Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stuart Pot,

My name is Murdoc Niccals, from Gorillaz.

And I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to slam into your face that day with my car. Or rather, I didn’t mean to slam into 2D, the world-wide music phenomenon. I didn’t mean to put 2D, the frontman of one of the biggest bands in the world, into a coma.

I hadn’t elaborately planned out how I’d crash through the window of a shitty keyboard store, and drastically change the life of some loser standing behind the counter. It just kind of happened.

Afterward, though, ten years later, I was thankful that I’d maimed you. That “fate” or whatever the hell you call it brought us together.

I don’t think I’m thankful anymore, though.

It’s not that I regret anything we’ve accomplished, but I regret everything we’ve done. I’ve done. Sure, we had fun, we laughed, we lived on top of the world.

But the pedestal I was standing on was just me riding on your wave, digging my heels into your shoulders, pushing you down as you pushed us up.

I’m not going to say I’m a shitty person, because you already know that, and so do I. Everyone knows that.

But I should say the things I’m a shitty person for doing.

I’m a shitty person for hitting you with my car. And for being a bad caretaker while you were in a coma. I’m a shitty person for launching you through my windshield, waking you up, but hurting you more. I’m a shitty person for kidnapping you, for making you be part of my band. I’m a shitty person for kidnapping Russ, and forcing him to work alongside us. I’m a shitty person for screwing your girlfriend, especially after you warned me not to touch her. I’m a shitty person for ruining your relationship, one of the only things that made you happy. I’m a shitty person for not trying to find where Noodle came from, or for trying to help her. I’m a shitty person for just bringing her into Kong, and letting her be cared for by people who barely knew how to take care of themselves. I’m a shitty person for pushing you all too hard on Demon Days. I’m a shitty person for El Mañana.

I’m a shitty person for drugging you, kidnapping you (again) and stealing you away from your friends and family, and dropping you on a shit-forsaken island where no one could hear you scream, let alone keep you company. I’m a shitty person for building a replica of my daughter, a murderous one, and allowing us all to be tormented by the Black Cloud. By Him.

I’m a shitty person for using your fear to control you, to make you record an album with me.
And when the Black Cloud attacked, right as my precious Noodle and Russ came back to us, I was a shitty person for not dying on that beach. I deserved to.
Instead, I hugged my daughter, and got the hell out of there.

And I’m a shitty person for, when the portal closed, knowing that you wouldn’t come back for me. Not that I didn’t deserve to drown in the ruins of the horrible torture chamber that I built for you, but that my expectations were that low. That I didn’t believe that you were a good enough person to come back and save me.
I’m a shitty person for posting us up in that Spirit House, and for going to jail. Actually, I’m not sorry that I went to jail, because it allowed you to see what life was like without me. I’m a disease, permeating everything and everyone I touch. But Ace freed you from that. You got a different green, greasy-haired bassist, who wasn’t constantly insulting you, drinking himself to death, who wasn’t high out of his mind nine times out of ten.

Still hate his ass, though. Creepy bugger, trying to be me. I guess, though, he was a better me than I ever was.
I’m sorry I brought us to LA, even though you seemed to like it. I’m a shitty person for thinking I could impress Moonflower by starting a cult. I’m sorry for getting in between you two, and ruining yet another of your relationships.

Like I hadn’t done enough. Like I’ve never done enough.

It was enough for me to be born. It was enough for me to blemish my family tree with my existence. I don’t know who my mum was, but I’m sure she’d be disappointed.

But here I am again! Making everything about me, just like I always do. Sorry I'm such an asshole.

At any rate, i guess i’ve already said what i wanted to say: i’m sorry. i’ve done so much harm to you, and Noodle, and to Russel. And i know saying sorry doesn’t fix anything, but at least i’ll have left with a clearer conscience. And that’s not okay. It’s not okay that i don’t know how to properly love anything. Anything i care for i ruin. i’ve done so much harm to everything i touch.

So. i guess that was all kind of unnecessary, huh?
Shit, who am i kidding? No one’s gonna read this.

Suffice it to say:

i’m sorry, Stuart. And goodbye.

x,

murdoc niccals

Chapter Text

It had been a successful shopping mission. Stuart grinned to himself as he loped down the sidewalk, a plastic supermarket shopping bag swinging from each arm. A cab honked at him as he crossed the street.

