A/N: The beginning of Connor and Pam after Ean Beag. There's gonna be tears. And laughter. And pain. Oh, and smut. Don't you worry.
I've been on a very long hiatus, and I probably wouldn't have made it through without some very wonderful people: Little Miss Tightly Wound, Valerie E Mackin, pitbullsrok, and siarh have all been so amazing these past few months. I know you ladies all had your own shit to deal with, and I think we're all coming through clean on the other side! I love you all, I feel very blessed to have made such wonderful connections here and otherwise. This is for all of YOU, readers, writers, subscribers, lurkers. Enjoy.
The light is hazy and he bounces on his toes, ready for the next round, the next swing, the next bone-cracking, skull-numbing punch. Ready for anything, really, so long as the result is blood and cheering and body-warm whiskey. The cut above his eye has stopped bleeding but his vision is not as clear as he'd like it to be. From his corner, he hears his brother tell him to sit down, to take some water, to regroup, but he doesn't listen. Not to his brother, anyway. In his head, his own corner, he hears his lost friend, his lost love, the sound of gunfire and his father's voice softly reciting the family prayer. All around him, the hushed din of the crowd is murky and he feels for a moment that he is perhaps drowning, finally, and he'll be able to have some peace and quiet.
The ringing of the makeshift bell somewhere sucks him back to the ring and his head and vision clears for one bright moment. Across the way, his opponent watches, unsure of his next move.
Connor has seen the outcome, plagued by the visions for days now. He comes out of his corner roaring, and with an elegant arc and sharp angle his left hand feigns, and his right hand, torn and callused and bloody, finishes the job. His opponent staggers once and then goes down, and Connor spits across the mat and leans over the body.
"Now, stay tha fuck down," he growls. If this man gets up, they both know it will be all over. Connor's blood is up, his heart beats terribly, and even in his victory, he sways on his feet enough that his brother (always present, always patient) storms the ring that someone erected in the old storehouse of the pub.
"That's it, Conn," Murphy's rough growl tells him. "That's enough."
"Fer tonight," Connor mutters, but he nods and lets his brother (only his brother) walk him back to the low, three-legged stool stolen from somebody's dairy farm, and sling the blood-stained towel around his neck. A bottle of whiskey appears under his nose and he drinks long and deep before handing it off to Murphy. Over his head, while he sits and contemplates the bloodied face of the would-be contender across the way, money exchanges hands, great wads, and they disappear into Murphy's pockets quickly. No sense in showing off what Connor's fists can really do: break down a man's wellbeing, slaughter the livelihood that was a struggle to establish.
He has no remorse. Hasn't had any in a long time. With a deep breath, he leans back against the ropes that cut and make him bleed every time, and tilts his head up to the rafters. Blood runs down the back of his throat, thick and coppery and hot, and it mingles with the whiskey. His lip is split; it stings as Murphy tucks a lit cigarette between them, and the smoke only adds to the flavour of victory. In the morning, it will be a sour, chalky thing that sticks in his throat, but for tonight, Connor will drink it all down and hold it with the fire in his belly and eventually pass out, too troubled to sleep for a long time now.
The morning is gray and cold. Not surprising in the least, and Murphy takes some comfort in the familiarity of it. Coming home had been rather cathartic for him, had solidified who he was, made some sense of who he had been and what he'd seen. The floorboards of the porch creaked; he didn't bother lifting his head from the scrap of wood he absently carved. The smell of pipe tobacco and leather filled his nostrils and he sat back in his chair as his father sat beside him.
It was mostly silence that Noah MacManus shared with his darker son, but it was a relatively easy, echoing stillness that seemed to suit the pair just fine. The MacManus patriarch had been slowly but surely getting to know his sons – at least, he thought he had been. He was certain he had Murphy figured out (save for those secrets a man had every right to maintain): silent, patient, persistent, maybe a little sullen, and watchful. The dark-haired twin was painfully observant, a skill that proved to be invaluable, but lately, since they'd returned home, it had been focused on Connor.
