One thing Rocco didn't expect was for Connor and Murphy to find where his things had been pawned. Perhaps he didn't have to worry about buying a new television after all. Another thing he didn't expect was for them to bring a woman with them, for more reasons than one. Connor and Murphy certainly didn't share his gesticulation of worship to the wonders of divine, feminine beauty, and pondered for the longest time (up until the night before) why that happened to be. He wasn't about to ask for the details on their private life, but if he had any interest in desiring the facts, he'd pry their minds until they were empty of all facts. However, he had no interest in learning the facts, because he liked them. He didn't want that to change.

What Rocco also didn't expect was see Murphy's face covered in dried blood, or to see Connor look so pale and expressionless. Normally, the MacManus twins were a riot to be around, always joking, always laughing, even more so when you fed them enough alcohol. Now, they looked near death, haunted, and terrified.

Rayvie, the woman they brought along with them to his place, began to weave an intricate tale to Rocco about her saviors, and he kept his mouth shut the entire time she told the story. She didn't mention the murder of Tony, nor did she bring up the fact that she helped them dispose of his body. Donna, who had been listening in to the conversation, joined them in the kitchen to hear the recounting of the MacManus' heroics. For "heroes," Connor and Murphy didn't look too proud of themselves, nor did they feel privileged to hold such a title.

Rayvie's story told of how the brothers came to her aid, took justice into their own hands, and beat the snot out of Tony, who fled afterward. Though her words hinted at how fearful she was of them, even now, she was glad someone rushed to her side to help her, since no one else bothered.

Donna was the first to comment when story came to a close. "My God." She took a minute to stare at Connor and Murphy, eyes wide and mouth popped. Murphy was holding a bag of ice to his nose that Connor had brought him since they arrived, and hadn't said much, and neither had Connor. Looking back at Rayvie, she asked, "What are you going to do now? You said it was his apartment."

"I can't go back there," she told her, on the verge of tears. "But I don't have anywhere else to go. My parents…" She choked. "Well, they don't want me around."

"She can stay with us," Donna said to Rocco, and it wasn't a request.

Rocco tossed his arms out to the sides, his eyes bulging, laughing out his sarcastic retort. "That's great. Because this isn't a fucking henhouse already as it is!"

"For Christ's sake, Rocco! Learn to help out your fellow human for once."

"I'm sorry, but I thought I just heard a thieving little cokehead tell me to respect other people!"

"You're such an asshole!" Helping Donna up, she took her away from Rocco before he could do any more emotional damage.

"Thanks, guys," Rocco snickered at twins, who were as still as statues. "I really needed this."

"It's not like we intended it, Roc," Connor addressed, below his own breath. "It's jus' de way t'ings turned out."

"Are you going to tell me what really happened?"

They froze in place, eyes twitching back and forth now and then, Murphy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What are ya talkin' abou'?"

"Come on. You guys look like shit. There's no way you got the jump on this guy. Murphy looks like a lawnmower just ran him over."

"Roc, I t'ink it's best we jus' drop it."

Throwing his palm upward, he turned away from them. "Fine. Whatever. You sticking around?"

"We should pro'lly go home. It's been a long day."

Rocco looked from him to Murphy, who appeared scarred in more than one way. His head was lowered in a signal of shame, the swelling and blood on his face a critical conjecture of the suffering he had faced, and how much worse off he might have been if he had been born alone twenty-six years ago.

"All right. I'll drive you."

Warm water rushed over Murphy's many wounds, including his throbbing ribcage, as Connor washed the blood from his face and chest. Every time a palm ran over a bruise, he winced, but standing underneath the shower alongside Connor was already a great prescription to the pain. He still hadn't done much speaking, even when they were alone, but Connor didn't require his placation. All he needed was for him to feel better after what happened, both on the inside and outside.

As Connor moved the bar of soap along his aching sides, he couldn't help but let out a groan, letting him know how sensitive the area was. Connor released his waist, apologizing to him, but Murphy didn't blame him, for anything. After all, he was sure more difficult things weighed on his brother's conscience than any of the thoughts on his own.

"Feel any better?" Connor whispered to him, finding the silence unbearable.

"A little," Murphy answered, also in a hush, though there was no need to.

"I can try to get ya some'tin. Ya know, fer de pain."

"Ya'd have to get it on de street. And I don'…" He clamped his eyes shut and clutched Connor on the shoulder, bracing himself as a twinge pulsed up and down his waist. Connor supported him, keeping him from falling, as he always did. "Don' want ya to."

"Fuck it. I'm goin' to. I don' care what ya want. Look at ya, ya can barely stand."

