Author's Note: This story takes place after Connor gives Murphy the go-ahead to court Grace (mentioned in "Now, Then") but before Murphy actually takes the plunge ("Cold Feet"), so it technically takes place between "Next Stop" and "Cold Feet," if you like to keep things in order. If numbers help, it is now number 3 in the series.
"Just fuckin' shoot me already."
Connor hates being sick, hates everything about being sick, hates everything he feels when he gets sick. He hates the aches in his joints, the chills, the nausea, the helpless feeling of being so physically weak. He hates that floating, detached sensation, the heavy lightness that comes when his temperature spikes.
Oh, and the fever dreams. He especially hates those trippy fuckers.
Cool hands slide over his fevered face, and Connor instinctively turns into the touch. Christ, he's just so miserable. His entire body aches, and he can't honestly remember a time in his life he felt this nauseated. His eyes are shut tight to protect his throbbing head from the little light in the dim flat, and he moans faintly as another wave of nausea sweeps over him.
"Then who would keep me up late on school nights and talk me into doing things outside my comfort zone and/or moral code? Besides, if I shot you, I couldn't say I told you so about eating that undercooked burger at lunch today."
Grace's voice manages to come across as affectionately teasing and the exact right level of concern as her fingers thread gently through his hair, easing a little of the tension in his scalp.
"Don't kick a man when he's down, love, it ain't fair. An' I promise ye, I ain't never fuckin' goin' back t'dat place again," he mutters. He cringes internally at how pathetic and whiny he sounds even to himself. And yet, here she is, this amazing woman, sat by his side, who came over the moment she got off work just to coax his sorry arse into trying to keep down just a little more ginger ale or crackers in between bouts of dry and wet heaves alike.
"Dunno why yer puttin' up wit' me," he mumbles. " 'M sorry fer-"
"Don't you dare apologize," she says firmly. "You took care of me when I drank too much trying to keep up with you and Murphy at McGinty's. Turnabout, and all that."
"Aye, but we was goadin' ye on; had to take some of t'responsiblity fer dat one."
He cracks open an eye in time to catch her faint smile, and something pleasant twists in his chest. God, she looks lovely in the afternoon light. He shifts onto his side, wanting to get a better look, intending to tell her some romantic version of this thought. Connor's gut gives an abrupt lurch of warning, and he realizes immediately that his movement was a huge mistake. His stomach cramps violently as his mouth starts watering, and he lurches towards the toilet as he starts to gag. The sound of his retching echoes around the derelict flat, and Connor is just too miserable to care anymore that Grace has to see him in such a pathetic state.
Almost too miserable. He thinks he might have a shred of pride that hasn't been flushed down the toilet yet.
As if she senses his thoughts, she murmurs, "Big tough guy can handle a fifth of whisky on his own without breaking a sweat, and yet he gets taken down by a puny cheeseburger. Murphy and I told you to stop eating when you said it tasted funny."
But he can hear the genuine concern in her voice, and her hands feel so good wiping his face down with a cool cloth and combing gentle fingers through his hair, so there's no real sting to her jibe.
Grace helps him hold a cup of water to his lips so he can rinse the bile from his mouth, and he finds himself idly wondering just how disloyal of a son he is when he decides that his own mother wasn't so attentive during his childhood illnesses. Well, not the vomiting ones, at any rate. A bucket by the bedside and a cup of water on the nightstand. Of course, she did have to work all day, what with Da walking out and leaving them all alone, and…
God, he hates how fever makes his mind wander. He can feel himself connected to various points of the room, his hands gripping the cool porcelain of the toilet, his knees scraping the rough concrete floor, and Grace's hands...The feel of her touch, one hand still and comforting on his back so as not to rouse the nausea and the other mopping his face with a damp washcloth, is the only good thing in a sea of misery.
And he's pretty sure he's swaying now, rocking from side to side like that little rowboat he and Murph used to take out fishing when they were about ten or so, and the boat would list slowly from one side to the other as the little waves tapped against its sides, and the sun was warm on their backs, and-
"You still with me?"
Her voice pulls him out of his reverie, and he snaps back to his miserable, disease-ridden body.
"Let me help you back to your bed."
Knowing he will just make a fool of himself trying on his own, he succumbs to the weakness in his very bones, accepting the bruise to his ego as Grace helps him back over to his mattress.
