Work Text:
Kong was empty.
At least it sounded that way from how silent it was when Angel let herself in.
Murdoc wasn't answering his phone, like usual. So Lenore sent her to fetch him. Like usual. Something about some kind of watch brand deal he needed to sign off on. Use of his likeness and whatever else. Things Angel didn't get herself involved in if she could avoid it. Things that Murdoc chased like a dog.
Sometimes Angel still felt like his secretary.
"Muds?" she called, setting their mail down on the counter. "Muuuuds! Lenore called you like fifty times."
She shucked off her jacket, tossing it onto a chair.
"Muds? I'm gonna drink that beer you've been saving in the fridge! I'm reaching for the door!"
Silence.
Maybe he really wasn't home.
A hunched shadow on the stairs made her jump as she turned the corner.
His head jerked around.
"Ange'…"
He didn't sound the least bit excited to see her, his face twisted up in a scowl.
"Christ, there you are. Listen, Lenore wanted to see you, about the Casio thing."
"Ah… now's not a good time."
She came up behind him, her eyes darting down to the hand he had gripped around the banister. His nails were sunk into the wood, leaving behind grooves.
Her face softened, her gaze lingering on his leg he was desperately trying to lean off of.
"Are you… are you having trouble?"
"No," he snapped.
That response answered for him.
"I can help you," she said, her hand coming down on his shoulder.
He reeled back, smacking her away.
"Just—!"
He winced, buckling, his hand flying to his knee to keep himself from falling over on his ass.
"Just… leave me alone," he growled, much less threatening than he intended. More a whimper, than anything else.
Angel hovered, watching him grip the banister and struggle to sit on the step, hissing through clenched teeth.
It wasn't the first time she'd seen him have a flare-up, but it never seemed to stop bothering him—her seeing.
She crouched down to sit on the step below him and he turned his eyes away.
"Do you want some ibuprofen?"
"I want my knee to be unfucked, is what I want," he snapped.
Angel kept her mouth shut in a tight line. That wasn't going to happen.
Rage was bubbling up in him, his face growing red, lips pulled back in a deep-set scowl. His hands gripped into white-knuckled fists.
"One fucking, one fucking, wrong step. Fucked forever," he snarled, jamming his thumb hard into the curve of his knee. "That shit happens to old people."
Ah, that's it.
He looked as if he was about to cry, his eyes getting glazed. She couldn't tell if it was from anger or sadness or both.
"Lots of people get injured," she finally said, looking up at him. "Kids, you know? They play a sport and get their ankle broke and they can't play ever again. I knew a girl that tore her ACL and she couldn't run anymore, at all. It's not just old people. Shit happens."
That didn't seem to have the effect she was hoping it would, his teeth grinding together so hard she could hear it.
"Sebastian beat me for years. Broke my arm, my nose, my ribs… Been in car wrecks, been in more fights than I can count. But no, what fucked me up was slipping on a goddamn rock."
Angel didn't bother asking if he ever got it checked out. Whatever the answer was, it wasn't going to end well for her. If he hadn't, he'd start spouting off why it wouldn't matter anyway. If he had, he'd get even angrier that she asked such an obvious question.
"I'll rub your knee, that seems to help—"
"I don't want help," he snapped, flinching away from her before she even moved to touch him. "What the fuck do you know? You're fine. You don't understand."
She wrestled down her prickling nerves. He wasn't wrong.
"No, you're right, I don't."
He scoffed.
"I don't need your pity."
She shook her head.
"I'm not trying to pity you, Muds. I feel bad that this is happening to you. I know I can't fix it, I just want to make it not as bad."
"I'm in fucking pain!" he snapped, making her jerk back. "You can't help me! All you want is for me to shut up about it! You're not trying to help me, you're trying to help yourself!"
"That's not true—" she bristled.
"You and everybody else. You want to just wave some magic wand and have me be normal. I can't!"
"Knock it off!" she spat. "I'm trying to fucking help. If I didn't want to deal with it, I would just walk out the front door. You're not my boss anymore, I don't have to help you. I don't even care if you're nice to me. I just want to do what I can, alright?! So don't jump down my throat just because you're angry!"
He couldn't think of anything horrible to say about that, his mind blinded by the sharp pang that shot through the joint of his knee.
The side of his fist slammed into the banister, sending the whole thing trembling, his hand shaking.
"Goddamnit!"
The second punch made the wood creak, his nails biting into his palms.
She stared at him as he panted with labored, thin breaths, then suddenly got to her feet, hurrying down the stairs. Murdoc's face flushed red.
"Fine, fuck off!" he called after her, trembling.
She reappeared a minute later, coming up the steps holding a plate, which she forced into his hand.
He sneered, waving it at her.
"What the fuck is this?"
She nodded her head toward the bottom of the steps.
"You want me to chuck this down the fucking stairs, how's that supposed to help me?" he snarled. "Some kind of outlet therapy shit? I told you I don't need your goddamn pity—"
"Just do it."
