Nothin' like ram-raiding for fun, Murdoc thought to himself. Ah, the speed, the screeching of tyres, the cheering of his drunk pals in the back seat, the crashing sounds of breaking glass, the sorta punk-looking kid with the terrified expression standing directly in front of the caaaaaaaaarrrrrrgh ...
He tried to hit the brakes, but the number of dubiously-legal substances he'd taken before setting off had dulled his reflexes significantly, and the car had already run over the kid's head and crashed into the opposite wall.
There was an ominous silence.
Murdoc had never in his life experienced guilt, but many times he had had the sensation that maybe, just maybe, he'd have been better off not having done whatever it was he just did. Mostly it came during a hangover and was easily shrugged off, but sometimes it was stronger; like, for example, when he was standing in the wings of the stage at the local talent contest in one of many embarrassing costumes and thinking maybe he shouldn't have told his father he wanted to be a singer. Or, when he was nine, thinking maybe he shouldn't have shown the creepy new dinner lady that trick where he licked his own eyebrows. At this moment, it was stronger than it had ever been. Still not guilt, no, but anger at himself for doing something so stupid, at the kid for being in the way, and at the world in general for screwing him over once again.
"Oh boy," he groaned, getting out of the car to assess the damage. "We are so fucked."
"Correction," came Tiny's voice. "You're fucked."
Murdoc snapped back to face the car, the rest of the gang also rapidly leaving the vehicle. "What?"
"You're the one whose fingerprints are on the wheel, and this thing was your idea," snarled Billy, prodding Murdoc in the chest. "I ain't sticking around 'ere!"
The others nodded, and vanished into the night before Murdoc could respond. He swore and shook a fist in the general direction of the exit before remembering the kid under the car. Oh. Yeah. Better take care of that.
He grabbed the limp body by the ankles and hauled it out with ease – the kid seemed to weigh almost nothing. The blue-haired head emerged, leaving a trail of blood and unmentionable goo which Murdoc hoped wasn't brain matter. If the kid was dead, he really was fucked.
He rolled the kid over, looking at the blue hair – what did you call someone with blue hair, anyway? Bluehead? Bleunette? Or rather, bleunet; the kid was a boy, he saw properly now, about nineteen years old, pixie-featured and pale under the blood and wounds. For a moment Murdoc thought the kid was dead, until he took a struggling breath and his eyelids twitched. Something disgusting trickled from under one eyelid. The broken nametag hanging off his shirt read "STUART".
Wait, don't I know this kid? Murdoc thought, as he gently poked at the boy's ribs, checking for anything broken. Hey, yeah – he was the one who'd been on duty at the shop last week when Murdoc was scouting the place out. Had to endure a sales pitch from him. He'd hated the boy on sight; the Pollyanna smile, the chirpy friendliness, the goddamned irritating nasal whine of a voice ... but then the kid had actually started to play the keyboard he was showing off. He played pretty damn well, too, and when he was really starting to get into it he'd burst into song and holy shit, you wouldn't have thought that voice belonged to the same person! Sang like a ... well, Murdoc felt slightly ashamed for thinking "angel" because a) it was horribly cliche, b) it sounded impossibly gay to think that about a teenage boy, and c) it went against his Satanist sensibilities, but it was the best description he'd been able to think of at the time. Murdoc had made his excuses and left with the kid's voice running round his head, not sure why he was so fascinated. Wasn't like he was gonna see him again ... except he had.
Murdoc nearly panicked as he looked back down. The boy – Stuart – seemed to have stopped breathing. Was he breathing? Hard to tell. What was it you were supposed to do if someone wasn't breathing- oh Satan, did he have to do that? Begging the powers Above and Below to make sure that his father and brother would never, ever find out about this, he gripped the boy's hair and pressed their mouths together, breathing out hard into the unconscious boy's lungs.
The detached part of his mind was pretty sure he was doing it wrong. Another part, which sounded oddly like his father's voice, was screaming at him to stop, what if someone saw him? A third part thought curiously Hmm. Tastes like bubblegum, and before he realised it his tongue had eased past Stuart's lips. The second part of his mind went beserk, and the first part thought Okay, now you're definitely doing it wrong.
All three thoughts came to an abrupt halt as Stuart breathed out, giving Murdoc a mouthful of bloody spit in the process. Apparently his breathing had just slowed down, not stopped. Murdoc backed away, scrubbing at his mouth in disgust.
He's breathing and his pulse seems to be going steady, that's good. Okay, okay, c'mon, Murdoc, what's that thing you're supposed to do again? Recovery position. Yeah. Pretend he's drunk, you've dealt with that often enough after parties ... roll him onto his side so he doesn't choke. Yeah. Murdoc watched himself check the kid over in a detached way. Some part of his mind recognised the symptoms of shock; must be because of the physical shock in the car wreck, there was no way he was that upset about a total stranger. He was only helping the kid to save his own arse – his prints were all over the car and the coppers already had them on record from his earlier indiscretions, and the car was totalled so he couldn't use it to get away, so he'd most likely get caught anyway, but if he kept the kid alive at least he might get in slightly less trouble.
Now he thought about it, it was oddly funny. From ram-raiding and theft to potential murder in less time than it takes to hit the brakes. Satan would be proud if not for the sheer sloppiness of the way he'd done it. Murdoc started to snigger, then to laugh, until finally he was howling with laughter and thumping the floor with his fist. The mostly-ignored sensible part of his brain was pretty sure this was another symptom of the shock. Or possibly it actually was that funny. Even Murdoc finds it hard to tell with his sense of humour.
At some point, the police and the ambulance must have pulled up outside. Murdoc didn't hear them until they burst in, only to see him crouched beside the knocked-out boy, hands and mouth covered in blood, laughing uncontrollably.
When he thought about it later in the lockup, he decided he probably could have made a better first impression on the arresting officers. Then he thought Made a damn good impression on that kid's skull, though ... and started laughing again.
(Author's Note: Murdoc is doing CPR Very Very Wrong here. It's not meant to be done unless the victim has clearly stopped breathing, and it definitely doesn't involve tongue. Do not attempt CPR unless you are really sure you know what you are doing. Don't go round running over people's heads either, but if you didn't already know not to do that I don't think anything I can say would stop you. The symptoms of shock are pretty accurate, though – I'm speaking from experience here. I was in a minor road accident myself a couple years back (came out with nothing worse than bruises and nobody else was hurt at all) and I actually did spend the rest of the day giggling uncontrollably. The term "bleunet" is used ironically here, as the LJ community Fanficrants has had numerous entries about how stupid the word "bluenette" sounds.)