Two Halves of the Same Soul

by devilishblacksheep

Probably a topic waay overdone, but in my opinion there can never be too many saints fics. After a job, their past follows them home, and tragedy ensues. Can Murphy handle a lifetime alone, or will he take matters into his own hands? M just to be safe

This is my first attempt at a Boondock Saints fic, so bear with me. I'd appreciate any feedback, good or bad, since I'm planning out another one and I want to know how to make it better. I know; it looks really long. I'm sorry, but I couldn't find any place to break it up, so this is what you get. Don't let the length dissuade you; it reads quick, honest.

Helpful notes: You don't have to read this part; you'll probably understand it fine if you don't know the foreign phrases. I just figured most of you would be interested, so I'll tell you what they mean ahead of time:

Ciach ort: Damn you (Irish Gaelic)

Go stróice an diabhal thú: May the Devil tear you (Irish Gaelic)

Pl'urat' na t'eb'a: Fuck you (Russian)

Gottverdammt: God damn it (German)

Bualadh craicinn: fucking – literally skin-hitting (Irish Gaelic)

Bastún: bastard (Irish Gaelic)

And now, on to the fic:

For the first time in his entire 28 years on God's green earth, Murphy McManus was completely alone. Not the kind of alone when you lay awake in bed at night because you can't fall asleep and everyone else is for all intents and purposes dead to the world, or the kind of alone when you're in the middle of a group of complete strangers. No, Murphy was alone, as in by himself, as in an occupant of a world devoid of anyone that mattered. Well, that wasn't entirely true; his Ma was back home in Ireland, and his Da was…somewhere. But in Boston, where he had finally settled into some semblance of a normal life as one of the Saints of South Boston, he was alone.

He never used to be; he had a twin brother, Connor, who he had shared almost every minute of every day with from the moment he was born. They were two halves of the same soul, two beings cut from the same cloth. Murphy was yin to Connor's yang, the dark to his light, and any other comparison that could be made. They did everything together, from learning how to walk at the same time to being introduced to the wonders of alcohol and cigarettes at the same time to countless other things. Wherever one was, the other wasn't far behind. It weirded a lot of people out, but it was how it was and always would be, from the time they were born to the day they died. Or, at least, that was how Murphy had always thought it would be.

The day started out like any other; they woke up in their small apartment in a less reputable part of the city (the only apartment they could afford with their meager paychecks; their "real" job didn't exactly pay well, and their job at the meat packing plant didn't give them much of an income either, even working as many hours a day as they could). They got up, showered, and ended up arguing over the lack of hot water again, which quickly became a good-natured wrestling match, with no clear victor. Business as usual. After tending to bleeding knuckles and scratches, it was time for a quick bowl of cereal and off to work. Again, nothing new. After work, they finished planning their latest job, a result of a tip from Smecker about a guy who had recently been released from prison where he had been sent for raping and murdering at least 10 teenage girls. The original sentence had been 10 consecutive life sentences, but the guy had been released after five years when it had been revealed to the prison administration that the man had friends in high places and things would get exponentially difficult if he wasn't released.

It went according to plan, at least to start. Connor and Murphy got to the address Smecker had given them, and got into the building with no problem. They even killed the guy without a hitch. It was only when they got back to their apartment that things went to shit.

Murphy knew something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on what exactly, but something just wasn't right. He unlocked the door, and they went in, replacing their rosaries on the hooks they had put in shortly after moving in. They removed their coats and placed their bags containing the assortment of guns, ammo, Murphy's knife, and of course, Connor's stupid rope, on their beds, fully intending to move it to a more concealed spot later. Of course, by the time later came it didn't much matter anymore.

It was like a scene from a movie; before they knew what was going on, two guys emerged from the bathroom, guns blazing. Murphy and Connor ducked as one, immediately moving towards the bags, hoping there was something that was still loaded. There was. Murphy found a gun, and tossed another to Connor when he came up empty. They returned fire, managing to kill one and injure the second. Just as they were congratulating themselves, a third guy entered through the open door, and began to shoot. Both brothers dropped to the floor, but only one rose. Murphy sat up and shot the intruder between the eyes, then turned to the other guy, who had managed to push himself to a sitting position and was reloading. Murphy glared at him, and the guy stopped what he was doing. "Why're ye here?" Murphy asked. "Who sent ye, and why the fuck are you in our apartment, and how the hell did ye get in here?"

The man looked at him, then, sighing, began to speak, tripping over his words in an effort to get them out before the brother lost his already waning patience. "Yakavetta. You didn't get everyone; Papa Joe's brother took over after you killed him. He knows a locksmith, and he got us a key. We were supposed to take you both out, as retribution." He looked over Murphy's shoulder to the body lying on the floor behind him. "Well, at least we got one of them," he said with a smirk. Murphy's glare intensified, and he fired once. He never saw it coming. Murphy then turned his attention to his brother, still lying on the floor.

"Connor?" he asked.

