Chapter Text
“Goddammit.”
That damn leg’s been bothering him since they got back from that stupid celebratory trip. Some flashy, loud mess meant to mark how well the band was doing–too many people, too much noise, and not enough booze to even try and tolerate it.
As soon as they got back to the studio, he stepped outside. It was for a smoke break, a quick one, with the possibility of maybe sneaking another bottle in while he was out there.
Then, all of a sudden. The beetle.
It wasn’t massive–not to a ridiculous degree–but it was wrong. Too big, too heavy, bigger than anything that should’ve been crawling around in that grimy alley. He didn’t even notice it until it was already on him, legs hooked into his jeans, mandibles digging in like it had every right to do so.
It was already too late when he finally saw it, as it was already biting into him.
The pain was immediate, sharp, and crushing. It was intense, very intense, like someone dropped a brick right onto his leg and ground it in for a while for good measure.
“Bloody–” He grabbed it on instinct, fingers clamping tight around its body.
It began to collapse in his grip with a harsh crunch, legs twitching wildly as he yanked it off and flung it hard against the wall. It hit with a wet, hollow sound, as if it were filled with nothing but slime, then dropped out of sight.
That should’ve been it, and it was, or at least it seemed like it was.
The pain didn’t completely fade away once the beetle was removed, but it was enough. Enough for him to go back to his cigarette, letting the smoke drag deep into his lungs until it burned, enough for him to crack open the extra bottle he brought out there with him. He lifted it slightly as a mock toast and let out a weak “cheers” to no one, then chugged the whole bottle in one go.
The alley was quiet, but uncomfortably so.
He could remember that much–standing there, letting the alcohol swim its way through his bloodstream and smoke cloud his head and turn his lungs pure black. His eyes slipped shut at some point, breath leaving a soft mist in the air as he let out a soft exhale. For just a moment, he wasn’t sure if the mist was from the cold or the smoke.
“Murdoc??”
His eyes snapped open so fast it almost hurt. He jerked, shoulders tensing as he turned, he was already halfway to swinging before registering who was in front of him.
“Christ! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She didn’t look sorry, and she definitely wasn’t.
Noodle was just barely a teen; her hair was spiky and cut at weird angles, courtesy of Stuart, 2D, no less. Despite the spikiness, she had perfectly straight bangs that covered her eyes. Murdoc still couldn’t figure out how she was able to see anything through those damn bangs, amazed she hadn’t tripped over her own feet or something. She had walked out there in nothing but her oversized pajamas and some fox slippers. Stuart had bought them for her birthday a few years ago, but she hadn’t been able to wear them until now because they hadn't figured out her clothing size before buying the gift. Noodle looked up at Murdoc with a head tilt and something that may have been a grin; it was hard to tell since there wasn’t anything she could possibly be grinning for. Maybe she just wanted to show her teeth.
For all his faults, which were plenty, he always had a soft spot for the kid. It was something he’d never dare to think about around other people or say out loud, not in a million years, but it was there, in its own way. Didn’t matter that Russel was the responsible one and more of a father figure than he could ever be, or that Stuart hovered around like the awkward older sibling no one really wanted around or paid much attention to.
Murdoc had decided, early on, that he was the one in charge. That was enough for him.
“The hell do you want?” He mutters after another moment of silence passes between them, his eyebrow twitches up, his arms are crossed, and his head subconsciously follows Noodle’s own head tilt.
“Russel’s asking for you,” she starts, smiling when she notices Murdoc doing the same head tilt she was, now rocking slightly on her heels. “It’s dark now. He wants everyone inside for bed.”
Murdoc blinked. Late?
If he’s being honest, Murdoc didn’t even realize it had gotten dark; he glanced up to confirm and immediately regretted it.
The streetlights hit him full force, bright and strong, stabbing straight through his skull. He flinched and quickly diverted his eyes away, groaning from the pain of practically looking into what felt like the sun’s rays as a hand came up to shield his eyes.
“...the hell..?”
