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“Alright, man. I’m bringing you to bed.” Russel took Murdoc firmly by the shoulders and pulled him out of the pub.
Murdoc didn’t put up a fight.
Cold air hit them as soon as they were out the door, and their breath started fogging. The city was alive, even now, past midnight, cars zipping past and neon signs outside clubs blinking. The smell of winter air and exhaust and cigarette smoke was overpowering.
By the light of a streetlamp, Russel could see blood dripping from Murdoc’s nose in a steady stream, more blood glistening on his lip, on his cheek. At first, he’d thought the constant pub fights Murdoc got into were just the natural result of his personality. Act like he acted long enough around a bunch of hammered, aggro men and you’d inevitably get clocked. But it kept happening, and kept happening, and by now, Russel knew it was intentional.
He held Murdoc up and still with one arm, and tried to flag down a cab with the other. “I told you to bring a jacket,” he said, still focused on the road.
Murdoc very clumsily tried to push Russel’s arm off him. “I don’t need a jacket,” he slurred. “I’m- mm-” He dug his nails into Russel’s hand.
“Shit-” Russel jerked his arm back to himself instinctively. “What the fuck?"
“I’m not going back to Kong,” Murdoc informed him, eyes glassed over. “M- I’m- I’m- m’staying, I’m staying here-” He took a step back towards the pub and lurched sideways, grabbing helplessly for the lamppost, which stood several metres away.
Russel caught him and dragged him back over to the curb. “No way you’re staying here. If you go back in there those guys will kill you. Shithead.”
“No,” Murdoc hissed. “No, no, I can’t- they can’t- I can’t die, I’m-”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a piece of work. I get it.” Russel was tired. He didn’t want to put up with this, didn’t have to. But it was sort of what he’d been saddled with, he was figuring out. If he didn’t tuck Noodle in for bed and make sure Stu wasn’t overdosing on something and pull Murdoc away from his pub fights, no one would. He was alright with it, too.
It fulfilled something deep in him, an itch, maybe; the part of him that screamed at him whenever he caught sight of himself in a mirror and sometimes even when he didn’t that if he had done more he could’ve saved his friends that day. He did all this shit to take care of the band, yeah, but even more so he did it to satiate that itch. Survivor’s guilt. Whatever it was.
He pulled Murdoc a little closer and tried to stand him up straight.
Murdoc’s head dropped onto his shoulder.
He knew blood was sinking into his jacket, staining it. He pushed Murdoc’s head up. “Careful, you’re getting that stuff everywhere.”
Murdoc brought a hand slowly up to his face, mapped it out up there. He lowered his hand, stared down at his fingers, wet with blood, and then licked them.
“Fucking nasty, man.” Russel looked away. “Come on, stop.”
Murdoc laughed.
Finally, a cab pulled over.
Russel herded Murdoc into it, and then got in himself.
It was tight in there, cramped, and it smelled of cigs in a stifling, concentrated way. The heating was on much too high.
Russel told the cabbie the address, and hoped the poor guy wouldn’t get too weirded out of the graveyard to bring them all the way up to the studio.
Murdoc had leaned himself against the window and was regarding Russel out the side of his eye. “What do you want?” he asked, each word bleeding into the next. “What’d’you want, Russy?”
“I wanna get home and go to bed,” Russel answered, flat. If he paid enough attention to the way Murdoc was looking at him he’d start to pity him, and he didn’t really want to. He reached over and clicked Murdoc’s seat belt in.
Murdoc traced the seat belt with a hand, up and down his chest, scratching his nail over the material.
But, yeah, pity was sort of setting in. Russel didn’t know what drove Murdoc to get this drunk - ‘cause really, god damn, he must be insanely drunk, drunk out of his brains - and he never wanted to know, either. Must’ve been bad, though. Whatever. He shook it off.
The cabbie was nice enough - and brave enough - to bring them all the way up the hill to Kong.