"Hmm?" The brother in question was lying on the floor, eyes closed, trying to cover up a hole in his stomach, and failing. The blood seeped around his fingers, staining them bright crimson, and was slowly soaking through his dark t-shirt. He opened his eyes halfway, staring at his brother crouched next to him, who was staring back.

Murphy pulled himself away from his brother's gaze, focusing instead on the damage. He immediately wished he hadn't; blood was everywhere. He carefully moved his brother's hands, needing to see what the bullet had done. It wasn't so bad, it was just a small hole. But the blood…there was just so much of it. He swallowed thickly, choking back the bile rising in his throat. That was one smell he had never gotten used to, even with all the killing he had done.

He pulled off his own t-shirt and used it to block the hole. Now if only he could find a phone. That was the important thing; if he could get to a phone, he could call an ambulance and everything would be okay. He shifted his attention away from the injury, and spoke to his brother. "Ye still here, Conn? Jus' hold this here, I'm gonna call an ambulance, an' they're gonna get ye all fixed up, aye?"

Connor shook his head.

"What d'ye mean, no? It's not that bad, honest. We've had worse; it's nothing. It just looks bad, that's all." He put Connor's hand over his balled up t-shirt. "Now hold this down." He lifted his hand, and Connor's slid off the bundle of cloth. "Come on, ye eejit. Listen to Murphy now. Ye have to hold it down, or else it won't help." He replaced Connor's hand, and kept his hand on top of Connor's.

"Murph…" Connor said weakly. "Ye know it's no use…"

"Just shut the fuck up! It's gonna be fine." Panic began to edge into his voice. In the back of his mind he knew that things were most certainly not going to be fine. But he had to try; after all, what if he was wrong? What if it really wasn't that bad? After all, he wasn't a doctor; he had never gone to medical school or taken a medical course. He only knew the most basic first aid, the kind of first aid they used on a regular basis, with bandages and antiseptic and cauterizing wounds so they wouldn't get infected. He was out of his range here.

Connor closed his eyes. "Oh, no ye don't! Yer not goin' anywhere. Not now."

Connor gave a soft chuckle and opened his eyes. "T'would seem I don't have much of a choice."

It was Murphy's turn to shake his head. "Don't even start. You'll be better afore ye know it, and we'll be back on the job, and…"

Connor reached up to put a comforting hand on Murphy's neck. "What's this? Macho Murph cryin' over me, and me not even in the ground yet?"

"I'm not cryin'," Murphy mumbled, wiping away a tear. "I don't know what yer talkin' about."

Connor gave a low chuckle. "Oh, aye. Ye've got something in yer eye, I'm sure."

"Don't go," Murphy said, so soft it was almost a whisper.

"As ye've told me so nicely, I'm not goin' anywhere. Leastways, not now."

"And as ye yerself said, ye don't have much choice in the matter."

"What happened to the optimistic Murph? I liked him better."

"I just…it's too soon. I'm not ready."

Connor shook his head. "That's how it goes. We knew goin' into this that somethin' like this might happen. Fuck, 'twas only a matter o' time."

"But, why now?"

Connor sighed. "I don't know, Murph, I don't know. God's plan, I s'ppose. It's not for us to know."

"Well, Jesus fuckin' Christ, what the hell kind of a plan is that? He gave us both this mission, we've been doin' this less than a year, and we've been doin' His work that entire time. What, was it not good enough, did we do somethin' wrong?"

"Lord's fuckin' name," Connor said with a small smile.

"Hail Mary, full o' grace," Murphy mumbled, crossing himself. The words came unbidden, on reflex.

"I don't know, Murph. I'm wonderin' the same thing meself. Maybe it's His way o' telling us ta be more careful, or maybe a way o' gettin' us to pick up the pace, I don't know. Believe it or not, while I may be the older one, I don't have all the answers."

"No, I'm the older one," Murphy said, forcing a smile.

Connor smiled back, and winced. He coughed, bringing up clotted blood, which he tried to hide in his hand, but Murphy noticed anyway. "Time almost up?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

"I think so," Connor said quietly. He wheezed a little, then forced himself to breathe slower. In and out, in and out.

Murphy watched the labored rise and fall of his brother's chest, completely numb. This wasn't happening; it couldn't, not to Connor. To the men they killed, sure; Murphy had seen it happen hundreds of time, and had gotten a sick enjoyment out of the knowledge that those men had paid for their sins. But Connor? No, he was supposed to be around longer, they were supposed to die together. He didn't have a problem with the way of it; that he was expecting, it was a warrior's death and noble. But they were supposed to go down in a hail of bullets, side by side, like in the movies, not like this.

He clasped Connor's hand that still lay warm and comforting on his neck. "Okay."

"That's it? All this cryin' and protestin', and now all ye can say is 'okay'?"

Murphy shrugged. "It's your time, not mine. Nothin' I can do about it, and all the complainin' I could do won't change anythin'. So I'll sit here, and stay 'til ye go. And my revenge killin's already done, so I don't even have to worry about that."

