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"Hey, come by when you land, I want to show you the new place :.)"
Who even still uses smiley faces with a nose? Grandmothers, that's who, he thought to himself, cutting the engine. Bloody old lady, she is.
That was her version of barely-contained excitement.
Angel had gotten a new flat while he was gone, finally getting shod of the tiny temporary one in Salford he'd shacked her up in. But she was still hanging around Manchester, still too far away for his liking. It was a slog of a drive from London, especially after a ten hour flight. But here he was wriggling his car into a parking space in front of the building, dog-tired and oddly anxious, his insides wringing.
He hadn't seen her in a month. He felt… eager. And it wasn't just his tight jeans.
He glanced back down at the smeared address he'd scribbled down on his hand from her text and pulled his jacket collar up around his neck, diving out into the rain, heels splatting in the pools of dirty water collecting in the street.
Up three flights with no elevator. Horrible. He took note to file that in her complaint box.
He left a wet trail up to her door, and brushed the hair from his face as he knocked, adjusting himself. There wasn't much fixing to do with how he looked—dead tired and wet and disheveled from the plane. It was Ange', anyway. She didn't need impressing. He could've been stark naked, for all she cared. Might have preferred it.
The door flew open right away.
"Muds!"
Before he could even get a word out of his open mouth, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into the tightest hug she'd ever given him. In fact, he probably could've counted the number of times she'd hugged him on one hand.
He wasn't exactly the snuggling type. Usually it made him extremely uncomfortable. Claustrophobic, even. But this felt… good. His hands moved by themselves and ran up her back, pulling her closer. His eyes slipped closed. That damn familiar smell—rose shampoo and cocoa butter lotion—Angel. Christ, it was so fucking nice, he could barely stand it. It wasn't fair for her to be so… frustratingly good.
She let go far too fast, her warmth leaving him in a snap.
"Come on, check out my place!"
"You're so rude, Ange'. You haven't seen me in a month and you don't even offer to shag my brains out. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Shut up, come on."
She dragged him inside with a grip that would've made him hard if he hadn't been so fucking tired.
"Ah… it's uh… well…" he mumbled, glancing around.
It wasn't much—a normal little box of an apartment. Bigger than the one he'd hooked her up with when she was his assistant, but nothing that warranted the beaming smile on her face. He wished he'd been able to sell her on the flat in London. Sure, it was heinously expensive, but it had a river view. And more importantly, it would have been much more convenient for him.
But there was something odd about this place. It looked lived in. She had… stuff. Not just living stuff—soap and dishes and toothpaste—actual stuff. A book on the coffee table, a candle, a suncatcher hanging in the window. Things.
Her bag wasn't sitting by the door anymore. In fact, he didn't see it at all, which was a first. She didn't look like she was ready to bug-out at a moment's notice.
Angel was gesturing at a cabinet she said she'd scooped up out of the trash somewhere that he assumed she managed to drag up three flights by herself, messing around with a record player she'd jerry-rigged a set of speakers to.
"I got myself a turntable off a guy on Craigslist. Now I can steal your records."
"Great, good for you. You touch my collection without my permission and you won't have fingers anymore."
She ignored him.
They both knew he'd be eager to force his musical taste on her.
She was like a child, bringing him everything in their room like show and tell. Something Noodle used to do when she was young when she'd bring anyone to Kong. Except Angel was a full grown woman, though no less excited.
He peeked out the sliding glass door of the little balcony. She'd set out a plastic chair and table with an ashtray, an empty beer bottle resting beside it. It made him think of the penthouse in New York. It made him want a cigarette.
He wandered off from the tour, his eyes roaming around the room. It was strange, seeing her space so personal. Her flat had always been sparse and functional. Like a hotel, minus the bland, non-offensive wall art.
This was downright homey for her.
A bunch of pale pink cut flowers sat in a mason jar on the windowsill. He mindlessly pinched a petal between his fingers. How disgustingly quaint.
"Don't manhandle them, Muds," she chastised from behind.
"That's what I'm good at," he snorted.
That made her laugh. He didn't realize how much he missed that sound. It was easy to make her laugh. Well, it was easy for him to make her laugh. It felt too good.
"Oh, Muds, look!"
She slapped his arm until he turned around. She was presenting a spider plant on the kitchen island like she was showing off a little league trophy.
"It's… a plant," he said, his voice dripping with false excitement.
"Yeah!" she said with genuine excitement, gently stroking a leaf with the tip of her finger. "I've never lived in one place long enough to have one. I was always expecting to pack up. You can't exactly stuff a plant in a suitcase. But I can finally have one. The guy at the store said these ones are hard to kill, and all I have to do is water—"
A drop splattered onto the leaf. Her hand raised to her face, pulling it away wet. She was crying, just a little bit.
"Ah…"
Murdoc watched her, his chest tight. She didn't look sad. She looked happy.
That was the thing about Angel—sometimes she felt so much that it squeezed out her eyes. It was pathetic. But it didn't make him as mad as it probably should have.
"You're such a crybaby," he muttered, fumbling around in his pocket for his cigarettes.
"Shut up," she scoffed, roughly rubbing her face with the back of her hand.
He turned away, busying his mouth with lighting up his cig, cupping his hand around the flame.
She straightened up, wiping her eye.
"Oh! And look what Fran got me."
She brought him something else off the counter—a plastic container full of water. He mumbled around the cigarette hanging from his lips, a shot of smoke bursting from the corner of his mouth.
"Some… Tupperware. Great."
"Sea monkeys!"
A goofy grin grew across his face and he picked up the plastic case, holding it up to the light to see the little specks floating around in the water.
