Pt. 2 of drabble series. Think of it as a fluff sandwich.
He just has to keep scrubbing, that's all.
Connor stands at the sink, a rough bristled scrub-brush in his hand, a bottle of soap in the other. Below him in a sink with murky, soapy water, there is a stained shirt, dripping, the stain no nearer to going away then it had been three cycles through the washer, 5 different cleaners, and 20 minutes with a scrub brush ago.
Connor's not crying because that would mean there was something wrong and there's nothing wrong at all. Everything is normal, everything is good. Murphy just got a stain on his shirt, that's all. Connor has to clean it up.
He has to scrub and he has to get the stain out because Murphy needs his shirt and he can't cry because there's nothing wrong and it's not blood on the shirt, it's just a stain.
Because Murphy is not dead in the bar down the street and there isn't a bullet through his chest from an angry mobster who learned about where the famed Saints liked to spend their time off.
Murphy just spilled some beer, that's right.
It doesn't really matter that he can't quite remember what happened after Murphy spilled his beer. Connor doesn't really remember how he's managed to get himself back to the apartment, or why he has Murphy's shirt. So it must be that Murphy asked him to get the stain out for him. Murphy isn't good at any of that domestic shit anyways. Never has been.
But Connor can't see, for some reason. Everything's beginning to go fuzzy and the shirt is getting harder to see and it's getting hard to locate the stain and his hands hurt from all the scrubbing. The shirt is probably falling apart by this point, he thinks, under all the abuse. Everything is falling apart.
But no. Because everything is okay. There's just a stain on this shirt and he needs to get it out.
He just has to keep scrubbing, that's all.
