#Fucks sake I linger outside the doorway til they say I can come in when they are there and we're talking
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Why am I flipping tf out over my roommate going into my room when I wasn't home and leaving a package on my bed it's literally not a big deal and they were trying to be helpful but I am shaking right now I should be happy I got my new favorite shirt but I'm so angry
#Like genuinely seething with rage over something so innocuous I shouldn't be angry#But at the same time I'm like...#The door was shut. When did I ever say you could come in here (I didn't). I wasn't home. Don't touch my stuff. You could have left it#Outside the door. My room is a mess and they saw. AND DON'T TOUCH MY STUFF#I feel like I shouldn't have to sit them down and be like 'hey I don't want you going in my room when I didn't say you could go in there'#Like I feel like that's common sense when u live with other people but I guess not?????#Like it really bothers me cuz I'd NEVER go into someone's room when they weren't there w/o express permission#Fucks sake I linger outside the doorway til they say I can come in when they are there and we're talking#I feel like that's just basic decency because it's their space#Why can't you respect mine and not go in my room when you don't have permission?????#At least text me first????!#THE DOOR WAS SHUT THATS WHAT'S REALLY BOTHERING ME#THE DOOR WAS SHUT WHY WOULD YOU LOOK AT A CLOSED DOOR TO SOMEONE'S BEDROOM AND JUST WALK IN WITHOUT EVER ASKING#Sorry. I know I'm being super irrational right now#I just. My mom used to go through my stuff when I lived at home and throw out whatever she wanted#She would wait until I left the house and then throw things out and leave the rest in a giant pile of trash on the floor#It was always when I was having a decent day too. She'd treat me totally normally the whole way home and then I'd walk into my room to it#Absolutely destroyed and her response was always a cool 'well you should have cleaned it then'#I used to have to dig through the garbage to get the stuff I had attachments to back#She once threw out an entire shoebox filled with my drawings because it was 'too messy' but literally the lid was slightly askew from being#Overfilled. Instead of getting me a bigger container or another shoebox she just fucking tossed it#I lost so much childhood art from that it's part of the reason I refuse to throw anything I've ever drawn away#Anyway this is why I'm overreacting and being irrational and not letting people walk all over me with no complaints#Don't worry though I'm working on squishing any other reservations I have about being a doormat#That way in a couple more years I'll just be a shell of a person and then people will finally like having me around#AJDGDHDHDBMSBDGDJDHDBDMDBDBDN#Grumble grumble
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2Doc Week 2019, 6/6: Birthday
Really wanted to contribute something before the week was over and scrambled to put this together! This is a little day 5, but mostly day 6. Apologies for being a bit short and probably shaky quality! And apologies for… not breaking canon exactly, but bending it. (This assumes that the car from Saturnz Barz was transported back to London before Murdoc’s incarceration, which seems like more effort than they’d probably make.)
Warnings: Smokes ‘n swears, and one UK-specific traveller slur. Moderate angst, but by my standards I’d say this is actually pretty tender.
AO3 Link
Everybody cool down, ev—
Pause. Select channel 3, playback 80%.
—rybody see yourself. Everybody on time, on t—
Pause. 78%.
Murdoc’s sat at the near-buckling desk in his bedroom, overloaded with sound equipment and empty cans, papers and postage cluttered under his laptop. The corkboard hanging in front is stuffed to capacity, with the overflow beginning to pour from the walls to the desk to the floor. It’s not a proper studio, not even close, but it’s got what he needs for now: a mixer open with the recent touring tracklist queued up. He slows the bass track, clips notes, tries to match Ace’s recording more to his own pacing and it just doesn’t work. Accounting for his style throws everyone else’s rhythm off; he’d heard it in every city for that last leg and he hears it now. His mouth sinks at the edges as he bumps it down and plays it again.
There’s an unsubtle shuffling behind him, has been for a minute or two, but he doesn’t bother turning to greet Stuart. He can feel him idling in the doorway and reckons that’s on purpose. It’s gone on past seven now with no “best wishes” or formalities, and Murdoc thinks he’d do well to keep skirting it ‘til midnight. He doesn’t exactly want a conversation, not about them, not today. He doesn’t want a pardon for the day’s sake, doesn’t want an obligation to it from Stu.
He doesn’t really want a birthday.
Stu’s hands fall on his shoulders, almost big enough for the tips of his outstretched fingers to meet over Murdoc’s sternum. His breath is hot and foul against the side of his face.
“Hey.” The stink of sweat is practically steaming off him, and Murdoc’s throat tightens. “Got you something.”
He smirks as he leans his head further on his shoulder, reveling in that awful balmy feeling of skin on sweat-slick skin. “You can leave it in the back.”
