Author's Note: This is NOT a part of my Boondock Saints OFC arc. This is a stand alone story of a much different tone and style. This is very different from most of what I've written before. That said, this story is very close to my heart, and I would very much appreciate you giving it a try. Trigger warnings for mentions of extreme violence, hate crimes, homophobia, mentions of blood, and character death.
1. Spring, 1997
The first time Murphy sets eyes on Jimmy Byrne, he's knocked speechless. And breathless. And on his ass.
"Lord above, man, I'm sorry! Lemme give ye a hand up!"
Throttling down his natural instinct to knock the kid into next week for running him over in the first place, Murphy accepts the proffered hand, and upon first skin-to-skin contact, he is rendered shocked and utterly speechless again. He doesn't realize he's staring until Connor's elbow meets his ribs, and he reflexively punches his brother square in the kidney.
"Fuckin' hell, Murph, kid was askin' if ye were alright, an' yer standin' there like yer fuckin' soft in th'head! Answer 'im b'fore he hits puberty, already!"
The youth in question turns red to the roots of his carelessly tousled, bronze hair and stammers out something like an apology before clearing his throat.
"Lookin' fer Doc. I, uh..saw...an ad in th'paper 'bout needin' some...some help in th'bar. Lookin' fer work-"
His stammers trickle off into abashed silence as his eyes meet the darker MacManus brother's. Murphy can't help but stare, though. It doesn't even occur to him to pull his gaze from the young man, does not even occur to him to breathe, in fact, until the elderly barman in question emerges from the back room of the bar, and Jimmy manages to tear himself away from the impromptu staring match to introduce himself and plead his case for employment.
Murphy catches something about recently arriving in Boston, someone back home in Cork telling him to find the first clean Irish pub he could and asking for work, and then Connor digs in, giving Murphy shit for getting taken out "by a mere slip of a lad," and Murphy is forced to bring his mind back to the present in order to defend his honor.
And give Connor a matching bruise over his other kidney, of course.
…
The second time Murphy meets Jimmy Byrne, the hapless boy manages to spill three pints of lager in Murphy's lap, an accident that sets Connor and Rocco howling with mirth and sends Murphy home to change.
The whole fifteen minute trip up to the loft and back, though, Murphy is silently bewildered that he's not even a bit annoyed with the clumsy kid. He has no clue why. He's blackened other men's eyes for lesser offenses. He's screamed until he was red in the face over mere remarks before, and yet, this time, he finds himself rehearsing a calming, soothing speech to make sure Jimmy knows there's no hard feelings.
At the thought of Jimmy's earnest, horrified expression, Murphy realizes that not only is he smiling, but he is grinning fit to split his face, his strangely warm face, and he feels...light.
Giddy.
What…
No.
Nevermind.
He freezes in the doorway of McGinty's, the sound of a golden, musical laugh washing over him in a tidal wave of sheer rightness, and out of the gloom of the bar shines the perfection that is the grinning face of Jimmy Byrne, reacting to one of Rocco's many off-color jokes.
Oh, Murphy thinks. Oh, fuck me.
…
The third time Murphy meets Jimmy Byrne, he has decided to bury himself in denial. He spends a week convincing himself he can just avoid the bar (and all the complications that will ensue) altogether, but that brings too many questions from his brother that he is nowhere near prepared to answer. It is, after all, the place they spend the most time, outside of work, church, and their loft, and he has no explanation, reasonable or otherwise, that he thinks Connor would accept as to why he's suddenly given up drinking.
Okay, so he can't avoid the place. Which means he can't avoid the kid. But he can...maybe...not notice him as much?
Right. Like how the ocean can ignore the moon when it doesn't want the tide to come in. That could work.
So he brings a date to McGinty's, not a rare occurrence in and of itself, but he is bound and determined to get his head on straight. Afterwards, once his hangover clears, and the details of the evening are recounted to him by an insufferably amused Connor and an equally disgusted Rocco, Murphy has to admit he may have overdone it just a bit.
A lot.
Okay, he might have made a total arse of himself.
The evening starts with the girl (Shannon, he's pretty sure...no...Shana...or...Sheena?) doing her best to discover the taste of Murphy's tonsils from the comfort of her seat on his lap. Four sets of shots and pints later, and Murphy starts to get a little fuzzy on the details. He remembers making sure to put Shara (Charlotte?) between himself and Doc's new help every time Jimmy comes to clear the table, but despite his best efforts, he can't keep from seeking out a glimpse of Jimmy once or twice (five times), and confusion is probably the simplest emotion Murphy sees reflected in the young man's (sparkling, radiant, incandescent) eyes.
" 'Nother round."
The night is a full blank after that, and Murphy has to trust his brother and best friend's assurances that not only did he make a complete idiot of himself and wholly alienate the entire bar (including his date, whose name he honest-to-God should really remember), but Jimmy even asked after him to make sure Murphy was okay and hadn't suffered any personal tragedies recently to make him act so…
"I t'ink 'touched in t'head' was how t'lad put it, aye, Roc?"
Suffice to say that the next time Murphy sees Jimmy Byrne, the lad is graciously willing to pretend Murphy did not practically have sex with some random woman in one of the booths while making awkward and inexplicable eye contact with the bartender-in-training, and Murphy is equally willing to gruffly and stoically apologize and wipe the few remaining shameful threads of the evening from his memory.
He limits himself to three rounds that night, and upon completion of his third drink, he quietly and steadily denies a refill when Jimmy offers. He looks up from under his lashes after a beat, just as Jimmy slides a glass of water across the bar. Jimmy smiles, winks, and handily refills Connor and Rocco's glasses before sidling off to fetch something for Doc.
So, thinks Murphy. Dat's what a skipped heartbeat feels like.
…
Murphy can no more stop going to the bar than he can stop drinking. It's habit, it's home, it's what he does besides eat, sleep, work, and pray. And every time he walks through the doors, his eyes search out Jimmy Byrne, are drawn to him as nails to a lodestone, and his day is simultaneously complete and just beginning.
The nights when Jimmy doesn't work are muffled to him, duller and flatter, as if Jimmy takes the very essence of the room with him when he goes.
Murphy knows Connor is aware something is going on with him. He also knows his brother could never possibly guess what's actually going through his mind, not this, and for the first time in his life, he's not honestly sure how his brother would react.
Hell, Murphy's not even sure how he would react if he were to actual put words to his feelings. He doesn't even talk to God about them, and that's…
Foreign. Uncomfortable. Wrong. He wants to...he needs to…
Breathe. He needs to breathe.
And that's not even going near what the star in the center of Murphy's new universe would actually think if he got so much as a hint...of…
God help me, he thinks as Jimmy waves him off for the night. I'm just. So. Fuckin'. Scared.
What do I do?