"Wow. My wee Murphy's all grown up." He chuckled softly. Connor closed his eyes, and relaxed.

"Conn?"

"Still here, Murph." Murphy sighed in relief. Connor shivered. "I could use a blanket though. I'm freezin'."

Murphy nodded and crossed the room to the pile of blankets on the floor. He picked up the first one he saw, and returned to his brother's side, gently covering him from the chest down with the blanket. Connor gave a small smile. "Thanks," he said, his voice faint.

Murphy wanted to wake him up more, but he knew that the shock was probably better for him. At least it would be painless. Connor reached for Murphy's hand, and Murphy grasped his firmly. He listened intently, following Connor's breathing. In, out. In, out. In….out. The length of time between inhale and exhale lengthened, and Murphy unconsciously fell into the same rhythm, anxiously waiting for the exhale after every breath. "Murph,"

"Yeah, Conn?"

"Love ye,"

"I know. Love ye too." Murphy tried to keep the grief from his voice, but some of it seeped in anyway.

"I'll be waitin' fer ye on the other side."

"I know. I'll see ye there."

In….out. In……out. In………..out. Murphy's hand had fallen from the blood-soaked t-shirt covering Connor's wound, his body realizing the futility of his actions before his mind. He now leaned his head against their clasped hands, oblivious to the blood coating them both that was now staining his forehead. All that mattered was Connor.

The next breath seemed to take forever. Connor took a shuddering breath, and Murphy held his breath until Connor let it out. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Connor took another breath, and let it out, but didn't take another one. Murphy waited for a full three minutes, holding his breath until he had to gaspingly take another one, but Connor did not do the same. "Conn? Connor?"

There was no response. "C'mon, Connor, open yer eyes, I know yer there. Please, c'mon…" Murphy knew it was a pointless attempt, there was nothing left of his brother in the body lying next to him, but he didn't want it to be true. He patted Connor's cheek, thinking maybe he was just asleep, or it was an elaborate joke and he would sit up and be teasing Murphy about how he had fallen for it, but Connor still didn't stir. It was real, Connor wasn't faking.

Something broke inside him. He tapped Connor's body with the toe of his boot once, as if verifying once again that this was real, then tapped him again a little harder. The next time was even harder, and before he knew it, he was kicking the body as if it had done something to him. "Ye can't fuckin' do this to me, ye bastard! What the fuck am I s'posed to do now?" He started yelling, almost without realizing, venting his frustration. Mid kick he lost his footing, and fell to his knees, at which point he began pounding on the body with his fists. "Ciach ort!" Pound. "Go stróice an diabhal thú!" Pound. "Pl'urat' ha t'eb'a!" Pound. "Gottverdammt!" Pound. He swore in every language he knew, calling Connor every horrible thing he could think of and questioning everything from his sexual preference to his intelligence, and a few other things besides. The tears Murphy had been holding back finally broke through and fell, making rivulets through the blood on his face. He didn't try to hold back as huge sobs wracked his frame. His vision blurred, and he let the grief wash over him, crying until there was nothing left but a hollow emptiness. Murphy shook his head, clearing it of his anger at the situation. It wasn't Connor's fault, after all. He squeezed Connor's limp hand one last time. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

He carefully crossed Connor's arms over his chest and pulled the blanket back up so it covered the wound. He walked over to the rosaries hanging on the wall and grabbed Connor's, then took two coins from his jacket pocket. He returned to Connor's body and put the rosary in Connor's hand, then put his hand over Connor's mouth and kissed the back of his hand, and placed a coin over each eye. "And shepherds we shall be, for thee my Lord, for thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. En nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti." He crossed himself and stood up.

He called Smecker after paying his respects to Connor, and told him what had happened. Smecker came over within a few minutes, knowing that Murphy would be better off for now if he wasn't left entirely by himself for at least a few days; while Murphy was a good Catholic, he would probably risk his immortal soul if it would mean he would be with his twin, and while Smecker himself wasn't religious, he couldn't let the grieving brother do that to himself.

So Smecker came after getting Murphy's call, and entered the apartment despite his protests. He knelt next to the body and paid his respects in his own way, then stood up. "How're you holding up?"

Murphy snorted. "How the fuck d'ye think I'm holdin' up?" He shot Smecker a glare and returned his attention to the bottle of whiskey he had pulled from the fridge after calling the detective. "I jes' watched my fuckin' brother die in our fuckin' apartment 'cause some bualadh craicinn hotshot bastún decided he wanted ta be a fuckin' Mafioso. How the fuck would ye be doin' after tha'?" His words slurred and his brogue thickened with the effects of the alcohol and his grief, making Smecker work twice as hard to decipher what the Irishman said.

Murphy lifted the bottle up to his lips to take another swig, but Smecker grabbed his wrist before it made it all the way there. "And you think getting trashed is going to help? It won't bring him back, you know."

Murphy grunted. "It may not, but it'll dull the pain some." He pulled out of Smecker's grip and finished the action, barely noticing the burn as the liquor traveled down his throat.

