Dents

[+] Some Kind Of Nature

((This chapter contains mature or potentially triggering content. Reader discretion is advised.))

He was drunk again.

It was around six in the morning, and the London birds chirped wildly outside the studio's cobweb covered windows. It was getting colder. Passerby retrieved their mail or walked their dogs in dense coats and rain boots. I longed to return to the normalcy of events like those. They were a distant memory.

''What the 'ell are you starin' at? First I got to deal with 'at moron, now I got anotha one 'ere."

"Sorry. I'm listening."

I wasn't listening and continued to stare out the window.

I had learned by 2D's example that the best method for dealing with Murdoc was to obey each of his little whims until he inevitably lost interest or passed out. I felt conflicted. Just because I had decided not to literally kill him didn't mean that I was friendly with him. I didn't like doing whatever he said to prevent a tantrum.

His presence set me on edge.

"... Right," he droned, not believing me but continuing anyway.

"So the first time this nose got all busted up was that Tony Chopper arsehole from Sodsworth. He was a real prick. Called me all kinds of names, 'e did. Gay lord, odd sock, creepy little runt, faceache, oh, or 'Nerdoc.' Real clever with 'at one, right? He was dead from the neck up, I tell you."

"Wait, wait. Hold on. Did you say he called you 'faceache?'"

Murdoc, completely ignorant that I had said anything at all, continued talking uninterrupted.

"So you know what I did?"

He leaned forward on the bar table between us. His skin looked sickly. His eyes were dark, lacking any reflection of light from the bulb above. He smelled like a brewery.

I felt ill looking at him.

"I told 'im, 'Tony, fact is, you're a useless, bloated, backward waste of space, who'll probably get a job holdin' up 'For Sale' signs on the corner of streets, only to then get yourself fired and replaced by a bucket of soil.' I told 'im, and this is a direct quote, 'A pissed monkey would stand a betta' chance in life.' Great, right? Right," he trailed off wistfully. His mind had wandered to other things.

I was merely grateful he'd finally shut up.

"So, wha's goin' on with you 'n faceache?"

He struck a match on his fingernail and lit a cigarette with it. I was not surprised that the surface of his nails were coarse enough to do that.

Anxiety crept into me. The question he asked, as average as it may have seemed to someone outside of the situation, set an ominous tone. I recalled 2D's broken pinky. That knuckle was slightly larger than the others now because of it.

I sighed, putting on my best façade of annoyance at his words.

"Isn't it obvious?"

He groaned. It was an unpleasant noise that echoed obtrusively against the stained grey walls. A draft from the vent nearby rushed past my bare feet. I channeled my worries into my right heel, which I dug into the concrete floor, trying to use the constant twinges of pain to hold onto my adrenaline.

2D was upstairs sleeping off the migraine he woke with last night. I desperately wanted to be with him, tangled in the sheets, unconscious.

Safe.

Murdoc stepped around the table separating us, his nails scratching across the surface and leaving faint marks in the wood. Nonchalantly, he set his free hand on my knee.