![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Don't look at meeeeeee I'm hiiiiiideoooouuuus!
I HATE YOU, INTERNET CONNECTION.
Actually no. Me and internet connection are actually totally OTP, kind of, ‘cos my love and hate for it is equal, though I admit that my love sometimes wins out. The internet connection, however, is indifferent and caters to the whims and pleasures of many people around the area, oftentimes having no time for me. I’m not sure why it needs to share itself with so many people. I wish it wouldn’t but I guess that’s just the way things are. I am hurt when it leaves me, but I forgive it, every time. Every time I see it stagger back, I’m only too happy and relieved for its return. I love it, I hate it, and sometimes that makes me think I am at least a little mad. Ourloveissofullofissues!
Okay, enough of that.
Title: 25 Cents
Author: Lassiter
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy, in its way
Rating: PG13 for language
Summary: In which the brothers nurse their wounds alone and the guilty are sensitive to the subtlest accusation.
Author’sNotes Ramblings: This is, like. The first ever BDS fic I wrote. Ever. So that’s my excuse for its, like, ehness. It’s just been sitting in my hard drive all this time. Thought I might give it a bit of spit-polish and finally let it out into the world. Props of the mad go to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
serialkarma for the beta.
-
25 Cents
They don't help each other. They nurse their wounds alone. A basin sits between their mattresses, the water becoming increasingly red until Connor says, "Murph, change the water."
Murphy hisses restrainedly, pressing a wet washcloth to a gash on his arm.
"Murph."
"Change the fucking water yourself, fuck you.”
"You're closer."
The silence that follows is intentional and petulant on Murphy’s part, and when he dips his washcloth into the basin again, Connor swipes it away and the water sloshes over and soaks into Murphy’s mattress.
“Oy!”
“There’s a novel way to get a wet spot on the bed,” says Connor, already crossing to the showers.
Murphy says, “Fuck you!”
"You're such a fucking baby sometimes, d'you know?" Connor’s grinning, but Murphy doesn’t reciprocate. Not with a smile anyway. Suddenly there’s a bloody washcloth flying at Connor’s face but he catches it easily, and, laughing, he throws it back.
The washcloth hits Murphy’s palm with a wet smack and Murphy grumbles, "Fuck off." He’s about to put the washcloth over his wound again, and hesitates. Out of the corner of Connor’s eye, he sees Murphy holding his arm to the light, watching the blood well up.
“Connor.”
“What?” He empties the basin over the drain.
"Think this'll scar?"
Turns on the shower, holds up the basin, raises his voice over the applause of water hitting metal. "I don’t know. I can't see."
"So turn around and see."
"Later, maybe."
"I wouldn’t mind one.”
“What?”
“A scar. ’Cos people take one look at scars and they fuck off. Y’know? They know what you’re like and they'd just fuck off and leave you alone. They say who’s boss. The scars, I mean. Not the ones who leave."
Or at least Connor thinks that's what his brother said. The shower may have garbled a few words. "Even if they leave you alone, you won't leave them alone,” says Connor. He ignores the momentary downpour on his head when he brings the basin down and turns off the shower. “You stir shit up faster than a fuckin' toilet."
"Oh. Thank you," says Murphy, and whether Murphy’s being sincere or taking the piss, Connor can't tell.
"If you're really so tough," Connor continues, and his tone is simultaneously casual and challenging for no reason other than the fact that brothers have been yanking each other’s chain since the dawn of time, "if you’re really a big man, you wouldn’t have any scars at all. You wouldn’t have given the other guy a chance to give you any."
Murphy gives Connor a wry look before balling up his washcloth and tossing it over his shoulder, and he goes from sitting to walking in one fluid movement. Connor steps backward to let him pass.
"What are you doing now?" asks Connor.
Murphy pulls his shirt over his head and throws it aside. "Got an idea."
Sitting down on a mattress, Connor sets the basin down on the floor and hears the showers start. He looks up, and then he just looks.
Murphy’s leaning forward, palms flat against the wall and his head hanging down. The water rains down and Connor sees Murphy’s shoulders twitch and his back muscles tense at the unexpected cold. Sees the bruise on Murphy's back, X marks the spot, where the goons at the bar threw him against the wall. And Murphy’s just quiet, just motionless and still but for the water. A waterfall down his back, catching light, distorting skin.
