Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was nice of the stray cats in the neighborhood to join them for dinner. They dart back and forth from one misty corner of the room to the other, and Noodle can’t help but laugh. Kyoko laughs too, kneeling at the table beside Noodle, a grin spread across her moon-like face. Kyoko points as the Calico they’ve dubbed Turtle runs right through the paper door, leaving a Turtle-shaped hole in one of the squares.

“He’s ruined the door again!” Kyoko announces to the rest of the family– her mother, father, and little brother, Rikki, kneeling around the table with them.

“Don’t worry, it’s only a Turtle-shaped hole, nothing else can get in,” her mother says, and that logic seems sound to Noodle.

“What are we having?” Rikki asks, his eyes still watching the open wound in the paper door.

“Ocean bacon,” their father says, and suddenly a sickness rises from Noodle’s stomach and up her back. She tries to keep her gaze straight down at the red tablecloth, but the color is making her sicker. Against her wishes, she looks to her left.

The man beside her does not have the moon-like face Kyoko shares with her dad, nor his fish-eye glasses and poker-straight hair. He’s been replaced by a gaunt, balding man in a lab coat, his eyes obscured by tiny, round glasses. She knows who he is, and knows what will come.

“There’s nothing you can do. I’m risking everything to spare you,” he says. “It’s time for you to go.”

“It hasn’t happened yet, has it?” Noodle asks.

“They’re already gone. You have to go now.”

Mr. Kyuzo points a gloved hand at the hole in the door, a sickly crimson light leaking through it.

Noodle doesn’t even have the choice to get to her feet– she has somehow teleported before the door, her fingers wrapped around the handle. Silhouetted hands begin to press themselves against the paper, distant cries growing louder as more and more palms join the mass.

“Why me?” Noodle asks. “Why only me?”

“Someone will be waiting for you.”

“Who?”

Mr. Kyuzo does not answer, but he’s appeared beside her, and he wraps his hand around hers on the door handle, throwing it open and pushing her through. Noodle yelps as the large, wooden crate she falls into topples over and hits the floor like a sonic boom.

The red light is gone. It is all dark. She tries to sit up, but hits her head on the top of the crate.

“Kyoko!” Noodle calls out. She bangs her fist on the side of the crate. “I’ll come back sometime! I promise!”

Noodle squints as a bright light begins to shine through three holes at the top of the crate. She squints at the light, holding her forearm in front of her face to block it out. It grows brighter, brighter…

Noodle opens her eyes, the sun beaming through her curtains. She is not in the crate. She is not at her host family’s house in Japan. She is in her room at Kong Studios, her stuffed animals strewn across her floor and her blanket tangled around her legs. It is another crude February day, later than she’d like it to be, and they have to work on the album today.

“What time is it?” Russel asks, barely audible, as he squints up at Noodle standing over his bed. 

“Two. I know I wanted to get started sooner, but I overslept.”

“Hm,” Russel says, rubbing his face with his hand. “I wish I could say the same.”

“Sorry,” Noodle says, because it’s all she can offer. She can’t help that Russel’s grief keeps him awake no matter how long he lays in bed. 

“Think you can record today?” Noodle asks, trying not to sound too urgent, as if it’s not that big of a deal that he didn’t even leave his room yesterday.

“Yeah, yeah I think so,” Russel says.

“Can you meet me in the studio in an hour?” Noodle asks.

“I’ll try,” he says, and lifts his head slightly to look behind her. “Noodle, are you the only one here?”

A chill runs up Noodle’s spine as she turns to see what he could possibly be looking at among the shadows of his pitch-black room. Nothing.

“It’s just me,” Noodle says.

Russel nods. “Okay. Just needed to be sure. I’ve been seeing things.”

“Are… are you okay?”

“Nothing you can do.” Russel closes his eyes for a moment. “You can go. I’ll get up. Come back if I’m not out by two-fifty, okay?”

“Okay,” Noodle says, and softly steps over the clutter on his floor to leave.

“Noodle, baby,” Russel says hoarsely, and she turns back to face him.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“I haven’t made you breakfast at all since I’ve been back.”

“It’s okay,” Noodle says. “I can cook for myself.”

“It’s not the point,” Russel sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“ Two-Cheeeee ,” Noodle calls between knocks on 2D’s door. No answer. She knocks harder— his sleeping pills tend to take him out like he’s lost a boxing round. After another non-response, she finally tries the handle— unlocked— and throws the door open.

2D shoots upright in his bed upon her aggressive entrance, his black eyes wide and blue hair sticking out in all directions. Another shape in bed beside him also stirs, and sits up groggily.

“What’s wrong?” The woman beside him mumbles, her dark eye makeup smeared across her face.

“Would it kill ya to knock?” 2D yelps as Noodle immediately turns beet red.

“I did! Sorry!” She stammers, quickly closing the door so it’s just cracked enough to talk through. “It’s late, we gotta record today!”

“Get out!”

Noodle is way ahead of him, throwing the door shut. Her embarrassment quickly drains away, her face still red, but now with rage. She doesn’t know what switch flipped in his brain while he was gone, but his new attitude he’s wearing like a stupid new hat has overstayed its welcome. In the two weeks he’s been back, it seems he’s convinced himself he’s witty, and his propensity for playing with butterfly knives and wearing sunglasses indoors has increased ten-fold. His spats with Murdoc are nothing new, but now they’ve taken on a new and very irritating form: pointless . 

What’s most irritating is his sudden decision that he’s too cool for a lot of things: too cool for vinyl toys, too cool to laugh at jokes, too cool for movie nights, and too cool for hugs, good mornings , matching bracelets, and being on time.

“Be in the studio at three!” Noodle yells through the door.

“ Fine! Go away! ”

Dickhead .

Noodle halts at the door of the Winnebago with her knuckles primed to knock, but unable to do so, knowing she’s about to awaken the Beast. She debates whether or not they can record without him, somehow worm his bass lines into the song later. No, she’s not going to cut corners on her album. It’s her album, after all. Besides, he’s may be a pain in the ass about recording, but he’d be an even bigger asshole about being left out. She sighs, readies herself for the fallout, and knocks on the door.

No answer.

She knocks again.

Nothing.

Enough of this . Noodle holds her breath and barges in, trying not to get caught up in the unbearable state of the camper. She kicks aside dirty laundry and empty bottles as she makes her way over to his bed at the rear. He’s curled up in the dark corner, his back to her, blanket thankfully pulled up to his chest, with his arm tucked under his head and bent to cover his eyes. Noodle shudders— how does he sleep out here with no heat? It’s practically sub-arctic, no one should be able to survive these conditions, especially not a cold-blooded creature like him. She reaches out to shake his arm as gingerly as she can, but like a rattlesnake, his hand clamps around her wrist. She gasps in surprise, and he turns his head to glare red at her out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” He growls.

“We have to record today,” Noodle says, and he roughly releases her.

“I’ll get there when I get there,” he says.

“It’s already late! I had to wake up the other two, and I’m not waiting around all day because you guys can’t get your arses up!”

“Then you should’ve woken us up earlier,” Murdoc says, and rolls over again to cue her to leave.

“How about you guys wake yourselves up for once! You’re all grown men!”

“Which means I get to decide when I get up. Now run along.”

“We start at three,” Noodle says, mouth scrunched in annoyance.

“You’ll start when I get there,” Murdoc says.

“Get there at three!”

“I thought I told you to get out.”

Murdoc jabs his thumb in the direction of the door in a Scram! Motion.

Noodle stomps out the door, making sure to rattle the rickety vehicle with each footfall, and slams the screen door behind her with an aggressive Clap!

“ Don’t slam my bloody door! ”

As Noodle’s stomps echo off the concrete walls of the garage, another pair of footsteps draws nearer– a pair of high heels. Noodle looks up through her shaggy bangs to see the young woman from 2D’s bed walking in her direction, her blonde hair in two lopsided ponytails, clutching her jacket and purse precariously in one hand with her flip phone in the other. Noodle locks her gaze straight ahead, still embarassed from her first impression, as their paths inevitably cross. The woman drops her purse as they pass, mutters “shit,” and Noodle wordlessly picks it up for her.

“Thanks,” she says, taking it from her. “Hey,” she adds, with a heavy Essex accent. “Are you like, someone’s kid, or somethin’?”

“Why?” Noodle asks, utterly not in the mood for questions.

“Just curious, ‘cos ‘e said ‘is band would be around, but ‘e never mentioned a littol girl.”

“I’m in the band,” Noodle replies, curtly, and continues her walk back inside, shivering against the wind groaning throughout the garage.

“Rubbish, we’ll start again,” Murdoc says. “Russ, your timing was completely off. Do you need an upper, or something? Coffee enema? I can fetch you a hit of grade-A Mexican coke, if you’d like.”

“Sorry,” Russel says, quietly.

“I actually think we need to slow it down,” Noodle says.

“Sure, if you’re lookin’ to put people to sleep,” Murdoc says.

“I envisioned this song to be slower!”

“Well, envision all you want, I’d like this album to sound good.”

“It’s not your album,” Noodle hisses. “We can do it your way later, if it bothers you so much, but for this take, I want to slow it down.”

“Oh, if you’d be so kind,” Murdoc says, rolling his eyes.

“2D, are you ready?” Noodle asks, turning to him to find him squinting at his flip-phone, typing. “2D?”

2D looks up as if he’s suddenly been pulled back to earth. “Hold on, I gotta text someone back.”

“We’re working !” Noodle says, incredulously.

“Gimme one second, will ya?” 2D says.

“We might be here a while while he tries to remember how to spell,” Murdoc quips, taking a seat on an amp to emphasize his point. “There’s two n’s in cunniligus .”

“Shut up,” 2D says, without looking up from his phone.

“Oh, pardon me!” Murdoc exclaims. “I wouldn’t want to distract you. By all means, take your time.”

“I will, you old tosser.” 2D finally tucks his phone back in his pocket and re-adjusts the angle of the microphone.

“And try to sing on-key this time, will you, love?”

2D scowls at Murdoc. “I don’t need to take directions from an aging goth who couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle!”

Murdoc stands up and lifts his bass strap over his head, setting it aside. “Right, I’m gonna give you one more chance.”

“For what?” 2D snaps.

“Hey, guys, cut it out!” Noodle says.

“I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself, and whatever you say next determines whether or not I take my rings off before I deck you.”

“Murdoc, come on!”

“I’m not scared of you, you fuckin’ twat! And threatenin’ me won’t make your dick any bigger!”

Murdoc takes a swing at 2D, barely missing as 2D ducks, knocking over the microphone as he tries to crawl away.

“ Hey! ” Noodle yells, to no avail, as Murdoc yanks 2D’s leg, pulling him across the floor as he tries to hide under the sound booth, kicking at the air and blubbering apologies.

Noodle turns to Russel, who watches the scene unfold with a dead-eyed stare.

“Can you fucking do something?” Noodle shouts, and Russel finally stands up, knocking his snare drum aside as he grabs Murdoc from under his arms and jerks him away from 2D, hurling him back against the wall, and giving 2D time to scamper to his feet.

With that, he takes his seat behind his drums once more, picking up the upset snare.

The four of them glare at each other in silence, as Murdoc rubs the back of his head with a deep glower in 2D’s direction. Noodle grips her guitar with shaking hands, as 2D stands as far away from Murdoc as he can in the cramped studio, his back against the wall.

“You don’t have to swear at me,” Russel says.

Murdoc picks up his jacket and shrugs it on. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Noodle demands.

“I’m gonna see a man about a horse,” Murdoc says. “What do you think? I’m gonna have a smoke.”

“We barely started!” Noodle says.

“And we won’t be getting anywhere until I have a smoke!” Murdoc says, and slams the door behind him, rattling Russel’s cymbals and making 2D jump.

“ Argh !” Noodle pulls her guitar strap over her head and sets it aside as she storms after him.

“Don’t follow him, let the bastard have his tantrum elsehwere!” 2D says, but it’s too late. Noodle is already out the door and heading for the emergency exit stairs, grabbing one of 2D’s jackets laying around on the floor, and trudges to the roof.

“You’re a jerk !”

The icy wind slams the door behind Noodle as she storms up to Murdoc. He takes a drag from his cigarette, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

“You got me there,” he says, without turning to face her.

“I already wrote the whole album, all I ask you to do is play your stupid instrument!”

Murdoc points his cigarette at her. “Look, kid, I think you’re forgetting whose band this is. You can write all the songs you want, but nothing gets put out without my approval. I’ve been doing this shit longer than you’ve been alive, so I don’t know where you got this idea in your head that you’re the head honcho around here, but I’m the one who taught you everything you know.”

“You didn’t teach me shit ! This is my album!”

Murdoc bends down to her level like he’s addressing a toddler. “I’m not going to let a child tell me what my band’s gonna sound like.”

“If you’re the adult here, why have I been doing everything ? It’s not enough I have to get all of you together to record the music I wrote, but I also have to wake you up, cook for you, do your dishes, and resolve all your problems too?”

“Which is it— do you wanna be treated like a kid, or do you wanna be a grown-up? ‘Cos we can switch places. Either you get to be the baby and be doted on every second of the day and record the lines I tell you to record, or you get to be in charge and pay the bills.”

Noodle’s fists are clenched so tight, her nails are digging craters into her palms. She feels like she could punch him in his stupid, smug face so hard that his nose ends up concave, but she can’t move. She clenches her jaw, trying not to let him see her trembling.

“I didn’t have to come back and let you be part of the album. I could’ve just found any moron with two working hands to play your basslines— it’s not like you’re anything special! The only reason you’re in charge is because you bark orders the loudest, ‘cuz that’s all you’re good for! You don’t want to listen to my ideas because you’re jealous that I can do everything better than you, and I’m fourteen! You can’t stand the idea that I surpassed you musically before I even met you! You tear everyone down because you like to pretend you’re smart, but you’re a fucking idiot! You can’t do anything right and you’re nothing without us!”

Murdoc has a way of pulling faces that make her blood boil— rolling his eyes, grinning smugly, twisting his mouth in annoyance— and the look he’s wearing right now isn’t a new one, however, it’s the first time this particular look has been shot her way, and it’s aimed at her like daggers: contempt. For a moment, he’s silent— a rarity. He either can’t think of what to say, or he knows exactly what he wants to say and is holding it back like it's a venomous animal too dangerous to unleash upon her. She’s hit a nerve, and if she were anyone else, she’d be dead where she’s standing, but she can’t back down now. Only a few years ago, she barely came up to his chest, but now she’s closer to his eye-level. She still has to look up at him, but she glares right back at him, breathing like she’d just fought tooth-and-nail.

Amidst their stare-down, Murdoc finally forces his expression into a patronizing sneer that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right,” he says. “Why don’t we try this again when it’s not your time of the month?”

Noodle lets out a shriek and kicks the wall as hard as she can, and a jagged pain immediately skyrockets through her foot that makes a subsequent cry want to leap from her throat, but she fights it back, instead aiming her rage at Murdoc. “Fuck you !”

“You wanna pound your fists on the ground too? I was gonna give you something to cry about, but it seems you’re doing just fine on your own,” Murdoc says, tossing his cigarette butt down and grinding it with his boot.

“When I was in Japan,” Noodle growls through her teeth, “I got to have a sleepover, with girls my age! I went shopping! My host family— they sat down for dinner together every night! They never yelled at each other! They never hit each other! They never left me alone for hours while they went off drinking! They never expected me to earn their kindness by working myself to the bone for them— they were nice to me because it’s what a family does!”

Murdoc throws his hands up. “What, do you want to just throw the whole album away? Give up on the band so we can go on walks in the park?”

“I just want to be part of a normal family!”

“Then go live with them !”

Noodle, with no words left to possibly convey her rage, throws her fist into his shoulder with all her strength. She manages to throw him off for a second, and he reels back in surprise, holding his shoulder.

“OW! You little—“

He grabs for her arm but swipes dead air as she’s already running for the door, her vision blurry and her whole body on fire. Murdoc starts to give chase, but gives up by the time she reaches the door. Noodle throws it open and turns back, leaning her whole body in his direction as she screams: “ I hope you die !”

“And I hope you live to put up with a rotten kid as spoiled as you!”

The loud clunk of the metal door shuts him out and Noodle stomps down the stairs, a sharp pain shooting up her leg every time her right foot hits the steps. She stops, lets out a shaky breath, and sits down on the stairs, burying her face in her arms. Despite the wind so cold it hurts to breathe it in, Noodle’s whole body is hot with rage, and the last thing she wants is to hear someone approaching the bottom of the stairs like they are right now.

“Are we done for the day, then?” 2D asks.

Noodle throws her hands up in frustration.

“I guess we are! Great work everyone! Go back to whatever it was you were doing before I interrupted you!”

Noodle stands up and pushes past 2D as she half-stomps-half limps somewhere, anywhere else, taking off the jacket she filched from him and throwing it back on the floor among the rest of the mess it came from.

Chapter Text

As Noodle turns the corner in the hallway, she’s hit by a strong, chemical smell that makes her cough, followed by a faint hissing sound. Perhaps a pipe has burst and Kong has finally decided to kill them all. However, stumbling upon the source, she sees 2D spray painting the wall with big, red letters: “MURDOC IS A C…”

Before he can finish his message, Noodle shouts at him: “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

2D looks at her, looks at his graffiti, then back at her. “Issat a trick question?”

Noodle snatches the can from 2D’s hand. “You’re ruining the wall!”

“This place has been a wreck this whole time, what’s it matter?” 2D says.

“I’ve been trying to clean this place up and make it livable again! I know you might not have noticed since it’s kinda hard to do it by myself !”

“It wasn’t livable in the first place. You’re tryina flip a landfill.”

“Yeah, well, I already know Murdoc is a… whatever it is you were gonna write. I don’t need a reminder every time I walk down the hallway.”

“So you have your way of dealin’ with him, and I have mine. Maybe you’d feel better if you tried it.” He tries snatching back the can but she throws it aside, and as it clatters and rolls across the floor, 2D gives her a dirty look. “You used to be fun, you know?”

“ I used to be fun? You’re the one who’s decided he wants to be a huge douchebag! For someone who hates Murdoc so much, you sure are trying your best to copy him!”

2D furrows his brow and crosses his arms like a little kid. “You used to be the only one here who didn’t treat me like I’m stupid, and now you act like you’re smarter than everyone. No one else gets any input on your album cos you know everything. When I wanna experiment, cos that’s what I do, you won’t let me cos you have all these samples and references and stuff you already had planned out. Whatever! Maybe I don’t know the words for things or get the fundamentals and all that, but you don’t gotta roll your eyes when I don’t know everything!”

“If you don’t want me to treat you like you’re stupid, stop acting like it!”

Noodle knows it’s a mistake as soon as it leaves her mouth, but it comes out too fast to stop it. She couldn’t help it, she tells herself. It was easier than trying to articulate how she really feels– and, as sickening as it is– more satisfying. But the split-second satisfaction doesn’t make up for the way 2D’s expression changes. His douchey veneer washes away, revealing the sheepish boy underneath. He looks at her with his wide, black eyes, his anger gone, replaced by something far worse: hurt. He stays quiet, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking away.

“Alright, then,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

As he walks away, Noodle tries to summon something to undo it, but it’s too late. Even if she could find something to say, her anger still courses through her body like wild horses, and she can’t reign it in. Nothing she could say would come out as gentle as she needs it to. What reason could she give him, anyway? I didn’t mean it, I was just too mad at you to think straight ? Is she mad at him? Yes, she is. She’s mad that he won’t grow up, that he acts like he’s too grown up for her, that he blames her for growing up. If she could just get everyone to understand why . Though, she wishes she could understand why. When it all becomes too much, it just possesses her– she doesn’t mean it. It’s nothing new. She’s always had a hair-trigger temper. The only difference is that now she knows more words, and how to use them like a loaded gun.

As she watches 2D disappear down the stairs, she turns around and picks up the can of spray paint. She gives it a quick shake and pulls her shirt collar up over her nose and mouth as she finishes his graffiti:

MURDOC IS A CHINPOKO.

Noodle blinks and it hits her how tired and scratchy her eyes feel. She finally peels her blank stare away from the TV to look at the clock on the DVR: 4:15. No one came by to pry her away for bedtime– hell, why would they, nowadays? She’s old enough to put herself to bed, and would resent it had anyone tried to tell her to do so. And yet, it seems she’s not old enough to know when to finally put herself to bed. Night had crept upon her when she wasn’t looking, with only the light of the TV casting dancing shadows on the walls. The snap back to the present makes her suddenly feel both desolately alone and unnervingly watched, as she pulls her blanket tighter around her shoulders. 

With a place so large and winding like Kong, it’s easy to feel like you’re wandering someplace long abandoned, but with a terrible, lingering sense that something evil has made the black matter its home, and you are invading that home. Having to fight that evil firsthand upon her return to Kong has confirmed that sense that always hid in the back of her mind. Though she and Murdoc have done their best to rid the place of its undead before Russel and 2D’s return, the rot has planted itself within the very foundations of Kong like a lesion. Perhaps houses aren’t always abandoned because they’re haunted– sometimes, they’re haunted because they’ve been abandoned.

Noodle startles at the sound of footsteps– a pair of boots clunking up the stairs. She holds her breath, pleading for them to walk the other way. Then, from another direction, a pair of slow, lumbering footsteps shuffle their way down the hallway, until the two serendipitously meet in the middle. Their voices rumble softly through the walls, and Noodle listens in.

“ When’s the last time anybody got the bloody mail?”

“I dunno, man, I’m sorry. Hasn’t occurred to me.”

“Well, I collected it myself, no-fucking-thanks to you lot. I was finally about to go to bed, but instead I get a lovely fucking surprise to mull over all night.”

“What’s the problem, Muds?”

Noodle turns down the TV slightly, not enough to indicate her presence with a sudden change, but enough to better evesdrop.

“It’s my dad.” There’s a shuffle of papers that indicates the presentation of terrible news. “He’s not doing well and someone has to go and make all the bloody arrangements for when he’s on his way out. And what’s even better– my git brother’s got himself locked up, which means I’ve drawn the short straw by default. I needed this kind of thing like I needed a fucking hole in my head. ”

There’s a pause, as Russel tries to find what to say.

“Sorry to hear that, man. Do what you gotta do.”

The two pairs of footsteps start to make their way over to the den where Noodle resides, and she quickly lies down and pretends she’s been asleep the whole time.

“So what are you gonna do?” Russel asks.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” Murdoc says, and pauses to look at the time. “Afternoon, rather. Get my shit together and drive back to Stoke for the week. Hopefully I can get it all out of the way as soon as possible.”

They approach the couch to sit but notice Noodle already lying there. She maintains her facade, breathing slowly with her hands tucked neatly under her cheek– the image of restfulness. They pause, considering whether or not to move her, but instead Murdoc sits on the arm of the couch and they lower their voices. Her performance was convincing.

“You need anyone to come with you?” Russel asks.

“Christ, no, I’m already gonna have to deal with my dad, I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else. First time 2D asks me ‘ aw we dare yet ’ I’m gonna make him tuck-and-roll.”

“I moreso meant myself,” Russel says.

“Russ, with all due respect, you’re seeing demons– you’re not in the fucking state to help me. Second of all, the first time you make a suggestion about my driving, I’d push you out the car too,” Murdoc says. “Besides, you want to leave 2D alone to watch Noodle for a week? Worked out swimmingly last time, didn’t it?”

“She’s old enough to take care of herself,” Russel says.

“Yeah, she can use the oven and entertain herself just fine, until she finds 2D pilled out on the bathroom floor. What then?”

Russel pauses. “You’re right.”

“‘Course I’m right.”

“What about her?”

“What about her?”

Noodle tries to keep her breathing steady, despite her heartbeat pounding in her ears like a beast stalking around inside her brain.

“I’m fine on my own,” Murdoc says, curtly, the phrase a barricade against other things he’s leaving unsaid.

“I’m sure you are, but it’s hard dealing with something like this alone. I know it’s not the same thing, but I know too well how hard it is to lose someone,” Russel says, the last part even quieter than he’s already speaking.

“I know,” Murdoc replies, surprisingly gently. “There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s gonna be a headache for me, but I just gotta do it.” He quickly shakes off any softness that possessed his demeanor. “Gonna be an absolute pain in the arse having to deal with my dad again after twenty years– sure he’s got a lot of verbal abuse to catch up on– but I don’t need anyone else getting in the way.” The floor whimpers a small creak as he stands up again. “Can you turn the fucking telly off? If I hear another bloody commercial jingle it’s gonna push me over the edge.”

Russel reaches over Noodle and picks up the remote, filling the room with silence, the flickering light though her eyelids vanishing.

“Thanks. ‘S been yappin’ at me the whole time and I’ve already got enough doing my nut in without having to hear whatever crap she was watching.”

Noodle can sense him throwing a glance at her.

“I think she’s got it in her head that she runs the place. We let her get away with everything and now she’s been tryin’ to tell me what-for,” Murdoc mutters, and Russel shushes him.

“Not when she’s right here, Muds. Let’s continue this somewhere else before we wake her up.”

“Right,” Murdoc says, his footsteps starting to take their leave, but Russel lingers by Noodle’s side.

“Should we put her to bed?” he asks.

