Stuart Pot "2D"

2D had set out to be the best father he possibly could.

That meant changing nappies at ridiculous hours, cleaning up spit-up that always seemed to land on his clothes, and enduring long, inexplicable crying fits that sometimes left him with pounding migraines. He loved his baby—more than anything—but that didn’t mean it was easy.

Taking care of a baby was exhausting, demanding, and relentless in a way nothing else had ever been.

The weight in his shoulders grew heavier whenever he looked at the band. Murdoc was already talking about a potential third album, throwing ideas around as if nothing else existed, while 2D struggled just to keep his eyes open most days.

If he was busy, who was going to sing?

Who was going to add that final touch only he could bring?

Sometimes guilt crept in, slow and uncomfortable. It felt as though he’d put everything on pause for his baby, and now his bandmates were waiting for him to catch up—tired of waiting, stressed, maybe even frustrated. Or maybe that was just the lack of sleep talking. Sleepless nights had a way of turning every thought into something darker, heavier, almost paranoid.

Maybe he was putting too much pressure on himself. Acting as if the third album depended entirely on him—as if he were the composer, the editor, the backbone of it all. That was ridiculous. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking like that.

At least the band had agreed to take a break before properly working on the album.

That didn’t make things easier at home.

{{User}} had left the baby with him, which meant they trusted him—and that mattered—but asking the others for help felt embarrassing. He was the father. He was supposed to know what to do on his own.

---

Noodle was the first to get involved, immediately delighted by the presence of someone so small and fragile.

“So cute! 2D! Look—this is your hair!” she exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the baby’s bright blue strands, the same colour as her father’s.

The baby continued playing with a small stuffed giraffe Noodle had given her—an old toy Murdoc had once gifted Noodle herself when she was ten.

“You know,” Noodle added thoughtfully, touching her own hair, “maybe I should dye mine blue too. Then we’d be big brother, middle sister, and tiny baby.”

2D laughed softly. “You heard Russel and Murdoc. No hair dye, tattoos, or piercings, Not until you're at least Twenty-one.”

Noodle huffed in annoyance.

Over the years, the band had tried to be good role models for her—emphasis on tried. That was how the rules had started: clumsy attempts to protect her from bad things even though they weren't a good example

Like the time Murdoc was willing to teach her to smoke, but at Russ's request, it would be until she turned eighteen

2D wished he could say that raising Noodle had prepared him for this, but the truth was that Russel and Murdoc had done most of the work back then. Besides, caring for a baby was nothing like caring for a ten-year-old girl.

---

Then Russel stepped in.

“My ma’ always said, God made me funky,” he murmured as he carefully cradled the baby. The phrase seemed to make her giggle every time.

He adjusted the bottle in her mouth with ease. “You gotta find the right angle. These bottles have a side that works better.”

2D watched quietly. Russel always seemed like the pillar holding everything together—calm, steady, responsible. He didn’t drink much, rarely lost his temper, always knew what to do.

Sometimes, 2D thought of him as the real father of Gorillaz.

Even holding the baby, Russel was gentle despite his size, his large hands supporting her with instinctive care. It looked effortless, and that alone made 2D bite the inside of his cheek.

“After feeding, put her on your chest and pat her back until she burps,” Russel explained, demonstrating. “If you don’t, she’ll throw up.”

2D mentally noted every word. Russel always had the best advice.

“You’re really good at this,” 2D said quietly. “Ever thought about having one of your own?”

Russel chuckled and shook his head. “Nah. I’m fine like this, I think I've had my time with Noodle.”

That was enough to end the conversation.

---

Finally, Murdoc showed up.

Yes. Murdoc.

2D wasn’t entirely sure how desperate he had to be to accept help from someone who looked like he’d sooner drop a baby than spill his rum.

Still, to his surprise, Murdoc handled the situation with a competence that felt almost insulting.

“Don’t use powder, idiot. It irritates their skin,” he snapped, hands moving with unexpected care. “Use gentle creams. And don’t fasten the nappy so tight—what, you trying to force her organs out through her mouth?”

Despite his tone, Murdoc gently massaged the baby’s stomach. She’d been having cramps, apparently normal, according to everyone else.

“You let her burp?”

2D bit his tongue. He hadn’t.

Murdoc let out a tired sigh. “Yeah. Thought so.”

Once the baby calmed down a little, Murdoc lifted her and stepped closer, stopping right in front of 2D. His expression hardened—not cruel, just firm.

“Stand up. I’m not doing everything for you. No one else should.”

2D opened his mouth to argue, but the words never came. Murdoc was right, and that annoyed him more than anything.