Murdoc shot her a sharp glare, gripped it, and threw it as hard as he could, nearly toppling himself over on the step. It smashed side-long into the floor at the bottom, shattering into a firework of ceramic that scattered hundreds of shards across the hardwood.
The silence rang in his ears.
His chest heaved, one hand clutching his knee, the other gripping the railing, a hot rush flooding him.
She eyed him, watching his tense body start to unclench, his rage tempered by the relief of breaking something. For the moment, at least.
He glanced behind him, looking up to the landing still ten steps away. He sucked in a tight breath through his nose, his head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut.
"... I need you to get me something," he said in a low, defeated voice.
Angel nodded, leaning in.
"A cane," he muttered, gesturing vaguely upstairs. "Back of my closet. I n… I need it."
"Okay, okay, I'll get it."
"And one of D's oxys. They're in his room."
He shot down the look of concern on her face.
" One ," he repeated.
She wrestled with herself and got to her feet.
"I'll get you ibuprofen first, and if it still hurts, I'll get you an oxy."
"Ibuprofen isn't going to do shit. You're just keeping me in pain longer," he spat.
"Just try it first. If it doesn't work, I'll get you an oxy and I'll let you smash every plate in the house."
Murdoc grunted, looking away. It wasn't like he could convince her, with screaming or whining. She wasn't swayed like that. She was stubborn, like him.
Immovable object, unstoppable force.
Except this time he was the immovable object, he thought bitterly, straightening out his leg.
He stared down the steps at the shrapnel of the plate.
That was how he felt—all fucking smashed to pieces.
This wasn't ever going to get better.
Murdoc swallowed down the pills without the water she brought him and grabbed up the cane—black with a silver raven head topper. He ignored her hand and pulled himself up on the banister, his heels slipping on the wooden steps until he had himself upright, leaning on the cane heavily.
He glanced up the stairs. A mile long, at least.
"Come on, I'll get you a bath. That seems to help."
He was in too much pain to try and scare her off, the cane mutedly thumping on the steps as he made his slow way up, Angel following behind.
"I just want to lay down. Get lost," he muttered once he'd reached the third floor, out of breath and shaking.
Angel stepped in front of him, making him shift his weight hard onto his cane.
"Don't be such an ass. You can sulk in your room in pain, or you can let me help you and maybe feel better. Your choice."
She moved forward, her hand outstretched and he sluggishly turned his face, leaning away, but not far enough to avoid her fingers threading through his hair, brushing his bangs out of his face. She did like doing that—seeing all of him. Sometimes she'd kiss him on the forehead. He wouldn't have struggled away if she tried to.
"Come on," she said in that low voice she had when she was trying to convince him of her sincerity. "Let me be nice to you."
He scoffed, then went silent.
He wanted her to.
He sat on the closed toilet, watching her swish her hand around in the water, checking the temperature.
So bloody fucking nice. So fucking annoying.
But he kept those words behind gritted teeth, his hand on his knee, resting his chin on the end of the cane.
A weak, vulnerable part of him he usually kept well-sedated with a cocktail of sharp, snide comments, derisive humor, and white-knuckle rage, was horrifying close to the surface.
No one ever took care of him. No one ever wanted to. Not as a kid, not as an adult.
He was big enough of a bastard that anyone who ever tried learned real quick that it wasn't worth the effort. He'd dig his heels in and pull against his leash until they would finally let go and let him wallow in his own problems. What 'D had years ago called "performative suffering". Murdoc unleashed some real suffering when he heard that.
But… he wasn't wrong. Murdoc knew that.
After years of using and abusing and lying and screaming and scheming and general debauchery, there were very few people who had time for his problems at all. He didn't get to have problems. He was the problem.
No one was left to clean up the mess.
Russ and Noodle and 2D had all had their fill of his issues; they'd become trivial annoyances after all the trouble he'd caused, all the hurt, all the blame he'd shucked onto them.
Lenore was the only one who was still willing to help him, and he paid her. It was her job to scrape him off the floor.
But Angel was there of her own volition, and didn't get anything for it, except probably a pounding headache from him ranting to her. Rather at her, most of the time. She didn't get paid. She didn't get praise. She barely got a scrap of affection in return, what little passed for affection from him.
He eyed her on her knees, bent over and focused.
The only reason she was still willing to put up with him was because she'd never seen him at his worst. His real worst.
He'd never kidnapped her or hit her with his car. Never seen him get so drunk he pissed himself or so high that he woke up in Mexico with no recollection of how he'd gotten there. Never gotten shot at because of him.
She wasn't there. She didn't see how he was before she met him. She wasn't there for the baggage and the deceit and the broken promises, the truly evil shit. She was still misguided or deluded enough that she thought time helping him was time well spent. He doubted she would still be here if she had been around before the island, before prison, before Gorillaz. She would've been gone, just like everybody else.
But she was here.
"A fresh start", Lenore had called it.
And Angel still had some sympathy for the devil.
And as much as he resisted and pulled and complained… he wanted to be taken care of. Sometimes.
Now.
Even if he probably didn't deserve it.
He knew he didn't.
Angel didn't ask, she just started stripping him when he got to his feet, pulling his belt loose and unbuttoning his jeans.
