Eternally Missed

by frooit

Connor and Murphy on the road, in hiding, and remembering the hard times.

eternally missed
bds, connor pov
by lilnee

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It's something like sixteen minutes past two in the morning, on a Saturday. The night is cold and the wind blusters at the window panes. Here they are hiding as always, just off the main road, taking a break from the grind of what it is they do. And what they do really does drag it out of them. Murphy doesn't even know what highway they're riding down anymore, or what town you could call this—not so much that as a settlement with all you needed in order to get further away. There's a bus stop and a gas station, but fortunately for them there's also a motel and a laundromat. Oh the luxuries. They could raid their pockets and the back seats of the car for change and get a clean pair of jeans maybe, a good night's rest. All the money you think would keep rolling in from how many badies they dispatch, slowly stopped being so natural. They've started holding on to as much cash as possible.

Their Da' had told them this was a safe place. If only for the fact that no one was here. It was ironic, appropriate, frustrating. Just as they'd found him he leaves again, telling them over his shoulder, through the smoke pouring from his dry lips, that this wasn't his fight. He has things to handle on his end, doors to close and lock up and board up and forget about. He hadn't told them anything else except for be careful and watch yourselves. Then he was gone and Connor was left holding the keys to his car. There were just the two, a main and a spare, because it's straight from the dealership. He had looked down at them and then up to the black sedan, and it was first time he could remember being reluctant.

If this was a comic book and they were characters in it, they would be your super heroes. Crashing the party of every token villain or bad guy, foiling the master plans and saving the day. Some shaded man selling coke to Billy? Someone trying to kidnap the President? I don't think so. Wham, bash, bang. It's not a joke though, as it happens, as it spins out now before them. The dotted line on this rolling road, yellow sand running out and out, straight as an arrow, on forever. That's how this job feels. Infinite.

They're cooped up with nothing to do but sleep, complain and watch game show reruns. Three weeks on the road. Three weeks of killing and bleeding and suffering. Three weeks of prayers and pennies and cigarettes burning hot, burning the fire of vengeance into their bellies. Connor would be lying (and he doesn't do that often—as often as he takes a fall) if he said he wasn't trying to start shit with Murph. It's because he's been nothing but quiet and they usually have some kind of dialogue there, some bland remarks or insults.

You're the greatest person I know, but you're still a dick. They'd been arguing for the past two days. Murphy would be or should be shrugging at this, letting it slide down his back and to the floor to soak in and become nothing again. He should be as he always was: indifferent to his words, deflective and cool. His eyes look hollow and dug in, black all around. He looks sick and pale and wound tight. The vibrations from Connor's throat burned out over his tongue. It was a sigh or maybe a groan, something deep and rimmed with sorrow, but mostly it sounded like anger (something he indulged in with his brother too often). It's not that he hates him, they're blood. As if that sealed the deal, explained it all—you're related so you have obligations. It's that they're tied by the soul. The same thread. It should be as meaningful and heart warming as it sounds, but it just isn't. Murphy's pulling a wet, lip-locked suck from his cigarette. The flame on the end burns a copy into Connor's eyes, like flash photography. When he blinks there it is, white. In reality this is far less romantic.

Instead of being something safe and predictable, like something Connor might be able to handle, Murphy flinches and makes fists. The fabric of his jeans sounding like sandpaper from the small motion, his bitten nails dragging five notes. He looks like he wants to spit or sneeze, something purely out of reaction, out of necessity. He's gritting his teeth, Connor can hear it. The enamel slide like squishing a wet cotton ball between your fingers, pressure. He's taking another suck off that filter and the taste must be like acid and dirt. His back is stiff, shoulder blades pointed sharp. When they were children they would fight, of course, they'd be slamming each other over furniture or into walls, bashing cracks and chips into the paint. The marks around the house were from their heads connecting at such a speed or their shoulders or their spines. Murphy's face is a map of passed confrontations and those still simmering.

He has a white scar running from above his left eyebrow, up into his hairline, stopping somewhere on the scalp hidden by tangled hair. Just light enough that it's not all you see, but if you were to look you'd find it. Sharp, like the lick of a wire. You'd guess about him and you wouldn't be all wrong, really, because he wasn't a good person but he wasn't a bad person either. He never stopped moving long enough to heal properly and he mouths words that no supposed saint rightly should. There are more marks and imperfections still, those hidden in plain view, only for the sharp of eye or the one who caused them. Those are Connor's to remember, regret (and mostly he does).

