In the afternoon that followed, Connor could distinguish from the sunlight outside that it was mid-day. He hadn't intended to sleep in that much, but he felt exhausted from the lack of sleep he had been getting the past few days. Another thing he became aware of upon waking was that Murphy was gone.

"Murph?" he called, though he already knew the room was empty. Kicking the sheets off of his legs, he jumped to his feet and pulled on some clothes, ones that were most certainly dirty, but he wasn't looking to attract anyone. First, he went downstairs and outside to check the alley, but couldn't find him. He called to him a few times, but his brother never responded.

With Murphy gone, Connor wasn't sure how to react. They were almost never apart, for any reason. If he left the apartment without him, he must have had a desperate need to get away, and that meant several things. One possibility was that being around Connor stressed him out now, though he wasn't sure why that could be. The last time Murphy "ran away" was because he teased him for thinking sheep were "cute." Of course, they were children at the time, but Connor never got over how hurt Murphy was when he called him derogatory names. In all fairness, Connor didn't think Murphy would get so upset. At the time, he thought it was hilarious, but when he saw him bawling, he felt terrible for making him cry. He'd take it back if he could, over any killing he had done. He'd go back to his childhood self and tell Murphy that he agreed with him; sheep were cute, damn cute, and that one day they'd own a whole flock of them, and they'd watch them run and bleat and shit all afternoon. Compared to how they were living now, it sounded like paradise.

As he walked down the street, he tried to think of what he might have said to Murphy the night before that could have upset him, the way he called him a "fag" when he commented on the adorable faces of their cottony domesticated beasts. The memory, as it continued to spring up, made Connor utter quiet curses as he followed the streets toward the first place he thought Murphy might have gone to. He supposed in retrospect, it had been his fault all along that Murphy was so emotionally closed off from him. Being called names by him was all too crushing, he was sure. Sometimes he couldn't help but tease him. The looks on his face were worth it.

I can't even remember what I did or said, and I already feel like a shit head, he thought.

Murphy might have had more personal reasons for disappearing on him, Connor considered. He was a hothead at times, quicker to react with rage than his brother was, but he was also more locked up and shut in. There were many times that Connor could sense pain in his twin, and never did he find out what exactly was causing it. He'd always tell him he was "fine," and Connor never bought it, but no matter what he did, he couldn't get information out of him. He supposed that was also his fault, but it was too late to change it. Murphy was who he was, and he was sure he had a large part in how he turned out when they didn't have a father around as a figure of authority.

Connor could hear the boisterous voice of the priest within the church as he approached the massive double doors. He recognized the voice of one Father Samuel Richardson, a man he had come to admire on the many times they attended the Sunday Mass. It had been a while since they had gone, but if Murphy was anywhere, it was either church, McGinty's, or Rocco's, and Rocco didn't usually wake up this "early" on a Sunday, and he had his doubts that Murphy would be drinking so soon. Cracking the door open, he peeked inside, and the priest smiled at the sight of him, knowing his face. As he continued speaking, he waved Connor inside. Connor, waving an apology to some of the people who turned toward the door to see what the disturbance was, walked down the center isle searching for his twin.

"Connor," whispered a familiar voice. Connor spun toward it, and spotted Murphy, sitting on the end of a pew in the middle of the room. Scooting past many of the patrons on their seats, mumbling "sorry" to them, he squeezed into a seat next to his brother, who smiled when their eyes met. "Ya like bein' fashionably late, doncha?"

Connor leaned back and placed his hands in his lap, hooking his fingers together. "Well, if one is to be late, might as well do it in style."

"Aye. I can see yer very stylish dis afternoon." He nodded toward Connor's shirt, which had a questionable stain on the front of it that both of them knew couldn't possibly be food or drink.

"I rushed outta de house t'inkin' some'tin' was wrong wit' ya. I had to t'row on whatever I could find."

"Sorry I didn't wake ya. Ya looked like ya needed de sleep."

"I did." Glancing over at Murphy's neck, he saw the rosary from Malone around it. Not wanting to disturb the other visitors, he leaned closer to Murphy's ear. "Ya feel okay wearin' dat?"

Murphy twirled his finger around the beads of the rosary. "Why wouldn't I?"

"When he gave dem to us… I dunno, it made me feel… weird."

"It's not dat I like de fact he gave dem to us. I t'ought it was weird, too. I jus' remember ma havin' one like dem."

Whenever Murphy brought up their mother, he could tell how homesick he was. In truth, he also missed their mother, missed their home. "She said da used to wear one, too."

