A/N: My very first non-Potter fanfiction. Hope it goes well!
It had never occurred to him before, that others might see him and his brother as strange. It had never really mattered, but when he thought about it, really thought about it as he was unlikely to do most of the time, Murphy supposed that some might think him and his brother unusual. After all, most brothers, even if they were twins, didn't stay together even into their mid-twenties. But Murphy couldn't imagine life without Connor nearby.
Ever since before he could remember, Conner had always been there, always had his back. Even if he could rely on no one else, Conner would come through. It was Conner who had helped him when his language lessons weren't sticking, Conner who insisted the meat packing plant hire them both or neither.
And Conner who jumped from the roof of their five story building, in his robe and boxers no less, just to stop those Russian pussies from killing him.
It was the first time Murphy had ever truly been scared. Even when Chekhov had pushed him to his knees, holding the gun to his head, he was still only pissed off, cursing as violently as he knew and in several languages. Leave it to a fucking Russian to take a St. Patty's Day drunken brawl as a personal offense. Then he'd looked up, seen his brother poised on the edge of the roof, that damn toilet turning over end as it fell through the air. Then, only a split second later, Conner sailing through the air, legs kicking out and handcuffs glinting in the early morning sun.
Murphy ducked, partly to shield himself from the toilet and partly because he didn't want to see if Conner missed his target. He ran to his brother's side, hardly daring to breathe as he rolled Conner to his back and checked his pulse. He allowed himself a brief second of relief but the other Russian was stirring, trying to push himself up. A switch flipped inside and Murphy turned, grabbing the undamaged lid from their toilet. Conner was hurt, passed out in the trash pile with his bloodied wrists still in chains. The man didn't deserve to live.
It was all the logic he needed to attack and he swung the lid, morbidly pleased at the sound of the porcelain colliding with the man's already bandaged head. He swung again and again, until he was satisfied that the pussy wouldn't get back up. Then, as if he'd done it dozens of times before, Murphy stripped the men of their guns, money clips, beepers, anything that looked as if it would fetch a price, tossing them all into a bag before lifting his brother over his shoulders. He was going to reach the clinic, no matter how tired or hurt he was. Conner needed it.
He'd never seen that look in Conner's eyes, like he'd been given a greater purpose to life. And they had, Murphy felt it too. He sat across from his brother in that run down holding cell, on a thin mattress only slightly less comfortable than his own bed, and watched Conner carefully. He knew the exact moment when Conner decided what needed to be done, and without a thought, knew he would follow.
He always followed.
His heart was pounding heavily in his chest and Murphy took slow breaths trying to calm himself, listening to the faint sounds of the elevator's mechanisms as it lifted them up floors. But there was no fooling someone who knew him so well. "You nervous?" Conner asked him softly, and Murphy admired his brother's utter confidence. Any second thoughts he might have entertained flew away in the face of that coolness, and when Conner knelt, stripping off his jacket and digging through his bag, Murphy did the same.
Those shafts were hot, and Conner's stupid rope felt heavy on his shoulders, but it was the close confinement, the feel of Conner pressing against him as he tried to move that really pushed Murphy into that stupid argument. How else could he hide from his brother the sudden tightness in his jeans, a feeling growing in his chest that shouldn't be there? It was a feeling that had never been there before and it frightened him.
When they fell through the roof, hanging as if by miracle from that fucking rope, those thoughts left and Murphy concentrated on his mission. When the nine bodies lay scattered about the room, blood splattered on the once white walls and carpets, he admired the smoothness with which he and Conner operated, as if they'd done this many times before. Conner's humor didn't seem at all out of place among the dead men. They were brothers, twins, this was how things were meant to be.
How odd it was, seeing Conner yell. His brother usually spoke much more softly, his deep voice more soothing than anything else Murphy had ever heard, generally content to leave the yelling and angry outbursts to Murphy. Even three sheets to the wind, Conner wasn't likely to speak any louder than normal. And it had always worked for them, the calm twin and the rowdy one.
But Murphy could listen to Conner yell for days. It was invigorating, fascinating, and he almost was glad Roc was too fucking stupid to see what was going on if it meant Conner would resort to shouting. But he felt guilty, thinking that. Roc was in real danger and it was with impatience that he waited for the phone to ring. And when it finally did, Conner didn't even flinch, letting Murphy grab the phone as quickly as a viper's bite.
Though he ignored the feeling, trying to concentrate on more important and less hell-worthy things, like taking out the scum of the earth one at a time, it stayed in the back of his mind, how fucking attractive his twin was when well and truly pissed off.
The jealousy was unexpected, rising in his throat like bile during a hangover. Conner had only been joking with Roc, congratulating him on facing his worst demon and coming out on top. His black gloved hand had stopped it from being truly a kiss, but that didn't make Murphy feel any better at all.