“You’d be surprised what boredom, alcohol, and a couple of baby books can teach you,” Murdoc added dryly.

So 2D stood.

Murdoc placed the baby against his chest, carefully positioning her head on his shoulder and guiding one of 2D’s hands to support her bottom, the other to her back.

“Now pat her. Higher up. Not like that.”

“I know how to do it,” 2D muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Then prove it.”

He followed the instructions, gently patting her back, focusing hard. A small, fragile sense of pride bloomed in his chest.

Then she threw up.

“Oh—!” 2D quickly shifted her away, staring at the warm milk soaking into his shirt.

Murdoc laughed. “That’s what happens when she doesn’t burp in time, Faceache.”

---

Later, it was just him and the baby.

No bandmates. No advice. No calling {{User}}, her grandparents, or some dodgy parenting website that promised miracles and delivered nothing.

He lay on the bed beside her, watching her chest rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm. Carefully, he brushed his fingers over her cheek, smiling faintly at how impossibly soft she felt.

That was when the thought crept back in.

I’m not enough.

What if he hurt her? What if he dropped her? What if she died because he made a mistake?

“No, no—” He sat up suddenly, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt as his breathing grew shallow, his chest feeling both tight and hollow at once.

A terrible father. I can’t do this.

Tears slipped down his face, quiet and broken, barely more than uneven breaths.

And then—she woke up crying.

“Oh—baby?” He picked her up, panic surging. Clean nappy. Recently fed. No fever. Then what was wrong?

Minutes passed before he realised the truth. She was fine. Just crying. One of those cries with no solution he could reach.

“Please... it’s okay,” he whispered, rocking her gently as a migraine began to bloom behind his eyes.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn't be a good father.

With trembling hands, he grabbed his phone and dialled {{User}}’s number.

“{{User}}? Could you—could you come over, please?” His fingers tightened around the phone. “I know you said you’d be busy, but... it’s the baby. She won’t stop crying and I—I don’t know what to do.”

He waited.

The baby continued to cry softly against his chest, small fists curling and uncurling as her face scrunched up in discomfort. 2D paced the room in slow, uneven steps, rocking her carefully,

whispering half-formed reassurances that sounded more like he was talking to himself than to her. Every few seconds, he checked her face, her breathing, her warmth—searching for something he might have missed.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time felt strangely blurred, stretched thin by exhaustion and worry.

The crying slowly softened into uneven whimpers, her head resting against his shoulder as her tiny body relaxed just enough to breathe between sobs.

2D sank onto the edge of the bed, still holding her close, his hand moving in slow circles on her back, afraid that if he stopped, everything would fall apart again.

Then he heard the door.

Footsteps. Familiar ones.

2D looked up immediately, relief hitting him so hard it almost made his knees give in. He shifted the baby slightly, making sure she was secure before standing.

“Oh—! You’re here,” he breathed, relief washing over him as he stepped closer. His shoulders finally loosened, just a little, as he shifted the baby in his arms, instinctively turning her so {{User}} could see her properly. “I’m so glad you’re here...”

The baby stirred at the movement, letting out a small, tired sound before settling again, her tiny fingers curling weakly against his shirt.

2D glanced down at her, then back at {{User}}, swallowing hard.

“I—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly through his nose. His free hand came up to rub at his face, dragging down over his eyes as if that might ground him. “Sorry... it’s just that...”

He looked back at the baby, adjusting his hold with careful precision, almost apologetic. “The pressure got to me.”

For a moment, he said nothing more.

The room felt quieter now, heavier in a different way. He shifted his weight, rocking slightly on his heels, a habit he hadn’t even realised he’d picked up.

“I know you trusted me with this,” he continued, voice lower, rougher around the edges. “And I really tried. I did.” His fingers tightened briefly against the fabric of his sleeve before relaxing again.

A small, tired breath escaped him, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“But... damn it,” he murmured, Raising one of his trembling hands to his face, he brushed away the drops of sweat that had been there for a while. . “As always, I couldn’t do it alone.”

“Hey, honey, calm down,” he chuckled softly, lowering his voice as if the entire supermarket were suddenly listening to him.

He brushed his finger over his daughter’s cheek, smiling when she answered with another string of babbles. Ever since they’d gone shopping at the mall, the little girl hadn’t stopped making noise— a chaotic mix of squeals, laughter, and complete nonsense that left drool shining on her lips.

2D felt the urge to speak in baby language.

She rested in a baby carrier strapped securely to his chest, her tiny body warm against him, her little legs dangling and kicking now and then. Every movement seemed exaggerated to her, every light and colour worth reacting to.

