BDS Fic: "Under False Pretense" Connor/Murphy, PG-13, some language
This is schmoop at its best, senseless crap at its worst. Getting over my writing hump, hopefully.
Under False Pretense
by Meixia bionic
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: not mine, don't sue.
Summary: Murphy disappears, but Connor finds him. Much fretting ensues.
Notes: thanks to endless_fever for audiencing parts of this. You rock.
Connor has the paper in his hands and the words are stated plainly in black and white, clear as night and day, so that even in his current state of shock, the important things penetrate his otherwise numb mind.
I’m sorry.
Don’t come looking for me.
This is wrong.
Signed, Murphy.
He can’t deny what is plainly stated in front of him.
Before he can even read the short note again in the scratchy writing that has become so familiar over the years, he is in shambles, tears pricking like hot needles at his eyes until they spill over the rim. Only a few, silent drops, but tears all the same.
Anguish at first hits him like a sledgehammer, a raw and unforgiving blow straight to his gut that sends him reeling. He crumples the note in his fist just before the rage sets in and hollows him from the inside out until even the anguish is gone, grief boiling over and hardening into anger. Anger at himself, at his brother, at their futile attempts to try and enjoy life because God forbid that they find happiness while in their dismal line of work.
He never should have kissed Murphy. He knows that now surer than he’s ever known anything in his life. The bitter taste of it lingers on his tongue. He wonders how long it will take before his body shuts down completely; it is already missing its other half.
Murphy is gone, just like that. In the span of a hot, sticky July night, as the fan whirred noisily in the corner of their new but cheap apartment. Connor had fallen asleep listening to the lulling sound and the next morning, Murphy’s bed was empty and some of his clothes gone. His duffel was gone, too, from its usual position under Murphy’s bed, and of the two matching rosaries only one was left hanging around the doorknob.
Now there is only a crumpled piece of paper. Connor tosses the wadded ball into the trash bin in the corner with such force that it clatters against the wall before finding its balance again. He slumps down into the bed with a solitary sigh.
He’ll come back. It’s his first rational thought after he clears his mind. Murphy just stepped out to the pub. But then why is the bag gone? And some of his clothes? Denial wants to set in, but he knows it isn’t even going to get its foot past the door.
It hurts to think. Hot pressure builds behind his eyes but he won’t let it out, so he squeezes them shut, and breathes to calm himself rather than out of necessity. There are ways to get his brother back. There has to be.
He just doesn’t know if Murphy wants to be found. The note claims that he doesn’t, but Connor won’t trust a piece of paper. He wants to hear the words from Murphy’s mouth, and then maybe he can swallow his own emotional dependencies and let Murphy go.
Maybe.
Probably not.
It might be a little too much to hope for, but hope is all he has left. It’s all he’s ever had. That, and faith. He needs faith now more than ever, so it’s a good thing he has a shit load of it. Pub first, but after that Connor doesn’t know what else to do but walk around aimlessly until he finds him. Pass out flyers, call around, call the fucking cops and file a missing persons report. Something - anything.
Taking a steadying breath, Connor grabs his coat and shrugs it on as he stands and moves to the door. He passes the trash on his way, then backtracks, picking up the crumpled note and smoothing it out before folding it neatly and tucking it into his pocket. The rosary is slipped carefully around his neck with numb fingers passing over the beads while his lips utter a silent prayer.
As Connor steps out, the door clicks shut silently behind him, unlike the creaking hinges of their old apartment, and the sunlight passing through the shoddy windows of the stairwell that greet him is dull and sallow. Hoping for a great beam of light that shines down on God’s disciples is maybe asking for too much, Connor realizes, but such a sight would be encouraging if nothing else.
He descends the stairs slowly, mind a million miles away and trying to play catch-up with his missing twin.
~*~
The bar down the street is packed and humid as Connor wades through the sea of bodies, waving the tendrils of cigarette smoke away from his face in a fruitless attempt to see, but there are too many distractions in his way. It isn’t a bar so much as a small club, the only one that plays country music and the only place for miles where one can go to hear hicks converse in their natural thick accent. Southie’s is what the establishment is called, and Connor cringes at the thought of Murph actually getting desperate enough to come here.
He pushes his way to the bar and calls the bartender over, waving a bill in his hand. The red-faced man with wispy blonde hair gives him a sour look but palms the money anyway.
“Can I help you?” He asks.
“Have you seen a tall guy, about my height, with dark brown-almost black hair come in?” Connor leans over the counter so the guy can hear him better, but the man only shakes his head and picks up an empty glass, cleaning it with a white towel.