"Connor!" he shouted when seeing him start to step out of the shower. Connor halted as if stopped by a horn. "Stay here. Please."

Conflicted, Connor placed both hands on the back of his neck and flexed his biceps as he paced the room. Murphy needed medical attention; there was no doubt about it. Some hot water and a massage weren't going to cure him. "Murph, I can't just let ya—"

"I'm fine." The way he squeezed his eyes shut said otherwise. "I jus' want ya to stay with meh."

That was a request Connor couldn't decline, especially with the desperation in Murphy's words. What did he fear, he wondered? That he'd go on a shooting rampage, take another few lives while out there scouting for painkillers? As if he'd obtain pleasure from such things. If only life had been anything like movies, where things were simplified down to an infinitesimal speck, where everything worked out according to plan. If life was like the movies, Connor would have painkillers in his hand right now for Murphy to chew on. How he'd obtain said painkillers was left up to his imagination, and his alone, though he was blush to share it with film producers had he the chance.

He returned to Murphy, head low, but reservations high. He told him to turn around so he could wash and rub his back, which was covered in plum-like dots. Murphy did as he was asked, and hissed and moaned as Connor's palms smoothed down his skin, washing away more than just blood, but all the sins carried along with them. After he did it long enough, some of the pain dissolved, and he could sigh with relief once he was cleansed of all that ailed him.

Connor draped his arms around his waist, clutching him from behind as though he would slip from his grasp at any moment. Just from Murphy's sound of approval, he could tell he was smiling now, though it must have killed to do so. He even seemed to relax at the feeling of Connor's mouth against the back of his neck, at his declarations of his adoration through foreign tongues. Murphy returned the remarks with similar words, though his contained appreciation for Connor being there for him when he needed him.

Murphy could have fallen asleep there if he wanted, secured in Connor's clasp like a valuable item held under lock and key, but he figured it'd be best to lie down. Telling Connor he'd like to get some rest for a while, he let him go so that he could do so. Connor stood under the running water for a bit longer, feeling he had yet to be washed of the filth on his soul.

Shutting the water off, Connor dried his skin off and dressed, taking a seat on the couch. He thought that television would alleviate his stress, but he ended up shutting it off and dwelling on what happened earlier in the evening.

"What've I gotten us into?" Connor asked the sleeping Murphy, who stirred every now and then. More importantly, will we be found out?

When his eyes grew too heavy to hold them open any longer, he climbed into his own bed, which he was forced to sleep in because of the lack of room to fit both of them onto one. He would have liked to sleep next to Murphy, but they had to work with what was available to them. As soon as his eyes were closed, he went to sleep, and it was not at all a restful night.

An obsidian gloom stretched along the street as Detective Malone reached the alley in question, the one where eyewitness statements claimed a murder occurred. Before any detective work could be done, he acquired some caffeine and breakfast from the shop up the street, a favorite of his that he frequented, especially on rainy days like today. A few of his colleagues were already at the scene, staring wordlessly at the puddles of blood on the pavement, drinking their own cups of Joe that they bought from places Malone would only visit if he wanted to start his day drinking burnt piss.

"What have we got?" he asked the first detective he saw, Dolly, whose receding hairline seemed especially sweaty that morning.

"We're having the blood sent in, but there's no body," he told Malone, a sour taste in his mouth that always seemed to appear when he was around. Malone was a good cop, but he found his mannerisms unpleasant, as well as his alcoholic odor. "Yet, anyway."

"Any idea at all whose blood it might be?" He lifted his unnecessary shades from his green eyes and rested them on his slick, brown hair, sipping his coffee and placing his free hand into the pocket of his tan trench coat, one that hung down to his ankles.

"All we know is that they're samples from two separate individuals."

Malone hadn't heard him, because something about the scene bothered him, something that didn't concern the other detectives on the force. He had been to these apartments before on a job separate from that he served at the moment— he knew the address, knew a lot of the people that lived there, and had a bad feeling that the victim in this case was also someone he knew of. Malone had more than one particular interest in the case, and he'd know why before the afternoon ended.

"What do the neighbors say?" Malone queried as he paced around the caution tape surrounding the spatters of blood.

"Many report having heard screaming and fighting prior to hearing a gunshot," Duffy continued with a sigh. If Malone had stopped by the scene earlier rather than going to breakfast, he might not have been forced to explain it to him. "Ethnic slurs were used."

"Like?"

"Wop. Mick."

"Ah. Always wanted to see an Italian and Irishman go at it." He grinned at his own joke, but Duffy wasn't laughing. "Anything else?" Another slurp of his coffee had Dolly cringing at the sound.

