Disclaimer: Characters not mine; Albarn and Hewlett's. Idea, however, totally mine (I doubt they'd want to claim it).
Rating: NC-17 for angst and Murdoc/2-D slashiness in later chapters.
Notes: Holy crap, real life invaded and kept me away from this for-ev-ar.
This chapter is quite short, but I think I prefer it short like this… too many words and it would be silly. The idea comes across… I hope.
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A car alarm blared in the silence, and Murdoc – familiar with the idea that blundering zombies wandering the carpark often set off the alarms – popped the door to his Winnebago open and stepped up, barking his shin on the metal step.
"Bloody…!" Shin aching, Murdoc lifted his foot higher, finally making it over the step. He shut the door to the 'bago, muffling the blaring car alarm.
Cortez fluttered around the 'bago, and Murdoc realized he wasn't sure if anyone had been feeding the bird while he was gone. Well, no matter – Murdoc usually left one of the 'bago windows cracked open enough for the bird to escape, and Cortez liked Zombie Snacks as much as any other bird and was quick enough to get an eye or an ear off an unsuspecting shambling dead.
"Sorry, mate," Murdoc mumbled, feeling around for the cupboard where he housed the bird's favorite seed mix, some tins of cat food, and a bag of dried mixed berries. He dumped the berries and seeds on the counter and opened the tin of cat food, listening as Cortez fluttered over to gulp the food down. The faucet of the sink was still dripping into the bowl of water Murdoc left in the sink at all times to provide the bird with water, so at least he knew Cortez hadn't been thirsty.
Not that he would admit it to anyone, but Murdoc had a soft spot for his bird. After all, who could help but get a soft spot for the bird after watching it swoop down on the unsuspecting undead to pluck their eyes out of the skulls. Murdoc smiled faintly, but the expression faded quickly when he realized he may not be able to watch Cortez do his "now you see, now you don't" trick again.
With a sigh, Murdoc shuffled to his bed, bumping into everything in his path and a few things not in his path. He collapsed on the mattress and listened to the peck flutter flutter peck of the bird consuming its first full meal in weeks.
As he drifted off, he wondered who had turned his telly off; it had been on when he'd gone to yell at 2-D for playing his records too loud. Honestly, who would be brave enough to even enter his Winnebago?
Waking up in absolute darkness is disorienting. For a moment, you can't do anything but stare into the blackness and nothingness and wonder what's happened. Then, you realize – through sounds and scents and air currents – where you are and either turn a light on or open a door.
When Murdoc woke, he experienced a moment of panic. This wasn't his room in hospital. The smells were wrong – cigarettes, beer, rotting flesh, petrol, and the stale smell of old sex rather than the smells of antiseptic and old man farts. The sounds were wrong, too. There was no squeak of Sisters' shoes passing down the hallway, no beeping of patients needing their bedpans emptied, no announcements blaring over the speakers. That was when Murdoc realized it had been a sound that wakened him.
'Wot in the 'ell would've…' A soft, shuffling step nearby made him tense on the bed. It had been the 'bago door opening that had woken him. Now, listening as another soft, shuffling step approached his bed, he wondered when the zombies had figured out how to open doors.
'Bloody 'ell,' he thought miserably. 'Now I'll 'ave to lock the soddin' thing every time I'm out 'ere. On a positive,' he considered, perking up slightly, 'now I'll 'ave somethin' to thrash. Might make me feel a little better.'
Murdoc remained in his prone position on the bed, not moving or giving any indication he was awake and aware of the presence in his 'bago until the slow steps shuffled right next to his bed. Then, with a guttural yell, he flung himself onto the zombie, hands clenching at its throat to wring its undead head off its rotting body.
Murdoc realized a half-second before 2-D shouted that it wasn't a zombie he'd launched himself at. The first hint was the smell. Zombies usually had the particular odor of Eau de spoiled meat. An instant before he'd lunged, however, Murdoc had detected the scent that Noodle often described as "butterscotch-flavoured angel delight."
2-D's yell of surprise finished any suspicions Murdoc may have had that the presence in the 'bago was not one of the legions of walking undead. Still, Murdoc kept his hands closed tight around 2-D's throat for another moment, legs straddling the singer's chest. It was nice to have a decent spot of violence fairly often. Besides which, the moment was fairly thrilling, what with 2-D underneath him, all subservient and helpless.
"Murdoc! Murdoc, it's me!" 2-D's normally high voice was thin with his surprise, making him sound more female than ever. Plus, the little wriggles he was making beneath Murdoc in his attempt to escape were positively –
Murdoc stood up quickly. He'd been about two seconds away from tenting his jeans. It was definitely time to ask for a conjugal visit from a pretty little fan or even a hooker – or two.
"Wot d'you want?" Murdoc growled, his back to 2-D just in case there was any tell-tale lift to his jeans.
"Brought y'dinner," 2-D replied, getting up off the floor in a rustle of cloth. "I thot you were sleepin', so I left it on counter. Want me t'get it?"
"Yeah, sure," Murdoc replied, rubbing the tip of one finger over the crooked bridge of his nose.
2-D padded away, and then returned with a rustling of a paper bag. Murdoc caught the scent of fried chicken, the smell strong enough to overpower the normal reek of the Winnebago.
"I thot chicken would be easy fer you t'eat," 2-D said, thrusting the greasy take-out bag toward Murdoc. "Y' don't have to use any forks or nuthin' – y'just eat it."
Murdoc ate in silence, despite 2-D's attempts at cheerful conversation. Murdoc didn't want to talk – he wanted one thing right now and it was to get rid of the nagging ache below his stomach. He knew the numbers of a few escort services by heart – as soon as 2-D cleared off, he'd ring one.
"How're y'feelin' now?" 2-D asked as he gathered the remains of Murdoc's meal.
"How the hell d'you think I feel?" Murdoc snapped back. "Still blind, aren't I?"
"I just meant… I'm sorry," 2-D said softly, immediately cowed by the bassist's anger. "I didn't mean to… can I… uh… make it up t'you?"
'Drop trou and bend over,' Murdoc thought, then shook his head.
"Y' c'n get out," Murdoc said, tone slightly gruffer than normal.
2-D paused for a moment, then mumbled another apology and shuffled out of the 'bago, shutting the door quietly behind him. Murdoc immediately started patting counters and other surfaces, looking for the phone.
Murdoc quickly found it wasn't as easy as he'd thought to dial a phone number when blind. Twice, he got a cleaning service and once he got a very annoyed sounding high-class bird. Trying to keep in mind the number he was dialing, plus remembering which numbers he'd already pressed and which number came next along with trying to remember the placement of the keys was one of the most frustrating experiences of his life.
After ten tries, he finally managed to get the number pressed correctly. He put his order in and collapsed back. Most of the girls at that service were familiar with him – she'd find her way without trouble. Until then, he would just watch the telly and –
Murdoc sighed in frustration; his choices were painfully limited. Finally, he stumbled back to his bed and collapsed, waiting for the soft knock on his door that would announce the latest place for him to expend himself.