“Get outta the road, shithead! I got places to be!” The cabbie roared. Stuart just smiled at him and waved. People in New York sure knew how to project. Safely back on the sidewalk, he rounded the corner, and got to the front of their apartment building.

“Hello, Jeeves!” He squawked. The doorman smiled at him tiredly.

“My name’s not Jeeves, sir.” He reminded 2D.

“Yeah, but it should be,” Stuart commented affably, and shouldered his way through the doors.

Once in the lobby, Stuart deftly pressed the “up” button next to the elevator with his elbow. They’d only been living there for about a week, but he had become an expert at making his way to their penthouse with no free hands.

The elevator music that played on his way up was a lovely little tune, and he hummed along with it.

Soon, they’d be leaving their temporary residence here, and be heading for Mumbai. Murdoc had a friend who had made some new passports for them, so that they could travel under the radar.

Stuart reached their apartment door, and jiggled the knob gently. It was locked. He cursed softly under his breath, and set down one of the shopping bags. He dug around in his pocket, pulled out two peppermints, a friendship bracelet he had made with Noodle, a piece of dried instant ramen, and his key.

He fumbled the key around in the knob until it clicked, and backed through the door with his bags in tow.

He heard music coming from one of the rooms, and craned his neck to hear better as he walked to the kitchen. As he set the bags on the counter, he realized what song was playing. It was "Hellraiser" by Ozzy Osbourne. Stuart smiled softly to himself; he hadn’t realized Murdoc was home. "No More Tears" was one of Murdoc’s favorite albums, and "Hellraiser" was the second song after the titular track. He must have been listening to it not ten minutes ago.

Then Stuart stilled. Murdoc wasn’t supposed to be home right now. He had left this morning, saying he had some work to do. This usually meant that he was going to drive around, listen to music until his ears bled, and try to write a new song. He usually wasn’t back all day, after one of his “Pilgrimages,” as he called them.

Noodle and Russ had gone bowling, and Stuart had been tasked with his shopping trip. Stuart turned around slowly, and looked down the hallway that led to Murdoc’s room. Come to think of it, the music was slightly muffled. Murdoc almost never listened to music quietly. Something was up.

It was then that Stuart noticed the envelope on the kitchen island. It was small and white, with his name written neatly on the front. It was Murdoc’s handwriting, but something was definitely wrong. It said his name. Not 2D, or faceache, or even Pots. Just

"Stuart"

Stuart picked it up with slightly trembling fingers, turned it over, and ripped through the seal. He unfolded the paper inside, and flicked on the light. It was hard to read, even
though the handwriting wasn’t Murdoc’s usual messy scrawl. It was written in neat printed letters, with a ballpoint pen.

Stuart skimmed the paper. Slowly, his eyes began to flicker from white to black. At first it was just a few little blinks, and then quick flashes, until they finally dimmed to complete black. Tears began to pool in his eyes, and drip down onto the paper. His trembling hand came up to cover his mouth, and he slid down the wall to the floor.

Stuart reached the end of the letter, shuddering and gasping quietly.

"i’m sorry, Stuart. And goodbye.

x,

murdoc niccals"

Suddenly, "Hellraiser" ended, and "Time After Time" began.

Time after time
I guess that love is blind
I couldn’t read your mind
Line after line

“Shit.” Stuart whispered, and scrambled up, away from the wall. “Shit shit shit shit shit,” he gasped as he ran down the hallway, and skidded to a stop in front of Murdoc’s door.
“Murdoc!” he yelled, grabbing the doorknob. It was locked.

“Murdoc, open up!” he cried, hitting the door with the palms of his hands, “Murdoc, open the door!”

There was no reply.

“I’m coming in!” Stuart yelled, slamming the door with his shoulder. It shuddered, but held in its frame.

Line after line
It was written in your eyes
I guess it’s no surprise
Time after time

Stuart threw himself against the door again, and it broke open with a crack. Stuart stumbled into the room, carried by his own momentum. What he saw inside froze him in his tracks.

Across the room from Stuart, lying slumped against the wall, was Murdoc’s limp form. Next to him lay an open bottle of pills, with only two left inside. Blood was pooling around him, but the source of the blood was not immediately obvious. Murdoc’s head was down, his chin on his chest, his dark bangs obscuring his face.