"Nine mil casing and a tire iron on the sidewalk."

Nodding with approval, Malone stepped away from him, looking up at the walls of the buildings the alley ran between. Detective Greenly was staring down at the pools in the same manner a child stares at a life-threatening wound on their friend's arm. It was his first assigned case, first day out in the field, and so far, he hadn't taken it well. From what Malone had heard of Greenly, he was an excellent police officer, but that was the only "excellent" thing about him.

"What are you looking at, Greenly?" Malone confirmed with him as he snuck up behind him. Greenly, startled, leapt into the air along with his heart.

"Uh…" he breathed, taking a moment to blink. "There's… blood?"

First, Malone peered at the blotches upon the ground, then looked back at Greenly, who shook when their eyes met. "You sure?"

"Looks that way to me?"

"Could be tomato juice. Maybe you should lick it."

Malone hadn't been the first detective to tease him since his promotion. It seemed that since getting the job, everyone on the force was determined to treat him like crap, and have a wild time doing it. He rolled his eyes at Malone, facing him. "I know what blood looks like, okay?"

"Just checking," giggled the older, taller man, taking another drink of coffee as he brushed past him. "Looks like you do have the skills of a detective after all." While he wasn't looking, Greenly jabbed his middle finger into the air, directing it at Malone's back.

Malone continued down the alley, scrutinizing the ground, studying a strange pattern of blood drops that trailed all the way to the rear of the buildings, toward the dock. He clicked his tongue and shook his head as he followed them all the way to the dock, where they abruptly end.

"I think I may know where our body is!" he shouted to the others. The first to rush over was Dolly, whose eyes couldn't get any wider, even if they popped out of his skull.

"The dock is right by the crime scene," Dolly said to himself, aghast. "Why would the killer do this?"

With a shrug, Malone finished his coffee, then chucked the empty cup into the water. Dolly grimaced at the act. "Our perp is amateur. They've never done this before. Maybe this was the only thing they could think of. Call it in, get them to sweep the bay. The vic might have floated downstream."

Glowering, Dolly didn't budge from his spot, nor did he retrieve his radio from his belt. Malone, wondering what was keeping him, stared at him. "What are you, my lieutenant now? You fucking call it in."

Smirking, Malone tucked his hands away into his pockets. "Someday," he threatened, though Dolly thought he referred to someday being his boss. He fished out his radio and made the call, heading back to the taped off area. Once again approaching Greenly, he uttered, "I'm going upstairs to the apartments, ask some people some questions. Can you handle staying down here and playing with the big kids?" Greenly said nothing, only glared. "Good!" With that, he left the alley and headed around front and entered the building.

Questions were the last thing on Malone's mind now. What he desired to discover was if his speculations were correct. He wouldn't tell the others, knowing it would affect not only his career, but his freedom, and if he had been right about what might have happened at the scene, he would have a lot more to worry about than finding a perpetrator.

Rain hammered on the windows walls of the apartments as he ascended the steps to the top floor, where he found the apartment he was looking for: the one belonging to Tony Abbiati. The first of many bad signs was that the door was cracked open. The second was that no one answered when Malone tapped on it. Withdrawing his gun, he pushed the door open wider, stepping into the empty room, where shards of glass were scattered upon the carpet alongside strewn objects. A shelf had been toppled over, one that might have been a bookcase.

"Shit," Malone whispered, checking each of the rooms for signs of life. Holstering his weapon, he paced the living room, assessing the situation. Tony must have found out. Maybe he staged his own death and fled the country, and could be miles away by now. If he did know, he'd be telling as many people as he could of his unscrupulous practices, and that was a best case scenario. "SHIT!" he hollered, stopping his pacing for a moment to pull at his hair. Now he wondered who tipped him off, who sent him the message. Maybe the guy's wife set him up, knowing he was corrupt, and tried to get him imprisoned. He'd have to visit the bitch again and ask her a few questions. Maybe her husband reported back to her since the incident. He'd get his answers, even if he had to use force.

For now, Eric Malone would rule nothing out until he had all of his ducks in a row. It could be that Tony really had been whacked by someone else. If that had been the case, did they know about him? Were they coming after him next? He wouldn't give them the opportunity.

Whatever was going on here, he was involved, whether or not they fished a body from the bay.

Connor and Murphy had no interest in speaking to their co-workers that day, nor did they wish to explain why Murphy had a new collection of scars. The whispers indicated that they thought Connor responsible, and Murphy only responded with carefully constructed antagonizing looks at the very premise of Connor doing such a thing. Still, no one talked to them personally, nor did they butt into their business, though the room was filled with curious murmurs.

