't play it anymore."
They fell into a moody silence, Pris' bony, masculine hand dragging up tufts of brown grass and depositing it methodically onto Murdoc's leg as she licked annoyedly at her ice-cream. Eventually, he simply brushed it off and caught her fingers with his.
"Gerroff," She spat, and tried to pretend to mind when he didn't. His hands were softer than she could ever have thought, and warm to boot – nothing like Hannibal's hands, which were rough and big, usually blotched with spray-paint from his nights on the town.
"You've got hands like a girl, Murdoc," Pris said.
"Yeah, and you've got hands like a bloke, I don't sit and point it out." Pris, having finished her ice cream and thrown the stick that was left behind away, used her free hand to lean over and smack Murdoc around the face – not as hard as she could have, but hard enough to sting.
"And I hit like a bloke as well, so shut your bloody mouth."
"You don't scare me, Pris," Murdoc teased. At that, she yanked him closer to her by the front of his shirt, till they were lying face to face, so close it was hard to focus.
"What about now?" She demanded softly. "Do I scare you now?"
Murdoc simply gulped, blinking rapidly. Pris forced herself to roll away again, staring back up at the sky. He might not have been scared, but she was – scared of what she might do. An empty silence hung over them for a moment before she spoke.
"Well, I dunno about you, but I don't think a cloud could look any worse than that."
"... And a packet of fags, please." Pris mumbled, standing over the counter at the chip shop from a grumpy-looking, grey haired woman, with lines around her mouth and eyes.
"Your brother take any sauce on these chips?" She demanded. Pris was confused.
"My brother?" She asked.
"The lad outside."
"Oh." Pris said, blue eyes flicking nervously to where Murdoc was loitering outside, dark head bowed against the setting sun. "He ain't... He ain't my..."
"Well?"
"He's my boyfriends brother. And nah, just salt 'n vinegar, please. Plenty." Pris babbled all in a rush, scrabbling in her pockets for change to pay. For the rest of the time, she stared resolutely at the menu boards above the old woman's head, almost memorising the prices in an attempt to forget that Hannibal was likely to return any time now. Her hands shook as she took the paper-wrapped parcel, and the woman snorted.
"You're Hannibal Niccals' girl, ain't ya?"
"What if I am?" Pris demanded forcefully, more forcefully than she meant.
"Seen you around before is all," the woman said innocently, then looked at Murdoc again. "You oughta watch yerself."
Pris mouthed, pink lips opening and shutting, like a goldfish. She felt her face flush, then blurted the first thing that came to mind.
"Fuck off, then - nosy bitch."
With that she was out of the chippy, walking past Murdoc, walking past the hairdresser's, walking past the corner-shop where Hannibal had been caught spraypainting "SKINHEAD FOREVER '81" just last week with his mates.
"Pris?" Murdoc asked softly, catching up with her as she collapsed onto somebody's garden wall. She glared at him.
"What do you want?"
"My bloody dinner!" He snapped, snatching the chips from her. He hovered for a moment, then sat heavily down beside Pris, who was avoiding his eyes.
"Y'alright, Pris-cill-a?" He drew out her name, nervous for her reply. She simply sighed.
"I'm fine. Eat your chips – that's twice in two weeks I've paid for your tea, mate."
"It's not like I get pocket money to pay myself, is it? I spent the last of the cash I had on ice cream. An' I don't 'ave a job." Murdoc snorted. Pris shrugged, reaching out a hand to steal a few greasy, vinegar-sodden chips from Murdoc's hand.
"In that case, you owe me."
"In that case, you bet I do." Murdoc winked. Pris didn't react exactly the way he wanted – instead she stood and walked in the opposite direction. When she got to the end of the street, she turned back.
"You comin', or what?"
Of course he was. He always did.
"Shit," Pris said, hanging out of her bedroom window. "Shit!"
"What?" Murdoc asked lazily from her bed, head stuck in the latest issue of NME as they listened to Iggy Pop's 'The Passenger' on her mother's record player.
"It's Hannibal, coming up the street – fuck!" She spat, pushing herself roughly away from the window ledge. "You can't be in here when he comes in, Murdoc. Get into the livin' room or somethin', just – fuck's sake, go!" She snapped, as Murdoc was still lying frozen on her bed.
"Murdoc! Do you have any idea how this is going to look? Move!"
With that, she turned and hurried downstairs, the doorbell already ringing. Hannibal was clearly leaning on it, as the sound didn't stop. Nevertheless, Pris waited until Murdoc had crept past her into the living room before pulling the door open.
"Y'alright, Pris?" Hannibal said, looking sheepish, to give him his due. He leaned in for a kiss, but Pris leaned back, worried he'd taste ice cream or vinegar, the taste of her afternoon with Murdoc.
"Where t'fuck have you been, then?" She simply snapped, folding her arms over her flat chest and stepping aside to let him in, shutting the door behind him.
"Got a bus, didn't I?"
"Where to?"
"Stafford. Brought you this." He said, holding out his peace offering – not flowers, or chocolates, as was the usual for a boyfriend who returned bearing gifts, but a new set of shoelaces, bright red. "For your Docs."
"Thanks," She said sincerely, hugging him and tucking her head under his chin, feeling false all the same. As soon as he let her go, he turned into the living room.
"Oh-" Pris said, at the same time as Hannibal noticed his brother sitting on the edge of the couch.
"What the fuckin' hell are you doing here, ya little prick?" Hannibal asked angrily.
"He came lookin' for you, Hannibal," Pris covered quickly, sensing that Murdoc – while usually very good when put on the spot – hadn't thought of an excuse. "Got here about ten minutes ago. I said he could wait."
"Well, he doesn't need to wait any longer, does he? Fuck off, then," He said, turning to Murdoc again.
"Make me."
Hannibal lunged forward, clearly still stressed from earlier's argument, but Murdoc dodged out of his way.
"Alright, cool yer boots. I'll go."
"I'll get you to the door," Pris said, pushing him out into the hallway and closing the door of the sitting room behind her in one swift go.
"We can't keep doing this." She whispered to Murdoc as she opened the front door onto the early evening sunset. "I mean it, Murdoc."
"No, you don't." He replied truthfully. Pris winced.
"Look, just go. I'll – I'll catch you next time I'm round at yours, or summat. I can't be gone too long."
"Fine." Murdoc turned to go, but on irrational impulse, Pris pulled him back to her and pecked his cheek. Before he had time to do anything else in response, though, she'd pinched the skin of the arm she was holding. Hard.
"What the fuckin' hell was that for?" He yelped, though quietly enough that Hannibal couldn't hear.
"I just don't want you to think I like you too much." Pris said, a shadow of her old wicked grin playing on her face as she stepped back and slammed the door, Iggy Pop still blaring from upstairs.
A/N: Two stories in two days - anyone would think I didn't have anything else to do. Oh, wait... I don't, apart from my insane amounts of coursework.
So, first of all, I should probably explain what this is all about. Some of you might know that swan-scones (fanfiction writer, with whom I have traded ears and who is generally just WUNDERBAR) has discontinued Hopscotch for the moment. And, after my wonderful Christmas pressie from her in the shape of 'Sounds', I decided I'd pay her back in kind with this, which is a sort of tribute/scene that I imagine could have happened from Hopscotch. Of course, it's not the real thing, but hopefully it'll do for all of us for now :)
Anyway, there's not much else to say, really, other than I hope you enjoy this very much - and, of course, swan-scones - I hope you like it! Fingers crossed, babe.
Happy reading,
Cherry