Smecker sighed, realizing that there wasn't much he could do at the moment other than get the body out of the building and try to prevent the precinct from investigating. He stood. "I'm going to get some guys to take Connor's body to the morgue; it's not healthy for it to sit here for days." Murphy nodded vaguely. "I'll make sure they don't look into it too much; you don't need any more attention from the cops than you've got already." Again Murphy nodded. Smecker opened his mouth again, trying to think of something comforting to say, but since he was never one for that touchy-feely crap, he closed it, instead clapping Murphy on the back. "If you need anything, feel free to give me a call. You have the number." Murphy grunted noncommittally. Smecker shook his head, silently cursing Murphy's unresponsiveness, and left the apartment. "And put on a friggin' shirt," he muttered under his breath.

The first night was the hardest. Murphy lay down on his mattress, staring at the ceiling. He had finished two bottles of whiskey and an entire 6-pack of Guinness, and was thoroughly drunk, but not enough to pass out. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough booze in the apartment for that, so here he was, trying to sleep but failing miserably. He kept playing the scenario over and over in his head, thinking of all the things he could have done, should have done, that might have made things end differently. But it all ended the same way; he would open his eyes and look over at the mattress next to him, and it was empty. He had grabbed his own rosary off the hook by the door, and he now sat up and began rolling the beads between his fingers, his mouth moving mechanically in the prayers that had been drilled into his head as a kid. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. And give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…" He let out a harsh laugh that echoed off the walls. "Where the fuck are Ye now? Huh? Where were Ye when Connor was bleedin' ta death? Yer supposed ta deliver us from evil, not deliver it to us!" He looked up at the ceiling, staring at it as if it could give him the answers he needed. "What did I do? Tell me and I'll fix it, just…why did Ye have to take him? He was all I had here, and now…" His voice cracked and he fell silent, tears coursing down his cheeks. He looked down at the rosary in his hand, and threw it across the room with a yell. "Now I have nothing," he finished quietly.

He strained his ears, desperately hoping to hear Connor moving around, but there was nothing but the silence and the dark and the sounds of the city at night. He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head and tried to block all his thoughts out, but it didn't help. He counted sheep, counted backwards from 50 (okay, so he missed half the numbers; he was drunk, and couldn't be expected to remember them all), contracted and relaxed his muscles starting with his toes and ending with his jaw, but nothing. He envisioned himself in a field with trees and bushes, noting every detail, but all it did was remind him how far he was from home and that he was alone. Thinking about home, he remembered that he hadn't even called his ma to tell her the news, so he got up and carefully walked over to the phone. He sat down on the lumpy old couch that he and Connor had bought at a flea market for $5 their first week in the States, and picked up the phone, pushing the memory away. He carefully dialed the number of his ma's house, and waited for what seemed forever until she picked up. "H'llo?"

"Hey, Ma. It's Murphy."

"I know who it is; I should, after all, since I did carry ye and yer brother around in my belly for 9 months…" Before she could get started on her usual tirade about how much of a disappointment they were to her, Murphy cut her off.

"Uh, Ma? I've got somethin' ta tell ye…" His voice faltered, and his mother immediately sobered up. "What is it? Come on, don't be dancin' around it, boy, what?"

Murphy took a deep breath. "It's about Connor, Ma. He…"

"What did he do now? Get himself beat up by a girl again? Spit it out."

"He…he got shot." His mother attempted to interrupt again, but Murphy steamrolled over her. He knew that if he didn't get it out now he never would. "We did a job a few months ago, killed a Mafioso who was goin' ta get off, but his brother apparently took over, and he got someone ta come after us. Connor…he got shot, Ma. It was pretty bad. He…"

"He died." Her voice was hollow, emotionless.

"Aye. In the flat. I tried to help, honest, but there was so much blood…there was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could have done." The other side of the line was quiet. "Ma?"

"I'm here."

"I'm sorry, Ma."

"Did ye do it?"

Murphy sputtered. "No, a'course not!"

"Then why're ye apologizin'?"

"'Cuz maybe, if I had done somethin' different…"

"It might be him on the phone tellin' me 'twas ye who had been killed, not the other way 'round."

Murphy swallowed hard. He had thought that, had even wished the roles were reversed; he felt it would be easier to be dead than to be the one left behind. But he didn't voice his thoughts, as that would only start another lecture, something he didn't feel up to dealing with at the moment.

"Murph."

"Yes, Ma?"

"Have ye been drinkin'?"

What kind of a question was that? He paused, contemplating how to answer. "Yes, Ma." He saw no reason in lying; he was Irish, it was nothing new. It was a rare day that he didn't have at least one beer.

"More so than usual?"

Murphy sputtered. "Ma! Not really… I mean, maybe a wee bit, but…" As always, it was hard to outright lie to his Ma; even if she was thousands of miles away, he still felt her eyes staring at him.

