Chapter Text
It began as a quest for juice. The ravens shrieked, the branches rapped against her window, and Noodle woke from a dreamless sleep, finding herself unable to return. So she slipped out of bed, bare feet pressing against the draft-chilled floorboards, and crept down the hall toward the kitchen. The best thing about waking at midnight was that everyone else was asleep or otherwise occupied, and this meant that nobody was around to tell her that too much apple juice was not part of a balanced diet. Not that that anyone but Russel would care, but it was the principle of the matter. Forbidden Juice was far more special than regular juice because it had been obtained through nefarious dealings, like Murdoc’s big bass guitar, which he worshiped and caressed and claimed to have received from Satan Himself.
It made Noodle laugh when Murdoc talked about it because Russel always looked so angry with him. Such stories were not appropriate for little girls, and this made them all the sweeter.
Like Forbidden Juice.
She reached the kitchen, but stopped short of the fridge, noticing a light on and flickering over the table. The room was vacant. Sitting in the open, idle for the moment, were a bottle of amber liquid (the color of apple juice, but, she knew, very different), a small tumbler, and an ashtray.
Noodle approached the table cautiously, aware that Murdoc had likely only stepped out for a piss and would be back momentarily to keep at his beverage of choice. It was a sudden, devilish impulse, born of after-midnight giddy mischief, but Noodle climbed up and perched on the chair, reaching for the gaudily detailed bottle. It was heavier than she had expected, but she was nothing if not strong, and she tipped some of the drink into the little glass.
“A-hem.”
Noodle froze, glancing guiltily over her shoulder. Standing in the doorway, shirtless with a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, was the Gorillaz bassist.
“Well, don’t let me spoil the fun,” Murdoc drawled, slinking over. His Cuban heels, usually so satisfyingly clunky, beat out her sentence. Doomed. Doomed. Doomed.
“Murdoc-san.” Noodle placed the bottle back on the table and scrambled out of his way. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she dreaded his disappointment, or the thought that she might lose his trust (this was a sentiment 2D often recited sagely, that when you betrayed someone you lost their trust, but she had yet to see such a thing happen). That she might lose his respect.
Her frantic scrambling seemed to give Murdoc pause, however, and he abated. Noodle watched in nervous fascination as he rocked back on his heel, then stepped around the table, giving her plenty of space. He settled in the seat opposite her, slid his drink and ashtray to his new place, and gave a little jerk of his head to indicate Noodle should sit down.
“Gomenasai, I am sorry, your drink,” Noodle blurted, hands knotted in the fabric of her pajamas.
“You were curious. S’alright.” Murdoc took a long drag from his cigarette, then tapped the precariously dangling ash into the ashtray.
“Sore wa nomenai. Not allowed,” Noodle reminded him. She clambered into the chair across from him, confident that she wasn’t going to be scolded.
Murdoc exhaled, smoke drifting off into a dark corner of the kitchen. “Yeah, well,” he shrugged. “I’m not allowed a fag around you, says Russ, but it appears we’ve reached an impasse.” He lifted the bottle and poured a tumbler-full with a practiced twist of the wrist, then nudged the glass toward Noodle. “I ain’t stopping you.”
Noodle glanced down at the drink, then back at Murdoc, sensing a trap.
“Drink it, if you want. You’ll probably be fine. Russ might knock my nose off for good, but you can keep a secret.” He made a big show of thinking something over. “Though your little brain’s still developing. Don’t know how I’ll cope if you turn up a moron as well.” He took another thoughtful drag, then blew the smoke out his nose. “And there must be a limit to how much brain damage a man can inflict before they cart him off for good. Maybe better not.”
Murdoc didn’t move the glass away.
“I’d have to be some brand of awful hypocrite to start abiding by the law now, though. Surrender to the system. You’d better have some, in fact, if that’s your fancy.” He waved her on a little with his hand, encouraging or mocking, Noodle couldn’t tell.
She was not supposed to have the drink, this she knew. It was the sort of thing which was Only For Adults, and even then sometimes seemed as if it shouldn’t be. Drinking a lot made both Murdoc and 2D go silly at first, before Murdoc slipped into angry and 2D became completely incoherent. Russel would get melancholy and withdrawn, even more so than usual, and Noodle had picked up backstage and from TV that alcohol could really be quite dangerous for anyone, let alone a little ten-year-old girl.
