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Author's Note: Welcome to Name of the Game! This is the conclustion to both Waiting Game and Game of Chance, so if you haven't read either of them, this probably won't make much sense. Thanks to both Kizume A.W. and MKOLO for the beta as well as Sith Happens for the input.
Nifty Fact for the Day:
Riamh is Gaelic for 'never' . . . it just sounds final, doesn't it?

o(1)o

He was back in their old apartment building, kneeling on the filthy floor cradling Maire in his arms. Blood was everywhere; spattered in his hair, coating his hands and arms and soaking into the denim of his jeans. It seeped between his fingers as he mashed a hand against the ragged hole the bullet had torn through Maire's body and it flowed across the floor in tiny rivers.

He screamed her name, shaking her, pleading with her to stay with him, to hang on just a little longer until help arrived. But help wasn't coming. He was too late. Her head lolled gruesomely to one side, clear gray eyes already going cloudy and dull.

She wasn't breathing.

He was standing in a hotel lobby, surrounded by the dead and dying. All around him was the coppery stench of blood and under that, the more subtle scent of death and decay. His bare feet squelched through unseen puddles of gore as he tried to make his way out of this hell, but the countless bodies grappled for his ankles. Sharp fingers dug into his skin, tripping him, keeping him from escaping.

They spoke to him, guttural noises laced with dark blood that dribbled down their chins and onto the carpeting. He couldn't understand the words, but their meaning was unmistakable.

They wanted revenge.

He was surrounded by broken glass and rushing water, his twin kneeling before him, face sorrowful, hands hanging limply by his sides. Horrified, he stared down at his brother, unwilling to believe what he was seeing.

Blood spilled from the gunshot between Murphy's eyes, making crimson tear tracks down his pale cheeks, and dripping off into the deluge of water where it bloomed into tiny roses and then faded away. Rolling his eyes up to meet Connor's gaze, Murphy's voice was soft and anguished.

"What have you done?"

Bewildered, Connor looked down. The gun was in his hands.

"No," he choked, dropping the weapon and falling to his knees. He pulled Murphy into his arms, supporting his twin gently, "No, no, God, Murphy, no. Oh God, no."

"In nomine patris," Murphy whispered, his voice suddenly rasping and hollow. It was the voice of someone that had been dead for a long time, tongue half rotted away and vocal cords dried into strips of thin leather. "et fili ,et spiritus sancti."

The flooded bathroom suddenly stank of wet earth and decay. The once clear water turned murky and Connor could feel tiny, unseen things slithering and skittering over him. Horrified, he scrabbled to his feet trying to drag what was left of his dead twin with him.

"I'm so sorry," he cried. "Please forgive me."

Turning flat, lifeless eyes up to him, Murphy's corpse tilted its head slightly, a grotesque mockery of the expression his brother had used so often in life.

"Riamh," it hissed, slipping out of his grasp and pitching forward into the water and muck and vile crawling things. Never.

He knew they were dreams. Just dreams, nothing more. He should have been able to open his eyes and banish the images with a cigarette and the comforting sound of his twin's soft snores. But he couldn't. They held him tightly in their thrall, and he couldn't break away.

Never.

Connor awoke with a start, tangled in his bed sheets, unable to move.

Too close, everything was closing in on him. Too close. Too close.

He was trapped.

Blind in the darkness, swearing and struggling, he tore the sodden linens away from his body, unmindful of the sound of the fabric ripping as he did. As he thrashed, his fist connected with something solid and he heard a loud oath, Murphy's voice.

"Fuck!"

Connor's head snapped around as his brother staggered backward, bringing a hand to his face, eyes wide in the dim moonlight that filtered through the window. Even in the muted light, he could see the blackness that was now seeping through Murphy's fingers.

Was he still dreaming? Blood flowed down Murphy's features, his brother's lifeless eyes staring at him, accusingly. "No –" his shoulders hitched andfear washed through him, flooding him with nausea, "--No." Never.

Crimson blood against pale skin.

His fault, all his fault, oh, God.

"Connor, open your eyes, look at me." Murphy's tone was low but firm, closer now. A warm hand cupped the back of his neck. "Ye need ta wake up."

The blood-spattered afterimages of his dreams pressed into him relentlessly, without mercy, making bile rise in the back of his throat. He felt sick; he was going to be sick . . .

