o()o
Author's Note: Thanks to Aranatta for the brainstorming goodness and all the help on the action. And thanks to everyone who has read and reveiwed. I love you guys and I just can't tell you that enough!
Revised: 11/11/06, added a little more to the action scene, hopefully it reads better now.
o(23)o
Thursday night came entirely too soon to suit Danae. She had finally managed to push the knowledge of what was coming to the back of her mind, only to have to deal with it all over again. She accepted the rush of emotion with grim determination, unwilling to let it get the better of her.
She had spent most of the morning as an outsider in her own home. Connor and Murphy unconsciously had turned to one another to get them through the day, leaving her little more than a tolerated observer.
Both brothers had whiled away the daylight with the excited anticipation most people only reserved for Christmas day. They had chain-smoked an entire carton's worth of cigarettes and used every can and bottle in the house for target practice in her back parking lot, making Danae glad she lived in a 'less upstanding' part of town. They had wrestled wildly, throwing actual punches and swearing in a myriad of languages, destroying one of her lamps and a kitchen chair in the process. They had boiled pennies to a painstaking shine in saltwater, and had generally made an amicable nuisance of themselves.
But now the waiting game was over, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, their animated banter and antics had all but ceased.
She watched with a peculiar mixture of fascination and apprehension as the MacManuses became composed, focused, and precise. She watched as their friendly, smiling features became cold and hard. She saw sparkling blue eyes become somber and steely. She watched the men she had grown to know fade away, leaving behind strangers in their stead.
I'm watching the creation of Saints. The thought was accompanied by a jolt of emotion so intense it was almost painful.
Quietly and efficiently they packed away their gear in identical black duffel bags, traded their normal faded tee-shirts for new black turtlenecks that obscured their tattoos, and slipped deadly looking guns into holsters slung around their shoulders. They moved in perfect harmony with each other, unmindful of the innate sync and mimic of their actions.
They prepared for their coming mission, all the while holding a private conversation with glances, touches, and body language. Danae was well aware that whatever they were relaying back and forth was private for a reason; from her vantage point, it almost looked like they were praying.
Finally, Murphy laid a cool hand on her shoulder, "It's time." He said softly. "Afterwards, we'll probably get a motel for the night."
"You aren't coming home?"
"We can't risk someone seeing us and following us back here." Connor said, zipping his duffel bag and rising to his feet.
Danae gathered what little self-possession that she had left around her like a tattered cape and nodded, fiercely ignoring the lump in her throat that was trying to dissolve into tears. "Call me when it's all over, so I know you're both okay?"
"We will." Murphy said.
"Please," the word came out beseeching and a little desperate. Swallowing, she tried again. "Please be careful."
He offered her a hint of a smile. "Ye know we will."
"Promise me."
"We promise." Smoothing a hand over her hair, Murphy pressed a firm kiss against her lips, his first contact with her all day.
She was surprised when Connor echoed the action, planting a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth.
Slinging an arm around Murphy's neck, he offered Danae a rakish smile that would have made any girl's knees a little weak, and for a brief moment, Danae got a glimpse of the man that had charmed every nurse on the medical floor during his stay in the hospital.
"We'll talk ta ye soon." He said to her as they stepped outside.
Danae watched out the window until they disappeared from her line of sight, sighing, unmindful of the tears that were streaming freely down her cheeks.
All that was left to do now was to wait.
o()o
The sound of a silenced gun firing always made Murphy think of a cork exploding from the neck of a champagne bottle.
Pop . . .pfft . . .
The sound resounded in his ears as he fired; seeming to come from everywhere at once as it echoed off the barren walls of the warehouse. For a moment, the consistency of the din threw him off. There were no loud bangs to aim toward, and the reassuring sounds from his twin's guns were drowned in the muted flood of silenced gunfire. A bullet whizzed by his ear, too close for comfort, and he heard his twin shout something about paying attention, but the actual words were lost in the clamor.
