To Binge

Mismatched eyes peeked over the windowsill. His gaze observed the chaos currently unfolding on his pink, plastic, paradise below. The bassist-being the coward that he was- chose to hide away in the lighthouse that overlooked the island of floating trash. Everyone was too preoccupied to think of searching the high tower; he was safe, at least for now. The green skinned man nervously glanced around, he was certain all this conflict was his doing. Everything that could have gone bad, had. First the Pirates finding his location, he supposed they had to stumble upon plastic beach at some point. Then, that bloody boogieman demanding payment for debts. Finally, his own creation, malfunctioning and turning against him. The bassist was much too focused on these qualms that he failed to notice an object currently soaring towards the window out of which he was looking.

His eyes grew wide as the object hovered below the sun, momentarily casting a shadow before smashing through the glass mere inches away from the bassists face. If it hadn't been for the temporary lack of light, he was sure the object would have smacked him. A clash sounded through the room as the object easily passed though the thin glass window sending shards in all directions

"What the-?" Quickly, he dove away before the object could make contact; he spun around to see just what was trying to harm him. He expected to see a rock or perhaps some shrapnel from the battle raging below. At first he believed it was just an accident, that he just happened to be in the item's line of fire.

The man crept closer and upon realization his eyes grew to the size of saucers. There before him, was his own creation, or rather, part of his own creation. The head and neck of the beloved guitarist replacement, still sparking and oil soaked. Her face was frozen in the expression of terror, something he never thought he'd see on the ever stoic robot. A moment of relief washed over the musician, one less problem to deal with. Just as the relief had come, it soon evaporated with the sound of a familiar voice.

"Murdoc, you asshole."

The man in question paled, his gazed swept back to the broken window, where a young woman now stood looking down at the pathetic bassist. Her facial features were hidden by a mask, making the whole scene even more mysterious and confusing. The bassist didn't even have time to process what was happening before the girl's fist was being reeled back, then launched forward, successfully colliding with the man's bulbous nose. A sickening crack echoed through the small radio station. The force of the blow knocked Murdoc back, making him hit his already aching head on the hard, wooden floor. His vision blurred for a few seconds and, before he knew it, he was being lifted by the collar of his shirt to the unknown masked woman. On closer inspection he noticed the female's mask was white and had a green cat face sloppily painted on it. It reminded him of Faceache's own clown-like mask. The bassist also spotted royal blue hair sticking out in all directions; the fringy strands looked greasy and unkempt. The lady's red-painted lips was all the man saw of her face, they were stretched down in a disgusted frown.

"I could kill you for everything you have done." Her voice held even more rage then her body language. Her thick accent made something spur inside of him, nostalgia? Before he could dwell on the detail, his own accented voice spoke out in response,

"Get in line."

The response was muffled from his already swelling nose, it could be considered comical if it wasn't for the current situation. The woman clenched her teeth and shoved him away from her grasp; the air was knocked out of him as he was roughly slammed against the wooden boards of the lighthouse floor. He supposed he deserved that for such a smart-ass remark.

The tension in the room shrunk as the girl collapsed to her knees, her adrenaline slowly dissipating. Murdoc watched her through blood-shot eyes. Her wrinkled dress, covered in dirt and ash. Her striped, stocking clad feet and legs. One sock had slipped down slightly giving her a disheveled, sleep-deprived appearance. Her mop of bed-head hair just added to that look. Her white-gloved hands had crimson droplets scattered across the leather surface, the red mixed with thick black oil that also coated her hands. She looked utterly defeated; it stung the Satanist's heart, though he didn't let the pain show.

