Five days. That was how long Connor had been staring at the man who had stolen his brother's face. The two men had barely spoken to each other, save the typical salutations which were only reserved for when they were in front of the rest of the group. But Connor could just not believe what his eyes were seeing.

"Connor, what exactly is ye obsession with that fucker wit' me face?" Murph asked when they were in the woods alone.

"I don't know what yer talkin' 'bout, Murph," he replied, continuing to pick up the needed wood for their fire that evening. It was a simple task that the brothers had taken on when they joined the group at the rock quarry, stumbling upon Daryl out in the woods. Aside from being extremely awkward around the redneck given his face, he deemed them not a real threat and offered to take them back.

"Ye can't stop staring at 'im. I see ye, ye know." Murphy bent down to grab a large branch, nearly dropping everything he had already gathered, but he wouldn't let the topic drop.

Connor shrugged. "He looks exactly like ye, Murph. How could I not stare? It's like he could be yer twin 'stead of me." Really, he just found the other man fascinating and he wanted to know more about him and his damn crossbow, but it was so much more than that and he couldn't tell his Murph that.

Murphy stopped walking. He could feel his brother thinking, a never-ending curse of their being twins. "Ye interested? Because he has me face, Connor? Ye think about him like that?"

He stopped, turning to look at his brother for a split second, arms full of fallen branches and sticks. The answers to every question Murphy hadn't dared ask were in that look of shame as Connor looked from him down to the ground and back up at the trees around them. "We should be getting back, yeah? They'll be lookin' fer us soon." Connor couldn't answer his brother's question vocally, but he knew he'd feel his answer in his soul and there was nothing he could do to stop the hurt that would encompass his heart.

Later that night, Connor lay awake in their tent, staring up at the nylon ceiling. His brother was burrowed into his side, sleeping peacefully with his head on his chest. He counted the breaths Murphy made against his sensitive skin, thanking God that they were both still alive and had been found by this group of decent people. At the same time, he wondered about the magicalness of it all. Running his hand down his brother's nude back, he knew what they wanted was a sin and they had taken every course of action to be "together" without actually being together, but a heavy makeout session and mutual masterbation does not satisfy what they really want. Was Daryl's existence a gift from God? Would they run into someone who looked like him for Murphy?

Granted, homosexuality was also a sin. Thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman and all that jazz, but why would God put these impure thoughts in his head so consistently and put matching ones in that of his brother?

Murphy stirred on his chest, rubbing his face along his skin before sitting up. "Stop ye thinkin' so fockin' loud. Some of us are tryin' to sleep," he grumbled before rolling over onto his back, mimicking his brother's pose. "Whatcha thinkin' about anyway, Connor?"

"Daryl," he answered honestly. "Gift sent from heaven, aye? Maybe now we can find a Connor-lookalike for ye."

"Fock off!" His brother shoved him playfully, growing quiet again for awhile before asking, "Ye thinkin' about makin' a move on him?"

Connor shrugged. "Don't know if he's into the whole…" he motioned his fingers between the two of them. "But it wouldn't be a gift from God if he wasn't. Suppose that's the only way to tell if he's heaven sent fer me."

Murphy shifted awkwardly on their makeshift bed. "Don't ye love me anymore more?" he asked softly. "Is it not enough for ye? I told ye I'd be willin'-"

Connor sat up on his elbow to look down into the matching blue eyes of his twin, interrupting his declaration. "Aye, I do love ye. More than me own life. 'S why I feel like this is a blessing. That way yer saved from the firey pits of hell from our sinful lust, Murph."

"I don't want to be in heaven without ye, Connor. I love ye too fockin' much to let ye go to hell by yerself. I'd gladly take the punishment with ye."

Connor shook his head. "No, ye need to be with Da. Who knows? Maybe Ma made it to heaven. She's probably waitin' on ye to do some chores, ya lazy focker."

Murphy hit him again, eliciting a push and shove match between the two brothers before a voice from another tent called out to them to knock it off. At that point the other survivors of the group had grown used to the twins fighting between each other and either ignored them or told them to quit, much like their ma had done during their childhood.

The next morning, Connor decided he would at least attempt to make his move. He was the first person up and was brushing his teeth when Daryl appeared from his tent. They both nodded a short greeting as the hunter stalked off into the woods, coming back only a minute later. "Oy," Connor called out to him as he went back to his truck. "Goin' huntin' this morning?" Daryl just nodded. "Mind if I join ye?" He smiled brightly, leaning against the picnic table Daryl had stopped at to adjust his crossbow. He really was shit at this whole flirting thing, but he knew how to interact with other people to get them to trust him. Connor MacManus was a professional charmer.

Daryl just looked at him before returning to his quiver and crossbow and slinging them both onto his back. "Better on mah own," he gruffed and headed towards the woods.

"Aye, ye might be, but who'll watch yer back while yer sittin' on some squirrels, eh? I'm as quiet as a church mouse, ye know that. Plus I need to get out of this fockin' place."

