Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-02 11:22 pm
scripted_sra) wrote2009-03-02 11:22 pm
Entry tags:
Oz | Unexpected | PG-13 | Murphy/McManus
Title: Unexpected
Fandom: Oz
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Murphy/McManus
Summary: Life can go from expected to unexpected in the blink of an eye.
Warning: Spoilers for S4, the episode, "Cuts Like A Knife"
Word Count: 1,845
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Has been edited from its original version.
Sean Murphy likes to think he's a reasonable man. Sure, he has a temper; he’s got that black Irish in him, so he figures that should be expected. He thinks the governor is full of shit most of the time and he hates the lowlifes has to spend his time around daily. He’s not particularly conservative, but he’s not as liberal as his friend Tim. They differ in opinion sometimes, and Tim can be an asshole (of course, so can he), but Tim’s a good guy. He’s a good friend.
One thing he knows about Tim McManus is that the man isn’t really into commitment. He likes to sleep around, and he’s one of the few who knows that it’s not only women he takes to bed. This doesn’t bother him, really. He figures it’s none of his business who Tim wants to screw and when, so he keeps his nose out of it.
There are some things he doesn't know, however—things he hasn't anticipated. One such event is seeing Tim being stabbed by an inmate; he’s never expected to be holding his friend as he calls for help, Tim’s blood pouring all over his fingers. He hears the cheers and the claps from the prisoners and damns each and every one of them to hell three times over, feeling his heart beating so hard that he’s surprised it hasn’t managed to break through his chest yet.
He’s heard that it takes life-or-death scenarios to bring forth some thoughts and feelings that would otherwise remain repressed and buried forever. He never really thought much of that because he never expected it to happen to him. But now it has, and he realizes that all those people who claim that things like this bring forth unexplained emotions are absolutely, damnably right. He fuckin' hates it.
It’s the reason he’s sitting at Tim’s side in the stuffy hospital room. He hates hospitals but he’s there anyway, even though the doctor told him a few hours ago that Tim would be fine but wouldn’t wake up until the next day and that visiting hours ended awhile ago. He’s trying to figure things out. He replays the incident over and over again in his mind, at first vowing vengeance on Omar White but then shaking his head and sighing, realizing he can’t do anything, and he won’t. Tim will probably do something stupid like forgive the bastard, and he chuckles at that; it’s such a Tim thing to do.
His thoughts drift over how he felt when he saw Tim fall to the floor, how he felt when he was holding him. It’s intense, and he’s never admitted to feeling fear before, but it scares him. The first thing he thinks is that, well, of course I would have an intense reaction, Tim’s my best friend. But there’s a niggling doubt in his mind: that’s not all, is it? As taunting as the doubt is, plaguing him, it’s right. That’s not close to being all it is. He tries to rationalize with himself. He’s straight. As an arrow. Always has been and always will be. End of story. He wonders how many times he’ll have to repeat that in his mind before he actually believes it.
He sighs and stares at the man lying in the hospital bed, wondering why him, why now, and thinking that he’ll probably never figure it out.
*
“Sean?” Tim’s voice asks and he floats into consciousness. It takes him a moment to realize he must’ve fallen asleep at Tim’s side.
“Hey,” he says, standing up. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” Tim smirks. “I was trying for something exciting. Next time I’ll reconsider the stabbing.”
Murphy rolls his eyes. “Smart ass.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ah.” Murphy is suddenly interested the floor. “I got here last night.”
“You mean you stayed all night by my side? I didn’t know you cared.” Tim is grinning, which Murphy supposes is a good sign, even if he wants to throttle him. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t think this is a time for humor, but mostly because Tim is hitting too close to home with his joking.
“Keep it up and next time I won’t save your ass.”
Tim’s smile fades. “Thank you, by the way.”
Murphy’s eyes once again find the floor tiles. “I didn’t do much--just called for help. Besides, it’s not like I was gonna leave you there to bleed to death.” He wonders if how his voice cracked a little on the word ‘death’ was noticeable to Tim, and he hopes that it wasn’t. He doesn’t need Tim realizing anything before he’s had a chance to figure things out for himself.
“Still, thanks,” Tim replies, and Murphy nods.
“Right, well, I should get going. I still have to work and I have to get home so I can change and everything. Bye, Tim.” I’ll be back later today, he wants to add, but doesn’t because he thinks that would be giving too much away. Tim nods as he looks at him, a calculating expression on his face, and Murphy wonders if Tim didn’t hear it anyway.