Russel tipped him higher than he should’ve, and helped Murdoc out, across the driveway, into the studio car park, and over to his winne. He eyed it with distaste. He fucking hated it; he hated how it looked, he hated how Murdoc wouldn’t just leave it and move into one of the many rooms in the actual studio, he hated how it smelled like the sheets hadn’t been washed in a year.
“I’m gonna be right back,” he announced, setting Murdoc down on the steps up to the van’s door. “Gotta get some peroxide and tissues and shit.”
“Right,” Murdoc replied, really drawing out that ‘r’ and leaning back against the winne’s door.
Russel went up into the studio, moving as quietly as he could. He didn’t know why, but little Noodle was the lightest sleeper he’d ever encountered. It was sort of wack. When he was her age, it would take a bomb going off next door to wake him up. He snuck past her room and to the bathroom, flicking on the light.
Damn, they really had to clean in here. He fumbled in the cabinets, pulling together a slapdash first aid kit and trying to ignore the smell. He balanced hydrogen peroxide, a washcloth, and a box of band-aids in one arm, and made his way back out to the van.
Murdoc was gone, but the door was open.
Russel sighed, and climbed the steps.
The winne was dark and cold and reeked of sex, and Murdoc was sat on his bed, fumbling with the cap of a whisky bottle.
“Come on,” Russel snapped, and set his things down on the van’s countertop. He pulled the whisky away from Murdoc. “You can go five fucking minutes without a drink.”
Murdoc shrugged.
Russel nudged him over and then sat next to him. He grabbed the things he needed, tempted to just leave it here and let Murdoc figure it out himself. He wouldn’t do that, though. He’d be missing out on a chance to atone. He held the cloth over the open mouth of the peroxide bottle and inverted it, letting the stuff soak in. Then he set it back down on the counter and grabbed the back of Murdoc’s neck so he couldn’t squirm away.
He considered giving a warning about the peroxide stinging, but it wasn’t worth it. Murdoc was too drunk to pick up on it anyway. He held the cloth to the cut on Murdoc’s eyebrow, wiping away blood that had smudged around it.
Murdoc made a pitiful sound, and then said, “Ow, Russ, ow- it’s- it’s- it hurts-”
“Yeah, no shit.” Russel cleaned the blood under Murdoc’s nose.
Murdoc coughed. “What’s’at smell? Are you trying to-”
“It’s peroxide,” he interrupted, before Murdoc could go off on some paranoid tangent or another. He wiped the cloth on Murdoc’s bottom lip, wanting to clean the cut there without getting peroxide in his mouth.
When he’d done what he could, he reached back and grabbed a band-aid, peeling the wrapper off. He lifted Murdoc’s hair from his forehead and stuck it over the cut. He did the same for the cut on his cheekbone.
He realized, then, how quiet it was in the van. Murdoc wasn’t even complaining anymore. He started to get why Murdoc liked it out here. Dark, silent. Away from everything else.
He let Murdoc go. “You’re all set, Muds. I’m taking the bottle with me, though. Last thing you need is more booze in you.”
Murdoc grabbed onto his shirt. “Wait, you can-” He laughed just for a second and then leaned over and planted a kiss on Russel’s lips.
“No,” Russel said sharply, pushing him back. Yeah, no, no, not in a million billion fucking years and especially not when Murdoc was this drunk. It didn’t bother him too much; yeah, it had taken him by surprise, and it was disgusting, but it was also pretty standard Murdoc fare. He’d just been lucky enough not to be on the receiving end of it until tonight.
“But I was just…” Murdoc trailed off, frowning. “You wanted- I was just doing what you wanted-”
“No,” Russel repeated. “You’re smashed out of your fucking mind, man. I’m gonna go.”
“But-”
“I don’t want to kiss you.” Russel said it firmly. “That’s- uh, that’s not something you should be doing this drunk anyway.”