"Listen ta me. Don't beat yerself up over this. Ye said there was nothin' ye could have done, and I believe ye. 'Twould be a shame to lose both me sons in one day, one to the gun and one to the drink. It's over and done with, nothin' we can do about it now. I know how close ye were, but he wouldn't want ye to dwell on this."

He sighed. "I know, Ma."

"Alright. Now, I'll stop harpin'. Just go have a kip, it'll all look better tomorrow. And if ye have need, there's always room fer ye here."

"Thanks, Ma."

"And Murphy?"

"Yes Ma?"

"I love ye."

"Love ye too, Ma."

"Alright. Now goodnight. Call me if ye need anythin'."

"Yes, Mother."

"And don't do anythin' stupid."

"Yes, Mother."

"Promise me."

"I promise." Murphy tried not to sound too impatient, but with the alcohol it was a little difficult.

"Alright. G'night."

"G'night." He hung up and crossed the room, flopping down on his mattress. He tossed and turned for a few hours, unable to get to sleep. He looked over at Connor's mattress again, and stared at it. He finally made a decision, and crawled over to the other mattress. He lay down where his brother had not twelve hours ago, and wrapped himself up in the blankets. The mattress was cold, not that he had expected any different. He buried his face in the pillow, inhaling the scent of his brother that still remained. For the first time that night, he was able to fall asleep.

He awoke the next morning from the grips of a nightmare with his brother's name on his lips. He had dreamed that Connor had died, that he had been shot, that Murphy had sat there and watched it happen. He clutched the blankets with a white-knuckle death grip, biting his lip to keep from calling out. He didn't need any more teasing from Connor about the ridiculous dreams he had.

He had always been the more…imaginative one. There had been many a night when they were younger that he had woken up from nightmares so terrible and horrifying that he couldn't sleep for hours. Connor had understood, and had always been there to assure him that it was only a dream, there was no werewolf outside that was going to tear them to pieces, no serial killer lurking under the bed, no boogeyman in the closet, that everything was alright. He would always let Murphy crawl into bed with him, even though it got awfully crowded with the two of them, and would tell jokes or just stroke his hair until he fell asleep. He never complained, not once. Sure, he would tease Murphy about it a little, but he never complained or made Murphy feel like a wuss. It was understood between them, even though Murphy would deny it to his dying day, that Connor was the older of them; Connor watched out for Murphy when he couldn't do it himself, and was always there to provide comfort when he needed it. Of course, Murphy did the same for Connor, but it wasn't quite the same; Connor needed it less than he did.

Murphy took a deep breath, and looked around the room. He looked to the right, and saw his own mattress. With the beginnings of a hangover fogging his brain, he couldn't quite manage to put the pieces together until he saw that Connor's rosary was missing from its hook next to the door. "The fuck?" he muttered under his breath. "Connor?" he said, a little louder. There was no response. "Hey, Bronson, where the fuck are ye?" Still no response. Finally his brain put the pieces together, and the events of the previous night came rushing back. Images of three gunmen, of Connor covered in his own blood, Connor dead, Smecker and the coroner taking Connor's body away. They swirled around in his brain, mixing and melding until he didn't know where one stopped and the next began. The hangover certainly didn't help. The next thing he knew he was bent over the toilet, his body going through as much of a catharsis as his mind was. He retched and gagged until his throat was raw, not actually puking anything since he hadn't eaten since, well, he couldn't remember when. Breakfast yesterday? That recently? It felt like ages since then. His stomach finally let up and he lay down on the floor, pressing his forehead to the cold tile. Murphy felt empty. Empty and numb. It could have been worse, he supposed, but he wasn't sure what worse would feel like. Hell, he didn't want to imagine what worse would feel like. He sat up, reluctant to do anything that would jostle his now-pounding head, but he knew he couldn't lay around and feel sorry for himself all day. He needed to eat something, and he was in need of a cigarette in the worst way.

He poured out a shot of vodka he found in a cabinet that had somehow managed to escape his search the previous night, and downed it immediately. He felt a little better; at least the hangover was gone. Next thing, food. He wasn't hungry, but he had to eat. He found a package of biscuits in another cabinet, and opened it and placed it on the table next to the vodka. He grabbed one and ate it, barely tasting it. Chips Ahoy and vodka, breakfast of champions. Or grieving Irishmen, anyway. He managed a dry laugh. Next thing, a cigarette. He went through the pockets of his coat, ignoring the carton that was out on the table by the bed. That was Connor's. He found a crunched box in the inside pocket, and automatically grabbed two of them and lit them with trembling fingers, almost dropping them in the process. He put one in his mouth then looked down at his hand, which still held a lit cigarette. "Fuck." It was something that had become just as much of a habit as the smoking itself; when he grabbed one for himself, he always either lit a second one for Connor or at least offered him one, and Connor had done the same for Murphy. And now it was a pointless action, since the one the second was intended for obviously wasn't going to be smoking any time soon. He put the one in his hand out on his arm, hissing in pain. Waste not want not; there was no point in ruining a perfectly good cigarette by crushing it against the floor when it hadn't even been smoked. He put the cigarette back in the box and put it back in his coat pocket.

