Disclaimer- I own nothing, etc.
AN- OMFG, this took me so friggen long to write. I'd appreciate any and all feedback for this chapter, seeing as how I really struggled with it. (In all truth, I'm not even sure I like this chapter, but this is the way it came out, and I don't feel like taking the time to rewrite it. Again.) Anyway... here's the next chapter!
The sound of an alarm clock from the room across the hall jarred me awake. Waking up came as a surprise. I didn't remember laying down or passing out. Hell, I didn't even remember making it in the door. My mind, for once, was pleasantly blank- no lingering bad dreams, no sense of impending doom. It was a good feeling to wake up unburdened. I laid in bed listening to the sounds of Ericka's morning routine- she had to be the one up and moving around the apartment, the motions sounded too clumsy to be Connor or Roc. As if on cue, the sound of something landing on the tile floor of the bathroom followed by a flustered, "Ah, damnit!" confirmed my suspicions.
Grinning to myself, I sat up and stretched- and was then hit by a wave of pain. The kind of pain you get when you go running or attempt working out when you're severely out of shape. Or maybe it was the kind of pain you get when you nick yourself a million times shaving. Or maybe it was the kind of pain where you drank way too much, got in a bar fight and had a couple wine bottles smashed against your skull.
Or maybe it was all of the above amplified by ten. Either way, whatever good feeling I had before, it was long gone and replaced by annoyance.
I rubbed my face, trying to wake up, convinced all I needed was a cup of coffee and a couple Dayquil to shake off whatever bug I had caught. I could feel the bruises as I pressed my fingertips to my cheeks.
That's weird. I don't remember getting into any fights last night.
I got off the bed and walked over to the mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I was puzzled. The mirror wasn't reflecting me. The man looking back at me was covered in bruises and stitches. He had a bandage on his throat and dead, expressionless eyes.
That can't be me. My eyes don't look like that.
I raised a hand to my neck; there was gauze pad taped in place. I tore it off quickly, anxious to see what was there. A thin line ran across my neck.
I took a deep breath and backed away, grimacing at both thought of facing my brother and the answered questions. I chewed on my fingers as details from the night came slowly leaking back.
What happened to my weapons? Otets, is he dead? Jose? Did he make it out alive? How in the hell did Connor find me? How in the hell did I not die last night?
I had the distinct feeling any surviving Russians from the bar wouldn't have to worry about the job not being done; Connor would finish it for them as soon as we crossed paths again. And Ericka would probably have her turn at me after the fact. I groaned.
Yep. Dead man walking. God have mercy on my soul.
The apartment was quiet now. I ventured out of my bedroom, desperate for a smoke. I was surprised to see that the place wasn't in shambles. Actually, it was immaculate as ever; aside from a pill bottle and a pack of smokes on the coffee table, it looked as lived in as a furniture ad. There was a note tucked underneath the pack of Marlboros. I picked it up and scanned over it as I shivered, half debating on putting a shirt on. The thought of raising my sore arms above my head quickly killed that idea for me.
The note was written in Ericka's handwriting- a rather unique form of barely legible chicken scratch. Take two of these. Don't rip your stitches or I'll have to kill you. Feel free to smoke inside.
"Obliged." I muttered aloud as I lit up a smoke. My lips pulled into a smirk as I read the postscript she had left at the very bottom of the page.
Ps- You so owe me that six pack.
I finished my cigarette and after dry swallowing two of the pills from the orange bottle sat down on the couch, sinking into the cushions as I waited.
I heard a door open and the sounds of feet shuffling against carpet. Connor walked right past me, not even noticing me as he made a beeline for the coffee maker. I heard him pour a cup and move around the kitchen, no doubt hoping for a pack of Marlboros to turn up. "Fuck," he muttered after turning up empty handed on his futile search.
I cleared my throat. "Smokes are over here."
Silence filled the air, followed by slow and calculated footfalls. I held my breath as Connor sat down on the couch next to me, coffee cup in hand. He took a sip and let a few more moments of silence follow."Nice to see you alive, brother." I didn't miss the clipped tone of his voice.
