A/N: This is my first time publishing a fic so bear with me while I figure it all out. I also didn't seek out a beta so let me know if there's any mistakes please and thanks~

Disclaimer: I don't own Murdoc and 2D, I'm just borrowing them for a bit

Stuart Pot waited behind the counter of Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium, tapping his fingers against its wooden surface to an unheard beat. He sat with his head balanced on stick-thin arms, listening to the ticking of the clock and the muffled sounds of outside; horns blaring and dogs barking and people talking about "what a nice day it is" and "I can't believe it's almost September."

The Saturday shift always felt the longest, fuelled only by the promise of a new pack of cigarettes on the walk home. He started humming along to the drum of his fingers when the door chimed and he looked up.

The click of Cuban heels against aluminum flooring echoed through the silent store and the door closed behind the strangest man Stuart had ever seen. Calling his skin olive-hued was generous; it possessed a sickly asparagus tone that made Stuart fear for the man's health. His nose was bent at an odd angle that suggested it had been broken and reset many times. Mismatched eyes scanned Stuart from beneath a heavy fringe of raven hair. The man approached the counter with a cheshire grin.

"Can I 'elp you sir?" Stuart recited, trying not to stare.
"Murrrrdoc," He purred. He had a smoker's voice; low and gritty.
"Can I 'elp you Muh'doc, sir?" Snake eyes fell to Stuart's chest, and he felt self-conscious before he realized the man was reading his name tag.

"Yes... Stuart. I'm lookin' fer a keyboard, fer my band," Said the man, Murdoc, playing with an inverted cross that hung against his chest. The boy in front of him was disappointingly underwhelming, Murdoc decided. His only note-worthy feature was his brandeis blue hair, but even that was swept up into a tidy side part.

Stuart perked up at his words. "Oi, I know an awful lot abou' keyboards, I'll show ye some." Stuart made his way from behind the counter, gesturing for Murdoc to follow. The man lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Stuart.
"Sir you can't smoke in 'ere," Stuart said nervously. He was met with a puff of smoke blown in his face and a raucous laugh. He lingered, breathing in the scent for a moment before continuing.

The back of the store was lined with an array of keyboards, and Stuart walked the length of the line before settling on one of his favourites, folding his body onto the tiny stool and switching it on.

He thought about what to play, running his fingers along the smooth plastic. He looked up at the man, who was staring at his shoes and holding the cigarette to his lips. A song he had heard on the radio came to mind and he allowed his hands to ghost across the keys, falling easily into a smooth melody.

Stuart sang under his breath, just barely audible to Murdoc, who had looked up from his shoes to watch. It was some alternative song with an odd beat, but he loved the way the lyrics tasted as they rolled off his tongue.

He got wrapped up in what he was doing; he closed his eyes and let his voice drift louder. The melody swelled under the control of his skilled fingers. He jumped when Murdoc cleared this throat. His large hands fell to his lap and his cheeks burned.

"So, eh, tha' one's nice, plus -"
"I like it," Murdoc interrupted without looking away from him. Stuart had to remind himself he was talking about the keyboard.

"D'you play?" Stuart asked.
"Nah, s'for my shit keyboardist. Thought maybe a better instrument would make 'im sound better."
"Well that one's the best we 'ave." Stuart said as he followed the man back to the front of the store, his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie.

Murdoc scratched his neck with a long-nailed hand. He seemed to be weighing options before a grin spread across his thin lips and his expression relaxed.

"A'right I'll think abou' it. Thanks Stu," He flashed his razory teeth in a smile that made Stuart's stomach twist and turned to leave, pulling open the door and letting it slam shut.

He paused to tap on the glass, and Stuart raised his hand to wave before realizing he wasn't looking at him. He shoved it back into his pocket and looked away in embarrassment, turning back only to see the man's hunched shoulders. And then he was gone, skulking across the street and out of sight.

Murdoc Niccals sped down the stretching road; rock music blaring through open windows and his hand keeping beat against the side of his beat-up Vauxhall Astra.

An air of excitement filled the cab of the car as he went over his plan with his band members. They had waited more than a week since Murdoc's first visit to Uncle Norm's, not wanting to raise suspicion and figuring the little store would be empty on a Sunday. Their plan was simple: Crash in and grab the loot, a classic ram-raid.