Shaking his head, forcing himself to relax and focus, Murphy let his instincts take over. There weren't as many of these Street Priests as the last time, they had managed to surprise them completely, killing several gangmembers before they had even gotten the chance to reach for their weapons and everything was going just like it should.
Shot after shot reverberated up into his wrist, making his palms tingle as the thugs fell in spurts of blood.
Then there was nothing.
Swearing as he took a step closer to his twin, Murphy pulled the trigger again, and again there was nothing. The fucking gun was jammed!
"Fuck!"
There was a beat of recognition, and the thug he had been aiming for swung his own gun to the side, directing the shot not at Murphy, but at Connor.
Moving quickly, Murphy tossed his useless weapon away and closed the distance between himself and the gangmember, delivering a devastating blow to the inside of the thug's thigh and grappling for the gun he held. The man gave a yelp of surprise as his knee buckled and the gun soared from his fingers, skittering across the concrete floor, too far away to reach.
Swearing as he threw the man to the floor, watching him skid across the dull gray concrete, Murphy landed on top of the thug, fists meeting savagely with flesh as they exchanged blows. He may not have had a firearm, but Murphy was far from being without weapons.
A heavy boot collided with his midsection, sending him tumbling backwards, his breath exploding out as the force of the impact knocked the wind from him. Swearing, he tried to draw a proper breath through suddenly useless lungs, and the thug dropped on top of him, rearing back for another blow.
Swinging at the other man, Murphy's fist connected with something, making a sickening, satisfying crunch, abruptly splattering both of them with blood. The thug staggered back, holding his now broken nose, cursing in Spanish through his cupped hands.
Springing back to his feet, Murphy landed one last blow to the gangmember's temple and the unlucky man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Now all he needed to do was get to the fucking gun.
"Mind yerself!" Connor's voice rang out from somewhere to his right, almost lost in the stifled resonance of gunfire and Murphy spotted his twin crouched behind a large wooden crate, firing both his weapons with an almost fluid grace. Connor turned and seeing his twin, blue eyes widened. "Behind you!"
Murphy turned a moment too late and was sent sprawling onto the unforgiving concrete floor. Something hot and heavy pinned him to the ground, crushing his face against the cement. He struggled vehemently and heard a muffled grunt as his elbow connected with something fleshy. Scrabbling out from under his assailant, Murphy lurched to his feet, wiping at the blood that was now flowing freely down his face, and turning to face the person that had attacked him.
His opponent was easily twice as big as himself, bald, covered in tattoos, and wielding a knife that seemed more suited to Columbian jungles than the dingy gray of the city.
Baldy was quicker than he looked, and Murphy barely had time to dodge the fatally sharp blade as it came arcing toward his chest. Missing his target, the thug swung at him with his fist and this time Murphy was too slow.
The blow caught him across the jaw, whiplashing him backwards and slamming him into the wall. His head connected with the pitiless stone, making spots dance before his eyes, and he tasted blood as it flowed down his face and across his lips.
There was no time to worry about the blood in his mouth or the pain in his head, because Baldy was in front of him wrapping thick fingers around his neck.
Murphy narrowed his eyes at the thug, receiving a blow that shredded his lower lip and spat a gob that was more blood than saliva into the man's face. Vicious fingers tightened around his throat cutting off his air and Murphy clawed at the hands crushing his windpipe, kicking furiously as darkness edged his vision.
There was no fucking way he was going to die at the hands of some fat fucker who smelled like sweat and refried beans.
Finally, his boot connected with something solid and the thug's grip loosened just enough for him to gasp in a single whooping breath of air. He reached out, slamming open palms against Baldy's ears and the larger man reeled backwards with a cry of pain as the force from the blows burst his eardrums.
Coughing painfully as he heaved barbwire laced air through his injured windpipe, Murphy slid to the ground, his thoughts for the moment revolving around nothing more than getting air into his lungs.