"It'd be a lot easier if you just would just lie down on Murphy's bed or let me switch the mattresses. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a joy to shove myself under your unwashed armpit and drag your leaden ass back over here every few minutes, but I'm just saying…"
Connor's regrettable stubborn streak chooses that moment to rear its ugly head; regardless of reason, this is his bed, and by God, he's going to-
"Lemme just wait til Murph gets home, lass. T'will be easier t'move th'bed wit' two of ye here. He should be off work by now, said he'd look in on me b'fore he went t'Doc's t'night."
Well, that's unexpected. When the hell did he get so...reasonable? Huh. Must be Grace's influence. He sure as hell would never come up with such a diplomatic statement on his own, especially not one that involves admitting weakness in front his brother by asking for help.
"I am sorry you feel so shitty," she murmurs, her fingers back to their blessed task of massaging his scalp. He swears his headache actually drops by noticeable degrees with every pass of her fingers through his hair, and he sighs contentedly as he settles further into his mattress. Though his stomach has grudgingly settled, his fever spikes a little, and he shivers as a draft blows through the room. If his mind weren't wandering so badly, he might be disturbed by how cold he feels in the middle of August, but as it is, he's only fit to shiver and moan a little more.
"Here," Grace murmurs, pulling Murphy's blanket over him in addition to his own. She starts to tuck the blanket in around his feet, and he feels her twitch a little when her skin comes in contact with his.
"Ice," she hisses. She shakes her head and roots through a nearby mound of mostly clean laundry, coming up with two wildly different socks that she manages to wrestle on his feet.
"How are your face and hands on fire, but your feet are colder than mine when you steal the blanket? Jesus, Connor, you must feel absolutely rotten. I promise I won't make fun of you anymore."
"T'ank ye," he murmurs, exhaustion threading deep into his muscles. He has a pang of guilt along with the nausea, and he tries to figure out the manliest way to express his feelings before giving up and just telling her what he's thinking. "Know ye wanted t'go out t'night. 'M sorry."
"Hush. I'll live. At least you're legitimately sick; I was just hungover. You took great care of me, and all considered, your teasing was much lighter than I deserved. I knew better than to drink that much."
They both lapse into a comfortable, if tenuous, silence, Connor holding as still as possible to stave off the next inevitable round of vomiting and Grace carefully massaging different parts of his face and neck to take some of the edge off his headache. The grinding of the elevator announces Murphy's arrival, and Connor mentally struggles to prepare himself for the shit his brother is sure to give him the second he gets in the door. What he doesn't expect, however, is for Grace to jump on Murphy's case before the darker MacManus even has a chance to open his mouth.
"Don't start, Murphy MacManus, I'm warning you," she says, and her tone is severe enough that Murphy simply blinks in astonishment and does, indeed, stay silent. "Connor was stupid, and he's paying for it, so don't make it any worse on him than he already has it. Get changed or showered or whatever it is you need to do, then go on to the bar and leave him alone."
When Murphy silently, almost meekly, complies and starts shedding clothes, Connor is sure he's hallucinating. Murphy doesn't take orders from anyone, much less a woman. Then Connor catches a glimpse of Murphy's face as he passes Connor and Grace, pulling off his shirt as he goes, and Connor understands completely.
Murphy is getting off on Grace telling him what to do. Jesus, will today's indignities never fucking end? Ever since Connor reluctantly gave Murphy the go-ahead to start courting Grace to see how she'd take the idea, he's been torn between regretting the decision and waiting miserably to see if she prefers his younger brother. And while Murphy hasn't been overt in his feelings towards Connor's girl (at least, not overt to Grace), Connor can see that Grace is just as comfortable around Murphy as she is around Connor himself. He's happy that she is happy, but, Christ alive, it eats him up every single time she smiles at his useless cur of a brother.
Or, in this case, when she turns beet red from a combination of embarrassment and arousal whenever he strips around her. Connor isn't upset with either of them, not exactly. And especially not with Grace, who doesn't even realize Murphy is actually trying to make her more comfortable around him by treating his showering and disrobing as casual acts not worth mentioning. Desensitizing her to the shock of it, as it were.
"Lass, ye wanna come get a bite wit' me while sleepin' beauty gets some shut eye?"
