AN: I really like breaking convention, especially in fandoms where there's so much of the same plots and story lines based on what's canon, and not enough new ideas coming in from outside. I also don't typically do crossovers – I don't normally care for them, but this one was way too good to pass up.
I blame tumblr for giving me the original GIF that inspired this fiction, one of Norman Reedus in a denim blue, pinstripe suit and a striped scarf, Connor's famous "Who's the Master?" line, and users TheCockyUndead and Choctopop for pushing me forward with this.
Usual disclaimers apply.
Also; I've got real deadlines IRL so I dunno how often I will be updating this one. Sorry in advance for prolonged silence. (Ha ha, that's an awesome pun.)
Slainté.
-Shazzy
-Old Souls and Regeneration-
They'd always known that they were different from everyone else on the planet. Two souls on a little blue sphere of six billion. Two souls, older than anyone would imagine. Two souls that had seen their share of heartbreak and sorrow. Two souls put on the planet to protect those who couldn't protect themselves.
Twins.
Brothers.
Family.
They were as different as night and day, but more similar than anyone would imagine. One was quiet and thoughtful, the other was loud and obnoxious. One, a happy-go-lucky goof, the other more pensive and watchful. One would explode at the slightest provocation, the other would simmer and stew and plan revenge. One was outright sarcastic and mocking as a defence, the other was just cold and aloof. Neither were afraid to speak their minds. Both were endowed with a righteous sense of correctness, of loyalty and faith.
They would fight with each other, with words and fists and would always end up nursing each others' bruises and stitching up split lips or eyebrows without a thought. They never took each others' fists or angry words too seriously, all was forgiven after the first wave of rage and it was always back to business as usual.
They would smoke and drink together; they were always together. Where one went the other was sure to be no more than a few paces behind. They haunted their favourite bar in a haze of smoke and good-natured swearing, cracking jokes at the expense of everyone without prejudice.
They never seemed terribly interested in the women who flocked to them, flirting incessantly, distracting them. They always ended up with phone numbers, but never made the effort to establish a longer connection than the few fleeting moments of a shared drink or cigarette at the bar, and they tended to direct the interested parties into the arms of those they knew otherwise. They had been the reason for many a marriage throughout the city; matchmaking unintentionally for people who passed through their lives at seemingly random intervals.
They were well loved; their friends were fiercely loyal. They would have the protection of an army should they so choose to use it. They cultivated friendships unintentionally, and people clamoured to be on their good sides without ever understanding why. They chose their closest companions carefully, letting only the chosen few see them at their weakest, or see them outside of a public setting. They didn't make social calls, they kept their distance and only shared what needed to be shared.
No one questioned them when they spoke of things beyond the scope of human perception. No one questioned when they mentioned the infinite mass of time and space. No one questioned when they made reference to things that no one else could see. No one asked why they spoke of gods and angels and demons and things from beyond this Earth. They had earned the right to speak fondly of the stars, to be a little more eccentric when they spoke of the wonders of the unknown and the unseen.
It came as little surprise when they were the first to jump to the rescue of the old bartender on Saint Patrick's day. It wasn't a shock when they instigated the fight with the Russians.
And it certainly wasn't a surprise when they came out on top.
The brothers stumbled their way home, less drunk than they'd hoped, instead, full of adrenaline and energy from the fight. Wound up tight enough to continue their drinking and fighting, but smarter then that, deciding that it was a better idea to head home and lick their superficial wounds while they had the few hours of peace that the night would bring.
The illegal loft where they lived was cold. It was always cold in the winter. They were surprised when they'd been able to get electricity into the apartment, and less surprised when they discovered that the heater barely worked on the best of days.
It didn't really matter to them; they rarely stayed in the apartment. It wasn't easy to protect the world when you stayed indoors all the time.
They carried each other as they limped into the loft, one wound up, one still tipsy, both feeling the need for the shoulder of his brother. The door closed behind them, the click of the latch barely registering, and the thought to lock the door lost in the muddle of alcohol and adrenaline that surged through them.
Personal rituals, however, were seen to. The matching rosaries that graced their necks were hung on the nails by the door before the short treks to the sagging mattresses that were their beds were made. Bodies met mattresses with groans of exhaustion and dismay and the brothers gave themselves a moment of silent, inward contemplation before wounds were taken stock of.
"You hurt, Murph?"
The question was met with a grunt from the bed further away from the door as cigarettes were fished from jeans pockets. The click of the Zippo lighter seemed to echo in the silent apartment and the smell of tobacco smoke filled the air.
