Disclaimer: Don't own Murdoc or 2D. Damon and Jamie and Cass and all of those guys do. And I bet they're writing slash right now AS I'M TYPING THIS. ...Why don't they share? D:

Author's Note: Oh yeah. ;D

That's really all I have to say.


Smoke curls out of the open Winnebago window as Murdoc listens to that song yet again, his head resting on the steering wheel. Even at its lowest volume, he knows each and every cue to the song, and as it passes through his ears, he feels his chest grow heavier and heavier.

What had he been thinking?

What had he almost done?

It had been such a tiny, tender gesture, what he had done with his hand, and yet he still felt the ghost of the singer's skin—so soft—on his callused palm. It made him shiver—made him feel so enthralled.

The song ends and Murdoc is left with the silence of the car-park and the wheezing in his lungs. He watches the intricate patterns of the smoke in the lava lamp light as it dances out of the window—how it twines together and then pulls apart in the red, fiery glow. It's like it's telling him some sort of story of two lovers who, though they like each other, can't quite seem to get it right.

…Or some bullshit.

He jumps as he hears a knock on the door, then twists in his seat as he growls, "Who the Hell is it?"

The voice is small, and it says, "Only me."

Murdoc feels his stomach claw at him.

He knows what's about to happen.

It's a vicious cycle.

He waits a few moments before saying, "…Fine, come in."

The Winnebago door opens and in comes 2D, in the same clothes he had worn all night, looking heavy-hearted and like a guilty schoolchild. He grins awkwardly and stands in the doorway a few moments before Murdoc announces, "Take a seat," then, when he realizes that that sounds hospitable he adds, quickly, "Just don't puke anywhere."

2D manages to find a spot on the bed that doesn't look like it's been humped by a rhinoceros and he quietly watches Murdoc smoke his cigarette. Once again, it looks as though he's searching for words, but he's coming up empty-handed.

"…So. What is it? Come to me for a beating?" Murdoc prods, grinning, showing off all of his jagged teeth just to enhance his sentence.

2D manages to keep his eyes straight forward as he announces, slowly, steadily, "I… want to tell you something."

"Oh?"

The air becomes stale, rigid with that tiny "oh." It seems to enhance Murdoc's carelessness, and 2D retreats into a shell of sorts.

"Maybe I shouldn't…" 2D quickly says, but Murdoc is just as fast to say, "Oh, no, no, by all means, do go on," trying to take down his sarcasm a notch. He fails, of course, but by leaning forward, his fringe perfectly framing his imperfect face, 2D feels that knot in his throat, and he tongues the gap between his front teeth and wills himself to go forward.

"I… I really think that you should stop using me as your… your girl-catcher. And… stuff."

2D's voice is firm, and Murdoc stares at him blankly, only one eye—his red one—visible through his mat of black hair.

"…Really, that all?"

For a good, long while, they stare each other down. The thickness of the Winnebago heat is stifling, and 2D's suddenly realizes that his breath is a labored thing.

"…Maybe."

"Well, what else?" Murdoc prods, sitting back and taking a drag on his cigarette. 2D examines how long his fingers are—so skilled at strumming the bass. "Since this is happy-fun-confession-time, we may as well get it all out in the open, eh?"

2D shifts.

"N—No, I'm fine. That's all."

Murdoc waits.

He'll wait as long as he'll have to.

"…Well."

Murdoc perks.

"…The reason that… I don't like being your girl-catcher… It's not 'cause I want the girls…"

An exhale of smoke, and as the vile chemicals curl out the window, the bassist allows another small, "Oh?" to escape his lips. It's coy, toying, with a bitter-sweet tang to it.

He had been patiently anticipating this with—how should one put it?—bated breath.

"…Yeah."

Now 2D is just allowing himself to be pulled into the game—he is just a puppet on tightly-wound strings at this point.

Murdoc grins his grin, flicking the cigarette out the window and rising to his feet. He stretches out his cramped muscles and makes his way over to 2D, his hips seemingly working out of his jeans.

"Ah, and what might you be implying, my little singer?"

2D cowers as Murdoc looms over him, and his answer is a mere stutter:

"N—nothing, M—Muds. I—I—"

The next moment, however, Murdoc presses 2D back against the bed with a devilish grin, one hand firmly planted on his chest, the other cupping his chin. Their eyes lock for what seems like an eternity, and each man can feel his breath on the other's face. Murdoc smells like nicotine, still strong and acrid; 2D wreaks of liquor, though at this point, Murdoc can't tell if it's weakened enough to the point that it's just the smell of his own natural spit or not. Still, nothing deters the men from drawing closer, even the pungent odors coming from one another's mouths.

"We," 2D finally speaks, his head cocked at a forty-five degree angle and his lips slightly parted—speaks as though he's about to die, "shouldn't."

Murdoc gets this grin on his face, and he bypasses 2D's lips and whispers in his counterpart's ear a phrase he's said so many times, the guilt he feels from saying it has long since been swept under a rug in the back of his mind:

"That's the fun part, innit?"