Murphy's found a cozy spot on the fire escape to catch a breath and a few smokes. He came outside with the idea that the night air and the nicotine might help to clear his head. However, he really only finds himself sitting in conflicted silence, throwing philosophical questions up at the stars. They make for poor companions; they twinkle, but have little else to say. And the questions he tossed up just come raining back down on him, leaving him worse than where he started. Kind of feels like the cigarette's his only friend tonight.
He's not outside even ten minutes before Connor climbs out the window to sit next to him, snatching a cigarette from his pack without so much as a how do you do. They say nothing for a while, just take deep drags of the cigarettes and enjoy the way they burn.
Finally, Connor turns to ask, "Somethin' on your mind?"
"Ah, I dunno." Murph scoffs, tossing his cigarette—now smoked down to nearly nothing—away into the alley below. "I guess I just—" He stops, trying to find a good way to string his words together. "Do you think we, maybe, go too far, sometimes?"
Connor frowns. Murphy doesn't like the way his face falls; doesn't like the way he looks at him like Murphy's trying to leave him-like he's giving up on him. Because he's not. "Don't tell me you're thinkin' of backin' out on this now, are ye?"
"No, no, I just—sometimes I wonder what it is we're doin' and all." Murphy pulls out a second cigarette, because hell if he doesn't need another one.
"We're on God's mission. You felt the callin' yourself."
Murphy puffs out a sigh that's heavy with smoke. He watches his breath rise up towards the skyline and wishes it were so easy to rise up along with it. "You don't think there's anything… wrong about any of this?"
Connor looks down at his hands; honestly, he just tries not to think about it. "We'll face our judgement when it comes. We just have to—we just have to stay strong in knowin' that we're riddin' the world of the evil that walk it's streets. God put us to this task; we have to be strong enough to face it."
"Yeah, and what about the things God didn't put us to?" He turns to look his brother in the eye, holding his gaze.
Connor looks away, down through the grate of the fire escape. His voice drops to barely a whisper. "That's for us." He takes a deep breath, and when he looks back up, his voice—along with his conviction—is strong again. "I stand by what I said before. He can judge us as He sees fit. My conscience is clear. I ain't gonna apologize for it."
An uneasy silence passes between them where Murphy takes longs tugs on his cigarette and Connor twirls his in his fingers.
"Why?" Connor asks, breaking the silence. It's easy to miss the hesitation-the uncertainty-in his voice. "Do you feel... bad about it?"The question is more loaded in meaning than either of them wants to admit.
Murphy feels his chest twist at the mere suggestion. He shakes his head. "No—no, never." He says, and his voice is thick with fear and anxiety and love. "Christ, Con—never." He drops his cigarette, reaching out, instead, to clutch the back of Connor's neck—to bring their foreheads together.
Connor lets out a puff of breath he had been holding for far too long. He leans forward to press a lingering kiss to his brother's lips—something soft and heartfelt and forbidden in the eyes of God. A kiss that belongs to them. Not to a mission. Not to faith.
The fact of the matter is that, sometimes, in their weaker moments, their faith in God would waver.
But never—never—did their faith in each other.