"Easy now," Murphy's eyes were clear and full of concern, and Connor could hear the quiet sound of his breathing, a little faster than normal, but steady. Alive.

"Listen ta me now, and just breathe for a sec," his twin soothed, fingers curling around the base of his skull. "Ye're all right."

Relief swept through him, so potent it was painful. Just dreams, nothing more.

His heartbeat beginning to slow and his stomach settling, Connor swung his legs over the edge of the daybed and mashed a hand against his face, tears and sweat smearing under his palm.

"Damnit," he muttered into his palms, dimly aware of Murphy giving him much needed space. After a moment, when he was sure that he was in control of his body, he looked up, seeing the blood that was leaking from his twin's nose. Unfortunately that hadn't been a dream.

"Christ," he said, reaching toward where his brother was standing "here, let me have a look at ye."

Stemming the blood flow with his shirt, Murphy batted his hands away. "I'm fuckin' fine," he said impatiently. "Ye think that by now I'd have learned ta give ye your girth."

Crimson tracks on pale skin. Another shudder coursed through Connor, making his skin prickle into gooseflesh. He swore softly, clenching a fist into his hair, and tried to will the image away. He failed, and his stomach lurched in retaliation.

Murphy frowned at him, annoyed expression turning to one of compassion. "That was worse than the usual," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.

Swallowing hard, Connor nodded unable to meet his twin's gaze, unable to look at the blood that was soaking into the fabric of Murphy's shirt.

Never.

He could hear Murphy moving around the room, the rustle of fabric and the sound of a drawer opening. When he looked again, his brother was clad in a clean shirt. Connor offered him a wordless look of thanks, not bothering to wonder how Murphy knew.

Giving him a gentle nudge, his twin inclined his head toward the door, reaching for the package of cigarettes and lighter resting on their nightstand. "C'mon."

Night after night it was the same routine: violent nightmares followed by a desperately needed cigarette. Sometimes, he awoke first, the soothing sound of Murphy's breathing drowned out by his heartbeat as it thundered in his ears. On these nights he smoked alone, trembling in one of Danae's patio chairs, leaving his brother sleeping soundly inside the apartment.

More often than not, however, he would find that Murphy was already awake, waiting for him. Or, on nights like tonight, his brother would be the one to guide him out of whatever gore-splattered torment he had been lost in, and back to the safety of the real world.

Sometimes, he wondered if his twin actually slept at all anymore, or if all Murphy's evenings were spent watching over him.

The night was chilly, the last days of fall starting to fade into winter. A cool breeze blew, drying the tears and sweat on Connor's face, and soothing the raw, ragged feeling of his nerves.

Beside him, Murphy swore quietly as he lit a cigarette, bouncing a little to keep warm.

"It's fuckin' freezing out here."

Connor nodded absently, flicking his lighter to life. His hands were still shaking as he lit his own cigarette. "Think it'll snow?"

"Too early yet," Murphy replied.

Another gust of wind blew and Connor closed his eyes against it, bowing his head. "Fuckin' nightmares are going ta be the death of me," he said softly.

Remaining silent, Murphy looked thoughtfully out at the unlit parking lot and daubed at the last of the blood on his face. He took a deep drag from his cigarette, making the cherry flare in the darkness, and blew a flawless ring of smoke. They both watched as it faded away. "Aye," he said at last.

Connor kept his tone carefully nonchalant, "Think they'll ever get better?" Please tell me it'll get better, he pleaded his brother silently, please.

"Ye know I do," Murphy replied, "ye're sleepin' through the night a lot more now."

It was true. He had gone as long as four days without waking in the grip of some hellish vision. And on the nights he did dream, it was only two or three times, a vast improvement over the summer.

And that had to count for something, didn't it?

Somehow, standing on Danae's patio, the concrete icy under his feet, a cigarette burning down to the filter between his fingers, Connor wasn't so sure. This was only his first trip outside to smoke and the morning was still hours away.

With the night stretching endlessly before him, it was tempting to simply find a book and forgo sleep for the rest of the night.

Or maybe, the rest of his life.

He sighed heavily at the thought and Murphy shot him a sideways glance, arching an eyebrow.

"Want ta see if there's anything good on the telly?" his twin asked, "I think it's about time for that show ye like, the one with the detective?"