"Oh-hohoho, Ange' you know these are for kids, right?" he tittered, shaking the container. "You planning on entering the primary school science fair? Where's your baking soda volcano?"
"Don't shake it like that!" she snapped, grabbing it out of his hands. "It's kind of like a pet."
"Ange', it's like keeping a jar of yeast."
"I feed them yeast."
"You're a psychopath," he laughed. "Did you name them all?"
"I can't tell how many are in there."
"Get a tiny pole and you can go fishing."
"You're a psychopath."
"Never said I wasn't."
She gingerly placed the container back on the kitchen island, like she was handling a delicate vase.
Painfully sentimental. Even to water bugs. Bugs? Fish? He wasn't sure. God, now she had him thinking about it.
Something caught his eye on the counter, something out of place.
"Oi, you're holding out on me, Ange'."
A slick-looking silver espresso machine was tucked into the corner by itself. It looked new, expensive, and unlike her. She never blew money on shit like that.
Angel came up behind him, snorting.
"Lenore got that for me—a house warming gift. I can't figure it out. I'm afraid I'm gonna break it and I don't think I could afford to replace it."
Murdoc wasn't burdened with such worries and immediately fiddled around with it, pulling pieces out to give them a once-over.
"If you don't use it, I will."
She scoffed.
"Yeah, thanks for the help, Dad."
"Ooh, don't you start with me. I might be tired, but I could still give you a good chase around the coffee table if you get under my skin, pet," he mumbled around his cig, trying to jam the press back in.
She nudged him.
"You can fuck around with that later, I have one more thing to show you…"
She reached out and grabbed his hand, nearly dragging him to the door at the opposite end of the room. She gave him a wide grin and opened the door.
A bed. A real bed.
"No more futon," she said excitedly.
It was a small bedroom, but enough space for a full mattress, which threw herself into, nearly taking up the whole thing.
That he was genuinely happy for—the futon fucked his back up something horrible. A night spent with her was a day spent swallowing ibuprofen.
He tucked his cig between his fingers and crawled overtop of her, grunting.
"Ange', if I wasn't ready to drop, I'd help you christen this," he purred into her neck, his lips brushing her jaw.
"What makes you think I haven't already?" she teased, sliding her hand up his back under his jacket. "You have been gone a month."
"Missed me so much you just couldn't keep your hands to yourself, eh?"
She leaned up, nudging him into a soft kiss.
"Something like that."
"Should've called me, could've at least helped you out."
"You were busy."
"Never too busy for that, love. Give me a ring any time you want me to give you a little guided tour of yourself."
"You're getting ash in my bed."
"Live with it."
His stubble scratched her—he hadn't shaved in three days and the circles under his eyes seemed even darker than usual. Jet lagged to hell.
"I missed you," he muttered.
Missed her body, he meant. Shagging her. But that wasn't how it came out. But he didn't correct himself. He'd let her have it. And… well… he did kind of miss her, he guessed, twisting around inside.
"I'm not going anywhere," she laughed, her palm cupping his face.
Suddenly the air in the room felt very heavy, the both of them staring at each other, something tense pulling tighter the longer they touched.
He cleared his throat, clamoring off her to get back on his feet.
"So you, uh, you really think you're sticking around, eh?"
She nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I think I am. I feel good. I don't want to move again, right now."
That made his gut crawl, and he couldn't tell if it was a good feeling or not.
"Well, do whatever you like, you're a grown woman. Though I'd be a little pissed if you ditched our little duo. Sank a good chunk of change into the promotional material for Satanic Panic and all."
"How sentimental," she snorted.
"Just being realistic, love. You do have a tendency to wander."
"As if you don't."
"Different type of wandering. You're more a hitchhiker than a rolling stone."
"I could make a joke about Keith Richards, but I'll keep it to myself," she said, getting up.
He leaned off his left leg, grunting.
Exhaustion weighed on him. The tour was finally taking its toll. Traveling got to him more, the older he got. It made him sore.
Angel eyed his leg but didn't say anything, instead corralling him back into the living room, edging him toward the couch and practically forcing him to sit down.
"There's a Thai place around the corner. They've got that spicy soup you like. And I picked up some beer. If you want to stay for a little while."
He grunted, flicking his ashes into an empty mug on the coffee table. The aching of his joints was setting in.
"Augh, couldn't get up if I wanted to at the moment, chiquita. You're stuck with me for a bit. Do whatever you want."
He was painfully hungry but couldn't bring himself to admit it. And of course she remembered what he liked. She had a knack for that—knowing things. It was irritating. She was insufferably thoughtful.
He ground out the butt on the side of the mug and dropped it in, kicking his feet up on the table.
Maybe the place wasn't so bad. At least he had a halfway decent place to crash, now. Not too far from the Manchester airport. Maybe more convenient than he thought. And he could always count on her for a place to just… be.
He sunk back into the couch, letting out a long sigh.
"I'm just gonna… shut my eyes, just for a minute," he muttered, his head tilting back.
It barely took a moment for his jaw to go slack and a muted little snore to bubble out of him. Out cold.
Angel was digging around in her fridge, which actually had food for once.
"Lenore also got me some champagne if you wanted to—"
She gripped the bottle by the neck, cutting herself off when she turned around.
Her lips turned up in an unfightable smile. She set the bottle down and quietly slipped out onto the balcony, carefully shutting the door behind her to keep from waking him up. She'd order in a little bit, let him sleep while he could.
Rain dribbled down the corner of the balcony, pattering down on Murdoc's car parked below. Angel settled herself in the chair and stretched her legs out.
All of this felt different.
It didn't feel temporary, or an in-between, or a stop.
It felt real.
It felt good.
It felt like home.