Murphy ashes the cigarette on the floor, a slight crackle in the carpet flaring afterward. Fuzz or something sizzles below and then smokes out. Connor glances but doesn't take it in, doesn't get mad or slap him. Doesn't punch or kick or bite. They're their own worst enemies right now. This man, who only looks like him by the same coat they wear (the same smile maybe, or the same scowl), who means everything to him, who watches his back, who is starting to fall away. Or fall apart. As Murphy watches him Connor rubs the back of his neck, kicks the toe of his boot up into the back of the other. Mimicking removing them but it's all nervous energy wanting to get out.

He wouldn't say he feels sorry for him, if that is what he's trying to get at by playing the kicked puppy routine. It's not like you'd feel sorry for rabid dogs or black widows; not like you'd feel sorry for someone who caused it all to begin with. They knew what they were getting into. That's probably why they are so few and far between. Why there aren't more folks running around these scummy cities of nowhere with them, cleaning up the trash of the world, weeding out the used up and evil people. As many people as there are that loved them there are more people who hated them, and those people have guns (knives, pistols, grenades, grudges). Those people are outside their door, wanting to catch them as they sleep. For how many of them they've killed it's only natural that they'd want something back. Their pain, their blood, it's all payment and it's all a matter of time before they get it. Nothing lasts forever and this was just another one of those things. Karma.

When they were boys—seven or ten or an age that later mashes together the older you get—they had a fight. When I was a boy sums up better times. Ireland will do the same, but not this time. Connor threw a bronze statue at Murphy. One of those small figurines. The kind you'd sit on a bookshelf or next to a lamp, something to show off your great taste, money or religion. In this case with their mother it was always religion, so this thing was shaped like an archangel, sword pointed to the heavens. It looked sharp enough to break skin and was just small enough to fit fully in his fist. As he threw it, as it left his fingers, the cold weight of it, he immediately wanted to take it back. Murphy jerked to the side, noticing, but he wasn't fast enough. Connor hadn't aimed it but it went straight towards his head all the same, heat-seeking. Murphy had been chasing him around the side of the sofa, the statue sitting on the coffee table next to a black leather Bible and Ma's cork drink coaster. He heard a thud and then Murphy dropped down. He couldn't see him from where he stood, he had to slink around the sofa. There was a groan and a curse by the time he rounded the corner.

Murphy had fallen crumpled, slumping over his knees, his forehead pressed into the edge of the floor rug. As Connor took in the scene he started noticing the blood. A chill turned into an icy frost gripping at his chest, crippling his movement. The red was dribbling to the wooden floor, spotting in little drops, the floor itself cracked and pitted from their feet and the sharp legs of chairs. It dripped and dripped from between the fingers that Murphy held to his face, as if to keep it in place, as if he'd been broken. Oh, Jesus. He's dying. It was the first thing he thought before he got up to him and touched his shoulders (with a pressure as weak as an infant's). Murphy twitched back from his hands and then hissed out a breath, probably the first he'd taken since the hit.

Connor could see it clearly then, where the angel must have turned end over end to catch him. Sliver-fine but deep, the cut running up his forehead and into his hair, pumping blood into the eye he had just barely missed. The thrum of his beating heart clear at the cords of his neck. The thick trail wound to the corner of his mouth, down his chin. He could see no white in that eye, just the thick and gooey warmth of human blood and the black dot of pupil. Murphy started blinking then and the eye started to water, the tears scarlet. Connor let himself have one more moment of fear and then he fell to pieces. He cried for Ma' as Murphy wobbled to stand, his fluids still slicking his fingers, thickening to clots the shade of death. Connor's mind spun as he watched. Ma' rushed down the stairs in a huff, ready to dish out some judgement and then paused, shocked. It wasn't often for that to even happen. She was always and will always be one step ahead of them. She's where they'd acquired most of their wit anyway. She grabbed a dish rag and her purse and then they were out the door, Murphy stumbling (pressing the still-damp cloth to his head), Connor dragging along (in a mist). It was a lot of blood even so. When they got back from hospital—spider-leg stitches interrupting his brother's cool, pale skin—the pool sat there still, a good few feet across, imperfect and patchy but unmistakable. Connor noticed Murphy didn't even glance towards it. Later the smell of bleach hung in the air. Ma's cleaning efforts had there merits and the spot on the rug looked more like a faded maroon than the awesome red it had been before.

He apologized and Murphy didn't call him dickhead anymore.