Connor, who had been lion-hearted and fiercely protective of his brother, had turned with the tide that brought him home, and Noah could best describe his fairer son as quietly agitated. Like something was gnawing at him. He knew that this son sought his demons in the ring on a nightly basis and delivered swift, bloodied justice to the poor, unknowing souls that dared to challenge him. Noah didn't exactly agree with it, but he understood it, didn't stand in the way of it, and prayed furiously that Connor would find peace again.
Noah tugs the pouch of tobacco from his pocket and fills his pipe, hands working swift and sure as he has done this a thousand times before. A match is struck and touched to the sweet, peaty mess; the wisp of smoke curling from his mouth surrounds him as he stares out onto the brown fields of late autumn.
"Hafta get the lot up to Banner's Bridge today," Murphy rasps, setting his wood aside and rolling a cigarette. Silence and smoke, then, is their communion, and he lights the unfiltered thing and lets it hang from his mouth as he picks up the wood again.
"Aye," Noah nods as he begins to rock in the rough-hewn chair. He adds sheep to the list of things he shares with this son, for Murphy is the only one who has settled into some sort of routine that doesn't solely involve whiskey and fists. "Shouldn't take long, if ya have Connor with ya."
Murphy shakes his head, knowing that his brother won't be up for the ride, not after the bell-ringing he'd received last night. Sure, Connor had won, but he had taken a beating as a parting gift. "Move faster on me own," Murphy shrugs, knowing it to be true. Even if he could get Connor to saddle up, it would be slow going. Better to let his twin sleep it off into the afternoon.
Noah nods and takes another puff from his pipe. "We need some things from town," he states a while later. "Maybe you'll take him then."
Murphy nods, pinching off the cigarette before standing. "Aye." He steps off the porch and heads for the stable to saddle his horse.
Connor wonders if it is the filty, cracked mirror that's making him look like shit, or if his face really is that messed up. The eye with the cut over it has been glued shut in the night by weeping blood; it is swollen, extending out towards his cheekbone, and he winces as he nudges the wound with a fingertip. "Fuck," he utters, looking down to the sink and cranking the taps open. Strange, that in a tiny shack in the middle of nowhere, shared with his brother and a man they call 'Da' that they should get hot water while stateside, they had to take their chances and more often than not dealt with freezing balls and shrinkage.
His hands hover near the rushing water and after a second, he reaches and cuts off the hot stream, opting for cold. He ducks his head and douses it, the icy ache making his skull throb. Goosebumps flare on his bare shoulders; he cups his hand and drinks steadily for a minute or two, trying to drown that awful taste in his mouth.
If I had ta taste anything for the rest of my life, it'd be this, and he stares up at Pam from between her thighs.
The memory slices through him like a stab of cold lightening and he straightens suddenly, his head swimming. He pushes his soaking hair back from his face and looks at himself once more.
It's not the mirror that's making him look like shit.
It's the memories.
"I know the broken heart of longing, Connor," Noah offers softly, once, months ago, when Connor would wake up sweating, her name on his lips, his fingers curled in the blankets.
Connor knows he knows, can hear it still in his voice, and he looks at this man Murphy calls 'Da' and wonders if someday he'll be just like him.
The woodstove is still warm, but not enough to heat the coffee that was percolated for breakfast. The iron door opens with a creaking protest and Connor tosses more wood in, stoking the flames, and then swings the door shut. The mugs are chipped stoneware and he suddenly longs for a ridiculously sized mug in a pleasantly cluttered flat across the pond. The mug lands on the table with a clatter and Connor sinks to the bench seat with a sigh. Through the murky glass of the window, he stares out onto the muddy property he now calls home and watches as his brother leads one of the horses out and saddles it with ease. Connor rolls a cigarette and lights it, and in the gray light that spills through that window, he stops for a moment and allows the avalanche to take him over.
