Hello. Remember how I said a few chapters ago that the hardest part to write so far was coming up? Well, it's here. We've reached the point where the timeline of the movie and of my story have intersected for real, which means I've had a time of it trying to balance what you already know and what's part of my own invention. Which means... *gulp* filler. I tried to avoid it, I really did, but to skip certain things left huge gaps that interrupted the flow too badly, so I did the best I could. I tip my hat in acknowledgement to xxInspireMexx for her words of wisdom. If this chapter sucks, it's not her fault.
On with the show!
It was another mission accomplished, but no one was in any mood to celebrate. Connor, Murphy and Rocco hurried into Rocco's mother's immaculate kitchen, bloody, on-edge, and at each others' throats.
"Who the fuck was he, Rocco?" Connor demanded again. "I know ye fuckin know, so don't even start."
"Fuck you, I told you I never saw him before!" Rocco shot back.
"Yeah, well, he sure as fuck knew you!" Murphy interjected.
"Fuck you!" Rocco yelled. "Fuck you both!"
His next words were all but lost as the brothers began shouting at the same time and he raised his voice with theirs, pain, fear and adrenaline setting tempers on hair triggers. They threw insults and accusations back and forth like hand grenades, paying no mind to their wounds in the heat of confrontation, until Rocco staggered, clutching his bleeding hand and looking pale.
Connor's anger evaporated as he took stock of his injured friend and said, "Sit down, Roc. We gotta get ye fixed up."
Rocco let out a short laugh that held no humor. They had discussed it on the drive over and decided there was no way they could go to a hospital, where every gunshot wound was reported, and that left their "fixing" options very limited indeed. He drew out a chair from the table and sat while Connor set a clothes iron on the stove and turned on the burner.
They all stood staring at it for a moment, the flame of the burner glowing beneath the steel pad of the iron, mesmerizing with the threat of its purpose, then Connor tore himself away and set the others to action as well. "Right, Murph, ye best find gauze or shit we can use for bandages, an' some aspirin."
"Check the upstairs bathroom," Rocco suggested. "If it's not in the medicine cabinet, try the linen closet on the shelf above the towels."
Murphy nodded and set off, and Connor sat at the table with Rocco, taking care to block his view of the iron on the stove. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps. "Gimme yer hand."
Rocco complied, and he unwound the bloody cloth, carefully peeling it away from the stump of the missing finger. "Christ, it's bleedin like fuckin hell," he said.
Rocco groaned. "Just fuckin great. I survive a shootout only to die from losing a fuckin finger."
"Ye're not dyin, Roc. Keep it elevated for now." He fell silent, but the quiet hiss of the gas burner filled the kitchen ominously, and to distract himself from it as well as Rocco he kept talking. "We've had it pretty fuckin easy so far, we mighta expected shit ta go sour before long."
"Sour," Rocco repeated, as though it wasn't the word he would have chosen. "Understatement of the fuckin century." His face turned earnest through the pain and dread and he added, "Connor, I swear on my mother's life, I have no idea who that fucker was."
"Aye, Roc, I believe ye. I'm sorry I blamed ye at first."
"I know everyone that works for Pappa Joe!"
"I know ye do. That's why I'm worried."
Murphy returned, laden with what he had scavenged. "Gauze, medical tape, alcohol, aspirin," he recited, spreading it out on the counter and leaving the table clear, "an' I found some ointment, d'ye think that'll help?"
"It's worth a shot," Connor replied. "What was it Ma used when ye burned yer hand on the stove?"
"Cold water an' yellow mustard."
"Ah." He indicated the half-empty tube of triple-antibiotic ointment Murphy had brought down. "We prob'ly oughta stick with this."
By unspoken agreement Rocco would go first, his hand bleeding the worst. They waited nervously until the iron was hot, then Connor reached for the alcohol. "This'll sting," he warned Rocco.
"What kind of doctor are you?" Rocco grumbled, looking bad-tempered. "You're not supposed to fuckin tell me."
"D'ye want me ta lie to ye?"
"Fuckin A right I do!"
"All right, then. This won't hurt a bit." He poured the alcohol over the stump and Rocco swore explosively. "Son of a bitch! You lying, shit-eating, cocksucking motherf—"
"Murph, get the iron."
Murphy took a deep breath as he took it off the stove and returned to the table. "Ye'll have ta hold him steady," he told Connor.
"Oh, fuck," Rocco groaned, bad temper shifting back to fear.
"It's all right, Roc," Connor assured him. "Just try an' stay calm, the worst is almost over."
"'Almost' don't fuckin count."
