Mid-Morning Mayhem
***author's note***
This is a pointless bit of fluffy drabble-fic inspired by my darling cousin (and a deleted scene from the DVD). In a review of my last Saints fic, I was told that I needed to write a story in which the boys were shirtless, wet, or both. The following was the result. Manda, love, this one's for you! Think of it as a Christmas gift...
There was no hot water.
Mid-morning sunlight streamed in through dirt streaked, uncovered windows and pooled on the bare floor. It danced in and out of the shadows made by piles of clothing, scattered beer cans, and long-forgotten cigarette butts. In one rumpled mattress on the dirty floor, an equally rumpled Murphy McManus dozed peacefully, his face relaxed and younger-looking in sleep. The other mattress, only scant space away from the first, was empty with the sheets bunched into once corner, partially concealing a worn work boot.
The former occupant of the bed was standing, zombie-like, a few feet away in the partially tiled area that served as the bathroom. Connor McManus was silent, gazing blearily at the water coming from the shower-head, his naked, pale, Irish skin catching random icy droplets, which beaded up and caused chill bumps to rise.
There was no fucking hot water.
So, Connor continued to stand rooted to the tiles just outside of the spray's reach. Frowning, he stared at the shower for a few minutes more, as if hoping that the heat of his glare would miraculously warm the frigid water. No such luck.
Finally, letting out a long stream of colorful curses under his breath, Connor decided to hell with the lack of warm water, and plunged into the hissing shower spray. The hissing, cold, shower spray. He lunged right back out again a millisecond later. "FUCK!"
Connor's glare at the offending water grew deeper, his eyes glinting dangerously, his chiseled features and full lips twisting into a scowl. He shivered as the already cool water felt colder against his considerably warmer flesh. Crystalline droplets gathered in the thatch of hair on his chest and arms, and clung stubbornly to ivory skin.
Fuck. There was STILL no fucking hot water, and now the shower was mocking him.
The sounds of rustling sheets and a groaning mattress caught Connor's attention, and slowly he transferred his annoyed glare from the water over to the bed across the room. There, Murphy stirred slightly, but remained asleep, blissfully unaware of his twin's current state of annoyance.
Something just wasn't fucking fair about the situation.
Stubbornly, Connor reached a tentative hand back into the shower only to find the water still running cold. With a snarl of frustration he made to turn the water off. As Connor cautiously leaned forward to do so, something at his feet, lying in a growing puddle of water, gave him pause. It was a soggy sock--probably Murphy's, judging by the color--which had been tossed carelessly onto the tiled shower floor. Rolling his eyes, Connor wrenched the water off with one hand as he stooped to pick up the wet sock with the other. He clutched the cold, dripping cloth carefully testing the weight and wetness of the article, even as he glanced in the direction of his still-sleeping brother. With a smirk of pure evil, Connor lobbed the sock across the room, his aim as deadly as if he'd been firing a gun. The wet projectile hit its intended target with a highly satisfying SPLAT!
Murphy sprang up from his bed, tearing the wet mass away from his face as his sheets and the water trailed slowly down his bare torso.
"What the fuck!?!" he demanded, glaring blearily at his brother. "What the fuck did you do that for?"
"There's no fucking hot water," Connor replied, as if that were a perfectly reasonable answer to his twin's irate question.
"So? What the fuck do you expect me to do about it?"
Connor shrugged as he reached for a towel to wrap around his waist. "Nothing..." he replied, at length.
With an irritated snort, Murphy flopped back down on his mattress. "What, you just woke me up to torture me, then?"
"Basically. Yeah..."
"Fucker."
"Basically, yeah..."
Murphy flung the still-wet sock back at Connor's unsuspecting face, but he managed to duck out of the way in time to avoid being hit. With a laugh, Connor retrieved the sock and threw it at his brother again. That, of course, meant war.
"You fuck!!"
Soon, both brothers were attempting to kill each other with the poor, hapless sock. Pillows and emptied beer cans went flying as the battle raged. Sheets crumpled unnoticed to the floor as the mattresses became included in the war zone. The roughhousing ended in a sweeping victory for Murphy; he managed to peg his brother in the face just as Connor tripped over one of his own work boots and lost his towel at the same time. Gasping with laughter, Connor collapsed onto his bed, the slightly damp sock and his now lack of towel forgotten about. Across the room, Murphy happily crowed his triumph.
Still doing the dance of the victorious, Murphy, too, sprawled back out in his own bed. "Hey, Connor?"
Connor paused in his laughter to glance over at the other bed. "Aye, Murph?"
"You're still a fuck for waking me up. Just wanted ya to fucking know that."
"Oh, thanks very much," Connor replied. "But that startling revelation doesn't change one very important fucking fact."
Murphy quirked an eyebrow in askance. "And that is?"
With a grin, Connor hurled the sock once more while declaring, "There's still no fucking hot water!"
-End