“Don’t bother, she’s already asleep. She probably wouldn’t want you to tuck her in like a little kid, anyway.”

You don’t know what I want, dickhead.

Russel looms over Noodle as Murdoc taps his foot impatiently by the stairs. Finally, Russel’s warm, calloused hand gently brushes her forehead before he joins Murdoc, creaking back up the stairs.

“ I know you’re going through it, Muds, but try not to fight with her.”

“Tell that to her. You remember the way she talked to you and Dee earlier?”

“I know, but she’s probably got a lot going on that we don’t know about. We haven’t seen her for a year. If I knew how to get through to her, I would.”

Without the noise of the TV, their words are much clearer, and all the more painful for it.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” Russel says.

“Just hold down the fort while I’m gone, try not to let it become an absolute shitshow,” Murdoc replies. “It’s not losing him that’s the hard part, it’s being around him while he can still bark at me,” Murdoc says, his voice growing distant. “Christ, it’s gonna be a long week.”

Chapter Text

Noodle lingers by the bathroom doorway as Murdoc drags the razor along his jaw, creating a new path in the white shaving cream where his stubble once was. She wrings her hands behind her back as she tries to figure out how to approach him. She doesn’t want him to think she forgives him, because she doesn’t, but she can’t help but worry. Despite how little she really knows about Murdoc’s feelings about his dad– his feelings about anything, for that matter– it still sounds like a really shitty situation. If there’s anything she does know from her initial return to Kong, it’s that ‘alone’ might be one of the worst things you can be.

“What do you want?” Murdoc asks, and Noodle isn’t sure if he meant for it to sound as cold as it does. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

“Nothing,” Noodle says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She quickly stops, however, as a sharp pain shoots up her leg, her toe still hurting from kicking the wall yesterday. She winces and bites her tongue, trying not to let on that anything is wrong. Murdoc doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” she says.

“Yeah, well, what are you gonna do?” Murdoc says, not questioning where she’d heard the news in the first place.

“Maybe I could go with you,” Noodle suggests, still not sure what possesses her to want to do such a thing, but what’s the alternative? Sitting around this spirit box of a house trying to find ways to entertain herself while 2D and Russel continue to make themselves scarce? Not to mention the lingering dread of waiting to see what mood Murdoc will be in upon his return, because he certainly won’t be coming back feeling fresh as a daisy and gung-ho to cooperate. Not to mention, Murdoc isn’t known for holding himself responsible when left unsupervised. What would he do to get himself in trouble on an occasion like this? She’s not sure, but someone ought to bear witness. Still, Noodle knows it’s a stupid suggestion and braces herself for his snide response.

“No,” he says, flatly.

“It’s not like you’d have to worry about me, I can take care of myself. It’d be better than being alone.”

“I’m much better off going alone, thank you. You’ll have Russel and 2D to yourself for the week without me bothering you.” Murdoc runs the razor underneath the tap and raps it against the inside of the sink before continuing his shave without sparing her a glance. “Just like you want,” he adds.

The self-pity is as disingenuous as anything else he propagates, and it makes her blood grow hot. What’s the point? Just one last dig to make her feel like shit before he goes on his merry way?

“Fine then,” Noodle says. “God forbid anyone tries to extend a hand to you.”

“Thanks for your pity, but I’m fine,” he says. He bends down to splash his face and wash off the last of the shaving cream, and Noodle turns and stomps away while his eyes are shut, so when he dries his face and opens them again, she will have disappeared like a phantom.

This has been a regretful decision, but it’s too late to turn back now. Quite literally. It’s been long enough that she’s going to be in deep shit when she’s discovered, and the shit will only get deeper as time passes.

Though Russel and 2D have been leaving her to her own devices as of late, it’s only a matter of time before they notice she’s gone. But it will only be temporary, right? They will fret when they realize she’s missing, but within a few hours, they’ll know she’s alright– no harm no foul. Surely, they’ll understand– she’s not doing it to hurt them, she’s doing it for Murdoc’s sake, and they’ll have to understand if her intentions are good, right?

Besides, Murdoc’s reaction is a much more pressing concern, since it’s his car in which she’s stowed away under a blanket and various junk he’s chucked into the back seat. She’s done her best to stay quiet and lay still with her Hello Kitty backpack held against her chest– fortunately Murdoc’s also been blasting the radio, talking to himself, arguing one-sidedly with the radio DJ, and exhibiting bouts of road rage. It’s been said (she doesn’t know by whom; maybe Gandhi, or 2D, or someone else) that the true self is revealed when someone is alone in their car. So far, there have been no revelations, other than him knowing all the words to Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know.” If only the anxiety would just kill her already.

After what feels like an eternity, the car slows, turns, and comes to a halt. The engine shuts off, and Murdoc opens the door. Has it been three and a half hours already? It might as well have been— her hair is sticking to her forehead from sweating under the blanket, but she doesn’t dare take the risk of taking it off to breathe. As much as she’s prepared herself for the consequences of her eventual discovery, she’s still not looking forward to it. However, her legs are numb and her back aches from being stuck in the same position for so long, the trouble she’s going to find herself in is starting to feel favorable to another minute under the blanket. Her heart pounds— has he gone inside? She hasn’t heard the trunk open. Are they even there yet? She doesn’t move, debating back and forth about whether it’s safe to reveal her head for just a moment.

It’s too late now— the back door opens, and Noodle holds her breath. She tenses every muscle in her body, afraid he’ll come across her leg and the surprise will strike him dead on the spot. Suddenly, a small, but hard and dense object projectiles directly into her ribs.

“OW!”

Noodle bolts upright, clutching her side, and comes face to face with Murdoc, who looks at her like he’d just seen a ghost.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I didn’t want you to go alone!”

Murdoc’s face quickly shifts to anger. “So you decided to give me a heart attack instead? Are you out of your fucking gourd?” He reaches down and picks up the offending object— a paper bag with a liquor bottle inside. “I told you you’re staying home! What about that was unclear? Now I have to go all the way back?”

“You don’t have to! Just let me stay. I won’t be any more trouble, I promise!”

“You’re in so much trouble, kid. The only reason I’m not gonna kill you is that there’d be nothing left to send home to Russel so he can kill you! Do they know you’re here?”

“No,” she says sheepishly.

“Chrissake,” Murdoc mutters. He reaches into his back pocket for his phone, and Noodle holds up her hands to stop him.

“Please let me stay! You don’t wanna drive all the way back, right? I promise I won’t get in the way! I’m sorry!”

“You haven’t the foggiest idea how sorry you’re gonna be when you get home.”

“Please!”

Murdoc groans and leans his head against the roof of the car. “It doesn’t end, does it? It never ends.” He shuts his eyes, rubs his face with his hand, and sighs. “I don’t want to drive you back.” He holds out the phone to her. “Call them and tell them you’re alive and that I know you’re with me.”

Noodle clasps her hands. “ Arigatou gozaimasu , I promise I won’t cause any more problems.”

“I’m too tired to fight with you and I still have an hour and a half left to drive. I don’t want to hear a word out of you unless you’re spoken to. Got it?”

Noodle nods. Murdoc steps aside to let her out of the car. She throws the blanket off and slides out, stumbling a bit as her legs are still asleep.

“Go to the toilet and then call Russ. We’re not stopping again until we get there.”

Chapter Text

Murdoc rarely has a kind word to say about anyone, and spares even fewer for his father. When it comes to talking about the past, Sebastian Jacob Niccals appears seemingly as a boogeyman. It’s no secret he is the source of a lot of the darkness that cloaks Murdoc’s disposition, but Murdoc doesn’t volunteer a lot of specifics. From what Noodle can glean from the sullenness in his eyes when the subject of his childhood comes up, the memories are difficult to face. It’s the lack of information that bolsters Sebastian Niccals’s reputation— a man too vile to even speak of. Despite having seen him in pictures, in Noodle’s mind, he is a shadowy figure that envelops everyone who encounters him in a dark melancholy, standing eight feet tall, with a glare that could freeze you on the spot. 

This only makes the sight of the frail old man in a decrepit velvet chair, being tended to by a nurse– more jarring.

“Is a bite tarm, duck,” he says, his voice unfurling like a clawed hand.

“Dad.” Murdoc utters the word with the same density as his suitcase hitting the creaky wood floor.

Noodle isn’t sure if the draft crawling up her spine is coming from the open door or the tension present in the room with them, like a fourth, more supernatural entity. She feels the need to hide behind Murdoc, hanging back a few feet before making herself known. Murdoc faces his father with the stance of a cowboy about to duel, and she can’t see his face, but can easily picture his icy glare. Sebastian, in return, offers a graveyard smile—a lopsided one, as there is a weakness in the left side of his face.

“Arm sure you’re well aware o’ the news about your emmmmbarrassment of a brother. Who’sat wit ye?”

Noodle freezes as if it would make her more invisible.

“She’s in my band,” Murdoc says, curtly. Noodle can’t help but feel her heart sink a little. Is even ‘bandmate’ too warm a word?

“Does she ‘ave a name?” Sebastian says, leaning to see around Murdoc for a better glimpse of her.

“Noodle,” Noodle says, unsure if she even managed to say it aloud. It appears she has, because Sebastian furrows his brow.

“Does she ‘ave a real name?” He sneers.

“It’s just…Noodle,” Noodle says.

“Noodle,” Sebastian repeats. “Shut the door, will you? I dunna pay to ‘eat the outside.”

Noodle obliges, the hinges wailing the whole way. Murdoc carries their bags inside and sets them down at the bottom of the staircase, not even sparing a glance in his father’s direction as he walks by. Noodle lingers in the foyer, not feeling welcome enough to find a place to sit, but feeling too foolish to follow Murdoc around like a small dog.

“Ya can go,” Sebastian says to the nurse, who in turn packs her bag swiftly and takes her leave. Noodle steps out of her way to get the door for her.

“Good luck,” the nurse mutters.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Murdoc says— likely the warmest phrase he can muster— and heads over to the tiny kitchen, still within sight, but even the illusion of being alone with Sebastian makes Noodle want to run to him. She feels Sebastian eyeing her, and smiles politely—a smile probably closer to a fearful grimace.

“What, afraid arm gonna bite ye?” Sebastian says, in a way that sounds like he very well could. Noodle shakes her head. He beckons her over with a veiny, green hand, with gold rings on each knobby finger, and she hesitantly approaches, placing herself a few feet away where she can still see Murdoc in the kitchen.

“‘Ow owd are ye?” Sebastian asks, once again wrapping his bony fingers around the cane tucked between his knees.

“Fourteen.”

Sebastian raises an eyebrow. “I wunt ‘ave guessed.” He turns his head to the kitchen doorway. “She yours ?”

“No,” Murdoc says, without elaboration. Noodle tries not to let the pang of hurt cross her face. What does she expect him to say? Hell, what does she want him to say?

“Figured as much, lewkin’ at ‘er. Arm gobsmacked ye and your idiot brother ‘ave made it this far wit’out knockin’ up some unfortunate bird. Best that neither o’ ye put more idiots inna this world.” Sebastian looks back to Noodle. “So what are ye doin’ ‘ere, anyway?”

“Moral support,” she replies.

“Innat sweet,” Sebastian says. “Shunt ya be in schewl?”

Noodle, once again, isn’t sure how to answer. Should she? Probably. But she already feels so worldly, the idea of sitting in a classroom being told the meaning of Lord of the Flies sounds nauseatingly boring. “I’m homeschooled,” she says.

“‘Ope you’re doin’ better than this dunderhead ever did. ‘Is teachers always told me ‘e wost a nuisance to ‘ave in class, if ‘e showed up at all.”

Murdoc returns with three cups and a teapot missing a lid, and sets them down on the claw-footed coffee table. He takes a seat on the dreadfully ‘70s couch.

“L’il bastard used to nick me whiskey and show up to school drunk as a skunk,” Sebastian continues, ignoring Murdoc as he pours tea for each of them. “‘E never made it easy for me, not from the very beginnin’. A bloody choleric l’il baby.”

“Do you want any sugar?” Murdoc asks flatly. 

To say Murdoc’s demeanor is level-headed isn’t quite accurate, but Murdoc would never let someone talk to him this way without some nasty response. It’s clear from the tightness of his mouth and stiffness in his posture he’s struggling to hold back, but nonetheless, he allows the insults to land at his feet. Noodle’s surprised by his lack of response, but has a terrible feeling he won’t be able to keep up the act for long.

“No,” Sebastian says, unnecessarily blunt. He looks back to Noodle, who’s still standing off to the side. “Are ye gonna stand there the whole time?”

Noodle shuffles over to the couch and sits, leaving a tangibly large gap between her and Murdoc. Despite her growing sourness towards Murdoc, Sebastian’s unreadable bluntness makes her want to bury her face in her bandmate’s arm for comfort. Alas, he doesn’t make any indication for her to move closer. If Russel or 2D were here, she could rely on them for an assuring glance or a squeeze of her hand, but Murdoc doesn’t offer either of those things, and Noodle swallows the lump in her throat.

“I ‘aven’t seen ye in so long, Murdoc,” Sebastian says. “Seems like you’ve been rrrrrrrridden ‘ard and put away wet.”

“I’ve been very busy,” Murdoc says, sipping his tea.

“Why’d ya change your accent?”

Murdoc lowers his cup and furrows his brow. “What?”

“Ya sound all posh now. Like a Southern pansy.”

No one’s ever accused Murdoc of being posh. One would sooner accuse a viper of having no teeth— though, compared to his dad’s heavy Northern articulation– a vocal affectation Murdoc only adopts if he’s especially hammered– he might as well be speaking the Queen’s English. 

“I haven’t been back here in a while, but I’m certainly not posh .”

“Well, woulda been good to put it on for auditions. I always wanted to see ye in the theatre.”

Now, Murdoc doesn’t bother hiding his disdain when he rolls his eyes with his whole head, sitting back with his arms crossed. “I was never going to do theatre.”

“When I got the lead in Hamlet in ‘59–” Sebastian says, raising a bony finger.

“Here we go…” Murdoc mutters.

“I conna been somethin’ before your brother came along, and since I had to give up on the theatre, I hoped me son would at least ‘ave a lick o’ talent inim, and what a disappointment that wost! I wost relyin’ on ye to pick up the slack—”

“With the way you went about humiliating me in those bloody talent shows for two-pounds-fifty, you’re lucky I even decided to keep performing at all. I actually did manage to make a name for myself, and it’s no thanks to you.”

Noodle wraps her hands tightly around her teacup and tries to sink down into the couch cushions. She knew this week was going to be tense, but watching the tension start to splinter in real time is hard to stomach. They have each other locked in their glares, mouths twisted, their shared browbones low in deep scowls. The passive-aggressive veneer has dissolved and all that’s left is the core of barely-contained malice.

“Right, your li’l project ,” Sebastian hisses.

“My little project that went multi-platinum and award-nominated, correct, that little project.” Murdoc retorts.

“Jolly gewd it panned ite well for ya— conna be bothered to send a check ‘ome though, could ye?”

“For what?” Murdoc says through his teeth.

“I only reared ye, fed ye, let ye live in me bloody house! I coulda dropped ya off on some other doorstep and made ya some other poor bastard’s burden, but I took ya in anyway, dint I? You’ve always been an ungrateful l’il shit.”

Murdoc reaches over and taps Noodle’s arm with the back of his hand, perhaps a little more roughly than he intended. He doesn’t shift his glare away from his father as he hisses: “Why don’t you go bring the bags upstairs?”

Noodle enthusiastically takes her cue to leave, setting her cup back down and hurrying over to the stairs.

“Ye can sleep in the boys’ old room,” Sebastian calls to her. “Though I’d take the bed by the window— this one wost a frequent bed-wetter!” He laughs sadistically as Noodle can’t gather the bags fast enough and rush upstairs before she witnesses the fallout about to occur. She drops the bags at the first door she sees, but lingers at the top of the stairs, unable to hide away in good conscience. She hunches down by the banister and watches from a distance, her fist balled tightly against her mouth.

Murdoc brings his fist down on the coffee table, rattling the teacups. “I don’t owe you shit , you son of a bitch! I could’ve just let you rot here alone and let the government deal with you!”

“Ye already ‘ave, boy! When ya disappeared twenty years ago!” Sebastian leans forward and jabs a crooked finger at him. “Ya always thought ye were better than everyone, walkin’ around wit your nose in the air like your shit don’t stink. Well, let me be the first to remind ye, lad: ya were drug up from nothin’ — ya always ‘ave, and always will, and no amount o’ money or rubbin’ elbows wit your rock star mates will change that! Ye will always be nothin’. And when it aaaaall dries up and your fifteen minutes o’ fame are over, ya won’t ‘ave me to crawl back to!”

Murdoc jumps to his feet. “I wouldn’t crawl back here if they dropped a nuclear bomb and this was the only place left standing!” He barks.

“Lewk around ye! Where do ya think ye are now? You’re under my roof! And you’re not famous here! No one’s gonna give ya special treatment because you’ve got a big head about yourself! Until I’m stoon jed , you’re my bastard child, and you’re gonna act right!”

“Won’t be long, God will it!”

The way thunder follows after lightning has already struck, it seems as though the loud slap doesn’t resonate through the dusty, old house until a few seconds after the back of Sebastian’s hand has graced its way across Murdoc’s face. No one would have ever guessed such a swift and powerful movement could come from the shriveled figure in the antique chair, but the sudden blow makes Noodle’s entire body flinch. She brings her hands to her face, watching through her fingers as she waits for Murdoc to retaliate ten-fold.

Sebastian sits back, picking up his teacup once again. Murdoc stands there, holding his cheek, his face turned away. Noodle can’t see his expression, but she can see his other hand wrapped around his torso and gripping his jacket sleeve— trembling.

“I bet ye thought just ‘cos you’re grown, and that arm sick and weak, that ye could say whatever ye want now. There’s more where that came from.” He waves Murdoc off with the same hand that struck him. “Right, I’ve ‘ad enough o’ lookin’ at ye for tonight. Clean up these dishes and get outta me sight. And I don’t wanna see ‘ead or tail o’ the girl, either.”

Noodle watches Murdoc silently collect the teacups and teapot and bring them to the kitchen with his head bowed. Even his altercations with Russel aren’t so one-sided, as he always has to have the last word— but she’s never seen him recoil so utterly defeated. Sebastian looks up at the staircase and their eyes meet, and Noodle scrambles to her feet and runs to the first door, shutting herself inside with her backpack clutched to her chest. It’s only as she sits with her back to the door now that she realizes how cold her hands and feet are as if her blood has retreated further into her body. Even her hurt foot feels numb as her heart races in her ears. She breathes, trying to channel her meditation practices, as she finally takes in the room. There are two metal-framed beds with bare mattresses, and two dressers between them. The faded wallpaper is peeling from the walls, its viscous brown paste revealing itself. There are several rectangular spots on the slanted ceiling above the beds— ghosts of posters that perhaps once represented the few joys their owners’ had. 

Noodle hears a pair of boots clunk their way up the stairs and past the door, followed by the opening and closing of the door to the neighboring room. After waiting for any more indication of movement, she stands up and makes her way over to the bed by the window. She unzips her backpack– thank God she brought her own blanket because she wasn’t about to ask for one. Even then, she’s not sure if she’d want the one they’d give her. She shudders as she changes into her pajamas. The room is so cold, she might have been better off sleeping in the car. She keeps her jacket on, and puts on an extra pair of socks, wincing as she pulls the fabric over her injured toe. She wraps herself in the blanket and pulls it over her head, squeezing her eyes shut, as if it could transport her home by the time she woke up.

Chapter Text

Noodle didn’t have the pleasure of dreaming about her time in Japan, or even the displeasure of another nightmare, as it seemed as though she waited for sleep and was greeted by gray sunlight instead. Not long after the room became too bright for a meager rest, Murdoc had entered to shake her shoulder. He never wakes up that early, which probably means he didn’t sleep either. 

As Noodle sits across from him in the cafe, she stares down at her plate of eggs instead of the line of four red marks across Murdoc’s right cheek. He sits with his hand cradling his forehead as he reads a newspaper laid out beside his empty plate, and mutters a “thanks” as the waitress brings him a third cup of coffee.

“Can I get a coffee too?” Noodle asks, breaking the silence that’s been sitting between them since the walk over.

Murdoc starts to form the word “no,” but looks up at her as if suddenly remembering she’s not ten years old anymore. He waves his hand. “Fine. Can I get a coffee for her as well?”

“Sure thing.”

“Since when have you been drinking coffee?” He asks Noodle.

“I’d get it with Kyoko.”

“Who?”

“From my host family. She’s my age. There was a place down the street that had a bunch of coffee flavors and desserts, and we’d walk there on weekends.”

“Oh,” Murdoc says, with no further questions.

Noodle racks her brain for any other segues to continue the conversation– she’s been dying to talk about her time in Japan, but it seems like no one wants to listen– and Murdoc won’t even put in the bare minimum faking interest. She wants to tell him all about the botanical garden, the giant, sculptural restaurant signs lining the roofs in Osaka, and the lightning-fast bullet trains that could take you to a whole other island in under an hour, but she elects to talk about the only subject he ever seems interested in: himself.

“What do you have to do today?”

“ I have to do the delightful job of sorting out finances, planning future hospice arrangements, making phone calls to people I have no interest in talking to, meeting with the lawyer in charge of the Will— all that cheery nonsense.”

“I’m sorry,” Noodle says.

“Why? You’re not the one killing him.” Murdoc flips the page of the newspaper. “But if you can make it look like an accident, I‘ll buy you a bloody pony.”

Noodle produces a half-hearted chuckle, though neither of them seems to find much humor in it.

“My stupid, git brother,” Murdoc sighs. “I’m inclined to believe he got himself locked up on purpose so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. Though, it’s entirely possible he just got himself in trouble by coincidence because he’s a sodding moron. Maybe it’s for the best that he's not the one in charge, anyway. He’d muck it all up. Tosser. If he was here getting in my way, I’d probably kill him, too.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Noodle asks.

“Agh, I suppose you can clean up around the house,” Murdoc says. “Don’t worry about all the junk– it’s all getting thrown away. Just do some dusting or something. It’s like an archaeology site in there. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah,” Noodle says, thinking about the coating of dust she’d picked up on her hand when switching on the lamp that morning. “It looks like your old room hasn’t been touched since you were last in it.”

“It probably hasn’t,” Murdoc says. “I don’t know when’s the last time any room in that house has had a proper cleaning. Never had a woman in it, y’know?”

Noodle scrunches her face. Before she can inform him that never having a woman in the house shouldn’t stop one of them from ever picking up a broom, the waitress sets down a cup of coffee in front of her. “ Arigatou ,” Noodle says with a nod. As the waitress walks away again, however, she realizes she didn’t leave any cream and sugar, and Murdoc didn’t ask for any. She brings the cup to her lips and sips it, pretending its bitterness is welcome.

“You don’t want nothing in it?” Murdoc says, cocking an eyebrow.

“I like it black,” Noodle lies.

Murdoc goes back to reading his paper but suddenly chuckles to himself. “You ever see the movie Airplane ?”

“No.”

Murdoc’s brief good humor quickly fades and he shrugs. “Nevermind then.”

“What is it?”

“You wouldn’t find it funny.”

Noodle crosses her arms and frowns. What’s that supposed to mean? Does he think she has no sense of humor? Because she certainly does— his jokes just aren’t funny. She takes another sip of her coffee and scrunches her nose— even if it was sweetened, it’d be a rotten cup of coffee anyway.

“Oi, Noodle,” Murdoc says, his tone shifted— quieter. He looks up from his newspaper at her.

“Yeah?”

He clears his throat before glancing back down at the paper again. “Sorry about all that last night. I don’t know how much you heard, but… yeah.”

Noodle shrugs. “It’s okay.” She’s not sure how much he’s alluding to, but it’s best if she feigns ignorance about the end of the fight.

“‘S a reason I didn’t want anyone else to come.”

Noodle nods. “I know. I just thought having someone else there would make sort of a buffer, I guess. I don’t know, maybe he’d be on his best behavior in front of other people.”

“There’s nothing special about you that would change the way he is,” Murdoc says, mouth twisted. Though, he quickly swallows the sourness in his speech as he adds: “I mean, he’s an arsehole, through and through. He never cared if anyone saw. Nothing you can do about that.”

“Right…” Noodle says. “I mean, I didn’t think I was going to fix anything. But I just thought… I wouldn’t want to do it all alone.”

“Yeah, well, some of us do things better that way,” Murdoc says, just a little too curt.

Noodle tucks her hands between her knees and hunches down in her seat. Her sunny-side eggs frown back at her— cold by now. Though she hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, her stomach has clenched itself like a fist, and the greasy smell of the cafe is making her nauseous. 

“Eat now, there’s probably nothing for you in the fridge at the house.”

Murdoc must be reading her mind— how miraculous that he’d take the time to consider what she might be thinking.

“I checked earlier,” he adds. “We’ll go shopping later. Unless you enjoy hard liquor and pickled eggs.”

Noodle sticks out her tongue in disgust.

“And if you did, there’s probably not enough for the three of us anyway.” Murdoc tears a sheet of newspaper in half against the edge of the table and slides one of the pages towards her. “You like maths, right? Here’s the sudoku.”