Connor twisted a dish towel between his hands and stood behind Rocco's chair. "Bite down," he said. "If ye gotta scream, go ahead."
"You think it'll be that bad?"
"Better safe than sorry. Can't be much worse than gettin shot in the first fuckin place."
Murphy glanced at his brother and wondered whether he believed it himself or if he was just trying to reassure their friend. Connor caught his eye and nodded slightly, holding tightly to Rocco as Rocco bit down on the towel, still looking scared despite everything. Murphy's hands were shaking, but he took another breath and steeled himself. "Just hang in there, Roc," he said, and he pressed the hot iron to Rocco's hand.
There was an awful sizzling noise and a smell of burning flesh that made him want to be sick, but the worst part was the screams. Muffled as they were through the dish towel, their sound filled the kitchen with agony that couldn't be borne in silence. For all that it couldn't be helped, Murphy felt a stab of guilt at further hurting his friend and he fought against the urge to take the iron away as Connor struggled to hold Rocco still, doing his best to ignore the cries of pain in his ears. Just a little longer...a little fucking longer...
At long last, he removed the iron and moved away, setting it back on the stove and turning to the supplies he'd brought down, anything to keep from looking at Rocco's hand. "Ye did fine, Roc," he heard Connor say. "The worst is over." Rocco mumbled something in response, then Connor added, "Murph, bring cold water."
He nodded wordlessly and rummaged through the cabinets, finally laying hands on a large pitcher. Filling it with cool tap water, he brought it to the table and Connor rinsed the hand. "Ye did fine as well," he told his twin. "This oughta do okay."
Murphy nodded again and finally looked at Rocco's hand. The stump where the little finger had been was no longer bleeding, but the exposed tissue had been seared like a steak on a grill, the surrounding skin red and inflamed and blisters already forming where the iron had touched, and it was with a ferocious effort that he managed not to throw up.
"Get him some aspirin," Connor instructed, gingerly applying antibiotic ointment before wrapping the hand in clean gauze.
"And a fuckin beer," Rocco added, sounding like he had never needed one more.
"Not yet, we still gotta get finished here." He taped the gauze in place while Murphy provided the aspirin and a glass of water, then he said, "C'mon, Murph, ye're next."
Murphy froze in place, feeling cold sweat across his skin and the first real touch of panic since that old man started shooting. "Get the fuck outta here," he replied, "ye're in a lot worse shape than I am—"
"It's not gonna get any easier the longer ye put it off," Connor told him firmly. "Might as well get it over with, aye?" Their eyes met, and Connor gave him the same look they'd been giving each other their whole lives. It's okay. I've got you.
Fear stalled but by no means diminished, Murphy nodded.
Again that long wait for the iron to heat, and Connor unwrapped the injured arm and tore the sleeve open to get a better look. "Barely even nicked ye," he said. "Might as well put a Band-Aid on it an' call it a fuckin day."
"Ye've lost yer fuckin mind," Murphy argued, turning his arm so he could see. "There's a whole fuckin chunk a meat blown away!" The wound was fairly shallow, technically just a graze, but while the bullet hadn't left entry and exit wounds, it had carved quite a track in his arm, which was bad enough in Murphy's opinion.
"Hardly worth the trouble, fuckin with a scratch like that," Connor continued. "C'mon, now, are ye Macho Murph, or a fuckin pussy?"
Oh, so that was his angle, using the nickname that had been his since childhood after he took on the school bully; he went home with a black eye and detention, but sent the bigger kid packing with a broken nose. He took the beating and the punishment on the chin, tough through one and stoic through the other, and he'd carried the legacy ever since. Connor couldn't have issued a better challenge.
He stretched out on the table, arm extended, and Rocco rose from the chair to help hold him down. He offered the dish towel and Murphy got it between his teeth; Rocco held the ends with his good hand and braced his arm on Murphy's back to keep him pinned, while Murphy clutched at the edge of the table. This was going to hurt like a motherfucker...
Connor approached the table and doused Murphy's arm with the alcohol. Murph flinched and groaned into the dish towel and Connor ruffled his hair encouragingly. "Ye got this, tough guy."
Murphy released the edge of the table long enough to give him the finger.
It was one thing to try and keep Murphy together, and another to master himself as he took the iron from the stove and returned to Murphy, willing himself not to lose his nerve. This was hands-down the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, with Rocco's screams fresh in his ears and the iron heavy and red-hot in his hand. This was Murph, his twin, and it took all he had not to throw the iron away in horror at the thought of what he was about to do...but the blood seeping from the bullet wound hardened his resolve and he steadied his grip. Murph needed him, and no matter what it cost, he had to be there for him.