“Hey, hey.” He hears Noodle ask; he could also hear that Noodle had stepped closer to him. “You okay?”
Murdoc blinked hard, vision swimming, spots lingering even after he looked away. His head had begun to throb, dull and heavy, like something was pressing in from all sides. He opened his mouth to answer, but only a rough grunt came out, which annoyed him, so he settled for a nod instead.
“Guess I’m tired…” He finally managed to get himself to say.
She didn’t look convinced, but she knew better than to push, so she didn’t. Not to mention that it was cold outside, and it was starting to get to her. A soft sigh escaped her, and she turned back towards the entrance of the studio, motioning for Murdoc to follow her. With very little hesitation, he did, but slower than usual, one hand continuing to rub his eyes.
Glancing at the alley for a final time, it stretched behind them as it was now empty again. He also noticed that the beer bottle escaped from his hand at some point, now shattered on the ground near where he was standing.
He couldn’t remember how or when it happened, and Noodle didn’t mention anything, so he didn’t care.
Thinking back, he should’ve paid more attention to the bite. He should’ve been more concerned about how nothing happened; nothing ever happens after something like that.
Now, he sat alone in his room, hunched forward worse than usual, with his fingers digging into his leg hard enough to draw blood.
It itched. God, it itched. Not surface-level, it wasn’t something he could ignore. It was deeper, felt buried, like the itch was rather under his skin and not on it. His nails dragged along the already-torn flesh, catching onto raised, uneven patches. Warts now covered his leg, dozens of them, maybe more. Murdoc didn’t see the point in keeping track.
He knew how bad the scratching was, but the itch was worse than whatever bodily damage was gonna be left over from his scratching. Skin began to collect under his nails, and blood smeared across his fingers.
It was never enough.
“Tch…” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, grip tightening as he scratched harder, like he could tear whatever it was out if he tried hard enough.
The others had begun to notice, of course, they had. The looks, the questions, the way Russel spoke to him when he asked about how to properly care for a sore while beads of sweat poured down his face–low and suspicious.
It pissed him off. He didn’t need anyone hovering over him, didn’t need their concern, didn’t need–
…tik-tik-tik…
Murdoc froze. Slowly, his head lifted as he searched the room.
“... what?”
Silence. No music, no voices, nothing. His gaze flicked around the room.
There wasn’t even something as simple as a clock in here.
…tik… tik… tik…
His stomach twisted into a knot, and he almost believed that it genuinely was in a knot now that it had twisted so badly. The sound was faint, but steady. It sounded close, too close.
Murdoc grabbed the hem of his jeans and yanked it up, exposing his leg. It looked worse than before.
Angrier, raw, the warts spread unevenly; some were torn open while others were swollen and discolored. His skin around them pulsed faintly, like something underneath was shifting.
His breath caught.
There it was, a movement. Small, subtle, but out of place.
“You can’t be serious…”
He hunched over more, eyes narrowing. The skin twitched, not a muscle or a spasm, but rather something trying to escape from beneath.
…squelch… splurch…
His hand shook as he reached for the ointment on his nightstand. It was some cheap, useless stuff, but it was something.
With no hesitation, he smeared it right onto the open skin.
Pain hit instantly–sharp, blinding, worse than the scratching ever was. He sucked in a harsh breath, jaw clenching as his vision blurred. He rubbed it in, even as it burned, watching as it seeped deep into the broken skin. Once he was done and pulled his hand away, his breathing was uneven.
“...fine,” he muttered hoarsely. “I’m fine.”
He slowly leaned toward the nightstand again and grabbed the bandages. He then wrapped them around his leg. It was tight, honestly, too tight, but he didn’t care. He needed something, anything, to stop him from scratching it, and to contain it.
The worst part about all of this was that the timeline didn’t make any sense. He was bitten, then nothing.
The next morning, the itch started; it was small and manageable at first. Gradually, however, it got worse and became constant. Two weeks in, it had spread, and now it was a monstrosity on his leg that was only getting worse.