They drew attention everywhere they went. Some people smiled softly at the sight of him leaning down to talk to her, others laughed when she squealed too loudly, and a few glanced at them with raised brows—judging, curious, or simply confused.

The baby’s hair didn’t help much either.

The colour looked... strange. Unusual. It was natural, of course—2D hadn’t dyed his daughter’s hair—but more than one person stared at it as if he’d made some questionable stylistic choice.

He ignored it, focusing instead on rocking slightly from side to side whenever she grew louder. It worked. Sometimes.

He was silently grateful he’d forgotten her maraca at home. If she’d had it, the noise would’ve been unbearable, echoing between aisles and drawing even more attention.

“I’ll make some homemade ramen later, okay?” Noodle said, glancing at the baby with a fond smile.

She’d insisted on coming along so things wouldn’t be too overwhelming for him—quietly stepping into the role of a helpful little sister.

“Yeah, sure,” 2D nodded. “But you’re carrying two bags.”

Noodle rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

He tried to concentrate on the shopping list, scanning shelves and comparing prices, but every few minutes the baby stretched her arms out, grabbing whatever she could reach. Her fingers curled tightly around packaging, refusing to let go.

“Luv—how did you even grab that?” he murmured, gently prying a can from her hands. Fresh peaches.

She protested with a loud noise, kicking her feet.

“Hey—no, we’re not stealing today,” he joked softly, even as he smiled. Maybe she was trying to tell him something. Peach candy, maybe. Or maybe she just liked the colour.

He absentmindedly stroked her tiny feet as they swung in the air, grounding himself in the simple sensation of her warmth and weight. She was already crawling. Already grabbing things.

It made his chest feel strangely tight.

She’s growing so fast...

His thoughts drifted to the future before he could stop them—her first proper steps, her first fall, the way she might run toward him one day without hesitation.

He swallowed, shaking his head slightly, forcing himself back to the present as she babbled again, completely unaware of the storm of emotions she stirred just by existing.

---

Back at the studios, 2D went up to his room with {{User}}. The space felt quieter than usual, softer somehow. The baby sat on the floor near the bed, surrounded by an improvised circle of cushions in case she fell, her attention drifting between the colours of the room and the peach candy she was biting into.

“Do you... want to hear something?” he asked hesitantly, crouching down to pull a few messy sheets of paper from under the bed. His fingers trembled just a little. “It’s not for the next album. It’s... personal.”

He didn’t know why he was nervous. {{User}} already knew him intimately—intimately enough to explain the existence of their daughter—but moments like this still felt fragile, almost sacred.

“These aren’t Gorillaz lyrics,” he added quietly. “They’re mine. I’d like to keep them... just between us.”

Between our family.

He didn’t say that last part out loud. Instead, he reached out and squeezed {{User}}’s hand gently, grounding himself in the contact.

The baby watched curiously as her father sat at the keyboard. She tilted her head, blinking slowly, as if sensing something important was about to happen. When his fingers touched the keys, a soft, hesitant melody filled the room.

I ain’t got nothing to be scared of, no No, I ain’t got nothing to be scared of, no

2D closed his dark eyes. His breathing evened out as his fingers moved on their own, guided by instinct rather than thought. For once, he wasn’t overthinking. He didn’t need to.

’Cause I love you I was born out of love It’s the only way to come into this world

Neither of them noticed when the baby placed one small hand on the edge of the bed.

Or when she shifted her weight.

Or when she slowly pulled herself up.

I know I’m not all there But I’m getting, getti—

2D stopped abruptly when he heard {{User}} gasp.

The baby was standing.

No—walking.

Her steps were short, clumsy, uncertain, but she was moving forward on her own. The room seemed to hold its breath.

“Ah—b... baby!” His body reacted before his mind did, leaning forward instinctively, every nerve screaming at him to catch her, to protect her, to stop her from falling. But he froze.

He had to let her try.

She moved closer, her tiny legs trembling under the effort. She looked up, her eyes finding her father’s dark ones.

“Dada.”

A soft sound. Barely formed. Maybe just a babble. But his heart heard it loud and clear.

She reached out toward him—and without the bed to support her, her balance tipped. She stumbled forward and fell face-first onto the floor.

“W—WAAH!”

“Damn—!”

2D was on her in an instant, scooping her up and pressing her gently against his chest, whispering broken lullabies into her hair.

“Okay, okay, baby... it’s alright. Nothing happened. You’re okay.” His voice shook, worry flooding his face—yet a smile slowly broke through. “Did you see that? She took a few steps and...”

He stopped mid-sentence.

“...she called me dad.”

He sat on the bed with her, stroking her cheek softly and handing her a small giraffe plushie to distract her tears. It helped... a little.

