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As you and Murdoc finally stumble through the door after a long day of interviews, you don’t think it’s possible to be any more tired than you are in this exact moment. Your limbs ache with a soreness that can only come from sitting in shitty wooden chairs all day, your face is sore from all the fake smiling you’ve had to do, and a strange sadness nags at the back of your mind, unidentifiable but all-too-present regardless. It’s dark outside, far later than you both wanted to get home, but there’s enough moonlight coming through the window for you to exchange a weary glance as Murdoc locks the door behind you.
You kick your shoes off to the side, silently hoping you won’t trip over them later, and almost fall over as your sore feet touch the ground again. Murdoc grabs your arm to steady you, giving you a lopsided grin as you tumble into him. His other hand instinctively moves to your hip, and the bottle of rum he’s clutching bumps against your thigh. “That eager to be all over me, love?”
You roll your eyes and step back as his hand slides down your arm. “Don’t be gross, Muds.” He raises an eyebrow and stares at you for a moment. A grin makes its way across your face and you quickly raise one shoulder. “Worth a shot.”
“Ever the optimist, eh, love?” He wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls you back toward him, leaving a quick kiss on the corner of your mouth that you don’t quite get a chance to lean into. He moves to set the bottle down on the living room table, shrugging off his jacket and slinging it over the back of the couch. You follow behind him, falling onto the couch with a less-than-graceful plop. The sadness from before tugs at you suddenly, and you fold your knees up to your chest, trying to will it away.
Murdoc fumbles for a remote from the table and turns the TV on. The darker part of the room is suddenly bathed in bright pink light as text flashes across the screen. He lowers the volume until the infomercial becomes nothing more than a dull murmur in the background and sets the remote back on the table with a clatter. You stare at the TV blankly and hope you just look disinterested as Murdoc takes another swig from the bottle.
“You want some?” You pull your gaze from the TV to see him holding the bottle ever so slightly out to you.
“No, thanks.”
He stares at you for a moment but says nothing as he takes another long drink, his eyes closed as he tips the bottle almost completely upside-down in an effort to be showy. When he opens his eyes again, he glares at the TV and pokes at the remote to turn down the brightness. “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to use this shitty pink? ‘Specially at three in the fucking morning?”
You make a low sound of agreement in the back of your throat and push yourself further up on the couch. Your feet slip off the front of the seat, and there’s a dull thump as they hit the floor.
“Hey. You alright?”
You briefly consider lying, sure that this will pass soon enough on its own, but Murdoc is looking at you with that strange intensity he gets in his eyes from time to time, a focus reserved for only you and his bass, and the lie dies on your tongue before you can even figure out what to say. You sigh and focus your eyes on a spot just past his shoulder.
“Not really.” He stares at you for another minute, waiting for you to elaborate. He waves his arms, and there’s a clink as the bottle hits the edge of the table.
“Well, go on then. Tell me your stupid problems. Let Mudsy sooth your soul.”
“Wow, don’t sound so worried, ‘Mudsy’. You’ll hurt yourself caring that much.”
He clicks his tongue and whirls around to fully face you, alcohol sloshing in the bottle as he accidentally bops you on the shoulder with it. “I’ll have you know I’m very worried about you, thank you very much. For example, I’m worried you haven’t had nearly enough booze to have an excuse to be this sad.”
A dry chuckle forces its way out of your throat, and he hits you in the shoulder with the bottle again, a bit softer this time. You pull it from his hand, almost hitting yourself in the face as you anticipate it being much heavier than it is.
“This was a full bottle when we got it, right?”
“Yeah, I drank it all. That’s the point.”
“The point is that you’re a drunk?”
“No! The point is- you know what, never mind, give me the damn thing.” He snatches the bottle back from you and downs the rest of its contents in one go, dropping the bottle on the ground when he’s done. He sits next to you on the couch and lets an arm fall behind your shoulders, catching the heels of his shoes on the edge of the table as he attempts to push them off. “The problems are stupid because problems are stupid, not because they’re stupid problems.” He shakes his foot and a shoe goes flying across the room, almost taking out a lamp as it crashes into the wall.