"Nice to be living." I shot back, knowing already I should have just kept my smartass retort to myself. He set his cup down and sat back, not looking at me. I didn't say anything; I was waiting for him to finally lose his composure on me, because after the shit I had pulled, well, I deserved it. Even if it was justified shit, shit with a purpose behind it, it was all just…. Shit.
A light bulb flickered over my head, like gears were starting to click together. Is any of this shit worth it? I was really starting to wonder. Connor interrupted my sudden wavelength as he turned his head in my direction.
"You're a fucking idiot, ya know that?"
I nodded. "Ya. You're right."
His face scrunched up as he yelled. "I fucking know I'm right! For fuck's sakes Murphy! What in hell were you thinking? Why didn't you tell us, let us help? It's not like we haven't done that shit a million times-"
"I thought I had it covered."
"Doesn't fucking matter! You almost got yourself killed!"
"Could have happened even if you had been there."
His jaw tightened. I had struck a nerve. "Why didn't we know about it?" he spoke through gritted teeth.
"Pretty simple actually." I stood up and started to walk away."You didn't need to know about it." Connor jumped from the couch in a rage and tackled me to the floor. A fistfight or wrestling match with my brother was nothing new. It was how we settled spats, how we bonded half the time. This was no friendly fight, however. This was a drop down, drag-out fight with the sentiment of "Fuck you, I'm royally fucking pissed at you" attached to it.
"What. The. Fuck." Connor spat out as he punched and I dodged them as best as I could. "Didn't need to know? Fucking hell Murphy!" This time he landed a blow to my jaw. I shoved at him, throwing a random left hand at him. He grabbed it and twisted it around behind my back, pinning me to the ground. I felt an odd sensation along my ribs, like something was ripping apart. I heard Connor hoarsely whisper, "Oh, shit" and he was suddenly off of me and pulling me from the floor. I looked down and saw blood on the carpet. My stitches had ripped during the fight.
I groaned remembering the note. "Ericka is going to kill me." I muttered, slowly walking to the bathroom with my twin right behind me. I looked in the mirror and saw the wound that was oozing blood. I pulled out the bag from under the sink and dug around until I found the thin string Ericka used to stitch the rest of my cuts up with. Connor made to step in but stopped after I sent a glare his way. "Back. Off." He stood in the doorway while I patched myself back up.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked as I tied the ends of a suture.
"Ericka's textbooks from nursing school." I grit my teeth as I stuck the needle through my skin again. It really was like sewing, but with your flesh. Not a pleasant feeling. "Been reading through them, you know. In case shit like this happens."
Connor was silent as I finished up the last stitch and put everything away. I expected him to step in, doing the typical Connor thing, but he just stood to the side and out of the way, watching with a guilty look on his face. I left the bathroom and plopped down on the couch, lighting up another smoke. I threw the pack at Connor who lit up just as quickly. He rubbed his face and sighed.
"Look, I'm-"
"Forget it. I deserved it." His eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Sure you're not suffering from any brain damage there?"
I snorted. My head was the clearest it had been since Saint Patty's day. Funny how it took almost getting yourself killed to figure shit out. Maybe you should take a beat down more often.
"What happened to Otets?" I asked, getting down to the important shit, to what I needed to know. Connor let out a breath of smoke. The living room was hazy from us smoking. "He's dead. Very dead. Jose shot 'em right between the eyes." I cringed, more at the bluntness of the statement than the imagery it conjured up.
"And his men?"
"Dead, or at least the ones that were in the bar. Probably has more out there…" His voice was thoughtful, like he was actually entertaining the idea of gunning down the rest of them. I sure as hell wasn't in the mood to do so.
"Conn," I gnawed on my index finger. He looked up and suddenly he was on his feet, pacing the tiny living room. He already knew what I was going to say, and I already knew he didn't like it. I watched him for a brief moment as he walked in a circle, noting how odd his reaction was. I was the twin that was restless. I was not the calm twin- that was Connor's job. But somehow, we had swapped positions. Role reversal.
"You really think we'll be doing this shit forever?" I asked.
He threw his hands in the air. "Not necessarily. I just…" He bit his lip. "This isn't our fucking call is it?"
"Fuck you talking about? Of course it's our call."
