The neon flicker of a busted streetlamp cast long, broken shadows across the alley as Murdoc leaned back against the brick wall, cigarette hanging from his lips. He looked like he’d just crawled out of a drunken bar brawl—because he had. Shirt unbuttoned halfway, knuckles bruised, and that wolfish smirk plastered across his face like he hadn’t just gotten his ass kicked for running his mouth.

And there you were, standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, looking way too entertained by the mess he had gotten himself into. “You look horrible.” You muttered, a smirk adorning your lips.

Murdoc chuckled, voice hoarse from whisky and shouting. “Yeah? And yet, here you are, staring like I’m a bloody work of art.”

You rolled your eyes and took a step closer. Not to fuss over him—he’d bite your head off for that—but just enough to be there. That was always how it was. The two of you, orbiting around each other in some chaotic dance, neither of you willing to put a name on whatever this was.

You had your nights. Nights tangled in sheets, drowning in cigarette smoke and bad decisions. But there were also nights when it was just the two of you in the crumbling comfort of Kong Studios, drunk off each other instead of liquor, talking nonsense until sunrise.

For a moment, it was quiet. Just the hum of the city, the distant sound of sirens, and the way his half-lidded gaze flicked over your face. Like he was memorizing you. Like maybe, if he ever got lost in his own self-destruction, he’d find his way back just by remembering this.

But Murdoc being Murdoc, he ruined the moment by leaning in, breath warm against your ear, voice dropping to that familiar low tone. “So… are we gonna stand here playing doctor, or are you gonna kiss me better?”

And he was only teasing you, but he couldn’t lie, maybe a kiss from you sounded nice right about now.