"I see you have not changed a bit." Her exasperated voice lifted him from his observations; he focused his eyes to find her scanning the small room. He followed her gaze and swerved his head to also inspect the lighthouse. Rum bottles littered the room, some still half full, others completely tipped over allowing the contents to leak out. The pungent alcohol smell was so strong, even with his newly broken nose, it singed the Satanist's nostrils. Crates and crates of CDs, records, and tapes were stacked on the various tables and against the walls. All appeared to be labeled with a combination of strange titles, all of which contained three of same words-pink, stink, and fish. Murdoc could practically see the girl raise an eyebrow in confusion, even though it was hidden by the green cat face.

"Err, I...suppose I haven't." It was his turn to raise a brow, realization clear in his tone. If the accent wasn't enough proof there was-or had been-only one person who ever dared to question his life-style habits without a hint of fear of being rebuked. He cast his face to the ground-a hint of guilt found in his features then exhaled a slow, stuttered breath. His wrinkly hand lifted to push back his tangled, black mess of hair. They sat there for a few minutes, the only noise being distant gunshots and shouting from below. Neither moved or said a word, but it wasn't long before their silence was interrupted by a small, almost inaudible sniffle. The noise was enough to bring Murdoc to face the girl a few feet away from him. Her previous tough facade had all but disappeared. The girl was now shaking like a leaf while big fat tear drops slid down her dirtied face and dripped down to her lap; her clothes soaked in silent cries. Her constant trembling had loosened the bow securing the mask around her face; eventually it just slipped off and floated to the ground. Murdoc stared at the flimsy false face, he was afraid of what it had been concealing. His stare hardened; he was being a coward, again.

Steeling his nerves, the bassist dared to peek up, catching only but a glimpse of her uncovered face. It was quickly concealed once more by her quivering hands in an attempt to hide her distress. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from the multitude of emotions she was currently experiencing. Her green eyes puffy and equally as red, but one seemed different...he didn't get a good enough look before the sight was whisked away from view.

Hesitantly, Murdoc stood up. He instantly received a head rush from this action. One hand gripped a nearby table till the dizziness receded, while the other hand rose to his pained nose. He gently touched below it and retracted just enough to spy blood; she had knocked him pretty good, the thought made him oddly proud. Tentatively, he shuffled forward, disturbing the glass separating the two band mates. At the sound of material clinking around, the girl curled up tighter. He pointedly avoided the head of cyborg, still not sure if it being here was a blessing or a curse. He continued and was soon directly in front of the poor, pathetic woman. He no longer saw the strong-willed, enraged warrior who had just crashed through a window; instead he saw a sniffling, rattled, ten year old bawling from some godforsaken nightmare. A sight he hadn't seen in a great many years.

Murdoc dropped to a crouch, balancing on the balls of his feet so he was the same height as the girl sitting in front of him. His face was expressionless, much like how it had been throughout the entirety of the "On Melancholy Hill" video.

"Noodle."

At the mention of her name, the girl tensed up but refused to lower her hands. The Satanist lightly grasped her wrists and applied just enough pressure to lower them. They settled into uncomfortable eye contact, Murdoc watched her with an unwavering stare. Only a few seconds had passed before Noodle began struggling to get away from his unblinking eyes. After what seemed like hours, the green-skinned man tenderly brushed her right cheek with the back of his hand.

"Who-?" His voice sounded hate-filled at first but as soon as he ground one word he shut his mouth and his expression went back to apathetic. This spur of emotion was caused by the bruised and blackening right eye of the guitarist. Murdoc was all too familiar with strange eyes, but this injury was downright horrifying. Purple spots bloomed and speckled the once healthy skin. The blood in her iris and pupil was reminiscent of 2D's own 8-ball fractures. At first glance, the bassist had been positively livid-who dared lay a finger on Gorillaz stunning little guitarist? He had been about to demand who had done such an atrocious act when it dawned on him-it was he who had caused such harm to the Japanese musician. Maybe not directly but-just like the riot raging on below their feet-he had brought about this pain. It was entirely his fault, and both of them knew it.