Despite his grim mood, Connor chuckled, "You hate that fuckin' show."

Shrugging, Murphy sent another smoke ring drifting out into the darkness, "It's starting ta grow on me."

"Ye're such a fuckin' liar."

His brother tried to look offended at the insult, but then snorted, bobbing his head in agreement. "Aye, I do hate that fuckin' show."

o()o

Stepping through the front door, Danae slipped the bag from her shoulder and sat it down on the living room floor with a grateful sigh, shivering slightly from the cold.

The living room was lit by the soft glow of the television, some infomercial for the next greatest thing in vacuum cleaners being mutually ignored by both sleeping MacManus brothers.

Danae glanced between them as she shrugged out of her jacket.

Connor was slouched in her recliner, the remote control clutched in his hand. The tiny muscle in his jaw flexed rhythmically and his face was troubled.

Murphy was curled up on the couch, snoring softly, his fingers twitching every so often, energetic even though he was sleeping soundly. She frowned at the bruise on his face; there was no doubt that it would be a black eye in the morning.

It must have been a bad night.

It was becoming a rare event that she would come home to find Connor on the patio after a sleepless night, cigarette burning between his fingers after a sleepless night, but there was no mistaking the darkening circles that were under his eyes or the exhaustion that still bent his frame.

For all he seemed to be healing, Danae was more worried about Connor than she'd ever admit.

Turning off the TV, she pulled two soft, cozy-looking, blankets out of her storage chest, taking a moment to enjoy their warmness before unfolding them. She settled the first one over Connor and pulled the recliner out to a more comfortable position.

"It's just me," she murmured when he started to stir, body tensing.

Connor's brow furrowed for a moment, and then he muttered something unintelligible, his features then smoothing out as he settled back to sleep.

The second blanket she tucked securely around Murphy, smiling as he sprawled out under its warmth, stretching. Leaning down to press a kiss against his cheek, she was surprised when he turned his head unexpectedly. Their lips collided and she felt him smile as his arms went around her waist, pulling her nearer to him and tossing the blanket over them both.

Faker, she thought, returning the kiss.

"Mornin'," he murmured.

"It's early yet, you should go back to sleep."

"I've been awake," he replied, reaching up to pull the pencil out of her hair, sending a dark mess tumbling over her shoulder. " Conn was startin' ta get restless again."

She moved to rise, turning her head to look at Connor, but Murphy tightened his embrace, keeping her close. "He's all right now."

"You can't even see him," she protested.

"Don't have ta see him," he tapped his temple lightly, giving her an odd half smile. "How was the night? Anything fun?"

She shrugged, replaying the night in her mind. There had been the usual array of coughs and sore throats, a couple of minor accidents from the nearby factory, a chest pain, a broken finger . . . "We had a guy with magnets stuck up his nose," she offered finally.

Murphy raised an eyebrow, "Go on outta that."

"I'm serious, he was showing off for his kids and they somehow ended up sticking together through the middle of his nose," she chuckled softly, "they were even the flashing kind."

Beneath her, Murphy snorted, his hands dancing across her back as he drew senseless designs over the fabric of her sweater, "Christ, the things people do."

"Don't I know it," Danae said and rested her head against his chest, relaxing under his touch and listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat. She shouldn't pry; what happened between Murphy and Connor was their business. It wasn't polite to . . .

"Are you okay?" She asked, abruptly losing her battle with decorum and skimming her fingertips over the bruise that marred his face.

"Aye, fine." His hands never paused in their expedition across her back.

"Are you sure? I can get you some ice."

"I'm fine," he repeated, brushing a strand of hair away from her temple and tucking it behind her ear. "I wouldn't be much of a man if I couldn't take a fuckin' clatter from my own brother."

Looking away, Danae nodded, unwilling to let him see how uneasy the injury made her. Not. Her. Business.

But Murphy knew better, he knew her better. "Ye fuckin' worry too much," he said, ducking his head to give her an earnest look.

"Somebody has to," she murmured to herself and felt the vibration of his chuckle.

"Aye."

"I think I'm going to bed, it was a long night"

Murphy slipped a hand under her sweater, moving to skate his fingers over her skin, the formerly relaxing gesture now anything but. "Want a bit o' company?"

Looking up, she offered him a wry smile.

"Maybe."

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