Moments like this were when everything felt real.

Not like some careless fling. Not like two exhausted people making mistakes that resulted in something unwanted.

She was wanted.

She was loved.

At least 2D loved her with his entire heart—and someday, he’d write her a real song. One the whole world would hear... but only she would truly understand.

“Come on, love,” he coaxed gently. “Say it again. Dada... daddy. Da—ddy...”

The baby stared at him intently, studying the shape of his mouth as if memorising it. Slowly, carefully, she tried to copy him.

“D...”

2D’s smile widened, his eyes stinging.

“Daddy...”

That was the moment he knew he could die happy.

“Yes—yes,” he laughed breathlessly. “I am. I’m your dad.”

The realisation hit him all at once, grounding him completely. This little person in his arms... he had made her. He was responsible for her. He was hers.

“Muldo!!”

His smile wavered.

“...What?”

Muldo. Muldo... Murdoc.

Of course. Murdoc had secretly taught her how to say his name.

2D just laughed, shaking his head.

“{{User}}! Did you hear?” he said excitedly, looking over. “N—not Murdoc’s part—mine! The daddy part!”

The pier had been unusually lively that evening.

Lights hung from posts and railings, soft music drifting through the air, the smell of fried food and sugar mixing with the salty breeze from the sea. It wasn’t anything extravagant—just a small fair set up near the docks—but to 2D it felt special.

A rare moment where it was just the three of them, no band obligations, no studio noise, no expectations.

He walked slowly beside {{User}}, the baby snug against his chest in the pram, bundled up perhaps a little too carefully. He kept glancing down at her, checking her face, her hands, the way she breathed. Every laugh from the fair made him smile—every sudden noise made him tense.

It was supposed to be a date, for them and for her.

That was when he noticed it.

When he leaned down and brushed his fingers over his daughter’s forehead, the warmth startled him.

Hot.

Too hot.

“She’s... really warm,” he murmured, stopping and crouching in front of the pram to look at her properly. The baby stared back at him lazily, calmer than usual. No excited kicks. No grabbing. No babbling. Too calm.

More than a blessing, it felt wrong.

2D straightened slowly, hands resting on his thighs. Maybe it’s nothing, he told himself. Babies got warm. It was crowded. She was bundled up. It didn’t have to mean—

He pulled off his orange beanie and gently placed it on her head, forcing a small smile. She looked almost amused, blue hair peeking out beneath the fabric. “There,” he whispered. “Matching, yeah?”

Then {{User}} mentioned the blankets.

“Oh—right,” he breathed, guilt flickering through him. Perhaps the blankets made her too hot

Carefully, he removed one blanket, then her little coat, leaving the hat on. Cool air brushed her skin—but when he checked again, she was still warm.

The fear didn’t say anything yet,.It just settled quietly in his chest.

---

It didn’t pass.

“Okay, okay... calm down, darling, I’m here.” 2D lay on the bed with his daughter curled against him, her body restless, her skin hot against his shirt. The fair felt like hours ago now. A different lifetime.

She was sick.

He had known this would happen someday. He just hadn’t been ready for now.

Russel had helped install a small crib beside the bed, so she could be close without being smothered by her overly attached father. Tonight, she wasn’t in it. Tonight, she needed him.

When she finally drifted off, 2D didn’t follow.

Even with {{User}} beside him, arms loosely wrapped around his back, even with the room quiet and dim, sleep felt... wrong. Almost immoral. Every time his eyelids grew heavy, a sharp thought dragged him back.

What kind of father sleeps while his daughter is burning up?

So he stayed awake, listening. Counting her breaths. Checking the rise and fall of her tiny chest, again and again, as if the moment he stopped watching something terrible would happen.

When exhaustion finally won and he slipped into sleep, it was shallow and restless. He woke with a jolt hours later, his hand moving on instinct to her forehead.

Too hot.

Hotter than before.

His heart dropped straight into his stomach.

He woke {{User}} immediately, voice tight, movements rushed but careful. The baby whimpered weakly now, her cries thin and strained, her little face scrunched in discomfort, as if her stomach hurt. The sound made his throat close painfully.

He hated that sound.

Hated how helpless it made him feel.

He hovered over his phone, fingers trembling, ready to call an ambulance at the slightest sign of danger. It took everything in him to agree when {{User}} decided to go buy baby medicine. The moment the door closed behind them, the room felt unbearably empty.

He paced.

Back and forth.

Thermometer always in his hand.

If the number went up, that was it. No debate. No hesitation.

“Shh... I’m here, love,” he whispered over and over, rocking her gently, his eyes never leaving her flushed cheeks.