He then went over to the bags of guns that he had carelessly pushed off the mattresses the previous night and opened his bag. He found the gun he had used the previous night, and, finding that the magazine was empty, he reloaded. He wasn't going to use it, he just wanted to be ready in case he needed it. With the life they – he – lived, you never knew.

He walked back over to the table and put the gun down in front of him. He stared at it, taking in every detail of the gun without really noticing. The gun had failed him. He had failed himself. He had failed Connor. He had tried to take them all out, but he had failed. Connor had been so busy protecting him that he hadn't seen the other guy, the guy that Murphy should have seen. They were brothers, they had spent their entire lives looking out for each other, and look where it had gotten them. The one time it mattered, the one time where Connor couldn't defend himself, Murphy hadn't stepped up to do it himself. Never mind that there had been plenty of times since they had started the whole Saints business that Murphy had been there to watch Connor's back when it counted. The only time that mattered was the last one, and he had fucked that up royally.

He lifted the gun, staring down the barrel. He wasn't going to shoot it, he just wanted to look. He wanted to see what Connor had seen. Sure, he had stared down a barrel before, but that was different. He had known it wasn't his time, and the memory had dulled some as the months passed. He cocked the gun. He wanted to feel what Connor had felt.

And that was when there was a knock on the door, ruining the moment. He tried to ignore it, but it only got louder until Murphy finally put the gun down and got up to answer it. He reluctantly opened the door, and peered out into the hallway. "Smecker."

"Hey, Murphy. I just figured I'd stop by, see how you were doing."

Murphy gave him a blank look. "And ye thought I'd be doing…better, did ye?"

Smecker hesitated. "Well, no, not really. But I figured you could use the company." Murphy shrugged and re-entered the apartment, returning to his chair at the table. He tried to hide the gun in the half-empty package of biscuits, but he wasn't fast enough.

"Jesus Christ, Murphy, what's with the gun?" Murphy mumbled something indecipherable.

"What was that? I didn't hear you. Say it out loud or keep quiet; I've got no patience for mumblers."

"Ye never know when ye'll need a gun…"

"Uh-huh. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you're drunk and your brother just died."

Murphy was quiet for a minute. "God doesn't like suicides."

"And the thought never crossed your mind, because you're such a good little Catholic."

Murphy grunted. "I didn't do it, though, did I?"

"Only because I wouldn't stop knocking on the door until you answered it!"

"Shut up. Ye've no fuckin' right…" Murphy lifted his head to glare at Smecker with red-rimmed eyes.

"Oh, so you think you're the only one who's ever lost anyone, do you?" Smecker snorted. "You're not the first, and I can assure you, you won't be the last." He stared Murphy straight in the eyes. He wanted to look away; it was horrible. Even though they were dull, no longer the shining balls of mischief he had come to expect over the past few months, he could see the depth of pain the younger man felt. He looked lost, alone, hurt, like a puppy that had just been kicked. For the first time in his life Smecker actually wanted to comfort someone, to take away the other man's pain. He wouldn't, mainly because he knew the Irishman wouldn't accept it and the moment was awkward enough already. He settled for pulling the gun away from Murphy, who had unthinkingly gripped it again. He awkwardly put a hand on Murphy's neck, as he had seen the brothers do often, and smiled inside when he felt Murphy try to suppress a flinch. "It'll get better, I promise."

Murphy gave him a doubting look, but Smecker nodded his head, then got up and left. "Nice chatting with you."

The days after that were a blur. Nothing mattered; Murphy barely ate, drank more than ever, and had managed to expand to two packs of cigarettes a day by the end of the first week. Smecker had said it would get better, but Murphy didn't think the hole would ever go away, so he dealt the best way he knew how. He went to McGinty's most nights, drank himself into a semi-consciousness that increasingly became his normal state of existence, and would pick fights with whoever was closest. These fights never lasted as long as Murphy would have liked; Doc kept an eye on his regulars, and as soon as it looked like Murphy was going to beat the other guy into a bloody pulp, or that Murphy himself was getting beaten into said bloody pulp, he'd step in and forcefully ask the men to leave. "S-s-sorry, M-murph," he said one night after a particularly bloody fight. "Ye have to go now; I c-c-can't have ye beatin' up all my c-c-c-cus- patrons…b-b-bad fer b-b-business, ye know." Murphy nodded, spitting blood on the floor and wiping his mouth with the back of an equally bloody hand. "I understan'. Sorry, Doc." Doc waved vaguely and ushered him out of the pub. "Ye won't b-be d-d-drivin', right?"

Murphy smiled wryly. "Seein' as how I sold the car yesterday ta pay rent, that would be a mite difficult." Doc nodded. "Alright. S-see ye tomorrow then."