“Sure, I’ve seen about a dozen of guys that fit your description. Take your pick,” he says and nods to the crowded room, laughing under his breath as he turns to another customer.
Connor tries to will the tension out of his shoulders and sighs through his nose, almost choking on the smoke-filled air. He should really get out before he acquires asthma.
The rest of the day passes by in an uneventful blur, one street to the next, one stranger with a strange look after another, all clueless to the fear that’s eating him up inside. He doesn’t even realize it’s nightfall until the street lamps are suddenly turned on and the glittering lights of various restaurants are lit up, illuminating the night with new, exotic life. Finding it utterly depressing without Murphy alongside him, Connor returns to the apartment and sets his hopes high for tomorrow because it is the only way that he’ll get through the night.
The stairwell carries the soft echo of his boots as he climbs up. His shoulders are sagging and tired and he hangs his head, counting how many steps it takes to get to their room. He doesn’t know what else to do with himself for the night besides sleep. Maybe he’ll find it all to be a dream the next morning.
When he arrives at the proper landing, he stops short of the door. Something is slightly off - he can feel the disturbance in the energy of the air. He tries the doorknob and is surprised that it clicks open. He can’t remember if he’d locked it or not, but common sense tells him that of course he would have.
The soft light of the lamp between their twin beds is on and Connor is sure that it wasn’t on in the morning.
“Connor, is that you?” Murphy’s voice floats over from the closed bathroom door, and Connor almost chokes on his relief.
“Shit.” He slams the door shut behind him and reaches the bathroom, splaying his hands against the door in a desperate attempt to feel Murphy alive and well through the wood. “Christ, Murph, I thought you were gone. Permanently.”
The toilet flushes followed by running water, and then Murphy opens the door, a hesitant smile peeking through the meek expression on his face. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Connor has to rein in his temper that’s threatening to rise and poke out its ugly head. He not so gently grabs Murphy’s arm and hauls him to his bed, pushing him down roughly. “Is that all you got to say to me? I spent the day looking for your sorry ass, and that’s your brilliant apology? Where’s my fucking explanation, Murph?”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Murphy sits with stooped shoulders and fingers the hole in the knee of his jeans, a gesture Connor has learned means he’s swallowing his pride and owning up to whatever it is he’s done wrong.
Murphy sucks in a breath slowly before trying again. “I said I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. There’s just too much shit going on in my head and I wasn’t feeling up to facing you today. I’m sorry.”
“Facing me? Facing me? What the hell does that mean?” Now that he knows Murphy is unharmed and he has him back, Connor can do all the scolding that he wants. He’s allowed in this particular situation.
Frustrated, Murphy lies back on his elbows and fixes Connor with a serious look. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Who the fuck says I have to like it?” Connor sits down beside him and places one hand by Murphy’s waist, fingers slipping slightly with the dip in the bed so that he’s leaning over his brother and returning the serious look, waiting for him to explain.
“Never should’ve kissed me.” He says.
Connor snorts. “Yeah, I know. Biggest mistake of my fucking life, ‘s the way I see it.”
To this Murphy’s eyes grow wide and his face belligerent. “What?”
Connor knows it sounds horrible coming out the way it did, but it’s too late now. “I mean. That’s what you wanted to hear, right?”
In the blink of an eye, Murphy has closed his face to all possible emotion and his mouth molds itself into a tight line. “Fuck. You.” His lips barely move.
“Fuck you!” Connor leans down and stares at his brother, willing him to fight back. It’s been too long since their last verbal spar, and now is as good a time as any. “You’ll have to explain better than that.”
“Slow tonight?” Murphy taunts, but his expression is still cold and impersonal.
“What do you want me to say?”
“So you are slow.”
“Murph, please.” Connor is below begging, but he’s not below asking politely, one more time, for a decent explanation. “I thought you said I never should’ve kissed you.”
“Yeah.”
“Then what do you mean?” Trying on his best pleading expression, Connor concentrates on watching the shifting of emotion in Murphy’s eyes since the rest of his face is giving nothing away. Murphy looks past his shoulder and blinks a few times, looking anywhere except at Connor’s face.
Finally, when the silence has stretched far too thin, Murphy exhales loudly and his gaze wanders slowly over Connor’s face, stopping at his eyes. “If you kiss me again, I’ll tell you.”
Slightly taken aback, Connor looks at him with a flummoxed expression. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Fucking A’ I did, but … what?”
Rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh, Murphy pushes up smoothly and moves to get up. “Fuck you,” he says, trying to get past the cage of Connor’s arms.
In truth, Connor doesn’t have to be told twice.
He kisses Murphy again, silently like the first time, slow and wet and deep, like the last time.
end.