“Shit! Murdoc!” Stuart hopped across the room, avoiding the bottles and assorted debris lying scattered across Murdoc’s floor. Near Murdoc lay El Diablo, smashed in half.
Stuart knelt down next to Murdoc’s limp form, and grabbed his face with his hands. Stuart tilted Murdoc’s head upward, and shook his head desperately.

“Murdoc. Murdoc! Can you hear me? Murdoc!” he cried, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. Murdoc didn’t respond.

I can hear them whispering
Shadows in the rain
Thinking how it might have been
Time after time
Line after line, you broke me

Stuart’s hands shook as he dialed 911 with one hand, his other still cupping Murdoc’s cheek. Murdoc’s eyes were closed, and his skin was cool to the touch. He was still breathing, but just barely.

Once Stuart had told the police where they were, he hung up, and began looking for the source of the blood. He was still crying, and he was shaking so hard that he could barely lift Murdoc’s arms. Sure enough, there were long gashes running down the length of Murdoc’s forearms. As Stuart rolled up Murdoc’s sleeves further, he was horrified to find scars littered across Murdoc’s arms, some thin and white with age, some still pink. There were small burn scars, too, that looked like they had been made with a lighter.

“Oh, Murdoc,” Stuart whimpered, as he pulled Murdoc up and off the wall, and into his arms, “What happened?” But Stuart knew, deep down. He had happened.

Chapter Text

2D was plunking out some of the chord progressions for Chalk Tablet Towers on his synth when Murdoc nudged the door open with his shoulder.

This wasn’t his usual entrance.

Usually, Murdoc would kick open a door, or push through it with a triumphant “ta-daa!”

Today, nothing.

Russel didn’t look up from his newspaper as Murdoc trudged towards them. Noodle threw a glance Murdoc’s way, but continued listening to her audiobook of Perdido Street Station.

Silently, Russ held out his hand as Murdoc neared. 2D noticed that Murdoc was holding a couple sheets of paper, seemingly ripped from a notebook.

“Here ya go, man,” Murdoc mumbled as he handed the sheets of paper to Russel.

If 2D had been paying attention, he would’ve noticed that Murdoc intentionally averted his eyes from him, pointedly not looking at 2D.

If 2D had been paying attention, he may have thought it strange that Murdoc didn’t just hand the papers to him. 2D could assume that the papers had the lyrics for their next song on the album, and those were usually delivered to him, not their drummer.

2D was, instead, focussed on the fact that Murdoc had finally gotten his draft for the song in. Three days late. Murdoc had insisted that they record his song for the album here, but hadn’t even managed to bring them a draft of the lyrics he had come up with for it. Until now.

2D gently plucked the sheaves of paper out of Russ’s fingers, and skimmed the page. The paper was wrinkled and a little warped, as if it had gotten wet. Many of the words were scribbled out, and replaced with other words in red pen. There was a coffee stain on one of the sheets.

The lyrics were repetitive. This wasn’t entirely unusual for Murdoc, but he usually tried to go for a more surreal or abstract vibe in his lyrics. These, on the other hand, seemed fairly straightforward.

At the top of the page, Murdoc had written in his usual sloppy hand Désolé. 2D turned to Noodle.

“This french?” 2D asked, thrusting the papers in Noodle’s face. Noodle startled momentarily, then quickly recovered.

“Yeah, it’s French. I didn’t know Murdoc studied French?” Noodle half asked, half stated.

“I dunno. I think maybe he’s just feeling a bit pretentious today,” 2D mused. Then shrugged.

“Let’s try it with the backing track?” 2D suggested. Noodle nodded, and gently flicked Russ’s paper on her way to walk around to the recording booth and press “play”.

-

Murdoc sat up. He’d been sleeping in the trunk again. It wasn’t that he necessarily liked the trunk, but that he was comfortable in it. It was comforting in it. He didn’t feel right sleeping in his own bed anymore. It felt wrong, dirty, like it belonged to someone else.

Like he didn’t deserve to feel comfort anymore.

So he stayed in his trunk.

And he was sorry.

He was so, so sorry.

But he didn’t have any way of saying it. So he wrote a song. A shitty shitty song with shitty shitty lyrics from google translate. And he gave 2D a pacman machine. He knew he’d like it. The bright lights of the 80s arcade game made it easier for Stu to see what he was doing.

All my ghosts are blue.

