Murdoc was a pro at making himself at home. It wasn't long until he was cat-calling at the girls in bikinis from the porch, a smoke in one hand and a bottle in the other, lounging shirtless on the banister. He took to slicking the hair constantly hanging in his eyes back like an out-of-place greaser, the sweat on his brow making his fringe greasy and messy. He said it made him look cool. Angel didn't disagree.

He stole Angel's black leather jacket and wore it out at night, she didn't tell him not to. He smoked in the house, but whenever Angel would catch him, she'd drag him by the hair or the collar to the nearest window, and he barely put up a fight.

Angel refused to sleep in her own bed, keeping to the couch downstairs, much to his dismay. Murdoc would hear strange sounds from the living room at night sometimes, but he knew it was the television on late. By the time the muttering got too loud for him to sleep and he went storming down the steps, Angel had shut it off and pretended to sleep. He wondered how much she actually slept, since she always looked like death warmed over the next morning. She chugged coffee like water.

But he didn't ask, because he knew she wouldn't answer.

But other than the noise at late and making him smoke at the window, Angel turned out to be a primo flat mate. He never really took much notice of her as a roommate at Kong—the building was so big and he was out so often that he barely saw her for a large part of the day. But now that they were cramped up in the little condo, they were seeing much more of each other, and he had to admit, he'd never lived with someone so... normal.

She let him get up at noon, and get to sleep at three if he wanted. No complaints about playing music, or what music, or to stop drinking or smoking or to put some clothes on. He got three square meals a day—Angel always seemed to know when he was and wasn't hungry—and a safe bed to sleep in. It was so normal it almost scared him.

Hazan seemed to be taking on a small liking for him. Every once in a while, Angel would be invited over for dinner, and, to his surprise, Murdoc was too. They would sit on the floor by the low table and eat with Hazan, and she never once hit him over the head with something. Her almond cakes were winning him over, and slowly, he decided she wasn't such a bad broad after all.

Angel came and went, and she let him come and go as he pleased as long as he didn't get himself into too much trouble or bring home a girl. She was much quieter than she'd been at Kong, but she was a good listener and never got glossy-eyed or irritated when he went off on a tangent. In fact, she seemed to enjoy hearing his stories and she would get a warm little smile on her face like before and she looked a little less like a mauled dog fighter.

He watched her closely, and the longer he did, the more he noticed about her erratic, two-face behavior. She didn't like to be snuck-up on or touched without warning, and could go from sweet to bitch in ten seconds flat when he did. She was uneasy around strangers and didn't like it when he stared at her scar. Sometimes he couldn't help it—it was just so... there. The white and pink marks took up nearly half of the left side of her face, and wound their way over her nose up to the other side. It was hard not to look.

He experimented with her, pushing her buttons, finding what was acceptable and what got him the back of her hand. He found, through a good deal of trial and error, that if he announced himself before coming into a room, or gave her ample warning that a touch was coming, she was normal and calm and didn't wipe the floor with him. He took to making over-the-top grand entrances whenever he could and making big, exaggerated gestures before putting a hand on her shoulder or her back. Angel laughed at him, but it was better than screaming at him.

It got too hot to go outside after a week of staying with Angel, and the house was barely any better. He looked like he'd melted onto whatever surface he was leaning on and complained all day about the unrelenting heat. Angel seemed unaffected, trotting around the house in shorts and tee shirts while Murdoc could barely keep his underwear on without feeling like he was going to die. Even the fans strategically placed around the house didn't help much. He tended to camp out up in the bedroom, one inch from the window fan.

"Can't you turn up the AC?" he groaned, incredibly close to shaving his head if it would make him any cooler.

"We don't have any air conditioning," she said, pressing a cold glass of water to his temple.

He whined, gripping the glass tight.

"What kind of rat-hole do you live in without any central air?!"

"Hazan and I are used to it," she said simply, setting her own glass on the bedside table as she flopped down on the mattress.

He ran his fingers through his greasy mop, brushing his bangs aside to let the fan blow against his forehead.

"I fucking miss England," he muttered bitterly.

She rolled onto her stomach, leaning her chin in her hands.

"I'm not keeping you prisoner."

He shot her a dirty look.

"You control the weather. You're just doing this to torture me, I know it. This is your fault."

She wiggled her fingers tauntingly at him. He chucked a shirt at her, missing completely.

"Can't we go somewhere cool?"

"If you want to wander around in that heat to find somewhere to go, be my guest. The coolest place is the library."

"You sound like a shitty public service announcement trying to get little snots to read," he murmured, staring up at the ceiling.