She wasn’t supposed to drink it, and she was quite sure Murdoc didn’t expect her to. Just to be contrary, she accepted the glass and dunked the tip of her tongue in, holding it there defiantly. It was awful and stinging, and she felt her face screw up as she shoved the glass back toward Murdoc.
He laughed out loud, the kind of rare, joyous laugh which Noodle strove for—under any other circumstances. She stuck her tongue out at him and put up her middle fingers, which was something the boys did when they thought she wasn’t looking.
This made Murdoc laugh harder.
“You cheeky little thing!” he crowed, picking up the glass and tossing the contents back before slamming it down on the table. He was flushed and grinning, all wild-eyed and crooked-toothed, and Noodle felt a swell of affection for him even as she was really very annoyed.
“Not funny!” she wailed, but a smile might have forced itself through anyway.
“Sorry, love, it is. It’s funny,” Murdoc laughed. He took another drag, then seemed to calm down a bit. “You weren’t supposed to go for it!” He ashed into the tray again, then stood up in one fluid motion and slipped over to the fridge.
“Would you like a drink? Non-alcoholic?” he asked, already pulling down a tumbler that matched his own.
“Juice!”
“That’s what I thought.” Light streamed out of the refrigerator as Murdoc opened the door, removed the juice bottle, and slammed the fridge shut with a jingling of condiment bottles. He clunked back over, satisfyingly heavy on his feet, and placed the juice and the tumbler before Noodle, mirroring his own setup across the table.
Noodle’s hands were already at the lid, and she poured herself a tumbler of juice, nearly avoiding spillage. Murdoc screwed the cap back on when she finished, then poured himself another drink.
“Cheers, love,” he said, and raised his glass. Noodle raised hers to meet it, leaning forward in her seat to clink them together. Murdoc took a sip, which seemed much more reasonable a technique than downing the vile stuff in one mouthful, and Noodle enjoyed the first blissful drink of her juice, sweet on her tongue and cold down her throat. Juice was much better than alcohol, Noodle decided, and then wondered why Murdoc didn’t have some instead.
“Nande sore o nomimasu no? Why drink?” She pointed to Murdoc’s tumbler in case he required clarification.
“Why not?” he replied, shrugging vaguely and having another sip.
“Bad…ah, etto…bad taste.”
Murdoc swallowed loudly and smacked his lips. “Acquired,” he acquiesced.
“You, Russel-san, Toochi, become, ah…” Noodle trailed off, staring into her golden juice.
“Not ourselves?” Murdoc suggested.
“Hai, yes. Not yourselves.” Noodle nodded, glad he understood. She finished her juice with a few gulps, then cast Murdoc a furtive glance before pouring herself another. Murdoc was not the type to fuss about extra sweets before dinner or apple juice at midnight, but she felt sneaky about it anyway. “Funny. Ah, sad.”
Murdoc scoffed. “The other two, maybe. What a sorry pair of sods. It will make you go a bit funny; ‘s why people like it. Makes everything a bit fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy why?”
“Eh, messes with the front part of your brain, which is the real thinky part, y’know?” He waggled his fingers toward his forehead. “Turns your decision-making to rubbish. You might get more emotional, not that this is an issue for 2D, and you lose a little bit of your filter, which, again, is not an issue for 2D. He really just shuts down, doesn’t he?” Murdoc laughed, a bit meanly. “If you’re thinking about your problems, you might get upset. Russel’s always thinking about all the crap in the world. That’s why he’s such a downer at parties. And some blokes get real violent, y’know?”
Noodle nodded. She did know.
“But it can also make you stop thinking about your problems, or make ‘em seem less bad. It makes you feel happy.” He punctuated this statement with another swig.
Noodle raised her apple juice demonstratively.
Murdoc smiled, the soft kind of smile which Noodle thought might be reserved for her alone. “Tha’s right. Apple juice will do that just as well, for you.” He drank again. “I guess the answer is, because it’s fun. ‘S why people do it at parties. It makes you more fun to be around. Unless you’re 2D.”
Noodle scowled.
