Work Text:
You've always run cold. Whenever people touched you, they said that you felt like an icicle. It became sort of a joke, like how when somebody makes a typo in the group chat, everybody teases them. Everybody teases you about it. You would chuckle and say, "I know, but there's only so many layers of clothes I can wear before I look silly," which is true as you tested it (four shirts is too many and you can't get your shoes on right when wearing three pairs of socks but you can wear as many pairs of underwear as you want). It's become more of a fact than an observation; the sky is blue, the grass is green, and you are cold. It's why you prefer the warmer months over the cold ones. Sure, they all have their own quality about them, but at least in the warmer months, you feel somewhat like a human.
Which brings you to the present. It's the latter part of December, where the temperature starts to plummet and stays going further down during the nighttime, and you can't be spotted without your jacket. It's a dingy jacket. It doesn't do the job, but you can't get yourself to throw it out because Noodle got it for you for one of your birthdays, so not only is it a dingy jacket, but it's one with sentimental value. You would also wear gloves, but they get in the way of lighting cigarettes, so it's a loss that you have to take. You would have bought a space heater for your room but Noodle says they're a fire hazard and she doesn't need to worry about whether you remembered to unplug it before you went to bed or not (you can't lie you did pout when she shot down your idea to get one because you would not forget to unplug it. You've gotten better about remembering things, at least you think so). So now you're sitting at your desk, huddled in your blanket while you tap away at your typewriter. Even the keys to your typewriter feel like ice.
You let out a sigh. You are really cold.
As you feel yourself shiver, you stop typing to pull the blanket around you more. You're trying to type out lyrics that have been floating around your head for some time, but maybe you should give it a rest. You can't be going back and forth between holding the blanket close to you and typing, as then you would get nothing accomplished. Just as you're about to rip the paper out of your typewriter, a raspy voice is loud beside your head.
"What're you working on?"
You jump, causing the blanket to fall off your shoulders. The room feels so much colder, causing you to instantly start shivering. You absolutely hate this. Murdoc is the last person who should see you trembling from the cold. If anything, he's caused you to feel cold and lonely by locking you up at the bottom of the ocean. He created a cyborg that looked just like Noodle and built guns into her that she would point at you; staring at who you thought had died and seeing they are not the same is horrible in itself. That shouldn't have happened. None of that should have happened, but it did, and now you're stuck here trembling in the cold of December.
"Wow, lad, you must be really cold. Go lie down in bed for a bit, yeah? Get all cozy and whatnot."
You look back at your typewriter, sigh, and pick up your blanket before making your way to your bed. Everything feels cold to the touch, and you have no idea why you listened to Murdoc. Maybe you were just tired of trying to write, maybe it's easier to listen to him, whatever the reason, now you're lying in bed, but next thing you know, Murdoc is lying down beside you. You instantly scoot as close to the wall and away from him as you can get, but soon he's on his side and putting an arm over you to pull you close to him. You feel words wanting to come out, asking him just what the fuck is his deal, but your throat feels too tight to get them out. You resign yourself to your fate. Like you always have done. You've always resigned yourself to whatever comes your way. You both lay there in silence, only hearing the nasal breathing from Murdoc.
"I didn't mean to."
You could barely make out the words, but you did hear them. Murdoc leans his forehead on your shoulder. You could tell him everything on your mind. All the hurt that he put you through, all the damage that he had done to you that took working with a therapist to even be able to somewhat manage, how you really feel about him. Instead, all that comes out is,
"But you did."
You both stay quiet, and you shift to lie on your side with your back to him, causing him to move to rest his forehead against your back. There's a calmness that you didn't expect from the silence. It eases your nerves as you inhale and exhale, noticing that you and Murdoc are doing the same thing at the same time. You don't know what Murdoc wants out of this. He's always wanted something for his own gain.
"I can't take it back."
You want to look back at him, to see what his facial expression is. Is it one of sorrow? Of regret? You don't know, but Murdoc has never been one to speak about how he feels. He's always been more of letting his actions do the talking. He's lying in bed with you, pressed up against you underneath the blanket. You realize that you feel warm with him here. You start to relax against him.
"Then move forward."
You hear cars passing on the street, and you wonder what they're doing driving this late at night. Murdoc's arm hugs you more tightly, and you feel a shuddering breath against your back.
"I'm trying."
It's not an apology, but it's as close as one you're getting. Despite all that he's done to you, you hope that he feels just as warm as you do right now, inside and out.