Noodle mutters thanks before folding it up and confronting her eggs once again.

“Don’t ask me for help with it— my subject of choice was philosophy. And that’s why I play bass.”

Noodle snorts. His jokes rarely lean into self-deprecation— he’s either trying his best not to come across so jagged, or his ego’s been shaken like a soufflé on its cooling rack. From how dryly he said it, perhaps it’s the latter— his humor is hardly ever so dry, and he’s been nothing but coarse as sand as of late. Almost as dry as these eggs— how the hell do you make sunny-side eggs dry ? 

“Finish up, love, I wanna get the most unpleasant part of this trip over with first,” Murdoc says, folding up his newspaper and knocking back the last of his coffee like a bitter shot.

What could possibly be more unpleasant?

Chapter Text

“‘Ello, Vivian,” Murdoc says, his voice croaking with disdain.

“Murdoc,” Vivian says, her penciled eyebrows raised but her eyes and frowning red mouth failing to mimic cordial surprise. “What are ye doin’ ‘ere?”

“I’m sure you heard the news about my father. And Hannibal.”

Vivian rolls her eyes. “Oh. Of course. Unbelievable. After I did all that work pullin’ strings to finally get ‘im ‘is own flat and within a month, ‘e books hissen a stay in the concrete ‘otel.” She crosses her arms and shakes her head, her peroxide-blonde hair unfazed by the movement. “‘E’s gonna put me in an early grave next.”

“Would you mind letting us in?”

At the mention of “us,” Vivian looks past Murdoc and seemingly notices Noodle for the first time, but doesn’t greet her. Instead, she looks back up to Murdoc.

“Wunna this be quick?”

“Ideally, but not quick enough to do it standing here in the rain. And she has to use the loo.”

“Right,” Vivian steps aside to let them in. “Shoes off, I just mopped.”

Noodle follows Murdoc inside, and props her hand against the wall to pull her boots off, pretending not to notice Vivian’s eye following her.

“This your… daughter?” Vivian asks, lighting a cigarette– that would explain the musky smell that clings to the walls and curtains despite the plastic on the furniture.

Murdoc pauses to consider his answer– and the deja vu of this conversation brings forth another reason Murdoc likely didn’t want Noodle to come: her presence brings up more questions than he wishes to answer. Finally, he decides on the simplest response to get this over with as soon as possible: “Yeah.” Before he can let the affirmative ring too sincere, he adds: “We get mistaken for sisters all the time.”

“Issere a wife in the picture?” Vivian asks– a question that Murdoc finds far more despicable based on the twinge of disgust on his face as he tosses his boots aside.

“Do you really care?” He says, but his bluntness doesn’t phase her. She simply shrugs.

“Just sounds like a familiar situation,” she says, a smugness pulling at the corner of her mouth. Before Murdoc can ask what that’s supposed to mean, she turns and walks off to the kitchen, where she twists the knob on the stovetop and sets a kettle down over the flame.

“Uh, where’s the bathroom?” Noodle asks, hesitant to make herself any more seen than she needs to be, and careful to swallow her accent.

Vivian points a red-tipped thumb in the vague direction of the hallway. “First door.”

“Thank you,” Noodle says, quickly shuffling out of the way. As she shuts the door behind her, she can still hear their voices and unzips her jacket slowly to listen in.

“”Aven’t seen ye in a minute. To be quite honest, I dint expect to see ya again,” Vivian says. “Ya changed your accent.”

“I figured the next time I saw you would be the reading of the Will. So I stopped by just to make sure there weren’t any surprises.” 

“Surprises! What, ye think arm lookin’ to yank your measly inheritance out from under ye? ‘Ow nice that ya think so li’l o’ me. Why? Am I in it?”

“I haven’t gone over it yet.”

“ Pah . What could ‘e possibly ‘ave to give me, anyway? ‘E squandered any money ‘e ‘ad left from ‘is mother a long time ago. Besides, I wost only married to ‘im for a year, and Hannibal’s done just about everythin’ ‘e can to get heesen written out.” There’s a pause, just enough space for what must be a smug smile. “Go ahead, lad. Get your ‘ands on your inheritance. If there’s anythin’ left.”

“I’m not worried about that, and I happen to be quite well off, thanks.”

Noodle has a feeling he’s bluffing for appearances, but after the disastrous brief move to Los Angeles and the quick dilapidation of the Essex-based studio they call home, she hopes he’s aware that it’s not true. 

“I thought I’d check in with you to see what your… involvement would be. Since I’ve been making all these arrangements on my own,” Murdoc continues.

“Involvement? What the bloody hell do I ‘ave be involved for? Me and Sebastian ‘ave ‘ardly ever spoken since ye boys were owd enough to drive yourselves around. ‘E’s never done nothin’ for me, and now I ‘ave to wipe ‘is arse?”

“I’m not asking for you to do all that, but it’s a lot of work and I’m only here for the week. It would be nice if–”

“I don’t owe that son of a bitch anythin’. I’ve been charitable enough, and lewk where thas gotten me.”

“I could use a little bit of help, and there’s no one else to do it! As shameful as it is for me to come to you on my hands and knees, it would be nice if you could just do something for me, and when he’s dead in the ground we’ll never have to see each other again!”

“Hannibal’s been me ‘eadache for ferty-feyr years. Sebastian’s not me ‘usband, you’re not me kid, and I’ve washed me ‘ands of all this.”

“That’s great for you , but I don’t have that option!”

Noodle lets the hot water run over her freezing hands, trying to relish its warmth, but she can’t stay in this bathroom forever. As their conversation grows more intense, she wishes she’d just stayed in the car and suffered through her bladder’s discontentment. If she keeps waiting for the battle to wind down, she’s eventually going to have to run through no-man’s-land to get back to the car, and it doesn’t seem like the timing will get any better. She looks at herself through her shaggy bangs in the mirror and takes a breath before braving the outside.

As Noodle steps into the kitchen, the conversation halts, which is somehow so much worse than just running through the crossfire. Murdoc is standing with his hands splayed on the table, but stands up straight when she comes into view. Vivian is sitting sideways in the kitchen chair, one leg crossed over the other. She gives Noodle a smile of straight but yellow teeth and stamps out the butt of her cigarette alongside its many brethren into a crystal ashtray.

“Ye wanna cuppa tea or anythin’, duck?” Vivian asks, putting on a pleasant voice like an apron.

“No thank you, I’m just gonna go wait in the car,” Noodle says, heading for the door.

“Oi, it’s locked, love,” Murdoc says, and fumbles through his coat pocket for his keys. Noodle approaches and he drops them into her palm. “Go ahead and start it, turn the heat on, I’ll be out soon.”

Noodle bows her head and mumbles thanks, but Vivian grasps her arm as she turns to leave. She looks up at Noodle, scrutinizing her face. “I assume ye take after your mother,” she says with a smirk. “Aren’t ye lucky?” 

With that, she lets go.

“Nice meeting you,” Noodle stammers as makes her way swiftly to the front door, tugging her boots on. 

On her way out, she hears Vivian’s raspy voice say something to Murdoc, but only catches something along the lines of “not as much o’ a brat as ye were.”

The stale cigarette smell of Murdoc’s car has never been so welcoming as she turns the key in the ignition, quickly switching the heater on and holding her hands in front of the vents. She’s always known Murdoc’s tendency for coldness is deeply rooted, but from her brief glimpse of his old stomping ground, it’s no wonder he’s always on offense– one would have to quickly develop a tough callus on their soul to survive in this environment. She reaches under the dashboard and picks up her book, opening to its dog-eared page to read. After several minutes, she gets to the bottom of the second page and realizes she has no clue what she just read. She flips the page back and starts over. She gets to the bottom of the page– nothing stuck. She flips the page back and starts over once again. She sits back and pulls her knees up, kicking her shoes off so she can put her feet up on the seat. She props the book against her legs, starting over at the top of the page, the words drifting across her brain and falling out her ears, becoming word soup until…

Kyoko lays on her flower-print bedspread, watching Noodle tour around her room, picking up objects to hear their stories. Noodle holds up a paper fan tucked into a delicately embroidered silk case.

“That’s from when we visited Mount Inari in Kyoto. It’s a two to three-hour walk up the mountain to get to the shrine at the top, but I went when I was eight, so I was way more interested in the gift shops at the bottom, and I did not enjoy the walk! The lady selling them showed me the case, and I begged my mom for it, but then once she bought it, the lady said ‘Well you need a fan to go in it too,’ and my mom then had to buy the fan separately.”

Noodle sets the fan down and picks up a black, rectangular case covered in faded stickers. She unclasps it to reveal a silver flute.

“Oh yeah, I took flute lessons for six years,” Kyoko says.

“Are you any good?”

Kyoko holds out her hand and Noodle puts the two flute pieces together and hands it to her. Kyoko sits up, brushing her blunt bangs aside, and holds the flute to her lips. She blows, emitting a harsh, shrieking note.

“Nope!  I never wanted to practice,” she laughs. “I would just mime playing at the concerts, but I still got a trophy ‘cuz the rest of the band was really good!”

She gives Noodle the flute back, and Noodle holds it to her own lips and emits another shrieking note like Kyoko’s. Kyoko covers her ears and they both laugh.

“My mouth was on that!” Kyoko says, scrunching her nose in mock disgust.

“I’m not scared of your germs,” Noodle says.

“It’s basically the same as kissing!” Kyoko says.

Noodle turns her back to Kyoko to put the flute case away– hopefully before she can see how red her face is. She picks up a book to change the subject.

“What’s this about?”

“Oh, I love that book! You should read it.”

“What if I don’t finish it before I have to leave?”

“You can keep it. I’ve been wanting a hardcover of it anyway.”

At the dull sound of the front door opening, Noodle opens her eyes and looks up as she hears two raspy, muffled voices join the outside. She rubs her face. How long have they been talking? Fortunately, they’re not arguing, so it seems whatever ill will was left inside in favor of seeing each other as little as possible. Noodle keeps her eyes glued to her book, but keeps her ears open to eavesdrop a little more.

“I wish I ‘ad more to tell ye, lad, but that’s all I know,” Vivian says. “‘Ee wost late pickin’ up Hanni one weekend ‘cos ‘e wost busy running around wit ‘er, that much I remember,” she adds, a long-standing annoyance in her voice. “Oh, and she ‘ad some sort o’ Spanish-soundin' last name, I think. Hernandez, Martinez– something o’ the sort? But don’t quote me on that. ‘E ran around wit a lot o’ women, I could be mistaken.”

“Right, thanks anyway,” Murdoc says, his footsteps approaching the car.

“Godspeed,” Vivian says from her doorstep. “‘Ope it works out for ye.”

“Yeah, me too,” Murdoc replies, circling around the front of the car to the driver’s side.

“Oh!” Vivian calls. “I think it wost Suarez!” She enunciates the name stretched with her Stokie accent: Swahh-ress. “Yeah, pretty sure.”

Murdoc has his hand on the door handle but doesn’t open it just yet, despite the pouring rain. After a pause, he says: “It’s not going to piss him off if I ask, will it?”

“That’s between ye and ‘im, lad, I conna tell ye.”

“Well, I’ll work with what I got,” he says, opening the car door, and the sound of the rain rushes in. “Thanks again.”

Vivian waves as she turns and shuts the door behind her, leaving their goodbye unspoken.

Murdoc slides into the driver’s seat beside Noodle, pushing his wet hair out of his face and revealing a rare glimpse of the lines carving their way across his forehead and between his eyebrows. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says.

“It’s fine,” Noodle says, considering whether or not she should pry, and deciding to try her luck. “Ask about what?” She asks.

“Nothing,” Murdoc replies, with a finality that implies she’ll have to wait to find out, if at all. “We’re going to make a pit stop at the library.”

Something tells Noodle the pit stop at the library might not have been on the original itinerary for the week, but she doesn’t press further. Besides, any location is favorable to sitting at home with Sebastian. 

Murdoc unfolds the visor on the ceiling to scrutinize his reflection in the mirror, holding his sopping bangs out of the way in his knobby fingers.

“I wonder if I can get 2D to hook me up with a Botox appointment,” he mutters to himself.

“What’s Botox?”

Murdoc flips the visor back up. “Something our dear singer gets to treat migraines and vanity.”

Noodle dog-ears her page and closes her book, setting it back down on the floor. Murdoc rolls down the window a crack and reaches over to open the glove compartment, pulling a carton of cigarettes from the mess of papers, condom wrappers, and other trash– he’s at least a little too prideful of his car to throw his shit on the floor. A piece of paper flutters to the carpet before he shuts the glove compartment, but he doesn’t notice. Noodle picks it up. It’s a photograph, rumpled around the edges from being crowded into the mess: a picture of her on a chilly seaside boardwalk, donning pink sunglasses and beaming, posing with her arms outstretched. She looks really young, probably taken within the first year of her arrival. She wordlessly returns it to the glove compartment.

“Sorry, love,” Murdoc says as he lights a cigarette. “I’ll do it outside next time, but I need one right now.”

Normally, she’d scrunch her face or cough dramatically, but opts to suck it up for the time being. There’s no use lecturing him– he knows it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Chapter Text

The library is far from hopping with activity– and the sound of the pounding rain against the windows is only heightened by the lack of other patrons. The two of them are alone save for an ancient-looking woman at the front desk that looks as though she manifested fully-formed in this library solely to stamp books and re-adjust her glasses. It would almost be relaxing if it wasn’t so incredibly dull.

Noodle rests her head on her arms at the computer desk, her eyelids drooping, until she’s startled by Murdoc dropping a stack of papers beside her.

“I’m surprised they let me back in here at all, let alone use the archives” he remarks. “Considering my copy of The Wicker Man is twenty-five years overdue.”

“I don’t think they want it back,” Noodle says sleepily. “What are you looking for?”

“Just doing a little research for personal means,” Murdoc says, sitting down at the computer. “Am I doing it to avoid sitting down with the finances? Perhaps. But I can get a whole lot done when I have other matters to attend to. Do you know how many demo tapes I have stockpiled from when my traffic tickets were due?”

“I’m not here to tell you what to do,” Noodle says. “But I hope you’re not creating more problems for yourself.”

Murdoc sighs. “This is something I need to do, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have the opportunity again.” He lowers his voice. “Why don’t you go find something to do?”

With that, takes her cue to leave him alone. She gets up and wanders off to find a means of entertainment. She walks up and down the rows of high shelves, running her fingers along the spines of books, searching for any titles of interest among art history, philosophy, mythology, romantic fiction, science fiction, and mysteries. 

Among the dusty pulp horror novels, she spots a title that rings a bell: The Haunting of Hill House . It’s a slender book, almost flimsy-looking wedged between heftier brethren, its binding held together by clear plastic tape. She pulls it out and examines the cover: a field of teal and yellow grass, with a house peeking through in the distance. She opens to the first page:

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

Noodle tucks it under her arm as a contender– perhaps she’ll read it while she waits, or maybe it’ll just keep her company and that’ll be good enough. She might have had more than enough of haunted houses, as of late. 

As she circles back to the computer desk, she tries to catch a glimpse of the screen over Murdoc’s shoulder. He pauses scrolling to look through the stack of papers, and she can make out some of the larger text: Belphegor Sanatorium. Once he starts scrolling again, she keeps walking, trying to keep her meandering casual. 

Off in the corner, Noodle stumbles upon a section of low shelves, with a circular green carpet and miniature stools, with a few pillows scattered about. She props up a couple of pillows and sets herself down on top of them, pulling her scarlet iPod and headphones from her pocket. She shrugs off her coat and opens the book, settling in to read.

Eleanor Vance was thirty-two years old when she came to Hill House. The only person in the world she genuinely hated, now that her mother was dead, was her sister. She disliked her brother-in-law and her five-year-old niece, and she had no friends. This was owing largely to the eleven years she had spent caring for her invalid mother, which had left her with some proficiency as a nurse and an inability to face strong sunlight without blinking. She could not remember ever being truly happy in her adult life; her years with her mother had been built up devotedly around small guilts and small reproaches, constant weariness, and unending despair.

Noodle looks up when she feels a boot nudge her arm, and slides her headphones off, letting them fall around her neck.

“I’ll be outside for a smoke,” Murdoc says, an unlit cigarette already primed between his knuckles.

“Okay,” Noodle says.

Before he walks away, Murdoc points the cigarette at her. “Now don’t you pick up the habit, you hear me? You know better. You either start smoking because you’re nine and you swipe one from your dad’s nightstand or because something terrible’s happened to you– perhaps both. Otherwise, there’s no good reason to start.” 

“I won’t,” Noodle says, rolling her eyes, considering she’s the one who lectures him about it. 

“I’ll be back in a Marlboro-minute.”

Noodle slides her headphones back over her ears as he walks away, but doesn’t start her music again just yet. She returns to her book, scanning the page to find where she left off. A draft passes through the library, and Noodle shivers. She picks up her head upon hearing Murdoc’s voice vaguely in the distance and looks around until she spots the source of the voice and the breeze: the ajar window in the back wall. Noodle shuts her book and stands up, rubbing the carpet’s scratchiness from her elbows, and creeps through the Theology section to sit under the window.

“I’m calling in regards to a… a past… resident.” Pause. “It’s a family matter. There should be records of a woman named Maria Gomez, from around 1966. Would those records happen to still be on file?”

Noodle holds her breath even though there’s no way her breathing is going to give her away, but on the off chance he can telepathically sense her presence through the brick and mortar wall of the building, she stays quiet.

“Right, right, I understand, but we need them for our medical records. Maria Gomez. She had a baby that June as an in-patient.”

His tone sounds as though he’s trying to put on the self-assuredness that gets him what he wants if he fakes it enough, but there’s an underlying sense of pleading that threatens to surface.

“This is her son. Would I be able to access those records?”

Pause.

“What if I bring documents to prove it? What would I need?”

Pause.

“Yes, I can, I can prove it, I’ll bring whatever I need– if I prove it, can you at least tell me if she was a patient there? I will, I’ll bring them, I’ll come by at some point this week. Right, thanks.”

As Murdoc snaps the phone shut, Noodle quickly scampers back to her original spot, parking herself on the carpet with her headphones on as if she’d been there the whole time. She opens her book, pretending to read as she waits for Murdoc’s return. She keeps her head down as she hears the metal door creak open and bang shut, the squeak of his wet boots echoing through the library. As the cigarette smell draws closer, and he crouches down to her level, she pulls her silent headphones down as if he’d interrupted whatever song she’s pretending to listen to.

“We’ll head out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, love.”

“Where are we going next?”

“Back to the house, unfortunately. Got some cleaning up to do– there’s some documents I need to find.”

“What kind?” Noodle asks, getting to her feet and shrugging her raincoat back on.

“Things that would be a rrrrrrrreal pain-in-the-arse if my dad’s been using them to line a bloody bird cage or something,” Murdoc grumbles. “Knowing him, it’s not out of the question.”

“Did you find what you’re looking for?”

“I’m not quite sure what I’m hoping to find,” he mutters. He looks down at the book in her hand. “Don’t bother checking out the book,” he whispers. “Just take it, I’m not eager to return anytime soon.”

Chapter Text

One would think Sebastian would eventually run out of things to say, but he’s been stockpiling ammunition for twenty years and he is determined to unload every insult. As Murdoc and Noodle dust, fill trash bag after trash bag, move things from one pile to another to sort later, and unearth forgotten artifacts, Sebastian sits in his chair like a panopticon, sipping dark brown liquor, his rings clinking against the glass whenever he reaches for it.

“Look whatcha done!” He barks when Murdoc accidentally elbows a precarious vase of potpourri that has not been doing its job very well. “Pick that shit up!”

Despite the endless digs hurled at him, Murdoc stays quiet, only replying to ask what he should do with something he’s found, with no snide remarks to accompany Sebastian’s unreasonably blunt responses.

Goes inna kitchen cabinet, ya git, where else would it go?

Ya absolute tool, doessat lewk rate to ye? Cost thee do nothin’ rate?

Why doncha use ‘at crumpled piece o’ paper ya call a brain for once?

As Sebasian gets deeper into his liquor and eventually runs out of ways to criticize the way Murdoc cleans, he starts to dip into his arsenal of personal negs.

What the hell’d ya do to your arm? Back in my day, only navy men and crrrrrriminals got tattoos, but I s’pose if the boot fits, right? Ya cont ‘ave at least gotten onessat don’t lewk like a five-year-old drew ‘em?

Issa miracle ye can put your trousers on wit’out written instructions. ’S no wonder ya conna trick some poor woman inna marryin’ ya.

Lewks like ya ‘aven’t brok the ‘abit o’ walkin’ like a fuckin’ fairy.

Whenever Murdoc really gets her blood boiling, which is often, Noodle wishes someone would take him down a notch. Even when Russel finally lets him have it, Murdoc will keep that smug look on his face that lets everyone know his ego keeps him warm at night. But that’s when he has it coming– it’s hard to watch Murdoc lay down and take it. It’s one thing to duck under the waves and let them roll over you and return to the surface unencumbered, it’s another to just stand there and let them crash on top of you, trying to stand firm in spite of them and pretend you’re not on the verge of falling down. 

Noodle does her best to stay out of sight– as bothersome as it is to bear witness to Sebastian’s verbal abuse, she’s not trying to have any of it deflected her way. So far, he’s ignored her, save for a comment here and there about her shoddy sweeping or perceived clumsiness when she nearly trips over the numerous hazards littering the floor. Each time, she’d stammer out a “sorry,” and every muscle in her body would tense. When Murdoc is in a bad mood, which is often, she’s used to walking on eggshells as not to fire up his temper, but Sebastian elicits a different kind of unease. Murdoc is predictable, she knows his tells and what sets him off, and usually, even the limits of what he’s willing to say if he snaps at her versus someone like 2D. 

Sebastian, however, is on a different playing field, and she doesn’t know where she stands. If Murdoc’s tactic is keeping his mouth shut for once, it only seems smart to follow suit. As much as Noodle normally can’t stand being ignored, she’s willing to be invisible for as long as possible. 

After hours of hauling junk back and forth, Noodle finally clears away enough space to uncover an upright piano, definitely long out of tune from neglect. She could imagine it was once the site of many painful piano lessons, but now, it serves as a table for a record player and piles of old vinyls stacked nearly to her chest. She looks back at Sebastian in the adjacent room– though he’s still monologuing cruelties at Murdoc, they’ve moved just out of sight so all he can do is bark in their vague direction. She picks up the record on the top– an old crooner album she doesn’t recognize. Besides the layer of dust and lack of protective plastic, its condition isn’t too bad. She turns it sideways to slide the vinyl out of its cardboard sleeve, and along with it, something brown and papery falls into her hand. Upon inspection, and much to her horror, it’s a flattened roach– mummified after crawling inside and dying long ago. She shrieks in spite of herself and drops the record to frantically wipe her hands on her jeans, and it clatters to the floor in four jagged pieces. Murdoc shoots upright at her sudden scream, and Sebastian leans forward to try to see around the corner.

“ Now, what the hell’d ye brok? ” Sebastian hollers.

Murdoc rushes over to see the damage, and curses under his breath when he sees the broken record.

“Goddamnit, kid!” He mutters.

“I’m sorry!” Noodle whispers.

“ What’s going on in there? ”

“Agh, I dropped one of your bloody records, that’s all!” Murdoc replies.

“ Son of a bitch! ”

“It’s not like you’ve listened to ‘em in a million years!” Murdoc says, picking up the broken pieces. He stands up and leans in to whisper to Noodle. “Fuck’s sake, can’t you be a little more careful?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Noodle hisses. “There was a dead roach in it!”

“Well, suck it up, it’s not like it was a live one,” Murdoc says, and walks off to the other room to discard the pieces.

“ How’dya like it if I bosted somethin’ o’ yours, ya fuckin’ tewl? ”

“ Oh, I’ll find you another one! You don’t take care of your shit, anyway! ”

Noodle winces at the dull thwap from the other room, and Murdoc enters again, rubbing the back of his head with a scowl. He returns to his previous task without sparing a glance her way. She looks back at the stack of records, still rubbing her palm against her thigh as if it’s been tainted. She picks up the broom and dustpan and sweeps up the roach, trying to avoid looking at it. She hurries over to the bin to discard it, walking briskly and keeping her gaze straight ahead to avoid Sebastian’s attention. It’s to no avail, however, as he holds out his hand to indicate for her to stop before she can reach the kitchen doorway.

“‘E’s covering for ya, is’n ‘e?” Sebastian says, his voice low.

Noodle’s stomach twists and her body goes cold. Her mouth hangs open dumbly as his hazel eyes bore into her. His expression isn’t angry, but rather an unreadable sternness, like a bird of prey, even more difficult to distinguish with its slight droop on the left side.

“Ya wunna be in trouble if ya tell me the truth,” he says.

Finally, Noodle nods sheepishly. Sebastian quietly sits back in his chair and picks up his nearly-empty glass.

“‘E’s a fool for that.”