He had been disappearing in and out of his room all day, and while he didn’t wanna think about it, he knew his mates were starting to question what the hell was wrong with him.
Murdoc forced himself to stand; pain shot up his leg immediately, sudden and throbbing, but he ignored it. He’s dealt with worse, had he not?
He dragged his body to the door, briefly hesitating before reaching up for the doorknob and yanking the door to leave, but he was instead greeted with something solid.
“Oi!”
He stumbled back, swearing under his breath as he looked up.
Russel.
“About time you stepped out of that damn room.” Russel said flatly.
Murdoc rolled his eyes as he rubbed his face, genuinely not caring for how Russel felt about his odd quarantine.
“If you haven’t noticed, we’ve been crying out to the fuckin’ moon for your dumbass to get out of that room before your damn food rots away.” Russel continues despite Murdoc’s visible annoyance.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Murdoc answers with a snort; he genuinely couldn’t hear anything other than his frantic scratching and the sound of blood oozing from his leg, but he was getting ahead of himself now.
Russel’s normally blank face squints from a mixture of irritation and amusement, and his gaze lingered for a moment too long.
“...go get your damn food.”
Murdoc stands in his doorframe for a while, watching Russel walk away while grumbling something about the band leader being a bitch and wishing he could “knock some sense into that green-ass motherfucker”, nothing Murdoc hasn’t heard before, so he doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t even really make him react like it normally would, as if he just didn’t have the energy to be present. Now that was a little concerning.
Once Russel was out of view, Murdoc dragged a hand down his face and headed to the dining room. It was empty now.
Of course it was, the others had probably eaten already, together, like normal people.
His plate sat waiting for him. Mac and cheese, chicken, and green peas, not something he would’ve picked on his own, but he’d been starving lately. Constantly, at that, like no matter how much he drank or ate, it never quite filled the hole in his stomach.
None of that mattered right now; food was food.
He dropped into the chair and started eating immediately, not bothering to heat anything. The meal was cold, bland, and barely tasted like anything.
None of that mattered right now; food was food.
Fork, bite, swallow. He subconsciously began telling himself.
Fork, bite, swallow.
Fork, bite, swallow. Over and over again, he kept reminding himself.
Fork, bite, swallow. He kept repeating it in his head; he didn’t know why, he just did… naturally.
Fork, bite, swallow.
Fork, bite, swallow.
Fork… bite, swallow…? Why did he need to remind himself how to eat, anyway?
Murdoc slowed, his grip tightening slightly and gradually around the fork. Why the hell was he doing that? He knew how to eat; everyone does.
“This is stupid…” He muttered under his breath; he didn’t need to remind himself how to do such a simple task.
…tik… tik… tik…
Murdoc stopped, and the fork slowly lowered from his mouth. The room was dead silent, no clock, no music, no footsteps, nothing. It must’ve been his leg again.
He forced himself to take another bite of food, chewing harder than he needed, he swallowed, and waited.
…tik… tik… tik…
Dammit, it was still there. Now it was steady, sounded like it was coming from right next to his ear. Murdoc’s jaw tightened.
“...piss off…” He muttered under his breath; he wasn’t even sure who he was saying it to. He shoved another forkful into his mouth, like that could drown out the constant sound.
Chewed, swallowed. It didn’t feel like it was doing anything; the hunger wasn’t satiated, no matter how much he ate, it never was anymore. His stomach still felt hollow; it was aching, like something inside it was demanding more–always wanting more.
...squelch… slrk… slrk…
He stopped eating again, his gaze gradually dropping. The bandages around his leg had darkened further, now damp. It wasn’t just blood, though; something thicker was soaking through the uneven patches. For a second, nothing happened. Then–
A twitch. Murdoc went still. Another, subtle but wrong.
“I’m not dealin’ with this right now.” He whispered to himself, pushing his chair back slightly. It scraped against the floor, too loud, echoing through the room more than it should have.
“Oi. Gonna eat that or just stare at it all night?”
