(((A/Ns: When Connor speaks to Murphy in Gaelic, he is saying that Murphy going outside with Brianna will put her in more danger, as well. He says that Brianna is being searched for by the Russian government, but being seen with Murphy will bring down not only Russians but every mob in Boston on her head.
Also, try to keep in mind that this story is nonromantic. I must admit I would react nearly the same way as Brianna does if I saw all of poor Murphy's painful violet bruises.
This chapter is mostly character development—not a lot of plot in it.)))
Chapter Three: Loner
"I'm going back," Brianna informed Murphy.
Murphy's head jerked up sharply. He had drawn up a chair next to the couch where Connor now slept and had been sitting there for hours. "Back?"
"You two left everything behind. All your clothes, guns, everything. I'm just going to get a few of your things. Then I'm going to pick up groceries. I'll be back in two hours." She was already slipping her derringer into a hidden sheath in her belt and picking her house key up off the table.
"Alrigh', then," Murphy said uneasily. "Be dog-fuckin'-wide, you hear?"
"I will." She knew the slang phrase to mean "be extremely careful." "If Connor wakes up, make sure he gets plenty to drink." She turned to leave.
"Wait!" Murphy called. She stopped at the door, not turning, but waiting. "I don't even know your fuckin' name."
What to tell him? Should she make up something? Could she risk giving him her real name? Well, he already knew her surname. Besides, it was unlikely that he'd be going to the police with this—being a convict himself, and all.
"It's Brianna," she said quietly. "Brianna O'Keefe." Then she was gone.
"Brianna," Murphy repeated to himself, testing it. Not too shabby. A good Irish name.
He stretched and winced as his muscles protested. Hell, he was stiff. He needed a good shower to loosen him up some. Touching Connor's shoulder—as much to reassure himself as his comatose brother—he stood and went in search of a restroom.
Bri sifted through the boys' belongings. She already had a neat stack of clean clothes and other necessities, like toothbrushes, cigarettes, and extra bullets. Their guns hung at her hips.
She finished quickly and turned to leave.
Her eyes crossed. There was a gun barrel pointed at the bridge of her nose.
"Just stay still and I don't have to hurt—"
Before the threat was even completed, Brianna ducked. She knew that the last thing an average hit-man expected was to be attacked by a supposed victim. They didn't seem to grasp the concept—nor, generally, did their hostages—that the victims' chances for survival were much greater if the attacker was kept on the defensive.
Ramming the man's stomach with her head, she grabbed his wrist and twisted. She jabbed her thumbnail under his. Screaming, he dropped the gun and yanked his hand away. Bri rolled away, grabbed the gun, and took a cool, steady aim. One gunshot rang out. Two.
The man went down, stained with crimson.
Brianna looked at the gun and dropped it in disgust. It had the man's fingerprints all over it, the silly fool. He had neglected to wear gloves.
"Amateur," Brianna whispered.
Murphy walked out of the steamy bathroom, his dark hair dripping, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He strode into the living room and swore as he remembered that he had nothing to change into.
"That's not a very nice word," said Brianna's dry voice from behind him.
He spun around quickly. She stood a few feet away, holding a set of clothes out to him.
The Irishman blushed. "I thought you said—"
"Something happened. I decided to come home early."
His towel had slid halfway down his hips; he tugged at it sheepishly. Brianna's eyes flicked up and down his body, widening almost imperceptibly when she saw that the bruises on his chest were deep purple and tender-looking.
Setting the clothes down on a chair, Bri walked slowly to Murphy. He dared not move, almost dared not breathe, as she timidly reached her hand out and touched the bruises. Murphy flinched, but did not move or speak. He was afraid of frightening her off, as he might be with a shy woodland animal.
She bit her lip. "They've gotten worse."
"Aye," he said softly, still nervous about startling her. "They'll get worse before they get better."
She knew that rule from experience, but what a difference between seeing it on her own body and seeing it on someone else's! Her fingers stroked the purple bruises gently. "...are you okay?" she asked hesitantly, spreading her hands flat on his chest, as if covering the wounds would make them go away.
Murphy winced, fighting his instinctive urge to recoil. Brianna's hands were cool and gentle against the dull ache of the bruises. "Aye... I'm fine."
This was so odd for Bri. She had hardly gotten this close to a person in the last six years without pulling a trigger of some kind. Assassins worked alone. Perhaps that was a weakness, but it was the way things were done. She didn't know how to handle trying to help someone instead of hurting them. It was the reverse of everything that she had been doing for half a dozen years.
Murphy gently removed her hands and smiled. "Excuse me while I get decent." He picked up the clothes she had placed on the chair and disappeared into the bathroom.
Brianna stood for a moment, then went and sat on the edge of the couch where Connor slept. It shook her to see those bruises. She had been more or less alone for such a long time now. She knew her limits, knew what she could handle and what she couldn't. She knew how much pain she could endure. But she didn't know Murphy. She didn't know how to prevent herself from hurting him more.
The redhead could not contain a smile as she looked down at Connor. He knew Murphy. The twins seemed able to communicate with a touch, a glance, a mere flickering of the eyes. She was almost convinced that they could speak telepathically. They were always so perfectly coordinated, their movements complementing and completing each other, blending into one beautiful dance.
They were so different, though! Murphy was barely reined in, a tempest in a teakettle. He dove into things headlong, hardly stopping to think about the consequences—except as they related to Connor, whom he constantly worried about. Connor was the coolheaded one—he thought before he spoke or acted. And he always played the big brother, even though no one was really sure which of them was older. He was the one that looked out for them both. He was the one that took control in bad situations. Brianna had only known them for a short time, but she felt confident in her impressions. She was good at reading people.