"The heat's getting to you I see."

He flung himself forward to stand, scratching his chest.

"No, not at all."

He reached for his package of cigarettes on the window.

"Not in here."

Murdoc wailed, throwing his arms down at his sides like a child having a tantrum.

"Ange', I'm dying! You're going to suck the last ounce of pleasure out of an old dying man! You harpy!"

He sunk dramatically to the floor in a heap. She pursed her lips.

"Fine, just this once. But if Hazan asks me where that smell is coming from, I'll serve you up on a silver platter."

He lit up before she finished the sentence, blowing out a puff of smoke with a long groan. Crawling across the carpet, he dragged himself up onto the bed, sprawling out beside her.

"Kill me," he pleaded.

"That's the opposite of what you've been asking me to do so far."

Angel bundled her hands up under the sheet, leaning her chin on the makeshift pillow.

"What exactly were you up to when you were running from the Clouds, anyway?" she asked suddenly.

He looked up, his mismatched eyes peering out from under his hair. He moved the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other.

"A lot of things."

"Like?" she pressed.

He snorted.

"Why do you care, nosey lil' tart?"

"Fine, we'll sit in silence."

The cigarette bounced with his little chuckle, and he leaned down on his elbows.

"Well, let's see..." He took a drag, reaching back into his memory dramatically. "After I dragged your half-dead arse back to Tuss-Pot's and stitched up yer face, I went back to Kong and... took care of the situation."

"Situation?"

He gave her a long look, the end of his cigarette glowing orange with his breath.

"Burnt Kong to the ground."

She felt as if he'd punched her in the gut.

"You burnt it?"

"To the ground—I thought I said that. Had to. Nasty mess inside, you see, and it was falling apart anyway. There wasn't any way we could stay there anymore; too conspicuous."

Angel gripped the blanket tight, her brow furrowing, but Murdoc went on without notice.

"But I managed to grab the Winnebago, and yer Indian motorbike—don't think I forgot about my little promise ta pass it off to you," he said with a lop-sided smirk. "That's an expensive bike, dearie, and I have to have someone look after it. Took the bike to Billy Boy's—" he glanced at her nervously, trying to ignore her reddening face at the name, "—and high-tailed it right outta Essex. I looped around Wales and came back down, and that seemed to shake 'em loose. When I thought I was in the clear I made a bee-line for D's."

He stared up at her, his eyes hard.

"But you were MIA, so I moved on."

She bit back her comment and stayed silent, listening. He watched her skeptically.

"Headed down to Brussels for a while, then went through Germany till the Winnie got stuck in a ditch somewhere outside Berlin and I had to leave it."

His smirk crumpled into a pained grimace—it was like losing his home. He blew a puff of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Hitch-hiked down through Italy and stayed with a model for a while."

With that, he shot her a huge smirk, his eyes narrowing.

"And that was about the only good thing that came outta being chased down by a bunch of pissed off gun-runners."

Angel didn't take the bait.

"She was a bombshell, lemme tell you. Blonde. Natural, I can attest to that, heh-heh-heh..."

"And then—?"

"She picked me up in a busy street, just came up and started chatt'n me up in Italian, and all of a sudden I noticed her hand was on my—"

"Do you really think I'm going to play this game?" she snickered.

"She didn't speak a lick of English, but she really didn't have to dearie, her tongue did all the talking."

"Oh really?" she said off-handedly, mocking interest.

"Yeah," he whispered, crawling over to her on his hands and knees. "Talented speaker. She was tan like you. Had a little fairy tattoo."

Angel folded her arms, refusing to give him the wild jealously he wanted.

"Where?"

He hovered over her, his knees pressing into her sides. He touched her skin carefully, then slid his hand up her leg, gripping her naked thigh tight, his knuckles pressing hard into her.

"Right here."

"Sexy," she managed coolly, keeping her mouth a thin, tight line.

"I thought so."

His touch didn't alarm her—she felt calm despite the rush of blood to her face. He leaned down on her, taking the stub of a cigarette between his fingers. As long as he kept her talking, kept her distracted, she would be fine. He smirked. What better way to keep her chatting than make her jealous?

"She did this one thing, drove me crazy."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm."

"What was it?"

He took a thoughtful drag, blowing smoke out through his nose, hovering an inch from her.

"I doubt you could do it, she was very flexible."

"I'm sure she was."

His calloused fingers ran up her side, rough against her skin.

"You know what the funniest part was?"

"Tell me," she said, trying to hide the sigh in her voice.