*
Nine days later finds Tim finally out of the hospital, re-energized and revitalized. It’s nine days later and Murphy still has no idea what’s going on. He likes to think that he’s smart, so it frustrates him that he can’t figure this out. Does he really have some kind of feelings for Tim or is this just general concern for his best friend being taken out of context because of the stabbing? He wants to know and then he doesn’t, afraid of the answer.
He’s just gotten home to his apartment after a long day (but then, they’re all long) and he has kicked off his shoes, grabbed a beer, and is in the mood to relax and not deal with feelings or thoughts that are confusing as hell, when there’s a knock at his door. A quick glance through the peephole tells him it’s Tim, and he sighs before opening the door. “Tim?” he asks, trying not to let his irritation show; he doesn’t want to have to explain it.
“Uh, yeah, can I come in?”
“Sure,” Murphy replies, letting his friend into his apartment. “Was there something you needed?”
“Yeah, I needed to talk to you.”
“Okay,” he says. “Beer?” he asks, opening the refrigerator. Tim nods and Murphy hands him one. “What is it, Tim?” he wonders as they move to his living room area. Murphy sinks down on the couch and Tim sits next to him.
“That first day, when I was at the hospital—why did you stay overnight? I asked around; one of the nurses said that the doctor told you I wouldn’t wake up until the next day, but you refused to leave. Why?” Tim is looking at him and Murphy can’t deal with Tim trying to stare into his eyes right now; who knows what he’s already giving away through body language. Letting Tim look into his eyes would be tantamount to stenciling, Hey, Tim, I think I might be in love with you, here on his forehead.
He glances down at the floor, looks into his beer; anything to avoid Tim’s glance. “Ah, well, you know,” he mumbles, “I was worried.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Tim responds, taking a sip of his beer, and Murphy relaxes. It’s too soon. “At first,” he adds.
“At first? Tim, what the hell are you talking about?” Murphy tries to distract Tim by coloring his tone with his get to the point, already tone of annoyance, but he’s about half sure that Tim sees right through it. Tim looks right into his eyes again, and he finds the other half. Tim knows.
“One of the nurses heard you muttering your sleep. Do you often moan my name?” Tim’s eyebrow is raised and his expression is a mix between expectant and something indescribable.
Murphy winces and stands, sculling the last of his beer and walking to the kitchen to throw the can away. “You don’t recycle,” Tim comments casually, as if he hadn’t, just two seconds ago, pointed out something that has been plaguing Murphy for ten days straight—something that shakes him up inside.
Murphy laughs humorlessly at that. “No, I don’t.” He turns around and leans against the kitchen counter. “How long have you known?”
“Just now realized you don’t recycle,” Tim answers, standing up, and Murphy rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to strangle him. “As for the other thing: right after you left, the first time.”
“Tim, I don’t know—”
“You're a fucking liar. You know. You just don’t want to know.”
Murphy is silent, mostly because he knows Tim is right, but also because there isn’t really anything to say. “It’s difficult to accept,” he finally manages. Tim is right in front of him now, and the man shakes his head before giving him one of those piercing looks that makes him think he’s being looked through rather than at.
“Only if that’s how you make it,” Tim tells him, and he starts wondering about that, thinking that maybe Tim is right, when he’s being kissed, and kissed hard, and thoughts aren’t exactly his priority. A moment later, Tim pulls away, looking far too smug, and Murphy is stunned. “See?”
A grin curves on his lips. “Asshole.”
“It’s not ‘sweetheart,’ but it’ll do.” Tim smirks and Murphy's had enough. He pulls the infuriating man closer and kisses him roughly, smirking when he makes him gasp, and a minute later, moan.
There isn’t much talking after that.
*
It’s a few weeks later and Murphy's noticed Claire Howell slowly circling around he and Tim like the vulture she is; she has that sadistic smirk on her face that says she either knows something, thinks she knows something, or is planning on figuring something out. He doesn’t like any of these prospects, but there’s nothing he can do, so he sends her a glare every time he sees her and does his best to ignore it.
It’s been an interesting month, to say the least, and Murphy thinks he’s learned more about himself and Tim in this short time than he has in the rest of the time he's known him. It’s been confusing and surprising, some of which he could do without, (such as the fact that Tim can get really fucking irritating sometimes, even more so than he can get at work) some of which he rather likes, (like the sex that leaves him gasping for air, sated, and exhausted every time, plus the knowledge that Tim’s mouth is probably illegal somewhere) and altogether not what he's ever expected for his life.
He never expected to be sleeping with his male best friend, Tim “the staff slut” McManus, definitely, but he’s a reasonable man; that’s what he likes to think, anyway. He knows that sometimes, unexpected things are good.