On their walk home, Connor bought them a six pack of beer for them to drown their sorrows in, but it would only provide temporary relief. By the day's end, Murphy was in less agony from his bruises, which Connor had attempted to pray away. They distracted each other with a game of cards, allowing for their lives to return to normal, in which they bantered and, when the timing was right, flirted with one another.

"Oh, fer fuck's sake," Murphy scoffed when Connor won a poker game against him. "Do ya really wanna do dis all night?"

Connor, raising an eyebrow at him, chuckled. "Whatever do ya mean, Murph?"

"Dere are better ways of entertainin' ourselves."

Lowering the cards he had in his hand, Connor leaned back in the old, dilapidated chair that looked as though it could fall apart any second now. "Whaddya wanna do?"

Annoyed that he wasn't catching the hint, or maybe he was and trying to hide it, Murphy pointed his thumb behind him at the mattresses on the floor.

Now grinning, Connor exclaimed, "Really!"

"Unless… ya know…" Murphy cracked the top of a new beer and sipped from it, looking up at Connor with big eyes. "You don' wanna."

After all they had been through the past couple of days, it seemed like sex truly would have been the best aid for helping them forget about it. "What abou' yer bruises?"

"I can handle it."

Connor took his word for it. He lifted from his chair, shoving it back a few feet, and Murphy got up as well, who struggled to climb out of his shirt, which Connor helped him out of, kissing him the entire him he assisted him with it. Though he wanted to figuratively tear Murphy asunder, he remained gentle to refrain from exacerbating his injuries, despite the difficulty in doing so. Connor was the first of them to dive onto one of the beds, and Murphy joined him as soon as he managed to shove his torn jeans off.

A collision of skin, sweat, and saliva was all it took to invigorate their carnal sides. Murphy sat upon Connor, riding upon his bucking hips, glazed in sweat, and it didn't matter in the least that his sides burned each time he was lifted, for he had soon learned he loved nothing more than this. Pain could come in waves all it wished, but he longed for these moments more than anything else. His cries were those of joy and at the agony tearing through his wounded body, but it was all worth it to hear Connor's Gaelic expressions of fondness and affection.

"Is breá liom tú, deartháir daor*," Connor gasped when the conclusion was in reach, and it would be a wondrous ending indeed.

Murphy, high from both his physical attention and words, repeated them back, but Connor had trouble hearing him over his elated cries.

A high-pitched ring interrupted them. They both stopped moving as though eyes were on them, those other than God's, and their eyes fell on the phone next to the couch. It rang a second time.

"Fuck it," Murphy told Connor. "I'm sure dey'll call back."

Connor wished to high heaven he could continue what they were doing, but he had to get serious for a second. "It might be important."

"More important den dis?"

"Aye," grunted Connor, helping Murphy off of his lap, who made disapproving sounds as Connor ran toward the door and grabbed the phone off of the hook, panting and heaving into it. "'Lo?" he said, wiping the sweat from his spiked hair.

"Hi," said a deep, masculine voice. "May I speak to a…" a pause, then, "Connor MacManus, please?"

The sweat moving down Connor's chest, stomach, and groin chilled, as did his skin. His erection didn't take long to shrink. "A… aye? Speaking?"

"My name is Detective Eric Malone. I'm investigating a murder and would like to ask you a few questions."

Oh Lord. Connor's heart doubled over, as did his stomach. How did they find me? "M-murder?"

"The owner of Johnson's Pawn Shop said you were in his shop that day. You gave him your name and number, said you had a friend with belongings that were pawned there."

Puffing and panting, Connor agreed with a, "A-aye."

"You were close to the scene, so we're gathering you might have some information for us. Would you mind coming down to the station?"

"No." He swallowed. "I could. I jus'… don' have a car."

"I can arrange for you to be picked up. Give me your address please."

Connor told it to him, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "How long will it take?"

"A car should be there in about ten minutes. We'll speak shortly, Mister MacManus."

Connor hung up without answering him, then looked at Murphy, who appeared concerned, hearing the worry in his brother's voice. "What was dat abou'?" questioned Murphy, already unsettled by Connor's obvious distress.

"Dat was a detective." Murphy's eyebrows rose. "He wants to ask me some t'ings about the murder."

"What?!" Murphy threw himself off the bed and stepped over to Connor. "How do dey know?!"

"Dey don'. Dey t'ink I'm a witness."

"What are you gonna tell dem?"

Connor, taking a seat on the couch, released a sigh now that he had caught his breath. Murphy sat down beside him, gazing at his face, waiting for a reply. "No'tin."