To calm her—and to keep her cries from waking the others—he started walking. Around the room. Into the hallway. Through the studio corridors he knew by heart. His legs ached, his arms burned, but he didn’t stop.

He would walk until he collapsed if it meant she felt even a little better.

When {{User}} returned with the medicine, the baby rejected it immediately. She cried harder, flailed her arms, spat it out between sobs.

“No—no, please...” 2D begged quietly, trying again. “It’s medicine, sweetheart. I promise, it’s not bad.”

She refused {{User}}’s arms too, clinging weakly to him.

That was when the panic truly set in, not loud or dramatic. Just heavy and suffocating in his chest.

He pressed his cheek to her forehead, feeling her weak sobs dissolve into exhausted hiccups.

And then he sang.

The mountains are waiting The full Moon has come I got lost on the highway

Her body softened almost immediately, relaxing against him as if the sound itself anchored her.

Of course she recognised it.

That melody had been the very first lullaby 2D ever made for her—back when she was only a few weeks old, when holding her still felt unreal, terrifying, and sacred all at once.

It hadn’t begun as a lullaby at all. It was meant to be a simple demo, something to capture a place, a mood—those warm, yellow-toned landscapes from the story he used to read to her at night.

She’d been far too young to understand the words back then, but she loved the pictures. The colours. The way the pages opened into wide fields and soft skies. She would stare at them intently, until she began to recognise it as her favourite, reaching out, then settling against his chest like that was exactly where she belonged. And that alone made him happy.

At first, he told himself it was just that—her enjoying the drawings, the gentle routine.

Somewhere along the way, without him realising it, the song changed.

It became his fear.

His confusion.

That crushing, overwhelming moment of holding her for the first time and feeling completely unprepared—quietly pleading with the universe, with God, with anything that might be listening, not to let him fail her.

It was a lullaby they shared. One that carried everything he never managed to say out loud.

But don't ask me where I've been Or what I've done

Oh, Lord, send me transmissions Forgive me for what I've become

He rocked slowly, thumb tracing her cheek, the fear still there—but quieter now, dulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Put a little love into my lonely soul...

By the final line, she was asleep.

The fever eased—not gone, not yet—but it slipped enough for him to notice. Just enough to let him breathe again.

With slow, careful movements, he helped {{User}} give her the medicine, guiding the tiny spoon as if even the air around them might disturb her.

Their daughter barely stirred; half-asleep, she swallowed obediently, a soft sound leaving her lips before she settled again against {{User}}’s chest.

“Okay...” he whispered, barely trusting his voice, eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. His shoulders remained tense, as if relaxing too soon might tempt fate. “Now we wait.”

He hesitated before reaching out, then gently guided {{User}}’s hands to their daughter’s forehead, holding them there with his own for a moment longer than necessary. Her skin was still warm, but no longer burning. “She needs you too,”

he murmured quietly. “Your warmth... she feels it. Even now.”

Silence filled the room again, heavy but no longer suffocating. After a moment, his voice returned, softer, almost embarrassed by the thought, as if saying it aloud made it too real.

“Maybe I should write lullabies just for her,” he said, eyes lowering to their sleeping child. “Only hers.”

A faint, fragile smile tugged at his mouth. “So even when I’m far away... she’ll still know I’m there.”

Stuart Pot had never considered himself a jealous man. At most, he had felt the occasional tightness in his chest—an odd, fleeting itch when situations brushed too close to something personal. But true envy? No. Never.

Until now.

He didn’t always bring his daughter to Kong Studios. Not because he didn’t adore her—he did, fiercely—but because she had a habit of interrupting his work in the sweetest, most distracting ways.

Still, on the days she did come along, wrapped in her tiny jumper and clutching her worn plush toy, she seemed... happy.

Maybe too happy.

Especially when the others were around.

And mostly with... Murdoc.

For some reason 2D couldn’t quite name, the moment his daughter caught sight of the bassist, she seemed to forget he existed altogether. Her little arms would stretch out eagerly, her body leaning away from him as if he were the villain of some twisted fairy tale—some thief who’d stolen her from the person she truly wanted.

He tried to ignore it.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped into the rehearsal room, where Russel and Noodle were already packing away their instruments. The room smelled faintly of dust, cables, and old amplifiers.

Noodle noticed the baby first.

“2D! You brought her!” she exclaimed, instantly abandoning her guitar. “She’s sooo beautiful!!”

Before 2D could react, Noodle had gently lifted the baby into her arms, pressing her nose playfully against the child’s. His daughter let out a soft, uncertain sound, blinking slowly.

“And where’s {{User}}?” Russel asked, leaning closer with curiosity.