***

Murdoc and Sebastian sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table like two chess pieces at a stalemate. Between them are a battalion of empty beer bottles and those accursed papers Murdoc’s been avoiding, and the two of them try to make sense of the legal jargon while Noodle sits on the tile floor, sorting through the boxes Murdoc brought down from the attic. “ Anything that seems like junk, just throw it in the rubbish pile ,” he had instructed her. It’s slow-going, as she has no idea what the Niccals family holds valuable and what is “junk.” If Murdoc’s sentiments are of any representation, the photo albums might as well belong in the fireplace, but a broken bottle he’d been stabbed with in a bar fight belongs on the mantle as a keepsake.

“We have the papers from 1999, 2000, 2001, and 2003– what happened to 2002?”

“‘Ow should I know?”

“What do you mean? They’re your medical records!”

“If ye were ‘ere you’d know.”

“Well I’m not here, so I need to know where you might have put them!”

As agonizing as the conversation is to listen to, at least Noodle doesn’t have to be a part of it. Still, she can’t help but wish she was more of use, so she tries to make a dent in the contents of the box just to feel like she’s doing something besides being the most miserable fly on the wall.

“Where’s my birth certificate?” Murdoc asks.

“What do ya need that for?”

“Because we’re out of bog roll. Bloody hell, because I’d like to know where it is! It’s kind of an important document, innit?” Murdoc says, breaking his streak of unwavering patience.

“I dunt know, lad! Check the safe, or maybe town ‘all’s got a copy. They keep those kindsa things, dunt they?”

In the midst of their squabbling, Noodle opens the next box to discover a stack of picture frames. She blows the dust off of one, handling it carefully in case any spiders have decided to hitch a ride, and holds it up. The photo features a toddler in a sailor-style suit, arms folded and mouth scrunched in a defiant pout, with a familiar mess of jet black hair in a bowl-cut.

“Hey, look what I found,” Noodle says, daring to interrupt. Murdoc and Sebastian look over, and since neither of them shush her or shoot her a warning glare, she picks up the box and sets it down on the empty chair between them. Sebastian takes the picture frame from her hand and holds it out at arm’s length, squinting. A smile of slate-shingle teeth crawls across his face as Murdoc leans over to get a look at the picture.

“Aw, what a cute li’l bugger,” Sebastian says. “What ever ‘appened?”

Murdoc rolls his eyes.

“This wost from when I was tryina get ‘im to audition for commercials,” Sebastian says, and Murdoc buries his face in his hands. “‘E ever tell ye?”

“You used to do commercials?” Noodle asks.

“Almost. ‘E actually passed an audition once!” Sebastian’s voice darkens. “Then the day they were supposed to film, ‘e threw a big shit-fit and wunt even sit in front o’ the camera. Useless li’l bastard. Waste o’ time, and dint even get the paycheck.” He sets the picture frame aside. “I wunt be surprised if ‘e’s got a dirty lewk in every one o’ those pictures. He never wanted to cooperate in front of a camera. ’S a shame. If ‘e got ‘is shit together ‘e coulda been an actor like ‘is feyther.”

Before Murdoc can respond, Noodle butts in.

“But we do music videos! We’re on MTV!” Noodle turns to the squat little TV sitting on the counter. “Where’s the remote?”

Sebastian sits back with his arms crossed and Murdoc buries his head in his folded arms as Noodle finds the remote on top of the TV and switches it on, flipping through channels until she comes across the tail end of a Justin Timberlake music video, which makes Murdoc groan. Coincidentally, right after the animated MTV bumper, Tomorrow Comes Today starts to play– perfect, fateful timing.

“See! There we are!”

Noodle turns around to see what Sebastian thinks, but his expression remains stony. Murdoc has picked up his head, but watches through his fingers like he’s afraid the video he’s seen dozens of times is going to take a terrible turn. They watch wordlessly, letting 2D’s melancholy vocals fill the silence instead. Noodle’s backup vocals sound so young– does she still sound like that? She fixes her gaze on the screen, partially to avoid looking at Sebastian and Murdoc, partially because it’s still so strange watching herself on TV– a version of herself that feels like a distant former friend. 

The video ends, and Murdoc shuts the TV off.

“I mean, that’s from a few years ago, and they’re still playing our videos,” Noodle says. “So we’re not just a fad. And we’re working on another album right now that’s gonna be even bigger!”

“There wasn’t much goin’ on,” Sebastian finally says.

“Our other videos are a little more involved,” Murdoc grumbles.

“Ye weren’t even the one singin’.”

“I had to find a singer with a certain look to fit the image I wanted to create,” Murdoc says, even quieter.

“Makes sense. Your face is better suited for radio, but who’s gonna wanna hear ya talk, either?”

“I do radio all the time, too,” Murdoc says, barely audible.

“When was this from, again?” Sebastian asks.

“2001.”

“‘Ow’d ye already let yourself go?”

Murdoc rubs his eyes and drags his hands slowly down his face. “Noodle, why don’t you get ready for bed? You’ve done enough.”

Noodle’s heart sinks and she wrings her hands in shame. She nods solemnly and goes to pick up the box of picture frames.

“Leave it, it’s fine.” Murdoc says flatly.

“Okay,” Noodle says, letting go of the box like it’s too hot to hold. She takes her cue to leave and heads for the stairs, stopping in the doorway to look back apologetically. “Goodnight.”

Murdoc doesn’t respond, supplementing a half-hearted two-fingered salute while he stares down at the papers. Sebastian offers her a nod, but nothing more, and she makes her way upstairs.

“ All that talk ‘bout ‘ow ye were gonna make it big on your own and ya can’t even be at the forefront of your own band. ”

“ Let’s just get this bloody paperwork sorted out before I start tearing up the wallpaper. ”

“ Ya shoulda at least found someone that doesn’t make ye look short and fat in comparison. ”

“ Can we please focus on what we were doing before we were interrupted! ”

Chapter Text

Noodle knows she looks silly with gloves on and her hood pulled up, tied tightly under her chin, but the wet, cobweb-ridden basement makes the most neglected rooms of Kong seem homey. Even the idea of the air touching her makes her skin crawl as she tries to hold the flashlight steady. Murdoc throws his whole body against a broken wardrobe, grunting as he shoves it out of the way to finally reveal a small, rusty safe door embedded in the wall.

“All my years of petty theft have led me to this moment,” Murdoc says. “Hand me the toolbox.”

Noodle hands him the metal case and he kneels down to open it.

“You know, Hannibal and I never got along, but we used to team up to steal. It started out as a necessity when Dad withheld food and such, but eventually, we just started doing it for the sport.”

“Is that how you learned to pick locks?”

Murdoc stands up, his tool of choice in hand. “Oh, that was Hannibal’s job.”

Noodle lets out a startled yelp as Murdoc suddenly brings the hammer down on the lock with a deafening clang! The lock clatters to the concrete floor, its rusty arm in pieces.

“I was the one that crawled into small spaces.”

He hands her back the hammer and creaks the safe open, a cloud of dust raining down from the wall. Noodle watches as he unflinchingly reaches into the dark, spidery hole in the wall and feels around until he pulls out a brown folder. He unties the red string holding it shut and opens it, a victorious grin spreading across his face.

“Sweet Satan, I can’t believe he actually kept something in the proper place for once!” He holds up two yellow pieces of paper. “He even has Hannibal’s here! Even a broken clock is right once in a blue moon, innit?”

Noodle steps closer, shining the flashlight on the paper: Murdoc Alfonce Niccals. Sixth of June, 1966. Belphegor Sanatorium.

“Six pounds, six ounces,” Murdoc reads aloud. “Blimey, what am I, Rosemary’s baby?”

He slides the rest of the birth certificate out of the folder, and his expression changes; he stares deer-eyed down at the paper. Noodle leans in to read over his shoulder:

Maria Gomez of 88 Preacher Lane. Stoke-On-Trent.

“It was here the whole time,” Murdoc says, quietly. “Her name. Where she lived. Maybe I could have known her.”

Noodle looks up at him– his sad eyes have quickly filled with barely restrained anger, his mouth twisted, his knobby hands gripping the edges of the paper. She steps back– there’s nothing that sets him off faster than being touched when he’s on edge. 

“He’s been keeping it from me all these years.”

“But now you have a lead,” Noodle says, as gently as she can. “You can learn more about her from here.”

She flinches as Murdoc slams the heel of his boot into the side of the broken wardrobe, splintering the wood and planting his foot straight through it.

“Son of a bitch !”

“ Yamete! ”

Murdoc yanks himself free of the mess he’s made, grabbing Noodle’s shoulder to steady himself. He shuts his eyes, pushing his anger down into a bottle for later, and quickly slides the birth certificate back into the folder and out of sight. “No going back to change things, anyway.” He sighs. “Whatever. I found what I was looking for, and I have more pressing matters to attend to. I’m sure there’s plenty else to be angry about today.”

“Let’s hope not,” Noodle says. “What about the lock?”

Murdoc nudges the broken lock on the ground with his boot. “Agh, any moron willing to brave the mold, lead paint, and rats for the sake of looking for the Family Jewels can be my bloody guest.”

“ Rats ?” Noodle cries.

“Oh, you ever see The Princess Bride ? S’like that. My dad would send me and Hannibal down here to smash and bash as many as we could, and whoever bashed more rats got seconds at dinner. Of course, that tosser managed to always spin it in his favor, saying I just held the bucket, but he wouldn’t have gotten a single one without my help!”

“Can we get out of here now?” Noodle says, eyes darting around as if an unseen enemy is closing in.

“Yeah, let’s make like a tree and uh, blow this popsicle stand,” (now he’s just doing it on purpose!) He tucks the folder under his arm and hands Noodle the toolbox in exchange for the flashlight. She holds onto the back of his shirt as they make their way through the dark to the rickety stairs.

“I hate it down here, all I can think about is that Edgar Allen Poe story with the black cat and the wife buried in the wall.” Noodle says.

“Funny you mention it: There was a rumor going around the neighborhood that my grandmother killed my grandfather and bricked him up in the wall down here,” Murdoc says, turning to a wide-eyed Noodle. He holds up a finger as-a-matter-of-factly. “But that’s not true. He was cremated. She most likely did kill him though. And that life insurance policy is what kept this house in the family name and would have been my inheritance had my dad not been such a booze-hound.”

“No offense, but everything I’ve learned about your family while I’ve been here has been strange and alarming.”

“Imagine living it, sweetheart,” Murdoc says, opening the basement door to sweet, blessed light and comparatively fresh air. He holds it open for Noodle, who bounds past him into the kitchen like she’s narrowly escaping a creature grabbing at her heels. She plunks the toolbox down and whips her gloves off to scrub her hands under the tap. Murdoc follows behind with far less urgency, looking through the folder once again.

“Hannibal was ten pounds when he was born. No wonder his mum hated him,” he says. “If I had to squeeze out a fat head like his, I’d also be fuming to find out it’s completely and utterly empty.”

Chapter Text

Even though Noodle has been assigned the task of continuing to dig through mementos, it feels no less perverse to scrounge around in someone else’s past. Since Sebastian has to accompany Murdoc on whatever-it-is today, Noodle is alone with the house. It, by no means, has begun to feel like home, or even welcoming– but at the very least, it hasn’t chewed her up and spit her back out. It is as warm a welcome as this house has to offer.

The beam from the flashlight rattles with the shake of her hands– the attic is even more bitterly cold than the already drafty ventricles of the house. She has attempted to rescue a few boxes from the leaky roof, but it is too late for some of the musty children’s toys and theatre costumes inside– and she lays them to rest solemnly in the discard pile. As someone who still secretly maintains her nightly ritual of sleeping with her stuffed animals in shifts so as not to make any of them feel left out, it stings a little to know the disintegrating lamb and the monkey with one button eye cannot be salvaged. With the state of neglect in the attic, it’s hard to tell if the wear-and-tear is a result of being well-loved in their prime, or decay from abandonment. 

Noodle coughs at the cloud of dust that emanates from the box of Christmas decorations upon opening it. Surely, they haven’t been retrieved in decades, and their absence won’t be missed. The chipping paint of the tin train cars is likely full of lead, and the wreaths shed plasticky pine needles all over her pants like mange. She pulls the collar of her lilypad-green turtleneck over her nose as she thinks about all the banned chemicals that probably make up the hoard in this archeological site. Noodle is set to chuck the box aside before she notices something of interest buried beneath the tinsel and broken bulbs.

Buried at the very bottom of the box lies a red, leather-bound photo album, with holly appliqués peeling up at the corners. Noodle, feeling the need to confirm she’s alone in the attic, looks back over her shoulder before snooping deeper. The light from the open attic trapdoor behind her offers no response. Reassured that only the clapboard walls are watching and that they cannot speak, she opens the book. 

The action of turning the plastic pages feels forbidden, peeking backward into a tumultuous bloodline she’s only caught the end of. She holds the flashlight against her shoulder with her cheek as she begins her nosy investigation.

The layout of the house, plastic-covered furniture and all, rings a bell— these pictures were taken at Vivian’s, confirmed by the platinum blonde woman and her ever-present cigarette making her cameo behind the toddler sitting by the red-and-gold adorned tree. The toddler, Noodle deducts, must be Hannibal— the Godot she’s yet to meet for herself. As she flips from one Christmas to the next, he takes shape as a small child. The presents under the tree remain sparse each year, though every so often, one of the candid snapshots catches a moment of childlike excitement over opening them. Most of them center on Hannibal, with Vivian making an appearance to hand him another box or force a smile at the camera. Sebastian’s presence is only indicated through a black boot or long, green hand interrupting the frame.

Though she’s already crunched the numbers in her head figuring out the timeline, it doesn’t prepare her for the surprise at how young Sebastian actually is when he’s finally revealed in a stilted family photo, seated on the couch beside Vivian with his arms and legs crossed as if Vivian’s mother (Noodle presumes) is pointing a gun at him behind the camera. Vivian holds Hannibal in her lap like she’s keeping him from wrenching himself free, wrinkling her red velvet dress. Despite his hairline still in place and unwrinkled complexion, Sebastian is unmistakable with his long, slender face and distinct nose, and especially his barely-restrained scowl. It’s the scowl of a man who knows his magnum opus as Hamlet has passed, and his resentful future sits beside him in green corduroy overalls on the verge of a tantrum. 

The verge of a tantrum appears to be a tonal thread among these photos, as no party ever appears to be happy for too long. Sebastian maintains a perpetual gap between himself and anyone else as if one tried to force two North ends of a magnet together. Vivian, when she is holding her son, seems to do so with a “sit down” and “don’t do that” gesture to her touch. Only Vivian’s mother seems to give off an iota of warmth— it appears the photo album was her labor of love, like an Archivist, as indicated by I in her handwritten captions: I hand little Hanni his present from grandpa.

Through the years, the number of photos filling the pages begins to diminish, as if losing interest in trying to capture every moment as the newest member of the family grows from a baby to a gangly child, and Vivian and Sebastian’s tolerance of each other rapidly dwindles. By 1965, there was no effort to document them together and package them as a couple who can put aside their squabbles for the holidays.

As the story goes, 1966 brings about a new chapter.

The volume of pictures picks up again with a new wave of excitement for a fresh baby, but with a significant lack of Vivian. She does not reach into the frame to adjust the strap of Murdoc’s overalls, or hold him upright for the camera— she is simply not there. He may wear Hannibal’s old clothes, but he is not her son.

The turn of the page brings forth something as unexpected as Sebastian’s former youth— only crunching numbers on a timeline couldn’t predict it. It’s a photo that stands out among the rest, not due to a change in the usual cast or set, but because the staging goes against everything Noodle’s seen from the first act.

Sebastian, donning his usual black-on-black attire, reclines on the same couch from the stilted family photo from earlier, his feet propped up on the arm, ankles crossed. Upon first glance, it might be easy to miss the small shape resting on his chest, especially with the dark mess of hair blending in with Sebastian’s black sweater. Vivian’s mother, with the stealth of a wildlife photographer, managed to capture the two of them, sleeping chest to chest, as if that was how it was always meant to be.

It’s hard to imagine Murdoc could have ever been a baby. After all, by the time she met him, he already carried about a decade of grisled life experience over Russel and 2D. He even seems embarrassed by the very implication he was once unable to fend for himself, despite everyone in the world starting off in the same boat. It’s an understandable dissonance; What does he have in common with this baby? The Murdoc she knows has far more in common with those 80’s Polaroids of him in days-of-bands-past, even with the discrepancies time creates: his long(er) greasy hair, his tiny waist and xylophone ribs, his pinprick pupils from an off-camera line of coke. At the very least, they both know about Speed and porno. This baby is utterly unaware of any of that.

And yet, there he is: a mop of raven hair, distinct even in Hannibal’s hand-me-downs, curled up on his father’s chest with his thumb in his mouth. He wouldn’t be caught dead in such a position if he can help it.

Noodle wonders if she’d feel that same disconnect if confronted with her own baby pictures. It’s hard to say, since she doesn’t have any. Are they out there? Did anyone ever pose her on a rocking horse in a frilly outfit? Did anyone ever wrap her tiny hand around their finger to show how small she was? Perhaps, the only thing that mattered to anyone was what she could be molded into. She too, was never a baby, only a fresh lump of clay to be kneaded into an obedient weapon– or a prodigy guitarist.

Noodle swallows the discomfort sneaking into her throat as she continues turning the pages. Like Hannibal, the number of pictures shrinks as Murdoc grows up. His palpable resentment of sitting pretty for the camera may be the culprit, more so than his lack of interest in capturing the moment. Noodle can’t help but get a kick out of some of the blurry shots of Murdoc fighting his way out of someone’s arms, mid-whine, his missing front teeth giving him the illusion of fangs. Vivian’s mother’s handwritten commentary in the margins describes him as sweetly, but plainly, as one can: Murdoc was being a wee bit of a fussbudget.

After a few years, Murdoc’s childish Tasmanian devil tantrums suddenly give way to a withdrawn sullenness, as if told to stop crying and suck it up, but unable (or unwilling) to hide his dismay. He sits morosely among the scraps of wrapping paper, sulking. It’s a minor change, but a noticeable one nonetheless, and the Archivist’s commentary doesn’t offer an explanation. From age nine onward, he seems to have traded kicking and screaming for a chronic Bad Mood.

Eventually, it seems The Archivist could only get the Brothers Niccals to sit for one picture per year, creating a darkly humorous time-lapse of deepening scowls and a journey into the dawn of punk. Hannibal’s denim jacket has now become a staple in each photo, accruing more and more patches and safety pins while he attempts new and innovative spikey hairstyles, surely designed to piss off his father. Murdoc adopts all-black attire like a mourner, his long hair cowlicked and messy now that he’s too old for anyone else to wrestle a brush through it but too young to willingly do it himself. Noodle peels the photo in question out of its protective plastic to inspect the date on the back: 1980.

As Noodle slides the photo back in place and turns the page, she is met with the end of the album. Two decades of Christmases. It’s hard to conceptualize that twenty years can be flipped through in the span of what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Of course, half of that space was taken up by baby pictures, with the subsequent years reduced to a highlight reel. 

Noodle shuts the photo album and tries to imagine what twenty Christmases would look like for her. She can only remember four, and the most recent one hasn’t shaped up to be as warm as it should have been. Ten Christmases, down the drain. She’d be thirty by the time she too would have twenty Christmases to remember. Twenty Christmases from now , she will be thirty-four. Murdoc was thirty-four when their paths first came together. The numbers aren’t supposed to lie, and there’s photographic proof: Murdoc was once her age, and one day she will be as old as him. Murdoc was once a baby, and so was she– though, she upholds, it cannot be proven beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Noodle stares at the water-stained red cover of the photo album and debates its fate. The last time she had presented such a time capsule to Murdoc and Sebastian, it didn’t go as well as she’d hoped. The Christmas photos don’t seem to hold the warm, fuzzy memories their Archivist hoped to achieve, and will likely only illicit disdain, or at least, discomfort. Still, one can’t simply throw it away. As sour as they are, twenty Christmases is a lot to erase. Noodle puts the book aside in the “keep” pile, but will not mention it to either of them, to let its presence be discovered organically. It is not her pain to uncover, and besides, she has enough of her own to bottle up.

Noodle rubs her frigid fingers together before continuing her excavation. She drags another dusty, musty box into the light, with a tingle of excitement in the back of her mind that she may find more photo albums. She tucks the flashlight against her shoulder once again and decides that when they finally get home (and she is no longer in trouble for her stowaway stunt), she’ll ask Russel where he’s kept their old photos and hopes they’re somewhere safe. There are happy ones in there, she knows it– she remembers them being taken. She was only ten years old once and never will be again.

Chapter Text

Murdoc doesn’t say where he’s going today, but as he shoves a tenner into her hand before they part ways in the hallway, with the folder from the safe under his arm, Noodle has her suspicions. 

“Don’t wander too far, and take the spare key with you.”

Noodle nods, sticking the money in her pocket and eyeing the folder. Through the open doorway to the main bedroom behind him, she can see the usual stack of paperwork sprawled across the bed— it won’t be accompanying him on whatever he’s tackling today. Though her instincts nag at her not to pry, she can’t help but take offense that he’s not fully letting her in on his side-mission. Or perhaps she’s annoyed that it preoccupies him. He’s yet to ask about her time in Japan. 

“Does it have to do with your ‘personal research?’” Noodle asks.

Murdoc looks up from fumbling through his pockets for his keys. “What?”

“When are you gonna tell me about it?”

“Depends on whether or not I find anything worthwhile,” he says. “I’m just looking for answers, is all. Since no one’s told me anything, I have to do everything myself. As usual.” He finally finds his keys amongst the mess of wrappers and empty lighters in his pocket and spins the keyring around his finger, catching them in his palm with a metallic rattle. “If he starts giving you a hard time about anything, just call me.” He gives her a two-fingered salute, and Noodle mirrors the action. As Murdoc makes his way downstairs, he suddenly stops and turns back to her once again, but with an aura of seriousness.

“Oh, one thing. If you’re wandering around town, do not go further than the bodega on Chauncy street. And this is not an invitation for you to ignore me for the sake of curiosity. Capisce ?”

“Why not?” Noodle asks-- since she most certainly was planning on doing just that.

Murdoc lowers his voice and looks her dead in the eye. “There’s this pub down there… it’s frequented by weirdos . I don’t know if the same clientele would be there since I saw it last in the seventies, but it’s no place for you. I don’t even want you within a stone’s throw of it. I’m only telling you so you don’t stumble upon it unknowingly.”

From the dark cloud that’s crossed Murdoc’s face as he issues his warning, it’s clear he’s not taking this lightly, and Noodle doesn’t question him further. She tucks the knowledge into the back pocket of her mind and gives him an affirmative nod.

“Right. I’ll try not to be gone long. You be good.”

Despite the miserable February weather they’d been having, the outside has decided to be a little more welcoming today. The awful, slushy rain has taken a siesta to allow the sun to make an occasional cameo through the English clouds. The chill is bearable and doesn’t try to squirm its way into her gloves to bite at her fingers. It’s not so bad with a cup of coffee she’d picked up to accompany her. The coffee itself is shit, but it’s a serviceable replacement for a hand to hold. From the looks she got in the cafe, she remembers it was mid-morning on a weekday, and an unaccompanied teenage girl like herself should most likely be in school. It’s easy to forget when you’ve been getting your own paychecks since you were ten.

The streets are dead– “ stoon jed, ” as Sebastian would say it– almost apocalyptically so, with seemingly everyone hiding away in school or at work. That is, until a figure suddenly manifests out of nowhere and darts by her, knocking into her shoulder and sending her coffee– her only companion– crashing to the ground.

“ Hey! Dickhead!” Noodle shouts, instinctively. The perpetrator stops and turns, and Noodle realizes they’re shorter than she is, with a scarf pulled up around their mouth and nose, wearing a school coat and wool skirt that hangs below the knees.

“Sorry!” says the voice of a young girl.

Despite the revelation, Noodle doesn’t feel behooved to change her tone. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Street’s empty, ‘ow about you step outta the way?” the girl retorts.

Something about her audacity softens Noodle’s temper— it makes her feel inclined to know more. “Where the hell are you off to in such a hurry, anyway?”

“Playin’ hooky, just like you!” Her accent isn’t quite as strong as Sebastians, but she still pronounces “hooky” funny– dropping the ‘h’ and warping the double-o sound to ‘ew’, ewky . 

“I’m not playing ewky ,” Noodle says, imitating the girl’s pronunciation.

The girl scrunches her face at her. “You’re not from around ‘ere,” the girl says.

“No,” Noodle says, and she smiles, sensing a potential escape from her boredom. “I’m not. Just visiting. So what’s there to do for fun around here?”

The Truant unwraps the chocolate orange Noodle so kindly bought on the condition they’d share it, and offers her half. The playground is especially empty, save for a few bundled-up toddlers fumbling around the wood and metal structures with their parents close by. She hasn’t found herself on a playground in some time. The Boys used to take her when she was little, but she quickly found herself bored by the repetitive play and younger clientele. Once you’ve become accustomed to setting off fireworks, playing with swords, and standing up in the back of a racing convertible with three boys, it’s hard to stoop back down to supervised fun. 

“You still haven’t told me your name,” Noodle says.

“I think I should ‘ave a fake name like you,” the Truant says with her mouth full. “Maybe a food to match.”

“My name isn’t fake , it’s just my name! I don’t have another one!” Noodle says.