He took Murphy's arm, holding tight. "I've got you, brother," he murmured in Gaelic, and he raised the iron.
The shock of the hot metal against his skin suspended the pain for a moment, but not nearly long enough. Nerve endings already reeling from the bullet and the alcohol shrieked in protest and brought back panic in full force. Fuck stoic. Murphy screamed into the gag and jerked and thrashed against the hands holding him in place, anything to get free and the fuck away from that iron. Connor tightened his grip in an effort to reassure him, but it was no help, just searing, excruciating torture blotting out the rest of reality and he prayed to God to just pass out, if it would get him off the hook any faster...
He didn't even notice when Connor removed the iron, the heat was still burning through every layer of skin. It was only when he felt Rocco's weight vanish that he realized it was over and he sagged with relief, though his arm still felt like he'd set fire to it with a blow torch. He was dimly aware of Connor still moving around him, rinsing his arm to cool the skin and gently applying the antibiotic. The pain of the touch, soft as it was, was nowhere near as bad as the iron but still enough to make him cringe and moan aloud.
"Sorry, Murph," Connor said, sounding contrite but determined. "Just hold still, I'm almost finished."
He took a deep breath and tried not to move while Connor dressed his arm, forehead pressed against the tabletop and thinking Rocco had a point: He could really use a drink.
"Right, then, ye're all set," Connor announced, helping him off the table and handing him some aspirin. "One left, an' we're in the clear."
Murphy nodded, seeing the iron already back on the stove and feeling his stomach clench. His arm seared even after Connor had treated it, and Connor was next for that pain...he glanced at his twin and saw the calm exterior begin to slip now that everyone else was out of trouble, that iron strength of will slowly giving way to fear of pain.
He was never good with words, so there was nothing he could say that would be any comfort. There was little point in telling him it wasn't that bad, not when he'd fought tooth and nail and screamed his fucking head off at the first touch of the iron. It wasn't going to be over quickly, either; seconds lasted for hours in that pain, and it didn't fade away afterwards. All he could do was rest his hand on his brother's shoulder as they waited and let him know he was there for him.
"Almost there," Rocco told them, glancing at the iron.
"Aye," Connor replied. He climbed onto the table, stretching out his injured leg with a grimace, and borrowed Murphy's knife to slice through his jeans and expose the wound in his thigh. "I think I've got ye beat, Murph," he boasted halfheartedly. "That's gotta be the worst fuckin thing I've ever seen in my life, compared ta yers."
Murphy examined the wound, feeling anxious. There were several major arteries in the thigh and it seemed a miracle the bullet hadn't struck one; Connor would have already bled to death if it had. Not to say it wasn't serious enough as it was—the leg was bleeding nearly as bad as Rocco's hand, and there was no exit wound.
"The fuckin bullet's still in there," he said.
"Aye," Connor said, the calm slipping a little more. "I figured as much."
"What the fuck?" Rocco said, coming closer to see for himself. "What do we do, do we take it out or something?"
"No," Connor told him decisively. "Ye're not stickin shit in my fuckin leg ta try an' dig the fucker out. Just leave it."
"Are ye sure?" Murphy asked.
"For Christ's fuckin sake, Murph, I'm sure! Gimme the alcohol!" He took the bottle from Murphy and splashed his leg, then nearly dropped it, his face contorting with pain.
Murphy rushed to take the bottle and Connor clutched at his hand, cursing in Gaelic through gritted teeth. "Are ye okay?"
Connor took several deep breaths, waiting for the sting to abate, then replied, "If it burns, it's workin." He forced a wry smile. "All things considered, that's a bit of a relief, innit?"
Murphy couldn't find it in himself to laugh.
Connor picked up the dish towel, twisting it between his hands again. "Roc," he said, sounding nervous, "ye think ye can handle the iron?"
"Fuck that, I can do it—" Murphy insisted.
"Can ye, Roc?" Connor interrupted.
Rocco looked between them, then nodded. "Yeah, I can do it."
"Good." Connor handed the towel to Murphy, the fear in his eyes more pronounced than ever. "Murph? Would ye do the honors?"
Maybe he had the right idea... Knowing what to expect on the receiving end, Murphy was reluctant to inflict it on his brother and probably couldn't have brought himself to do it after all. And Connor wasn't hiding anything right now. He needed the comfort of his twin if he was going to get through this.
