bionic
in
picfor1000
Boondock Saints: This Drink's For You
Title: This Drink's For You
Author: bionic
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy
Rating: R - language
Inspiration
Unbeta'd. Harder to write for picfor1000 than I thought!
Connor is this close - this fucking close - to slapping his brother upside the head, wrestling him to the floor, tying him up and gagging him and then shooting him in the face because goddamn the boy is a messy, messy drunk.
“’m so drunk,” Murphy says around the mouth of his beer bottle, his eyelids sagging almost completely shut.
Connor is pissed. When he came into the room, his clothes were in a big pile at the foot of his bed, and when he went to pick them up, he smelled this awful smell, picked up a t-shirt with thumb and forefinger and sniffed. It was beer, bottles of it scattered on the nightstand separating their beds. Murphy sits on Connor’s bed drunk and disgusting, and Connor is pissed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Connor towers over his brother, curling one hand into a fist at his side. Murphy tries to look up at him but his eyes are at half-mast and he looks like he’s about to tip over.
“Drinkin’ ‘way my sorrows.” Murphy tilts the bottle up to his lips until it’s vertical, but its gone dry and his eyebrows draw together and he frowns like someone just killed his dog.
Connor snatches the bottle away from him, fast and angry, and resists the urge to throw it against the wall. “I go away for two days and come back and you look like shit, the place is a mess, and you might as well have pissed on my clothes, ass.”
Murphy blinks up at him, his eyes struggling to keep focus. “Washes out,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Connor raises his fist then and almost does punch him. He tries to remember the last time Murphy got shitfaced and can’t.
Connor looks at the bottle in his hand, disgusted. “Lonestar. You Pansy.”
Murphy ignores him, his attention drawn to the bed sheet. Palms flat against the off-white cotton, he slumps forward before rocking back into the headboard. He looks up at Connor, ducks his head, snickers.
“What’s so funny? And you owe me new clothes, don’t care if it washes out or not.” Connor is practically spitting by the end of it, reminded that, fuck, he doesn’t have anything clean.
“You should c’mere,” Murphy points to the bed. “Missed you.” He says, but now his eyes are wide open, still bleary, and he’s staring at Connor like he has all the answers he couldn’t find at the bottom of a bottle.
Connor takes a step back, setting the Lonestar down on the nightstand. He shakes his head, can’t believe his brother is this fucking drunk, and pulls out the carton of cigarettes in his back pocket, halfway crushed, and lights one up. It glows bright orange in the dim motel room. He takes a big suck and lets it out through his nose, his mouth tight.
“Not going near you until you shower.”
Murphy keeps looking at him, blinking slowly. His hair is slightly ruffled, most of it matted to his head, grease of at least three days worth. He’s wearing the same t-shirt, too, and his jeans have stains on them from god knows what. Connor has no idea how Murphy can live this way. He’d be itching to crawl out of his own skin by now.
“Wha’s matter with me?” Murphy waves his hand around in front of his face. “Well ‘m in love - ” he hiccups, almost comically like that one episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy gets drunk on Vita-Veta-Whatever and they laughed their asses off, it was so ridiculous the first time, “’m in love with you.” He jabs his finger at Connor on the ‘you’ and Connor has trouble keeping a straight face.
“Okay,” Connor says, grabs his brother underneath the arms and hauls him to his feet, cigarette carefully held so it doesn’t burn anyone. Murphy is too drunk or too lazy to stand on his own so he leans against Connor’s shoulder, and Connor gets a big whiff of beer on Murphy’s breath and sweaty hair. Murphy’s head is rolling around like his neck is broken, and his hair gets into Connor’s mouth as he drags him to the bathroom.
He kicks open the door, half ajar, and throws his cigarette in the toilet before depositing his brother on the seat, afraid he’ll tip over if he sits him on the edge of the tub. One hand on Murphy’s shoulder, Connor leans over and turns on the hot water, then the cold. What comes out is scalding and Connor curses, jerking back his arm before reaching around and adjusting the temperature.
When the water is ready, Connor pushes him up, Murphy standing on his own this time, and sits him down on the edge of the tub with his back facing the spray. Murphy doesn’t fight him, doesn’t do anything except look at him with sleepy eyes. Connor leans over him, one leg on either side of Murphy’s, and angles the showerhead slightly towards them
“Don’t fall,” Connor says, gently tipping Murphy’s head back under the water. Murphy winds a lazy arm around Connor’s right thigh, his fingers just barely holding onto the denim. Connor runs his fingers through his brother’s hair, feeling the dirt and grease wash away until it’s soft again, smooth under the water, clean. He doesn’t bother with shampoo, can’t seem to find it anyway. After a while, Murphy’s back relaxes as if this is just what he needs.
Murphy makes a low, appreciative moan. He blinks up at Connor and smiles, sleep making the corners of his mouth lazy. “I love you,” he mumbles.
Connor tips Murphy’s head forward so that he’s no longer under the spray. He gets up and grabs a towel, tosses it at Murphy’s chest but it ends up falling in his lap, Murphy’s hands too slow to catch.
All he says, is, “I’m sleeping in your bed, tonight, since you made a mess of mine.”
*****
I haven't written anything in a long while, much less BDS. Hope you enjoyed it!