"I was in disguise and spoke with an American accent the whole time, so she called me 'Americano'. Only thing I understood."

"That's a riot, Muds."

Her tone was steady despite the fact that he was currently shoving his free hand into her pants, having tossed his cigarette into her glass of water on the bedside table.

"I wore these thick-rimmed glasses, and when she went down on me they fell off my face and hit her in the eye."

She snorted a laugh in between breaths, clamping his hand between her thighs as he unbuttoned her shorts with the other.

"She bit down on me and I nearly kicked her in the throat."

"Are you trying to seduce me or give me a warning, Muds?"

He smirked against her waist, struggling the jean shorts down over her knees. It was so damn hot in the tiny, stuffy room, and he was sweating.

"She choked me with my own tie."

"You wear ties?" she snapped with a smile, her fingers scratching his scalp.

"Not the point, Ange'. I was in disguise."

"As what, a tax collect—ER!"

His lizard tongue left a wet trail from the crook of her thigh to her hip bone, his sharp teeth grinding into her skin as he went.

"No, I was a pornographer. I had to make money somehow, girlie."

She slapped him half-heartedly over the back of the head, and he bit down hard on her, making her yelp.

"No biting," she snapped, her smile temporarily gone.

He muttered a meaningless apology, his lips moving over her navel. She squirmed uncomfortably, anxiety kicking in as he pulled her closer, gripping her waist tight. His eye flicked up to her under the hair of hair.

"She had a nice flat, and nicer friends, hehehe..."

"Friends?" she breathed, trying to calm herself.

"Oh yeah, tons. Is there a term for a ten-way?"

"A chiropractor's dream?"

"You've got that right," he growled against her.

He struggled the damp shirt off his back, getting stuck halfway, and Angel had to pull it off him as it stuck to his wet skin. She was laughing again.

"I can see why you're so popular with the ladies, Muds. You're as smooth as they come."

"Shaddup, I'm not tryin' to impress you. If I was, you'd have finished by now."

He slid up to her lips, hovering over them. He glanced to the left side of her face, where the skin grew mountainous and pink. Murdoc stared. Angel fidgeted. His cross tapped gently against her chin.

"She had really red lipstick," he finally continued, leaning down to her cheek.

His tongue trailed over the wide scars, sending shivers of shock through her. She couldn't feel him, but she could feel the pressure against her and it made her twitch.

"It was really messy, got everywhere. She ruined my best thong. I was pissed afterwards."

She reached out tentatively, into the hem of his jeans and snapped the band of his hot pink underwear. A deep chuckle bubbled up from her throat.

"Why do you wear those things?"

"So the girls aren't shocked by my impressive gift-to-women when they come off."

"Tasteful."

"I think so."

Her fingers moved on puppet strings, and soon she was unzipping his pants, the tips of her nails running over the silk underneath.

"You dressed up just for me?" she said, smirking.

"I always dress up, love. Better to be safe than sorry. You never know when a good shag will come al—HNG!"

A deep groan rolled out of him as Angel rubbed her knuckles along the bulge in his thong. Fear left her as she touched him—he was the same, he was safe.

"Get that damn shirt off, it's too hot," he snarled, grabbing at her top.

Murdoc struggled his boots off, and after a dozen 'shit's and 'goddamn's he shucked off the jeans beside them. Angel watched him and laughed openly.

"Shaddup. Wait till you're older. You won't be laughin'."

"Come 'ere, old man," she said, her tone warm and familiar, and Murdoc nearly let out a sigh of relief.

"You're not gonna hulk out on me when I touch you?" he snickered, crawling up to her.

"I think I can make an exception," sounding sure, but she still twitched a bit when he sat on her hips.

He sucked on her lip, running his impossibly long fingernails over her scalp, leaving little red marks down the back of her neck. He grinned wolfishly against her. She trembled against him. Murdoc smirked, but as he ran his free hand up her shirt, he realized the shaking wasn't from pleasure. He broke from her lips and went to pulling the edge of her shirt up.

"She never wore knickers."

"What?" Angel stammered.

"The model," he murmured, pulling the shirt over her head. "She'd wear skirts with no knickers, and no trainer, and she'd shag me anywhere that struck her fancy."

He grabbed at her underwear, pulling it down to her knees, then kicked them the rest of the way off impatiently, struggling his thong off with it.

Reaching for his jacket on the floor, he snatched up a condom, fumbling with the wrapper.

"She did me under a table in a cafe, once, with her manager sitting two away."

"I find that hard to believe," she breathed, her thighs tensing as he rolled the condom on. "You're very loud."