"We leave in the morning."
Pam stared into the darkness of her apartment, barely able to make out Connor sitting on her couch. With a sigh, she set her bags down and shut the door, and only then did Connor flick on the lamp light.
"You look like hell," Pam declared. He hadn't shaved for a few days and his hair was hanging over his eyes. His eyes – once so vibrant and blue – looked a little lost, a little dull, and were surrounded by the dark circles of sleepless nights.
Connor scoffed. "Aye, thanks, lass. Just what I wanted to hear." His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it for weeks.
Pam toed her boots off and shrugged out of her jacket. "What did you want to hear, then?"
He hung his head for a moment, running his fingers through his hair, and then looked back up at her. "I don't know," he answered truthfully.
"I haven't seen or heard from you in three weeks and you just show up, break into my apartment, and get pissed when I say the first thing that comes to mind? Perhaps I should go with the second thought and say 'What the hell, Connor? What the fuck are you doing here?'" Her voice steadily rose until she was close to yelling.
Connor stood from the couch and crossed the floor to stand in front of her. "M'sorry. I don't want ta fight, Pam. Don't be angry. This is me last night in Boston an' I thought…I just thought…" He broke off at Pam's hard gaze.
She raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You just thought that you'd come by for one last screw and then hop on a plane, or a boat, or whatever it is you're taking to leave town? I may be a bit of a pushover, Conn, but I'm not an idiot." She went to move past him but he caught her arm and stopped her.
"Pam," he said, resigned. "I don't want ta be alone tonight."
She refused to look at him. "What about Murphy?" she snapped.
His hand left her as if she had burned him. "Now, dat's just not fair, lass."
This time, she whirled and stared at him, her green and gold eyes blazing. "Fair? You want to talk about fair? How is your skulking off in the middle of the night to some secret location and leaving me here to pick up the pieces fair?"
He stared silently at her.
The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek cracked through the quiet. "Fuck you, MacManus," she growled. He barely flinched, enraging her more, and she struck him again. "Fuck you, fuck your brother, and fuck your holy calling…"
Connor's hand grabbed hers before she could hit him again. "Easy, lass. Ya can say what ya like about me and Murph, but leave tha Lord out of it." His tone was low and tense.
Pam's eyes narrowed. She tore her hand from Connor's grip and stepped back. "What makes you think I want ya here?" she hissed.
He lifted his eyes to hers. "Because ya haven't told me ta leave," he answered softly.
She closed her eyes, fighting back the wry grin that wanted to smear her face. "Yer a smug prick, Connor." Opening her eyes, she found him staring back, mere inches from her face.
"Aye," he murmured. "But ya love me."
Pam shook her head. "God help me, I do."
"Good. I love ya back, lass. Always."
He kissed her then, cutting off anything else she might have said. He kissed her deep, and long, and when she managed to break away for a much needed breath, he was back on her in seconds, his mouth sliding against hers as his hands cupped her face, and tilted her to his liking.
At some point, their clothing was discarded, and they picked their way to the bedroom, pausing against the half-wall of the kitchen to skate fingertips over warm skin and for their mouths to taste and explore rough and smooth and taut and tender. He took his time, something he was proud of, and he ached sweetly between his hips when he slipped two fingers easily inside of her luscious body and had her mewling into his mouth.
He took one nipple into his mouth, and then the other, in a barrage of teeth and tongue, until Pam was shaking against him and moaning his name. When he relented, she retaliated, and fisted him roughly, winding her tongue with his. The fingers of her free hand snared his hair and tugged, until his head tilted back and she had access to his throat. She bit him softly, making him growl, and let him push her hand aside so that he could move her to the bedroom.
"Is brea liom tu," he said softly as he hovered between her thighs. He rested on his forearms so that his hands could brush her hair back from her face and neck. Pressing his lips to hers, he murmured again, "Beidh me gra I gconai leat."
