Chapter 10: Fast I'll Fade Away

Connor and Murphy didn't speak at all in the weeks that followed. Connor went to the shift manager at the meat-packing plant and asked to work in a different area from where Murphy did his duties, just so that they wouldn't have to see each other; couldn't have their personal issues interfering with their work, after all, lest one of them get fired for misconduct. Both of them had started carrying burner phones, though neither used them to call the other. Sometimes Connor would look at his contact list, holding only Murphy's number, and think about calling him, just to see if he'd want to accompany him on a hit, but always decided against it.

Connor would leave the plant by himself, occasionally catching a glimpse of Murphy's back as he walked to the subway to take the train to Rick's apartment, and walk the few blocks home, his mind a whirlwind of anguished thoughts. He missed the days when he and Murphy would walk home together, get showered and changed, and then go to Doc's. Now, though, Connor only went to Doc's late at night, around the time the old man would be closing up, because he didn't want to be reminded of the good times they spent at the bar with all their friends. He would talk to Doc, his whispered words filling the empty pub, and Doc would put a hand on his forearm and tell him it would all get better eventually.

The loft seemed colder now that Murphy wasn't there, though that might have just been because winter was moving in and the heat was broken. But seeing Murphy's bed, still unmade just like he'd left it, empty of his twin's soft form cut deep, and Connor couldn't sleep on his side facing towards it.

Conversely, Murphy was no happier with Rick now that he'd left Connor than he had been before the whole ordeal started. Rick would do everything he could to make Murphy smile, but those curvatures of the man's lips never reached his eyes, and Rick could tell that something was wrong. He tried to talk to Murphy about it on a few occasions, but he was never one to pry, and he knew that Murphy was just having a tough time dealing with all the new changes; he figured Murphy would come out of his funk soon enough, that he just needed to take his time with it.

Murphy would get home before Rick most of the time, and so he would cook dinner for the two of them. Cooking somehow helped him wrap his head around the situation, as if taking control over his food could somehow give him the same control over his life. And he was a good cook, too, something that Rick was pleasantly surprised by time and time again.

During his free time when he wasn't making meals, Murphy would flip through the channels on Rick's TV, and if he found nothing good he would put in some mindless DVD. Most of the time he ended up falling asleep on Rick's couch, waking only to the feeling of Rick gently pressing his lips to Murphy's forehead or cheek.

Murphy had been sleeping restlessly since he moved in with Rick, tossing and turning so much at night that he would nearly throw Rick onto the floor. Rick was patient through Murphy's nighttime fits, never showing his annoyance at Murphy, but Murphy was mindful enough to move to the couch on the nights when he knew his rolling would wake his new love. He spent more nights than not curled up on that sofa with a pillow under his head and a spare blanket laid over himself than he did cuddled into Rick.

Some nights, when he couldn't sleep because his thoughts were too loud, Murphy would grab his pack of cigarettes and make his way onto the balcony, shutting the door softly behind him. He would look out over the city, watching the few cars drive by on the street, or the few people still milling about at whatever hour it was, and remember the times he and Connor would go out onto the fire escape, or up onto the roof, and do the same thing. He would gaze up at the stars, remembering all the Fourth of July's Connor had obliged him by watching fireworks with him, all the random planes and helicopters they had seen fly by their loft, and how they would stare into that vast expanse and compare it to their futures, so wide and open and full of possibilities.

Murphy would go through one cigarette just to light up another, and prayed that the dizziness he felt from how much smoke he inhaled would take the tears from his eyes.

Connor strapped his shoulder holsters on and shoved the guns inside of them, covering them up by bundling himself in his trench coat. This was the first hit he would be going on without Murphy by his side, and he felt uncomfortable with that. However, God's mission couldn't be put on hold just because he and Murphy were having a tiff; Connor would have to go it alone, show that he was the Lord's faithful servant.

He glanced over at the clock by his bedside; it was three in the morning, so hopefully the mobster pricks he was targeting would be curled up in bed by the time he burst through their door, which would give him an advantage.

Connor touched at his guns once more, slung the coil of rope around his shoulder, said a prayer for safe passage, and dashed out the door. He decided to walk the two miles to the more secluded homes where his targets were, since calling a cab at this hour could be traced back to him by the police if they stepped up their searching. He barely even noticed the concrete beneath his shoes, his mind drifting to Murphy. Murphy should have been there beside him, teasing him to keep up and smiling like they were just going out for some ice cream; he'd long since gotten over his nervousness from their first job, and now enjoyed going on the hits, as if every new villain he took down was another piece of candy or something. But now it was just Connor, making his rounds for the night, and a weight had settled into the pit of his stomach, pounding through his body with every step he took. Something was going to go wrong tonight, he could feel it. Sure, maybe he was just being paranoid because Murphy wasn't with him, but he was fairly certain he wouldn't be walking out of there that night.

Well, if it was his time to die then he would pass into the Kingdom of Heaven and join the rest of the Saints. He wasn't afraid for himself, really, but rather afraid for Murphy; who would find out, who would tell Murphy that his twin had been ripped away? Murphy would be distraught enough to take his own life; he'd feel guilty for years after, beating himself up for not being there with Connor, and Connor didn't want that for his brother. So for Murphy's sake he would keep his spirits up, do his best to kill every last motherfucker in there and escape with his life intact, just like they always had done together before.