Murdoc flinched, he looked up sharply and found Stuart standing in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, their black, empty eyes half-lidded, their clothes as messy as their hair. They held a glass in one hand, something sloshing around inside. Based on its consistency and the way it sounded, Murdoc could guess it wasn’t water.
… wait, the sound of it?
“Dents… when the hell did you get there?” He snapped, and Stuart blinked, visibly confused at the question.
“...been here a bit, Mudz,” they said, like it was obvious. “You didn’t answer when I called.”
Murdoc scoffed. “Yeah, well, maybe try louder next time.”
Stuart frowned. They had been standing right in the doorway when they called Murdoc. How did he not hear that? They stepped further into the room, their gaze remaining on the man at the table.
“You look like hell, mate.”
“Charming.” Murdoc muttered.
Stuart moved closer, glancing at the plate, then at Murdoc, then–briefly–down toward his leg, getting a glimpse at the bandaging and how dirty it was. Murdoc noticed and immediately shifted, foot pulling back under his chair.
“Don’t.” He snapped, voice dark and raspy.
Stuart hesitated for a moment.
“... I didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t have to.”
Silence stretched and fell over them like a heavy, uncomfortable blanket for a long moment. Stuart rocked slightly on their heels, like they weren’t sure whether to stay or turn around and leave Murdoc alone.
“Russel’s worried, you know.” They finally said.
Murdoc replied with a dry laugh. “‘Course he is.”
“... so am I.”
That made Murdoc hesitate, even if it was just for a second. He collected himself and rolled his eyes, harsher than necessary.
“Save it,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”
He said it in a way that sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince Stuart, who had an expression on their face that told him they didn’t believe him for one second. Thankfully, they didn’t argue his statement either. Instead, they stepped a little closer to the table, setting their glass beside Murdoc’s plate.
“You never cleaned up those shards.” They suddenly blurted, Murdoc frowned.
“... what?”
“The bottle, from a couple weeks ago,” Stuart continued, gesturing vaguely. “You dropped it outside, Russel and you got in an argument about it after Noodle accidentally got a piece of the glass in her foot, you promised you’d clean it up. I went outside earlier, and the shards were still there, so I just cleaned them up myself.”
Murdoc’s stomach twisted. “... I did?”
“Yeah.”
Silence fell over them again.
“You… don’t remember?” Murdoc didn’t answer, not that he wanted to; he couldn’t admit that he didn’t remember the argument, the promise, or the fact that he even dropped the bottle that long ago in the first place.
“Whatever,” he muttered, waving it off. “... just go, Dee, I’m tryna eat.”
Stuart lingered for a moment longer.
“Alright…” They said quietly, turning to leave but stopping in the doorway.
“... if you’re not fine,” they added, softer now, “you should probably say somethin’.”
Murdoc didn’t respond, didn’t even look at them, even though he could feel Stuart’s stare burning deep into him. Finally, Stuart turned away and left, the room falling silent once more.
…tik… tik…
Murdoc exhaled slowly and harshly through his nose.
“Great, this shit again.” He was going to try to address the sound, but instead found himself suddenly lurching forward.
The motion was violent and abrupt; the chair screeched as it shoved back behind him and nearly toppled over. Murdoc barely had time to brace himself before he threw up onto his plate. A wet, choking sound fought its way out of him as his body convulsed, another wave sneaking its way up. It wasn’t food, not really; it was much thicker, stringier, and darker. It splattered across the plate, mixing with what little he’d eaten, dripping over the edges in slow, uneven trails.
Murdoc gagged, breath hitching as he tried to pull back.
“The hell–”
Another spasm hit, more of it came up, less liquid this time, more substance. It clung to the plate, to the table, stretching in fine, thin strands as he tried to move away. Murdoc wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand, breathing hard, eyes watering.
“... disgusting.” Was all he could think about, muttering it out loud.
He slowly looked down, too slowly, at the mess on the plate. It moved, Murdoc’s breathing paused, and his eyes widened. A small ripple went through it, then another, as if something underneath it was shifting, trying to separate.