Murphy rubs his face with one hand and pushes his hair back, looking over his shoulder. "'S better than that fucking basin, I tell you." Then: "What?"
Connor looks away. "Nothing. Your back looks like shit, is all."
Murphy laughs. "Fuck. It’s the price of glory! We kicked their asses. We fucking knocked them down, fucked them up..."
"Fucked them good, yes we did!”
"We should kick ass more often.”
Connor smiles. “I heartily agree.”
Murphy laughs again and turns around, facing out, eyes closed, letting the water wash down his back, and Connor thinks that maybe a word he would use to describe Murphy is wiry. Lean. Scars or not, Murphy is not a big man. Even so, there's a quality of unrepentant strength to him. A showy restlessness he never bothered to hide despite the attempts of every authority figure they’ve ever encountered, from their mother to that runt of a fellow at the meatpacking plant who wields his clipboard like Thor’s hammer. And Connor, he can see the small, subtle curves of muscle from Murphy's shoulders to his chest, the trousers sagging wetly on his hips as they’re dragged down by the weight of water…
"Connor."
“What?” Connor blinks.
When did Murphy open his eyes?
Murphy doesn’t say anything, just looks at him in a way that makes Connor feel like he’s done wrong, but Jesus he hasn’t done anything. He hasn’t done anything and nobody can say he has and Murphy should fucking stop looking at him like that, or at least change the expression on his face. Or. Maybe. A specter of an idea stirs at the edge of Connor’s mind and he instinctively crushes it.
Murphy says, "Do I look like shit on the front too?"
"No, " Connor replies. He scoffs for good measure, and busies himself with the washcloth. "No, you're fine."
After a hesitation, Murphy turns off the shower. Walks back to the mattresses.
"Not going to finish your shower?" asks Connor.
"I'm refreshed enough," Murphy mutters.
Past the mattresses.
Murphy grabs a towel off the back of a chair and dries himself off, dries his hair with one hand and with the other he lifts a bottle at a time off the table, trying to find one that isn’t empty. The empty ones he does find, he throws into the wastebasket. After three bottles, the basket is full. Without looking at Connor he says, "You know, you should really clean this place up. It’s a fucking mess."
"Go on. I'm not the only who lives here."
He finds a room temperature Heineken and pulls out a chair to sit down on the far side of the table, putting the table between Connor and himself. "Come on, Con. We’re brothers, aren’t we? I thought we ought be taking care for each other."
And there's something sharp in Murphy’s tone, made worse by the attempt to conceal it behind a casual tone. There’s a slight emphasis on ‘brother’, or maybe Connor is just imagining it. Connor pushes these thoughts aside uneasily. "Jesus Christ, Murph. You're not eight years old, d’you know? Despite evidence pointing to the contrary."
Murphy takes a swig. "What happened to that girl you were fucking?"
“What?”
“That girl, with the hair, and--“
"Nora?"
"Aye. What happened?"
"She looked like a fuckin' wolfhound is what happened. Why?"
"You should give her a call."
"Why?"
Murphy shrugs. "You should. Or find another girl. Healthy young man and all. I mean, healthy young man’s what you are, not what you should find...” He doesn’t seem particularly troubled by the slip-up. Just takes another swig from the bottle and stares at the patch of air beside Connor’s head.
"Yes, praise Jesus I’m healthy, I know,” Connor says sarcastically. “What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing."
“You implying something, Murphy?”
“No.”
Murphy lays his empty Heineken bottle on the floor and rolls it towards the overflowing wastebasket. It bounces off the wires like a pinball and rolls to some undisclosed location. This amuses Murphy, makes him smile a little, but when he straightens back in his seat, he’s still avoiding Connor’s eyes. "So are you going to call her?"
"Fuck no, I'm not going to call her," says Connor. "Aye, I'll find a girl to fuck though next time she won't be so canine in appearance, yeah? And just by the way,” Connor points accusingly, “the phone’s disconnected."
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
”You pissed away the phone bill on booze after the Redsox won.”