The baby squirmed a little as Russel poked her cheeks, clearly unimpressed.

“They’re at the laundromat,” 2D replied quietly. “They’ll be back soon.”

As if summoned by the conversation, the door creaked open again.

Murdoc stepped inside, bass slung lazily over his shoulder.

“Oi! Faceache, you seen my spare strings?”

The sound of his voice was all it took.

2D felt his stomach drop as his daughter’s head snapped toward the door, her body nearly tipping out of Noodle’s arms.

Then came the sounds.

“M... mu...!” she whimpered, her face lighting up. “Muud!”

Her arms reached out desperately, fingers stretching toward Murdoc’s chest. When he stepped closer, her tiny hand grabbed the chain around his neck, tugging him nearer with surprising strength.

Murdoc chuckled, amused, and scooped her up effortlessly. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, adjusting his grip. “Little 2D, aren’t you? Definitely your dad’s kid.”

It was unfair.

Why did this only happen to him? Not {{User}}—just him. As if the universe had decided to poke at some fragile part of him he hadn’t even known existed.

Or maybe it was just his daughter.

He watched, jaw tight, as her small hands explored Murdoc’s face, her laughter bubbling softly as she nestled closer to his chest. She looked comfortable. Content.

There was nothing wrong with it. They were bandmates. Family, even. Murdoc making her laugh, letting her crawl over him, playing bass while she listened intently—none of that meant anything.

Of course not.

There was no jealousy. Not at all.

And yet.

That familiar, unpleasant sensation crept back into his chest. The same twitch under his eye he’d had weeks ago returned, his neck itching suddenly, insistently. Before he realised it, his hand was at his mouth, teeth worrying at his nails.

It only made him more irritated.

Why was he reacting like this? It didn’t make sense. His daughter loved him—he knew that. This was stupid.

“Something wrong, Faceache?” Murdoc asked casually, not even looking at him. “You seem... tense.”

2D dropped his hand, rubbing the side of his neck instead, trying to shake the feeling.

“Nah,” he muttered. “I’m fine.”

But the feeling didn’t go away.

---

Later, it only got worse.

2D remained standing near the doorway, useless hands hanging at his sides, watching as his daughter finally surrendered to sleep against Murdoc’s chest. Her breathing evened out, small and warm, her fingers curled loosely into the worn fabric of his shirt.

Only minutes ago she had been wide-eyed and fascinated, listening to the low vibration of the bass as if it were a lullaby meant just for her.

Seeing her like that twisted something deep in him.

The inside of the Winnebago felt smaller than usual—air thick with the stale smell of alcohol, old leather, and cigarette smoke that never quite left Murdoc’s space. The dim yellow light hummed overhead, casting long shadows over scattered toys that didn’t belong there, bright plastic shapes abandoned between empty bottles and crumpled magazines.

Evidence that his daughter had been here often. Too often.

Murdoc leaned back comfortably, bass resting against his leg, one arm secure around the sleeping child as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe for him, it was.

2D’s throat tightened.

Murdoc noticed. Of course he did.

The tension in 2D’s posture, the way his eyes lingered a second too long, too dark, too full—none of it escaped him. Whether it amused him or simply fed his ego, Murdoc didn’t say. He only kept playing for a moment longer, slow and deliberate, the sound deep and steady. Then, almost casually, he drew the girl closer and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead.

As if he were her father.

The thought burned.

“Alright,” 2D said at last, forcing the words out. His voice came out tight, uneven. “I—I can take her now.”

He didn’t step forward immediately. His nails dug into his palms instead, the familiar, ugly urge to bite them rising sharp and sudden—an impulse to hurt himself just enough to bleed, to release something.

He swallowed it down.

Letting anger take hold only sent his thoughts spiraling, and he didn’t trust where they would land.

Murdoc glanced up, expression unreadable. Then he shrugged lightly.

“Go on, then.”

He handed her over with unexpected care, adjusting his grip so her head wouldn’t loll, so she wouldn’t wake. She stayed asleep, cheek warm, lashes resting softly against flushed skin.

2D gathered her into his arms like something fragile and sacred, holding her closer than necessary, and left without another word.

The studio hallway felt cooler, quieter. Less suffocating.

That was when he saw {{User}}.

They were just stepping inside, carrying a suitcase stuffed with freshly washed clothes—tiny socks peeking out from the zipper, soft fabrics folded neatly, everything smelling clean, domestic, real.

The sight of them steadied him instantly.

“Hey,” he said softly, a shy smile tugging at his mouth—the familiar one that revealed the gap where his front teeth used to be. “Good to see you.”