Chapter Text

Murdoc woke up.

This was unexpected. 

He wasn’t supposed to wake up. 

He had taken all those pills, drunk all that whiskey. Spilt all that blood.

So… now what? 

Murdoc looked around. 

He seemed to be in a waiting room. If he had ever gone to any kind of medical professional’s office (while conscious), he would’ve recognized the room as very chiropractor - chique.

As it was, all he took in were the almost blindingly-white walls, light beige couch, with a stain that looked like split-pea soup, and a shitty pleather chair. The squat coffee table was scattered with weight-loss and gardening magazines, and there was a pretentiously-framed painting of two cattails. 

There was a door to his left, and another door on the far side of the rather cramped room, next to the couch. 

Perhaps most notably, a man was languishing across the couch, his cuban heel-clad feet propped up unceremoniously on the table. His white hair was sticking up around the striped headband he was wearing, and his nose looked like it had been grabbed and squeezed by a freakishly strong toddler. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, showing a slutty little gap of skin. He had a long cigar hanging from his lip, and a bottle of vodka in his hand. The vodka was fizzing, and a nuclear orange color. 

A devilish leer split the man’s face, and he winked at Murdoc. 

“Fuck!” Murdoc exclaimed, “Keith, I didn’t know you were still alive, you little shit!!” 

Murdoc had met Keith Richards several years ago at a cocktail party after the CMAs, and they had gotten shitfaced, and connected over their misshapen noses. They had vowed to stay in touch, but hadn’t. Both had continued to live in infamy, though, and remained vaguely aware of each other in his own periphery. 

Murdoc started toward the man on the couch, then stopped. 

“Wait. Maybe you’re not alive at all. Is this the Gateway? Am I about to go see old Luci?” Murdoc asked. The man on the couch barked a hollow laugh. 

“Nah, you’re not dead yet. And neither am I!” Keith paused, frowning, “I think.” His smile returned, “not yet, at least! Anyway, I’m here to… ehm… talk to you.”

“Hold up,” Murdoc, said, starting towards Keith again, “Shouldn’t old Satan himself be here to welcome me to Hell? I thought I was a big deal down there!”

“Aw, Murdy, sure you are! But you aren’t quite dead. Yet.” Keith licked his teeth, and beckoned Murdoc to sit beside him with one gnarled finger. Murdoc stayed standing. 

Keith shrugged, and took a swig of his nuclear orange vodka. He grimaced, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Then what the hell is this, then?” Murdoc demanded, crossing his arms and shifting his weight across his hips, “An intervention?”

“Well, actually, kind of. See, you made your deal with the Devil an’ all that…” Keith trailed off, raising his eyebrow at Murdoc, as though asking for confirmation. Murdoc nodded, grinning smugly. His deal with Satan had gone rather smashingly, he thought. 

“An’ well, since pledging your soul to the dark lord is such a big deal, you gotta think it through, before you go around offing yourself,” Keith explained, as though this was all as plain as day. 

“So, before you’re damned to go down There and live out the rest of eternity with ol’ Luci, you gotta be sure. You gotta be certain that you’re ready. Of course…” Keith paused, shifting his weight, and switching his bottle of Sunrise to his other hand, and taking a puff of his cigar, “This is a one-time deal. We might not even have let you choose, otherwise, but considering the circumstances…” Keith trailed off. 

Murdoc’s nostrils burned with the scent of Keith’s cigar, and Keith worried his lip as though he had something more to say. 

“It’s just…” Keith squinted at Murdoc, as though he could tell what Murdoc was thinking. And maybe , Murdoc thought, he could . 

“Most people who go to Hell won’t be missed. People think you Go Down because you sin. And sure, that’s true. But if they’re like you or me, they’ll won’t be remembered for who they were. They’ll only be remembered by what they’ve done. But you,” Keith jabbed in Murdoc’s direction with his cigar, “You’re different. You’ve got someone up there,” Keith now jabbed his cigar upwards, “Who’ll miss you not by…” Keith looked at Murdoc, and something in his eyes hardened, “what you’ve done, but by who you are.” 

Keith sat back, crossed his arms, and took another drag on his cigar. 

Murdoc blinked. 

Not what you’ve done. 

Who you are. 

Murdoc blinked again, and the waiting room was gone. 

Lights and flashing colors blinked around him, faded images as well as blaring flashes of memory.