This feels pretty much the same. Always a cheap shot, petty. Connor was a big enough guy to knock you on your ass even when you knew it was coming, but he always seemed to enjoy getting Murphy when he was down and out, when he least expected it, when it was uncalled for. They never said it aloud but it never really needed to be said anyway. I can't stand you just has an air to it. It filled the empty spaces between the two of them. It was that cloudy grey spot. That hungry emptiness. Brothers after all. The worst kind of love.

Murphy's probably drunk. That's why he looks so tired (four beer cans Connor can see from here but that doesn't mention anything of the floor). He reaches for the pack of cigarettes now, mouth too dry and too wet all at once, he needs that extra distraction or he'll get himself into trouble again. If you start thinking that Murphy isn't a snake in the grass, or forget that he's a wild dog and he's willing to bite at any moment, you're going to feel the pain. Connor doesn't blame him. He's bruised Murphy's kidneys over and over again because of that assumption. Eventually the lesson kicked in and after that Connor's nose had a permanent crust of dried blood flaking off because of Murphy's generous fist. He'd snort or cough and there'd be blood. Murphy'd been pissing it for weeks by then so it all felt evened out somehow.

They wore the badges of being utterly sick of each other. That scar though, the one that's the efforts of his throwing arm (the efforts of his trying to stamp out his brother with an angel's righteous blade) gets under his skin. He'll be sitting next to him, close enough to see and try not to look. He wonders if Murphy hates him for that maybe. Just one more reason. He's never remembered to ask until now, and after the previous statement he feels he owes him something. He sparks the lighter and holds it to his smoke, letting it burn. As he puffs out his single drag and it floats and thins he says: What do ya think of that?

It wasn't clear cut so Murphy grunts, a little confused. Connor points, giving up after a moment when he expresses he still doesn't understand. Connor leans up and puts a finger to the white line, following it before it disappears upwards. It's warm, his flesh, as well as the heat coming off of him and the smell of beer. Piss water, thin and weak and cheap as hell. They could afford better but they rarely went out anymore. Murphy doesn't move away like he was expecting, he does tilt his head up though, millimetres. Here they are squatting in a motel room, bed spread and wallpaper blue as a choking face. That's the scenery, the backdrop to their stage. Both of their guns lay out on the surprisingly wide bathroom counter, Murphy's Eagle and Connor's right next to it. They're pointed toward each other, muzzle to muzzle. He can see them from here. Murphy's knife is perched on the bed stand, open-blade. Specks and smears traverse the stainless steel, nicks glinting here and there (the ravages of war). They're from slicing into an arm and hitting bone, or chopping through fingers, or slitting a fleshy throat, forcing open locked doors. Murphy'd taken to it like he'd taken to tempting fate.

No response, just even paced breathing. He doesn't say much during Connor's next few drags off his cigarette and Connor continues ashing it in much the same way his brother had, not caring about the singed smell coming to his nose. They could add arson to their growing list of felonies. Cleansed by flame and all that.

"Could give ya one to match."

It's said with his eyes on that knife. A mockery of their twin status. Let's be just the same and dress alike, feel the same pain, be the same movement. Whether he's for the idea or not Connor feels like he's not getting out of this room without spilling some blood. His foot twitches, his fingers start to cramp. Just as the ash falls from the tip of his cigarette Murphy's on him, knife blade laid across his exposed throat, pressing and pressing. He's so used to this kind of treatment that it's all he knows anymore. He doesn't quite react yet, he just leans with it, lying back on the mattress, arms held out. The cigarette falls. In his face, right up to his nose, Murphy's eyes are cloudy, unreadable. Connor's breath has caught just below the line of silver, just below the point Murphy could take his life. And if he didn't already live and breathe in his bones, his skin... he might have.

"Don't..."

There isn't much stock in saying it but he does anyway, just to get his word in. His throat stretches and moves under the steel tooth, his face begins to flush, the bite coming closer. He thinks they've forgotten why they're here at all: to kill bad men, protect that which is good. The line's blurred.

"Stop."

It feels a little scripted, a little stale. Murphy sneers, his breath becoming Connor's, the taste is sticky and sour. Why should he? That's the dare. He's daring him to do something, stand up, take control. This is too much a replay of two weeks ago, with Murphy on his knees, gun to his temple, the pressure causing his eyes to squint, his teeth to grit. They'd been ambushed. How film star. As the blade digs deeper down, doubly closer, he's back at the gas station miles from here and anywhere. They're fueling up and checking the papers or any news stations. It had happened fast. Somehow these guys knew they'd been coming and had been ready with a net, a plan. They got Murphy while he was still inside the little store only a few feet away. A punch or a backhand hand caught him across the face, his lip was split and bleeding. Connor wasn't aware anything had gone down until Murphy spoke from behind him. He was waiting by the car, their Da's sedan.

