Nothing Will Last *Murdoc x Reader*

Huarache Lights

It was the end of summer, and the heat was unbearable. The weather in your city never ceased to amaze you. If it hadn't been for the lack of humidity, it would have been game over. The air conditioning on your car had died a few years ago, but you had never bothered to get it looked at. The thing ran, so who cares? You drove home from work in the heat, and drove past the same brewery taproom around the corner from your house that you did every day. You peeked in the window and saw that your favorite bartender was working. He was gruff to anyone who wasn't a regular, a pretty girl, or who didn't know shit about beer. But you being a regular, a pretty girl, and knowing your shit about beer, he always was kind to you. It was hot, you were thirsty, and could really go for a beer and the company of someone who actually liked you. You decided to park your car on your street and walk back around the block to the brewery. They did trivia on Fridays, but it wasn't for another hour or so, you had time for a beer or two before it got too crowded and you would want to go elsewhere.

As you walked through the door, Hot Chip's Huarache Lights was playing on the stereo system. You danced/bounced along to the beat up to the bar. The bartender called out his usual, "'Sup, girl?" and poured you a glass of your favorite beer before you even ordered it.

"What are you up to?" he asked you, as he usually did, as he placed your beer in front of you.

"Not a whole lot, just got off of work. Stupidly excited for this Gorillaz concert tomorrow," you responded, "They've been my favorite since I was in the 7th grade. It's really a tragedy that I haven't gotten to see them yet."

"Hmm, I couldn't really get into their new album," your bartender friend responded, "But if you liked it, you should have fun."

You glanced up at the television to see if there was any good news on, just as someone pulled out a stool a few seats down from you with a terrible screeching noise that reverberated throughout the brewery. You cringed at the sound.

They really need to get some noise dampening panels in here, you thought to yourself. Your bartender friend shot you a look that let you know that he was not impressed with the stranger who had just sat down at the bar.

You glanced over to see who hadn't even had the decency to pick up the stool from the concrete floor as they pulled it out, and found yourself in a sort of stupor, unable to do anything but blink, with your mouth slack jawed, at who had sat down in "your" little neighborhood brewery.

The man was probably middle aged, with a peculiar olive hue to his skin, and jet black shaggy hair that prevented you from getting a good look at his eyes. His nose looked like he had gotten into his fair share of fights, and quite possibly lost. He was wearing black jeans, a black fitted sleeveless shirt, an upside down cross necklace, and Cuban heeled boots. He hadn't noticed you staring yet.

You knew exactly who he was. But why was he in your little, off the beaten path, neighborhood brewery's taproom? You didn't live in the hippest part of town. Why wasn't he at a bar where he could order hard liquor? Wasn't that his preference? Should you say something? Play it cool, you told yourself, keep your shit together. You had so many questions, and they all raced through your head at a breakneck speed.

You forced yourself to turn your attention back to the TV, so you didn't keep staring at him like some sort of weirdo.

"You gettin' drunk?" your bartender friend asked the man. Gosh, you loved everything about this taproom. It always felt like home.

"Give me the highest alcohol beer you have," replied the man in a British accent that seemed to permanently have a slight growl to it. You were very familiar with that voice, and you felt yourself get chills at the sound of it.