Connor snorts and jerks awake, severely disoriented. Murphy sits on his mattress, fully dressed as he tugs his boots back on, and Grace lounges on the spot on their sofa that she cleaned, sanitized, and designated for her own personal use. When did they move? Murphy was just showering, and-
"I don't think I can leave him," she answers, sitting up and turning down the television volume. "You two don't have a thermometer, so I don't know how bad his fever is, but he's pretty hot. And he's in and out a lot. I think I should stay, just in case."
"Go wit' 'im." Despite the words coming out like a croak, Connor finds that he actually means them. He feels rotten still, but that doesn't mean Grace has to be miserable, as well. "Ye haven't eaten since lunch. If ye stay, ye might try t'eat me, an' den we'd both be sick."
She snorts at his sad attempt at humor, but she doesn't move from her spot. "I don't know, Connor, you're still pretty feverish. What if you need something across the room, or something?"
He wants to tell her she's worrying about trivial, ridiculous things, but two things stop him from commenting. First, if he does actually need something from across the room, he's screwed, because he won't even make it halfway before collapsing in a useless pile of vomit. Second, God in Heaven, she is so fuckin' adorable when she frets over him so. He should probably tell her at some point.
"How 'bout dis?" Murphy cuts in, his tone diplomatic. "Lemme take ye fer a quick bite t'eat, den I'll walk ye by a chemist on t'way back here an' ye can get a thermometer an' whatever else ye need t'doctor th'poor, wee babe on yer way back? After I get ye back, I'll head off fer McGinty's an' get outta yer hair fer th'night. Sound good?"
Murphy's nose is as good as broken the second Connor can swing his fist without ejecting the scant contents of his stomach.
"Sounds good t'me," Connor rasps, still wanting Grace to get at least a little fun out of the night while desperately wanting to be rid of his meddlesome twin. "Ye could even go wit' Murph t'see Roc at McGinty's, hang out a bit. I'll be fine, lass, ye got me th' crackers an' ginger ale an' whatnot, all where I c'n reach 'em. M'feelin' loads better, so just...just, eh...go have a bit of fun, an'...maybe come check on me after a bit?"
Grace stares at him, her expression dubious at best, but he's honestly trying. And he does feel much improved since she arrived. He'll feel worse when she leaves, but he won't tell her that. She'd never go out if he did.
"But what if you get sick again?" she asks. He can hear the hesitance in her voice, but he knows she hungry. It's Grace; when isn't she hungry? She might not have even eaten since breakfast, probably came straight over from work to see him without even-
"Here," Murphy says, and Connor can tell just by Murphy's tone that his brother is about to score major points. "Set dis dustbin next t'him so he don't have t'crawl over t'th'toilet. M'guessin' he was too stubborn t'take me bed or let ye move his. Ye c'n set a drink on dat bit o'shelf just dere where he c'n reach it, though I wouldn't leave any food out, just in case o'bugs comin' in the windas."
Grace cringes at the idea of insects on their food, but Connor knows his brother is right. They've mercifully been able to keep the place free of roaches and rats (barely, and not always consistently), but in the middle of August, the only air conditioner they have is the open windows and a tiny (no longer) oscillating fan that Grace has pointed right at Connor's face from a few feet away. Bugs are inevitable, and they can't leave out food for any length of time if they ever intend to eat it.
"Well, you two seem to have a plan all worked out," Grace says, and Connor and Murphy share a quick glance. But Grace is simply making conversation as she goes about setting Connor up for her absence. Murphy helps her along by setting the trash can within easy reach for Connor as she pours a fresh soda for him. She gives his face one more pass with the wet rag, and he murmurs gratefully, already sinking back into a free-floating drift that is slowly pulling him back to unconsciousness.
"I'll be back before you know it," she promises, and her lips are deliriously cool against his forehead. "Rest, and I'll bring you some Tylenol to help bring that fever down, as well. Maybe some clear soup."
Though his stomach turns at the thought of trying to swallow anything, he grumbles appropriate appreciation and shuts his eyes. The sounds of Grace and
Murphy leaving fade into the background as the whoosh of the sea he's floating on grows louder, waves sweeping past him to rush at the shore. He drifts further, going back to the few times he's been on the ocean, his fever-riddled thoughts going from memory to memory as if he's watching a film montage.