Con.

He knew immediately. They were fucked.

As he turned he saw the three armed men, and then the fourth holding his brother by the collar, something like a 9mm jammed to his skull. End calm scene, begin fight for life. Murphy's expression was venomous. Keep on your toes, their father had said to them. Be careful. Finger pointing, cigar hanging there on knuckles gnarled. He didn't want to hear about any accidents. Didn't want to be walking down the streets and see Saints Found Dead as a headline. How could you see this coming? Someone must have informed them, someone must have been watching, hoping to witness the deaths of two of the most sought after vigilantes in the states. For being so strict in their habits, only killing those who truly demanded punishment, they're still killers themselves and the police looked on and on for them. Connor's thoughts were that they might find them now, wrapped up in cellophane and crammed into the trunk of a car, snow-white eyes and grotesque grave-faces staring out.

Just calm down now, Connor had said.

One of the men laughed, the one holding his brother. The other three grinned, sly, content. Connor was grabbed were he stood and then led away. He pulled and struggled, giving them hell, Murphy doing the same. This only earned him another strike for his trouble, a kick to the side. Connor fumed. The men (comrades of the gang they trounced a few days back maybe—drugs and sex and guns their staple) took them to the back of the store. A customer watched, cautious to do anything. They found Murphy's knife in a flash. It hung omnipresent from a belt at his side, usually hidden inside his coat. It slipped from the leather sheath as one of the men pulled for it. The thing was bigger than a normal hand gun, its length a good eight or nice inches, its width a staggering four. Black linen micarta handle, blade smooth save for an engraved Loredo Bowie down by the handle. An intimidating article. The man weighed it in his hand before he started on Murphy's face, making a cut for every one of their friends they had killed. Seven. Seven long and short drags for each man. Two went across either cheek, one for each temple, and the last was gouged down his forehead. The guy was like Picasso, running them looped and then sharp, beginnings of shapes that didn't quite work.

Murphy squirmed and resisted and howled at them the whole while, but he never begged them to stop. Fuckers, he screamed, I'll kill you. I'll fucking gut you. Connor yelled with him: Murphy, dammit. Relax. The blood was going then, like face paint running. He looked like a fuckin' horror film victim. Ashen blue and reddened cherry, all bright enough to be make-up. It didn't quite feel real. The man then turned to include Connor. As soon as that attention did shift though, Murphy was in action, bucking and straining. They weren't where they were in life just because they had guns—they could lay down in a fist right and come out on top. Irish, you know, or something cliche' like that. It would sound good in the papers or maybe in something they'd later see on the tube and remark about.

Murphy lunged up and away from the knife and the gripping fingers, dragging his oppressor with him and managing to knock another down as he went. A shoulder to the knees and the guy dropped. They're on the ground then, squirming and throwing fists. The knife was lost in the instance and now they're struggling to control it. Connor was up in a blink, putting all his strength into getting over there. He twisted an elbow back into the guy's gut and lurched free. At the height of all this, at the very peak, a cop whirred in, sirens yowling, red and blue pulses. Must have been in the neighbourhood. Connor looked there and then back to catch Murphy wedging the knife into his oppressor's ribs, going up to the handle, a grin splitting his fresh cuts open. The guy's mouth was an O of surprise. More and more he'd catch Murphy like this, the terrible grin, the sneering teeth, the delighted snarl. It had never been a chore, but they never enjoyed it all the same. More and more though, he'd be finding Murphy roaring with the gunfire, huffing out gusts of smoke, eyes gleaming. Caught up in the moment.

They had to get around to the other side of the building, there they could jump in the car and burn some rubber. Connor aggressed, throwing a left hook at one of the men reaching to restrain Murphy next. His fist cracked into the side of his head, almost certainly making it lights out. Murphy, jerking the knife back and out, got to his feet, chest heaving. The cop's voices were sharp in their ears as they turned tail and ran. Stop, stop, put your hands up.

Stop.

Now here Connor is, nearly kissing the lips of a Bowie knife, Murphy with the power. He's looking into his face and can see these new additions, fresh but healing up—the two over his cheeks, one at each temple, and a split down his forehead. He looks tribal. Nearly villainous. He's the evil one of them then, because you can't have twins without the black and white, the right and wrong. Murphy's his bizarro form. What could have been a voice in his head had he not been born at all.