By now, Noodle had stopped crying and was quietly observing the ground. Murdoc briefly wondered what she must be thinking, feeling at the moment; he certainly didn't know how to process all that had happened in the past few minutes. His mind was reeling as he sucked in air and forced out two words he thought he would never say,

"I'm sorry."

This simple phrase was enough to, once again, ignite Noodle's dimming anger. Her mouth turned down in a scowl and her body went frigid. All was still, until Noodle's pent up energy boiled over and she all but erupted in fury. "No, no, no!" she screamed and tried shoving him away. This only successfully knocked Murdoc off his heels and down onto his butt earning a grunt from the man. "Y-you, you, bastard." Newly formed tears sprung to her eyes as she started pounding on his chest with her fists. These punches did nothing more than rock the bassist back and forth, her agony had weakened each blow till they were nothing more but taps; if anything, it was more damaging to the bassist's usually inflated ego than his physical body. "After everything you've done, you don't just get to say sorry." Her words were harsh, but held no malice. They were desperate, as if she was trying to convince herself more than her band mate that he could not, should not, be forgiven.

Murdoc rested his calloused hands on her shoulders effectively stopping her endless striking against him. It didn't, however, cease the trail of droplets sprouting from her already vain-filled eyes. He could tell she was exhausted-from the way her tear stained cheeks were void of color, and the way her body under his hands felt frail, like she could collapse at any moment. She looked as though she had been through Hell and back-which may or may not have been the actual truth. Voices in his head-that sound a little too much like Russ, Faceache, and a certain rapping ghost for his liking-were chanting that all this pain was his fault. He wanted to bang his palms against his forehead for them to stop, but instead kept them glued to Noodle's shoulders. Ever so slowly-careful to not upset the already emotional wreck of a girl-Murdoc drew his little guitarist near. Surprise flashed across his features as Noodle chose to lean on him still sniffling like a small child; he had been almost positive the girl would reject his attempt at comfort. This was enough permission for him to gently wrap his arms around her small frame and draw her to his chest. Muffled sobs wracked her fragile body, each one shooting more guilt into Murdoc's shamed mind.

They sat there for what seemed like ages; he thought about asking her not to mention this interaction to Russell or 2D, but that would have ruined the otherwise peaceful moment. Besides, he doubted Noodle would be mentioning this to the other guys. The female slowly drew back, a ghost smile drifted across her lips. Murdoc mirrored the action. The man took a deep breath and let his heavy eyelids slowly close; for the first time in many years, he felt at peace and he just needed a moment for the feeling to soak in. He felt weight on his chest and cracked one eye open to find Noodle had also closed her eyes. Her breathing had slowed and her head was resting against him. The fatigued guitarist had spent her remaining energy and had fallen asleep. Even older, forgotten memories stirred within the Satanist; memories of Kong studios, back in the first couple years of Gorillaz.

He shifted her to a more comfortable position with her head on his lap. He brushed his hands through her oily, cerulean hair, an act he would have never done if the girl had been awake. Out of the blue he heard the quiet murmur of his own voice; not very pleasant, but it was as if all the fighting and war on the rest of the island disappeared. It was said in a hush, for he did not want to wake the drained girl,

"I'll wait to be forgiven." Carefully, he rested his back on the table leg behind him, his body sagged with its own exhaustion. "Maybe I never will."

"My star has left me," His words grew quiet; his head went limp on his shoulder. "To take the bitter pill." His eyes felt so heavy; he blinked trying to keep from falling into slumber, all attempts were unsuccessful. Eventually his crow-like voice fell into a hum, the familiar melody all but a whisper. Even the humming ceased and was replaced with inelegant snores.

"I have to tell you..."

...I love you so much these days, it's true.

Thanks so much for reading! I've always loved Murdoc and Noodle having a father-daughter like relationship, and I hope this fanfic came across that way. I was thinking writing about Noodle being reunited with Russell and 2D as well, but I guess I'll see how this one does first.

This story will also be posted to Archive of Our Own!