“Oh, he’s fine.” Murdoc huffed, as he often did when it was suggested that he might be polite to 2D. “He can’t hear me,” he added, with a knowing smile Noodle did not fully understand, but did not much like.
“Sleeping?”
Murdoc grinned and shrugged in a way that clarified absolutely nothing.
Noodle hummed, the sound vibrating and echoing in her glass as she took another drink of apple juice. She thought Murdoc was most likely being rude, and that both 2D and Russel were asleep at this time of night. Noodle was only awake because of the sounds outside her window, which did beg the question:
“Nande nenai no? You not sleep?”
“Eh. Not tonight, it seems.”
“Bad? Etto, akumu wa nan desu ka? Sleep think?”
Murdoc looked at her blankly for a moment, then realized what she meant. “Bad dreams, yeah? Nightmares?”
“Nightmares,” Noodle repeated. “Bad dreams. Murdoc has bad dreams?”
“Sometimes,” he replied. “Everyone does, sometimes. But I’ve got some whiskey and a fag and I’m perfectly content. What about you, love? Bad dreams?”
“No. Birds.” She mimicked a raven cawing with one hand.
“Ah, yeah, they’ll do that. Cortez can sing with the best of ‘em, but the bloody bird won’t shut up all night if the others are going at it outside. Lovely animal. What a tosser.” Murdoc had another sip of his drink. “Threw ‘im out and caused a racket, did I? Sorry, Noodle.”
“Okay,” she assured him, finishing her second juice. Her eyelids were growing heavy, now, just a bit, the novelty of a secret late-night drink with her bandmate wearing off slightly. She broke into a yawn.
Murdoc softened. “Bedtime, then?” he asked, ironing some of the roughness from his voice.
She could stay up longer, she knew, but the thought of burrowing into a soft bed was inviting. Plus, the sooner she went to sleep, the sooner she could be up and doing fun things, like coloring and playing her guitar and seeing Russel and 2D. Nodding, Noodle rubbed one eye with her fist.
“Come on, then, dove.” Murdoc stubbed out his cigarette, then stood and gathered up their tumblers, ruffling Noodle’s hair as he passed. He set the glasses in the sink to fester with the rest of the dishes, then placed the juice back in the fridge and the alcohol back in the high cabinet, where Russel had thought it out of sight and mind. He ambled back over, looking a bit more unsteady than he had before the drinks, and opened his arms, an almost sheepish offer for a ride down the hall.
Feeling warm inside, Noodle slid out of her chair and padded over, allowing him to take her into his arms. He smelled of whiskey and smoke and sweat; not pleasant, but comfortingly familiar. They went to his room, rather than hers (to avoid the birds, she assumed) and Murdoc let Noodle climb into his unused bed, patting her on the head a bit awkwardly when she’d finished burrowing into the sheets.
“Arright, then, love. Sleep tight, yeah?” He turned on his heel, prepared to slip back down into the darkness of the parking garage.
“Murdoc. Stay?”
He lingered, a silhouette with one hand on the doorframe. “I don’t know that it’d be appropriate, love,” he said, which was not at all the answer Noodle had hoped for and she let him know.
“Appropriate yes!” She may have been shouting a bit, which, by her estimates, was all the better for convincing an adult. She sat up, the sheets crumpling around her, and patted the bed authoritatively. “Murdoc! Sleep,” she commanded.
He hesitated. “Not yer dog,” he finally groused, but he sidled back up to the bed anyway, ruffling Noodle’s hair with one hand and then shoving her back good-naturedly. Her head floomped into the too-soft pillow and she cackled.
“Ahaaaa, ya gremlin!” He yanked the sheets up over her head and then jumped onto the bed, sending her a foot up into the air. She shrieked and dissolved into giggles as Murdoc situated himself on top of the covers. Noodle pulled the sheets down to her chin and wiggled up against him, sighing. He laid one arm over her, practically bashful about it, and it filled her with unbridled glee.
“Stop yer wigglin’,” Murdoc snapped half-heartedly. “Settle down.”
Noodle complied, only because she was getting tired. She pressed her face into the pillow and sighed. “Aishiteru,” she whispered, and Murdoc hummed, not understanding.
“And the same to you, kiddo. Now sleep.”
When she glanced at it a few days later, the alcohol cabinet had a lock on it.