In a way, this is true. When she unlocked her memories, she remembered being dubbed ‘Noodle’ as an affectionate nickname by Mr. Kyuzo. However, it wasn’t her name from the beginning. In another life, she wasn’t Noodle. She used to wonder if she would be inclined to use her “true” name should she ever uncover it, but upon learning it, she felt no connection. She can recall those memories in first-person, but it still feels like they happened to someone else, and she has been burdened with another person’s past. No less awful to hear about what happened to that person, but it didn’t happen to Noodle. She almost wants to feel grateful for that person for going through it so Noodle wouldn’t have to– but that was a little kid. That kid should have been toddling around the playground, a parent right behind to scoop her up the moment she fell. She should have been allowed to cry just because the fall was scary, even if she wasn’t hurt. 

An alter ego can’t save her. After all, Stu-Pot was the one hit by that car, but 2D had taken every blow since.

“What do you think I should be called?” the Truant asks, interrupting Noodle’s reminiscing before she can get too sad about it.

“Well, if you want to match,” Noodle considers. “What about Soba? That’s a type of noodle. Or Udon.” 

“Nah, I don’t want the same thing as you. Oh! Call me Pepper,” the Truant says.

Noodle rolls her eyes. “Then what’d you ask me for?”

“I thought you might ‘ave gewd ideas,” Pepper says. “I never liked the name me parents gave me. It’s a grandma name. And it rhymes with too many things. Kids at schewl will call you anything stewpid if they can find a rhyme. Even if it makes no sense!”

“Good thing I’m not in school, then. They’d have a field day with ‘Noodle.’”

“Why aren’t you? Did they kick you out?”

“I play guitar in a band, so we travel a lot.”

“Your parents let you do that?” Pepper says with disbelief.

“The band is my family, so I can do whatever I want.” Noodle revels in the brag, impressive to a child, even if it is glossing over a few truths.

“That sounds splendid. Me mum makes me do violin and it’s no fun.”

“What would you rather be doing instead?”

“Ughhh, I dunt know!” Pepper says. “I’m just tired of bein’ told what to do. Cos I cont do nothin’ rate. I might as well just do what I want cos I get in trouble no matter what.”

Noodle chews her piece of chocolate slowly, unsure how to respond. It’s not like she knows this kid well enough to say anything meaningful, as much as the sense of defeat makes her heart hurt.

“So what do you want to do?” Noodle asks.

“I want to move to the swings,” Pepper says, rising to her feet and overlooking the playground like an empire. “Watch ‘ow ‘igh up I can jump from.”

Before Noodle can make an involuntary sound of protest, Pepper leaps off their shared wooden platform, lands on both feet with her knees bent like a frog and stands to look back up at Noodle with a crooked-toothed smile. The stunt was only about five feet off the ground, and Noodle herself has attempted far riskier maneuvers for the thrill of it, but who would want to be liable for this kid breaking a leg?

“I bet you cont do that!”

Normally, Noodle refuses to be outdone, but her flips and tricks are rusty and her foot still aches a warning, thus she accepts the loss and maneuvers herself to the ground with no flourish. “You’re right.”

There was a sign in the cafe that said “Unattended children will be given an espresso and a pony.” Noodle got a chuckle out of it and pointed it out to Pepper.

“I dunt get it.”

“We’re the unattended children.”

“So what does the pony ‘ave to do with anything?”

Noodle sighs and rolls her eyes, but can’t help but shoulder the embarrassment that she doesn’t know how to explain the joke.

“It’s like, funny for parents. Like if they let their kids loose in the store, they’re gonna make it a problem for the parents instead.”

Funny for parents? What is she, fourteen going on forty? She can’t blame Pepper for looking at her like she’s crazy.

“You’ll get it when you’re older,” Noodle says.

“We’re like, the same age!”

“How old do you think I am?”

“Twelve?”

“ Moh ! I’m fourteen!”

“So you’re just short,” Pepper says, smiling while Noodle begrudgingly hands her one of the hot chocolates before they continue their walk. “I’m eleven.”

Noodle’s used to being mistaken for being younger than she is– when she first arrived, she was hardly more than three feet tall. That, in combination with her lack of English, meant dealing with a lot of adults crouching down to talk to her slowly with big, plastic smiles. It never gets less annoying.

“But I figured you were just really smart,” Pepper says, and Noodle accepts the flattery. “You talk like an adult.”

“How so?”

“I dunt know, you just do. You say things like you’re sure of it.”

“One of my bandmates told me that if you act like you’re supposed to be doing something even if you’re not supposed to, people will just assume you’re right and that they’re the stupid ones,” Noodle says, demonstrating Pepper’s assessment. “If you don’t act suspicious, everyone will just assume your mom sent you out to run an errand and not that you’re skipping school.”

“Easy for you to say, you dunt ‘ave to keep an eye out for your mum cos you’re allowed to go wherever you want,” Pepper says.

“If you were really worried about that, you’d just stay in one place instead of running around the whole city,” Noodle says. “It’s about the sport of it, isn’t it? You don’t wanna get caught , but it’s more fun not just taking the easy way out.”

“Duh, the whole point of skipping schewl issat I dunt wanna sit in one place all day,” Pepper says. “You wunna go back to the playground or what?”

“You decide.”

Pepper adjusts her winter hat and leads the way.

“I used to have a Tomagachi that I would play with under my desk, but my teacher caught me and took it away,” Pepper huffs. “I got it for Christmas too, it’s such bullshit . I still ‘aven’t gotten it back after a week! Which is basically theft, right?”

“A week? With no certainty of when you’ll get it back? Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Yeah, she fucking stole it, that bitch.”

Pepper enunciates each curse word like she revels in the taste of it but still looks around to make sure no one is around to hear it.

“When I was your age, I was allowed to curse, but with different rules depending on who was around: One of them said I could if I asked permission first. One of them let me say whatever as long as it wasn’t directed at him. One of them would teach me swears and we’d see who could come up with sentences with the most curse words in them.”

“Man, ‘ow come your life is so much better?” Pepper says wistfully.

Noodle’s not sure what compels her to boast to this kid. Who is she trying to impress? Who needs proof that she’s some badass guitarist with no bedtime, no rules, and no friends? Sure, she’s not eager to switch lives with this kid, but she’s starting to annoy herself– an ego can be very unbecoming until she suddenly decides to wear one of her own. And yet, she doesn’t take it off. She’s never gonna see this kid again. Can’t she play pretend for just a little while?

“You wanna learn some swears in Japanese?”

“ FUCK yeah!”

The two of them strut down the sidewalk as if they own it, Noodle listing off phrases and how to use them, and Pepper echoes them with gusto.

“ Kuso is like ‘fuck’ or ‘shit,” very versatile.”

“ Kew-so!”

“ Warugaki , hm, isn’t really a swear– but it’s what you are.”

“Hey! …What does it mean?”

“Someone who’s a brat.”

“ Hey! ”

Noodle is so wrapped up in gifting Pepper her new foul vocabulary, it only now occurs to her that she hasn’t been paying attention to where she’s going. Pepper is so certain of her way around, Noodle was more than willing to let her take the lead.

“You still got any money left? We can split another chocolate orange,” Pepper says, pointing to the bodega across the street. Suddenly, Noodle’s heart picks up its pace as she glances a few doors down, spotting the faded wooden sign of the pub, and remembers.

“What street is this?” Noodle asks.

“‘Ow should I know? I remember where I’m goin’ from the buildings,” Pepper unhelpfully replies.

Noodle turns around and squints back at the sign on the street corner. When she makes out the name, she can feel the pink wash away from her face and down the sewer grate, and a distant shout sends a shock up her spine like a cattle prod.

“ NOODLE. What do you think you’re doing! ”

As Noodle spins around to face the source of the voice, Pepper scampers away like a cockroach when the lights flicker on, and vanishes before Noodle can get the chance to say goodbye.

The black Camero pulls up beside her and Murdoc leans out the window.

“Get in the car right now !”

“I didn’t know!”

“ Now !”

Noodle takes one last look around for her companion, but it seems just as likely she’d been given a guided tour by a ghost. It’s best not to stand around any longer, and so she scrambles into the car as not to keep Murdoc waiting. She yanks the door shut and sinks down into the seat, avoiding eye contact.

“I told you not to do one thing !” Murdoc barks as he throws the car back into drive. “I let you get away with so much shit, so when I tell you no , I mean it!”

What’s her defense? "I was just following some kid I met ?" Even if it wasn’t a shitty excuse, it feels wrong to throw the kid under the bus, so she doesn’t mention it.

“It’s not like I was in danger. There was no one around and I could kick someone’s ass if I had to,” Noodle mutters.

“You think I told you ‘no’ just for the hell of it? You think you can just go against me ‘cos you don’t give a shit about what I tell you? I try to keep you safe and you just wanna flip me the bird ‘cos I’m not Russel, is that it?”

“I wasn’t looking for it!” Noodle argues. “I didn’t know where I was! Why would I wanna go to some stupid pub, anyway? I’m sure it’s exactly the same as any other pub. I think you just didn’t want me to run into you there!”

Noodle grabs the oh shit handle on the ceiling as Murdoc brakes roughly. He puts the car in park, and Noodle considers making a break for it, but can’t convince her body to move as Murdoc turns to her. She waits for him to start yelling, but the barrage doesn’t come just yet.

“Noodle, look at me.”

Noodle looks at him out of the corner of her eye, afraid she’d turn to stone if she looked directly at him.

“ Look at me .”

This time, she obeys, meeting his stony gaze.

“I’ve spent the past four days trying to scramble together years' worth of medical records and paperwork, and make arrangements for my dad’s impending death, all while I’m being yelled at like I’m stupid, and I have to worry about you. As much as I would love to sit myself down on some barstool until I forget that I’m back in this stinking fuck-hole of a town, I don’t have that option at the moment, because it would only prolong this wretched experience since I have to be the designated driver of this burning vehicle. And even if I did, I wouldn’t set foot in that place if it was the last place on earth to get a drink.”

When he finishes his speech, he faces forward and clutches the wheel at ten-and-two.

“And I don’t appreciate being accused.”

Noodle folds her arms and stares out the front window, their silence sitting in the backseat of the car like a hitchhiking ghost.

“What were you doing here?” Noodle dares to ask. “You weren’t following me trying to catch me, were you?

“It was the way back,” Murdoc says, curtly.

Noodle glances into the back seat, where she finally notices the bundle of papers paperclipped together. She wonders if their presence means his mission was successful, but now is not the time to ask. Perhaps, she supposes, it can be a fair trade. He doesn’t let her in on his side quest, and she doesn’t let him in on hers. He will not ask. Why should he care about her getting hot chocolate with some truant? Why should he care that she was born to be a human weapon? Why should she care who his mother was? If it’s important, it’ll come up in due time, but until then, her venture will be something that’s all hers, and she will keep it tucked away like a bookmark, between the pages of her sabbatical and subsequently unlocked past.

Chapter Text

Noodle books it upstairs as soon as the car’s tires stop rolling and slams the door to her room roughly. Though the rest of the drive back couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, the mutual silent treatment was so sticky it felt like they were driving through molasses. She flops down onto the lumpy bed and reaches for her books and holds them up, debating between them, until she decides on her book from Kyoko. She’s in too dark of a mood to enter the gates of Hill House. Murdoc and Sebastian’s voices rumble indistinctly through the thin walls and floors as she opens up to her dog-eared page in Kyoko’s book– still only a fraction of the way through it. 

The afternoon sun meanders across the gray sky, her reading light inching across the room until its beams are just out of reach, and she has to turn on the bedside lamp if she wants to keep reading comfortably. She reaches over and tugs the metal chain, the yellow bulb flickering to attention. The house is strangely quiet as Murdoc and his father avoid each other as much as possible, save for Murdoc’s occasional footsteps and the chatter of Sebastian’s TV. They must have finally crossed paths, however, as she can hear their voices traveling through the walls like mice. It’s hard to distinguish who’s who, as their brash, croaking speech blurs together, so she can’t tell which one has started to raise their voice. An argument is coming on– the tide has been sucked out as the earth begins to move. She knows she should stay on higher ground, but running away doesn’t become her. So, against her better judgment, she creeps over to the door and opens it as quietly as she can to listen in.

“What issit then, what do ya want?” Sebastian says.

Noodle inches the door open a little more, slithering over to hide behind the banister as she eavesdrops at the top of the stairs.

“I want to know about my mother,” Murdoc says, standing squarely before Sebastian, hands balled at his sides.

Unfazed by the demand, Sebastian refills his empty glass. “What about ‘er?” He asks, calmly, without sparing a glance at Murdoc.

Murdoc swipes a stack of papers from the couch and holds them up like a severed head. “I’ve already done my own digging, but I want to hear it from you .” He slaps them back down on the coffee table. “Who was she, and why did you keep it from me?”

Sebastian sets the bottle back down and exchanges it for his glass with an unbothered look as if he’s shielded from the daggers Murdoc is throwing at him. “If you’re lewkin to ’ear there’s somethin’ special ‘bout ‘er that woulda been passed down to ye to make ye secretly a poor, tragic soul, oppressed for bein’ so special too– you’ll be woefully disappointed. She wost nothin’ interestin’. Just some bird who I ‘appened to encounter on one of ‘er off-seasons from the looney bin.”

“What was her name?” Murdoc demands, and Sebastian chuckles.

“What, are ya gonna crucify me if I get it wrong? Do you cherish and remember every woman ye lay? What a saint, ye are.”

Murdoc pushes the papers across the table towards him. “Her name was Maria! And she lived just on the other side of the river! She was right there– how come I never met her? Better yet– what rotten thing did I do in a past life to end up with you ?”

Sebastian ignores the paper, his head propped against his index finger. “She knew where we lived. If she wanted to see ye so bad, she coulda come and tewk you off me hands, and ya wouldn’t ‘ave seen me put up a fight about it. She wost deemed unfit to care for ye, and thus dumped ye on me doorstep.”

Murdoc continues. “She was out of the institution for a month before she met you , and two months later she was right back in! You drove her mad!”

“She wost mad when I met ‘er! A real mental case– never slept, as far as I knew. One day she’d keep so quiet you’d think she was a mute, the next she’d ramble on and on until ya weren’t even sure if she wost talkin’ to ye or just to ‘ear the sound of ‘er own voice. Believed she saw the Virgin Mary in everything, and she’d lose ‘er bloody ‘ead if ya dint believe ‘er! And yet, she’d cry if ya so much as lewked at her funny. If only I’d known what I’d gotten meself into. God knows, the last thing I wanted to do was feyther a child wit ‘er.”

“I couldn’t have at least met her myself?”

“Ye don’t think I tried givin’ ye back? I wost in no ‘urry to ‘ave another mouth to feed, and yet I raised ye, fed ye, clothed ye, let ye live in me ‘ouse no matter ‘ow much of a pain in the arse ya were. And lewk what I ‘ave to show for it! Two jailbirds wit their ‘eads so far up their own arses, they conna see ‘ow lucky they are I dint just turn ‘em over to the system.”

Murdoc throws his hands up in a sardonic celebration. “Aren’t I just so fortunate I escaped the abuse of the system so it could be so lovingly doled out by my father instead? What would I have done without you? If you could please show me the holes in your hands, too?”

“Face it, boy, no one else wanted ye. If they did, they were welcome to take ye away and save me the headache. But no one did, and that’s our lots in life. Sorry if I ‘ave to be the first to tell ye that life’s not fair.”

“Don’t worry! I’ve been told! Everyone’s taken great care to remind me that I’m a blight upon this Earth!” Murdoc says, the words catching in his throat. “I know! I know! I know!”

Sebastian sneers. “Are ye really gonna embarrass yourself cryin’ about it? I thought you’da grown out of it by now, but I guess not. Ya never stopped bein’ an attention-seekin’ li’l bastard. Always been crazy, just like your mother. What, no braindead fangirls around ‘ere to pretend they love ye? Ye better get over it before your fame and fortune runs dry, ‘cos no one’s gonna dry your tears when they realize you’re a hack.”

Murdoc shoves the papers from the table back into the bag and roughly tosses it over his shoulder as he storms to the front door. Noodle stands up at the top of the stairs as he stomps out of sight, and her movement catches Sebastian’s eye. She locks eyes with him, and he calls after Murdoc once more:

“Lewk whatcha done! Ye made a big scene in front o’ the kid! ‘S no wonder she’s always ‘oled up upstairs– she dunt wunna be 'round ye, either!”

Noodle flinches as the door slams, and Sebastian grins like a fox up at her.

“Not so great and powerful as ‘e’d like ye to think, is ‘e?”

Noodle bolts back into her room without a word and paces around the limited floor space. What is she supposed to do? Wherever he’s going, he certainly wants to be alone, but she can’t stand being left behind in this house’s horrible energy with nothing to do but sit and fret. Something’s ignited in her chest and if she hides away it’s only going to burn its way through her insides. She grabs her raincoat and her boots and pulls them on. 

Unfortunately, Sebastian’s not entirely incorrect– that being alone with Murdoc brings this unbearable tension that makes her want to tuck and roll out of the car just to get away from it, and this week has only made that tension impossible to ignore. Her heart hurts for a comforting squeeze from Russel or 2D that Murdoc never offers. Even if he did offer, his embrace would feel more like a bear trap. As much as she can’t stand Murdoc, there’s one thing that she can’t stand even more at this moment– giving Sebastian the satisfaction of being right.

Noodle runs down the stairs two at a time, jerking Sebastian’s attention away from the TV as she runs past him.

“Oi! Where ye think you’re goin’?” He barks.

Noodle stops in the doorway. “I’m going to see a man about a horse!” she says, and shuts the door before he can follow up his flabbergasted expression with a response.

Noodle precariously steps down the rocky slope of the quarry, arms out for balance, the dust and rocks coating her boots in a gray film, as she approaches Murdoc like she’s trying not to scare off a deer. He sits in the dirt, his back to her, head bent.

“Murdoc,” she says, and he waves his hand at her to shoo her away.

“Sod off!”

Noodle stops a few feet behind him, wringing her hands. “I didn’t want you to be alone,” she says.

“Why? You think I’m gonna go jump off a bridge or something? I’m fine,” he says, his voice clearly strained. He still hasn’t turned to look at her.

“Okay, well then I didn’t want to be alone,” Noodle says, finally sitting down beside him about a foot away. He doesn’t protest. They sit in silence, Murdoc with his head bent in his arms, Noodle staring out into the empty bottom of the quarry. She draws aimlessly in the dirt with her finger, fills it in, and scribbles over it until Murdoc sniffs and speaks again.

“I don’t know what I was hoping for. Trying to fulfill this stupid fantasy I always had that one day my mum would turn up and take me away.”

Noodle, having nothing to offer, just nods. Murdoc continues.

“He was right. I came from nothing. I’ll always have come from nothing. And I knew that. Who cares, really? It’s not where you come from, it’s where you’re at,” he says. He attempts to make his tone more jokey as he forces a laugh. “You’d think the millionth time you’ve heard that no one’s ever loved you, it’d get dull, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s not true,” Noodle says, quietly. “‘Cuz I do. Even if you’re mean. I love you.”

His lack of response makes Noodle second-guess if she’d said the right thing. It didn’t feel like the right thing. It burns on her tongue. It wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t come easy. 

Murdoc buries his face deeper into his elbow, a sob breaking its way through, making Noodle want to recoil into herself until she collapses like a black hole. His anger she’s seen hundreds of times, and she’s had to sit with the discomfort of his disappointment, but she’s never seen him cry – something he probably wishes she wasn’t here to see either. What does she say? Does she reach out to comfort him? Nothing feels right, so she fixes her gaze straight ahead while he tries to no avail to stop the tears from coming.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, his words shuddering. “There’s no one to help me, and he’s not making it easy.” He inhales sharply like he and his breath can’t catch each other. “And I resent him, I do, I hate his guts, but still. When you’re a kid, you know one day it’s gonna happen, but it doesn’t feel like it’s ever really going to come, and even if it did, you’ll be an adult by then and it’ll all make sense. And as much as I wished I’d never have to see him again, I still don’t think I’ll ever actually be ready. I’m losing my dad.”

Noodle clenches her mouth tightly– his sobs are contagious, and she clenches her fists trying not to catch them as his sharp breaths are interrupted by junky coughs. After a minute, he recovers and continues.

“And I didn’t expect him to ever be impressed with anything I do. I gave up on that a long time ago,” he says. “But I guess a part of me still held onto the hope that he would. I’m a fucking idiot for that too.”

“No, you’re not,” Noodle says, quietly.

“I wasn’t even going to try to prove my accomplishments to him. I was ready for him to call me useless, stupid, a failure, all of that– I’ve heard it all before, but that’s because he has no idea what I do.” His tone suddenly becomes accusatory. “And then you showed him that bloody video, and now I have to face the fact he has seen what I do and he thinks I’m absolute rubbish.”

Noodle’s pity quickly starts to flitter away as the burning feeling ignites in her chest again. “I was only trying to help,” Noodle says. “I thought he’d have no choice but to admit you’re good if he just saw it for himself. But I guess he can only see what he wants to see.” She folds her arms over her knees. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Just wanting to be told you’ve done a good job for once? By someone who can’t stand the idea that you’re no longer beneath them?”

Murdoc picks up his head to glare at her with red eyes. “I didn’t ask for your help ! I told you not to come!”

“Fine! Be alone about it!” Noodle says, brushing the dirt off her hands as she gets to her feet. “I’m sorry that I’m here, too!” She starts to walk away, but Murdoc reaches up and grabs her sleeve to stop her.

“No, no, wait,” he says. “You don’t have to go.” He lets go of her and lowers his hand. “But you can if you want. I don’t expect you to fix anything.”

“I don’t like standing by and letting things happen. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Noodle says. Murdoc motions for her to sit back down.

“There’s nothing for you to do. It’s not your place to worry,” he says. He places a hand on her back. “I know I told you not to come. But uh. But I’m glad you’re here. Though I wish you didn’t see all of this.”

“It’s okay,” Noodle says. She leans over and lets him put his arm around her, and they pretend the gesture feels natural.

“No, no. Just because he makes me miserable…” he trails off, as if finishing the sentence with a sudden burst of self-awareness is too embarrassing. “Don’t worry about me.”

They sit in silence again, now that Murdoc’s sobs have subsided to occasional sniffs.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you the other day,” he says. “You’re a good kid. Really. I’m lucky you’re not as difficult as I was. I was a beast.”

“Still are,” Noodle says.

“But you do remind me a lot of myself, for better or for worse,” Murdoc says. “I can’t really blame you when you get angry, even when it seems like it makes no sense. I know Russ and 2D don’t really get it.”

Noodle props her chin in her hands. “I wish I could explain to them what I'm mad about, but sometimes I don’t even know,” she sighs. 

“There’s a lot of things I think they don’t quite get about me— about either of us. Like, they both have something to return to. 2D has his folks, and Russel hasn’t been back home in some time, but he still talks to them. And he still has his uncle in So-Ho. If everything really went to shit, someone will welcome them back. But you and I are nobody’s child— When all is said and done, who else is going to get it but you?”

Noodle looks down at the dirt. “Just because I know what it’s like to be angry doesn’t mean I forgive you for it.”

“I know,” Murdoc says. He pauses. “I didn’t mean it when I said you should live with them. The folks you stayed with in Japan. I don’t want you to leave again. I’d miss you too much.” He squeezes her against his side. “I’ll start acting like it. ‘Cos who knows where we’d be if you hadn’t shown up. Thank G– Satan you found me. So long as I’m not reincarnated into a dung beetle, promise me you’ll find me again in the next life, will you?”

Noodle wraps her arms around him, and he allows it.

“I’ll start sinning so I’ll be reincarnated as a dung beetle too, and we can live in the dirt together.”

Murdoc chuckles. “So my dad hates my music— big deal. For two people who started out on someone’s doorstep, we’ve done well for ourselves, haven’t we?”

“You may be short and fat, but you’re short and fat on TV ,” Noodle says, smiling devilishly as he nudges her.

“That’s why I got you and Russ— to make me look taller and skinnier,” he rustles her hair and she pulls her head away in protest. “Just promise you won’t get taller than me, you got that?”

“I’m gonna get taller than 2D just to spite you,” she says.

“Yeah, sure, the day you scrape five feet is the day I start betting on the ponies. Come on, let’s go get something to eat, and we’ll bring the old bastard a doggy bag despite his bad behavior. Help me up, love.”

Noodle stands up, brushes the dirt off her pants, and offers Murdoc a hand to pull him to his feet. They make their way back up the hill, the back of Murdoc’s black jeans covered in gray dust. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a small bottle, and twists off the top with his teeth, spitting it out into the mess of rocks.

“Forgive me, love, but I’ve been painfully sober most of this week, and I’m about ready to drink a glass of petrol for a light buzz right about now.”

Chapter Text

“Come in,” Murdoc’s voice says through the door. Noodle creaks it open, her blanket and two books in hand. Murdoc is sitting on the bed, hunched over a bunch of papers and Manila folders sprawled around him, a pen held in his teeth. He doesn’t look up at her when she enters, though he doesn’t seem to mind that she’s there.

“What do you need, love?” He asks, taking the pen out of his mouth.

“Uh, nothing, really,” Noodle says, quietly. “I just don’t like that room.”