As he moved closer, something unfamiliar crept over him. A hesitation. A doubt that bloomed slowly in his chest, warm and uncomfortable. He tried to ignore it.

He couldn’t.

“Hey... um,” he started, gaze drifting away. “Have you noticed that she’s really into Murdoc?”

The words came out too fast after that, as if he could outrun their meaning.

“I mean—it doesn’t bother me. Not really,” he rushed on. “I’m glad she gets along with everyone, y’know, but...”

He trailed off, lowering himself into the nearest armchair and carefully placing their daughter into the baby rocker. He needed his hands free. Needed to ground himself in something solid.

Bloody hell. Not again.

His fingers fidgeted uselessly, rubbing together, betraying him as his voice began to falter.

“I know Murdoc’s... well, Murdoc,” he continued, cheeks warming. “And yeah, I get that he might seem more interesting than me. I—I know that.”

He let out a short, breathy laugh. “But I’m a better dad than him. I am. And she—she crawled all the way to him. Not me.”

His ears burned now, heat creeping up his neck.

“I know she’s little,” he added quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t understand things yet. I know that. It’s just...”

He exhaled sharply, frustration tightening his jaw.

“It’s irritating. That’s all.” He avoided {{User}}’s eyes, voice dropping.

“And it’s not jealousy,” he muttered. “Okay?”

2D had always been closer to his parents than the rest of the band ever were to theirs. Murdoc barely mentioned his father at all. Russel spoke about his family rarely, and only when asked. And Noodle—well, the band was her family, in every sense that mattered.

So when his parents found out they had a granddaughter, they rang him constantly.

Yes, Mum, we’ll come—just not today. Hi, Dad, no, not this week either.

The same excuses, said gently, apologetically, always in that soft, familiar rhythm he slipped into when talking to them.

They’d only seen the baby through screens so far. Photos. Short videos of her babbling nonsense. A shaky clip of her taking her first few wobbly steps.

It wasn’t that he was avoiding them. Not on purpose. Truth was, he wanted—no, he needed—to take his daughter to see them properly. To let her meet her grandparents, to let his parents hold her instead of watching her grow through a phone.

But life had become... crowded.

The band. The baby. {{User}}. The careful, fragile balance of the little family they were quietly building together.

And every time his parents asked for a date, he stalled.

So, one calm morning, he finally asked.

They were sitting in a small café, sunlight spilling through the windows, warming the table. Their daughter sat on {{User}}’s lap, scribbling meaningless shapes with crayons the waiter had brought her, humming to herself as if she had all the time in the world.

Right. Now or never.

“Hey, luv...” 2D began, eyes drifting away as he tugged the orange wool hat down over his hair. His other hand rested lightly at his daughter’s waist, grounding himself. “My parents’ve been asking us to visit for a while now.”

His chest tightened immediately. It was just a visit. Nothing dramatic. If {{User}} said no, it’d be fine—so why did his heart feel like it was trying to escape?

“I was thinking maybe we could go tomorrow,” he added quickly. “Or—uh—next week! Whatever works best for you, really.”

He looked away again, bracing himself.

They agreed. Nothing unusual about it. Perfectly normal.

And yet, something in his stomach fluttered, uneasy and hopeful all at once.

Because to him, it felt like more than just popping round for tea.

It felt like a step forward.

---

2D stared at his driving licence longer than necessary.

He’d gotten it the moment he turned eighteen—his dad had practically dragged him to the test centre. The photo barely looked like him now. Younger. Softer. His eyes still blue. Proper blue.

He really ought to update it. The police always stared a bit too long, flicking their gaze between the photo and his face.

He slipped it back into his wallet and headed for the car Russel had lent him—on the strict condition it came back without a scratch.

“Comfy back there, love?” he asked, crouching to adjust the straps of the baby seat. His daughter gripped a tiny toy steering wheel, chewing on it happily. “Gonna drive with Dad, then? Like a big girl.”

Only once he was absolutely sure she was secure did he take the driver’s seat, glancing nervously at {{User}} beside him.

His hands were damp as they closed around the steering wheel. His foot hovered near the pedals, uncertain.

He’d driven since the accidents. He wasn’t rubbish at it. But this was different.

This time, his daughter was in the back.

Every road suddenly felt dangerous. Every other driver felt like a threat. He felt like an absolute menace behind the wheel.

“We won’t be long,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose before wiping his palms against his jeans. “Get a grip, Stuart.”

For one horrifying second, his mind went blank—which one’s the brake again? And the indicators—how did those work?

Bloody hell.

---

They arrived safely.

By then, 2D had smoked nearly a full pack.

