Noodle tried not to suck on her nails, as a generality. It left them soft and breakable and it was a sign of weakness, so when she first discovered the nervous habit, she quashed it out with all the violent determination appropriate to a genocidal dictator.

But today she would let it slide.

Suck suck suck.

It wasn't that big of a deal. So what if Murdoc had gone from actively pursuing her to treating her akin to the way one would treat top-tier toxic chemicals? So what if he'd all but thrown her off his motorcycle? So what?

(So maybe she shouldn't have pressed herself that close against him, but damn if he hadn't been encouraging her. Like hell this was all her fault.)

Suck suck suck suck.

And, well, it wasn't like she missed him or anything; they lived together, it was going to be pretty impossible for him to skirt her altogether. It wasn't like she was upset. He hadn't, really, hurt her feelings or anything.

Suck suck suck suck suck suck.

Dammit, no. She wasn't doing this. She wasn't going to mourn because someone who was unattainable anyway apparently didn't want to get as snuggly with her as she did with him. Maybe during her mid-life crisis. Not now.

She emerged from her room in her casual training gear – a long-sleeved T-shirt and some running shorts, a step down from her Formal Training Gear – bo over her left shoulder. Fine, yes, she would run from her problems, she would make herself so completely and utterly exhausted she wouldn't be able to think about her problems, but she wouldn't sit in her room and sulk over them. In times of crisis, she could at least say she was active.

(And this was, at least, a step up from Murdoc's method, which was, glug glug, the usual.)

Fortunately, the only person she ran into on her way downstairs was 2D. He took one look at her face and knew she had been mind-fucked.

"'oo okay?"

"He knows," she said simply.

He looked at her blankly for a few moments. Then his mouth fell softly open. "Oh."

"Mmm," she agreed, heading past him.

"Uh, Noods?" he called after her. "I didn't tell him."

She waved at him dismissively over her shoulder. "I know."

The dojo (affectionately known as "the room with all the fucking shit," "Noodle's space," and "doohickey hall," respectively) had been given to her for her twelfth birthday, fully furnished with plentiful targets (often replaced), soft mats for meditation and her more acrobatic feats that half the time ended in injury, and wall-to-wall gleaming hardwood floors. She had thanked Russell for weeks. She cracked out a couple of sore places in her neck and stepped inside, all ready to work until her muscles were reduced to bleeding little puddles on the floor that pleaded with her to stop.

She took one more step and stopped dead.

She almost dropped her bo, but her body was trained to hold on to whatever she had in her hands when it was surprised, so instead she just went completely still, staring at the heap of organs and skin and booze plopped down in the middle of her training area like God's idea of a gag gift.

Who in the world would be in here, passed out almost naked on his back, but the object of her self-destructive filth-crusted motherfucking affections. Who did these things to her?

She stood there, motionless and unabashedly staring at him, for what felt like hours. Then, in some far off corner of her mind that was there to react when she went into shock, it occurred to her that this was the most prime opportunity that she could have asked for.

She crept forward with all the stealth she possessed, though she couldn't really see why. If he was shitfaced (which she could generally just assume) then he would probably be out for hours regardless of what she did. Still, the dojo was deadly quiet aside from his snoring, and disturbing that seemed…wrong. Sinful, almost. Wrath-inducing.

She crouched down beside him with her face as straight as it got and nothing short of fascinated. It was weird, seeing Murdoc like this, open and unguarded. When he was awake he was always doing something, scheming or cackling or consciously trying to radiate sex-appeal, but never relaxed. Even around her, or Russell, or even 2D sometimes, when he was off leaning against something with his eyes half-open and very clearly only half-there she knew he was paying attention, was listening and watching and probably waiting for the right moment to jump in and either draw attention to himself for the hell of it or jeer at one of them, also for the hell of it. It was almost like he couldn't relax, like he always had to be up and ready because he didn't want to be down and passive and thinking about things he didn't want to think about. It was a little baffling, to Noodle, who was so in-tune with herself she hardly ever stopped to question anything.

Asleep (comatose) he couldn't exactly be called peaceful, but…it was strange. His face, when lax, fell into natural serious contours that spoke volumes more about his childhood than the man himself ever would. Noodle poked his cheek, just for fun, and her finger came away greasy. She wiped it off on his underwear.

Why did she like him again…?

…because he was strong and interesting and her brother and she loved him, of course, dammit.

"Murdoc," she said softly, poking him in the side. "Muuurdoc. Muuuuuddoo-kuuuun."

He snuffled a little but didn't stir. She watched him for a little while longer, sighed, and slipped his arm over her shoulders.

In retrospect she should have realized that by passing through the kitchen she was more than likely to pass by Russell, but with Murdoc's sweaty reeking body flung over her shoulders she didn't possess the foresight. He looked up from the enormous plate of eggs he was nursing, and she looked back, and for a good few moments the atmosphere was extremely uncomfortable.

"…taking care of him?" Russell finally asked.