Murphy stared at his twin, his scruffy, dark hair hanging in his face as he offered Connor a cigarette with his tattooed hand.
Connor shook his head, running a hand through his shorter, spikier hair, but took the cigarette anyway. His brother's stubborn refusal to answer the question meant that he wasn't hurt more than a few bruises, and maybe a split knuckle. Connor stared at the glowing orange tip of his cigarette, before taking a slow drag of it. His insides were churning and his muscles were screaming with the need to go find someone else to fight. He knew his brother was all right; lucky bastard was still half drunk and ready to pass out.
"It's fucking cold in here," Murphy pointed out, pulling his brother from his silent thoughts. "Why the hell are we still here?"
Connor looked up from his contemplation, taken aback by the question. He ran his hand against the stubble on his chin before answering. "Where would you rather we go?"
Murphy shrugged and leaned over, untying his boots with a groan of the 'I've drank too much for this shit' variety. "Anywhere but here."
Connor snorted a laugh and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray between the beds before following suit and standing to take off his jacket and shirt.
"No, I'm serious," Murphy continued, still sitting on his bed, struggling with the knots in his shoelaces, smoke from the cigarette still clamped firmly between his teeth trailing around his head in a hazy halo. "Why the hell do we still bother with this city? It would be nothing for us to go back to Ireland. Or Wales. Or hell, someplace warm for a little while."
"You know as well as I do that we're s'posed to be here. In Boston. For now," Connor replied, tossing his clothes in a heap on the floor.
"You ever think tha' you're wrong about that?" Murphy asked, throwing his clothes over his shoulder as he gave up trying to get his boots off.
"Who's the Master?" Connor asked rhetorically, joking as he pulled his ratty, greying housecoat over his shoulders and flopped back onto his bed.
"Ah, yer so full a' shit," Murphy complained, putting out his cigarette and getting up to turn off the light.
"You're just jealous that I'm always right," Connor retorted.
Murphy muttered incoherent insults under his breath and crawled into his own bed. "It's still fucking freezing in here."
"You wanna push the mattresses together or somethin'?" Connor asked, stifling a yawn.
"What are you, five?" Murphy shot back bitterly from the other bed.
Connor smirked in the dark and rolled over onto his back as he heard his brother fidgeting under the thin blankets of his bed. They'd shared a bed for longer than either cared to admit, and more often than they could count in the recent winters in Boston. It seemed natural for them, it didn't matter. They were twins, they'd shared the same womb for nine months and hadn't been separated for longer than it took for one to take a piss at the pub while the other smoked and drank and kept watch over the others' drink.
"You could put yer clothes back on?" Connor suggested, grinning widely as he teased his brother for whining. "I mean, it's no' like anyone is forcin' you t' sleep in yer boxers."
"Fuckin' shut it." Murphy growled back, his voice muffled by what Connor assumed was either his pillow or the blankets pulled up on his face.
Connor had chosen to sleep with his housecoat on, it was cold in the apartment, after all, but he preferred not to sleep in his jeans if he could avoid it. He smirked at his brother's expense, whiny bastard that he was and pulled the ratty quilt from his bed, keeping his thinner woollen blanket for himself, and tossed it at Murphy. "There, quit yer whinin'."
"You're my fuckin' Messiah," Murphy said, by way of thanks as he pulled the thin quilt around himself, shuffling in his bed to get comfortable, eventually settling curled up in a ball on his side, facing Connor's bed, and ultimately, the door.
Connor pulled the thin blanket he'd kept for himself up over his bare chest, draping it easily over himself as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. The sounds of the city were far enough away thanks to acoustics of the alley and the illegal loft, that they made a comfortable hum in the night.
The brothers fell into silence, Murphy's sniffles against the cold breaking the rhythm of his breathing every now and again.
Connor smiled to himself. "I can hear your heart beating, Murph," He mumbled.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Connor nodded, "like a drum, steady and strong, and it gets slower when you're almost asleep."
Murphy grew very silent in his bed.
"You can't hear mine, can you?" Connor asked, his voice quiet in the dark, the hurt of the realization breaking the edges of his words.
"Shh," Murphy shot back.
Connor didn't mention it again, and Murphy fell asleep too quickly for him to lie to his brother to spare him his feelings.
Connor didn't sleep much that night, too on edge from the fight, and too obsessed with the rhythm of his brother's heart beating away in the dark, pounding in his ears, letting him know that his beloved brother was alive.