He watches his brother sleeping, his focus centered on the steady rise and fall of Murphy's chest. Murphy doesn't know he's awake, and some part of him is disappointed Murphy isn't awake, focused on his breathing.
He doesn't remember much of what happened. Nothing, really. The last thing he remembers is walking down the street with Murphy at his side, a glint of something, metal, catching the streetlight...He remembers pushing Murphy down, throwing him out of the way. He remembers pain, sharp, sudden, nauseating pain, ripping through his shoulder, through his leg, through his gut. He remembers falling, falling, sinking into a dangerously black oblivion...Now he's here, home, laying on his back in a body stiff from laying so long, uncooperative limbs laying like dead weight at his sides.
He tries to count each time Murphy's chest rises, and the monotony of it makes his eyes feel gritty and dry. He blinks, loses count, starts again. He can't stop, because if he stops counting, he starts thinking about the pain, and he knows the pain will over take him. He doesn't want to think about what happened, he doesn't want to remember.
He feels a warm hand at his neck, and the fear of someone strangling him brings him up with a gasp. He finds himself looking into a pair of deep blue eyes very much like his own. They are twins, two halves of one whole, identical on the inside if not on the outside.
"I had a dream you were back," Murphy says softly, as if he's afraid talking will ruin the spell.
"Aye," Connor's voice is low and raspy from disuse, and yet he feels the corners of his mouth turn up to a slight smile. "And what of it?"
Murphy shrugs. "Aye. Well. You stink."
Murphy watches Connor sleep, more closely now that he is awake. He had been so sure Connor would never open his eyes, and now that he has...Well, Murphy has mixed feelings about it.
He closes his eyes and the night replays itself in his mind, as clear as if he were watching a movie. He feels like he is watching, like it's someone else walking down the street, just two random suspicious looking young men in jeans and black pea coats.
He sees the suddenness of Connor's arm jerking out, throwing him off balance. The pop of gunfire fills the air even before he hits the pavement, and the next thing he knows he's waking up in complete darkness with a splitting headache. With consciousness, he realises he's in a dumpster, and there is another body with him.
He takes a deep breath and lifts the lid just slightly, enough to give him a lookout. The alley seems deserted enough, so he pushes the lid up until it catches on the back side.
He starts to climb out, then remembers the other body. Connor. He knows it's Connor without looking. And he knows, even if Connor is dead, he can't leave him in the dumpster. He scrambles around, kicking and heaving trash bags out of his way to get to his brother. Only one dim streetlight burns at the end of the alley, barely enough light to see his hand in front of his face.
He guides his hand up the length of Connor's body, seeking his neck. The pulse he finds is weak, inconsistent, but detectable. Murphy takes a deep breath and holds it for a moment before saying a prayer over Connor's body, because the truth of it is, he didn't expect to find a pulse. Even in the darkness he can tell Connor shouldn't be alive. There's too much blood, way too much blood.
Murphy moves Connor to hang over the side of the dumpster, and it's only as he's climbing out that he remembers his headache. He grits his teeth against the pain, focuses on Connor. He has to get Connor out of the dumpster. He has to get his brother home.
Murphy lays Connor on the bed, then sets out to find a clean towel and a bucket to fill with warm, soapy water. The search, the preparation, gives him something to do to keep his mind from thinking about how bad off Connor really is...
He downs a couple pills before going back to the bedroom.
He sits on the bed beside his brother, and instinctively checks his pulse again. No better, no worse than it was before. And now in the light, he can see the erratic rise and fall of Connor's chest.
He sets to his work, washing as much of the blood off Connor as he can. He has to change the water at least a dozen times before he can see more skin than blood.
Most of the wounds have stopped bleeding, making Murphy wonder just how long he was unconscious in the dumpster. He decides to leave Connor naked and just cover him with a blanket. He expects Connor will stop breathing soon anyway, and he can dress him then.
He climbs into the bed with Connor and presses his body to his brother's. "I'm here, Connie," he whispers against Connor's ear, a single finger gently stroking the side of Connor's face, touching his hair. "I'm here."
Murphy turns the covers off Connor's naked body and gnaws on his bottom lip to keep his emotions in check, because the truth of it is, Murphy knows Connor should be dead, no one should have been able to survive taking five bullets like that. And the harsher truth is that Murphy made the choice to bring Connor home to die rather than take him to hospital because of his own selfish needs. Because he didn't want to go to prison.
He eases his arms under Connor's body and gently lifts him up, careful to support the mangled mess that was once Connor's left arm. His shooting arm. Murphy shivers, shudders, takes a few moments to feel the grief. Count to ten. He's dying. He's practically dead. Let him go.
Murphy struggles with the weight of his brother's body, and nearly stumbles more than once before reaching the bathroom. He kneels and uses the side of the tub for support as he lowers Connor into the tepid water. Connor's eyes are closed, and his head falls to one side. Murphy considers allowing Connor to slip under the surface. He wouldn't have the strength to pull himself back up, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Murphy remembers drowning is a peaceful way to die.