He had barely managed to stumble to his feet, gasping, before Baldy was rushing toward him again, knife drawn, blood trickling from both ears.
"Connor!" Murphy cried through the fire in his throat, and his brother turned.
He held up a hand, trusting that Connor would understand his plea, and wasn't disappointed.
Barely looking where he was throwing, Connor tossed one of his guns across the room almost directly into his twin's outstretched hand.
The gun was hot from being fired, the grip warmed by Connor's palm and Murphy grinned as he brought the firearm around in a wide arc, aiming directly at the thug and delivering the bastard to hell with the satisfying Pop . . .pfft of a bullet to the brain.
Spinning on his heel, composure as perfectly in place as if it had never been disturbed, he rejoined his brother firing at the remaining thugs until the muted sound of gunfire dwindled and died, and the mission was over.
Crossing another corpse's arms across its chest and placing a spotless penny in each eye, Murphy rasped a prayer over the dead thug and dimly heard his brother echoing the words over the ringing in his ears. Now that the pandemonium was done, the absence of sound was almost as painful as the gunfire had originally been, making his head feel like it was full of cotton.
They moved quickly, attending to each of the dead men in turn, making sure that everything was done properly. With, the bodies tended to, and Murphy's blood safely sprayed with ammonia, Connor turned and frowned at his brother.
"C'mere and let me have a look at ye, yer still fuckin' bleeding all over the place."
Murphy batted his twin's hands away. "Later. Let's the fuck out o' here now."
Connor nodded. "Separate exits, I'll meet ye back at the motel."
o()o
Murphy's lip was split wide open and bleeding profusely, a gash on the back of his head also oozed blood, soaking his hair and the collar of his turtleneck. His right eye had already swollen shut and there were angry blackening bruises spreading along his throat and jawline.
Now that they were safely checked-in at the motel, he submitted to his brother's inspection without complaint, allowing Connor to examine his injuries in a rare moment of patience.
"Christ," Connor murmured, dumping ice into a plastic garbage liner and offering it to his twin. "Those fuckers really thrashed ye."
Murphy nodded, wincing as he pressed the makeshift ice pack against the back of his head. "It feels like it."
"I don't think ye broke anything." Connor said as he rose to his feet, grimacing slightly and Murphy frowned at him.
"Did ye hurt yer leg?" he asked, concerned.
Connor shook his head. "It's just sore. That's the most work I've done in fuckin' months."
"I know, ye lazy fuckin' bastard."
"Fuck ye." He said amiably, "Why don't ye get in the shower and clean up, I'll order us a pizza or something while ye do."
Nodding, Murphy tugged his shirt off over his head. "Call Danae too, would ye?" he asked.
"Aye."
Connor waited until he heard the hiss of the shower running, and then flopped on one of the beds, groaning. His entire leg was throbbing mercilessly and he knew that there would be hell to pay tomorrow after it had the chance to stiffen up.
It was worth it though, to deliver those motherfuckers to their maker.
He picked up the phone and dialed Danae's number, grinning when she answered before the first ring had ended.
"'Llo, Danae." He said.
"Hey." Her reply came out more as a sigh or relief than an actual word, making him chuckle.
"I just wanted ta tell ye that we made it ta the motel safe and sound."
"Everything went okay?"
"Aye, fine." It wasn't a lie, exactly, Connor thought, and there was no sense in worrying the girl tonight anyway.
"Is Murphy with you?"
Connor grinned at the careful nonchalance in her voice. "He is, aye, but he's having a shower. Ye want me to have him call ye?"
"No, that's okay." She said, her words at odds with her tones.
Connor was confident he had never heard the word 'no' sound so much like the word 'yes' and chuckled into the receiver. "We'll see ye tomorrow after check-out, all right?"
"Okay, thanks Connor."
Still chuckling, he ended the call and dialed his and Murphy's favorite pizza place.