Connor stepped onto the property, grass and dirt under his feet now, and hunched into a crouch. He quickly and silently made his way up to the back door, trying to scope out the best way to enter. He couldn't scale the side of the building up to the second floor, since the outer wall was just smoothed out stucco, so he would have to settle for breaking in the door, guns drawn. He raised his foot and slammed it into the door, just to the side of the handle and lock, smiling with an odd sort of satisfaction as it splintered and swung inward.

Connor found himself in a well-lit kitchen, and slowly tip-toed across the tile flooring to see around a wall. He came face to face with fifteen mobsters holding drinks and cigars, talking and laughing amongst their friends. Apparently they were having a part of some sort, or maybe a meeting with the boss, since those always seemed to run late.

Connor ducked back behind the wall. Luckily no one had noticed him yet, so the element of surprise was still on his side. He could jump around the wall and just start shooting, and hope to hit all of them before they could even pull their guns, but that was unlikely considering he only had his two guns and their meager amount of rounds; if Murphy were here that would have been the simple decision, to just go in there and send everything to hell, but Murphy wasn't there, and for him that probably would not be a wise choice.

So Connor was stuck at an impasse. He couldn't just do what he would have done with Murphy, because Murphy wasn't there. But there was nothing else he could do, either. There was only one way into that party, and that was behind the wall his back was pressed against. Of course, he could always slip right back out through that back door, out into the night, and skip this job altogether. No, he couldn't do that either, not when he needed the money so badly, and God had called upon him.

What he was going to do would mean certain death. What he was going to do was a suicide mission. But he had no choice anymore. So he whispered another prayer, practically begging the Lord not to let this be his time, not before he could at least say goodbye to Murphy, and leaped into the room, shooting everything that moved.

Connor registered five of the men falling to the ground, could see a few of the others reaching for guns, and some of them diving behind furniture. Maybe he could do this all by himself; maybe he would make it out alive, in one piece.

Two more fell to the ground, and all he saw was red. The color splashed over his vision, nearly blurring everything out of focus, the scene before him practically pulsing with the scarlet haze. One of them was standing, and then he was falling again, on top of someone else.

Six left now, if he were counting correctly. He fired the shots, the scent of gunpowder swirling around his head. The taste of blood was heavy on his tongue, and only then did he realize he'd had his teeth clamped down on his lower lip, most likely from his nervousness, but he couldn't find the mental capacity to remove them at that moment, and so the blood continued to swirl over through his mouth and mingle with his saliva.

Two more to go. He shifted his body, turning towards them, his fingers simultaneously squeezing the triggers, and he thought I did it. I really did it. Now I don't have to worry 'bout Murph n'more, 'n whether 'r not he'll be guilty 'bout m'death. M'gonna get out alive.

There was a clicking sound resounding in his ears, and he realized with horror that he was out of bullets. There was no time now to reload his guns, and if he tried he'd be shot so full of holes he'd be Swiss cheese in seconds.

Quickly now, what could he do to keep them from shooting at him? His mind scrambled for an answer, but he only managed to blindly fling the rope coil at them. And then he felt pain burning through his left shoulder, another more intense agony embedded into his right hip, and he knew there was no way now that he could kill those other two.

He could choose to stay, let them fill him full of lead and die an honorable death, but he couldn't bear that, couldn't bear not at least being able to tell Murphy what had happened. So he ran, through the kitchen, out the back door, and across the lawn. He ran until he hit the street, and then he kept going, down the sidewalk for two miles. When the pain grew unbearable he wrapped his arm around his torso, pressing his palm against his hip and trying to keep the blood inside his body. When he wanted to give up and just collapse right there on the street for the police to find the next morning he thought of Murphy, of the way Murphy's eyes came alive when he smiled, of how angelic Murphy looked when the sun shined just right on his hair, of how softly he moaned when he was pressed against Connor, skin to skin, and how he whimpered when Connor kissed him afterwards. When he wanted to just let himself fall into eternity, Murphy was what kept him going, and the sad thing was that Murphy would never know that.

Somehow Connor made it home in one piece. He took the elevator simply because he didn't think his body could handle the stairs, and once inside the loft he immediately turned on a burner and set the iron on top of it. He would have to cauterize the wound before he went unconscious, just to keep from bleeding to death through his sleep; he was fairly certain that he had some internal bleeding, but that could be death with at a later time, when he wasn't dripping scarlet down the front of his jeans and onto the floor.

As he peeled off his clothes he was reminded of the bullet lodged in his shoulder, and internally groaned at the fact that he would have to put the iron to that wound, too.

When he was stripped down to just his boxers he pulled his hand away from his hip, his palm slick with the blood still seeping from his flesh. He gripped the iron as tight as he possibly could and took a deep breath before pressing it against the ragged and torn skin. The searing pain from the cauterization was almost enough to pass out, but he had to stay awake for just a little while longer, for Murphy.

After sealing the shoulder wound and bandaging both bullet holes up to the best of his ability, he scrounged up a piece of paper and a barely working pen and wrote a letter for Murphy. This he draped over the arm of the couch, and then he fell into bed, unconscious as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Somewhere across town Murphy jolted awake, his chest ablaze with the feeling that his soul was being torn from his body, ripped away to join the angels in Heaven.