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: The general feeling of everyone reading this, I'm sure, is "finally!"
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Murdoc sighed, his body heavy with exhaustion. The girl from the agency had been one of his favorites – pliant, willing, and a little dirty. He'd had her three times in quick succession, but none had really satisfied him.
'Well…' Murdoc thought, rubbing his callused fingers across his hair-roughened chin, listening to the scrape in the imposed darkness behind the bandages.
None of the orgasms had really satisfied him until he had given into something he hesitated to think of now, out of the glow of sex and back in gritty reality. The last orgasm had been shattering, mind-blowing, had left him gasping and shuddering on top of the bought sex laying on his dirty mattress and rumpled sheets.
As he'd pumped into her pliant form, he had allowed his mind to drift. Eyes like the darkest night, shadowed with purple bruises. A gap-toothed mouth, thin body – thin to the point of emaciation – and a shock of incongruous blue hair.
Murdoc had given in to what he'd been fighting for the last few days and imagined 2-D below him, as eager as the whore had been. He'd imagined gripping a handful of 2-D's spiked blue hair, pulling the singer's head back and thrusting – thrusting – felt himself so close to the point of no return and he could almost … almost … then he –
He'd sent the whore on her way with a handful of bills, trusting her not to try and rob him blind since her agency got a lot of business from him.
Now, unsure of the hour, he lay listening to the sink drip, listening to Cortez fluttering as the dark-feathered bird settled in for the night, listening to a car alarm go off somewhere deep in the carpark.
'Now what,' Murdoc wondered, 'does it mean when y'can't really get off until you think of y' lead singer?'
Thoughts better left alone for now.
Normally a loner, Murdoc suddenly found himself feeling a little lonely. Some human company would be nice. Behind the bandages, he was robbed of his sight; at the moment, he didn't really want to also be rubbed of sounds and smells and touch.
He rose from his mattress, stumbling through the Winnebago – once again crashing into things, causing Cortez to give a raucous croak of protest – before finding the front door.
He misjudged the step out of the 'bago and end up stumbling down onto the cement, nearly losing his balance. He hoped no one was watching him, and stood silently for a moment, listening for any sound of any human – or undead – presence in the carpark with him, and heard nothing.
His boot heels echoed hollowly as he moved across the carpark, away from the 'bago. It wasn't until he'd moved at least a good foot away from the 'bago that he realized he wasn't quite sure if he was aiming toward the door to Kong Studios or just moving toward the opposite wall of the carpark.
'Shit.'
Murdoc lifted his arms, hands stretched out in front of him. He stepped forward slowly, hoping he wouldn't crash into any of the multiple vehicles parked around. He waved his hands, reaching for obstacles that would try to trip him up – for all the good it did.
He barked his shin into something and cursed as the object toppled with a clatter and crunch. Undoubtedly one of the motorbikes.
He tried to turn around and double back – wasn't the door to Kong Studios between his 'bago and the 'bikes? – and ran into another of the parked motorbikes. This one started a chain reaction, and Murdoc stood in resigned silence as a domino-line of motorbikes toppled around him. After the last one had fallen, there was a subdued tinkling of broken glass, then the click-whump of a door opening.
"Wot in the…? Murdoc? 'Zat you?"
"Sod off," Murdoc responded, resigned. After the game of motorbike dominoes, the last thing he wanted was human companionship. He wanted to go back to his 'bago and be surly to no one about the whole stupid, hopeless situation.
"Wot are y' doin' out 'ere?" 2-D asked, and Murdoc heard the taller man come padding and scuffing over to him – sounded like he wasn't wearing any shoes, probably just socks.
"Got bored," Murdoc replied, feeling 2-D's long fingers gently placing Murdoc's hand onto the blue-haired singer's arm.
"Want a drink?" 2-D asked after a pause. Obviously, he felt it was his duty to take care of everything Murdoc wanted or needed during his period of recovery. Murdoc's mind flashed a quick thought – 'Does that include sex?' – and then the bassist was shrugging.
"Yeah, a drink'd be nice. But I don't much want t' go out anywhere –"
"No, s'okay," 2-D interrupted, walking forward, Murdoc forced to go along. "I got some things in m'room."
An hour later, Murdoc was beginning to feel much less concerned with his blindness. Alcohol was good for calming down upset minds, and he found it hard to form any coherent worries with the buzzing in his head and the looseness of his joints.
He heard 2-D upend the bottle of Captain Morgan – which had lost its bite about thirty minutes ago and had become merely soothing and warm – and held out a hand in that general direction.
"Give i' 'ere," he slurred, and after a second felt the bottle pressed into his hand. He closed his fingers around the bottle, dragging it toward him. After a moment, he realized he'd dropped the bottle.
'Guess I wasn't 'oldin' it as tight as I thought,' he thought, patting ineffectually at the rug, seeking the bottle. His hands encountered a puddle of spilled liquid, and then he felt 2-D's fingers on his.
"S' okay, Murdoc," 2-D said, almost in Murdoc's ear. Murdoc could feel the warmth of the singer's breath on his ear and cheek, and heard 2-D righting the bottle, the remaining liquid sloshing cheerfully.
Distantly, some part of Murdoc's brain was repeating, 'Y' shouldn't, mate; y' shouldn't' but that part was quickly being overwhelmed by alcohol and the groaning pressure building underneath the fly of his jeans.
Murdoc captured 2-D's hand, pushing it back onto the carpet underneath Murdoc's own. He reached out, hand clutching clumsily at 2-D's shirt.
"Wot's – " 2-D began, but Murdoc cut the young man off. Leaning forward, Murdoc's mouth connected inelegantly with 2-D's. Blindness and inebriation were not a good mix for classy kisses, but Murdoc was beyond caring.
Never much one for denying himself something he wanted, Murdoc pulled the singer closer to himself, mouth hungrily claiming 2-D's.