Worse still, it made no sense. Hadn't Conner come home with many a wench before? It had never bothered him, not once on those many occasions, and Murphy had always been content to wander Boston for a few hours, or hang out at McGinty's and start a bar fight or two until his brother invariably found him. They'd walk home together, joking and laughing as brothers should.
Now, though, he was jealous of the attention Conner paid Rocco, and it distracted him, so much so that he didn't notice the old man until Conner's pace slowed in front of him. But instinct took over, pushing disturbing thoughts away as he lifted his arm and pointed his gun over Rocco's shoulder, a prayer running through his mind. God protect him and Rocco and, most especially, Conner.
His arm still hurt like hell from the burn of that iron, from the bullet that had tore at his flesh, but Conner was still in pain, his wounds as yet unattended, and Murphy gripped the rag tight enough for the whites to show in his knuckles. Conner fought against the pain, as Murphy knew he would, straining not to buck when Rocco pressed the iron to his leg. Conner was strong, but Murphy knew how hot that iron was. Even so, when his brother reached back, burying his long fingers in his hair, holding tightly to keep from crying out, Murphy closed his eyes.
Because he couldn't stand the sight of his brother's pain. Because all he could do to help Conner was to hold him, tightly pressing his chest to his brother's back as Conner's body tensed and he struggled to conceal the torture Murphy knew he was feeling. He pushed his face into his brother's neck, feeling Conner's damp hair and rough skin under his cheek, wishing that he could ease his brother's pain, even just a little.
And in church the next morning, as Conner walked towards the confessionals, Murphy kept his head bowed, praying to God with more intensity than he ever had before, no matter how religious he'd considered himself to be. These feelings that invaded his mind and body, even to his soul, they were wrong. He and Conner may have God's permission to eliminate the evil from Boston, may even have God's protection, because after all, they'd walked away with nothing more than wounds from four shootouts, but it didn't change the fact that the love he held for his twin, far from brotherly, was forbidden.
Rocco was dead, shot through the chest by that Italian bastard. It was his fault. He'd made Conner accept Rocco into their group, and no matter how they'd tried to help, to keep their friend safe, they'd known all along that he wasn't meant for this. But Rocco had been right, he'd known everyone and had seemed like another sign that God was looking out for them.
Rocco's last words, "Don't ever stop," only made the pain of his loss worse.
A strange calmness settled on him, and he used it to escape the confines of his chair and cuffs, ignoring the pain of his brother's kicks because he knew that someone would be coming back soon. They would be ready.
When that mafia prick rounded the corner, Murphy let his anger go, stabbing with all his strength, bearing the man to the floor, flecked with Rocco's blood. He could tell when Conner gave in too, standing, still cuffed to his chair, and kicking the fucker as viciously as his bonds would allow.
Even the discovery of their father, a man they'd never met but instantly felt a connection to, couldn't make them feel any less bloodthirsty. Conner knew what to do though, a plan forming that was possible with the help of the friends they'd made and with the help of their Da.
He still allowed Murphy to lean against him, giving in to a moment of weakness that neither would ever mention afterwards. And that gave Murphy the strength he needed to continue following Conner. Because they did everything together, and Murphy wouldn't have it any other way.
They were again dressed in black, walking with purpose into the courthouse. Murphy followed Conner's footsteps precisely through the metal detectors, then kept pace with him as a soldier would. Left, right, left, right. Measured steps that carried them swiftly up the stairs and into Yakavetta's courtroom.
It was almost too easy, gaining control of the courtroom. And, as if being in the presence of their father made them more poetic, Murphy followed Conner to stand on the tables and issued a warning as beautifully put as if they'd rehearsed it.
He could feel his brother's anger, and the passion that fuelled him to protect the innocent by ridding the world of it's scum. And when Conner proclaimed that any crossing into their realm would find the three of them at their backs, it was more than a promise of retribution and punishment. It was a vow, that he and Conner would always be together.
His heart, unsure and scared, slowed its racing and fell into a steady rhythm. Murphy came to a decision that had nothing to do with pulling the trigger. He loved Conner, and he would tell him. Conner had swore they'd still be together, and Conner kept his promises. If he was wrong, Conner would look out for him, and fight with him and drink with him, as they'd always had, because they were brothers.
The sheep farm in Ireland was quiet. There was plenty of time for a man to think, to come to terms with himself, his actions and the world around him. Plenty of places two men could go to sneak embraces and stolen kisses. To act as lovers and not brothers. If their Da knew, and he well might've observant old cuss that he was, he left them to their own. Il Duce was not a man to interfere in the lives of those he didn't consider evil.
Murphy didn't concern himself, as he once had, with the forbidden status that many would apply to his love. Conner loved him, showed him in his words and his actions, and in his bed most nights. Besides, he was used to doing things society thought was forbidden. He was one of the infamous Saints of Boston, after all.
A/N: Okay, that's all. Let me know what you thought. Please and thanks!