Murphy walked back into the room, shaking droplets of water from his damp hair. He pulled a chair over by Brianna and straddled it backwards. "So who the fuck are you? What's your story?"
She looked at him silently for a long moment. How much could she tell him? How much did she want him to know?
He deserved the truth, she supposed. It was only right. And what harm could come of it? Again, he could hardly go to the police.
"I'm an assassin for the Russian government," she said at last. "Or, at least, I was. My latest mission was to kill you and Connor." She looked him directly in the face as she said this. "I was told that you were two crazy Irish-American men who went around killing Russians in the dozens. I was never informed that those Russians you were killing were mafia members—the guys that I should be killing. When I found out, well, I quit the mission." She shuddered inadvertently. "Quitting a mission makes me a deserter."
"So we're not the only ones they're after, then," Murphy said softly, understanding.
She nodded grimly.
"How did you find out? About Connor'n me? About us being the good guys?"
She grinned impishly, her dark eyes sparkling green in the light. "Well, you see, it's sometimes harder to kill people as an assassin, who hides in the shadows and lacks upper-body strength, then as a vigilante gunman like yourself. I have to go on stakeout. Figure out the target's weaknesses."
"You were fuckin' spyin' on us?!"
Her grin widened and became teasing. "You really should buy a shower curtain sometime."
Heat crept up his neck and spread through his cheeks. Brianna laughed aloud when she saw him blushing. "Don't worry," she assured him, "I didn't look."
"You'd better fuckin' not have!"
She giggled at his dismay, then caught herself. She was hardly being professional! Murphy was just too easy to talk to. His easygoing—and currently chagrined—manner made her want to relax in his company. She could not allow herself to do so! For an assassin to let their guard down was to invite death at the hand of a bloodthirsty rival.
Standing quickly, she excused herself with a quick, "I'm going to make coffee."
Murphy stared after her. For some reason, hearing her laugh eased some of his tension. He wanted to make her laugh. She was always so serious. It went against his nature to be that serious, or to spend time with someone that serious.
"The bird's not too bad," Connor's voice broke into his thoughts.
Glancing over at his twin, Murphy saw that he was propped up on his elbow, looking thoughtful.
"She's almost halfway fuckin' decent," Connor continued.
"A bit fuckin' odd, considering that she came here to make sure neither of us ever saw the fuckin' light of day again."
"Aye, 't'is fucked up, to be sure." Connor laughed. "I must say now I almost fuckin' agree with what ye said afore—ye can't be sure if she's our guardian angel or the grim fuckin' reaper."
Brianna walked back into the room with two cups of coffee. She nodded a greeting at Connor. "How do you feel?" she asked, offering him one of the steaming cups.
"Much improved," he said, accepting the cup.
Brianna handed the other cup to Murphy wordlessly, avoiding his eyes.
"So..." Murphy said, fidgeting and staring into his cup. "What now, then? What do we do?"
Brianna looked at him coolly. "It's quite simple," she told him. "You two will stay here and recover your strength, then you will go back to doing what you do. I will take up residence somewhere far away—Argentina, maybe, or New Zealand—and hope to live long enough to have my midlife identity crisis."
"How long is this going to take?" Connor asked quietly.
"Recovering your strength? That depends on you, I suppose."
"And we're just supposed to hang around here?" Murphy demanded. "What do you fuckin' expect from us?" He ran an agitated hand through his hair.
She saw his restlessness, his nervous energy. "You don't have a choice," she said gently. "If you leave, you could get killed. Then my desertion will have been for nothing, and I might as well have killed you both and kept my own life." She saw him waver. "Think about it, Murphy. If something happens to you, where will Connor be?" She knew from her observations that bringing up Connor's health or safety in an argument would almost instantly sway Murphy. Unthinkingly reaching up to smooth his dark hair—his nervous gesture had caused it to stick out at awkward angles—she caught herself and pulled her hand back. She looked away guiltily and continued, "It's only for a while. I'll do the shopping and whatever else will put me in public. You are to stay here with Connor."
"That will put yerself in danger," Connor told Brianna seriously, propped up on his elbow. "If me thinkin's right, they're not just lookin' for us. They're lookin' for ye, too."
"Nothing gets past you," the redhead said dryly. "I can take care of myself just fine." Murphy began to protest that so could he, but she held up a hand, cutting him off. "Let me finish. You may have been able to defend yourselves under normal circumstances, but you are injured and you have lost most of your equipment. Believe me when I say that you face the best assassins in the entire country of Russia." She thought of the rookie that had attacked her when she went back to the warehouse. "And the worst."
Murphy began to argue, but Connor touched his arm. When the younger MacManus look down at his twin, Connor said something softly that Brianna mostly did not catch. The bits that she did hear were in a language that was achingly familiar—Gaelic, the language of her homeland. The true language of Ireland. She listened to him speak in fascination. His voice was beautiful and lilting, like a song.
"Aye," said Murphy, "you've a point." He looked as though the admission pained him physically.
Brianna stood and stretched languidly. "I'm going out for groceries now," she told them. "Anything you need?"
"Bandages?" Murphy suggested.
"Good call," she said. "Gauze pads, medical tape, hydrogen peroxide... anything else?"
"Nothin' I can think up on a moment's notice," Connor said. Murphy nodded agreement.
"I'm off, then. Keep an eye out."
"We always do."
"Of course."