At any mention of their father, Murphy's demeanor became colder, and this instance was no different. "Yeh, well." Nothing more would be said on the subject.

Connor didn't bring it up any further, wanting to keep Murphy in a positive mood. "Let's get some lunch at O'Malley's after dis."

"Ya sure ya wanna go out?"

Knowing he was referring to the other day when he didn't want to go to the movies with him, he wondered what else was going on in Murphy's mind that he wasn't acknowledging. "Course."

"If ya say so."

Concluding the Mass, the crowd of people dispersed, leaving through the front doors. Connor and Murphy were the last to exit, lighting up cigarettes preceding their trek toward town. Though the street was alive with the roar of voices and movement that day, they were both perfectly content in silence with one another, walking and smoking at the same pace.

They weren't put off by the busyness of the diner, but rather the constant noise. When they were asked what they wished to order, they could barely hear the waitress who spoke to them. Without bothering to look at the menus, they told her the same thing they told every server each time they went there.

Connor: "Shepherd's pie."

Murphy: "Boxty."

Both, as always, ordered drafts for beverages. As soon as the waitress had gone, Connor scoffed.

"She seem a little distracted to ya?"

"Can't blame her. It's busier n'usual."

"Aye, everyone from church came here." He tossed a judging nose into the air. "Was hopin' to have a quiet meal wit' ya, but I'll take what I can get." When he next looked at Murphy, his eyes were moving around the room as he bit at one of his nails. "What's de matter?" He shrugged. "Murph… don' do dat. Jus' tell me."

"Dis isn't a good place fer it."

"I doubt anyone can hear ya in dis noise."

Dropping both of his hands to the tiled table surface, as well as his sinking head, he let out a broken sigh. "I know ya told meh you were okay wit' meh killin' dat guy…" He scratched at a non-existent itch behind his ear. "But I see de way ya look at meh sometimes."

"What… what way?"

"Like yer…" He chewed on his bottom lip, never settling his eyes on his brother's face. "Disgusted wit' meh."

"What?" Connor laughed.

"Don' fuckin' laugh! Ya t'ink I'm fuckin' around?"

"Murph… calm down." He swiveled his head, looking to see if anyone was paying attention to them. "First of all… I do not do dat. Second, where de fuck is dis comin' from?"

"Fine, fuckin' deny it. All I know is dat I can tell whenever ya look at meh. Like ya t'ink I'm no better den dat fuckin' sicko I shot."

"I… I don' t'ink dat at all …" They held their tongues when the waitress came back with their beers. Murphy took a sip from his to prevent going off on Connor again, attempting to calm the atmosphere. "I told ya no'tin' would change. Dey haven't, have dey?"

"A little." He stamped his full glass down onto a coaster, making Connor wince. "I…" Clenching his fingers around his glass, it squeaked as he dragged his thumbs over the moistened, dewy surface. "Last night, ya…"

Connor knew exactly what he was referring to. Before turning in for the evening, Murphy tried his damnedest to start an intimate encounter with him, kissing on his neck and rubbing his shoulders. Connor was not only too tired, but he found it difficult to even think about sex. He tried to explain to him that it wasn't his fault, but Murphy was as interested in talking as he was in making love to him. "I'm sorry about dat. I jus' wasn't feelin' into it."

"And ya didn't wanna go out wit' meh. You've been beggin' meh and beggin' meh to see a movie wit' ya…"

"Murph, fer fuck's sake! Do we have to be chained toge'ter all de time?! Sometimes I want…" He lowered his voice when Murphy's head bowed even further. "Personal… time."

Plucking at strands of his hair, Murphy argued, "Ya never wanted personal time before dis whole… t'ing we started. Ya always wanted to be wit' meh."

"I still do! I'm here about to eat lunch wit' ya, aren't I?!" Murphy didn't have an answer for that one. "It's only been a couple o'days. Don' I get a little… leeway?" At this question, his brother could only push his face into his damp palm. Connor hated when he did that. It was the first sign that he had crossed a line Murphy had drawn. The last thing he wanted was for Murphy to snap, and was even less prepared for him for him to do so in public. "M'sorry. It's not because I don' love ya. I do. A lot."

Murphy accepted his apology, and his humility, and his rage dimmed. "I'm afraid, Connor. Afraid dat… killin's gonna be our whole life. As excited I am at doin' it, I dunno if I could live like dat."

"Give it more time." He slid his upturned palm across the surface of the table toward Murphy, who, for a moment, only stared at it. Connor smiled when he set his palm into it, and each hand clenched around the other tight enough to feel each other's pulses. "It's not all about killin', and I doubt it will be. We're still us."