“I can’t blame you,” Murdoc says. “Is it too cold in there?”

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to fix it, I don’t want to interrupt you.”

“I’d also like to not be doing what I’m doing,” Murdoc says. “I’ll fix it. That window doesn’t like to stay closed.” He starts to get up, but Noodle stops him.

“No, it’s fine. I’d just… is it okay if I stay in here for a bit?”

Murdoc looks at her for a moment, and she adds: “It’s alright if not. If you’re busy.”

“No, it’s fine,” Murdoc says. He gathers up some of the papers and piles them aside to make space, and Noodle takes their place. She looks around the room— she’s yet to see it for herself. It’s just as frozen in the ‘70s as the rest of the house, save for the blocky 12x12 TV on the dresser. The fine layer of dust implies no one’s been in this room for a while, either, as the first floor has been Sebastian’s domain for however long he’s been ailing. The sparse, tacky, gold-painted decor and chintzy curtains around the canopy bed fail to elevate the rest of the bare-bones furniture. In fact, the decorations look like swiped theater props, complete with a styrofoam skull on a shelf— poor Yorick.

“I never liked that room either,” Murdoc says. “What was bothering you? The clown statue?”

“The what ?” Noodle says, eyes wide.

Murdoc laughs. “Only joshing. Relax!”

“ Moh! What’d you do that for?”

“Ah, Jesus, you’re not sleeping in here ‘cos you’re too spooked, alright?” He puts a hand on her shoulder and gives it a little shake.

“‘Course not,” Noodle says, mostly assuring herself. “What are you doing?”

“I haven’t the bloodiest idea,” Murdoc says, flipping through some of the papers. “Reading a bunch of jargon, I suppose. Might be a little easier if my dad wasn’t such a slob about keeping these in order so I can figure out what’s-what. Christ, it’s hard being the smartest one in this family.”

“Don’t I know it,” Noodle says.

“You little shit,” Murdoc replies, but with a small smile that puts Noodle at ease. He sighs and shoves the papers and folders together and tosses them onto the nightstand. “I’m not gonna get through any of that tonight.” He lies back and throws one arm over his eyes. “Noodle, love, promise me that the moment the cheese slides off my cracker, you’ll take me out back like they did Ol’ Yeller. No reason to go through the rigamarole for my sake.”

“I can’t. You’re my ride home,” Noodle jokes, and Murdoc chuckles.

“Ah, yeah, we do just have to go home after all this,” Murdoc says, rubbing his face with both knobby hands. “Arghhhhh, no matter where I am, all I want to do is go home— even as a little tyke sitting in that room over there in the only place I’d ever known. Now I’ve been a lot of places, and when I want to go home, I still don’t know where that is.” He looks at her between his fingers. “They oughta not give me this house in the will. I’d burn it down the first chance I get. Every house I live in stinks of evil. Or maybe it’s just me.”

Noodle looks down at her book, tracing her thumb over the embossed lettering on the cover. “I came back to Kong because I was ready to go home. When I returned and it was empty, I thought maybe it’d feel like home again with you guys in it. But now I wonder if 'home' was something I took with me and forgot somewhere on a train in Osaka.” Noodle can hear the tremor in her voice and hopes fruitlessly that Murdoc doesn’t. “And I just want it back.”

Murdoc scrambles to sit up and pulls her into his arms, his hand cradling the back of her head as she lets hot tears stain his shirt. “Nononono, don’t cry,” he says.

“I don’t even know if I want it to be the way it was before,” Noodle croaks. “I just want the good parts. But I’m not the same person I was in the good parts, so I’ll never have them again.”

“You’ll have different good parts,” Murdoc says, rubbing her back. “Maybe even better. It’s not going to last forever, even though it feels like it. I don’t think my life began until I was far too late to join The Twenty-Seven Club, but you won’t have to wait that long. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Noodle says, and pulls away to look at him, her eyes red and locked with his. “I’m not waiting for the planets to align or whatever for everything to be okay. I need you to promise.”

Murdoc looks at her, mouth slightly agape as if he’s not sure what to say, and so she continues: 

“You know exactly what I mean. I need you to promise you’ll be better.”

Murdoc looks away shamefully. “I don’t really know if I have a good side.”

“That’s not true, and I’m not going to accept ‘it’s who I am’ as an excuse.”

“Look, I know I have my moments of clarity, but when I get angry, everything else flies out the window. You said it yourself, that no one else gets it. But I do! You know what it’s like to get so angry, it all goes red. It’s not that simple.”

“And I don’t want to be angry!” Noodle says. “That’s the thing, I don’t think we just ‘get angry,’ it’s just easier to be angry than sad.”

Murdoc looks back up at her, and after a moment, gives her a sad smile. “When did you get to be so smart?”

“I don’t want to be smart!” Noodle chokes as the tears well up again, throwing her fists down against the blankets. “I’m so tired of being smart! I wish I was stupid! Maybe then I’d be happy!”

Murdoc stifles a laugh and pulls her back into his chest. “You can be anything you want to be. Even stupid, if that’s what you’d like.”

“Would you still want me around if I was? What if I never made good music again? What if tomorrow I completely forgot how to play guitar and everything I wrote was utter nonsense? Would you still be proud of me if I wasn’t good at anything?”

“Sweetheart, I can’t say there’s a whole lot of people on this Earth I love unconditionally, as terrible as it sounds. I don’t have much patience for people who bore me and I expect them to prove their worth if I’m going to keep letting them hang around.” He takes her face in his rough hands. “But you don’t have to prove anything. You’re the only person in this band who gets to keep freeloading if you can’t pull your own weight. You think I’d let just anyone call me a dickhead and tell me to go fuck myself? I don’t care if your album flops or if you never make anything good again. Just keep making me laugh.”

Noodle sniffs. “What if I suck at that too?”

“I’m not worried.” Murdoc reaches behind him for the tissue box on the nightstand and tosses it onto the bed. “Now quit getting your snot on my shirt.”

Noodle pulls out a tissue and blows her nose. Murdoc tousles her hair and she sniffs, catching her breath with a wretchedly gummy “ghuh” sound. 

It’s all she ever wanted to hear, so what is this guilt that still looms in the pit of her stomach? Why should she deserve the grace he wouldn’t grant others? Still, the clouds have parted, and she ought to relish the eye of the storm while she’s in it.

“I think I broke my toe when I kicked the wall,” she says.

“Why didn’t you say anything!”

“They don’t do anything about a broken toe at the hospital, do they? You just wait for it to heal on its own?”

“Yeah, but we could’ve gotten you some Asprin or something!”

“What, and go through the embarrassment of telling you I broke my toe kicking a wall ‘cuz I was mad at you?”

“Tell you what, if you keep your yap shut about me crying like a bitch on a pile of dirt, I won’t say nothing about you breaking your toe throwing a tantrum.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything about you, anyway,” Noodle says. “But you’re an ugly crier.”

“Hey, I haven’t had a lot of practice in a while, I haven’t had time to get good at it,” Murdoc says. He lies back down once again, tucking one arm behind his head on the flat pillow. “Right, you’ve heard enough about my sad, sad childhood, and I’ve had more than enough of talking about it.” He pats the empty space beside him. “Tell me about Japan.”

“You really wanna hear about it?” Noodle asks.

“Love, you know I can’t feign interest very well. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care.”

Noodle sets her books aside, wraps herself in her blanket, and lays down.

“Do you want to hear about all of it or just the fun parts?”

“Whatever you want,” Murdoc says.

Noodle considers where to start– there are so many things she’s been dying to tell him about, it’s hard to fit them neatly into a beginning, middle, and end. Her heart’s still too heavy to tell him about what she learned about her past, so she tells him about the massive sculptural storefronts in Osaka, the botanical garden, the bullet trains, the stray cats she met in the neighborhood, the capsule hotels, her first sleepover with Kyoko and her friends– she even felt so bold as to share the time she kissed Kyoko on a dare. Murdoc got a good laugh out of her recalling the time she yanked a boy’s trousers down and threw them into a tree because the kid wouldn’t leave her alone. But for the most part, Murdoc would stay quiet, and when he’s quiet for too long, she’d trail off, afraid he’d lost interest until he’d prompt her with a “what else?”

Eventually, she looks over at him to see his eyes are closed. She stops talking, and sits up to turn off the light, but pauses once he stirs again.

“I’m still listening.”

Chapter Text

Noodle sleepily reaches up to clasp her hand around the wire-frame headboard to stretch, but finds her fingertips brushing against wood. She opens her eyes, the room dim. She’s still in the canopy bed, the sun blocked out as it tries to reach through the surrounding curtains, which had been pulled closed at some point while she slept. She rolls over, the space beside her empty with the quilt pulled up as if it had been vacant the whole time. The thick smell of coffee wafts under the door. The distant sounds of voices and activity downstairs tell her there’s still life in the house, and in the fogginess of half-sleep, wonders if Russel and 2D are awake.

Noodle sits up at the sound of approaching footsteps, brushing her fingers through her hair to unstick her bangs from her forehead. Murdoc pulls aside the edge of the curtain and Noodle cringes at the flood of light.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright, love,” he says. “I let you sleep in– actually got things done in the meantime. I was able to get a bunch of pesky phone calls out of the way.”

“What time is it?” Noodle asks, and answers her own question by glancing at the clock with a crack in its face on the bedside table. “Oh shit, it’s two-thirty?”

“Why? You got some important business to attend to?” Murdoc says. “If you sleep for eight hours, why’s it matter which eight?”

Noodle lets her hands flop into her lap in frustration. “I just hate waking up late, it makes me feel gross.”

“You are gross. You want something to eat?”

Noodle nods and slides out of bed, gathering up her blanket and books. “How’s… your dad today?” She asks quietly, as if Sebastian could hear her.

“Just as, but no more difficult than usual. That’s how it always is,” Murdoc shrugs. “He says something terrible and acts like nothing happened– formative memories for me, a Tuesday for him.”

Sounds familiar .

“What do we have to do today?” Noodle asks.

“I have to drop some thingamajigs off at Bobsyeruncle. Nothing you need to worry about. But if you’re ready in fifteen minutes, you can tag along with me and I’ll be so kind as to get you breakfast– unless you’d rather fend for yourself here.”

“I’ll be ready,” Noodle says, trying to avoid spending a minute more than is necessary in this house. At the very least, having to choose between being stuck in the car with Murdoc and trapped in the house with Sebastian doesn’t feel like a damned-if-you-do choice now, as Murdoc runs a quick, reassuring hand through her hair. 

He doesn’t allow the warmth of the gesture to linger, as he adds: “I’ll leave without you. I don’t have all day. Vamoose,” and points to the door.

With that, Noodle gathers a change of clothes from her backpack in the other room– cold to the touch, as if she’d kept them in the fridge rather than a former child’s bedroom, and hurries off to the bathroom. Though he threatens her with a time crunch, she figures he’s not entirely serious. Murdoc likely has just as many reservations about leaving her alone with Sebastian. As she brushes her teeth, she hears Murdoc’s footsteps descend the stairs, and considers how she’s going to fill the time when she inevitably has to leave him alone to do his bidding. She has two books to keep her company, sure, but it’s hard to focus when no place feels like it’ll welcome her to stay a while. This place makes her feel like a rabbit– never granting her enough peace to let her guard down. She spits her mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and looks back up at her reflection. She scrunches her face in annoyance at her forehead breaking out under her bangs. She brushes her fringe with her fingers to cover it. This sucks. She thinks. No wonder nobody likes you when you’re fourteen– you get ugly. How does anyone survive?  

As Noodle makes her way downstairs, tugging a sweater over her head, she can hear Murdoc and Sebastian bickering– not to an alarming degree, but bickering nonetheless. She keeps her vision locked straight ahead as she fetches her coat from the hooks in the foyer.

“I’m not changing my trousers just because you don’t like them, alright? I’m a grown man.”

“They got bloody sparkles on the arse! They’re women’s trousers!”

“They came from the men’s section! If they’re not meant for me, then why do they fit?”

“They don’t! Lewk, she’s got ‘em, too!”

Noodle stops in the middle of pulling her boots on to look up, as she feels Sebastian pointing her way from his usual velvet chair. She cranes her neck to look down at the rhinestoned pockets on the back of her jeans– pink, in the shape of butterflies.

“Well, they’re not the same,” Noodle says, sheepishly. “He doesn't have butterflies.”

“Ye got the same trousers as a li’l girl!” Sebastian continues.

“Well then, one of us is gonna have to change!” Murdoc rolls his eyes dramatically. “Come on, kid, get your shoes on.”

“Bah, there ya go– leavin’ me alone again. ‘Eaven forbid there’s any sorta emergency, I’ll just fend for meself, won’t I?”

“You have the nurse coming in twenty minutes. If you manage to croak by then, I’ll know you did it out of spite,” Murdoc says, tacking on the second part under his breath.

“Whassat?”

“We’ll be back in an hour or so,” Murdoc says, holding the door open to usher Noodle outside. “I’m taking her to get something to eat.”

“Issat kid attached to ye, or somethin’? She cont take care o’ hersen?”

“It’s part of my community service– if I don’t hold up my end and give her three meals a day and clean socks, they’ll put me back in the clink.”

“Dunna get smart wit me, boy!” Sebastian barks as Murdoc shuts the front door, leaving them in the temporary peace of the clammy outside. 

Murdoc lets out an exasperated sigh. “All morning,” he mutters. “Aren’t you glad I let you sleep through it?”

“ Haiiiiiiiii ,” Noodle sighs. Murdoc gives her a gentle pat on her shoulder and they descend the steps toward the car.

As they open their respective doors, Murdoc pauses and looks at her over the roof of the car. “Oi, love?” he says. Noodle picks up her head to look over at him.

“We’re cool for now, right?” He asks.

Noodle nods. “Yeah.”

“Until I do something stupid again, at least.”

“Don’t do something stupid, then.”

He picks up his hand and throws up a pair of devil horns as an affirmative. Noodle does the same, and they both duck into the leathery cigarette smell of the car.

It’s hard to make oneself at home in an unfamiliar house even under the best circumstances. Other peoples’ blankets are too scratchy and don’t keep you warm like the ones at home. Even at Kyoko’s house, Noodle didn’t feel like their couch molded to her shape until two months into her stay, and it was another month before she felt she could bring herself to put her sock-feet on the cushions. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could feel at home in this house– even those that lived here don’t. 

Despite the scowling walls and despondent floorboards, though, Noodle feels for a brief moment that the couch will allow her to coexist here, and spends a few hours with her books. It’s been quiet– Sebastian has reserved himself to watching his shows in the kitchen, and Murdoc has been keeping himself busy with the work he’d been putting off. From her brief glimpses of him, as he filters in and out of the living room, he’s in a lighter mood since yesterday at the quarry. He’s not jovial, by any means, but he doesn’t carry his sourness around with him like a rusty chain. At the very least, Noodle has once again found herself in his good graces, and she can park herself in the shade to rest. He even wordlessly tosses a Cadbury Egg into her lap upon his return from the bottle shop.

Perhaps, Noodle has lured herself into a false sense of security as she sits with both Murdoc and Sebastian– and their collection of empty bottles– at the dinner table. Sebastian has barely said a word to either of them since their return– which started out as a blessing, but now, in close proximity, his silence lingers like a cold front crawling in, and Noodle can feel it in her bones that the storm is coming. She pretends to read her book, but can’t focus with the TV on and the nervousness running amuck in her stomach.

Murdoc, edges sanded away by alcohol, might as well be standing on the porch watching the black clouds roll in.

“Yasee this stack o’ papers ‘ere? Finally got that sssssshit outta the way. Lewk ‘ow much I can get done when you’re on your best behavior,” Murdoc says, running his thumb down the edge of the stack.

“I’m tryina ‘ear the telly,” Sebastian growls.

Noodle restlessly bounces her knee under the table as Murdoc snaps the cap off another bottle against the edge of the counter, spilling a little, not bothering to wipe it up. She wonders if it’s a long-term habit here, as Sebastian doesn’t mention it either. It’s no wonder the room perpetually smells like the Tesco can-and-bottle-return.

“Can’t believe ya watch the gossip channels,” Murdoc says. “What, ya catch up wit the other owd biddies at Wednesday night bridge?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer, just glares ahead at the TV, his weak arm curled in his lap, and the other, more dangerous one, propped on the table.
Murdoc unearths his pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket– one with a mermaid-tailed pinup girl on it that Noodle swears she last saw on 2D’s dresser. He props his foot up on the empty chair beside him and lights a cigarette, ambivalent to Noodle’s presence. She makes a face of disgust that he doesn’t notice.

“Do they talk about me? ‘Ave anythin’ nice to say?” Murdoc continues. Sebastian turns up the TV. Murdoc ignores the cue– “ Oi, that boy o’ yours sure made a name for ‘imself after leaving this shithole. ‘Ee’s more famous than Lemmy from Motorhead !”

“I thought I told ye to shut your cakehole!” Sebastian snaps, and Murdoc throws up his hands in mock surrender.

“Fine, fine, I won’t talk to ya. Even though you’re bitchin’ and moanin’ ‘bout ‘ow I want nothin’ to do wit ya.” He turns to Noodle as if suddenly remembering she’s there and gives her a drunken smile. “Noodle’ll shoot the shit wit me, right Noodle?”

“I think we should get ready for bed,” Noodle says, side-eyeing Sebastian and closing her book.

“Agh, don’t let ‘im bother ya, love, just ‘cos ‘es got a ssssssstick up ‘is arse,” Murdoc says, leaning in to talk to her. The smell of tobacco and alcohol on his breath makes her cringe, and she doesn’t bother to hide it. “‘E’s got a problem wit me, imagine that!”

Sebastian’s lip curls. He feeds on misery, and Murdoc’s ease today, even if it’s just drunken peace, must have left him starving. 

“They say you’re a faggot.”

He pronounces the word like an icicle snapping off a gutter, yanking Murdoc back to attention and sending a sharp chill up Noodle’s spine, and the twinge makes her spill a drop of her juice as she raises her glass to her lips.

“Whassat?” Murdoc says.

“A faggot,” Sebastian repeats, and the chill quickly replaces itself with an unbearable heat in Noodle’s chest. “What, ye slow, too?”

Noodle shifts her eyes to Murdoc. If the accusation’s nicked him, he doesn’t show it as he stamps out the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray.

“The tabloids say ‘at ‘bout anyone when they got nothin’ better to blab about. Everyone knows ‘at,” he says.

“I’m not readin’ the bloody tabloids. I’m talkin’ about neighbors. The blokes down at the pub. They’ve always said it about ye.”

Murdoc shrugs. “If the neighbors are so invested in my sex life, they’d know how I pull birds like an ornithologist– issa bit of a moot point, innit?”

“So the tabloids ‘ave picked it up, too?” Sebastian says, turning his head to Murdoc.

“Look, if some horned-up pap is publishin’ their fantasies about me and calling it news, what am I s’posed to do about it?”

“Are ye a faggot or not?”

Noodle wraps her hands tighter around her glass until she might crush it in her palms, the heat rushing from her chest to her face, her anger threatening to boil over into– into what? What is she going to do about it? Knock his block off?

Murdoc spins the lighter on the table in circles with his fingertip nonchalantly– so exaggeratedly nonchalant. “No.”

“Lookit me when I ask ye a question,” Sebastian hisses.

Murdoc looks up to meet his glare with an equally sharp one. “I’m not . Christ, what’s it to ya?”

Sebastian slaps his palm down onto the lighter before Murdoc spins it around again. “Just another thing wit ye. Ye already find so many ways to be a disappointment, that might as well be one of ‘em.”

Murdoc gives a laugh that sounds a tad forced as takes the lighter back and flips it in the air, catching it. “Ah, you know how it is. My dad’s a man, my mum’s a woman— would it be any wonder if I turn out confused?”

“The ‘ell doessat mean?”

“Issa joke. Can’t all be winners, I guess. I’ll work on it.”

“Ye think arm jokin’?”

“Wwwwwwouldn’t dream of it,” Murdoc says, getting a little too sarcastic for his own good as he takes a long drink from his beer. He limply points a finger at Sebastian, his hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle. “Come to think of it, you gotta lotta nerve turnin’ around and callin’ me a fag now. After you made me wear those stupid costumes and dance around for your drinkin’ money ‘cos you cont get another role. What sense doessat make?”

Sebastian scowls and returns his attention to the TV. Perhaps he’s too tired to keep dogging Murdoc at this point, now that he’s too drunk to let cheap-shots phase him. Maybe he’s finally running low on ammunition. It seems as though he might actually drop the interrogation. That is until Noodle can feel him glance back at her out of the corner of his eye. 

“Does the kid know you’re a fag?” Sebastian hisses. Noodle tries to blow his head up with her stare over the top of her book. What’s he looking to gain, dragging her into his game? Was she mistaken when she thought she’d be in the clear because they don’t share blood? He has tried his damnedest to chew up Murdoc and spit him out, and Noodle may just be fresh meat.

If that’s the case, he has made a mistake thinking she’d lay down and take it.

“Have another drink, Sebastian,” she spits.

Sebastian yanks himself away from the TV in surprise. “What?”

“I said,” Noodle pointedly shuts her book. “You seem like you could use another drink.”

“Ye better not be gettin’ fresh wit me,” Sebastian growls, his brow furrowing in warning.

“I just don’t enjoy this conversation. That’s all,” Noodle says, seeping the words in as much poison as she can muster. She tries to hide the scarlet feeling rushing to her face as Sebastian gives her a shit-eating sneer.

“Sorry, duck. Wouldn’t wanna offend your sensibilities. Ye can go to bed if you’re so sensitive to it.”

Noodle looks down as Murdoc’s arm stretches out in front of her like an impromptu seatbelt.

“Don’t worry about ‘im, love,” Murdoc says, softly. “You can leave. You don’t have to get involved.”

Noodle curls her lip. Get involved? Sebastian’s the one who started it– was it some excuse to act self-righteous once he got a reaction? Because he can get a reaction if that’s what he wants. Noodle clenches her fists in her lap, trying not to let them shake. Her brain fires on all cylinders to come up with a witty retort, one that’ll knock this old man on his ass so hard there’s no coming back from it. She’s no stranger to wielding personal digs from her arsenal, and she’s more than ready to let her mouth get her into trouble– it just has to be good. She has to make it count. 

So why is nothing coming? It should be easy– he’s in the wrong. He’s got nothing but cheap shots left—spouting pejoratives and picking fights with a teenage girl. Where’s her cleverness? Any solid argument she’s got has turned to alphabet soup, her anger boiling the letters to mush. Say something. You look weak if you keep sitting there. Don’t fucking cry about it.

Noodle stands up and throws her palms down on the table, rattling the empty bottles.

“He’s the one being a fucking dickhead !”

Classy.

 Sebastian raises his eyebrows. “Murdoc, where’d this li’l girl learn to talk like that?”

Somehow, his indirectness is a bigger slap in the face than his lowly attempt to sink his claws into her.

“I got it from him ! Second and third English words I learned: Fuck. You! ”

Noodle lets a borderline-manic smile sneak into her expression upon seeing Sebastian’s shock. What the hell’s he so scandalized about? Suddenly, he’s clutching his pearls after slinging profanities during her whole stay. He’s got a lot of nerve.

Noodle spares a quick glance at Murdoc, looking for support. He seems just as shocked as Sebastian, but his expression is different– it’s mixed with something else, something hard to place– a combination she’d never seen on his face before: scandal, and unabashed glee.

“Hell yeah, she got it from me!” he says. His twinkle of pride is quickly stamped out, however, as Sebastian swats him in the temple.

“If I ‘ad a daughter, I’d’a made sure she knew better than to talk back!” Sebastian says, throwing his glare directly at Noodle like the barrel of a gun. “And I wunt let ‘er dress like a whore!”

Before Noodle can summon a retort, a defense, a noise, anything– a bottle rockets into the wall behind Sebastian, bits of brown glass flying every which way in a cloud of shrapnel. 

“Son of a bitch !” Sebastian hollers.

“Don’t you fucking talk about my kid that way! Don’t you fucking think about her that way! From this point forward, don’t you even look at her!”

Murdoc is now standing over his father, his fingers curled into the scratched-up wood of the table like a raven’s talons. The other hand jabs a finger at Sebastian’s face, so close, his sharp nail nearly threatens the tip of his nose.

“I don’t give a rat’s arse how sick you are– if you so much as breathe in her direction, I will kill you myself! You can dog me around all you want– I’ll be out of here in a few days and you can’t get to me anymore, so do your worst! But you leave my fucking kid alone! I might be a huge piece of shit because I was drug up by a huge piece of shit, but I’m not going to let anyone talk about her like that! Which is more than you ever did for me!”

“Talk about ‘er like what ?” Sebastian says incredulously.

“Don’t you play stupid– I have even less patience for stupid!”

Murdoc reaches out and takes Noodle’s arm, firmly, but not aggressively, and pulls her away from the table to stand behind him, planting himself firmly between her and his father.

“All I’m sayin’ is ye oughta teach the girl some manners!” Sebastian says.

“ Haw! That’s really something, coming from you! All she needs to learn is how to tell any cretin that looks at her the wrong way to go fuck themselves, and I think she can do that just fine!” He turns to Noodle and ushers her out of the kitchen. “C’mon, love, you don’t need to hear anything else this old bastard has to say.”

