A/N: Here is something short and sweet. It's a one-shot, unless by some miracle someone wants it to go somewhere else. I was listening to the theme song for House, M.D. when I was writing this, in case anyone wanted to get the "true" reading experience. I hope ya'll enjoy and please, please, PLEASE review!

Disclaimer: The characters, sadly, are not mine :: sniffle::


GunMetalGrey Goodness

Connor had faith. In God, in his mission, in himself. But most of all, Connor had faith in his brother. Murphy was his rock, his shield, his sword, protection against the darkness of doubt and fear.

He sat, legs stretched out in an inelegant sprawl, a cigarette dangling from long, tapered fingers, stained with scars and nicotine. The chair was old, bare and only just in one piece but it supported him in his efforts, or lack thereof.

His darker eyes watched Murphy from under whisky-weighted lids. Connor could only see his brother's hands and the smooth expanse of his naked back. The flex of flesh and bone in them dazzled his vision, looking like the liquid ripple beneath a cat's coat. He lifted his hand to his mouth, feeling the shocking coolness of the glass against his lips, fuller and more finely-chiseled than his brother's. The cheap scotch slid over his tongue and down the back of his throat, quick and fiery. Like something else Connor swallowed with much more pleasure, a salty sweetness. The alcohol smoldered in his belly at the thought.

Murphy's hair was longer than it usually was. His gaze lingered there, tracing its wave and curl with the knowledge of how the rough, coarse silk of it felt gripped in his fists. Blunter fingers moved with swift dexterity over the chill, dulled metal, caressing its dead beauty, smoothing away imperfections and grime. Connor had never realized how erotic cleaning a gun could be. But then, this was Murphy.

Murphy had passion. For life, for God, for his mission. But most of all, Murphy had a passion for his twin. Connor was his heart, his soul, his strength, fuel, the power of the machine.

His head was bent over the rickety table. It was covered in guns, oil, and cleaning tools. The scent of the heavy oil made his head feel light as air and yet like there was an anvil sitting at the crown. And he could feel the artic laser of Connor's liquor-sharpened stare on his bare skin. It sizzled along his nerves, making his heart shudder in his chest and his fingers quiver just ever-so-slightly. He could no longer concentrate on what sat in front of him but he wasn't ready to turn around, knowing what he'd find.

He stroked a dirty cloth, once an old shirt of Connor's, over the grayish black barrel, lovingly smoothing the oil over its sleek surface. He worked slowly, unlike his usual hyper-energetic self. It was almost pain, feeling his twin's attention and then refusing to acknowledge it. It was a pleasure-pain. Who knew that cleaning a gun could turn him on…but then again, this was Connor.

Connor set the glass on the table, careful not to spill the last mouthful. He felt loose, yet there was a power, a strength, in his limbs that made him bolder than was his wont. He knew what it was. Murphy.

Murphy heard Connor set his glass down; it was like a gunshot in the silent, icy apartment. He placed the re-assembled gun gently on the table. He felt like he was on fire and frozen solid all at once and it made him more cautious than was his wont. He knew what it was. Connor.

Control ruled Connor's life, his mind. But tonight, something dangerous, long denied, and primitive strangled his control with the effortless ease of a python. His right hand settled over the vee of his thighs, familiar territory. What it found was not new, either. The fabric was taut, an entrapment. His fly bit with sharp metallic teeth on flesh freshly risen, firm and unflinching in its prison. In his left, he still held the cigarette, nearly burnt to the filter. He cut his eyes to it briefly before flicking it away. He stood, smoothly, muscles uncoiling beneath the bared flesh of chest and abdomen. His naked feet scuffed against the rough concrete floor as he languidly prowled toward his prey. Murphy, he thought, a sly smile curling his mouth.

Impulse ruled Murphy's life, his mind. But tonight, something frightening, long denied, and feral awoke the tiny sliver of prudence threading his character. His hands were empty now, resting carefully on each thigh. Warmth curled like cream in coffee through his veins, a deadening, arousing drug. Azure eyes dipped down, clinically measuring the shift in the terrain of his lap. He listened to the steady tap of calloused skin against concrete as it closed the distance between him and his twin. Never in all their lives had Connor led the dance. He sat there, silent and shivery still, waiting for his predator. Connor, he sighed inwardly, his eyes slipping closed.

Connor stood behind him, so close he could feel the heat of Murphy's skin against his own. It felt like sin. He no longer cared. Connor lifted one hand, his right, and, taking the index finger, traced the delicate curve of Murphy's left ear. Murphy sucked in a breath, sharply. The sound sent a crawling quiver down Connor's spine and metallic teeth dung deeper into tender tissue.

With that one finger, Connor followed the arch of the tendons corded in his brother's neck, lingering deliciously in the hollow beneath his jaw where the echo of his heart throbbed. It leaped, welcoming, at his touch. He continued on. Across one muscular shoulder, over the outline of the blade, to the nape. Goosebumps had risen on Murphy's exposed skin and his breaths came ragged and uneven. He paused at that vulnerable place, the first vertebrae at the nape, where neck and back conjoin. A breath snagged in Connor's throat as he sank to his knees, with a reverence that was almost sacrilegious. Cerulean eyes gazed transfixed. Hypnotized by Murphy's simplistic beauty and the brutal thrust of desperate need, Connor lowered his mouth.