He heard his own voice, distorted and evil. 

Or maybe that was just what he sounded like. 

“Stop it banging, stop it banging!” 

“Oi, faceache!” 

“Idiot. Who wants to see the whale? Do you? Do you!?” 

“You’re worthless!” 

“And that’s why Paula wanted me, and not you!” 

“Sing it again! That was the biggest load of horse dung I ever heard!”

“You disgust me.”

“I made you! Stu Pot’s nothing without 2D!”

The sound of skin on skin, wails of pain. Cries to stop. 

“No! No, stop!” Murdoc shouted, screwing his eyes shut and clapping his hands over his ears, “Stop it! I know I was horrible! I am horrible! I deserve to die! I deserve to suffer forever!”

The illusion was shattered. Murdoc opened his eyes slowly, and he was transported again. 

Now, Murdoc was standing in another cramped room. He was standing behind a figure hunched over on the floor. He was standing behind the light of a dimming star. 

Not a pop star, though he was one of those, too. Not a theoretical star. A literal star. 

A burning ball of energy, light, and love. 

A star that was rapidly going out. 

This star had blue hair, and shaking shoulders. This star had snot and tears running down his face, his black eyes screwed almost shut.

Wait. 

Black eyes?

2D’s eyes hadn’t been black in years. They hadn’t been black since… well…

Since before Murdoc went to prison. 

Murdoc stumbled around to face 2D, and saw what 2D was crying over. 

Cast off to the side was 2D’s phone, 911 still dialed in on the keypad. El Diablo lay where Murdoc had smashed it, and there were drained bottles of Jack Daniels strewn across the floor. Then, there along with the rest of the trash on the floor, lay Murdoc. 

2D had pulled Murdoc’s limp form into his lap, supporting his head with his arm, with his other hand pressed against Murdoc’s chest as though trying to find a heartbeat. 

Murdoc looked down at himself and grimaced. Sweat slicked back his hair, and the dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual. A thin line of spittle ran from his mouth.

Murdoc made himself sick. 

Murdoc was ripped out of his self-loathing by a strangled sob from 2D, who lowered his head down to lay on top of Murdoc’s chest. He held Murdoc’s shoulders up, sobbing into the dead man’s chest. Murdoc’s head lolled backward, his eyelids cracked open by the gravity pulling them down.

Murdoc knelt down next to his own limp form, and looked into his own dead eyes. 

“I can’t do this! I can’t do this without you!” 2D’s muffled, tear-roughed voice cried through Murdoc’s shirt. 

Murdoc stilled. That wasn’t what 2D was supposed to say. Stuart was supposed to be happy he was gone. Murdoc was the worst thing that had ever happened to him! 

Murdoc hadn’t planned on 2D finding his body. Actually, he hadn’t really planned much at all, but he didn’t mean to catch Stuart like this. He hadn’t meant to traumatize him further. He’d done enough damage. 

But why was 2D crying? Sure, finding a dead body probably sucked, but… 

Why? 

Murdoc looked up at 2D. Really looked at him. 

And for once in his goddamned life, Murdoc saw a man. 

Not some unaccounted-for variable.

Not scum. 

Not a tool to be used in his master plan. 

Not an annoyance.

Not a roadblock to overcome.

Not a thing to be owned, or controlled.

Not a living reminder of every awful thing he’d ever done. 

Just a man. 

Not a star, not a sun, not a moon. 

Just…

Stuart. 

Stuart, who saw the good in people, even if there was none.

Stuart, who just wanted to sing. 

To watch his fingers dance across ivory keys.

To make people happy. 

Stuart, who was sad because of him. 

Stuart, who, by trying to make his hurt go away, Murdoc had only made him hurt more. 

Stuart, who wanted Murdoc back. 

Stuart, who needed his best friend.

Murdoc looked back at his own sallow face, and set his mouth in a grim line. 

He was never able to stand to see Stuart cry. He could beat him up, he could yell at him. He could laugh in his face ‘till he shook. 

But he couldn’t see him cry. 

I’m not doing this for you. I hate you more than anything. I’m doing this for him. 

Murdoc held out one shaking hand, just above his body’s forehead. 

I’m doing it for him. 

Murdoc’s hand stilled, and he screwed his eyes shut.

He laid his hand down on his forehead. 

Murdoc’s eyes flew open.