Murphy does cut him and he does bleed, but it's not until after a good stare down. His eyes show him something, a glimpse of remorse, anger. As it happens Connor sets his jaw and takes in a lung full of air, a big gasp comes out after. Murphy drew the Bowie's nose down his forehead, ending in his right eyebrow. The wet warmth always surprised him but the pain was just another twisting reminder (you're not immortal, pal). It stings as the air hits the wound and then it burns as Murphy starts licking up the blood there. And this is the sharp contrast in their relationship. No matter what kind of stupid, poisonous shit they may spit at each other or do to each other they still know how the other one ticks. Mind and body. No one knows Connor's weaknesses like Murphy. His licking, moist tongue is one of those. It creates a lump in Connor's throat and he swallows it dry, forceful. Murphy continues.

It wasn't what you'd call a recurring thing, but it has happened. The first time they slept together was after the Russians cuffed Connor to their toilet and took Murphy away downstairs, to shoot him in the alley, shoot him in the head. Cold-blooded maybe, but Connor feels no different as of now. No cleaner. They'd slammed together with the force of meteors and torn solar systems and fucked right against a wall, right into the shower tiles at Rocco's pad. If he bites his tongue hard enough he'd be able to remember what Murphy sounds like out of breath, on the verge of absolution, on the verge of greatness. He pulls Murphy's face down, hands on either side of his head, so he can see him again.

He gathers himself there, suddenly, shrugging his brother off and going to the front door. That's where he stops. He could go, leave the door hanging on its weak hinges, could take the car. It's the single most ill-advised thing to do as a hunted man, go out alone and unarmed, but with that knife still in Murphy's hands, with his blood still on its metal (lips, teeth), relief looks more and more like a bullet. There had been a time when he was afraid of it—death—but when you've seen all walks of it, and delivered so many types, it starts to turn into something out of reach. Death would top the best blow job, the sweetest rose. It's the last real adventure. He's dreamed about it, rolled it over, but now its got his (their) number and all he has to do is wait. There were good times he recalls, they've just come and gone.

"Connor."

If you squint hard enough this is what caring looks like.

"Ya know I love ya."

This is him having more and more trouble controling him.

Holsters, clips and hockey masks, they're in a bag on the back seat. Inconspicuous in nature because the bag was blue and had Nevada printed on the side. It held all they needed. Somewhere at the bottom should be needle and thread and antiseptic and wraps of bandages. White as the light at the end of the tunnel and just as forgiving. They're on the road again, Murphy with his cheek pressed into the smudged glass of his window. Connor's hands are loose on the steering wheel, his sunglasses askew, letting the sunlight in from atop. He'd fix them but he doesn't quite want to lose the contrast from the shaded and the naked light. The natural and the neutered. Murphy's shifting and moving, lifting his legs up to stretch out over the dashboard. He should look better somehow, brighter. He should look the part, be the saviour, but he doesn't. Not anymore. They look as much like vagrants as the men they expunge.

"'Bout as captivating as a pile of shit, you've been."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"Aye, ya should be."

"Fuck off, Connor."

He'll be twisting that blank expression off his face later. Twisting it off by twisting his arm, his wrist, pulling against the socket, begging for a bit of a snap. He's beautiful, his brother, but a scowl does nothing for his face. It's scrunching up the skin around his eyes, making him look so much older. This is all wrong. He doesn't know what he'd been hoping for in place of this, what kind of life he had imagined for them, the contrast is unseemly, surprising. Whether it be endless days in Boston, or even going back to Ireland, he had never known what they were supposed to do. Meant to do. In the end it felt like they couldn't have done anything else. He yawns, blinks, shifts to look at Murphy.

"Your turn's coming up, don't forget, fucker."

"Uh-huh."

He could pull the car to the left, just a little, could draw a lazy line into the next lane, could plow headlong into a minivan and blast them flaming into bits and pieces for the cops to pick up and sift through much later in the day. He sees a twisted, smoldering crucifix seated in the dust, glaring off the flood light of a police cruiser, off the lights of fire trucks, off beaming rays. A detached tire or rear view mirror, a clawed hand in the wreckage. It all flickers and shifts as these crews would walk closer, searching. Smecker would be wincing at the horrid wreck they've become. That thought turns his lips up, just a touch. The only man other than Rocco to ever help them, and here's his remorse. He shouldn't be smiling but can't help it. He reaches over and shakes Murphy, gets a grumble. Jesus. Who could sleep so much?

"Hey."

