It all went downhill when Murphy decided to bring his knife.
Connor had insisted, time and time again, that he didn't need that fuckin' Rambo knife for this hit, that it would just end up adding extra weight to their haul. It was pointless, unbalanced, and had more potential hurting them than it did hurting anyone else. But, of course, Murph didn't listen. Why would he? The knife had already been useful two times previously - Connor had begrudgingly agreed - and besides, if they didn't need it, Murphy swore to God that he wouldn't take it out of it's holster. The thing needed a fucking holster. Christ.
So, Connor had let Murphy keep the stupid thing. How could he not? There was no changing that boy's mind when he had it set, stubborn bastard that he was. And, for the most part, the thing had stayed where it should, even after the first slip-up of the night. The Duke had let them do their own hit after they left Boston, to avenge Rocco - it probably hadn't helped their plan any by getting fairly shitfaced beforehand. Irish funerals tended to be filled with alcohol, which they'd taken full advantage of. To be fair, the hit wasn't so much about avenging Rocco as it was taking out their pain on the men they had promised their friend they'd continue to kill.
The hit was simple: that weekend, the local drug branch of what was left of the Mob outside of Boston would be meeting some corrupt cops at the parking structure next to the police station to buy evidence bags filled with whatever had been confiscated in the last few weeks. It would happen in minutes; then both parties would go their separate ways, and the cycle would continue. It made Connor sick to think these so-called policemen were harming the very community they swore to protect. Dirty bastards.
Murphy just had to cock up. It was his fault this time, of course. Just like it was when they fell through the ceiling at the Russian's meeting. Always wanting to fight, that one. Connor had tried to be sneaky, tried to hide behind the large black obviously-mob cars while telling Murph to shut up and stop complaining about having to carry rope again. What was it with him? Rope had already saved their asses once before, it might again, if they had to James-Bond their way off the side of the building like a pair of idiots. Which, considering the circumstances they usually managed to get themselves into, was a very real possibility.
"All I'm sayin' is that we only needed th' bloody rope once, we don't have ta bring it every damn-"
"Shut it, Murph," Connor hissed, clamping a gloved hand over his brother's mouth as he strained his ears, trying to catch a hint of the conversation going on just a few cars down. He could faintly make out the sound of cars being unloaded, men discussing rising prices as a result of "today's economy" when he felt teeth clamp down on his fingers. "Ow! You stupid fuck!"
It was only seconds into their scuffle when Connor heard the soft tear of fabric and felt stinging in his side, his raised fist immediately lowering as a muffled cry burst from him. Murphy immediately pulled away, moving his hands down to where his knife had been, where it should have been, the visible parts of his face immediately paling.
"Oh, Jesus, Murph," Connor managed to mumble, watching the knife fall to the ground, his side already beginning to turn an unhealthy shade of red. He looked up at his brother, his mask pulled back from his face. "I told you not t' bring th' fuckin' Rambo knife!"
"Connor I - " Murphy started, though was cut off by a too-loud gunshot whistling over their heads. They scrambled to back up against the car, fumbling for their guns as more shots rang out above them. Connor's hand was already shaking as he held his pistol, gripping his side with the other.
They had no time to talk. Murphy waited for a pause in the gunfire before standing, both hands kicking back as he fired into the rattled crowd. Connor managed to lean around the front bumper, getting off a few shots before pulling back just in time to miss a bullet to the face. He could already hear the men rushing back to their cars - the ones that were left standing, anyway. Judging by the footsteps, only two could be left. Murphy ducked back down behind the car as a new series of shots rang out and an engine revved, the tires already squealing as the men tried to make their escape. Connor watched as a sleek black Camaro screeched out in front of them, heading towards the exit. He heard shots next to him and watched the tires pop, but that wouldn't be enough. Not yet. He raised his gun, letting out a smooth breath as he relaxed, the barrel focusing on the back of the driver's head.
The car swerved violently without its driver, slamming into the concrete barrier that lined the edge of the building. Murphy let out a shout, half surprised, half excited before running for the car, gun at the ready. Connor let out a sigh before his side reminded him of it's current state, a wince following that breath. He heard another shot as he slowly got to his feet, bracing himself against the side of the car. Christ, that was a good one. Hadn't even been scratched by the mobsters this time, no. It had to be his brother's stupid goddamn knife.
Connor felt Murphy move up against his good side and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, pitting his weight against his brother instead of the car. Murphy tensed against the added pressure but stayed upright, walking him over to the bodies to begin placing pennies on the dead men's eyes. Connor felt like he was going to pass out…and he did, he must have, because the next thing he remembers is waking up in their apartment, the stinging in his side a dull and nearly unbearable throb.