Stu huffs a nasally laugh right in his ear and pushes off him, muttering something under his breath. Turning to face him properly, Murdoc notes his reddish face and neck, his unwashed hair, his white tank gone yellow around the edges and stained, overwide jeans.
“Look at you. Is your prezzy coming in my room at night good an' dirty?” He lets his mouth hang open just enough to see him tongue at the back of his teeth in consideration. “S’not the worst you could do.”
Stu cranes his neck and juts his jaw forward, clearly fancying himself a real stud. “I’ve been working on your caddy.”
Murdoc’s brow tics as he pulls a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lights it, his eyes still stuck on the discolored spots beneath Stu’s bony collar.
“Pikey drove up in a brand new Cadillac?”
“Yeah, balls to you,” he quotes back. “Can’t really leave it to sit pretty this long without some engine problems. I cleared out the coolants and the oil, checked the spark plugs, swapped out the coils for smoother suspension in the rear.”
“Mm, now say you stuck your fingers in the tailpipe,” Murdoc mutters around his cigarette.
Stu grins. “You’ve got a little corrosion on one of the belts. I’ll have to fetch another in the morning, I haven’t got a replacement.”
He doesn’t entirely understand the point of this, hasn’t got much need for the car to run in London, but telling his bandmates to fuck off for making efforts is something he’s made efforts himself not to do recently. It’s good that it’s something small and familiar; he’d rather this than something heavier hanging over his head.
“Awful rugged of you. Tell me we’re on the part where I say I’m strapped and ask if there’s any other way I can repay you.”
Stu ignores him and nicks the cigarette from his mouth, then presses it to his own and burns it down, down, down. He stares indiscreetly at his laptop screen and ashes into an old cider can. Murdoc wordlessly minimizes the mixer.
“I’ll fetch a belt in the city tomorrow, was heading out anyway. I rang in an appointment at Snippers ‘round eleven.”
Murdoc pauses his crafty maneuver to grab his fag back and sizes him up. Stu’s shaggy hair hangs nearly to his nape, thinning and unflatteringly wet, the one-time shock of blue faded with sparse silver strands throughout. He’s always been a man who cared for his appearance, but he typically favored looking like he didn’t; either Russ or Stu himself have cut his hair as long as he’s been living outside his mum’s house. He frowns in suspicion.
“Just decided you’d pop in for a trim?”
Stu toes off his trainers, shrugging distractedly. “Yeah.”
“Are you going somewhere?” He hesitates. “Am I going somewhere?”
Stu starts to strip off his jeans, the seams worn to nothing and the waist at least a full size too big, nearly falling to his thighs as soon as the belt’s off. The denim pools on top of his flat socked feet and he keeps silent as he kicks them off, then digs through the wash pile and rummages out a bright red pair of joggers to replace them. Murdoc watches without comment, dread pooling in him. Stuart sits on the bed to keep from toppling as he stretches back past his shoulders and pulls his shirt up over his head, inelegant, the cigarette still dangling between his lips.
He thumbs the damp fabric in his lap, then tosses it aside and sits up a bit taller.
“I don’t know, figured I’d ask first. Maybe somewhere quiet for a bit, somewhere in the countryside. Maybe…” He works his jaw, eyes hooded and downcast, looking at the space between Murdoc’s out-turned ankles more than Murdoc himself. “Maybe someplace in the Cotswolds or somethin’. Or a girlie bar in Soho, topless one. I’d like to look sharp either way.”
Murdoc sits stock-still. He watches Stu smoke and swears he can hear ticking from the space between them.
“…You don’t have to do that.”
“Funny thing about me, I don’t have to do much of anything. ‘Hafta’ wasn’t really the point.”
Murdoc brings a thumb to his lip, tries for indifference as he prods a cracking spot with his nail and makes the split worse. “Can’t imagine there’s much to the synth scene in Gloucestershire.”
“Think I can pull through. It’s not forever, s’just a holiday.”
He fights the urge to look behind him at the corkboard, pinned from corner to corner with tickets and magazine clippings and a single seaside postcard. If he tries he can still remember the shadow of flat palm leaves against a blinding afternoon sky, the taste of rum and seabreeze, the lap of easy waves over soft, warm sand. He remembers the way Stuart laughed, dizzy and near-drowning and too drunk to know it.
But when he looks at it now, that’s not what comes to mind. He thinks of the beach and he hears crashing, and then gunshots, and then nothing. He smells dissolving cellophane and rot, the biting ocean air acrid and chemical and clawing up his nostrils into his brain. He sees pink.
He sees a sprawling, melding, mile-deep labyrinth of pink.