Their ma once took them to a beach for holiday, a proper beach with sand instead of the rocky ones nearer to their home, and though the water was still frigidly cold, he and Murphy stayed in the water for hours, jumping and screaming like mad things, riding the surf in and splashing each other and spitting out mouthfuls of the salty spray as they were knocked this way and that by the powerful waves.
Then there was the boat that brought him and Murphy over, a cargo thing small by today's standards that was tossed about in a sudden squall that left even some of the more experienced sailors retching over the railings, and yet he and Murphy somehow managed to keep their stomach contents in their proper places.
And yet, all it takes is one fucking undercooked burger to bring him to him knees in front of the toilet.
It'll be months before he hears the end of this from Murphy. Months? Jesus, Connor will be hearing about this years from now. He can just see them, Rocco and Murphy and Grace all gathered around their favorite table at McGinty's, laughing at Connor as they pass him another round in commiseration, Grace's hand smoothing over his as her smile warms, the crinkles around her eyes the only betrayal of the years passing, his own hand a little rougher under hers, the skin just a little looser, and-
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, where the fuck did that come from?!
"Fuckin' hate bein' sick," he mutters before passing out completely.
…
Her voices filters in through layers of conscious and unconscious alike, and his blood sings hot in response to her thick, heavy moans.
"Murphy…"
Fabric shifting over flesh, hot whispers against skin, and shuffling footsteps across the floor. The two of them, giggling drunkenly, hushing each other as Connor shifts under his layers of blankets.
"Murphy...god, please, Murphy...again…"
Connor doesn't even have to open his eyes to picture it. He can hear Murphy lifting them hem of Grace's dress, hear the silk rustling over her flushed skin as he pulls the garment over her head and tosses it aside. Running greedy fingers over Grace's ribs, brushing under her breasts before sliding around her back to unhook and remove her bra, leaving her nearly bare before him.
Grace's fingers running hungrily over Murphy's t-shirt before jerking it over his head. Grace lowering her lips to trail wet kisses down Murphy's chest to the waistline of his jeans. Frantic fingers from both sides fumbling to remove the offending clothing as quickly as possible, and then she's pulling hips forward, wrapping her lips around the head of his cock, both of their moans mingling in Connor's ears until he can't tell them apart.
Murphy's head thrown back, eyes squeezed closed, hands clenched in Grace's hair as she swallows around him, the moment stretching forever in Connor's fever-riddled brain, their figures shimmery and hazy in the thin light filtering in from the windows.
Then Murphy is dropping down to his knees, pressing Grace back onto his mattress, his mouth covering hers before she can say anything, pulling her underwear off and sliding back up body in one fluid movement. Her legs wrap around Murphy's hips reflexively as he enters her, and Connor shudders at the visceral noises rising from the frantic lovers.
Murphy's hips snapping brutally as Grace digs her nails into the flesh of Murphy's hips, pulling him deeper as her teeth dig into his shoulder. Connor flinches as she shudders beneath his brother, her head thrown back, her completion tipping
Murphy over the edge along with her.
"Connor."
Murphy collapses atop Grace, his lips pressing against every inch of her throat and shoulders, moving down along her collarbone, trailing-
"Connor, wake up...hey, can you hear me?"
Grace peering over Murphy's shoulder at Connor, her sated, sleepy smile so satisfied and serene as she rolls her hips upwards, grinding against-
Soft, warm lips press against Connor's cheek as a hand grasps his shoulder, shaking ever so gently. "Hey, wake up...what are you dreaming about? You're making horrible noises."
Connor comes to gradually, the early morning sun lighting his filthy flat with a golden-pinkish glow that makes Grace's face seem as flushed as he would swear he's just seen it, and he has to blink a few times to get his bearings.
"S'matter? S'goin' on? Where's Murph?"
"Murphy?" Grace crinkles her nose, clearly confused at the sudden change of subject. "Murphy is at Rocco's. He said he was going to spend the night there, that he didn't want to listen to you being sick all night. Not his exact words, but I'm sure you can work out the translation for yourself."
At Rocco's? But, no...no, he and Grace...they were…he heard them, saw them, and...
