#implied 2doc

Stuart sat on the back porch of the Spirit House, smoking. One last afternoon like this, to enjoy this quiet little suburb, and then it was back to London, back to Damon’s demanding schedule, Jamie’s intrusive photoshoots, and Murdoc’s insufferable…Murdocness.

He sighed wistfully. Detroit had been pretty good to him. He’d never dreamed it possible that he could produce an album almost singlehandedly, and yet here he stood, glowing with the success of The Now Now. It had been overwhelming at times, and he couldn’t lie: there was some relief to having Murdoc back, to having the band resume its old dynamic and feel the thrill of the unexpected future coming on and coming on. Anyway, autumn was coming in fast, and he liked being able to wander through SoHo in this kind of weather, smoking, people-watching. It would be good to get back to England, to get some decent curry and to behold the absolute grayness of the Thames once more.

Now if he could just finish packing up, they could start planning their last meal in the States before catching their morning flight.

Ashing the end of his cigarette, Stu straightened up from where he’d been bent over the rickety porch banister, looking out at the quiet backyard, the backyards of the other peaceful little houses. It had been a good run, really it had.

“I think he’s out here,” Noodle’s voice carried over from the door, and he turned to find her heading out, her signature fluffy blue jacket draped over her shoulders. “Yeah! 2D’s out back, you guys!”

“Hey, Noods, what’s up?”

“Something came in the mail, something that we want you to see,” she replied with a mischievous grin.

“What is it?”

“Hey man,” Russel came outside, pulling a leather jacket on and easing down into one of the creaky Adirondack chairs that they had brought out not long after moving in. “Saying goodbye to Spirit House?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Bittersweet, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m always sorry to leave the States.”

“Oi, Dents!” One last, loud voice, instantly grating on his nerves, bounced down the stairs. There was the sound of heeled boots clicking their way along tired wooden steps, and then Murdoc was practically falling out onto the porch, his hands behind his back, face split in half from the wide smile he wore.

“Right,” Stu sighed wearily. “What’ve you done then, Muds?”

“Placed a little order a while back,” Murdoc replied. “Best investment I ever made. Got my package today, in fact. Actually, anyone who placed the order should be getting it within the week, I’d imagine.”

“What’d you order then?” he raised a brow. “Another upside down rubber cross? That why you’re so giddy, tosser?”

“Oh funny Stu, very good. Vulgarity suits you.” Murdoc’s dark eyes flashed playfully, and despite the barbs they hurled at each other, they were both trying not to laugh.

As much as Stu and Murdoc loved to hate each other, an antagonistic friendship, a deep, often flirtatious, utterly mental bond had formed years ago, and since being reunited after Murdoc’s stint in prison, Stu had to admit that they spent less time fighting in earnest, and more time fighting to outdo the other in lewd comments. Middle age had turned their rivalry more companionable, and the bassist, though he would never say it aloud, had clearly been impressed by what Stu had accomplished in their months apart. Stu bore the bassist’s respect with a cocky pride: it was something he’d longed for since the band had first formed.

Murdoc sauntered towards him, and Stu stood up on his tip-toes, trying to see what he was holding behind his back. He couldn’t quite make it out though.

“Well then? Gonna show me?”

“It’s you,” Murdoc giggled, utterly manic.

“What?”

“Its you!” He said again, now whipping the hidden item out from behind his back and startling Stu so much that he nearly careened backwards over the railing. In his hands was an absurdly lifelike figurine of—him—in the outfit he’d worn during the shooting of the “Tranz” music video, down to the microphone clutched in his hands. And, just like in the video (curtesy of special effects), the figurine’s eyes were glowing bright white.

“What the fuck?!” Recovering his balance, Stu stumbled forward to reach out and touch the figurine. “You have this specially made?”

“Of course he didn’t!” Noodle laughed. “2D, don’t you remember a few months ago when we asked you to sign off on that copyright paperwork? For merchandising?”

“I thought it was gonna be for shirts or mugs or sommat. Not…we’ve done figurines before, haven’t we?” As he spoke, he reached out, wanting to touch it but also a little alarmed. The figurines they’d sold in the past, those had been much less realistic. This 2D showed his age from the lines on his forehead to the stiffness in his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“We definitely clarified it to you,” Russel disagreed. “You just weren’t paying any attention.”

“Isn’t it hilarious? The eyes are what get me!” Murdoc said, delighted, allowing Stu to take the figurine from his hands and look it over.

“Why’d you order one?”

“Needed an effigy, didn’t I?”

He glared at the bassist. Fuck Murdoc and his tendency to latch onto lyrics. “Gonna stick pins in this then, set it on fire?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Murdoc replied casually, reaching into his back pocket and producing a cigarette. “Got a light?”

“Not for you.”

“Maybe if I hold it to the glowing eyeballs, they’ll warm up the butt and it’ll spark: y’think?”

He rolled his eyes, handed over his lighter without further complaint. “So, where’s the Noodle and Russel one? And did they make one for you in your prison garb, or did Ace get a figurine for covering a single album? That would be his luck, wouldn’t it?”

“Nah, there’s no figures of us. Only you, Dee,” Russel answered.

“Huh? Why?”

“This was your album, you’re the face of it,” Noodle said, taking a seat on the bottom of the porch steps, reaching out to touch the dying leaves of tomato plants she had cultivated during the summer months in large pots. They were withered away now, having served their purpose, ready to be abandoned as the band moved on.

“Really?” Stu looked at the figure more closely. The glowing eyes, he had to admit, were pretty cool. “Just me?”