And anything involving Tim McManus has ‘unexpected’ as a guarantee.
Fandom: Oz
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Murphy/McManus
Summary: Life can go from expected to unexpected in the blink of an eye.
Warning: Spoilers for S4, the episode, "Cuts Like A Knife"
Word Count: 1,845
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: Has been edited from its original version.
Sean Murphy likes to think he's a reasonable man. Sure, he has a temper; he’s got that black Irish in him, so he figures that should be expected. He thinks the governor is full of shit most of the time and he hates the lowlifes has to spend his time around daily. He’s not particularly conservative, but he’s not as liberal as his friend Tim. They differ in opinion sometimes, and Tim can be an asshole (of course, so can he), but Tim’s a good guy. He’s a good friend.
One thing he knows about Tim McManus is that the man isn’t really into commitment. He likes to sleep around, and he’s one of the few who knows that it’s not only women he takes to bed. This doesn’t bother him, really. He figures it’s none of his business who Tim wants to screw and when, so he keeps his nose out of it.
There are some things he doesn't know, however—things he hasn't anticipated. One such event is seeing Tim being stabbed by an inmate; he’s never expected to be holding his friend as he calls for help, Tim’s blood pouring all over his fingers. He hears the cheers and the claps from the prisoners and damns each and every one of them to hell three times over, feeling his heart beating so hard that he’s surprised it hasn’t managed to break through his chest yet.
He’s heard that it takes life-or-death scenarios to bring forth some thoughts and feelings that would otherwise remain repressed and buried forever. He never really thought much of that because he never expected it to happen to him. But now it has, and he realizes that all those people who claim that things like this bring forth unexplained emotions are absolutely, damnably right. He fuckin' hates it.
It’s the reason he’s sitting at Tim’s side in the stuffy hospital room. He hates hospitals but he’s there anyway, even though the doctor told him a few hours ago that Tim would be fine but wouldn’t wake up until the next day and that visiting hours ended awhile ago. He’s trying to figure things out. He replays the incident over and over again in his mind, at first vowing vengeance on Omar White but then shaking his head and sighing, realizing he can’t do anything, and he won’t. Tim will probably do something stupid like forgive the bastard, and he chuckles at that; it’s such a Tim thing to do.
His thoughts drift over how he felt when he saw Tim fall to the floor, how he felt when he was holding him. It’s intense, and he’s never admitted to feeling fear before, but it scares him. The first thing he thinks is that, well, of course I would have an intense reaction, Tim’s my best friend. But there’s a niggling doubt in his mind: that’s not all, is it? As taunting as the doubt is, plaguing him, it’s right. That’s not close to being all it is. He tries to rationalize with himself. He’s straight. As an arrow. Always has been and always will be. End of story. He wonders how many times he’ll have to repeat that in his mind before he actually believes it.
He sighs and stares at the man lying in the hospital bed, wondering why him, why now, and thinking that he’ll probably never figure it out.
“Sean?” Tim’s voice asks and he floats into consciousness. It takes him a moment to realize he must’ve fallen asleep at Tim’s side.
“Hey,” he says, standing up. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” Tim smirks. “I was trying for something exciting. Next time I’ll reconsider the stabbing.”
Murphy rolls his eyes. “Smart ass.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ah.” Murphy is suddenly interested the floor. “I got here last night.”
“You mean you stayed all night by my side? I didn’t know you cared.” Tim is grinning, which Murphy supposes is a good sign, even if he wants to throttle him. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t think this is a time for humor, but mostly because Tim is hitting too close to home with his joking.
“Keep it up and next time I won’t save your ass.”
Tim’s smile fades. “Thank you, by the way.”
Murphy’s eyes once again find the floor tiles. “I didn’t do much--just called for help. Besides, it’s not like I was gonna leave you there to bleed to death.” He wonders if how his voice cracked a little on the word ‘death’ was noticeable to Tim, and he hopes that it wasn’t. He doesn’t need Tim realizing anything before he’s had a chance to figure things out for himself.
“Still, thanks,” Tim replies, and Murphy nods.
“Right, well, I should get going. I still have to work and I have to get home so I can change and everything. Bye, Tim.” I’ll be back later today, he wants to add, but doesn’t because he thinks that would be giving too much away. Tim nods as he looks at him, a calculating expression on his face, and Murphy wonders if Tim didn’t hear it anyway.
Nine days later finds Tim finally out of the hospital, re-energized and revitalized. It’s nine days later and Murphy still has no idea what’s going on. He likes to think that he’s smart, so it frustrates him that he can’t figure this out. Does he really have some kind of feelings for Tim or is this just general concern for his best friend being taken out of context because of the stabbing? He wants to know and then he doesn’t, afraid of the answer.