Daryl huffed, looking over towards the Grimes' tent as Rick and Lori crawled out, leaving Carl to sleep a bit longer. A silent look was passed between the two men, extending longer than Connor thought customary, but a short nod was shared between the two after a minute. Daryl then turned back to Connor, "All right, Irish. But if ya scare off the game, I'm tellin' everyone to complain to you instead of me."

"Sounds fair."

Minutes after Connor disappeared into the forest, Murphy poked his head out of the tent. "Oy," he called out to T-Dog who was walking past. "Ye seen me brother?"

"He went into the woods with Daryl just like 2 minutes ago, man. You barely missed him," he told him, still continuing on his way towards the RV.

Murphy hissed, disappearing back into the tent to get dressed.

For over an hour, Connor stuck to Daryl's back, knife out and poised and his gun holstered on his leg. So far, they had just come across a few rabbits, but they were both thankful for those and no stray walkers. They walked in complete silence; their footsteps and all actions mirrored. Both men took in the sounds of the forest, making them a part of their being and relishing in the feeling of nature around them. Connor inhaled deeply every time a breeze would pass them by. The scent of the woods was something he would never get tired of, though it made him long for the smell of the moors in Ireland. He and his brother would probably never make it back there now, if indeed it was even a place worth going back to at this point.

Daryl stopped suddenly in front of him, turning his head slightly to angle his right ear up towards the sky. Connor stopped behind him, swiveling his body around, hand poised with his knife still, ready to strike should they be ambushed by any threat. "I think there's a stream over there," Daryl whispered to him, pointing to his front-right. "Let's go find it. Maybe we could get some fresh water."

Sure enough, a bubbling brook that they could stand in knee-deep had called to them in the forest. "Oy," Connor gasped. "There's fish in here."

"Ya know how to fish, Irish?" Daryl asked, splashing water on himself before filling up a water bottle he must have taken from a pocket.

Connor shrugged. Hell no he didn't know how to fish. Now drink like a fish, that was an expert skill he possessed, but catch a fish? Surely he could come up with something though… Quickly he looked around, locating a sturdy stick. Now he needed a string and a hook or something to catch the fish in. Or maybe a net instead of a pole. Shit, what the hell could he possibly use? Ah, a shoelace would be a good string, but now what about a hook? "Aye, I do, but I need a hook. I use can this stick as a pole and a shoelace as a string, but I need somethin' sharp to jab the fucker with."

Daryl chewed on his thumbnail for a minute, looking on himself as if he was considering all of their supplies in his mind. Connor busied himself with pulling off one of his shoestrings and fastening it to the pole. Just as he was finished tying the knot, Daryl touched his shoulder softly. Looking up, the other man had his wallet open and was holding out an old and rusted fish hook, looking almost sheepish. Connor took it with a nod, threading it onto his shoe lace. "Now I need something to entice the fish with…" Placing his pole on the bank of the river, he took his black tshirt off, leaving his rosary to dangle around his neck against his bare chest. In a swift move, he had the shirt tight between his hands and open enough that when he swiped it through the water, catching a few minnows in the cotton. Triumphantly, he beamed up at Daryl as he put the largest minnow on the hook and set the others in the wet tshirt on the river bank. "And now, we fish," he smiled, climbing back up on the bank and gesturing for the other man to join him.

It felt like another hour had passed before either man said anything. "Why'd ye carry a fish hook in yer wallet? And hell, why'd ye even still have yer wallet?" Connor asked, side-eyeing the hunter.

Daryl shrugged, laying prone next to the Irishman with his forearms behind his head. He had been staring up at the trees, watching the branches blow in the breeze. There had been no sight or smell of a walker the entire morning so he stole this moment, especially knowing that the other man was a damn crack shot should the need arise. "Always prepared. Sometimes ya can't find a meal in the woods but streams almost always have fish."

Connor nodded as if that was the most natural answer in the world and he was an idiot not to think of it, but the deeper meaning behind it made him cringe. "Ye grow up poor?"

"Poorer than dirt. Ma ne'er worked and Dad drank his paycheck. Merle usually drank his, shot it up his arm or took it in pill form."

Connor looked over at the redneck. His eyes were closed and face completely relaxed as if he told this story every day of his life. Hell, Connor figured he lived it so he didn't know any different. "Aye, suppose it's a good skill to have to be able to provide for yerself no matter what. Me brother and I 'bout starved when we first came to Boston. Nobody wanted ta hire two Micks. Took us awhile to find a job." Connor turned back to his line in the water, dancing the hook along the surface, trying to make it look enticing to their potential lunch. "Least Murph and I bathe regularly," he snarked, smiling slightly.

"Don't make me shoot ya in the ass with an arrow. And I fuckin' bathe, Irish. Soap is just scarce now."

"Murph and I would be happy to share ours with ye. Bet yer fockin' handsome beneath that filth."