Her heart ached, as did her throat, and she pushed the tears back as he entered her smoothly, and brought her knees to his hips. Her back arched up from the mattress and his hands slid to her waist, holding her there while his forehead rested between her breasts.
"Connor," Pam breathed, lifting her hips. "More."
He came up under her slow and sure, drawing out their pleasure in gentle waves. Pam gnawed the inside of her cheek as her emotions threatened to spill over. She'd fucked Connor, screwed him, rode him, shagged him, and he'd done all the same to her. But making love? That had always been too tame. That had always been too much. Now, Connor was relentless, moving so surely and so gently that Pam could only cling silently to him, her arms snaking around his shoulder and neck, her hips rising to meet his. She buried her face in his neck and whimpered quietly at the sensations rippling through her body.
It was hot. Sweat slicked and fierce. And for both of them, it had never quite been like this before. Connor fought to acknowledge his own lust and instead concentrated on Pam, on the feel of her, her warmth, her smell, her voice, her softness. He committed it all to memory, choking back the pain of his departure with every plunge of his hips.
"I need you," he whispered hotly against her throat. Then he groaned, and pulled her legs tighter around his waist. With a gentle move, he turned them, and arranged Pam in his lap as he knelt beneath her. Their hands found each other and laced fingers tightly, gliding over taut, hot flesh. The harder Pam came down on him, the harder Connor surged up, until he was breathless.
Her breasts were crushed against the hard planes of his chest and soon their hearts beat in time and the blood roared in their ears. She looked down at him, with wide eyes, her hands clutching the back of his neck for leverage. His eyes squeezed shut at the first shudder that ran through his body. "Pam," he gulped, his hands clutching her thighs, her hips, and her face.
She nodded. She was close; he was closer. She held him to her, her chin resting on his shoulder as her hands swept up his back and then down, gliding over muscle and ink and scars. "Come with me," she pleaded. Bringing her head up, she cupped his face and tilted it, and then pressed her lips to his. "Connor," she whispered.
He bucked once, and then pulled her hips down and stilled her as he felt her flutter, and then tighten around him. He stared into her eyes as she careened over the edge and moaned loudly as the gold in her irises seemed to burst and sparkle. That was all the push he needed. His eyes fluttered shut at the force of his orgasm and he let the tears fall and mingle with sweat.
She didn't wake suddenly, as if torn from the dream, but rather floated to the surface like she was coming up from a long, warm swim. Her eyes were wet when she opened them and she wished terribly that, at that very second, she was staring up at the tin ceiling of her old Boston flat with one half of an Irish matched set snoring softly beside her.
The dark head of hair that occupied the other pillow, however, belonged to her five-year old daughter, Shayne, and the other Irishman that had previously occupied that pillow in that current room had been dead for two years. Sighing, Pam threw an arm over her eyes and tried to settle back to sleep.
"Ma?" Shayne's voice floated up from the comforter. "Ma, are you awake? You were talking in your sleep."
"Hmm?" Pam rolled to her side, her previous thoughts forgotten as she looked into the clear green eyes of her daughter. "What did I say?"
Shayne frowned for a moment. "Ya said 'Connor.' Again. Who is he?"
Pam bit her lip and looked across the room to the bathroom, not sure how to proceed. She couldn't help but feel she was betraying the memory Shayne's father by dreaming of another man. Her eyes floated to the comforter and picked at a stray thread. "Just someone I used to know," she admitted, rather hoarsely. Finally, her eyes met Shayne's.
Shayne gave her mother a rather inquisitive look, one that looked so much like her father Matt that Pam's heart ached with both guilt and sorrow. "C'mere," Pam said, pulling Shayne closer and burrowing beneath the comforters. She pressed her lips to Shayne's hair and inhaled the soft, sweet smell. "Aren't you supposed to be sleeping in your own bed?"
"But I heard you," Shayne explained, wrapping her fingers in Pam's cinnamon coloured waves. "I heard you talking and thought you were up, or on the phone…but you were sleeping…so I crawled in."