Rocco got the iron and Murphy took the towel, holding Connor back against his chest and both of them getting the gag in place. Rocco looked from one to the other and Murphy could feel Connor shaking, knowing that his courage had lasted as long as it took to get his brother and his friend out of danger; he was there when they needed him, and it was Murphy's turn to do the same. He held him tighter, closed his eyes as he watched Rocco raise the iron, and started to pray. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name...
He knew the exact moment the iron touched Connor's leg, the shaking replaced by agonized tension as he somehow managed to stay still, an inhuman groan sounding through the gag, and Murphy felt the pain as if it was his own, burning, scorching, savaging until nothing else existed anymore. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven...
Connor lifted his arm, reaching back for Murphy and crying out louder, and Murphy knew the gesture for what it was, holding even tighter and lending his strength. I'm right here, Connor. "Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us..."
The shaking had returned, in a shuddering, jarring way that told him Connor was sobbing with pain, and he felt the sting of tears at the back of his own eyes, wanting— no, needing—Rocco to back off and helpless to do anything about it. "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil—" The words caught on the lump in his throat but he carried on, "for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever."
Connor went limp and Murphy opened his eyes to see Rocco take the iron away and put it aside. He didn't let go, though, holding onto Connor and reassuring himself they were both all right as his tears began to fall.
Amen.
They sat around the table sometime later, having cleaned up the blood and restored the kitchen to rights. Pain was still a haze in the foreground, so they were too dazed to be shocked to turn on the news and see their acquaintance Agent Smecker was on the hunt for them.
Rocco stared at the TV screen as though still seeing the agent there. "What the fuck do we do now?" he asked. "It's great you wanna be noble and leave him alone, but if he's as fuckin smart as you say he is..."
"It's just a matter a time," Murphy agreed. "He figured out the shit with Checkov in a few hours."
"Then we're fucked. It's over."
"The fuck it is," Connor told him. "It's never over. We keep goin no matter what."
"You got a plan?"
"We gotta do Pappa Joe. He's fuckin desperate ta get rid of ye, or he wouldn't be sendin these motherfuckers after ye—"
"You still don't fuckin know that guy was out for me—"
"Think about it, Roc," Murphy reasoned. "Yakavetta set ye up ta get yerself killed, it's not a stretch ta think he put a hit on ye."
Rocco heaved a sigh. "Guess not."
"He's gotta be pretty fuckin scared of ye ta do that, if that cheers ye up."
"Y'know..." Rocco pondered it for a moment, "it kinda does..."
"We'll have ta clear outta town after this," Connor informed them.
"Fine. Where are we headed?"
"Might be best ta start movin south—"
"Wait," Murphy broke in, "what about Renata?"
"Fuckin hell, I'd forgot! Roc, gimme the phone!"
Renata sat frozen on the couch, the TV remote in hand and her eyes fixed on the screen. A multiple homicide in a usually quiet neighborhood...that part didn't surprise her. In fact, she had turned on the news expecting to see something like it. No, it was word of a standoff in the street and an FBI investigation that left her shell-shocked.
What the fuck had they gotten themselves into?
The phone rang, startling her out of her trance. She reached for the handset and answered it. "Hello?"
"Renata." It was Connor.
"Jesus Christ," she sighed, then burst out, "What the fuck is going on? A shootout in the fucking suburbs, now the goddamn FBI is getting involved—"
"Ye watched the news?"
"Well, how the fuck else was I supposed to get any word?" she stormed. "I haven't heard shit all day—"
"Aye, I know, things got outta hand—"
"Out of hand? It's the fucking FBI, Connor!"
"Aye. We know the guy."
For a moment she was struck dumb. "Is that supposed to be reassuring?"
"I'm just sayin we know what ta expect," he explained.
"Great. I'm glad someone does."
"Look, we're fuckin sorry, all right? It's not like any of us planned any a this shit, ye know."
She could picture him on the other end of the line, exasperated and exhausted, standing his ground while trying to settle her agitation. It had been a hell of a day for all of them, and he didn't deserve her bitching at him no matter how worried she was. "Are you okay?" she asked, softening her tone.
"We made it out. But Renata, this shit with Rocco's boss is gettin serious, an' we can't leave it unfinished. He sent someone ta kill him today, an' he almost did the job."
"Holy shit..."
"Hey, 'almost' doesn't fuckin count."
She sighed, rubbing her eyes wearily. "What happens now?"
"We're at Roc's mother's, so we're gonna lay low here for tonight. We gotta end this tomorrow."
"And what about the FBI?"
There was a pause, then he said, "We're not gonna be able ta stay in Boston. We gotta do this an' head out."
She shook her head at the thought. "Fugitives..."
"Aye. An' ye can stay or come with us, but either way, it's yer call."