Stu eyes him and takes another pull of smoke.
“You could stand a cut yourself. Your flop’s starting to flip.” He makes a swooping gesture with the cigarette down his forehead.
Murdoc palms his fringe down while he studies Stuart.
“I’m about 20 years past my sell by date, s’not gonna make a difference—”
“Well I’m not,” Stu interrupts. “I’m not, alright? Halfway isn’t the ‘too late’ mark for me.”
For all his supposed cool, Murdoc can’t help but see the exhausted folds above and below his eyes and the red lines lingering across his forehead.
“The fuck’s that even mean, why’m I counting your marks?”
“It means it’s not about you.”
“On my birthday, my present’s not about me? It’s about you?” He almost laughs despite himself. “Now that sounds more like you, Stuart.”
“Your present was me fixing the bloody car you left rusting while you were banged up. The holiday’d be for me.” He’s as near to a hiss as the smoke will let him go.
Murdoc tries to keep straight-faced as he swallows, feeling his tongue and all his excuses too acutely. “Why?”
“Because it’s not staring at another pissing wall in another pissing studio in another pissing country, it’s… you know, it’s quaint. It’s just picturesque bollocks and I really shouldn’t have to explain why regular people might enjoy that.”
“Fuck’re you even saying, Stu? Had a poor time out in Cali, so we should just… what? Run off in a sodding lobby painting? I don’t—” his stomach twists, and he tilts his head nearer to the board. “C’mon. I don’t get that.”
“And I don’t get that,” Stu replies, eyeing the postcard without pretense. “If it makes it easier, I don’t bloody well care whether you’re up at night; point is that I didn’t get to keep it. You owe me that much.”
He sounds harsh, but he doesn’t look it. He just looks tired. Stu leans over and stubs the already burnt-out cigarette on the rug. He rubs his hands over his face, scrubs his dirty fingers against his eyelids and the bridge of his nose.
“M’sorry. It’s—it’s been a long year for me too, Murdoc.”
“Thought you said Hollywood was alright,” he says, knowing it doesn’t help.
Stuart runs his knobby fingers through his hair. Murdoc knows he tries to hide it by keeping his bangs long and scattered, but pushed back like this, it’s clear to see how far his hairline’s receded. Slick with sweat and with grime, it looks like his hair’s being weighted down, just slipping further back on his skull so the ends can pool at his nape. He’s still handsome, of course—still something half-divine in Murdoc’s eyes—but he’s looking his age now.
“A trim would do you good,” Murdoc offers quietly.
“Yeah. I think it would.” He hasn’t got the energy to pull a face, to look like anything but what he is. “I think it might do you good too.”
Murdoc drops his head forward and swipes at his upper lip, back throbbing from his confinement at this desk. He wants to do better this time, but it’s clearer to him than anyone how wrongly the better Murdoc fits with what Stu’s made.
He feels how Stu’s worn eyes stay on him.
“Look, this doesn’t have to mean anythin’ with bells and whistles. It just means I’d like to take a drive and I’d like to stand on a hill and drink whatever shite they peddle, fucking toffee ale or summin'. I’d like to have a different sort of day.”
“It means you want to go inland,” he murmurs like he’s got a right to think it.
Stuart exhales loudly, his already sunken chest deflating further.
“It means I know that you…” Murdoc glances up to catch how he looks at him with a muddled sorriness, an acknowledgment without a reward. “It means I know. And it means the knowing’s fine, alright? I’d just like to see something different. Or at the very least I’d like to see some tits.”
“Go back to the mechanic talk and you can see some right now.” They share a small smile. Murdoc wets his lips, tries to stay present. “Y’really think she’s up for a drive? Car’s older than I am.”
“You doubting these hands?” He spreads them wide and gives his knuckles a cheeky crack, then jokingly winces.
“Only entirely.”
Stu braces against his knees and lumbers to his feet, gaze never wavering as he crosses the distance to Murdoc. He stands in front of him, all peaks and angles and towering shapes, sweat dried to his skin. He just watches him, no posing and no pleading, just stays there with his bare torso level to the other’s face.
After a moment Murdoc reaches out to twist his fingers in his waistband, bunching the red between his wrists and pulling him close. Stu lifts a hand to the back of his head to grab a handful of thick, choppy hair and crane his neck back. He stares at Murdoc’s chin against his navel for another beat before bending, kissing Murdoc hard and brief.
Their hands keep their place after they separate.
Every word that occurs to him to say feels like running, or wallowing, or something devaluing to what Stu’s willing to let them be. It all just feels too big—feels like more than it needs to be, like it makes it matter less.
“Yeah,” is the best he can manage.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
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