He’s just gotten home to his apartment after a long day (but then, they’re all long) and he has kicked off his shoes, grabbed a beer, and is in the mood to relax and not deal with feelings or thoughts that are confusing as hell, when there’s a knock at his door. A quick glance through the peephole tells him it’s Tim, and he sighs before opening the door. “Tim?” he asks, trying not to let his irritation show; he doesn’t want to have to explain it.
“Uh, yeah, can I come in?”
“Sure,” Murphy replies, letting his friend into his apartment. “Was there something you needed?”
“Yeah, I needed to talk to you.”
“Okay,” he says. “Beer?” he asks, opening the refrigerator. Tim nods and Murphy hands him one. “What is it, Tim?” he wonders as they move to his living room area. Murphy sinks down on the couch and Tim sits next to him.
“That first day, when I was at the hospital—why did you stay overnight? I asked around; one of the nurses said that the doctor told you I wouldn’t wake up until the next day, but you refused to leave. Why?” Tim is looking at him and Murphy can’t deal with Tim trying to stare into his eyes right now; who knows what he’s already giving away through body language. Letting Tim look into his eyes would be tantamount to stenciling, Hey, Tim, I think I might be in love with you, here on his forehead.
He glances down at the floor, looks into his beer; anything to avoid Tim’s glance. “Ah, well, you know,” he mumbles, “I was worried.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Tim responds, taking a sip of his beer, and Murphy relaxes. It’s too soon. “At first,” he adds.
“At first? Tim, what the hell are you talking about?” Murphy tries to distract Tim by coloring his tone with his get to the point, already tone of annoyance, but he’s about half sure that Tim sees right through it. Tim looks right into his eyes again, and he finds the other half. Tim knows.
“One of the nurses heard you muttering your sleep. Do you often moan my name?” Tim’s eyebrow is raised and his expression is a mix between expectant and something indescribable.
Murphy winces and stands, sculling the last of his beer and walking to the kitchen to throw the can away. “You don’t recycle,” Tim comments casually, as if he hadn’t, just two seconds ago, pointed out something that has been plaguing Murphy for ten days straight—something that shakes him up inside.
Murphy laughs humorlessly at that. “No, I don’t.” He turns around and leans against the kitchen counter. “How long have you known?”
“Just now realized you don’t recycle,” Tim answers, standing up, and Murphy rolls his eyes, resisting the urge to strangle him. “As for the other thing: right after you left, the first time.”
“Tim, I don’t know—”
“You're a fucking liar. You know. You just don’t want to know.”
Murphy is silent, mostly because he knows Tim is right, but also because there isn’t really anything to say. “It’s difficult to accept,” he finally manages. Tim is right in front of him now, and the man shakes his head before giving him one of those piercing looks that makes him think he’s being looked through rather than at.
“Only if that’s how you make it,” Tim tells him, and he starts wondering about that, thinking that maybe Tim is right, when he’s being kissed, and kissed hard, and thoughts aren’t exactly his priority. A moment later, Tim pulls away, looking far too smug, and Murphy is stunned. “See?”
A grin curves on his lips. “Asshole.”
“It’s not ‘sweetheart,’ but it’ll do.” Tim smirks and Murphy's had enough. He pulls the infuriating man closer and kisses him roughly, smirking when he makes him gasp, and a minute later, moan.
There isn’t much talking after that.
It’s a few weeks later and Murphy's noticed Claire Howell slowly circling around he and Tim like the vulture she is; she has that sadistic smirk on her face that says she either knows something, thinks she knows something, or is planning on figuring something out. He doesn’t like any of these prospects, but there’s nothing he can do, so he sends her a glare every time he sees her and does his best to ignore it.
It’s been an interesting month, to say the least, and Murphy thinks he’s learned more about himself and Tim in this short time than he has in the rest of the time he's known him. It’s been confusing and surprising, some of which he could do without, (such as the fact that Tim can get really fucking irritating sometimes, even more so than he can get at work) some of which he rather likes, (like the sex that leaves him gasping for air, sated, and exhausted every time, plus the knowledge that Tim’s mouth is probably illegal somewhere) and altogether not what he's ever expected for his life.
He never expected to be sleeping with his male best friend, Tim “the staff slut” McManus, definitely, but he’s a reasonable man; that’s what he likes to think, anyway. He knows that sometimes, unexpected things are good.
And anything involving Tim McManus has ‘unexpected’ as a guarantee.