Sebastian glowers at them as Murdoc starts leading Noodle away, but his look suddenly shifts– something has occurred to him. He straightens his posture, relaxes his shoulders as if Murdoc’s domineering act no longer phases him. He has found something buried at the bottom of his arsenal, something to hurt him in a last-ditch effort to do his worst– just as Murdoc demanded.

“I get it. You’re still ‘ung-up on that… that whole thing about the waitress, issat it?”

Noodle feels Murdoc’s hand tighten around her shoulder as he halts like his body’s turned to ice. Sebastian must have stabbed somewhere deep, deep within him, because she doesn’t know what it means, but it’s clearly clotheslined Murdoc’s nerve.

“One o’ your ways o’ lookin’ for attention,” Sebastian continues. “Ya made us all lewk bad.”

Noodle looks back up at Murdoc. The color has drained from his face as if he’s about to be sick, his eyes staring ahead at nothing in particular. She gives his sleeve a tug, hoping to pull him back down to Earth so they can get away as swiftly as possible.

“Murdoc, come on,” she whispers.

“You’re makin’ a big deal out o’ nothin’, again.”

Noodle turns around and pulls on his arm, now trying to lead him out of the situation.

“Murdoc, come on,” she pleads. “He’s full of shit. Don’t listen to him.”

“Whassat, girl?”

Noodle peers around Murdoc. “It’s Noodle . And I said you’re full of shit. Stick it up your ass.”

“Issat all ye know ‘ow to talk? Swearin’ like a sailor?” Sebastian brushes her off with a wave of his good hand. “Go on. Go put ‘im to bed and let ‘im wallow outta me sight. I conna stand it.”

Noodle finally prompts Murdoc to move, and he steadies himself with his hand on the doorway as they make their way to the stairs.

“ Ye better be a good daughter, ” Sebastian’s voice trickles from the other room. “ ‘Cos you’re prolly gonna be doin’ the brunt o’ the parentin’ for both o’ ye. ”

As they reach the staircase, Murdoc motions for Noodle to keep going as he lingers at the bottom of the stairs.

“You go sleep in the big bed again,” he says, quietly.

“What about you?” Noodle asks.

“I’m not gonna be in there tonight.”

“Where are you gonna sleep?”

“I… I gotta go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back. But I can’t… I can’t be here.”

Noodle grabs his sleeve. “Please don’t go anywhere. It’ll be okay.”

“No…no… I just have to go.”

“Then I’ll go too!”

“No, I don’t want you there!” He puts both hands on her shoulders, but won’t meet her gaze. “It’s nothin’ to do with you. I promise. It’s for your sake too. I’ll be back. Just make yourself comfortable in the room. I’ll be back. I won’t go far. I just need to be somewhere else. I promise. I’m sorry.”

Noodle throws both arms around him tightly, ignoring the sweaty, ashy smell of his shirt. “Please!”

Murdoc yanks himself free from her embrace as if it burns him. “I need to be alone! For real this time! Don’t. Follow me.” Seeing the hurt in her face at his knee-jerk reaction, he takes her face in his trembling hands. “I’m sorry.” He plants an uncharacteristic kiss on top of her head, and it suddenly occurs to her that she can’t remember the last time he’d done that. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

Before Noodle can protest, he turns and absconds for the door, grabbing his leather jacket slumped on the arm of the couch on his way out. She watches him leave with her heart sunken down to her pained feet but doesn’t follow, as per his wishes. She feels as if the creaky wooden stairs have turned to putty, keeping her stuck in place– unable to follow, but unable to go up to the room. As she hears the car door’s distant thump , she closes her eyes and takes a breath. She lifts her good foot at glacial speed, gripping the railing with both hands, and gently lifts the hurt one to follow, taking the first step upstairs. She incrementally does it again, and again, and again, until she finally finds herself at the top of the stairs. She pushes the door open, flicks on the light, and drags herself to bed, the blankets on her side still disheveled, as if waiting to welcome her form once more.

Chapter Text

Noodle creeps as softly as she can past Sebastian sleeping in his chair, his chin touching his chest, and she hopes he won’t hear the creak of the floorboards through his own snoring. The hour is newly blue– the sun has not made itself known yet, but night is coming to an end. The only thing worse than a night filled with one nightmare after another, are ones where you can only close your eyes and wait for daybreak, no matter how exhausted you are. It’s one of those nights, and Noodle has waited long enough for sleep that will not come. She could have sworn she had heard the front door about an hour ago, but her body had been too tired to get up and confirm for herself. She wraps her blanket tighter around her shoulders like a cloak as she cracks the kitchen door open.

Relief finally washes over her body like frigid aloe on a burn when she peers into the kitchen to see Murdoc, slumped forward onto the kitchen table with his head resting on his bent arm. She approaches him gently, debating whether she should wake him for her own peace of mind, or let him sleep dreamlessly a little longer. After looming over him for a minute, she finally decides on the former and reaches for his shoulder.

Murdoc inhales sharply and scrunches his face at the sudden pain of consciousness. He groans as he brings his hand to his face to rub his forehead. “Jesus Christ…” he mutters.

“Sorry,” Noodle whispers. “I just wanted to know you’re okay.”

“No,” he rasps, quietly. “But I’ll live. Just leave me be.”

Noodle wrings her hands, her eyes flitting around the room. The mess from last night is still there, from the sticky floor to the broken glass. There is a gash in the wallpaper from the point of impact, like a wound. It feels irresponsible to leave it be– at least the broken glass littering the dark hardwood. She picks up the broom leaning against the corner and starts to sweep the glass, the shards clinking against each other.

“No, stop, stop,” Murdoc growls, clutching his head. “No noise. Just go.”

“Sorry,” Noodle says, and props the broom against the counter. She tries to shuffle as quietly as possible toward the doorway, but stops and turns on her way out. “I just couldn’t stand being alone anymore.”

“I’ll be up. Just go.”

Noodle nods and makes her way back upstairs, as Murdoc covers his eyes to block out the rising sun, letting himself fall back into the void– it’s not a comfortable darkness, but it’s favorable to the splitting headache that awaits.

As the birds outside the window begin their ritual chirping and rouse him once again, Murdoc picks his head up, slowly. When he drags himself from his thousand-year slumber to greet his impending hangover, a subtle weight falls off his shoulders. He pries his eyes open to see Noodle’s blanket slump limply off his back. Before him, sitting on the table amidst the empty bottles is a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water.

It’s almost cute that she thinks that might be enough to fix the hole of pain he’ll have to claw his way out of, but at least he can take it as a sign that she doesn’t resent him.

It was too late to cancel the show by the time Noodle could feel the ache in her bones and the heat crawling up her back, so she didn’t mention it. She let her muscle memory take over the performance, and ignored the vexing, dry scratch at the back of her throat for the sake of the backup vocals– even though she couldn’t jump around on stage as usual when she had to focus all her energy on standing up. It was a grueling hour of hot stage lights, floor-shaking noise, and a screaming crowd that needed her to keep going. 

It wasn’t until they finally got to disappear backstage that her knees gave out from under her, and she finally dropped to the floor with exhaustion, her head spinning and her stomach trying to claw its way out of her body. She could sense the commotion, the distant voices clamoring on top of each other in a mess of English she can’t decipher. She feels Russel’s strong hands, sweaty from the long and arduous set, scoop her up to carry her.

“Right! Out of the way!” Murdoc barks. “Can’t you see we got a sick girl here? Move or be moved!”

“Is she okay? What happened?” 2D frets behind them, stumbling to keep up.

“Shut up and give her space, Faceache!”

Noodle squeezes her eyes shut and buries her face in Russel’s chest. It’s all too loud. Murdoc shouts demands at stagehands, her brain too foggy to make out exactly what he’s saying— all she knows is that it hurts her head.

As they reach the outside, the cold night air offers slight relief from the fever taking over her small body. 

“I don’t care what you tell ‘em, there’s not gonna be a bloody meet-and-greet!” Murdoc says to a faceless someone as Russel tucks Noodle into the back seat of a car.

“Let her lie down. Just hold onto her, Dee.”

2D’s lap is bony under her head, but his long piano fingers are cool against her forehead.

“Yeah, well, if they truly love and adore us, they’ll get over it. If they want a second album, they’ll have to let us take care of our guitarist. Now scram— we gotta get her back to the hotel.”

Murdoc hops in the driver’s seat beside Russel and shuts the door roughly.

“She’s not buckled in, so try not to Tokyo Drift the corners, Muds.”

“Russ, notice how only this side of the car’s got a wheel and pedals? Let me fuckin’ get us there, will ya?”

Noodle turns over onto her side, the heat now turning to an internal chill that makes her shiver. 2D rubs her arm gently.

“‘S gonna be okay, Miss Lady, alright? We’ll take care of you.”

The car ride’s fuzzy, and so is the return to the hotel. She doesn’t recall how long it took or when it happened, but somehow, she finds herself tucked into one of the queen-sized beds, a wet washcloth on her forehead and her stuffed monkey tucked under her arm. The air conditioning must be on full blast– too cold, and yet she’s sweating under the covers. No matter how tightly she tries to curl up, the chill seems to be coming from the inside. 2D’s hand graces her clammy forehead.

“She’s still shakin’, but she feels hot,” 2D says.

Noodle feels the mattress sink down on the other side as Russel leans down beside her.

“Is she awake?”

Noodle musters a noise of affirmation.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Russel says, softly. “Are you too hot? Too cold? Anything I can get you?”

“Hnnmm,” Noodle groans. “Shiranai…”

Russel rubs her back. “Murdoc’ll be back soon with medicine, okay?”

“Is she alright? Do you know what’s wrong?” 2D asks.

“It’s flu season,” Russel says as he stands up. “Hopefully that’s all it is.”

2D sits up at the sound of the door unlocking, and Murdoc enters with an armful of paper bags, which he loudly thumps down onto the table.

“I got us enough shit to cure anything, so long as it’s an over-the-counter problem. And then some, so if anyone’s dreadfully hungover, we’ll be covered for that too. Reckon she wouldn’t want a Bloody Mary?”

“Muds, if you stopped to get a fuckin’ mixer, there won’t be any kind of medicine to fix the world of hurt I’ll put you in.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t! I’m only joshing. Christ, I nearly had to elbow some geriatrics out of the way to get in-and-out of there as quickly as I could.”

Murdoc rustles around in one of the bags and tosses a bottle to Russel, the pills inside clacking when Russel catches it.

“Even got the little bugger a sweet for when she feels good enough to not yak it back up everywhere.”

“Did you happen to get a couple of ‘em?” 2D asks. “For anyone else?”

“It’s not all about you, Faceache. Why don’t you make yourself useful and fetch some ice?”

2D begrudgingly gets up and retrieves the ice bucket. Murdoc swats him on the back of the head on his way out.

“Try not to get lost.”

Russel jostles Noodle’s shoulder. “Can you sit up for me, sweetheart?”

Noodle obliges, wincing. Russel hands her a glass of water and holds out his palm with two orange pills.

“You think you can swallow these?”

Noodle weakly picks them up. She’s never taken a pill before, but 2D takes them all the time without water or complaint, so it should be doable. She puts them in her mouth, and cringes at the bitter, chalky taste. She quickly tries to wash them down, but they stick in her throat on the way down, making her gag.

“Nononono, don’t be sick!” Murdoc pleads.

Russel pats her back. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says.

Though she’s somewhat successfully swallowed the pills, the lingering unpleasant sensation is the final straw on top of the overwhelming ickiness of it all, and she starts to whimper. Russel immediately wraps his arms around her, stroking her hair. As his deep, velvet voice offers reassurances, Murdoc stands off to the side, looking, for the first time in this whole ordeal, unsure. He remains close by, as if trying to be readily available, but he wrings his hands awkwardly as if he doesn’t know what he should be readily available to do. He has already ventured out to raid the drugstore for anything they might need, there are no stagehands at which to bark orders, and he can’t boss 2D around until he returns with the ice bucket. Even then, what else could he command of him? If there was anything else to be done, he’d do it himself. As Russel takes up the task of comforting Noodle, Murdoc can only stand around. 

“Anything I can get you, love?” Murdoc offers. “Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”

Noodle can’t think of an answer– all she wants is for the pain to go away, but there’s nothing anyone can do but wait. Crying into Russel’s shirt is as suitable a relief as she can get, even if it only makes her head hurt more.

“Did you feel sick before the show?” Russel asks. Noodle nods and Russel shoots Murdoc a look. “If you didn’t put so much pressure on her–”

“Woah, woah, woah! How was I supposed to know she was sick? You can’t just scapegoat me every time something bad happens and you can’t fix it!”

“You don’t think she said nothin’ because she thought you’d get mad at her?”

“So now you’re mad at me over a hypothetical situation? You’re blaming me for something that didn’t even happen in the first place!”

Noodle buries her face in Russel’s chest and cries harder– now they’re arguing over her, and for what? It won’t make her get better faster.

“Look, you started this argument in front of her and now you’re upsetting her,” Murdoc says.

Before Russel can reply, the door handle rattles as 2D struggles to open it. Murdoc rolls his eyes and opens the door for him, and 2D stumbles in as though he was pushing his whole body against the door before it moved out from under him. Upon seeing Noodle in tears, he thrusts the ice bucket into Murdoc’s hands. 

“Oh! What’s the matter? Are you alright?” he says as he rushes to her side.

Murdoc watches them dote on her, his mouth twisted, and he plunks the bucket down on the table beside the makeshift apothecary.

“Well, if there’s nothing else for me here, I’ll be back.”

“Where the hell are you going?”

“To see a man about a horse,” Murdoc snaps, pulling on his jacket. “I’ll be back, I’m sure you tw… Russel can be trusted to take care of her. Call me if there’s an emergency.”

And with that, he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only a faint smell of sweat and cigarettes in his place.

“Brilliant. I bet that tosser is going out to drink,” 2D mutters.

“Let him. We can handle it on our own,” Russel says. He sighs. “He did get us out of there quickly, and went back out and got her medicine. He did what was required of him. All we can do now is wait for the Tylenol to kick in and hopefully she’ll start to feel better. I’ll go get her some tissues.” He gently releases her as he heads for the bathroom, and 2D takes over cradling her in his arms.

“Yeah, I know what it’s like,” 2D says. “It sucks. But you’ll be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”

Noodle sniffs as Russel brings her the box of tissues from the bathroom. They’re the thin, sandpapery kind, but they do the job. “Arigato.”

Eventually, the medicine starts to work, the allover ache begins to dissipate, and her temperature settles on a more manageable hotness. Once she’s comfortable enough, Russel and 2D tuck her in, turn the lights off, and opt to share the adjacent bed to give her ample space to stretch out and kick the covers on and off as needed. She’s still too hot to doze off, but she closes her eyes and hopes sleep will sneak up on her anyway. 

After an uncertain number of hours, she picks up her head upon hearing the door unlock. She squints as the light from the hallway intrudes upon the dark room, and Murdoc’s silhouette makes its appearance. He enters as quietly as he can, but she can hear the crinkling sound of a plastic bag. He turns his head when he sees her shape move in the dark.

“I didn’t wake you, did I, love?”

Noodle shakes her head.

“Sorry I was gone so long. I drove all over looking for a place that was open.”

He approaches her bed and sets the bag down on the side table. From the bag, he unearths a plastic takeout container of something liquid.

“You like the vegetable kind, right?”

“Soup?”

“Unless you’d prefer a rack of ribs, yeah,” he says. “I’ll put it aside for you.”

Noodle nods. “Thank you.”

“Is it alright if I sit?”

Noodle moves aside and he sits down beside her. He doesn’t say anything else at first, but picks up his hand, bringing it to her forehead slowly, as if hesitant about the action.

“You feel better?”

“Little.”

“Good,” he says, nodding. “That’s good.” He holds his hands between his knees and is quiet for another moment. “Did you think I was gonna be mad if you said you felt sick?”

Noodle doesn’t answer. She looks down at the blanket, not sure if she should.

Murdoc sighs and runs his hand through his bangs. “Listen, kid. From this point forward, just tell us if you’re not feeling well. I promise I won’t get mad.”

“You get mad at 2D,” Noodle says, softly. “When he is sick.”

“It’s ‘cos he’s got a problem with the pills and he’s supposed to be able to handle himself, but sometimes he doesn’t,” Murdoc says, letting an inkling of frustration seep through, but quickly pushes it back down. “I’m sorry if that gave you a bad impression. But I won’t get mad at you.” He looks away as he adds: “My dad used to make me do a lot of things I didn’t wanna do. No matter how bad I felt. I won’t make you do that. Because I know you’re a good kid. And you’re smart. You work hard. I know you wouldn’t make it an excuse. So don’t hurt yourself.” He looks at her again and wraps one arm around her shoulders. “Besides, what good is my band if they’re dropping like flies?”

Noodle kicks the blanket from her legs and props herself up on her knees to wrap her arms around him. He tenses up under her touch, but allows it, and pats her back.

“Thank you,” Noodle says.

“Of course, love.”

Chapter Text

Murdoc’s reflection shaves his face while Noodle brushes her teeth beside him in the cramped frame of the bathroom mirror. She’d grown tired of waiting for him to finish and vacate the lone sink, and since the door was open, she decided it meant she was welcome to get ready alongside him. He didn’t kick her out, at least.

Instead, he greeted her with something new, but slipped it so casually it might as well be one of his usual greetings: “Ayup, duck.”

They hadn’t exchanged many words since yesterday morning, but that's okay. Once Murdoc shook off his hangover enough to work, he returned to business as usual, manifesting once in a while between tasks to tend to his father before leaving again. In the meantime, Noodle had kept herself busy cleaning as unobtrusively as she could, which wasn’t much, but it made her feel helpful. If her presence ever bothered Sebastian, he did not say so, seated on his usual velvet throne in front of the TV. No one said anything about the other night. What is there to say?

Murdoc tilts his head to shave his jaw, twisting his mouth to the side and pulling the skin taught with his fingertips. His razor strokes are impatient, evidenced by the small cuts he always ends up with. As he nicks himself again, he hardly pauses to twitch from the sting before rinsing the blood and moving on. If there’s a tactic to it, it doesn’t seem as important to him as eliminating any trace of a patchy beard before anyone can notice it’s not in his genes to grow a half-decent one.

Noodle spits her toothpaste into the sink and wipes the white from her lips with her sleeve. 

“I wish I could trade getting a period for just shaving every couple of days,” she says, partly an empty complaint, partly a test to see if it’ll scandalize him.

“They make a jab for that,” he says, unscandalized. “But that’s a much bigger discussion.”

“Which would you rather have to do?”

“I don’t envy you, I’ll tell you that for nothing.” He runs the razor under the faucet, washing the stubble down the drain, before moving on to his chin. “If there’s anything being back here has reminded me, it’s how much it sucked being that age. And I didn’t have to bleed for it.” He winces as he catches his skin in the blades again. “Well, not in the same way. When I was your age, we didn’t have Gameboys and Rrrrrrrrotten-dot-com. We had to go outside and run with scissors for fun.”

“You can remember being my age?” Noodle says, smiling slyly. “Was that before or after the Big Bang?”

“Watch it, kid,” Murdoc says, flicking water at her face.

Noodle leans closer to her reflection to style her bangs with her fingers, but watches Murdoc as he shaves the rest of his face. As mundane as the ritual may be, it’s one she’s stuck watching from the outside. Sure, Kyoko shaved her legs, and so did Kyoko’s friends. Noodle supposes she might be obligated to as well, but no one’s told her to do so, so what’s the rush to start? It’s not the same, anyway. Something about the gesture looks like it should feel important— jutting out your chin, tight-lipped, elbow drawn upward and crooked like a flex to draw clean rectangular paths in the shaving cream. To show a new face to the world. A cut in the process can be worn like a battle scar. Bending over nude in the shower to try and convince everyone you never had leg hair doesn’t hold the same appeal.

“I wanna try it,” Noodle says.

“Why?” Murdoc cocks an eyebrow as he tackles the stubble on his upper lip in short, quick strokes.

“It looks satisfying. Show me how.”

Murdoc bends down to splash his face from the cold tap, then reaches for the hand towel to dry off, coming up as clean-shaven as he could be, given his impatience. He doesn’t question the request further— anything to postpone going downstairs to start the daily rigamarole, perhaps. He opens the cabinet behind the mirror to scrounge through the sparse toiletries he brought with him until he finds a fresh razor. He hands her the canister of Barbisol.

“I know it’s tempting, but you don’t need the whole can, just a little.”

As Noodle smears the shaving cream across her cheeks, she can’t help but giggle at the ridiculousness. 

“I should offer a disclaimer: I taught myself through trial and error. Well, Hannibal showed me first, but he could barely grow anything more than a piddly mustache, so I had to figure out on my own that shaving against the grain on your chin gives you a dreadful razor burn. So go down, not up.”

Noodle scrunches her face in the mirror, trying to pull her manliest sailor-face as she follows his directions. 

“Slow down so you don’t cut yourself. Do as I say, not as I do.”

While her masculine posturing doesn’t fool anyone, especially herself, the ritual is kind of soothing. The clean smell and the smooth paths drawn by the razor— she could imagine putting on a suit and slicking back her hair to walk around with her shoulders squared like she’s all that and a bag of crisps.

When the last of the foam is cleared away, she leans over and splashes her face with the shock of cold water, and Murdoc offers her the dry side of the hand towel.

“I think it actually feels smoother,” Noodle says, rubbing her cheeks with her fingertips. “Feel my face, it’s so smooth.”

“It was like that the whole time. You’re young and have yet to be put through the wringer,” Murdoc says, but runs the back of his fingers across her cheek anyway. “Nice job. Come on, we’ve wasted enough time.”

“What are you doing today?”

“The Will,” Murdoc responds as if it’s an errand as dull as picking up bread. “There’s some joke in there about getting a Niccals in front of a lawyer, but agh, I don’t care to think of anything clever.”

Noodle nods and doesn’t ask further. She doesn’t quite know what that process would realistically entail but can conclude it might be too much to ask. Though she still has plenty of questions tumbling around inside her that are too much to ask, they itch at her regardless. The week is almost over. Once it’s over, they still have a three-and-a-half-hour drive home to where Russel and 2D await, plenty of time to bombard him with questions. It’s unlikely he’ll want to bring this week home with him, and will never speak of it again if he can help it. But it's her week too. It’s a misery, but a misery shared, something that’s just for them and no one else. And that’s fine with her. She’ll probably never need to shave her face again, either, but it’s nice to be taught something. Just for the sake of having someone take your hand and guide you through, and tell you you’ve done a good job.

Chapter Text

Noodle hears the front door open and shut from the solace of the Brothers Niccals’ old bedroom, and listens in for subsequent voices. She hears Murdoc’s familiar bootsteps and Sebastian’s slow, shuffling steps punctuated by the thump of a cane. Though the cane has been at his side the whole time, the sound of its use almost surprises her. Of course, he had to travel between his seat in the kitchen and his seat in the living room somehow, but the transition always seemed to happen out of her sight. As far as she’s concerned, he simply manifests throughout the house like a vampire.

Their voices do not carry throughout the house as they normally would– they arrive in silence. Noodle gambles the risk of intruding, and decides to crack open her door to peer over the railing.

Sebastian claims his usual spot in his velvet chair, cane clasped between his fingers, as Murdoc turns on the TV for him. It’s hard to tell if their mutual silence is cold or neutral. Noodle scurries back to her bed by the window to look like she wasn’t snooping as Murdoc starts making his way up the stairs. He knocks.

“Come in,” Noodle replies.

Murdoc opens the door but remains in the doorway. His hand rests heavily on the doorknob, weary, but without tension. If he’s just finished fighting with Sebastian stage-left, he’s at least left it behind. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” he says, flatly, without fanfare.

“Really?” Noodle says, trying not to sound too excited since he isn’t sharing her enthusiasm.

“Everything’s taken care of. Someone just has to look after him for the time being until…” Murdoc motions a "you know" gesture with the unlit cigarette between his knuckles.

“So who’s gonna be staying here?” Noodle asks, a tinge of worry in her chest that it might be him, which would throw a monkey wrench into their progress— with the album, of course.

Murdoc rubs his eye with the side of his hand. “Hannibal. I bailed him out. I already squared away the things that he’d fuck up, now all he has to do is be here and handle him day by day.” He leans against the doorframe. “I suppose he still gets the short end of the stick, doesn’t he?”

“Does that mean he’s coming here?” Noodle asks, her curiosity piquing the more she hears about this elusive third Niccals— the final point in the Unholy Trinity.

“Not till tomorrow. We’ll be gone by then,” Murdoc says. “He wouldn’t want to see me. Not after what I said the last time I saw him. It was a long time ago, but… you know. You know how I can be. But after today, I’ve made it up to him. Or at least, he won’t be able to say I never did nothing for him.”

“What do you mean?” Noodle presses further.

“I’ll tell you some other time. I’m a bit wiped. Gonna go have my ciggy, think I’ve earned myself a pint as well.”

Murdoc gives her a two-fingered salute and takes his leave, closing the door behind him but leaving it slightly ajar.