Murphy shrugs.
“You don’t even like baseball, you pissant!”
“I like bets.” Murphy digs into his pocket and takes out something shiny. “And I won that one.” Flips it off his thumb and sends it flying across the room.
Connor doesn’t so much catch the object, more like the object flies directly into his palm. “Luck of the Irish.”
“That, and Rocco can’t gamble for fuck-all.”
The quarter in Connor’s hand catches the light, flashing it into his eyes.
“There’s a phone booth outside,” says Murphy.
Connor stares at the coin, measuring the implications. The guilty are sensitive to the subtlest accusation. "Murphy," he says.
"What?"
"Fuck you."
Connor hears the clinking of bottles as his brother looks for more alcohol. "Jesus Christ,” Murphy mutters.
“He’s not here.”
Murphy nods. “Aye.”
Third time’s the charm when it comes to silences. They ignore each other and wait for the bad air to dissipate from the room.
[end.]
Actually no. Me and internet connection are actually totally OTP, kind of, ‘cos my love and hate for it is equal, though I admit that my love sometimes wins out. The internet connection, however, is indifferent and caters to the whims and pleasures of many people around the area, oftentimes having no time for me. I’m not sure why it needs to share itself with so many people. I wish it wouldn’t but I guess that’s just the way things are. I am hurt when it leaves me, but I forgive it, every time. Every time I see it stagger back, I’m only too happy and relieved for its return. I love it, I hate it, and sometimes that makes me think I am at least a little mad. Ourloveissofullofissues!
Okay, enough of that.
Title: 25 Cents
Author: Lassiter
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy, in its way
Rating: PG13 for language
Summary: In which the brothers nurse their wounds alone and the guilty are sensitive to the subtlest accusation.
Author’s
serialkarma for the beta.25 Cents
They don't help each other. They nurse their wounds alone. A basin sits between their mattresses, the water becoming increasingly red until Connor says, "Murph, change the water."
Murphy hisses restrainedly, pressing a wet washcloth to a gash on his arm.
"Murph."
"Change the fucking water yourself, fuck you.”
"You're closer."
The silence that follows is intentional and petulant on Murphy’s part, and when he dips his washcloth into the basin again, Connor swipes it away and the water sloshes over and soaks into Murphy’s mattress.
“Oy!”
“There’s a novel way to get a wet spot on the bed,” says Connor, already crossing to the showers.
Murphy says, “Fuck you!”
"You're such a fucking baby sometimes, d'you know?" Connor’s grinning, but Murphy doesn’t reciprocate. Not with a smile anyway. Suddenly there’s a bloody washcloth flying at Connor’s face but he catches it easily, and, laughing, he throws it back.
The washcloth hits Murphy’s palm with a wet smack and Murphy grumbles, "Fuck off." He’s about to put the washcloth over his wound again, and hesitates. Out of the corner of Connor’s eye, he sees Murphy holding his arm to the light, watching the blood well up.
“Connor.”
“What?” He empties the basin over the drain.
"Think this'll scar?"
Turns on the shower, holds up the basin, raises his voice over the applause of water hitting metal. "I don’t know. I can't see."
"So turn around and see."
"Later, maybe."
"I wouldn’t mind one.”
“What?”
“A scar. ’Cos people take one look at scars and they fuck off. Y’know? They know what you’re like and they'd just fuck off and leave you alone. They say who’s boss. The scars, I mean. Not the ones who leave."
Or at least Connor thinks that's what his brother said. The shower may have garbled a few words. "Even if they leave you alone, you won't leave them alone,” says Connor. He ignores the momentary downpour on his head when he brings the basin down and turns off the shower. “You stir shit up faster than a fuckin' toilet."
"Oh. Thank you," says Murphy, and whether Murphy’s being sincere or taking the piss, Connor can't tell.
"If you're really so tough," Connor continues, and his tone is simultaneously casual and challenging for no reason other than the fact that brothers have been yanking each other’s chain since the dawn of time, "if you’re really a big man, you wouldn’t have any scars at all. You wouldn’t have given the other guy a chance to give you any."
