(no subject)
Fandom/Pairing: BDS, Connor/Murphy
Notes: Drabble challenge attempt gone awry
“Death is in our blood,” Connor tells Murphy, and he says it with a certainty that says that this has been his answer to his own questions.
And Murphy can’t help but see the truth in the statement, because this is what they were born to do. All those nights spent fucking because there was nothing better to do, and smoking because what’s a few years off a life that has no purpose?
But suddenly they’ve found their purpose, they have a noble duty, and Murphy wishes they hadn’t.
Now minutes are precious, and he quit smoking six months ago. He knows he’s going to die with a bullet in his chest or his stomach or his head, and not because of the smoke deteriorating his lungs, but he can’t help but try.
Connor started smoking twice as much, and Murphy knows it’s because minutes are too long to endure and years are too long to wait for a bullet.
Murphy knows he took the safe route. He should have died ten times over by now, maybe more. But there’s always somewhere to hide, or someone to knock him down, or a slight miscalculation on the part of the guy with the gun. It’s always something, and he knows it’ll probably always be that way. Until they’ve served their purpose. Connor is taking it slow, but steady.
Some nights, when they’re holed up in a motel room with only one bed, Murphy stares at the ceiling and tries to remember what it felt like to be aimless. He tries to remember what it felt like to go to sleep not caring what the next day was going to bring. It would bring something, and that was all that mattered. He tries to remember the comfortable silence that followed sex, the lazy contentment because they had nowhere to go and nothing to do and they would always have each other to fill the time. But hard as he tries, he can’t.
Connor remembers. So he lights another cigarette and tries to forget.
Notes: Drabble challenge attempt gone awry
“Death is in our blood,” Connor tells Murphy, and he says it with a certainty that says that this has been his answer to his own questions.
And Murphy can’t help but see the truth in the statement, because this is what they were born to do. All those nights spent fucking because there was nothing better to do, and smoking because what’s a few years off a life that has no purpose?
But suddenly they’ve found their purpose, they have a noble duty, and Murphy wishes they hadn’t.
Now minutes are precious, and he quit smoking six months ago. He knows he’s going to die with a bullet in his chest or his stomach or his head, and not because of the smoke deteriorating his lungs, but he can’t help but try.
Connor started smoking twice as much, and Murphy knows it’s because minutes are too long to endure and years are too long to wait for a bullet.
Murphy knows he took the safe route. He should have died ten times over by now, maybe more. But there’s always somewhere to hide, or someone to knock him down, or a slight miscalculation on the part of the guy with the gun. It’s always something, and he knows it’ll probably always be that way. Until they’ve served their purpose. Connor is taking it slow, but steady.
Some nights, when they’re holed up in a motel room with only one bed, Murphy stares at the ceiling and tries to remember what it felt like to be aimless. He tries to remember what it felt like to go to sleep not caring what the next day was going to bring. It would bring something, and that was all that mattered. He tries to remember the comfortable silence that followed sex, the lazy contentment because they had nowhere to go and nothing to do and they would always have each other to fill the time. But hard as he tries, he can’t.
Connor remembers. So he lights another cigarette and tries to forget.