"I can bite my tongue when I have to." He grabbed her up by the hips, pulling her down to meet him. "Do I have to bite it now?"

"Hazan's at work."

He hovered, pressing himself up against her.

"You ready?"

She nodded curtly. He pushed in, Angel arching with a garbled hiss and whine. He snatched her by the hair, tugging her head back gently.

"She topped most of the time," he said on an exhale. "She had filthier ideas than I did."

He found a slow, deep rhythm that Angel rocked into, her hands clutching at his shoulders, nails leaving deep marks. The shaking subsided. She leaned forward, leaning her head against his collarbone.

"L-like what?"

He cackled, a dry, dark laugh.

"You don't want to know."

She opened her eyes, snickering. Angel looked up at Murdoc and was stuck dumb. Her muscles froze, her eyes going wide.

Hands, she felt hands on her face and her neck and her chest and they were pulling and pushing and grabbing. She could feel herself choking, her scarf being pulled tight around her mouth, gagging her, cutting off her breaths as her face was being split open. She was cold.

Her knees thudded against Murdoc as she writhed, struggling under him. He chuckled, kissing along the back of her ear.

"Hey, quit kicking. I know I'm good, but—"

With a loud grunt, she shoved him away, knocking him onto his ass with a cry of surprise. He leaned back on his hands, Angel shrinking away from him.

"What the hell was that?" he snapped, confused. "I thought you were fine!"

Her wide eyes welled up, and she had to look away.

"I-I can't right now," she said quietly.

She headed for the door, hurrying out naked.

"Ange'!" he called, eyebrows furrowing. "ANGEL!"

The bathroom door slammed shut.

Murdoc flopped back onto the mattress, grinding his wrists into his eyes, growling. She'd been doing fine! Everything seemed to be working, and she was good and distracted and calm and warm, and for no reason...

He sat up, staring daggers out the door.

He was a reminder.

Murdoc convinced Angel to sleep in her own bed for the night. She didn't speak much to him, keeping her head ducked down.

He couldn't sleep, though, pacing the house restlessly. He made a pot of coffee to keep himself busy, rooting through her cabinets for something to eat. He didn't feel like going out, even to do a beer run in town. The house was quiet, except for the sound of wind blowing through the second floor and the sound of gentle rain pattering against the roof. He climbed the stairs, feeling the cool breeze against his chest.

Murdoc hovered by the door, unwilling to cross the threshold into Angel's bedroom. She laid, her back to him, sleeping, strewn over the bed with her hands tucked under the pillow, one leg over the blanket and the other buried beneath. He watched her, silent, unmoving as he stood in his underwear, clinging to the warm cup of coffee in his hands. He wondered, quietly, in a place in his mind he usually didn't allow himself to go to, if this was what everyone else did.

Watching someone else sleep, just sleep in the middle of a hot night, with the rain falling warm outside, making pattering noises on the roof and a steady dripping while the house settled and everything seemed unimportant. He leaned against the doorframe.

It wasn't the life for him, and had anyone asked if it was what he wanted, he would have said it would bore him right out of his skull. But as he stood, unworrying, calm in the middle of the night, not waking to the sound of someone screaming at him or startled to find himself in a place he didn't recognize, or in a cold-sweating paranoia that someone was lurking right outside the door to blow him away, he enjoyed the moment for what it was.

He would have lost all respect for himself if he'd ever said it aloud, and he felt quite stupid standing there like a loon, getting all sentimental and squishy. It was unnatural for him. Waking up next to someone he didn't know was natural. Nursing a broken nose at three in the morning after a bar fight was natural. But domestic bliss? He scoffed. No, not him.

Not at all.

But still he stood there, watching Angel do nothing interesting but take in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide and not even so much as twitch in between. And still he felt like the world wasn't going to come in around him and he felt...safe.

Murdoc took a drink from the cup.

He was still a bloody moron. Maybe he needed another good bender.

He lingered another few moments, enough to let himself finish his cup and set it on the dresser, next to Angel's hairbrush and keys. Quietly, carefully, he circled the bed and pressed himself gently down, slinking into bed next to her. She mumbled, shifting over unconsciously for him, and he slipped into place, her arm coming over him to rest against his bare chest. She wouldn't let him sleep with her, still, but he'd never listened to her before, and he wasn't about to start now.

He stared out the window at the streetlamps and the night sky and the trees and felt like, if there was somewhere on Earth that he could be someone else for just a little while, it was here.

And after a moment of quiet thought, he closed his eyes and drifted to sleep without the commotion of the city, and without the paranoia, and without the rum.