Murphy gives Connor a wry look before balling up his washcloth and tossing it over his shoulder, and he goes from sitting to walking in one fluid movement. Connor steps backward to let him pass.
"What are you doing now?" asks Connor.
Murphy pulls his shirt over his head and throws it aside. "Got an idea."
Sitting down on a mattress, Connor sets the basin down on the floor and hears the showers start. He looks up, and then he just looks.
Murphy’s leaning forward, palms flat against the wall and his head hanging down. The water rains down and Connor sees Murphy’s shoulders twitch and his back muscles tense at the unexpected cold. Sees the bruise on Murphy's back, X marks the spot, where the goons at the bar threw him against the wall. And Murphy’s just quiet, just motionless and still but for the water. A waterfall down his back, catching light, distorting skin.
Murphy rubs his face with one hand and pushes his hair back, looking over his shoulder. "'S better than that fucking basin, I tell you." Then: "What?"
Connor looks away. "Nothing. Your back looks like shit, is all."
Murphy laughs. "Fuck. It’s the price of glory! We kicked their asses. We fucking knocked them down, fucked them up..."
"Fucked them good, yes we did!”
"We should kick ass more often.”
Connor smiles. “I heartily agree.”
Murphy laughs again and turns around, facing out, eyes closed, letting the water wash down his back, and Connor thinks that maybe a word he would use to describe Murphy is wiry. Lean. Scars or not, Murphy is not a big man. Even so, there's a quality of unrepentant strength to him. A showy restlessness he never bothered to hide despite the attempts of every authority figure they’ve ever encountered, from their mother to that runt of a fellow at the meatpacking plant who wields his clipboard like Thor’s hammer. And Connor, he can see the small, subtle curves of muscle from Murphy's shoulders to his chest, the trousers sagging wetly on his hips as they’re dragged down by the weight of water…
"Connor."
“What?” Connor blinks.
When did Murphy open his eyes?
Murphy doesn’t say anything, just looks at him in a way that makes Connor feel like he’s done wrong, but Jesus he hasn’t done anything. He hasn’t done anything and nobody can say he has and Murphy should fucking stop looking at him like that, or at least change the expression on his face. Or. Maybe. A specter of an idea stirs at the edge of Connor’s mind and he instinctively crushes it.
Murphy says, "Do I look like shit on the front too?"
"No, " Connor replies. He scoffs for good measure, and busies himself with the washcloth. "No, you're fine."
After a hesitation, Murphy turns off the shower. Walks back to the mattresses.
"Not going to finish your shower?" asks Connor.
"I'm refreshed enough," Murphy mutters.
Past the mattresses.
Murphy grabs a towel off the back of a chair and dries himself off, dries his hair with one hand and with the other he lifts a bottle at a time off the table, trying to find one that isn’t empty. The empty ones he does find, he throws into the wastebasket. After three bottles, the basket is full. Without looking at Connor he says, "You know, you should really clean this place up. It’s a fucking mess."
"Go on. I'm not the only who lives here."
He finds a room temperature Heineken and pulls out a chair to sit down on the far side of the table, putting the table between Connor and himself. "Come on, Con. We’re brothers, aren’t we? I thought we ought be taking care for each other."
And there's something sharp in Murphy’s tone, made worse by the attempt to conceal it behind a casual tone. There’s a slight emphasis on ‘brother’, or maybe Connor is just imagining it. Connor pushes these thoughts aside uneasily. "Jesus Christ, Murph. You're not eight years old, d’you know? Despite evidence pointing to the contrary."
Murphy takes a swig. "What happened to that girl you were fucking?"
“What?”
“That girl, with the hair, and--“
"Nora?"
"Aye. What happened?"
"She looked like a fuckin' wolfhound is what happened. Why?"
"You should give her a call."
"Why?"
Murphy shrugs. "You should. Or find another girl. Healthy young man and all. I mean, healthy young man’s what you are, not what you should find...” He doesn’t seem particularly troubled by the slip-up. Just takes another swig from the bottle and stares at the patch of air beside Connor’s head.
"Yes, praise Jesus I’m healthy, I know,” Connor says sarcastically. “What are you trying to say?"
"Nothing."
“You implying something, Murphy?”