He had barely hung up the phone from ordering dinner when a loud crash from the bathroom startled him.
"What the fuck did ye drop in there ye fuckin' klutz?" he called, propping himself up on his elbows.
When Murphy didn't reply, Connor slid off the bed, frowning, and pounded on the bathroom door, again met with silence.
"Murph?" he said, opening the door, "Murph!"
Pulling back the shower curtain, he found his twin slumped in the bathtub, unconscious, blood mingling with the water as it swirled down the drain.
"Murphy!" said Connor loudly, "Jesus Christ, Murph!"
Quickly he shut off the spray of water and wrapped his arms around his twin, hauling Murphy out of the bathtub, still frantically repeating his name.
After an endless moment, Murphy stirred, grimacing. "What the fuck are ye doin'?" he asked, bringing a hand to his forehead.
"Ye fuckin' keeled over in the shower," said Connor, pressing a towel against the still bleeding gash in the back of his brother's head. Christ, he was so fucking pale. "What the fuck happened?"
"I don't know." He twin mumbled, "I was fuckin' fine, then I got dizzy, then the next thing I know ye're fuckin' yellin' at me."
"Jesus, c'mon let's get ye up off the fuckin' floor." Connor extended his hand, pulling his brother to his feet, searching his mind for the symptoms of a serious head injury.
Drowsiness, he listed silently, fainting, nausea, or vomiting. But what the fuck did he do for those things? Were people with a head injury supposed to sleep or were you supposed to keep them awake, he was certain it was one or the other. He needed to call someone who knew.
Easing Murphy onto one of the beds, he picked up the phone, only to have his twin slam a hand on the cradle.
"What the fuck are ye doin'?" Murphy asked, eyes narrowed.
"I'm callin' Danae."
"The fuck ye are."
"Murph, ye just fuckin' passed out in the fuckin' bathtub."
"Ye're not callin' Danae. I'm goin' ta have enough trouble with her as it is, lookin' like this."
"I'm goin' ta have a of a lot more trouble with her if that bastard scrambled yer fuckin' brain and made ye even more retarded than ye already fuckin' are."
"I'm fuckin' fine, now leave it alone."
Sighing, Connor shot his twin an exasperated glance, trying to figure out what to do. When people got hit in the head on T.V. there was always some dope asking the victim stupid questions. He supposed it was better than nothing.
"Name a beer." He said.
"What?"
"Name a fuckin' beer, I'm tryin' ta see if yer fuckin' brain's okay."
"My fuckin' brain is fine."
"Goddamn it, Murphy, just name a fuckin' beer, fuck!"
Murphy scowled at his brother. "Guiness, all right?"
"What pub did we go ta last week?"
"Connor, for fuck's sake, I'm not answering these stupid questions."
Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Murphy cut him off with a shake of his head. "I'm fine, Conn," he said, his tone gentling, "Everything's okay."
"Fine." said Connor, relenting. "But if ye fuckin' drop dead in yer sleep tonight don't come acryin' ta me."
Murphy chuckled, still pressing the rag against the back of his head. "I won't."
When the pizza finally arrived, Connor was relieved to see that Murphy had an appetite and that his color was steadily returning. Even though his twin seemed to be fine, Connor continued to keep a watchful eye on him until Murphy eventually drifted off to sleep, his fingers moving slightly of their own accord even as he began to snore softly.
Rubbing a weary hand over his eyes and pulling a chair next to his sleeping twin, Connor settled in to watch over Murphy for the night. He had just started to doze, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic noise of his brother's breathing when Murphy shifted slightly, rolling over to look at him a quizzical eyebrow raised.
" Conn?"
"Aye?"
"What the fuck are ye doin'?"
"I just want ta make sure ye're all right."
"Go ta fuckin' sleep. Yer creepin' me out sittin' there like that."
Connor chuckled a little bit, but didn't move from his spot. "Can't." he said, "Gotta look out for me little brother."
o()o