Noodle wondered just what she looked like. Probably a cavewoman taking her prize back to her abode for a hearty rape session. Her brain twitched.

"I found him in the dojo," she shrugged. "I'm going to put him to bed and let him sleep it off."

Kind of like how he used to do for her, minus the alcohol, when she stayed up with him all night, and they were all alone, and he was absolutely sure no one could catch him. Noodle could vaguely recall these memories; snatches of late-night television she could only get away with watching around him, being carried, pressing her face into his shoulder…he wore shirts back then. He was also cleaner. Noodle wondered if his deterioration was a sign of age or just his own self-destructive nature.

Russell stared down at his food, frowning, then looked back at her. "Hey Noods?"

"Yeah?"

"You know he's been drunk off his ass since Thursday, right?"

"Yeah…"

His eyes looked eerily into hers. "Know anything about that?"

She didn't even hesitate. "No, not really."

If there was anything she didn't want this man to know, it was that she might very well have romantic inclinations towards someone over twice her age, and that he most likely vehemently rejected these inclinations. Enough so that he was drinking himself into a coma over them, apparently.

His eyes lowered again, accepting this. "There's some aspirin over in that cabinet if you wanna go all out."

"Hai."

She made her way down to the car park with a man and a bottle of pills in hand, and nudged the door to his Winnebago open with her foot, frowning a little. Murdoc wasn't stupid, he should have known better than to leave his home unlocked, drunk or not. There were plenty of things that would love to get in.

She dumped him on the counter and did a quick sweep; all she found was a little pointy-eared demon in his bathroom sink. She kicked it out and locked the door behind her.

Murdoc's sheets…was there even a point in cleaning him if she was going to put him on those? Noodle cursed fluently and creatively and started ransacking his bedroom.

She managed to find a threadbare towel-looking thing that might have been sheets, judging by its size. She stripped and redressed his bed and then went back to the person it belonged to, who she plopped down without much thought.

After tearing through his bathroom she managed to find a washcloth, and she stole a bowl from his kitchen to fill with lukewarm water. When she got back to the bedroom Murdoc had managed to roll onto his stomach, body hanging half off the bed. She shoved him back and set about wiping off most of the sweat and grime from his body.

She was half-worried he would wake up and catch her giving him a sponge bath, because wouldn't that just be awkward, but he did no such thing. The most alive he looked was when his tongue rolled lifeless down his chin. She had to push that back in too.

Noodle paused a little to look at him, half clean and unconscious and splayed all over his bed like a dead butterfly on display, and felt a pang of sadness.

She did miss him. She missed their late night escapades and laughing together and generally just doing things Russell didn't approve of. She missed their easy understanding of each other, all the little things that bound them, separated them from the rest of the band. She missed being with him and not even having to say anything to each other. She missed playing music with him just for the sake of playing. She missed watching him erupt, watching him build and build and build and finally spew his rage onto whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing next to him, because that never got any less interesting. She missed all of that.

If this, this ostracization, was what came from being in love with him, she didn't want anything to do with it. They could be friends again. She could pretend to be his friend again.

Her hand had unconsciously migrated to his brow, and she watched it push his hair back, gently working through the tangles.

And then she realized that his eyes were open.

Her hand whipped back so fast she was surprised she didn't gouge her eye out, and her terror-tense body took an automatic step backward, heart going at a mile a minute.

And he snuffled and pressed his head into his pillow, mouth hanging open again.

She didn't hesitate, didn't stop to wonder whether he was asleep or if she'd imagined it or if he was fucking with her, she harnessed the adrenaline pumping insistently through her and fled.

Russell watched her streak by him and wondered what she was running from.

Noodle skipped lunch, and dinner, and ignored 2D when he knocked on her door to ask if she knew where the aspirin were, which she felt bad for, but she didn't want anyone to look at her right now. Not when she felt so…dumb.

She didn't like having her confidence rattled like this. It was shocking to her; she didn't know how to deal with it.

And of course he couldn't have woken up while she was carrying him, or changing his sheets, or taking the bottle of peppermint schnapps from his nightstand. Of course he had to wake up while she was stroking his face.

And this was assuming he'd even woken up. Noodle sure as hell wasn't going to ask him.

She paced around her room for an hour, raged to Mike in Japanese for an hour more, then finally settled down on her bed to see if she could coax herself into sleep. Two hours and a very intense yoga session later, she did.

She was spared from dreams; Noodle usually was unless her subconscious had something particularly important to tell her. She didn't know how long she stayed blissfully removed form the world, but at some point she was interrupted.

She blinked awake, disoriented, vision hot and fuzzy. She lay there for a few seconds, trying to figure out what had woken her and if she should be jumping for her katana any time soon, and someone knocked on her door.

Noodle pushed herself up, blinking. A quick glance at her clock assured her what she'd already instinctively known; yes, it was three in the morning, and yes, no one should have been knocking at this time.

She had an idea of who didn't care much about social niceties such as those.