“Whoops.” He starts on the other shoe, sock sliding on the smooth leather as he fights to get it off without moving from his spot. “Besides, you know I’m no good at this sort of stuff. My talents lie elsewhere, as I’m sure you’re well aware.” He looks over at you and smirks, tongue falling out one side of his mouth as he waggles his eyebrows at you. His toe finally catches the heel of his shoe as his foot slips off the table. The shoe spirals off his foot, flying into the air and smacking into his outstretched leg on its way back to the floor. He winces and almost bites his tongue, and you can’t help but make a strangled choking sound as you do your best to keep from laughing at him.
“Well, clearly ‘taking off shoes like a normal human being’ isn’t one of those talents.” He glares at you and kicks the shoe. It slides pitifully underneath the table.
“Maybe I just wanted to make you laugh.”
“Oh, sure. Of course that’s what just happened. We’ll go with that.”
The hand along the top of the couch behind you suddenly grabs your shoulder and pulls you toward him. You let out a startled yelp as you collide with Murdoc’s chest, and he laughs at you even as you try to shove him away.
“Don’t scare me like that!”
“Oh, come on, darling. Don’t be like that. Just a bit of harmless fun.” His voice drops in an attempt to sooth you, and his hand slides down to rest on your hip, guiding you to sit on his lap. You scoff but follow his lead anyway, one leg moving across his lap so you can comfortably straddle him. You sit back on your heels right as he moves forward to kiss you, and he frowns a little. You lean forward to kiss his forehead as you scoot closer to him.
“Sorry. Accident. I’m still mad, though.” He chuckles and his gaze flicks back to your lips.
“Fair enough.” He moves toward you again and you lean forward to meet him, eyes sliding closed as you sigh into the kiss. Your hands come up to rest on his shoulders, and you gently push him away when you feel him start to toy with the hem of your shirt. “Hey. Murdoc.”
“I know, I know, ‘don’t get any ideas’. Just occupying my hands.” He’s smirking at you - never a good sign, but the rest of his body is relaxed, and you see no signs that he’s about to jump your bones. Your eyebrows raise a little.
“…Oh.”
“Here, come here.” He pats the space beside him, and you slide off his lap to sit next to him. He reaches to pull your thighs across his legs, and your feet come to rest where you were originally sitting on the other side of him. Your arms naturally move up to wrap around his neck, and his hand settles on the small of your back. “How’s that, love?”
You scoot a little closer to him, your legs straightening out toward the front of the couch so you can rest your head on his chest. You hum and close your eyes for a moment, arms relaxing and falling toward his waist. “Good.”
“Good.” He kisses the top of your head and moves his hand up and down your spine once before gently pressing you closer to him.
“What do you say we sleep this off, sweetheart? And if you’re still sad in the morning, I’ll let you punch 2D for me.”
“I’m not gonna punch 2D.”
“No? It always cheers me up.”
“No, I’m not. And neither are you.”
“Ugh. Spoilsport.” He pokes your arm, his long nail pressing painfully into your bicep.
“Ow!” You flick him in the side. He jerks slightly and swats your hand away. “You’re so awful.”
“You’re the one that decided to date me, love.”
“…Yeah. How about you just make me breakfast instead?”
“Does a cocktail count as breakfast?”
“No!”
“Hm, no can do, then.”
“…Seriously?”
“Nah. I’ll get you breakfast.”
“You better.” He laughs and presses his lips against your hair, not quite a kiss. Your eyes slide closed as you shift again and press your nose into his neck. You slide your hand up his chest, and you feel around until your fingers hit metal. As you start to fidget with his necklace, you feel a puff of breath against the top of your head that you can only assume is him laughing at you. “Hey, asshole.”
He hums in acknowledgment, and you feel his hand start to drift down your back as his arm relaxes.
“Love you.” He hums again and you feel yourself start to drift off, the white noise of the infomercial and the slow rising and falling of his chest lulling you to sleep.
“…Yeah. You too.”