o(35)o

Pushing open the door to Danae's apartment, Connor smiled seeing his twin sitting on the couch, covered in a blanket, a dark haired bundle curled up next to him sound asleep.

"She finally sleepin'?"

Murphy looked up and offered him an amused smile. "She is, aye. Nodded off a couple o' hours ago and I couldn't bring myself ta move and chance wakin' her up."

Chuckling, Connor shook his head. "How was the funeral?"

Murphy snorted. "Fuckin' disgustin' is what it was, all those people talking about that crooked bastard like he was some fuckin' hero. Made me want ta fuckin' heave listenin' to them." He looked down at Danae, smoothing her hair gently.

"But I think she made her peace, and that's what matters, this is the first time she's actually slept all fuckin' week.

"I know." Smiling slightly, he reached down to mimic his brother's action, tousling where Murphy had smoothed. "She'll be all right." He murmured softly.

Murphy nodded. "She will. How's Smecker?"

"Fuckin' sharp as ever, they're lettin' him out tomorrow. "

"Good ta hear."

"Aye, I think he may have a 'friend' though, they certainly seemed ta like each other."

"More than I wanted ta know." Murphy said, pulling a face, making Connor chuckle.

"C'mon outside and have a smoke with me."

Gently disentangling himself from Danae and tucking the blanket securely around her, Murphy rose to his feet reaching for his jacket.

Connor took a good long look at the bundle on the couch, feeling an unusual tug of remorse for her. Danae had killed a man, she had blood on her hands, and it was his fault. She had lost something the second she had picked up his gun and could never get it back

The thought provoked another unpleasant twist in his chest, taking a slow breath he willed the feeling away. He couldn't fix what had come to pass, but he sure as hell could make sure that it never happened again.

Reaching out, hebrushed the fingers of his free hand over the white gauze bandage that covered Danae's hand, concealing the wound caused by his gun and the six stitches that it had taken to close it.

She stirred slightly, withdrawing her hand into the warmth of the blanket and making a muffled noise of objection. "Tickles." She murmured groggily before settling back to sleep.

"Are ye all right Conn?" Murphy asked, his expression concerned.

"Aye." He said, pulling a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, surprised to see that his hands were trembling. "Fuck."

Frowning, Murphy placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, "Connor?"

Shaking his head, Connor motioned his twin outside.

Once the door was shut, he lit is cigarette and took a deep drag, rubbing at the headache that was starting to throb between his eyes. He was aware of Murphy watching him questioningly and exhaled his lungful of smoke with a sigh.

"Ye know we can't let this go, don't ye? This thing is far from over and it has ta be stopped once and for all, so nobody else gets hurt."

"Aye,"

He saw the pain that flashed in his brother's eyes and wondered if his own feelings were as apparent. He didn't want to leave, Murph was happy here, and so was he, but he knew that sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. It was what their mission was all about.

"We can't stay here anymore; it's too much of a risk."

Looking away, Murphy brought his thumb to his mouth, worrying the nail between his teeth. "I know." He said distractedly.

"We'll have ta leave before long, the sooner the better probably."

"Aye." Turning to look through the glass of the patio door, watching Danae as she slept, Murphy reached up to massage a spot in between his eyebrows and Connor realized, with a grim sort of amusement, that his brother was probably developing a headache of his own.

One of the many interesting perks of being a twin.

Following his brother's gaze, Connor steeled himself for what had to be done. "We almost got her killed, you know." He said at last.

Beside him, Murphy stilled, his hands dropping away from the cigarette he had been in the middle of lighting. "Christ, Connor . . ."

"We did, Murph. She got involved and it almost fuckin' killed her, it was almost Rocco all over again."

"Ye think I don't fuckin' know that?" His twin's voice was incredulous. "Ye think I don't think that every time I fuckin' look at her?"

Connor took another fortifying drag off of his cigarette, trying to reign in his freewheeling thoughts. He could see the irritation building in his brother, and knew that if he wanted to avoid a quarrel he was going to have to keep his calm. Christ, he hated being the one to do this.

"I'm only sayin' that maybe its best if we just go without sayin' goodbye, just pack up and slip out one night while she's at work."

"No. I'm not doin' that ta her. She deserves more than that from us and ye know it."

"Murph," he said gently, "stickin' around is only goin' ta make it harder than it will be already. I mean think about it . . ."

Murphy whirled on his brother, shoving Connor with enough force to make him stumble backwards. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Connor, we're not doin' that ta her. No. Period. What the fuck more do ye want?"

Connor winced as his hip collided with the heavy patio table. The pain mixed with his brother's angry words splintered his already beleaguered temper. So much for keeping his calm.

"I want ye ta fuckin' dry yer arse!" he yelled, reaching out to grasp the lapels of his twin's jacket and giving him a angry shake, "I don't fuckin' want this anymore than ye do, but we've got a fuckin' job ta do and we've got ta be smart about it."

"Fuck you!" Murphy shouted, angrily, swatting away Connor's hands and giving him another hard shove. "Don't treat me like I'm a fuckin' child; I fuckin' know what needs ta be done! I've never backed down before, and I'm not about to fuckin' start now."

"I didn't mean . . ."

"Fuck what ye meant, I know what ye meant." In his frustration, Murphy's movements had become jerky and erratic as though his hands were at war with his thoughts. "Christ, I need ta get the fuck out o' here."

"Murph . . ."

"Let it fuckin' go Connor! Just . . . just fuckin' keep an eye on Danae. Fuck!"

Brushing past him, Murphy stalked out of the apartment complex, his angry words catching on the wind.

Watching his twin's retreating form Connor sighed wearily, rubbing at the dull throb that was intensifying behind his eyes and wondering if that could have possibly gone any worse.