"No it's not! You had the same fucking dream, had the same fucking words delivered to you! It's God's call, not ours!"
"We have a say in this shit. And what if we interpreted it wrong? What if we weren't supposed to kill those people-"
"They were all bad men!" His voiced was strained, like he was trying to justify it.
"I'm not disagreeing with ya. But what if we took it too far?" I said, voicing a concern that had been with me for months. "What if we were wrong?"
"I don't know... I guess we were wrong." He stopped his pacing and sat down on the couch, staring at the muted TV. "I can't just forget everything we've done, act like nothing fucking happened. We killed people in cold blood. We held guns to their heads, said a prayer for them and then shot them." He looked lost, dazed. Actually, he looked how I felt on the floor of the bar the night before- lost, confused, and a little hopeless. "We made this our whole life. How could we stop?"
"Consider it retirement?" I shrugged half heartedly. He scoffed. "Look. After last night…. I'm fucking out. I'm done. I can't do this shit anymore." My leg bounced up and down at a frightening pace. "If you want to keep going, fine, but do it on your own or with Roc. Whatever. I just want some part of my life to be normal. And I don't want to fucking die with some Mafioso holding a gun to my head!" I fought against the urge to just break down and cry again; the god-awful memory of cold steel pressed to my forehead was still all too strong.
Connor opened his mouth to speak but shut it and hunched over. "And what about you?" I asked. "Don't you want life to be normal again? You always wanted the whole white picket fence thing. To get married and have kids and own a dog." Not that he had ever told me this, but my brother was the type to want that kind of shit. "You really think if we stick with this that you'll get that chance? You really think Ericka will want to stick around if you come home looking like I did last night?" The last question was one we could both answer with an absolute no.
He glanced up and me before leaning back into the couch cushions. "You're right." He said.
"I fucking know I'm right."
He pursed his lips for a brief moment. "We still have to take out Papa Joe. Roc is totally fucked until he's dead."
Connor made a very valid point. As much as I never wanted to touch a gun again, I knew we had to do right by Roc. Maybe we can convince him to move out to New York with his sister, get him out of Boston.
"It's too hot here," said Connor suddenly. "We all need to leave."
I furrowed my brow. "Any ideas as to where to go?"
He had a faraway look on his face. "California? Ok, not there." He said hastily noting my incredulous expression. "Shit, I don't know."
"Arizona? It's hot there."
He shook his head as a calm smile broke out across his face. "Ireland. Let's go home." I found myself grinning back at the idea. I missed the rolling hills, the perpetual chill in the air, the fog that covered the ground in the morning. In truth, I had been homesick most of the time I had been in the States. Probably the reason why my alcohol tolerance was so damn high.
It was so simple and I felt the weight fall off my shoulders. After we tied up all the loose ends we had here, we could simply hop a plane or a ship and go home. Such a simple fucking plan.
There was only one problem with the whole idea.
"What about Ericka?" I hated the idea of ditching the feisty brunette- She was like the younger sister I never wanted. And Connor would never get over it. Actually, he'd probably die of a broken heart.
Connor, instead of punching me for my suggestion, simply smirked his infuriating I-know-all-I-and-I-should-be-a-god smirk. "That could be problematic. But…." He paused for dramatic effect. "Something tells me she won't be too opposed to the idea of coming with us." Of course he would have thought that out long before I did. Still, it was nice to know that we had a real plan this time- not a half cocked one that was likely to blow up in our faces.
There was still one thing nagging at me. "So, what happened to my guns?" Connor got up from the couch and walked to the corner of the living room, throwing a familiar black duffel at me. I caught it, wincing slightly as my sore arms burned. After going through it, I sighed a prayer of relief that everything was there- Berettas, rope, knife- which was still crusted in dried blood.
"Jose grabbed it all before we left. I'm glad he had the head to grab it all, I sure as hell didn't." He glared at me as I stood up to throw it back in the corner. "I swear if you pull that shit again, I'll kill you myself." Then he did a very un-Connor-like thing and wrapped me in a brief hug. I clapped his shoulder before walking away, not missing the throat clearing he was trying to cover up.
"Duly noted."