"Murphy and I ate at that little bistro a couple of blocks over, and then he brought me back after we stopped at the drugstore. Your fever got up to around 103 for a little while, and you wouldn't stop muttering, something about taking off a dress and going to bed...Which, by the way, Murphy did hear, so you have that to deal with later. I managed to get you to swallow some Tylenol around ten o'clock, and you settled down a lot after that. You even cooled off enough that I ended up sleeping with you instead of in Murphy's bed. How do you feel?"
But Connor is still trying to catch his brain up to the actual events of last night, his apparent dream still swimming through his mind, eclipsing nearly everything else.
"But...you...an' Murph...ye just...he only had dinner? Ye didn't...go t'th'bar or...ye just...went t'th'chemist an' got me medicine? An' den...Murph just left again?"
He must sound as wandering as he feels because Grace reaches out a steady hand, smoothing his wrinkled forehead with fingers that feel reassuringly warm instead of cold on his no-longer-feverish skin.
"Connor, are you okay? You haven't been sick in hours, and your fever is gone, but...you seem a little...anxious. Murphy took me to dinner, like we said, but I was too worried about you to go to the bar. I knew I wouldn't enjoy myself, and Murphy didn't push. He took me to the store and then right back here. He made sure I had what I needed, then he left, and I got some meds into you and went to sleep after I was sure your fever had broken. Why? Did you have a nightmare or something?"
Thank God, Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the saints in Heaven.
"Aye, lass," Connor breathes, dropping back against his pillow, limp with exhaustion and relief. When did he even sit up? "Ye could definitely call dat a nightmare."
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks. She nestles against his side, and his arm automatically tightens around her shoulders, pulling her flush against him as his heart rate slows.
"Nah. I just...I hate bein' sick, an' I really hate fever dreams, lass. Fuckin' hell. T'ank ye again fer takin' care o'me." Anything Grace might say in reply is cut off by Connor's stomach letting out what is an unmistakable and startlingly loud growl, and she laughs. He revels in the sound, not bothering to hide his goofy smile.
"So, you are feeling better, then? Wanna shower off and maybe try some toast or something?"
Connor turns on his side, silently thanking god that he can perform this small yet essential action once more, and takes in Grace's sprawled form next to him. She is nearly bare, clad only in one of those silky, stringy under-shirt things she likes so much and matching bikini underwear (yet another thing to be thankful for), and he realizes to his infinite amusement that the rising sun isn't the only thing flushing her skin. He starts to lean towards her, hungry for more than just breakfast, but she shoves a restraining hand against his shoulder, squirming out of his embrace.
"Hold your horses, cowboy. You spent yesterday vomiting and last night sweating your ass off after the fever broke. I'm gonna need you to brush your teeth and shower before you even think of kissing me."
He pouts dramatically, but she shoves more insistently until he finally gives in and rolls off the other side of the mattress. He stands, stretching and enjoying the freedom to move without wanting to die. He hears a tiny sound from behind him, and glances down to see Grace, red as a lobster, hiding a smile, her eyes wide, teeth digging hard into her lower lip.
"Ye a'right dere, love?"
"Yeah, sorry," she says quickly, embarrassment coloring her voice. "I just...um...I was admiring the...view…"
Connor laughs, turning back to shower, more than happy to let her admire all the "view" she likes. He turns the tap handle, taking a minute to brush his teeth in the downpour, gargling and spitting before stepping under the showerhead. He revels in the icy blast that sprays down, rinsing away the sweat and the last remnants of vague queasiness. He feels fucking fantastic and is fully ready to put this whole episode behind him. He's just rinsing the soap from his face when something Grace said earlier zaps back into his brain with the sting of a rubber band snapping him in the face.
"Murphy heard me say fuckin' what about a dress?!"
Grace's hysterical laughter is brought up short by a soaking wet Irishman pinning her to the mattress.
"An' after ye gimme a full accountin' of everythin' th'two o'ye heard me ravin' about last night, I'm gonna need a laundry list of all th'things ye wanted me t'do t'ye last night dat we never got around to."
She mock-frowns, wiggling pleasantly underneath him. "The whole list? Gosh, Connor, that'll take an awfully long time…"
"It damned well better."
Author's Note: Apparently, I just couldn't let the three of them go. This is a present to Sunfreckle, who is heavily responsible for me finishing Clean Break, as well as motivating me to finish this story, which I've been batting around for the better part of three years. Here's to never being finished with these three. Also thanks to Rhanon Brodie, who reminded me just what a little shit Murphy can be.