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Author's Note: Speical Thanks to MKOLO for her immense patience with me and my chapter avalance, you're the best sweetie!
Nifty fact for the day: If you're wasting him in Ireland, you're foostering or on the doss.
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Connor meticulously inspected his new gun, enjoying its weight and the feel of the cold, oiled metal in his hands as he screwed a silencer onto the barrel.
A visit to their friendly neighborhood arms dealer had provided the twins with new gear to replace what they had lost in the motel explosion, plenty of ammunition, a few extra perks, and of course, no questions asked.
Just as it had the first time, walking into the weapon filled sanctuary had sent a thrill of exhilaration racing through Connor's body, making his fingertips prickle.
Here, he had thought was a place where justice was a tangible thing.
He could smell it in the gun oil and hear it in the satisfying click of a hammer being cocked. He could see it molded into steel, lead, and brass. Here, he could reach out, grip justice in his hand, pull the trigger, and watch the wicked fall. Here, justice was his for the taking.
It felt good to have their equipment back; it gave Connor a sense of efficacy, something he had been seriously lacking in the past couple of months. He had been vulnerable and powerless, forced to wait until the time was right. But now they had all the right tools; they had the time and the place, and they had the perfect chance to reap a little vengeance.
He was certain that killing these motherfuckers was going to be one of the most gratifying things he'd ever done.
Connor watched as his brother examined his own spread of weapons, which were splayed across the kitchen table. Murphy's expression was the closest to calm it had been in days, and Connor knew his twin was feeling the same way about their mission.
Digging through his duffel bag, he retrieved the flashbang grenade the dealer had thrown in as a 'fringe benefit' and hefted it thoughtfully, tracing the holes in the metal casing with his thumb.
"I can't fuckin' wait to try this out." Connor said, and Murphy snorted, shaking his head.
"I don't even know why the fuck ye have that fuckin' thing." He said, "We're never goin' ta use it."
"Of course we will." Connor protested. "It'll give us the advantage if there are a lot of those fellows around on Thursday."
"How? By making a huge noise and fuckin' light that'll attract everybody for six fuckin' blocks when we use it?"
"I don't think it works like that."
"Connor, it's a fuckin' grenade. How are we supposed ta be inconspicuous chuckin' around fuckin' grenades?"
"Quit yer fuckin' complainin, it'll be fine'." He held up the device with a flourish. "Besides, it's just too fuckin' cool not ta use."
Murphy rolled his eyes. "Oh, aye, it's cool all right. What the fuck's next, Agent 86, a fuckin' shoe phone?"
"I'm tellin' ye it's . . ." Connor stopped, seeing that his twin had gone still, thumb pressed against his teeth. Following Murphy's line of sight, he saw Danae standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, arms wrapped around her body.
"Sorry," she whispered, hurrying across the room, not meeting either brother's eyes as she grabbed her jacket and slipped out the front door. "Sorry."
Frowning, Connor watched Danae's retreating form, and then shot his twin a glance before turning his attention back to the flashbang grenade, tossing it idly from hand to hand.
Murphy sighed and shook his head, answering his brother's unasked question, "She still hasn't fuckin' said a word to me, every time I try ta talk ta her she practically fuckin' runs the other way, it's driving me fuckin' insane."
"She'll come around," Connor said, reaching to give his twin a sympathetic pat on the arm.
"Not fuckin' soon enough."
"Just give her a little time, Murph, it's a lot for the girl ta deal with."
While his twin had never been one for actual apologies, anybody that had ever argued with him, (and Connor had argued with him more than anybody) knew that Murphy couldn't stand to be pissed off for more than fifteen minutes. Even worse was having someone angry with him. Unlike Connor, who took his time getting angry and could hold a grudge for weeks, Murphy's temper was quick to rise and even quicker to burn out, leaving him with nothing more than the driving need to make things right again.
When they were younger and had their squabbles, as brothers are prone to do, the quickest way to get Murphy to concede to whatever Connor wanted, was to give his twin the silent treatment.
The longest Murphy had ever lasted was half an hour. He had thrummed quietly for the entire thirty minutes, as though he could somehow channel his need to speak into frenetic movement. But as Connor knew it would, the silence got the better of his twin; Murphy had come up to him, sighing resignedly and admitting defeat with a smack to the back of his brother's head and a pack of cigarettes tossed on the table in front of him.
Connor had grinned, taking the pack and ruffling his twin's hair as he got up to have a smoke, signifying that the fight was over, not missing Murphy's audible sigh of relief as he did.
Only a select few people: a select few being Connor, knew that Murphy would do just about anything to make things normal and 'right' again after an argument. In a moment of drunken admission, he had once confided in Connor that the awkward frustration left behind after a dispute sometimes physically made him sick.
The silent treatments had stopped soon after that.
Murphy uttered a curse under his breath, still staring at the closed door, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth and Connor realized that two days of not talking to Danae, of knowing that something was wrong and not being able to fix it, was probably the closest thing to torture that his twin could experience. He also realized that, as hard as this was on his twin, they could afford no distractions on their mission. He needed his brother sharp and ready to go if they were going to pull this thing off successfully.
"Here, catch." He said, tossing the grenade in his brother's direction.