"You think Rocco would be okay with that?"
"He'll live. We're not forcin ye ta stay behind."
"Do you actually think I would?"
"No, but I want ye ta really think about it before there's no chance ta change yer mind. Livin on the run, always lookin over yer shoulder, unable ta risk settlin down and gettin too comfortable..."
"Shit, Connor, it's not like that's a foreign concept."
"It's gonna be dangerous."
"It's already dangerous and I'm here anyway."
"Ye sure?"
"Damn straight."
"Right then." He still sounded exhausted, but she could hear the hint of a smile in his voice. "We should be back late tomorrow. Be ready ta leave when we get there."
"Okay. And for fuck's sake, be careful. Holy mission or not, none of you are fucking bulletproof."
He chuckled. "Right enough. We learned that the hard way today."
"You did what?"
"It's fine, I promise. Will ye be all right for another day?"
"I'm not the one you need to worry about, Connor."
"Aye, an' I'll worry anyway."
She sighed. "It's just one more day. You never know, I might find Jesus while waiting for you two to come back."
"Lemme know when ye do, an' we'll get a family pew at church."
Her throat tightened with tears she refused to shed over the phone. "I'm family?"
"Sure ye are. Are ye fuckin insane?"
"I think I would have to be."
"Oh, aye, ta be sure. Look after yerself til we get back."
"Same to you."
There was another pause, then, "Love ye, Renata." And he hung up.
She sat listening to the dial tone for a moment, torn between surprise and delight, joy and pain, hesitating before whispering, "I love you too..." She kept the phone to her ear, waiting only another moment before continuing as though he was still listening with the freedom of knowing he couldn't hear her. "Jesus Christ, I love you both so much. And you'd better not get yourselves killed, because I'll go fucking crazy to lose either of you now. I might—" her breath caught in her chest but she couldn't stop now that she had started. "I might lose you anyway if you ever find out...I killed someone to save my own ass. Killed someone, someone who didn't deserve any of the shit that happened to her. That's why I can't be alone, because I'm a worthless piece of shit that can't live with myself. You couldn't love me if you knew, and I can't tell you because I can't live without you."
The dial tone cut off, replaced by a disconnected signal, and she hung up the phone.
She lay awake later, sleepless in a bed that felt too large without her companions. She had devised a sort of game, listening to the silence until Marcus's voice and Stacy's struggles grew too loud in her memory, then repeating Connor's last words on the phone to herself as a balm for the wound, watching the door and waiting for his and Murphy's footsteps out in the hallway while her memories pushed to the surface again.
Who the fuck did she think she was, anyway? She had no place here. She was terrified of being abandoned but maybe she had earned it all along. She was a slut in high school, going from one guy to the next as they ditched her one by one. She was a sloppy drunk and arrested as such, and Kevin Reid left her to fend for herself in a strange city. She walked out on her mother just like her two-timing father and had been on her own ever since. She lost everything she ever cared about, and now the worst thing she had ever done would one day cost her the best thing that had ever happened to her.
You're not worth shit, Renata Malone. It took you twenty-five years to figure it out when everyone else knew it all along, and they'll find out in time. They'll leave you like all the others, just as you deserve.
She closed her eyes and listened to the thoughts looping in her mind, her limbs weighted down and her heart sinking like a stone into a dark well of shame and despair. She wanted them with her, needing to touch them and to know they were beside her for at least a little longer, but they were off on their next mission of retribution, and they were already injured...they could die if this went bad, like they nearly did that afternoon...
A chill crept over her and she curled into a ball amid the rumpled bedding, fighting back the fear and the dread and following an impulse that, scorned and unheeded as it was for herself, was the most urgent in her head for the sake of the men she cared for.
I've got no right to ask You for anything. I know that better than anyone, and I wouldn't blame You if You told me to go to hell. But...God, please keep them safe. If You've never listened to me before—if You won't do this for me, then do it for them. Don't let anything happen to them.
There was silence in the apartment. No footsteps outside, no memories within. Just silence.
Be honest...did I screw up? I would hate to think I let my loyal readers down and put new ones off. If I'm going off track, I can't get back on if I'm unaware. I hope you enjoyed it, anyway.
And before you say anything...the iron scene is edited with Murphy first, then Rocco. We know this. BUT if you pay attention to the bandages, Rocco is wearing a fresh one on his hand when Murphy is getting the iron, and Murphy still has the same bloody wrapping when they're taking care of Rocco's hand. It moved better in the chapter if I exploited that little break in continuity. And I have no idea how Murphy got his nickname, but I couldn't not use it somewhere.
Thanks!