A Respectable Satanist cannot think about people like 2D.
They just can't. It throws off their entire view of the universe. Sure, Murdoc knew the man was no saint. In fact, he was so hopped up on painkillers most of the time (necessity or no) that he had trouble remembering his own nickname. And when he wasn't on the pills, he was impossible to control.
Still, sometimes, when Murdoc looked his way, he could see something in him that made angels nearly impossible to resist. A sort of purity that was never touched, no matter how he tried to reach it. It remained above him, around him, so far from his grasp that he wasn't sure anything could really reach it at all. But it remained so teasingly close, reminding him of all he was truly missing.
He didn't want to believe 2D was doing it on purpose. No, that would mean the man was a lot smarter than he thought, and that would open up a whole other can of worms. He didn't want to think about that just yet. There were more pressing matters to attend to. Like the new song he was supposed to learn.
See, in an effort to remain a respectably nasty Satanist, he'd taken to ignoring the brain-dead motherfucker as much as was humanly possible.
This idea seemed easy at first. Aside from meals and the more-than-occasional zombie attack, he had no reason to speak with the vocalist. Practice was never time for idle chit-chat, and he'd made a great effort not to run into him lately. He'd even saved pummeling the breath out of him as a last resort. He wondered if he'd noticed.
Of course not. The brain-freeze is too medico-stoned to notice…Sighing, he lounged back on the pungent mattress he called his bed, enjoying the solitude of his Winnebago. The chords of his bass thrummed against his fingers, the vibration reminding him that he could feel. That was why he loved the guitar. It pulsed and sang with the slightest touch. Lived, but only in someone else's hands.
The window to the car park was cracked a little at the bottom, and he could flip up the bottom corner of the confederate flag to see who was walking by. He didn't feel like it, though it struck him odd that anyone other than he or Russel (whose footsteps were easily distinguished) would be walking through the car park at this time of night. Normally about this time, Noodle was asleep, Russel was at the nearest fast-food place, and he was out hitting on blonde groupies. Not that he had anything against brunettes. Or redheads, for that matter.
There was something funny about this. Those footsteps weren't Russel's. Softer. If he had any music on, he would never have heard them. He wanted to look out the window, but he'd kept himself out of his band members business for the past week. He didn't want to start prying into things now.
Plucking a string of his bass with his nail, he raised an eyebrow to himself as he realized the footsteps were passing the Winnebago without pause. So, they weren't looking for him? Finally giving in to curiosity, he flipped up the bottom right corner of the flag and peeked through. He blinked at the person he saw. Pushing open the window and speaking without thinking, he shouted to the retreating figure.
"Oi! Face-Ache! What're you doin' out there at two in the fuckin' mornin'!"
2D stopped dead. Shit… He'd been just about out of there, too. And the last person he really wanted to see…
Turning slowly, he looked back toward the Winnebago, facing Murdoc. He knew he should've gone out his own back exit, but the bikes were all in the car park. Grinning sheepishly as always, he sent a little wave at Murdoc, hoping the bassist would leave him alone. Apparently, hoping didn't work.
"Well? You gonna answer me, Brain-Freeze?" He hated that nickname.
"Hey, Muds. How's it goin'?"
"It's two in the fuckin' mornin', you dick. Go to sleep!"
The window slammed shut, and 2D sighed. Turning back, he began trudging back the way he came. There go his chances of getting laid tonight. He'd gotten distracted playing pong, and thought maybe if he left at two, no one else would be awake, and he could get the one-night-stand out of there by five-thirty.
His one-night stands weren't new. After what happened last time, he wasn't much for anything steady. Girls were great, but guys were better. He didn't care where he got it; he just wanted to be able to forget about it before breakfast. It worked, most of the time. But, sometimes, it was a little difficult. Especially if it was a guy. The guys he picked up… they always tended to remind him of… someone.
Murdoc… He's really one to talk, isn't he? He thought snidely to himself. He knew what would be going on over there had it been any other night. With some girl, from some club, whom he'd picked up with some cheesy line 2D didn't want to hear. Or maybe he did, and that was the pathetic part. Maybe he wanted to hear the words Murdoc told the girls he brought to his bed every night. Maybe he wanted to know what made him so appealing in the hazy lighting of the bars and clubs he liked to visit. Maybe he wanted to know what he was missing.
He pushed open the door to his room and collapsed back on his bed. He didn't need to change. He just needed to forget about things tonight. He didn't need the thoughts or the headaches. Popping a painkiller, he made his mind drift away, making a mental note to quit playing pong when he needed to get laid.
(A/N) This isn't done? 0.0 It was supposed to be a one-shot, but I actually kind of want it to be a chapter fic. Review if you agree!