They’d stopped at the shop first—nappies, a loaf of fresh bread as a polite little gift, the sort of thing his mum would appreciate.

The drive itself had gone smoothly, no close calls, no wrong turns—but the tension never really left his shoulders. It clung to him the whole way, tight and insistent, until somewhere along the road he reached for a cigarette without even thinking.

He’d been trying to stop doing it so often. For the baby. For the smell. For all the right reasons. Although he never quit smoking definitely and that wasn't in his plans.

But today, he failed.

He lifted the collar of his shirt to his nose and breathed in cautiously. Smoke. Of course. Bloody typical.

Across the street, he spotted {{User}} walking towards him, the paper bag of warm bread tucked under one arm, their daughter resting comfortably against their shoulder, half-asleep and blissfully unaware of her father’s spiralling thoughts.

“Right,” he murmured, taking the bag from them, fingers tightening around the handle. “Let’s do this.”

His parents’ house stood just opposite—one of those picture-perfect places you only ever saw in films. A neatly trimmed green lawn, a white wooden fence, two tidy floors and a patio that smelled faintly of summers past and barbecues that went on too long.

As he climbed the steps to the porch, his nerves crept back in full force.

He felt ridiculous, suddenly—like a teenage punk turning up years later after slamming the door behind him in a dramatic exit that never actually happened. He hadn’t left in anger. He hadn’t left in regret.

Still, his heart thudded like he was about to be told off.

He knocked twice.

Before he could knock a third time, the door flew open.

“Oh, my son!”

“Hey, Mum—!” He barely had time to finish before she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight, familiar hug. “Missed you too,” he said softly, voice muffled against her shoulder.

---

“Did she fall?” Mrs. Pot asked, gazing at her granddaughter with open affection, her eyes lingering—undeniably curious—on the baby’s soft blue hair. “Oh, I still remember when you fell out of that tree and all your hair fell out.”

“No, Mum. She was born like that,” 2D replied, taking a careful sip of the coffee his dad had just handed him.

Their daughter rested peacefully in her pram, clutching the little cat plushie her gran had given her as if it were treasure.

Both of his parents seemed utterly fascinated—not just with the baby, but with {{User}} too. Watching them together made something tight and strange twist in his chest.

Then his mum stood up.

At first, 2D didn’t think much of it—until he saw her heading straight for the dining room.

And then back again.

Straight toward {{User}}.

Oh. Bloody hell.

“I still remember how my Stuart looked with his brown hair,” Mrs. Pot said fondly as she opened the old photo album. “Handsome as his mum.”

The first pages were harmless enough: baby Stuart on slides, toddling across grass, chasing butterflies with a crooked grin.

Then came the next pages.

2D felt his face heat up.

“Oh, look at him here,” his mum cooed, pointing to a photo of a small Stuart in a sailor suit. Then another. And then—

“Mum! Why did you take that picture?!” 2D lunged forward just as she flipped to a photo of him completely naked.

He hastily turned the page—only to land on that one.

The bald one.

“That’s when he fell!” his mum laughed, stopping him. “Remember, David? He cried for months over his hair.”

“I remember it well, Rachel,” his dad said, nodding with a quiet, barely held-in chuckle.

The album continued—teenage Stuart now. Blue fringe falling over one eye. Wrists stacked with black bracelets and spiked bands. Ripped jeans, marker stains, metallic tops, a worn Beatles shirt.

Seriously. Why did every photo get worse?

“I was always worried here,” his mum said softly. “You were always off with that group of kids I didn’t like, saying, ‘It’s not a phase, Mum.’”

“It never was,” 2D replied, sinking back into his seat, rubbing his face in embarrassment.

At least the baby seemed entertained—even if she appeared momentarily confused about who her dad was meant to be.

Then came another photo.

Older. Quieter. Still dressed the same, but calmer. Standing outside Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium.

And then—

The one after that.

His eyes were gone. Just black holes staring back at him. The photo had been taken during his mum’s birthday, right there in this house. A faint smile on his face.

He remembered that day.

It was shortly after Paula had left. When his confidence was in pieces. When the dream of keeping Gorillaz alive felt like some ridiculous fantasy.

2D looked away, throat tight. His parents didn’t notice.

“Dada!”

His daughter pointed straight at him.

A surprised laugh slipped out as he lifted her from {{User}}’s lap. “Yeah, luv,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “Dada.”

At last, his dad closed the album and set it aside. His mum returned moments later with a plate of warm, freshly baked biscuits.

“So,” she said lightly, as if asking about the weather, “are you getting married?”

2D nearly choked.

“Uh—” He glanced helplessly at {{User}}, eyes wide, searching for backup.