“No.”
Murphy lays his empty Heineken bottle on the floor and rolls it towards the overflowing wastebasket. It bounces off the wires like a pinball and rolls to some undisclosed location. This amuses Murphy, makes him smile a little, but when he straightens back in his seat, he’s still avoiding Connor’s eyes. "So are you going to call her?"
"Fuck no, I'm not going to call her," says Connor. "Aye, I'll find a girl to fuck though next time she won't be so canine in appearance, yeah? And just by the way,” Connor points accusingly, “the phone’s disconnected."
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
”You pissed away the phone bill on booze after the Redsox won.”
Murphy shrugs.
“You don’t even like baseball, you pissant!”
“I like bets.” Murphy digs into his pocket and takes out something shiny. “And I won that one.” Flips it off his thumb and sends it flying across the room.
Connor doesn’t so much catch the object, more like the object flies directly into his palm. “Luck of the Irish.”
“That, and Rocco can’t gamble for fuck-all.”
The quarter in Connor’s hand catches the light, flashing it into his eyes.
“There’s a phone booth outside,” says Murphy.
Connor stares at the coin, measuring the implications. The guilty are sensitive to the subtlest accusation. "Murphy," he says.
"What?"
"Fuck you."
Connor hears the clinking of bottles as his brother looks for more alcohol. "Jesus Christ,” Murphy mutters.
“He’s not here.”
Murphy nods. “Aye.”
Third time’s the charm when it comes to silences. They ignore each other and wait for the bad air to dissipate from the room.
[end.]
no subject
Great tension there, and the banter's spot on. ;D Ace!
no subject
Oooooh. Bitch!Murph.
Love your inner asshole. ;)
no subject
“No.”
I must say, I held my breath through the entire exchange.
Hehe, and I could see Murph looking through the empty bottles for one that had something in it, even if it was warm already. Nice job. :)
no subject
Thank you!
Hehe, and I could see Murph looking through the empty bottles for one that had something in it, even if it was warm already.
*apologizes to the Irish for further perpetuating stereotypes*
;)
no subject
Don't have anything coherent or useful to say, but...yeah. Liked much. :)
no subject
Your internet's my ho. Just sayin'. XD
”You pissed away the phone bill on booze after the Redsox won.”
Murphy shrugs.
“You don’t even like baseball, you pissant!”
I laughed so hard at that. Though *hiss* BoSox.
Love your inner demons.
*dances* Thank you!
This is a one-shot pretty much, but my C/M fics (and I've got at least a couple more of these in the works) do take place along a similar vein. There are some similar themes and conflicts I find popping up e.g. the twins will never truly feel comfortable or morally justified being in an incestuous relationship.
...and I've just inadvertantly challenged myself to write twincest fluff.
Hmm.
Love your inner demons and they'll love you back. XD
DO IT. *cough* I mean. That would interesting, wouldn't it? ;3
no subject
The picture of Murph standing under the shower was... inspiring. mhmmmmm. lovely
no subject
And yeah. UST. Totally all over the UST here.
The picture of Murph standing under the shower was... inspiring.
If only life would imitate art.
Thanks!
no subject
"She looked like a fuckin' wolfhound is what happened that made me laugh!!
no subject
that made me laugh!!
Cool. I'm glad you like it, man, thanks.
no subject
no subject
no subject
Hmmm, Wet!Bitchy!Murphy. Yummy.
no subject
I write them as I
want tosee them.no subject
seewrite them.no subject
no subject
Wow. Thank you. Hehe, dude, so glad you think so. It's like, phew. Y'know? 'Cos banter. It's like, hmm. So thank you, overall. :)
no subject
The way those two interact is funny, but at the same time, not at all. I dig it.
no subject
no subject
Somehow...I can see him lifting his clipboard and smacking people with it...wearing a VIking hat...with the two horns on either side...the image makes me snicker.
no subject
no subject
my god, this is great!
you said this was your first bds fic? well, shit.
totally easy to imagine, as they're so fully in character-but god, Murphy is such a bitch here. good lord.
needs a right stern spanking if you ask me.
gerrrowel ;3
very well written, very enjoyable.
kudos to you.