Even before the words were finished, Murphy's hand shot out in an impressive display of reflexes, catching the metal cylinder without effort and inspecting it meditatively.
"Fuckin' thing." He muttered, tracing the holes in the casing with his thumb just as his brother had done.
"Get a hold of yerself, now Murph," said Connor, "Yer no good if yer all caught up in broodin' over Danae"
"I know, I know," said Murphy, running a hand through his hair, and shaking himself from his thoughts, "and I'm not fuckin' broodin'. I just wish I knew what the fuck was wrong with her."
"She'll tell us when she's ready. Danae isn't the sort ta keep secrets and ye know it."
Sighing resignedly, Murphy offered his brother a meager smile. "Fuck it. Let's use some of those empty beer cans we have for target practice out back; maybe blowin' the fuck out o' something will make me feel better."
Connor nodded sagely, "Ye know what they say, when all else fails, fuckin' blow the shit up."
"Aye." Murphy gave a small chuckle, turning his attention back to the grenade he was idly tossing from hand to hand. "Ye know," he said, "maybe this thing is kinda cool."
Laughing, Connor rose to his feet, placing a hand on the back of his twin's neck and squeezing gently. "Come on ye dope, let's go get those empties. I've got a fiver that says I'll batter more o' them than ye will."
o()o
The playground was empty and desolate; dead leaves skittered and swirled in the wind, giving the potentially welcoming place a somber, foreboding feel.
It suited her mood perfectly.
Danae wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting on the ancient swing, listening to the cathartic creak of rusted chains as she swung gently back and forth, staring at the wood chips beneath her feet.
She had always prided herself on her ability to roll with the punches. Whatever life threw at her, Danae took in stride and usually came out on top of the situation. If nothing else in the world, she was a survivor. But now, she had at last found something she couldn't cope with.
Try as she might, and oh, how she had tried, she couldn't make herself come to terms with the idea of what Connor and Murphy were planning.
She couldn't wrap her mind around the concept of them putting a gun to someone's head and pulling the trigger, or that someone might do the same thing to them.
The notion sent a sickening lurch of apprehension straight to her stomach and she swallowed against it. It didn't seem fair that she had just started to feel secure, only to have it ripped away. It wasn't fair that she had finally found someone to care about, who cared about her in return, and now she had to face the fact that someday he could easily wind up dead, slain for a cause that she didn't comprehend.
Lost in dark thoughts, Danae didn't notice another person beside her until she heard a second set of rusty chains squeak into motion.
With a start, she looked over and saw Connor sitting on the swing next to her, his cheeks flushed from the cold, hands in his pockets, using his feet to rock slowly back and forth in time with her swinging.
"Ye've been spending a lot of time out here the past couple o' days." He said quietly, watching her.
"I guess so." It didn't surprise Danae that Connor had known where to find her, or that he knew she had been coming there. Apparently, the concept of privacy was lost on the MacManuses.
"Anythin' ye want ta talk about?"
"Not really."
He looked at her, eyebrows raised imploringly, "Maybe a friendly ear would help."
She tried to meet his eyes, but found that she couldn't, and looked back down at her feet instead. "Thanks for the offer, but I need to be by myself right now. I'll be home in time to fix dinner."
Connor shook his head, sighing. "It'll be dark soon, and I can't say I'm fond of the idea of leavin' ye here alone."
"Please, Connor, I'll be fine." She said, offering him a smile the probably looked as hollow as it felt.
"'Tis the mission that's botherin' ye, isn't it?"
Looking away, Danae gripped the chains of the swing, pushing herself a little higher, the momentum ruffling her hair. "I said I didn't want to talk about this now."
"Ye don't have ta talk about it, I know that ye'll talk ta us when ye're good and ready, but ye do have ta listen ta me for a minute." Connor pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, cupping his hands against the wind as he lit up, still swinging gently.
"Danae ye need ta understand that bein' a Saint is a choice that Murph and meself both made a long time ago and there's no changing that."
His words felt like a generous handful of salt rubbed into an open wound, but Danae forced herself to nod. There was no place for her in the world of vigilantism. She would never stand beside the MacManus brothers as they purged the world of evil, toting a gun of her own. She would never be a part of their holy mission; there was no place for her in the lives of the Saints.
There was no place for her in Murphy's life.
"I know." She choked out, fighting a fresh wave of tears as they attempted to fall. God, would she ever stop crying?
Connor sighed, the white plume of his breath mingling with cigarette smoke as he did. "Ye also need ta understand, though, that this choice and any others we make in the future aren't going ta change how we feel about ye. We're still goin' ta be here for ye and we'll still be yer family. "
She looked at him, surprised by his words and he chuckled, blue eyes sparkling just like his brother's.
"Don't look so gobsmacked, ye aren't the only one that's become attached over the last couple o' months. Murph and me, we aren't goin' ta forget what ye've done for us."
Rising out of the swing, he grabbed the chains of hers, easing her to a stop. "C'mon now, let's get home, it'd freeze the balls of a brass monkey out here."
"Thanks, Connor, but I'm not ready to leave just yet."
"Fuckin' stubborn woman." He muttered, giving her a sly glance and she offered him a hint of a genuine smile.
"Never forget it."
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