Turning to go in, he saw Danae, woken by their argument no doubt, standing just inside the patio door, still wrapped in the soft blanket, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Closing his eyes, Connor released the last of the smoke from his lungs with a rueful sigh. Apparently, it could get worse.

"Danae," he said gently, pushing open the door, "Listen ta me now . . ."

o()o

Murphy leaned over the bar, resting his chin on his hands, and eyeing the shot of whiskey in front of him despondently. He'd had too much to drink already, more than enough to blur the conflict between what he wanted to do and what he knew was necessary, but not enough to ease the pain that he knew the actual decision would bring.

To be the vengeful striking hammer of God or to be in love, this time there was no choice in the matter. His brother was right, the Street Priests were still out there, and what they were doing couldn't go on. He and Connor couldn't just stand by and allow others to get hurt.

Not when they could take a stand and do something. Not while their divine calling was still pulsing strong through every inch of vein and artery.

To destroy that which is evil . . . so that which is good may flourish.

A cool hand covered his, and Murphy raised his eyes from the shotglass looking up at the bartender.

"I'm pretty sure you're going to lose the staring contest, sweetie." She said, offering him a smile and a quirk of a pierced eyebrow.

Chuckling a little, Murphy tossed back the shot, surprised when she refilled the glass without being asked.

"You seem pretty darn down. Anything you want to talk about?"

Murphy shook his head. "Thank ye, though."

"I've been told I'm an excellent listener." She cajoled, offering him a surprisingly pretty grin.

Shaking his head again, he returned his attention to the scarred, faded Formica of the bar, absently tracing an ancient pockmark there with his fingers.

"Girl trouble huh?"

She laughed at his bewilderment, running her hand through blue streaked hair. "Hey, I know all about that kind of thing. I love my girl more than anything else on the planet, but she still drives me completely nutso sometimes."

"I have ta leave her." Murphy mumbled, the words lubricated by alcohol and shaken loose by the bartender's sympathy. "My work has ta come first and she can't be with me when I go."

"Important job?"

"Aye, and I know it needs ta be done, but fuck, I wish it didn't. I was happy, comfortable, and then this." He made an unsteady, animated, gesture with his hands. "Sometimes it seems like it'll never be enough, that things'll never be right again."

"You know," the bartender said, offering him a thoughtful smile. "When I was having problems with Lauren, my mom told me that if it was meant to be, then it'll be, and nothing on heaven or earth can change that."

She shrugged then leaned down to meet his eyes, giving his hand another reassuring pat. "If it's meant to be between you and this girl, then it'll happen, you just have to wait until the time is right."

"Ye think so?" Christ he hoped so.

"I know so. Now come on and finish your shot, it's almost last call."

Murphy swallowed the amber liquid and the bartender moved away, filling up two mugs with beer and setting them in front of a couple at the other end of the bar, exchanging a few words with them as she did.

Taking a long drag off of his cigarette, he pondered the girl's words, holding the smoke until his lungs were burning in protest.

He and Connor had spent the last two years under divine guidance; God had given them a mission and a swift, blessed, boot in the arse to get them going. It never escaped Murphy how easily they seemed to find the evilest of men, as though they were being guided there by God's own hand.

If He could lead them to bloodshed, why couldn't He lead them to peace?

The answer came almost before the question was complete, reverberating in his head loud enough to drown out the alcohol induced buzz.

Because you aren't finished yet.

Finally exhaling, dizzy with the lack of oxygen as much as the voice in his mind, Murphy rubbed between his eyes, the budding headache he had soothed with spirits and nicotine making a sudden comeback. Along with the thick smell of cigar smoke, he caught bits and pieces of a conversation going on behind him. It took him several seconds to realize that the discussion wasn't in English, and several more to get his booze numbed brain to translate the words.

Sitting up a little straighter, cocking his head as he listened without listening, he felt his stomach drop in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. Noise from the bar made the already slurred Spanish especially difficult to understand, but Murphy still caught enough of the conversation to be unsettled. They were talking about the attack at the mansion.

He chanced a quick look in the mirror above the bar and saw two very drunk, very large, very dangerous looking men in the booth behind him. One of the men raised his arm to summon the bartender and Murphy caught a glimpse of the scrawling tattoo that circled his thick wrists. Redima Con Sangre.

Fuck.

The whiskey had made him reckless and Murphy reached for his guns. He was going blow these motherfuckers to hell right fucking now and be done with the entire thing. He was going to end this fucking debaucle right here.

Or he would have if his guns weren't currently sitting on Danae's kitchen counter.

Double fuck.

Righteous fury spiked with adrenaline flooded through his body, and just like that, he was sober. Murphy strung together a curse under his breath that would have made the saltiest of men blink, deciding to make the best of a bad situation. He leaned back on the barstool trying to be as nonchalant about eavesdropping on the men as he could manage.

Where's my fucking shoephone now, Agent 86?

The more they talked, the more uneasy he became, and by the time they paid for their drinks and left, Murphy was sure that he was going to explode from the tension that was building inside of him. He couldn't believe this was fucking happening.

After giving the men a decent head start, he slid off the barstool, tossed some money on the table for his tab, and swiftly made his way back to Danae's apartment.

Opening the patio door, he saw his twin sitting in the couch, remote in hand, flipping through the channels without actually seeing them. Spying Murphy, Connor was on his feet and inches away from his brother in an instant.

"Where the fuck have ye been?" Connor growled, his eyes dark and angry. "Do ye have any fuckin' idea what time it is?"

Murphy met his brother's eyes unflinchingly. "I know where we're going." He said softly and watched as the anger drained from Connor's face.

o()o