She's getting dressed, short skirts and silky fabrics and expensive shoes with heels long enough to injure a man, mind absent when she grabs her bag. Her shoes clack against the ground despite her efforts on being quiet and she's finally reaching for the door, her hand on the knob when she hears the sofa shift and turns, blue flashing and she's out the door, running down the steps. Noodle doesn't make it far, just barely a block away when Murdoc comes screeching by, smog curling from his car and she enters just as quick, buckling her seatbelt in when he floors the pedal.
They've been doing this for a while now, attending parties, getting drunk, and getting away from Wobble Street. She'll dance her troubles out on the floor and he's in the back getting wasted and stoned and laid by stranger or three. Until the club shuts down for the night and all the patrons scatter like ants and she's left with her uninhibited band leader to take home. Which she does, dragging him the entire length, his dead weight being the most of her troubles; she's thankful for him in a way, already giving her his keys before he starts letting go, it was a habit formed from when they first started attending parties together weeks ago, she persisted and he really didn't need another DUI.
Loud music booming in her ear, she's moving with the beat, feeling reckless and wild. She's been dancing for hours now, since she escaped the house that evening, a gaggle of local girls welcoming her into their group. Noodle, taps one of the girls' arms, gesturing towards the bar, smiling when the girl nods and follows her to the stools. She waits as the girl begins to order, feeling bored as her high slips, tensing in warning when an arm wraps around her.
"A round of shots for these ladies," the stranger says, smirking when she turns.
She's scowling, plucking his arm off her as she gets off her seat. Noodle turns to the other girl, looking apologetic when the girl shrugs, awkwardly raising their purchased glasses, the shots pushed to the side. Reaching for the drink, the strange guy snatches it, taking the cocktail and downing it. She's clenching her fist, feeling frustrated; the guy is getting too close to her face and she's just about to punch, being interrupted at the last second, a familiar green body crashing against the counter.
"Wha' shots?" Murdoc asked, shooting the glasses back, clicking his tongue, "I dun 'ee any. Why dun you le' go of my lady friend over 'ere 'n piss off? 'fore she gets 'eally mad, you wouldn' li' it," he chortled, lowering his gaze down the man's form before traveling back up, "She aims low."
"Sum'thins' wrong wit'chu," he slurs wobbly, his finger in her face, eyes glazed and incoherent.
He's been murmuring lately, complaining, about everything when he's drunk and she's tired of him, of the comments. She's tired of the dancing and her aching feet and the booze and the heat and the sweat and the smoke and the people.
She tired of Russel being "'oo fucking big", and 2D being "a na'eve fuck", and Murdoc being a douche.
"'n you!" he's laughing now, dark and insulting, and she feels like hurting him when he opens his mouth once more, "you're li' a fucking 'icked puppy."
She drops him on the floor then, his pained groans protesting, tearing off her heels, running to her room.
She tired and she's had enough of him tonight.
She doesn't feel like doing anything anymore right now.
She's sitting there in the absolute dark, by herself, confined by her bedroom walls, ears straining to listen to the shuffles from upstairs where she knew where he would be going and what he was doing, and she feels like she's suffocating.
Eyes squeezing shut, she's tugging at her hair, gripping her ears, forcing in a breath, and thinks, remembering.
She's walking with him, watching him and feeling fond; he's enthusiastically talking about the latest zombie film he's seen and she giggles when he stumbles on a stray rock, limbs flailing to steady the basket in his arms. She helps steady him, bunching the folded blanket she carried against her side higher. Their instrument cases banging when she palms his shoulder and he's exhaling loudly, a sigh of relief, thanking her.
He's taking her hand, eager, the grass crunching at their feet, his hair ruffling in the wind.
"Com' on Noods," he says, "you'll love teh spot I 'ound."
They had ditched the house that afternoon, waving goodbye to Russel as he sat perched on the roof, keeping her windmill island tethered. It had been sunny all morning, a light breeze drafting here and there; it had made Noodle itch to stretch herself out and sunbathe, finding a picnic a wonderful idea when 2D suggests it.
Reaching a clearing, he set their cases down, gently setting their basket aside and helps her set up the blanket. Smoothing it down, he flopped over it, feeling content, only shifting when she made her way down, her hands unzipping her guitar case to reveal an acoustic. She set it on her lap, strumming lazily, the cords to On Melancholy Hill circling them, lovely and somber, continuing even as he laid his head down to rest against her knees, twisting to face her, concentrating on her expression, lips mouthing the lyrics by heart, whispering them out every so often.
"…'cause you are my medicine…when you're close to me…"
She's running her fingers though his hair, fascinated when the sunrays catch, haloing the soft strands. A yawn escapes him, his eyes closing away from the sun, breathing light. She notes the bags under his eyes are even darker than usual, tracing them with her fingers. He sighed again, her touch drifting to his jaw when he holds them in his own, hunching her in their position. A serene quirk of his lips lift his expression as he feels her hair tickling his face, eyes blinking open to find solace in her presence. He brings a hand to his lips, kissing the palm, and drapes it over his heart, letting her feel the slow beat.