It could be longer. Might be, later, when I have more time.
Under False Pretense
by Meixia bionic
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: not mine, don't sue.
Summary: Murphy disappears, but Connor finds him. Much fretting ensues.
Notes: thanks to endless_fever for audiencing parts of this. You rock.
Connor has the paper in his hands and the words are stated plainly in black and white, clear as night and day, so that even in his current state of shock, the important things penetrate his otherwise numb mind.
I’m sorry.
Don’t come looking for me.
This is wrong.
Signed, Murphy.
He can’t deny what is plainly stated in front of him.
Before he can even read the short note again in the scratchy writing that has become so familiar over the years, he is in shambles, tears pricking like hot needles at his eyes until they spill over the rim. Only a few, silent drops, but tears all the same.
Anguish at first hits him like a sledgehammer, a raw and unforgiving blow straight to his gut that sends him reeling. He crumples the note in his fist just before the rage sets in and hollows him from the inside out until even the anguish is gone, grief boiling over and hardening into anger. Anger at himself, at his brother, at their futile attempts to try and enjoy life because God forbid that they find happiness while in their dismal line of work.
He never should have kissed Murphy. He knows that now surer than he’s ever known anything in his life. The bitter taste of it lingers on his tongue. He wonders how long it will take before his body shuts down completely; it is already missing its other half.
Murphy is gone, just like that. In the span of a hot, sticky July night, as the fan whirred noisily in the corner of their new but cheap apartment. Connor had fallen asleep listening to the lulling sound and the next morning, Murphy’s bed was empty and some of his clothes gone. His duffel was gone, too, from its usual position under Murphy’s bed, and of the two matching rosaries only one was left hanging around the doorknob.
Now there is only a crumpled piece of paper. Connor tosses the wadded ball into the trash bin in the corner with such force that it clatters against the wall before finding its balance again. He slumps down into the bed with a solitary sigh.
He’ll come back. It’s his first rational thought after he clears his mind. Murphy just stepped out to the pub. But then why is the bag gone? And some of his clothes? Denial wants to set in, but he knows it isn’t even going to get its foot past the door.
It hurts to think. Hot pressure builds behind his eyes but he won’t let it out, so he squeezes them shut, and breathes to calm himself rather than out of necessity. There are ways to get his brother back. There has to be.
He just doesn’t know if Murphy wants to be found. The note claims that he doesn’t, but Connor won’t trust a piece of paper. He wants to hear the words from Murphy’s mouth, and then maybe he can swallow his own emotional dependencies and let Murphy go.
Maybe.
Probably not.
It might be a little too much to hope for, but hope is all he has left. It’s all he’s ever had. That, and faith. He needs faith now more than ever, so it’s a good thing he has a shit load of it. Pub first, but after that Connor doesn’t know what else to do but walk around aimlessly until he finds him. Pass out flyers, call around, call the fucking cops and file a missing persons report. Something - anything.
Taking a steadying breath, Connor grabs his coat and shrugs it on as he stands and moves to the door. He passes the trash on his way, then backtracks, picking up the crumpled note and smoothing it out before folding it neatly and tucking it into his pocket. The rosary is slipped carefully around his neck with numb fingers passing over the beads while his lips utter a silent prayer.
As Connor steps out, the door clicks shut silently behind him, unlike the creaking hinges of their old apartment, and the sunlight passing through the shoddy windows of the stairwell that greet him is dull and sallow. Hoping for a great beam of light that shines down on God’s disciples is maybe asking for too much, Connor realizes, but such a sight would be encouraging if nothing else.
He descends the stairs slowly, mind a million miles away and trying to play catch-up with his missing twin.
~*~
The bar down the street is packed and humid as Connor wades through the sea of bodies, waving the tendrils of cigarette smoke away from his face in a fruitless attempt to see, but there are too many distractions in his way. It isn’t a bar so much as a small club, the only one that plays country music and the only place for miles where one can go to hear hicks converse in their natural thick accent. Southie’s is what the establishment is called, and Connor cringes at the thought of Murph actually getting desperate enough to come here.
He pushes his way to the bar and calls the bartender over, waving a bill in his hand. The red-faced man with wispy blonde hair gives him a sour look but palms the money anyway.
“Can I help you?” He asks.
“Have you seen a tall guy, about my height, with dark brown-almost black hair come in?” Connor leans over the counter so the guy can hear him better, but the man only shakes his head and picks up an empty glass, cleaning it with a white towel.
“Sure, I’ve seen about a dozen of guys that fit your description. Take your pick,” he says and nods to the crowded room, laughing under his breath as he turns to another customer.