Author: bionic
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy
Rating: R - language
Inspiration
Unbeta'd. Harder to write for picfor1000 than I thought!
Connor is this close - this fucking close - to slapping his brother upside the head, wrestling him to the floor, tying him up and gagging him and then shooting him in the face because goddamn the boy is a messy, messy drunk.
“’m so drunk,” Murphy says around the mouth of his beer bottle, his eyelids sagging almost completely shut.
Connor is pissed. When he came into the room, his clothes were in a big pile at the foot of his bed, and when he went to pick them up, he smelled this awful smell, picked up a t-shirt with thumb and forefinger and sniffed. It was beer, bottles of it scattered on the nightstand separating their beds. Murphy sits on Connor’s bed drunk and disgusting, and Connor is pissed.
“What the hell are you doing?” Connor towers over his brother, curling one hand into a fist at his side. Murphy tries to look up at him but his eyes are at half-mast and he looks like he’s about to tip over.
“Drinkin’ ‘way my sorrows.” Murphy tilts the bottle up to his lips until it’s vertical, but its gone dry and his eyebrows draw together and he frowns like someone just killed his dog.
Connor snatches the bottle away from him, fast and angry, and resists the urge to throw it against the wall. “I go away for two days and come back and you look like shit, the place is a mess, and you might as well have pissed on my clothes, ass.”
Murphy blinks up at him, his eyes struggling to keep focus. “Washes out,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Connor raises his fist then and almost does punch him. He tries to remember the last time Murphy got shitfaced and can’t.
Connor looks at the bottle in his hand, disgusted. “Lonestar. You Pansy.”
Murphy ignores him, his attention drawn to the bed sheet. Palms flat against the off-white cotton, he slumps forward before rocking back into the headboard. He looks up at Connor, ducks his head, snickers.
“What’s so funny? And you owe me new clothes, don’t care if it washes out or not.” Connor is practically spitting by the end of it, reminded that, fuck, he doesn’t have anything clean.
“You should c’mere,” Murphy points to the bed. “Missed you.” He says, but now his eyes are wide open, still bleary, and he’s staring at Connor like he has all the answers he couldn’t find at the bottom of a bottle.
Connor takes a step back, setting the Lonestar down on the nightstand. He shakes his head, can’t believe his brother is this fucking drunk, and pulls out the carton of cigarettes in his back pocket, halfway crushed, and lights one up. It glows bright orange in the dim motel room. He takes a big suck and lets it out through his nose, his mouth tight.
“Not going near you until you shower.”
Murphy keeps looking at him, blinking slowly. His hair is slightly ruffled, most of it matted to his head, grease of at least three days worth. He’s wearing the same t-shirt, too, and his jeans have stains on them from god knows what. Connor has no idea how Murphy can live this way. He’d be itching to crawl out of his own skin by now.
“Wha’s matter with me?” Murphy waves his hand around in front of his face. “Well ‘m in love - ” he hiccups, almost comically like that one episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy gets drunk on Vita-Veta-Whatever and they laughed their asses off, it was so ridiculous the first time, “’m in love with you.” He jabs his finger at Connor on the ‘you’ and Connor has trouble keeping a straight face.
“Okay,” Connor says, grabs his brother underneath the arms and hauls him to his feet, cigarette carefully held so it doesn’t burn anyone. Murphy is too drunk or too lazy to stand on his own so he leans against Connor’s shoulder, and Connor gets a big whiff of beer on Murphy’s breath and sweaty hair. Murphy’s head is rolling around like his neck is broken, and his hair gets into Connor’s mouth as he drags him to the bathroom.
He kicks open the door, half ajar, and throws his cigarette in the toilet before depositing his brother on the seat, afraid he’ll tip over if he sits him on the edge of the tub. One hand on Murphy’s shoulder, Connor leans over and turns on the hot water, then the cold. What comes out is scalding and Connor curses, jerking back his arm before reaching around and adjusting the temperature.
When the water is ready, Connor pushes him up, Murphy standing on his own this time, and sits him down on the edge of the tub with his back facing the spray. Murphy doesn’t fight him, doesn’t do anything except look at him with sleepy eyes. Connor leans over him, one leg on either side of Murphy’s, and angles the showerhead slightly towards them
“Don’t fall,” Connor says, gently tipping Murphy’s head back under the water. Murphy winds a lazy arm around Connor’s right thigh, his fingers just barely holding onto the denim. Connor runs his fingers through his brother’s hair, feeling the dirt and grease wash away until it’s soft again, smooth under the water, clean. He doesn’t bother with shampoo, can’t seem to find it anyway. After a while, Murphy’s back relaxes as if this is just what he needs.
Murphy makes a low, appreciative moan. He blinks up at Connor and smiles, sleep making the corners of his mouth lazy. “I love you,” he mumbles.
Connor tips Murphy’s head forward so that he’s no longer under the spray. He gets up and grabs a towel, tosses it at Murphy’s chest but it ends up falling in his lap, Murphy’s hands too slow to catch.
All he says, is, “I’m sleeping in your bed, tonight, since you made a mess of mine.”
*****
I haven't written anything in a long while, much less BDS. Hope you enjoyed it!