He didn't knock a third time, he didn't need to, she knew he was behind the door waiting, doing his intense and silent thing again. She strode across the room, trying to steady herself, and flung her door open.

Murdoc was wearing pants, she noticed, and a shirt. She dragged her eyes up along his body up to his face, three or so inches higher than hers. He looked utterly exhausted, eyes glazed and face heavily stubbled.

He didn't say anything to her, and after a while she was forced to step back and open her door wider. "Come in."

He did, half-stumbling, and that, along with his reeking breath, was enough to assure her that he was still drunk. Heavily. She closed her door quietly behind her.

"You're drunk," she said plainly.

He looked at her blearily. "…always liked it in here."

He wandered over to her bed and sat heavily down on it, elbows resting on his knees. She hesitated, then sat next to him. For a while it was quiet.

"So what d'you think, Noods?" he asked abruptly.

"About what?" she replied cautiously.

"About some forty-something asshole rearing after your tits?"

Noodle was reduced to stunned, efficient silence. He…what?

He didn't. There was no way.

Then she looked again at his slumped shoulders and his petulant frown, and well. Either way, she didn't know what to say to that. She really didn't.

"You're not rearing after my tits, are you Murdoc?" she asked finally.

"…no," he admitted. "I don't think I am."

That could be taken two ways. If it was the way she thought it was…she looked at him again, eyebrows knit. He was drunk. He was so, so drunk. Murdoc didn't say things like that in passing conversation.

"Murdoc, how much have you had to drink?"

"A lot. A fucking lot." He glared at her floor. "You rearing after my tits?"

…Jesus, he almost sounded shy. "No, Murdoc," she said gently. "I'm not."

"Don't know why you'd even wanna," he snorted. "I'm all tough 'n stringy 'n shit."

Um.

"Murdoc…I don't like this," she said seriously. "I don't like everything being so strange and uncomfortable between us."

"You sayin' you jus' wanna be normal again?" he said musedly, still not looking at her. "Like none'a this weird shit ever happened?"

Did she? Did she really?

"I don't know."

"Yeah, well, I do. 's it make you uncomfortable, knowing a forty-something asshole wants you?"

She didn't even have to ask if he really wanted her or not. It was plain in the way he refused to look at her.

He was killing himself over this, eating himself up from the inside. Noodle looked at him and felt her heart wrench, over his bony spine and familiar grey sweater and hands dangling loosely between his knees. He actually hated the idea of wanting her.

And that was when it clicked to Noodle that Murdoc really did care about her, whether it be indirectly or in his own fucked up way or anything else. He cared about her. Holy shit, if he was actually restraining himself from something he wanted via alcohol he had to.

She grabbed one of his hands in hers because it was just hanging there and she wanted to, and he finally looked at her, eyes dark and partially hidden by the fringe of his bangs.

And Noodle threw caution to the wind, and squeezed him hard. Forget it. Forget logic, and standards, and what was right or wrong or whatever the fuck else, she wanted it. Wanted him. And Noodle was so in-tune with herself that she figured it was time to stop questioning what she wanted.

"Murdoc, I'm an experiment," she said firmly. "I live right next to a portal to hell with three other men. I'm marked for extermination. I have never associated with people my own age."

He looked at her blankly. "Noods, I'm really shitfaced, yer gonna have t' – "

"I don't care how old you are!" she said frustratedly. "Why does it even matter? We're not normal – you're not even physically forty!"

He leaned a little away from her, hand running raggedly over his face. "Satan, you're gonna kill me," he groaned.

"Murdoc! Did you come up here for a reason or not?"

"I came up here 'cause I didn't know what the fuck else to do," he snarled. "And my Winnebago smells like shit."

He turned away from her again, to look broodingly at her wall.

"…'s not just 'cause I'm old," he muttered eventually.

That just made her sad. Noodle deliberated, steeled herself, and then inched forward. His head snapped around the second he felt her touch him, and she ignored him, scooting herself until she was nestled against his side. He neither protested nor reciprocated. She glared at him shortly, then tucked her head belligerently against his shoulder.

"Murdoc, shut up. Tomorrow you will stay sober, okay?"

He grunted a sound of general displeasure but didn't push her away. She closed her eyes.

"…Murdoc?"

"Yeah?"

"…did I wake you up when you were in your Winnebago?"

"I was never asleep. Went looking for you in that room a' yours 'n fell asleep waiting. Woke up when you picked me up."

"…I hate you."

He shifted a little bit so that he was leaning against her wall, then wrapped an arm around her, not too intimately but still familiar. She tried to turn her head to look at him but his face was pointed away from her, hidden.

She sat and listened to his breathing, getting deeper and more even as the minutes ticked by. Eventually it occurred to her that he intended to stay there.

She settled down into a more comfortable position and relaxed, breathing in his sweater, which, pleasantly enough, was relatively fresh.

She was almost asleep when Murdoc lazily dropped a hand on her head and mumbled at her, voice thick and clogged with exhaustion.

"Call me when you're eighteen, kid."