“But you want to fuck me,” Murdoc stated, and with such confidence. “It’s alright, Russ, I’ll let you-”
Russel stood up, out of reach. “I don’t,” he said, trying to be gentle but growing more uncomfortable by the second. “That’s not happening. I get that you’re horny, or whatever, but- no. Take care of it yourself, or-” Ugh. It was gross. “I’m leaving. Goodnight, Murdoc.”
“Why’d you do that then?” Murdoc half-yelled after him.
“Do what? I didn’t do anything-”
“You did-” Murdoc gestured to his face. “You brought me home all nice and fixed me up-”
“Yeah, because I was just being decent,” Russel snapped.
“Right, so you want me to- want me to owe you something, so-”
“No, that’s not it.” Russel sighed. This had gone from irritating to sad too quickly.
“M’paying you back, come on.” Murdoc stared at him, waiting.
Russel didn’t want to think about what it was like in Murdoc’s head; a constant tally keeping track of who did nice things and forcing yourself to come onto them to try and repay them. Just the idea made his skin crawl. He sat back down tentatively. “We’re not- uh, we’re not having sex. You hear me?”
Murdoc glared at him.
“If I do something for you, it’s ‘cause I want to help you out, not ‘cause I want to bang you,” Russel told him. “I know it’s hard to believe anyone would ever want to give you a hand. But- just know it’s not ‘cause you’re a shining citizen or nothing. You and me both know you don’t deserve it. It’s my own thing in my own head. So I gotta help you.”
“You know, I don’t want you to shag me. You’d probably crush me if you got on top.” Murdoc snorted. “Yeah, s’not like I want you.”
“I know you don’t,” Russel replied. Man, he was tired. This was tiring him out. “And you don’t have to get all defensive. It’s okay.”
“Yeah? You think?” Murdoc broke out into laughter, and not his put-on, suggestive laugh. Real laughter, just for a second, and then he stopped and said, “It’s not. The state of the bloody world- nothing’s okay.”
“We’re okay,” Russel countered, although, looking at them, they really fucking weren’t, and it was a joke to even say they were.
Murdoc laughed some more, and tipped his head onto Russel’s shoulder. “Why’re you here, Russ?”
“I told you, it’s my own- thing. That I gotta work through.”
“Yeah, but- what- what is it?”
Russel looked over at him, and judged him too fucked up to remember any of this in the morning. “I don’t know, even. It’s like, something- when all my friends got killed, and I wasn’t-” He couldn’t finish. He really didn’t want to dredge up memories and have some kind of breakdown. “Yeah. I don’t know. Like I said. It’s, uh, the mind is a tricky beast, man.” He tapped the side of his head.
“You’ve got that right, mate. Sure is.” Murdoc pressed a few fingers here and there on his face, frowning. “Those cunts got me pretty good.”
Russel nodded. “Yeah, they did.” Exhaustion was closing in on him, the sort that sleeping wouldn’t fix but being alone might. He had too much running around in his head. “I’m gonna go, Muds.”
“I can- wait, I can get you a fag-” Murdoc started looking around, moving the blanket back and forth like there was a cigarette carton somewhere between its folds.
And, to be fair, maybe there was. He knew Murdoc just didn’t want to be alone. He got up. “No thanks. I’m tuckered out.”
“Tuckered-” Murdoc gave a messy laugh, and put on some sort of attempt at a Julie Andrews-aligned voice to add, “You say the strangest things.” But he seemed to get that Russel wasn’t going to stay, and he held up a hand to wave. “G’night, Russ.”
“Night.” Russel carefully eased himself out of the van, down the set of steps. He closed the door behind him. He was cold, and unsettled in a deep place. There were some people he didn’t want insight into, some people he didn’t need humanized in his eyes. Murdoc being number one on that list.
He tried to bury it and shake it off all the way inside and up to his room, but he couldn’t. He came to the conclusion, as he finally, finally reached his bed, that maybe he’d have to be nicer. Yeah. A little bit of kindness, even undeserved kindness, could go a long way.
He tried to shut his thoughts down, tried to go to sleep.