Pam nodded, wrapping her arms a little tighter around her daughter. "No harm done," Pam whispered, closing her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Eight," Shayne answered wistfully.
Pam yawned and nodded once more.
Then she started awake. "Eight?" She whipped the blankets back, shivering at the cool air in the bedroom. She'd never bothered to reprogram the thermostat that Matt had set – the man had run like a heater at night and insisted on temperatures fit for Iceland. "Jesus, Shayne, you're going to be late for school!" She sprung out of bed and threw on her housecoat before reaching for her daughter's foot. "C'mon, get up!" she crowed, dragging the giggling five-year old from the mattress.
"Lord's name!" Shayne huffed, having her great grandmother to thank for that. "Ma, wait!" she cried as she watched her mother sail to the bathroom. Seconds later, she returned, a toothbrush jammed her mouth while she wrestled into a pair of jeans.
"Shayne, hurry and get dressed," Pam muttered through a mouthful of toothpaste. "No time for breakfast; we'll stop and get a Starbucks, okay?"
"Ma," Shayne droned again, this time flopping back on the bed. "It's Saturday."
Pam froze and moved to her dresser, and turned on her cell phone. Sure enough, the date Saturday, April 17 stared back at her. "Oh, thank Christ," she muttered, pulling the toothbrush from her mouth.
"Ma-a!" Shayne growled again. "Lord's name!"
"Aye, Hail Mary," she muttered, rolling her eyes heavenward. "I have to go into the studio today," Pam announced as she flopped back onto the bed with a groan. "Do you want to come with or would you rather I dropped you off at Auntie Mel's?" She craned her head to watch her daughter's reaction.
Shayne didn't disappoint, wrinkling her nose at the mention of Aunt Jenny, her father's oldest sister. "Not Aunty Mel's," Shayne declared. "She's boring. She makes me sit and tries to teach me the piano." The dark-haired girl bounded to her knees and smiled broadly. "Can I please go with you? Please, please, please?" she clamoured, crawling to her mother and fitting into her lap.
"I dunno," Pam sang. "You know what Grandma Burke says – it's not a place for young ladies." Not that it would sway Pam's decision in the slightest, but Fiona Burke had an opinion about everything, especially her daughter-in-law's choice of career. Owning and running a tattoo parlour didn't rank highly on the list, unlike staying at home and pushing out half a dozen babies.
Shayne made another face and blew a stream of air from her mouth, ruffling her dark hair and looking like Matt once more. "I promise I won't say anything at dinner tomorrow," Shayne said.
Pam grinned. "Yer a good lass, Shayne Leary-Burke," Pam said softly, tucking her daughter's hair behind her ears. "And if you want to tell Grandma Burke how you spent your Saturday, that's fine with me. Those Sunday dinners can be boring, anyway. Might liven things up." Pam sat up halfway and kissed Shayne's forehead. "Go get dressed, all right?"
Shayne slid onto the floor and nodded. "Can we still get a Starbucks?" she asked from the door.
"Strawberry frappucino?" Pam asked, knowing that was what her daughter always had. She smiled as her daughter's dark waves bounced excitedly. She waved her daughter away. "Only if we get in the car by nine, alright?"
And with that, Pam was left alone, and once more she flopped back onto the mattress. She found herself reaching out blindly and fumbling with the drawer of her nightstand and, when she'd pulled it open, reaching inside. Her fingers curled around the cool metallic thread and she pulled out a necklace, catching the Celtic trinity knot pendant between her thumb and her forefinger.
"Past, present, future," she mumbled softly, remembering what Murphy had whispered to her six years ago when he handed it to her on the balcony. The sudden crash from the bathroom startled Pam from her memories and she rolled from the bed to her feet, absently stuffing the necklace in to her pocket. Even with Shayne's shout of "Nothing! I'm fine," Pam rushed to the bathroom to investigate, all of her previous thoughts forgotten.