Before, Murphy would have cleaned out the cuts on his hands and bandaged them, would have rolled into bed to sleep it off, probably would have never gotten into the situation in the first place. But it was after, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

He began searching for jobs again. He asked Smecker for news about any potential targets, and scoured the newspaper for articles about rapists, murderers, anyone who fit the profile. He found job after job, and began taking them on himself, ignoring Smecker's protests about how he would get himself killed. Murphy didn't care; after all, he had nothing to live for now, right? He had no idea where his Da was, and even if he did, he had been in the twins' lives so little that it wouldn't much matter. And his Ma, well, she would understand. He hoped.

He began doing one job every couple of days, instead of the few every couple of weeks he and Connor had been doing. With each job, he became more and more reckless. He planned less and less, only concerned that all the marks met their maker. Connor had always been the one more concerned about planning anyway; Murphy would have been content to wing it every time, but Connor had wanted to know who would be where when. No surprises.

He walked into the warehouse, taking care that he at least managed to get into the building without getting killed. He snuck to the second level, where he could see all the scum standing around, having some sort of meeting. He counted ten, maybe twelve guys. Before he would have actually paid attention to what they were talking about, knowing that it would help with potential jobs in the future, but today the only thing on his mind was vengeance. Although he still did all the little things that marked their work, like the prayer and the coins, doing the Lord's work was no longer the first thing on his mind when he killed. He did it for Connor. Every job was for Connor, every bullet that found its target was payback for his death. It didn't matter that most of them had nothing to do with the men that had killed him; it was enough that they were all the same kind of people, all murderers or drug dealers or rapists or child molesters, the dregs of society.

He pulled his guns out of his duffel bag, attaching the silencers and checking the magazines. He strapped a few to his chest, stuck a few in the waistband of his pants, and picked up a pair for now. He checked to make sure his knife was in his boot, then climbed to the top of the railing. He launched himself from the balcony, landing on an unsuspecting man below, and opened fire after rolling to his feet. For a minute or so, he was untouchable. He just stood there, firing round after round, all thoughts focused on the task at hand, while the men he had dropped in on looked on in surprise as one by one they fell.

Twelve dropped to ten, which dropped to six. And still Murphy stood, perfectly silent. The chambers of his guns clicked, and he dropped them and reached for two more, not missing a beat. A voice floated out from a corner, and a man walked out of the shadows. "Come on, what are you doing, you idiots? He is only one man; SHOOT HIM!!" The moment passed, and the remaining men found their own guns and began to return fire, moving for cover as they did so. And still Murphy stood.

Finally, four dead bodies and another pair of guns later, Murphy staggered as a bullet from an enemy gun found its target. It wasn't serious, only piercing his left shoulder, but it was enough to cause him to drop a gun as the muscles in his hand went limp. He swore, and shifted his attention back to the scene in front of him, spraying the room with bullets.

A man walked into the middle of the room, ignoring Murphy's increasingly erratic attempts to eliminate all the men. "So, you are de Saint dat escaped my retribution. You are good, I will give you dat; you killed some of my best men. But you are deeply upset. I can tell; it makes you reckless. Reckless men are killed easily."

It suddenly dawned on him who the man standing in front of him was. "Ye bastard!" For the first time that night Murphy spoke. "Yer guy shot him in tha back! Like a fuckin' dog!"

"And dat is what you are, no? Poor men who try to purge their evil by eliminating it in others. 'He who sheds man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed,' no? Do you think this somehow does not apply to you? That somehow, because God Himself has given you your task, you are exempt from His laws? No; everyone must obey them, no exceptions. You and your brother are just sad, pathetic men who killed evil men so they wouldn't have to be confronted wit the fact that they are just as evil as the men they kill."

"That's a lie! Ye take that back!" Murphy began to shake, partially in cold fury and partially in fear that Yakavetta's words were right. Yakavetta just gave him a knowing smile.

Murphy launched himself at the man, pulling out one of the guns from his waistband and firing repeatedly. "Ye fuckin' bastard! Ye killed me fuckin' brother! I hope ye fuckin' burn in hell!" He continued to fire into the man long after he was dead, until the clip was empty and the chamber clicked insistently. He dropped the gun and began using his fists, ignoring the other men in the room, who, at his outburst, had frozen. He pummeled the man below him until his knuckles bled, screaming Connor's name over and over, his voice raw and anguished. Tears flowed down his face, mingling with the blood from Yakavetta. His screams gradually died down to sobs, then a forlorn keening as he realized he had finally ended it. The man who was responsible for Connor's death was dead, it was over. And he was still alone. He straightened up and shot each of the men watching him, and nodded in satisfaction as each tumbled to the floor.

The last surviving member of the Yakavetta family rose from his place on the floor where he had watched the scene unfold from a relatively safe position. He pulled his gun from a shoulder holster and, taking careful aim, shot the man who had caused this carnage.

Murphy almost didn't notice the bullet wound blossoming from his chest. He was so numb from the night's events that he only realized he had been shot when the man advanced on him, the gun still pointed at him. Murphy looked down at the quickly spreading stain on his shirt, then up at the man in front of him, then back at the stain. He lifted the hand that he still had control over to touch it. It was wet. He pulled his hand away, staring at his blood-stained fingers incredulously. "Huh," he said hollowly as his legs gave out beneath him.