“Frankly, I deserved one more’n you since our poor fans missed me something dreadful while I was gone. But then, you always were the pretty boy. And the media favors a pretty boy to someone more ruggedly handsome, unfortunately,” Murdoc spoke between pulls.

“Well, I think this will satisfy fans just fine,” Stu said, deciding that however strange this toy was, he quite liked it.

“You’re saying that because you haven’t seen the best part yet,” Russel said, and something in his smile unnerved the singer.

“What do you mean?”

“Try switching the eyes off,” Noodle suggested.

“The eyes? Oh, you can turn them off?” He turned the figure around in his hands, looking for an On/Off switch, a button, anything like that. He touched the eyes gently with the tips of his fingers, wondering if they were touch-screen, like his smart phone. Nothing. “Uh, turn off?” He suggested to the figurine’s face.

The rest of the band erupted in laughter, and Stu pouted, indignant. “Well then, you lot’ve had your laugh. Anyone gonna do this for me?”

“With pleasure,” Murdoc said, heading over to him and reaching out for the mini-2D.

“Wait, you’re not gonna break it, are you?”

Murdoc gave him a look. “D’you really think I’m that much of a wanker?”

“D’you really need to ask me that?” He countered.

The bassist shook his head, and then he reached forward, grabbing the figurine by the hair and pulling upwards—only to remove the entire hairpiece, as though the figurine was wearing a wig.

Stu yelped, almost dropping the plastic in his shock.

Again, the rest of the band lost it for a moment, laughing at his expense. Murdoc seemed the most delighted as Stu beheld a bald version of himself, though he had to admit that now he could see the On/Off switch, which had been hidden beneath the removable hair.

“What kind of design is this?” He asked. “Whoever came up with this ought to be fired!”

“I think it’s great,” Noodle admitted. “People are going to have a great time with their 2Ds when they get them shipped. We’ll have to follow on Instagram and Twitter!”

“Look, Dents. It’s what you’re going to look like in another ten or so years!”

“Oh piss off, Muds! You’re older’n me! You’ll definitely be losing your hair first!”

“Tell that to the receding hairline, old man,” he cackled, poking the singer’s forehead, still laughing as his hand was swatted away. “Okay, okay, we’re done, we’re done! We had our laugh. Don’t be such a priss, mate.”

“Give me back my hair!” He demanded, and Murdoc gave him a silly, wide-eyed face as he delicately returned the plastic bunch of hair to the singer’s large hand so he could press it back down onto his poor, defaced effigy. “Poor Mini 2D,” he cooed. But then he was smiling too. “Can’t lie; it’s pretty excellent craftsmanship, innit?”

“We’re glad you like it, it’s yours,” Russel said.

“Really? I get to keep it?”

“Do you think we’d want it?” Noodle giggled. “Really, 2D, it’s a gift from all of us. A thank you. For a job well done.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The album, dullard!”

“The Now Now,” Russel clarified. “We proposed having this made to kind of…immortalize you, I guess. For your accomplishment. It was no easy feat, what you did over the past year, man.”

“I…” he cleared is throat. “I don’t know what to say. I thought you lot were angry with me; I know I was a real prick at times during production and recording.”

“Oh, you were,” Noodle agreed readily. “But your appreciation for what we are as a band was always there. You took Gorillaz in a slightly new direction, sometimes making us worry about you a little bit with how you acted—”

“You made us worry a lot, actually,” Russel interjected.

“But overall, you worked your butt off. And it was an honor to be there with you. 2D…Stu, congratulations on what you did from the time we left Spirt House to travel to the time we got back here.”

“Yeah, man. You did a great job. You really proved yourself as a musician. Can’t wait to see what we create as a band next.”

Stu’s grip tightened on the figurine then, and for just a moment, he feared he might cry in front of them like a baby.

Then, Murdoc’s hand shot out, touched his wrist. The singer met his gaze, saw the trepidation there.

“I really missed a lot,” he admitted, his voice just a little gruffer than usual. “Think you can stand to write an album again…with me around this time?”

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, knocked his wrist softly against the bassist’s hand. “Of course,” he answered, embarrassed to find his own voice was rather gruff at the moment too. “We’ve only just begun, old man. Hope you can keep up.”

“Good answer, because I would’ve flown back to England to start writing with or without you,” he said, smirking.

“Like hell you would,” he chuckled, cleared his throat. “You need my pretty face to make the magic happen, don’t you?”

“Well that’s why we got him!” Murdoc exclaimed, pointing to the figurine.

“Ha, ha,” Stu reached out, took the cigarette from Murdoc’s hand, the one he’d lit and then let go mostly to waste smoldering. He took a long drag, exhaled the smoke into the bassist’s face. Even a year ago, the move might have been seen as aggressive, a display of power or ill will. Now, Murdoc only grinned as though he sincerely couldn’t wait to see what would happen next. “Let’s get a move-on then. We have to figure out where we want to go for dinner, right?”

He held the plastic version of himself in front of the bassist’s face and gave it a high-pitched voice: “I’m hungry, Muds!”

Murdoc’s face again split into a wide, genuine smile. It was a new thing, being able to make him look like that so easily. The singer found that he quite liked this new ability he’d gained.

“Can’t have our littlest member wasting away then, can we?” He asked, throwing an arm around Stu’s shoulders and guiding him back towards the house. “Let’s let the toy decide on where we’re eating!”

Stu cradled the figurine to his chest and let his gaze drift from Noodle to Russel to Murdoc. After their tumultuous run, he still had his family here with him. He couldn’t wait to get back to England.