Their hands slackened when their waitress returned with their meals, and they fell into concentrated silence while they ate. After a few bites of his food, Connor remarked on it. "S'better den it usually is," he sang with a nod. "Dey must have got a new cook in. Wanna try it?"

Murphy pulled his head back, grimacing. "S'got lamb in it."

Connor dropped his gaze to his plate. "Oh, aye. Course." He grinned. "More fer meh."

Across from Malone sat a middle-aged man, tan hair, hooked, bird-like nose and brown eyes, and he couldn't bring himself to even say the words that brought him to the meeting in the first place. From the way he spoke about his business partner, a man he despised on many levels, Malone already knew he wanted him dead just by the direction the conversation was going.

Jerald Bernshaw, his newest client, had invited Malone to the food court at the mall, stressing that he'd feel more comfortable in public. This wasn't a stipulation Malone had an issue with, since almost every client asked this of him.

"I… I know you perform this… service," began Jerald, which Malone responded to by looking at his silver watch. Catching the hint, Jerald then spouted, "I heard from Fiona. Fiona Bastian?" Malone nodded to show he recognized the name. She, like Tony's wife, wanted her husband dead. "That you… for a fee, I mean… will eliminate… certain…"

"You want to pay me to whack the guy."

"Yes," sighed Jerald, waving his hand to offer his thanks while Malone took a sip of his coffee.

"Don't be shy, Mister Bernshaw. I've heard it thousands of times. I'll likely hear it thousands more."

"I'm sorry. This is sort of new to me. I've never done this before."

"I hear that one a lot, too. Don't worry so much. If you're not already aware, it's five grand."

"Five grand?" repeated Jerald, who went over his decision with care before answering. "That's not too bad. I could afford it, but… how good are you? I mean, am I at risk of getting into trouble?"

Taking another long sip of coffee, which he preferred to be mixed with extra cream and sugar, Malone said in his deep, smooth tone, "Always. There is always a risk. That's a risk you'd have to be willing to take. Are you prepared for that?"

His client's uneasy shifting told him that he wasn't, but he nodded. "I think so."

As he always did when a client confirmed their interest in hiring him, he smirked. "May I ask why you'd like him dead?"

"I want the business for myself, but he refuses to let me buy him out. Our company is worth a lot and I'd like to sell it, but he won't allow it."

"Money," sighed Malone, melancholy. "Thought this was going to be an interesting one. You disappointed me."

Puzzled, Jerald whispered, "I'm sorry?"

"Don't worry. I'll get it done for you. It's just always the same reasons. Revenge or money." Shaking his head, Malone finished the remainder of his coffee, cursing his age. If it weren't for Connor and Murphy coming along, he might just quit altogether. They had a way of keeping things fresh for him. "I'll give you the details on where to wire the money— two grand at the start before I start tracking the person. Three grand when I show you proof of completion. Include details of your target with your initial payment."

"You got it," answered a now excited Jerald, who shook Malone's hand.

Now grateful that he could continue on with the rest of his day, Malone left him with details as well as his card, then left the mall. It was evening by the time he rolled out, and he had to make a trip back home before returning to the station. First, he would pay his companions a visit.

No matter how many times he parked near that alley where Connor and Murphy lived, he never felt the comfort of leaving his vehicle parked and unattended. One day he'd come back outside to find it stripped or stolen, and that was a best case scenario. The alarm system would only provide a few minutes of extra security.

By now, Malone had known the brothers' schedule and shift, and knew when a good time was to stop by without having to call. When the lift reached their floor, he heard the vociferous blasting of FM radio, songs Malone couldn't imagine ever enjoying, even in his youth. It was the same old nineties alternative rock, just like every other song that always played from morning until night, none of which were unique or carried any worth or substance. He hated the sound of a wailing electric guitar; hated it even more when the scratchy voice of a screaming twenty-something male was partnered with it. Regardless, he heard what sounded like Connor singing along with it, smelled the vile aroma of burning tobacco.

Knocking wasn't necessary, but he did so anyway. Connor was the one who answered, and he greeted him with a look of surprise. He was shirtless, but much to Malone's relief, managed to find his jeans before answering the door.

"What's up?" Connor asked, not intending to sound so immature when saying it.

"I'm going to be returning to work in about thirty minutes," Malone informed as Connor allowed him inside. Murphy was lying on the west bed, on his back, hands tucked under his head. Thankfully, he too was decent enough to have clothes on. "I was wondering if you'd both like to come to the house."

Connor didn't need to know the reasons, but Murphy did. "Why?"