…squelch.
A small shape pushed its way up from the mass, pale, slick, not even formed. It slipped free with a faint, wet sound and dropped onto the table with a soft tap. Murdoc stayed still; his breathing was so shallow that he wasn’t sure if he was even still breathing. The shape twitched, once, then again. Murdoc instinctively jerked back, causing his chair to finally fall over. He opened his mouth to react to what he was seeing, but he was so stunned that not even a small grunt left his lips.
The thing continued to move, as if adjusting to its newfound freedom, it began slowly dragging itself across the table, leaving behind a faint, glistening trail. Murdoc followed it for a moment, his stomach turning violently as his gaze eventually landed on the glass Stuart had left. Right beside the plate, right in its path. For a second, his body wouldn’t move. What the hell was it going in that direction for? What was it planning to do? His body trembled, but he couldn’t understand why; he’s never frozen up like this before; it takes an incredible amount of willpower and force for him to move his hand towards the thing and pick it up in a tight grip. He watched as the thing squirmed violently, frantic to escape the grasp. Murdoc’s fingers tightened on instinct, his jaw clenching as he felt it twist against his palm. It was too soft, too alive.
“Stay still, dammit.” It didn’t, of course, it just writhed harder, pressing against his skin like it was trying to burrow into him this time instead of out.
The feeling was extremely uncomfortable, like it was beginning to tear his skin open and dig inside. Murdoc took a sharp inhale of pain and tightened his grip further.
Then it burst. Not loudly, nor violently, just a soft, wet give in his hand. Murdoc stood there awkwardly, not exactly sure what to do other than stare at the dark, slimy, sticky remains on his hand. He continued to stare for a long moment before rushing to the sink. He flipped the water on and desperately washed his hands, drowning them in soap and water in an effort to get everything off.
“What the hell, what the hell, what the hell–” He repeatedly muttered to himself, watching the remains begrudgingly fall from his hand and down the sink’s drain.
Once all of it fell off, he grabbed the dish towel and dried his hands until they turned red and burned. His body was trembling again, badly enough that he couldn’t hold the dish towel, and it slipped from his hand. Murdoc just stood there for a long while, breathing hard, too hard. Water still ran in the sink, a steady stream that thankfully drowned out everything else.
He gripped the edge of the counter tight, his knuckles turning white. “...fine,” he muttered dryly. “M’fine. Just… food poisoning or some shit.”
Even he didn’t believe that. Slowly, he turned the faucet off, causing a heavy silence to immediately fill the room; it felt almost suffocating.
…tik.
Murdoc froze. This wasn’t happening again. He immediately looked down at his hands, clean, red from scrubbing, but clean; nothing was there, nothing moved.
“...see? Gone.” He muttered under his breath to no one, voice tight.
Regardless of his reassurance, he still felt nervous, worried even, something felt wrong, something was wrong. He tried to ignore it, though, turning and stepping back towards the table. The chair was still tipped over; he was sure someone had heard that bit. The plate was ruined, the mess still covering it. Just staring at it made him want to puke all over again. Instead, he contained himself and grabbed the plate; he unconsciously stared at the mess for a moment before something caught his attention.
Footsteps, voices, coming from down the hall, creeping closer.
“... we should check on him? Maybe he's upset or somethin', that's why he's been makin' that ruckus.”
“It will just be really quick!”
Murdoc’s head snapped toward the doorway, and his body froze again. The footsteps were approaching fast, and he didn’t even throw away the shit on the plate like he had been planning to, and don’t even get him started on the gunk that was still on the table around where the plate was.
Murdoc swallowed hard. “Shit shit… not now.” His voice came out rough and low–almost didn’t sound like his own.
He gained control of his body again and quickly turned to the trash can in the room. He didn’t even bother cleaning the plate since he thought it would be better to just throw the whole thing away. He subconsciously rubbed his hands on his shirt and began to turn around–
Until there was a loud gasp.