They'll be in town by the next hour and Connor wants that time to sleep or just to close his eyes, shut down. They've been on the road now for nearly ten hours, driving through the last towns without a moment's pause. It's what they notice about a place immediately that tells whether or not they're needed there. Long strips of small houses and pinched, overgrown yards. Asphalt as wrecked as a pebbled road. Gas stations and liquor stores. But these little coastal spots here—population one-hundred-thirty—after the long deserts and white mountains, they're all too small to harbour anything worse than high-priced petrol and shitty cigarettes. So they kept driving. The more he looks, though, the more he's reminded of Ireland. You would think all oceans would look the same, but it's just not so. This one's a blue-green, a vibrant roll of colours, shimmering. White caps and blackened rocks spot the coasts, sand as yellow as wheat edging the break of land. He wants home.

It's three in the morning by the time they stop for the night. Connor found an inn off the main road. The mesmerizing two lanes as old as the ocean just beyond it, grey like bleached side walk, had started giving him a headache. The two buildings of this inn, a guest house and a main house, are down a redwood lined avenue. They look like they haven't taken a slap of new paint since the day they were erected. Two stories and a widow's peak on the main building, a lamp post out front of the garage-converted guest house. For one night they're out fifty dollars, but it isn't all bad. The room is yellow this time—so many blues you wouldn't believe—and the wallpaper features white and grey geese with yellow ribbons tied around their long throats. Connor leaves Murphy there as he moves the car somewhere around back or just out of view, wanting to snag the spare pack of smokes from the glove compartment. A child, probably one of the innkeeper's, watches from the main house's enclosed porch as he goes. He's watching still as he comes back. Looks sixteen at most, lanky and long and a little distrusting. Don't worry, kid. We'll be gone soon.

The kid starts to stand as he gets closer, a jerking motion, as if out of fear or surprise.

"Aren't you..."

Connor keeps walking.

"You look just like the pictures on TV."

"No, I don't."

"Got an accent, too."

He gets upstairs into their room, the kid left standing on the edge of the porch, not daring to step outside the armour of the screen. Murphy's flipping through the channels and sprawled out on the bed as he steps in. It's not uncommon for his brother, he was the kind of child that needed constant stimulus, the kind of child who'd be jumping from their roof or rolling down hills. Here he is feeding his brain junk, killing away all those dangerous thoughts. Connor groans, removes his boots, scoots in next to his brother and falls asleep.

Curves and sways of conifer, forced by the wind to bow, bow, bow. Sunlight speckling through pine needles and the whipping of branches. The forest bed heavy with fallen sticks and leaves and moss, as you step anywhere your foot is squishing deeper and deeper into the growth. Voices as distant yet as the howl of the wind. They're on the coast still, he can smell the ocean, salty and alive, but he can't see or hear it. The woods around too dense. It's not a comforting feeling, it feels more like being trapped.

He looks to his side, reaches to his side, and finds Murphy, but something's wrong. A tremor going up his arm, a hitching shake coming through from his brother. The wind changes, becomes heavy. Smell of ashes, dirt, sulphur. He looks behind him to see but Murphy's not there. Pulling his hand back suddenly, afraid, he finds his fingertips dotted with grit and blood. If he were to look down he'd see the tear of his t-shirt, the frayed bits. A hole. Looking on still he'd find it oozing and warm and staining the fabric. He's been shot. Panic.

Connor wakes up to the TV's vivid glare, it's picture printing onto the plane of Murphy's bare cheek and some ways down his throat. He's surreal, god-like, frozen in static. The way his face looks, it makes him less hardened, less used to the pain and the fire. The clock across the room on the bed stand is telling him it's eight already. Check out is eleven. They better get moving. He's back to looking at his brother then, and you'd think he'd be used to it, seeing him. He isn't. It's not so simple, really, when he has to look like that: innocent and untouched (like everything they're dying to save).

They're condemned to it, the plan, the mission. As they had sat on the cots in that jail cell back in Boston, staring each other down, feeling out the idea (it was a gleam in Murphy's, like the gleam off a blade), they went for it. It's not so easy now as everyone's out to get them, good or bad. The cops haven't been shaken from their tail entirely, though Smecker's done his best. Some new FBI operative the government's brought in really has it out to find them. Some real professional grudge thing. They're still far enough ahead to stay off the radar, but they're still in the fuckin' fryer. They've known from the beginning what this all meant. Though shalt not kill, that sort of thing. They're not condemned to Hell, but it didn't feel so far away. Some people just didn't see they're deeds the same way.

To Connor, he's fighting his brother just as much as everyone else.