"Ange'..." he grunted, gripping her shoulder. "I'm not bloody feeble, I don't need you to undress me."
She scoffed and looked up at him.
"A girl is taking your clothes off and you're going to complain?"
He rolled his eyes. Well, she had him there. And she did look so good on her knees. If he hadn't been clenching his jaw and digging his nails into her shoulders from the blinding shock of pain that ripped up his leg when he leaned on it, he would've been more excited by the view.
"Ange'—!" he hissed, gripping her hard.
She looped his arm around her neck and held him steady till he could hobble to the edge of the tub and throw himself into it.
You really are a fucking old man. Jesus Christ.
He sank down in the hot water, his eyes slipping closed.
"You okay?" she asked, crouching down beside the tub.
"Fine," he muttered. "Just wrestling with the mortal terror of age."
"Muds, you're fifty-three, not ninety-three."
"I was thirty just yesterday."
She rested his cane up against the wall and he eyed it.
"A cane, a limp… As if you needed more of a reason for people to call you a sugar baby," he grunted, almost too quiet for her to hear.
She turned, resting her arm along the edge of the tub.
"Muds, I don't care about all this. Well… that came out wrong. I don't care what this looks like."
"I'm not going to get better, you know? I'm just gonna get worse. Fucking knee, my back, I'm sure something else will give out soon. Maybe my liver. Probably my liver."
"What blood type are you?" she asked with a little chuckle, and he shot her a pointed glare that cut her off. "Sorry. Only sort of kidding."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.
"You're one to talk."
She dipped her hand in the water, gently running her thumb against his leg in small circles, moving up to his knee.
He clenched his jaw and leaned his head back, his hand gripped around the edge of the tub like a claw. It always felt worse before it felt better.
For someone so strong, her hands were so gentle. She was always gentle with him. Not coddling, not annoying, but just… softer. He couldn't place it. He didn't want to.
"It's not like you to lament about age, Muds."
"Don't give a shit about how long I've been around. It's the goddamn ship I'm piloting. The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak, sort of deal."
"Where's that ego of yours?"
"On holiday. It's terribly difficult to upkeep without constant stroking, you know?"
"I do know," she snorted.
She ran her hand through his hair, eyes running over his exhausted face.
"I…"
She wrestled the words swelling up in her mouth, what she wanted to tell him. But she didn't have to say it out loud. He knew.
Murdoc turned away, shrugging her off.
"Don't go getting weak on me, Ange', you know I can't stand it."
Angel let go and leaned back, leaving a cold spot where she'd been.
Murdoc gripped the side of the tub, watching her get to her feet, his heart wrenching. He didn't want her to leave. Not now.
Not ever, a weak little voice said somewhere deep inside without his consent.
Angel reached for the hem of her skirt and pulled it down over her knees, stepping out of it, and pulled her shirt over her head, tossing her clothes onto the floor. He couldn't look away from her, he never could.
"Move over."
He leaned forward and she climbed into the water behind him, sinking in. She took him by the shoulders and leaned him back against her chest, her thighs around his hips. Thank God the tub was big enough, she thought.
Her wet fingers threaded through his hair and it made him groan, his eyes slipping closed.
"Mm… Ah, maybe there is something you could do for the pain," he sighed.
"Later," she laughed, her chest rumbling against his back.
He stared at the wall, water running down his neck.
"... Why are you doing this?" he croaked.
"I told you, I want to help you."
"Why?"
Her fingers stopped, and she wrapped her arms around his chest, pulling him back against her, her cheek resting against his temple.
"Because you deserve it."
"I don't."
"You're not usually this self-deprecating when you're sober."
"I'm in pain. I'm not myself."
"I think you're more like yourself right now than you are normally."
"Sniveling and whining?" he scoffed.
"Honest."
He shifted, sinking deeper into the water.
"You can whine all you want. Doesn't make me like you less."
"That's the part I don't get. The liking part."
"You don't have to get it. Just accept it."
"I can't," he muttered, gripping his knee.
"You keep saying you can't do a lot of things, but you seem pretty capable to me. The Murdoc I know can put up with pretty much anything and come out the other side. I think you can handle a little bit of kindness without it killing you."
"That's what you think."
"Fine, maybe you're right. Maybe I am selfish and I'm just helping you because it makes me feel good. I can live with that. Can you?"
He let that rattle around in his brain for a moment before letting out a long sigh through his crooked nose.
"I guess."
"Do you want me to leave?"
"...No."
"Then shut up and let me be nice to you, goddamnit."
A small laugh bubbled up in his throat.
"You're so cruel."
"Good."
Murdoc let his eyes slip closed, her fingers running over the pendant around his neck, worrying it like he had for years.
Maybe he didn't deserve it, but what the hell. He was a hedonist, after all. If she was deluded enough to dole out kindness, who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? All the better for him to take and give nothing in return.
His hand wrapped around her wrist.
"Ange'."
"Mm?"
"... I don't hate you."
Her thumb ran over his knuckles.
"I don't hate you either."