He’s got a lot of nerve being so vague and leaving her with more questions. Still, it’s a relief knowing that by tomorrow night, she’ll be asleep in her own bed, and when she’ll inevitably have to tiptoe around other peoples’ tempers, they’ll at least be predictable. It is inevitable, though, and she wonders how long Murdoc will keep his promise to her. It’s nice to have found an ally against a common enemy, but what if they’re joined only by circumstance? When they return to Kong, will it be back to business as usual? He seems dead-set on leaving any baggage from this house behind— will that include everything he’s promised her?

Noodle closes her book and decides to brave the downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. Since he’d been firmly instructed not to talk to her, Sebastian hasn’t bothered her, and he doesn’t avert his gaze from the TV as she walks past him into the kitchen to turn the kettle on. As she waits for the water to boil, she and Sebastian feign intense focus on their individual tasks, as if the TV and kettle require careful supervision. They pretend to ignore each other, until Sebastian finally breaks the agreement to silence:

“To think– arm dyin’ and they want nothin’ to do with me,” he says, not looking at her, but who else would he be talking to? Noodle doesn’t respond, partly because she hopes he won’t continue, mostly because she has no idea how.

“After all I did for ‘em. ‘E dunt even want me money. I wunt give it to ‘im, but ‘e said ‘e dunt want it. Fine by me. ‘E wanna pretend I never did nothin’ for ‘im and save ‘is pride.”

Noodle stares at the kettle as if she can coax it to boil faster, and Sebastian continues.

“I know ‘Annibal got heesen locked up to get away from me. As soon as things get difficult, ‘e runs off, even if it means leavin’ me to rot. Ungrateful bastards. The both of ‘em. I ‘ad to give up everything I wanted to raise ‘em, and they conna wait for me to go. And this is where me bloodline ends. Two sorry sonsabitches who conna do nothin’ rate. And they blame me for it.”

As the kettle finally starts to whistle, Noodle quickly switches the burner off and pours her cup, spilling a bit of water on the counter in her haste.

“Arm gonna be stoon jed and no one’ll miss me. No matter. ‘E thinks time wunna come for ‘im too. Karma’ll get ‘im. ‘E’s gonna end up just like me, at the rate ‘e’s goin’. And I’ll see ‘im in ‘ell. I’ll be waitin’.”

Noodle carries her tea as carefully as she can as she walks briskly back to her room to escape his morose soliloquy, but his words follow her up the stairs.

“ ‘E’s never gonna change, duck. Dunna get your ‘opes up. ”

Chapter Text

Noodle bounces her leg as she holds the Motorola Razr to her ear and waits for the other end to pick up. Murdoc busies himself outside the car with his cigarette, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, waiting to get his phone back.

Just when it seems she might get the voicemail box, she hears the welcome sound of Russel’s deep, dulcet voice.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Hi, Russel! It’s me!” Noodle says— cringing on the inside from the childish lilt it came out with. It doesn’t bother Russel in the slightest, though, as his tone sweetens upon realizing who’s calling.

“Sweetheart! How’s it going over there? You doing okay? Do I have to kick his ass for you?”

“No, no, I’m okay. In spite of everything, he’s been on his best behavior,” Noodle says, leaning to get a better glimpse of Murdoc to check on him, and scrunches her face upon catching him turning his head to indiscreetly ogle a woman walking by. Not worth the effort to chastise him, she continues: “I’m just calling to let you know we’re coming home tomorrow.”

“That’s great, baby. We’ve missed you, here.”

Of course, he has to say she’s been missed— it’s only customary. Still, hearing it makes her heart twinge with something, though she’s not sure what. Perhaps time does move for someone besides her.

“How’s uh, how’s his dad doing?” Russel asks.

“Ah, he’s… fine,” Noodle says, unsure as to what “fine” is even relative. “His brother, Hannibal’s gonna be taking over when we leave.”

“I thought he was in jail?”

“He’s out on bail,” Noodle answers, leaving the details amorphous since there’s the matter of money, and she’s not sure how much it cost Murdoc— and by extension, the band. “But Murdoc says everything’s taken care of.”

“And you’re okay?” Russel asks.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

“I dunno,” Russel says. “I just worry, you know? Since I’m not there. I can’t do nothin’ for you if you needed me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“‘Course I do,” Russel says, softly. “You wanna talk to Dee?”

An uneasiness rears its head in Noodle’s stomach. She didn’t even give him a proper goodbye before she left. He hasn’t tried to call— surely if he wasn’t still sore, he would’ve called. “If he wants to,” Noodle says, blank on what she’d say if he didn’t. She wouldn’t blame him, but it would be a crushing blow.

“He’s right here.” She can hear Russel’s voice, more distant as he takes the phone away from his ear to beckon 2D, followed by the shuffling sound of the phone exchanging hands.

“‘Ello?”

“Hey, Two-dee ,” Noodle says, now intentionally more sugary. “How have you and Russel been holding down the fort?”

“Oh, uh, we’re fine. We haven’t uh, gotten ‘round to cleanin’ though, sorry.”

He doesn’t seem to be sulking, but anything less than joyous relief in his voice is making her nervous.

“That’s okay. It’ll be nice to be home tomorrow, anyway. Did I tell you? That we’re coming back?”

“Oh, good,” he says– simple as that as if they’ve been no further apart than a quick errand. That burning feeling starts bubbling up in her chest again. He probably didn’t even know she was gone. Probably too wrapped up in his own little world to pick his head up and notice anything was missing. Noodle quickly stamps out the flame before she can whip out accusations, instead opting to try and prompt a more excitable response.

“We should watch a movie when I get back. You have any good ones in mind?”

“Well, I have some bad ones in mind.”

The affirmative puts her heart a little more at ease, and the flame shrinks to mere candlelight. “Fine by me. We haven’t watched anything of note, good or bad, this whole week. No wonder Murdoc’s such a grouch about coming back home— he only gets the boring channels, here.”

2D makes a noise that sounds like a small laugh— not a real one since it wasn’t that funny, but one of acknowledgment that a joke was attempted. It suffices in easing the tension. He shifts gears after a brief pause, as if unsure about his next question. 

“Murdoc’s dad, he uh, he wasn’t mean to you at all, was he? I mean, just cos I know he’s not nice. Not that I know him, but from what I’ve heard.”

Noodle shrugs, even though he can’t see it through the phone. “He’s cranky. I’m not taking it personally. I see why Murdoc is the way he is, though.”

“A dickhead,” 2D fills in, as if it was ever unclear. His tone turns quickly, though, like he’s afraid Murdoc could have heard him from three hours away. “Um, you know, cranky, I guess, like you said. Prolly can’t help it.”

Noodle laughs along to ease his anxiety, but not without a twinge of guilt. It’s been a while since Murdoc’s felt like anything but an unwelcome poltergeist— like everything would be fine if it weren’t for him snuffing out the lights, rattling the kitchen cabinets, throwing the furniture across the room. If they could just exorcise him from their lives, they’d finally be happy. More often than she’d like to admit, she wished he would just go away, the means unimportant so long as he’s gone. It’s almost easier to live with the belief he hated her– then, at least, her anger would be righteous. The answer doesn’t feel so simple anymore.

“I guess he can’t,” Noodle says. “I’ll tell you more about it when I get back, but it hasn’t been all that interesting.” This is a lie, but what is there to report, really? What do you tell everyone when you get back from a trip— the things you can show them in pictures, or stories with a rise and climax and satisfying conclusion? Internal change can’t be shared like a souvenir. 

I went to Stoke-on-Trent, and all I got was a glimpse into a horrible past and an uncertain future– and this lousy tee shirt .

The driver’s side door opens and lets in a chill and a whiff of cigarette smoke.

“You still on the phone with Russ?”

Noodle lowers the phone. “I’m almost done.”

“Alright, let me talk to him after.”

She nods and returns the phone to her ear as Murdoc ducks back outside again and lights another cigarette.

“I gotta go, but I’m glad I got to talk to you. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” 2D says, and the warmth in his voice puts her back at ease. “Come bother me as soon as you get back, alright? Even if it’s late. You can wake me up if you have to.”

“I will. Murdoc wants to talk to Russel now.”

“Okay. I love you. Buh-bye.”

Noodle rolls down the driver’s side window and nudges the phone against Murdoc’s back. He takes it with a “thanks love” and puts it to his ear.

“Hellooooo, handsome…Aw, I’m not being sarcastic!”

Noodle rolls the window back up to give him some privacy, even though he talks loud enough that she can still hear him through the glass. Nothing she doesn’t already know. She kicks her boots off to put her feet up on the dashboard and cracks open The Haunting of Hill House to pick up where she left off.

“Nervous?” the doctor asked, and Eleanor nodded.

“Only because I wonder what is going to happen,” she said.

“So do I.” The doctor moved his chair and sat down beside her. “You have a feeling that something—whatever it is—is going to happen soon?”

“Yes. Everything seems to be waiting.”

Chapter Text

Though the dent they’d made in the mess could only be noticeable to those familiar with its previous state, Murdoc confirms it’s still cleaner than he ever remembered it. One could now pick up on some character in the architecture that was previously buried. Either that or Noodle’s spent enough time in its walls to become more intimate with it: crown molding where the floors and walls meet, wallpaper with gold leaf in its floral pattern, claw-footed table legs, plain but tasteful sconce lights reaching out along the staircase. It’s a house that might’ve been charming once, like a painstakingly carved Jack-o-Lantern before November’s rot takes hold.

Perhaps it’s for the best that they weren’t totally successful in clearing out the house– to leave it cleaned of all evidence of the lives within, no matter how miserable, would be too hasty. 

Though Murdoc seems content to leave practically empty-handed, save for a single box he’d packed alone last night, Noodle takes it upon herself to slip that red photo album under a bundle of purple velvet. She couldn’t bear to leave its fate in the attic uncertain.

As she lugs both of their bags down the stairs, Murdoc wordlessly takes them from her and carries them the rest of the way, dropping them by the front door.

“I could’ve done it,” Noodle huffs.

“I know.”

Sebastian frowns at the TV in his usual velvet chair like a gargoyle, arms folded with his cane between his knees.

“You need anything?” Murdoc asks him.

“Arm fine,” Sebastian mutters, his gaze still fixed on the TV. No– not on the TV, at the TV seems more accurate. He could be watching static and it wouldn’t make a difference. He’s only looking at the TV because it’s not Murdoc.

Murdoc reaches up and folds his arms over his head to stretch, scrunching his face as he does so. “We’ll be back, just heading to the bakery first. If you want anything pacific.”

Sebastian shakes his head, so Murdoc takes his leave with a “be back in a bit,” and Noodle follows behind.

It’s an uncharacteristically warm day, a relief from the bitterness of rain and wind.

“We’ve got a three-hour drive ahead of us. Feel like walking?” Murdoc asks.

“Sure.”

Murdoc leads the way, and Noodle shuffles quickly along to keep up with him– he’s a fast walker, perhaps partially to let everyone know he’s a busy man with places to be, perhaps also from adapting to 2D’s long strides. He lights a cigarette, and Noodle picks up her pace so as not to be stuck downwind of the smoke. He smokes in place of talking and lets the sound of the town’s mid-morning activity fill the space. Noodle allows it. She doesn’t have much to say either. That is, until he finally interrupts their mutual silence.

“He’s leaving everything to Hannibal.”

Noodle jerks her gaze up at him, nearly choking on a faceful of smoke. “What? Why? It’s not because of something I did, is it?”

“I told him to,” he says, flatly. “It’s not like it’s much anyway. Like I said, if I had the house, I’d burn it down. I could collect some insurance off it, but agh, it’s better off with someone who could use it, innit?”

“Why?” Noodle asks, though she’s not sure what about.

“I don’t want it. Don’t need it. And he can’t say I never did nothing for him.”

What the hell’s come over him, that he wouldn’t jump at the chance for any amount of money to blow on some stupid new parts for his car or something equally as important to him and him alone? Or, better yet, invest it in his band? Surely he could justify that. Upon first glance, it might seem like a bout of generosity on his part. Maybe there’s an inkling, but she knows him better than that– he’s really sticking to his guns over the principle. It’s stupid, is what it is.

“Look, Murdoc, I didn’t wanna say it, cuz I knew you’d be mad– but we’re nearly broke. And with the state of the studio– what are we gonna do?”

Noodle braces herself for a knee-jerk reaction, but it fails to break his stride. He simply shrugs.

“Then that next album had better be good, eh, love?”

He reaches down and gives her an assuring– or mocking– pat on the back.

“We’ll be okay. I’ve wrrrrrrrrriggled my way out of worse, haven’t I? Seventy-five percent of this project’s got a good head on their shoulders and one of ‘em sings good. We did it once and we’ll do it again.”

“It’s still my album,” Noodle says.

“And you’re my prodigé . I have total faith in you. Besides, I can always take the wheel when things go south.”

“Well, they won’t !” Noodle huffs.

“That’s the spirit!”

Noodle stews in annoyance until they reach the bakery, the same one where she bought hot chocolate for herself and the Truant, but she keeps that tidbit to herself. She busies herself watching decorated cakes rotate in a vertical glass stand while Murdoc places their order. Upon glancing back at him, he’s leaning against the counter on his elbows with an invasive casualness, smiling to the young woman at the register. It’s a move she recognizes— She’s not sure if being a shameless flirt is something 2D had lifted from Murdoc or if he’s merely refined the art, but regardless, Murdoc’s stealing from his methods. Doubly shameless. She rolls her eyes.

“Oi, love, pick out what you want.”

“Two croissants,” Noodle replies. “Chocolate chip ones, if they have them.”

Murdoc relays her order to the cashier, even though she could also hear. Out of the corner of her eye, Noodle watches him follow the cashier from the other side of the glass case as she boxes their selection of pastries so he can continue to talk to her. For some reason, she seems to be humoring him by giggling. Noodle minds her business with the cakes once more— chocolate with “happy birthday” in pink cursive, “congratulations” surrounded by rainbow sprinkles— she wonders if a “sorry I called you stupid” cake would be egregious.

“Oh, you know, it’s not easy doing it all on my own,” Murdoc says. “But she’s a treasure, she is, couldn’t ask for a better kid. She really looks up to me, y’know?”

Is he using me to score? Moh! Unbelievable!

“ Daaaaaad! ” Noodle calls to him, putting on her childish lilt. The title seems to catch him off guard as he turns to look at her. “Are we going soon?”

“Yeah, yeah, one second.”

“Do you promise not to smoke in the car on the way home?” Noodle continues. “Or at least roll the windows down this time?” She throws in a cough for good measure, and to hide her devilish grin.

Murdoc’s face flushes red as the smile disappears from the cashier's face. She hands him the box over the counter with a brisk “have a good day,” and he mutters back a defeated “you too” on the way out.

“You little shit,” he says once they’re outside.

“Oh, like that was going anywhere.”

He thrusts the box into her hands as they walk. “I’ll remember that if I ever meet that Kyoko friend of yours.”

“No!”

“I’ll do a special little jig just for the occasion!”

“No, you wouldn’t!”

“And what if I do?”

Murdoc laughs as Noodle throws her shoulder into him— not hard enough to do any real damage. She could if she wanted and he knows it. 

“And what would it look like?” Noodle prods.

“Well, I can’t show you now, can I?”

“Oh, now you’re too shy?”

“No, I’m simply not warmed up.”

“Sounds to me like you don’t wanna embarrass yourself.”

“I don’t need your help to embarrass myself!”

“That’s for sure.”

Their jovial banter comes to a halt as they enter the house– a warm front meeting a cold front and their energy plummeting like hail. It’s the last time they’re entering the house, and the finality of it is settling in with the sight of Sebastian’s chair amidst an empire of cardboard boxes. Sebastian does not turn to greet them, forcing Murdoc to approach him and extend the invitation to join him in the kitchen.

The two of them sit in silence at the kitchen table, Murdoc with his temple resting against his knuckles, Sebastian slumped with his arm slouched around his cane, both seemingly trying to look anywhere but at each other. Their tea and half-eaten pastries sit between them, more like set-dressing than something to be enjoyed.

Noodle keeps her distance, meandering through the stack of records to give herself something to do until it’s time to depart. Neither of them pays her any mind. She pretends to mind her own business as Sebastian clears his throat.

“She was in schewl to be an actress,” he says, unprompted.

“Who?” Murdoc asks.

“I went to this production of ‘Tamin’ o’ the Shrew’ cos Vivian was doin’ me nut in. Some other bird was s’posed to play the lead, but she was the understudy that night. I thought she was great. You’d’a ‘ad no idea ‘er family was from er, Mexico, or Cuba, or somethin’— ‘er accent was impeccable. So I told ‘er so, after the play. And that she shoulda been the main actress. She said she was lewkin’ to get the lead in ‘Much Ado About Nothin’ comin’ up. So I offered to ‘elp read over ‘er lines,” Sebastian continues. “‘S ‘ow I met ‘er. Figured since ye wanna know about ‘er.”

Murdoc looks at him for a moment, with no reply. Sebastian wrings his hand around the silver bird's head topping his cane.

“Never did find out if she got the role,” Sebastian adds. “Lost touch before the audition.” He finally looks back up at Murdoc. “Before ye ask, I dunna know where she could be now. Honest. It’s been thirty-eight years, I got nothin’ to gain hidin’ it from ye.”

Murdoc nods, looking down at his tea. The story doesn’t answer any questions, but there’s no reason to say no to a rare, harmless glimpse into days gone by. It may be the closest thing to an olive branch he’ll get before they part ways.

“It wunna never worked out, duck,” Sebastian continues. “She woulda expected us to go to Church. If the both of us stepped foot in there, the Holy Water would boil.” He manages to pull a crooked smile. “They’ll give just about anyone a Catholic burial these days, eh?”

Murdoc offers a chuckle. “Where do you think you’re going? Up or down?”

“The ground, I ‘ope. Unless you plan on savin’ money and just wheelin’ me out to the curb.”

“No, you’re getting taxidermied,” Murdoc says. “I know a guy.”

For once, they share a laugh, devolving into matching smoker’s coughs.

Chapter Text

Vivian and Hannibal will be arriving soon, which means this is their window to leave.

“I’ll see him again eventually,” Murdoc says when Noodle asks why they don’t just wait until Hannibal gets there. “And then I’ll see if he’s still mad at me. I’m not looking to find out today.”

He closes the trunk. “You took your last sweep of the place to make sure you got everything? Your books? Blanket? iPod? Cos we’re not coming back.”

“Yeah, I’m all set.”

Murdoc looks back up at the house, the front door still ajar. He hands her the keys. “Warm up the car, love, I’ll be out in a minute. No driving. You can’t leave me here.”

“Got it,” Noodle says.

She watches him walk back up the steps and disappear back into the house. She slides into the driver’s seat, pushing the brake as she twists the key to bring the Camero to life. She flips the heat on, and puts her hands on the wheel to briefly feel the fantasy of peeling onto the road. As much as Russel and 2D hate Murdoc’s speed-demon methods of driving, she knows she too would have to resist the urge to fly like a bat out of Hell.

As she climbs over the center console to the passenger seat, she spots that leather bag sitting open in the back, a manilla folder visible inside. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure Murdoc is still in the house, she reaches back and slides it out, opening up the only definitive records of Maria Gomez.

The young woman in the black and white picture stares back at her with wide, round eyes peeking out beneath long, blunt bangs. It’s still hard to imagine Murdoc didn’t just spring fully formed out of nowhere ready to cause mayhem, but upon scrutiny, some of her features fill in missing pieces of the puzzle. Her round, high cheekbones, square jaw, and unbroken aquiline nose– if you were to pour Sebastian into a Maria-shaped mold, you would get Murdoc. Of course, her small, rabbit-toothed mouth is her own– his appropriately big Yap came from his father.

The rest of the file is wordy and lousy with jargon, and it feels perverse to dig too deep into it. She opts to put it away, though she picks out the words “manic-depression” at a glance. She leaves the bag as close to how she found it as possible and opens her filched copy of The Haunting of Hill House to look innocent when Murdoc returns.

As he takes his seat beside her and shuts the door, nothing about his demeanor indicates anything about his last goodbye. His expression remains as neutral as though leaving for ten minutes for a carton of milk. She doesn’t ask. If she needed to know, he’d volunteer it. He doesn’t put the car in drive just yet, and they both stare ahead in silence.

“Well, this has been a bloody horrible week,” Murdoc finally says. “Remind me never to do this again.”

“Uh, don’t do this again,” Noodle replies.

“Thanks. Agh, I’ll be fine. It’s fine. I survived. Besides,” he continues, making a face and putting on a voice that indicates he’s doing some sort of impression that goes over her head. “ I’ve fought worse monsters than him for years in Hollywood. ” He turns to her with an incredulous look. “You know, that was his favorite actress. Joan Crawford! Go figure! And he calls me a fruit.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Noodle says.

“Well, if you did, you’d get why that’s a riot.” 

Murdoc suddenly pauses, looking ahead with his hands on the wheel as if there’s a sudden realization in the smudges on the windshield.

“It’s quite likely the next time I see him will be at his funeral,” he remarks.

“Oh,” Noodle says, treading carefully. “I’m sorry.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Nothing for you to be sorry about. In fact, and it sounds horrible, I feel lighter leaving with that knowledge.” A darkness crosses his expression. “I sincerely hope you’ll never feel that way about me.”

“I won’t,” Noodle says, because what else is she supposed to say?

He looks at her as if suddenly remembering she’s there. “Sorry,” he says. “That’s dark.”

He wrings his hand on the worn leather of the wheel as he considers what he’s going to say next, and the tension is tying Noodle’s stomach up in knots.

“I know you prefer Russ and 2D,” he says. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t come from a family that said ‘I love you’ or expressed their feelings beyond blowing up at each other. I do love you. I’m sorry I haven’t made that clear.” He musters up the courage to look at her again. “I know you’re worried about what’s next. What do we do if we fail? Well, ideally we don’t. Still. I uh…I doubt it offers any solace, but whatever happens, if it all really goes to shit, you’ll always have a home with me. Maybe that’s the last thing you’d want. But it’s there.”

It’s as much of a plea as it is an invitation. 

Noodle nods.

“Thanks.”

It’s not a perfect response, but it’s the best she can muster. The sincerity is getting to be a little too uncomfortable for both of them.

“So when your time comes, do I take you to the doctor or the vet?” Noodle asks.

“You put me in a barrel and push me over a waterfall– that’s what you’re gonna do.”

“Understood,” Noodle says with a salute.

With that, Murdoc puts the car in drive, and they finally part ways with his childhood home.

Noodle watches the buildings she’s briefly familiarized herself with go by— the bakery, the splintery wooden playground, the library, the forbidden pub. Her final goodbye to Sebastian was unceremonial: “thank you for letting us stay” — cordial, and nothing more. 

His, in return, was simple and lukewarm: “Be gewd.”

Noodle kicks off her boots to prop her feet up on the seat, gazing out the window despite the open book in her lap. As much as she doesn’t like being cooped up in the car for too long, the current circumstances are far preferable to her conditions on the drive up. Perhaps she may even be able to bully him into letting her pick the music.

Before she can get too comfortable, however, Murdoc slows the car as they reach a street of houses along the river, as if looking for a house number.

84…86…

The car comes to a halt across the street from 88– an unremarkable duplex that stands ambivalent to them. And yet, Murdoc stares up at it as if it were a cathedral.

“Murdoc?”

He doesn’t reply. Though his hand is already on the door handle, he makes no move to open it.

“Even if she was somehow still there, what are you hoping for?” Noodle asks, softly, but firmly.

Though his gaze still lingers on the house, he places his hand back on the wheel. After a moment, he puts the car back into drive and pulls his attention back to the road. They continue on their way as if the detour never happened.

After a few minutes, Murdoc finally speaks again.

“I think I oughta start teaching you to drive.”

“Aren’t I too young?”

“Hannibal was already taking me along on joyrides when he was your age.”

“Does your dad know that?”

“Absol utely not!” Murdoc laughs. “Of course, he was taller, he could already see over the wheel. But if we prop you up on a couple of pillows, no harm in starting early. The more designated drivers we have, the better.”

“I’m not learning to drive so you can have another excuse to get shitfaced,” Noodle scoffs.

“Alright, that’s fine, you don’t have to learn yet.”

“I do wanna learn!”

“Brilliant. I’ll take you to an empty lot or somewhere with few pedestrians. I won’t say nothing if you hit one, but try not to. It would be an insurance nightmare.”

“I wanna drive the Geep.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What about the Camero?”

“I will find you some starter Jalopy to dent as you please.”

“The Camero’s already banged up!”

“It’s my car!”

“I want a Jaguar.”

“Used only.”

“Deal.”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Murdoc extends a hand and Noodle clasps it like it’s a competition of strength.

“You know, we left in pretty good time,” Murdoc says. “I don’t know if you’re in any rush to get home, but if you’d like to make any stops along the way, just say so. I’m not looking forward to sitting in the car for three hours straight, myself.”

“Like where?”

“I don’t know. if you see anything of interest. Ice cream shop, tacky tourist attraction, roadkill you wanna poke with a stick, whatever you want. There’s no one to tell us ‘no.’”

Noodle nods. She shuts her book so she can keep a lookout for any pit stops. “I’m in no rush.”