"I thought abou' you…Me 'n Russ both. We 'ere so scared when we couldn' find you. Murdoc insisted you 'ere fine, you 'ad to be 'cause you 'ere our Noodle, but…you never came back, you went missing for real by then 'idn't you? I couldn' 'tand it, 'finking you were dead, so I left. Funny 'ough, wha' I was doing, getting' a law degree; Muds dun' believe me, but I did. Can't find teh certificate 'ough, I 'fink I los' it."
"I'm sorry for not telling you."
"Nah, it's alrigh' now; dun' even botha'. You jus' 'eeded some air, yeah?"
They stood side by side, leaning against the wall, the window cracked open, letting in a draft. His eyes wide and haunted, he looked at her like she were a ghost.
"I 'ated it ther', on the i'land. Always locked up, forcing me to sing. Murdoc would beat me, not tha' tha's new, but then he would set tha' thin' on me and tha' 'eally…Noodle, love, tha' robot…sometimes she would seek me ou', withou' Muds' orders 'n jus' watch me li' I was a bug. She would force me to loo' at teh whale, would grab my 'ead 'n press it agains' the window, her fingers would 'old my eyeballs open. She never let me sleep 'n sometimes when I got ill she would jus' watch me sick myself. She was always 'ouching my neck, when she li' to 'urt me; she li' stranglin' me until I was purple. She would laugh. She sounded jus' li' you tha' sometimes I thought it was you. I had thought tha' she was you 'n tha' you li' it when you hurt me. I 'fink she wanted me to 'fink she was you which was strange 'cause you'd never hurt me 'n she did."
2D stood up, stretching, bones popping, he tapped at their window, letting it rattle, "I 'fink I was starting to believe her, too, at the end, but then Russ came 'n you appeared all grown up 'n I knew righ' then."
He patted head, looking pleased, and crept away for her to ponder.
He's pressing at his keyboard, playing the keys and she watches, fascinated at the way his hands fly across easily. She plucked one off the keys, cradling the limb in her lap, admiring the grooves on his palm. She brushed over his knuckles absently as he continued to play single-handedly before jumping in with her free one, laughing as they hit the notes to a made up melody.
She liked listening to him play.
She liked playing with him.
She liked the feel of her hand holding his.
At first they let her have him, left her alone when she sees him. And she feels at peace, in his company, talking about whatever comes to mind.
She likes it.
Likes him.
But he shows her the photo and everything falls apart.
She's never seen the eyes, just their ominous forms, hidden and blurred; hasn't remembered since she escaped, refusing to let them surface. Aberrations trapped in Hell, volatile monstrosities; limbs and protrusions lodged to their bodies like growths and mouths sharp, gnarly, snaking tongues, their eyes numerous and dilated, hungry.
They followed her, circling at her steps, tossing objects to injure her, inching with daggers and claws to her flesh only to pull away at the last second.
Relentlessly following her, stalking every move, disallowing sleep or time to think. They would not touch her until she was deemed ready, waiting, reveling on hunched shoulders and nervous ticks.
Electric eyes watched prey, craving, waiting for her to succumb.
She's chocking when she wakes, delirious and fearful, sweat rolling down in waves, fists curled, nails digging, cutting into her palms and she can't stop quavering, tremors racking, unable to breathe.
She's looking at herself, the mirror fogging from the steaming showerhead, hands tracing at her throat, fingers printed, angry bruises painting her windpipe.
A tear slips, sinking into her invisible scar, the marks vanishing in its wake.
They're laughing at her, taunts and insults, jabbing at her in all hours. Slithering in her ears, pointing in the corners, in her dreams they attack her; they threaten her with him. His mangled body in their hands, his eyes gouged and his throat ripped out and they're dancing, drenched in his blood, covering in what was left of his hair.
If they can't have her, they'll take him, they promise.
So she avoids him.
And then he's safe.
She looks at the snack he bought her, the decorative petit fours sitting innocently in the front of the refrigerator, boxed and ignored. They've been there for about half a week now and she's drunk and hungry and she knows he bought them for her and she likes them so much.
Noodle chugs the rest of her beer, crushing the can and tossed it behind her, hitting her growing pile. She opens the box clumsily, smashing one of the cakes in the process when she sits at the table. She hiccups and takes bite out of one, her mouth trembling, the cake was stale now. Stale but sweet and feels tears beginning to form until she chokes them back with another bite, cracking open yet another can, sipping at the foam.
In the flickering light, she can feel Russel watching her from his spot by the entrance, visible concern washing over him, but she smiles, raising her can at him in mock toast, the rest of the cake gone like everything else.
She wants to talk to him.
But she can't.
Because she's pushed him away.
And now he's gone.
And they weren't them anymore.
"The ones with no will tasted best."