Malone could kill a hundred men with his bare hands and not express a single emotion, but when asked a simple question involving his interest in inviting someone to his home, he found that harder to do than taking a life. Even he didn't understand why he wanted the company. All he knew was that he did. "I'm sure you'd be interested in my vast gun collection." The brothers' ears perked. "That is, if you're looking to trade in those pussy nine mils you've got."

Murphy would have objected going anywhere near Malone's home, but at the sound of these words, he was ecstatic, even hopped up to his feet. "Fuck. What kind do ya have?"

A weary smile bloomed on Malone's worn, weary face, his every wrinkle lifting at the seams. "I have a very wide range of weapons, Murphy. You boys can come check them out if you wish."

Murphy looked to Connor with eyes lit up like Christmas lights, and Connor couldn't reject that childlike excitement. Connor slapped a hand on Murphy's shoulder and nodded to Malone. "Sure. Let's check dem out."

Connor and Murphy expected many things when imagining Eric Malone's house, but never did they conceive just how massive it would be. The most interesting thing about it, in Connor's opinion, was how isolated it was from the rest of the world. Just to reach the driveway, they had to travel down a winding forest road that cut through a thicket of trees.

The house, which was modern in design, silver and black, and two stories in height, already had the MacManus brothers speechless, but when Malone guided them inside past the glass paneled front doors, they turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees to get the whole house in their view. Windows as tall as people gave off the perfect showcase of the sunset, which stretched along the Persian rugs and leather furniture. Paintings from various artists sat high on the stone and brick walls, and a fireplace centered the awesome display.

"It's… q-quite de place," chirped Connor in a cracking voice. Murphy was too stunned to even speak. He had never seen a place this fancy in his whole life.

"My particular business practices have their benefits," Malone told them with pride. "Keep at it long enough and you could live in a place like this."

"I t'ink it'd be a little too big fer us."

"We'd fill it," Murphy opposed to Connor.

"With what?"

"S… tuff."

"Drink?" offered Malone. They agreed to one. "You're in luck. I happen to have Irish whiskey." Their faces brightened. Despite the shell of ice that had managed to form over his heart over the many long years Malone had lived, it warmed somewhat at their approval. He felt, for the first time since meeting them, proud to serve them. He led them into the basement, where both his bar and gun closet happened to be. After pouring them each a shot of chilled whiskey behind his bar, they saluted each other in their usual manner and gulped them down.

Following the gracious introduction and welcome, Malone motioned for them to follow him to the door leading to a separate room within the basement. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and used three of them to unlock a series of latches. When he pushed the door open, he flicked on the light, which hummed with life as it bathed the room in a dim, almost erotic glow.

Connor and Murphy stood in the doorway, staring inside at the ominous shrine of weaponry, feeling almost unworthy of setting foot inside of it. From what they could see from their position, the wall ahead of them alone was covered with mounted shotguns of many calibers. High above them, close to the ceiling, sat a sniper rifle.

"Oh God," Murphy said once he caught his breath. "I t'ink I've changed my mind about what I t'ink heaven looks like."

"Come on in," beckoned Malone. "Don't be afraid. They won't bite unless they're loaded."

Connor nudged his brother into the room, making him stumble forward. Connor wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth as he looked upon each wall with simultaneous orgasmic joy and youthful wonderment. "Is it our birt'day yet?" Murphy, his mouth hanging open, shook his head. "It feels like it."

"Let me know if you see anything worth your while. I'd be happy to give you guys something on the house." A buzzing sound interrupted what little conversation there was. Connor turned toward the sound, seeing Malone pull out his pager. "I have to go. You're welcome to stay here."

"Seriously?" Connor asked, almost tripped over his own feet as he stepped, his eyes locked back onto the gun-laden walls.

"Sure. But you can't load the guns. Literally. I have the ammo locked in a separate case."

They didn't bother to argue. "We wouldn't do a t'ing like dat, anyway," Connor assured.

"Help yourselves to the bar, and the television. I should be back in a few hours."

Connor, for reasons unexplained, felt comfortable with it. It was the closest thing to a "sleepover" at a friend's as it could get. "Hey, uh…" he called once Malone began heading for the staircase. Malone paused and gave him a passing glance. "T'anks, Malone. Dis was… kinda cool o'ya."

"Eric," he corrected.

Connor raised his first two fingers to his forehead, then saluted him. "Eric."

"Figured you both could use a night out of that flea-ridden apartment." After a wink, he ascended the stairs.

When the two of them were alone again, they went back to admiring the room they stood in. "What do dey say about guys who own dis many guns?" Murphy wondered aloud.

Connor cracked a hint of a smug grin. "Run."