Murphy McManus was tired. Sick and fucking tired. He was sick of friends dying, cauterizing an innumerable amount of wounds with a clothing iron, and sick of wondering how long it would be until the Saints became The Saint. He felt guilty for thinking this; not having the strength to do God's will, but he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever be able to stop… Have a wife, a family. He lobbed a pair of rolled up socks at the figure sleeping soundly on the other mattress, musing that misery really did love company.
Exhaling rapidly through his nose, he rolled off of the flat (and rather uncomfortable) mattress adorning the floor in a fluidly exasperated movement. He glanced reflexively at the second mattress, pleased to find Connor's blue eyes open and staring at him. Murphy raised an eyebrow, as if to ask 'What are you looking at?'
Connor snorted inelegantly and grinned, holding up a hand. Murphy grasped it tightly, jerking the other man to his feet and smiling slightly.
"What time is it?" Connor asked hoarsely, cracking a rather exaggerated yawn and stretching in a catlike fashion.
Murphy glanced at his watch, rubbing his eyes as Connor clicked on the light, bare bulb shining cheerily. "Mm… Half past three." He murmured, fingers twitching, knowing he should be tired, but somehow not.
Connor smacked him on the back of the head. "What the fuck ya wake me up in the middle of the night for, aye?" he asked, aggravated.
Murphy raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting impishly. "I didn't." he said calmly, enjoying the expressions crossing his brother's face. He grinned devilishly. "Buutt… now that yer up, why don't we go have a drink at McGinty's?" He asked, looking up at his brother innocently.
Connor's left eye twitched slightly and he leaned down, pinching the pair of socks between his hands before looking shrewdly at Murphy. "What's this then?" he asked.
Murphy thought that with the bed head, twitching eye, lack of shirt, and the pair of socks being brandished threateningly, Connor looked somewhat insane.
He grinned, reaching down to grab a shirt from the awkward pile beside his bed and pulled it over his head, and just as it covered his face, a pair of socks hit him in the nose.
He grunted, still completely encased in his shirt, before tripping over a stray boot and falling flat on his face.
He struggled with the shirt, finally getting it on, before glaring irately at Connor, who was sputtering with laughter, doubled over and clutching his stomach, the giggling getting a tad wheezy as he ran out of air.
Murphy did not find being flat on the floor with a boot shoved uncomfortably in places boots simply should not be very funny.