His chosen company wasn't the brightest group but Murdoc had faith in his plan. He squinted at his crew through the rear-view mirror: Rocky, their bandaged keyboardist, Tiny and Billy-Boy, the two guitarists, and portly brothers Crunch and Munch, who were in charge of the drums and cover art for the band. They were an ill-thought-out group and only about two of them had any talent, but they were all Murdoc had.

He had tried to put together bands before, all of them ending in a mess of unfinished songs and arguments nobody could remember the cause of. He didn't feel much better off with these idiots but he was afraid of whatever happens after this, when he finally gives up and faces who he is without music. He tried to think of something else, his eyes training on the strip of yellow that cuts the road in half.

They were approaching the store, and Murdoc willed a bit more speed out of the old car. Everyone was silent as they watched the store grow bigger through the windshield. The enormous glass window was right in front of them now. The street was dead, just like they planned. No witnesses.

Except...

Murdoc peered through two layers of glass and a blanket of hot fog and locked eyes with the boy from last week. His hands were frozen around the handle of a broom and Murdoc could see his thoughts flashing across his face like a picture book.

His foot slammed on the brake a second too late and the car collided with the window, sending a constellation of glass shards flying everywhere. The car skidded across the aluminum and stopped halfway into the store. The windshield remained intact and through it Murdoc could see the schoolboy had disappeared from the scene. He hoped maybe he had ducked away in time but Murdoc had felt the car rise and fall in the way it did when he ran over animals on the road and he knew this wasn't true.

He flew out of the car, leaving the door hanging open and knelt down, peering into the vehicle's shadowy underbelly. He was assaulted with the coppery smell of blood and the crunch of glass under his boots.
Working completely on adrenaline, his hands grasped a pair of red Chuck Taylor's and he pulled the boy out by his ankles.

The kid's body seemed to go on for miles, and Murdoc felt relieved at every new inch of him he dragged out; he didn't seem to be injured at all.

When Murdoc's fingers tangled through wet hair and he pulled the boy's head onto his folded lap, he swore under his breath. He felt sick when he realized the wetness he had felt was blood. For a second he thought the boy was missing an eye. But no, looking closer he saw the eye was only badly damaged; filling up with dark blood that leaked over the boy's cheek like crimson tears.

"Oh shit, shit, shit. What do I do. What am I supposed t' do." Murdoc's voice cracked and his head pounded. He felt panic clutching at his heart. He'd certainly be facing prison time if he got charged for murder.

"COME HELP GOD DAMMIT!" he shouted to the rest of his band, who sat paralyzed in their seats with chalky faces and wide eyes. They shuffled out of the cramped car and stared down at Murdoc in a daze.
Finally Tiny spoke up, "Man this was your idea, I'm not goin' t' jail for this." He tried to look assertive but his eyes betrayed his fear. Murdoc knew this would happen, served him right for hanging around such selfish bastards. The rest of the crew muttered in agreement and turned to leave.

"Hey, fuck you!" He yelled to their backs as they left. They didn't turn around. Murdoc was left alone with the unconscious boy.

He pulled at his hair and swore until his throat burned and he saw stars. He tried to remember anything he'd ever been taught about first-aid. He ripped the sleeve of his shirt, holding the fabric up to the boy's face. He tried to stanch the flow of the wound, but it bled through the strip of fabric in seconds. He pulled his phone out to dial 999, his hands shaking violently. He knew he was an awful person - it was a point of pride for him - but he'd never actually killed someone before. His stomach churned.

When someone finally picked up, Murdoc explained what had happened numbly. He sounded quiet and scared; it startled him. The voice on the other line told him there was an estimated wait time of ten minutes and then he dropped the phone, burying his face into the boy's cobalt hair. He didn't care that it was matted with blood or that it smelled like butterscotch and cigarettes or that he probably looked like a poof. Murdoc cradled the kid's head and let himself cry.

They were hot, angry tears that burned his cheeks and stained his shirt. He sat there for what was probably minutes but felt like hours, crouched over the boy's limp figure and consumed in remorse.

When he felt hands separating them and pulling at the boy's body, Murdoc's fingers clung to his shirt. A blur of voices shouted at him and then he felt handcuffs click behind him and his head being pushed down by a strong hand.

It registered that he was in a police car, the sirens cut into his mind in shrill bursts. He tried to call out to the kid - to anyone - but his mouth felt like cotton. He hung his head and closed his eyes, adrenaline wearing off and exhaustion setting in.