"Don't move," the man said.

Murphy raised an eyebrow. "D'ye really think I'm gonna run? I doubt I'd get ten feet, honestly."

"You killed my uncle," he said accusingly, the gun in his hand wavering. The man was a younger guy, younger than Murphy.

He shook his head ruefully. "Yer all related, aren't ye." The man said nothing, just continued to stare at Murphy, surprised that he was still conscious. "Anyway, he killed me brother. Plus, he was a fuckin' bastard." He coughed a few times, bringing up blood. "Ye should go," he said. "Someone must have heard the shots; it's only a matter o' time afore the cops show up."

"You're not going to kill me?"

"No, ye seem like a good kid. Just do somethin' with yerself, alright? Promise me that." His words came out with some difficulty. The kid must have gotten a lung; it was getting hard to breathe. And he felt cold. He shivered, the sensation bringing him back to the day Connor had died. The kid gave him a concerned look. Murphy shook his head. "Don't worry about me. Just get yerself outtta here." The kid didn't move, instead looking guilty. "I don't blame ye; ye were getting' payback fer yer uncle. I understand, probably better than ye do. It's alright." He waved impatiently at the kid. He didn't need to see this, and it would probably be better if he didn't; it was bad enough that he knew he killed someone, he didn't need to actually watch it happen.

The kid finally turned and left, looking back one more time at Murphy. He waved vaguely again, this time with a little less energy. It was getting awfully hard to stay awake. But he wasn't quite ready to go quite yet.

He pushed himself to a sitting position, then somehow managed to force himself to his feet. He reached into his pockets for the coins, and began the process of paying his respects to those he had killed. He stumbled often and fell a few times, but each time he managed to get back on his feet, and after what seemed an eternity, the job was done. He sat down on the floor and recited his family's prayer for the last time. "And shepherds we shall be, for Thee my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. En nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti." He had to stop twice to cough, each time bringing up blood.

Now he was ready. He had been afraid the past few weeks, afraid of what an entire life without Connor would be like, and now he didn't have to be afraid anymore; he was going to join his brother, wherever he was. Everything was right again.

He lay down on the concrete floor and closed his eyes, silently thanking the kid and apologizing to his Ma and Da. They would understand. It would be hard, but they would understand. Connor and Murphy were like peanut butter and jelly, like fish and chips, like cigarettes and whiskey; you could have one without the other, but it just wasn't right. I'm comin', Conn, he thought. He took a shuddering breath, and let go, letting the dark envelop him for the last time, a smile on his lips.

Death of Saints Shocks City

Boston – Yesterday one of the men now confirmed as the "Saints of South Boston," the men responsible for a string of vigilante killings in South Boston, was found dead in an abandoned warehouse surrounded by twelve other men, confirmed as Antonio Yakavetta, brother of notorious crime boss Giuseppe "Papa Joe" Yakavetta, and eleven other minor members of the Yakavetta family. The "Saint" found at the scene was one Murphy MacManus, twin brother of Connor MacManus, who died two weeks ago in an ambush in the brothers' apartment, and son of the notorious "Il Duce", who disappeared soon after the incident in a local courtroom where "Papa Joe" was killed by the "Saints" last year during his trial. The news has hit the city hard, where the "Saint's" actions were seen by most as a Godsend. "They were good boys, they did good work," said FBI agent Paul Smecker. Smecker was originally put on the case of the brothers when three bodies were found in an alley in South Boston. It was determined that the men in the alley were low level soldiers for the Russian Crime Syndicate, and that the brothers had killed the men in self-defense.

The "Saints of South Boston" were known for killing men who had failed to be apprehended by the justice department, most often members of various mafia families in the Boston area. Detective Greenley said in a public statement this morning that MacManus had likely entered the warehouse to kill all remaining members of the Yakavetta family, and fell when he was shot by Yakavetta. He returned fire, killing Yakavetta, but was shot by a second shooter and died. The second shooter has not as of yet been identified, but local police are making every effort to find the killer and bring him to justice.

There will be a public memorial service for both brothers Tuesday at noon at Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Interested parties can pay their respects from 8 AM to 10 PM from Wednesday to Sunday, where a public memorial will be erected outside the church.

Yes, I know; the church they went to in the movie is definitely not Saint Patrick's, but, seeing as Catholic churches wouldn't allow filming inside them and the name of the church is never specified (the church used in the movie is Protestant, not Catholic, so I couldn't very well use the name of the actual church), I have poetic license to say that it was Saint Patrick's, no matter how cliché it may be. So there. And yes, I know there is no way to know the Italian guys are Italian, but something got seriously lost in translation when I attempted it. Irish I can do, Italian not so much. No matter how many times I watch the movie. On an unrelated note, I feel accomplished; I have finally joined the ranks of people who have killed off a canon character…go me. Yeah, no. Let me know how it reads; I'm curious to see how I did.