Connor tries to will the tension out of his shoulders and sighs through his nose, almost choking on the smoke-filled air. He should really get out before he acquires asthma.
The rest of the day passes by in an uneventful blur, one street to the next, one stranger with a strange look after another, all clueless to the fear that’s eating him up inside. He doesn’t even realize it’s nightfall until the street lamps are suddenly turned on and the glittering lights of various restaurants are lit up, illuminating the night with new, exotic life. Finding it utterly depressing without Murphy alongside him, Connor returns to the apartment and sets his hopes high for tomorrow because it is the only way that he’ll get through the night.
The stairwell carries the soft echo of his boots as he climbs up. His shoulders are sagging and tired and he hangs his head, counting how many steps it takes to get to their room. He doesn’t know what else to do with himself for the night besides sleep. Maybe he’ll find it all to be a dream the next morning.
When he arrives at the proper landing, he stops short of the door. Something is slightly off - he can feel the disturbance in the energy of the air. He tries the doorknob and is surprised that it clicks open. He can’t remember if he’d locked it or not, but common sense tells him that of course he would have.
The soft light of the lamp between their twin beds is on and Connor is sure that it wasn’t on in the morning.
“Connor, is that you?” Murphy’s voice floats over from the closed bathroom door, and Connor almost chokes on his relief.
“Shit.” He slams the door shut behind him and reaches the bathroom, splaying his hands against the door in a desperate attempt to feel Murphy alive and well through the wood. “Christ, Murph, I thought you were gone. Permanently.”
The toilet flushes followed by running water, and then Murphy opens the door, a hesitant smile peeking through the meek expression on his face. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Connor has to rein in his temper that’s threatening to rise and poke out its ugly head. He not so gently grabs Murphy’s arm and hauls him to his bed, pushing him down roughly. “Is that all you got to say to me? I spent the day looking for your sorry ass, and that’s your brilliant apology? Where’s my fucking explanation, Murph?”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Murphy sits with stooped shoulders and fingers the hole in the knee of his jeans, a gesture Connor has learned means he’s swallowing his pride and owning up to whatever it is he’s done wrong.
Murphy sucks in a breath slowly before trying again. “I said I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. There’s just too much shit going on in my head and I wasn’t feeling up to facing you today. I’m sorry.”
“Facing me? Facing me? What the hell does that mean?” Now that he knows Murphy is unharmed and he has him back, Connor can do all the scolding that he wants. He’s allowed in this particular situation.
Frustrated, Murphy lies back on his elbows and fixes Connor with a serious look. “You’re not gonna like it.”
“Who the fuck says I have to like it?” Connor sits down beside him and places one hand by Murphy’s waist, fingers slipping slightly with the dip in the bed so that he’s leaning over his brother and returning the serious look, waiting for him to explain.
“Never should’ve kissed me.” He says.
Connor snorts. “Yeah, I know. Biggest mistake of my fucking life, ‘s the way I see it.”
To this Murphy’s eyes grow wide and his face belligerent. “What?”
Connor knows it sounds horrible coming out the way it did, but it’s too late now. “I mean. That’s what you wanted to hear, right?”
In the blink of an eye, Murphy has closed his face to all possible emotion and his mouth molds itself into a tight line. “Fuck. You.” His lips barely move.
“Fuck you!” Connor leans down and stares at his brother, willing him to fight back. It’s been too long since their last verbal spar, and now is as good a time as any. “You’ll have to explain better than that.”
“Slow tonight?” Murphy taunts, but his expression is still cold and impersonal.
“What do you want me to say?”
“So you are slow.”
“Murph, please.” Connor is below begging, but he’s not below asking politely, one more time, for a decent explanation. “I thought you said I never should’ve kissed you.”
“Yeah.”
“Then what do you mean?” Trying on his best pleading expression, Connor concentrates on watching the shifting of emotion in Murphy’s eyes since the rest of his face is giving nothing away. Murphy looks past his shoulder and blinks a few times, looking anywhere except at Connor’s face.
Finally, when the silence has stretched far too thin, Murphy exhales loudly and his gaze wanders slowly over Connor’s face, stopping at his eyes. “If you kiss me again, I’ll tell you.”
Slightly taken aback, Connor looks at him with a flummoxed expression. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Fucking A’ I did, but … what?”
Rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh, Murphy pushes up smoothly and moves to get up. “Fuck you,” he says, trying to get past the cage of Connor’s arms.
In truth, Connor doesn’t have to be told twice.
He kisses Murphy again, silently like the first time, slow and wet and deep, like the last time.
end.
It could be longer. Might be, later, when I have more time.