"Oh…yer awake," Murphy sighs, wiping the blood off his hands as he watches over his brother. The corner of Connor's mouth twitches into a smile as he nods, awkwardly pulling himself up into a sitting position, his arms shaking slightly from exhaustion. Murphy's mask of calm flickers to worry for a moment, just a moment, before he takes it up again, forcing himself to stay calm. Connor watches all this with a hint of a smile, though his attention is brought back to the patched-up wound in his side when Murphy reaches down to remove the bandage, his hands working gingerly over the tape, fingers hesitating when Connor lets out a strained hiss.
"Did ya stitch it up?" he manages to ask through grit teeth, his fingers digging into the lightly blood-stained sheets. Murphy slowly shakes his head, his attention fully focused on the task ahead of him.
"Nah, couldn't get to it. Cleaned it up as best I could, but…" he pauses, apologetically looking up at his brother. "…we're gonna have ta do it now, alright..?" Connor sighs and nods, keeping his eyes on the wall opposite him as Murphy reaches for a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the bedside table. He holds it out to his brother who absent-mindedly grabs the neck, taking a swig before pouring a cap over the still open wound. Murphy holds him back against the headboard as Connor grits his teeth once more, trying not to scream at the pain flaring in his side, moving over his torso. He hears cloth tear and looks up to see Murphy holding a piece of his sleeve out to him, that damn apologetic look still hovering on his features.
"Y' better make this quick," Connor grumbles, his rough and calloused fingers grabbing the cloth to bite down on before tensely gripping the bedspread beneath him. He sees that look in his brother's eyes - a flash of sadness, of hurt - before they steel over, his fingers already nimbly threading a prepared needle.
They've been through fights before, angry and merciless brawls, even gunshot wounds - but this can only compare to the last one, and even then…it only hurts more that it was Murphy's blade. It was an accident, they both know it was, but there's no changing what happened, no matter how much they both want to. All Connor can do is try not to thrash as he feels his side slowly and carefully being stitched up, his head pressed against the backboard hard enough for spots to appear behind his eyes. He's not half as drunk as he needs to be for this.
It's only when the last stitch is tugged in to place and the bandage is reapplied that he finally can begin to relax, though his body is still shaking from adrenaline and pain. He lets the cloth fall from his mouth, a strangled sort of breath slipping past his lips before he starts to lift the bottle to them. He isn't able to take a slug before the bottle is taken from his hand, glancing up to watch his brother steal the bottle and take a healthy swig from it himself.
"Y' cheeky fucker," Connor mumbles, half-smiling as he reaches up to reclaim the whiskey. He needs it more than Murphy does, anyway. Murphy chuckles into the lip of the bottle, letting Connor take it back, but not exactly letting go of it. Not yet. He leans in, pressing a slow, poorly-aimed kiss to Connor's lips. They stay like that for a moment before Murphy finally lets go of the bottle, reaching up to muss his brother's hair instead.
"Yeah, whatever y' say," he murmurs, not letting Connor reply or even process what just happened before walking away, picking up another bottle on his way out. Connor notices a limp he didn't see before, managing to work out that Murph must have gotten it in their little fucked up showdown before he starts to black out again, the muffled pain finally reclaiming his side. He lets himself sleep. He fuckin' deserves it.
Connor sighs, wincing lightly when he almost rolls onto his wounded side. The bottle is empty now, having spilled out over the sheets to mix in with the blood, but he doesn't really give that a second thought, besides maybe slight remorse over the wasted drink. They won't be staying there for long, anyway. He slings his feet over the side of the bed and, after a few wobbly moments, finds his balance, slowly making his way towards the couch. He stumbles a few times, narrowly avoiding a coffee table on his way as he finally makes it over to his brother. A smile forms on his lips as he reaches down, carefully removing the bottle from Murphy's limp hand, setting it on the table beside them before kneeling, reaching rough hand up to rustle Murph's already messed up hair.
Murphy starts, though only slightly, his blurry eyes already settling on Connor, letting himself relax into a mostly drunken stupor.
"I thought y' were gonna sleep forever. At leas' a couple more hours," Murphy sighs, smirking drunkenly at an imagined joke as he lets his eyes close. The smile fades after a moment, though, and his eyes open to flick back to Connor. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean ta.."
"Shut up, Rambo," Connor chuckles, playfully pushing Murphy's head to the side. "It wasn't yer fault, anyway. Well….th' fight was yer fault, an' the fact that they found us, but this..this isn't yer fault. Alright?" He watches Murphy give a half-hearted nod before leaning in, catching him in a gentle kiss. He sees Murph's eyes slide shut before closing his own, not even flinching when he feels a hand rest against the crook of his neck. There's a pause for a quick breath and Connor leans back, resting his forehead against his brother's.
"Alright," Murphy hums in that low, conceding tone, and Connor can't help but grin, gently slapping the side of Murphy's head.
"Better be fuckin' alright," he says, just barely ducking out of the way as Murphy tries to retaliate, a smile finally on his lips that never fails to make Connor happier, no matter how shitty the circumstances.
This time, it's all Connor wanted to see.