Work Text:
Connor could never get over how insane Boston went on St. Paddy’s. Like the Irish needed an excuse to get paralytic.
Everything was shamrocks and fucken green beer. Even Doc had a string of shiny shamrocks draped over the walls. It was disgusting.
Murphy didn’t give a rodent’s rectum. On the contrary, he proudly wore a tee-shirt that proclaimed “Kiss me – I’m Irish” and harangued everyone until he got one.
“I’ve got a St. Paddy’s giftie for ya later,” Murphy whispered loudly in Connor’s ear, his breath hot and smelling of cigarettes and whisky.
Connor grinned. Things were looking up.