Eric Malone's arsenal was more than just a canvas of assault weapons, but a dream come true for any avid gun-lover. Though he had been there for at least five minutes staring at the hulks of black steel, Murphy still found it difficult to believe he was standing amongst some of the finest craftsmanship known to mankind. There, before his eyes, ripe for the picking, and if he was a petty fellow, he'd snatch them all.

Many thoughts crossed Connor's mind, but the most prominent question was: "Why does one man need so many weapons?" Of course, if he hadn't known the kind of job Malone had undertaken, he would have been even more confused. He wondered then, staring at the deadly items, if Malone even used half of them for what they were intended for. His guess was that he didn't.

Murphy started browsing as though he had just walked into a shop, picking up various guns and getting a feel for them in his hands. Connor hadn't yet touched anything, wishing not to disturb what obviously took a very long time to set up and construct. Instead, he watched his twin place various guns of many sizes in his hands and wave them around, shake his head, put them back, then pick something else.

After rotating through several types of handguns, Murphy hauled a shotgun off of the wall and lifted the barrel while snuggling the butt of it against his shoulder, peering down the sight. Now this was what power felt like. Though he wasn't a practiced murderer, he knew that it was impractical to assassinate with shotguns. They were heavy, obvious, and made too much noise. Still, the weight of it in his hands and the knowledge of its kick gave him goose bumps. He found it difficult to let it go.

It took him a few moments to realize Connor had been watching his every move, and was staring at him now. Murphy lowered the barrel at a gradual pace, his daunted eyes meeting Connor's, and he cracked a partial smile.

"What?" he breathed.

A streak of sweat snuck down the base of Connor's neck, which he wiped off as he tongued his inner cheek. Murphy had been familiar with that look, and it was one he had been missing the past few days. "No'tin'," Connor answered, bordering a whisper.

"Some'tin'," Murphy pried.

"I dunno what it is… but dere's some'tin' about ya holdin' dat."

Murphy looked at the gun in his hands, then back up to Connor, flicking his head back, though his hair was too short for it to have any effect. He lifted the shotgun higher into the air, once again gripping it with both hands. The higher he raised it, the wider Connor's smile got.

"I t'ink ya were born to hold a gun," Connor complimented as he took a few steps closer to Murphy.

"Could say de same fer you," Murphy returned, turning the barrel away so that Connor could get within touching distance.

"Never t'ought guns to be all dat sexy. Now I just wanna fuck yer brains out."

Murphy almost dropped the shotgun, now that his palms became too sweaty to grip anything. Connor grabbed the gun from him, set it down on the counter top behind them, then ripped a handgun from the wall and passed it to him. Murphy, curious, gaped at it as he gripped it.

"Go on, aim it at meh."

"I… huh?"

"Aim it at my head."

"Connor…"

"It's not loaded, fer fuck's sake." He grabbed Murphy's wrist and lifted it, pointing the barrel between his own eyes. Staring down at both the black barrel and at Murphy's tight grip around the handle, seeing him hold the weapon in the air in the same manner he would when preparing to kill someone, caused a fit of chills to move across Connor's every single nerve and vein—including the ones in his groin.

"Ya sure it ain't loaded?" Murphy pondered, feeling uncomfortable.

"Check it and see."

Murphy withdrew his arm at once, checking the chamber and clip. Both were empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, but still scolded his brother with a glare.

"I told ya." He slapped Murphy's arm. "Go on, point it at meh again."

"Dis… is weird, Connor."

"Come on. Yer so hot when ya do it." He allowed time for Murphy to pick his jaw back up off the floor. "I dunno why. I just love lookin' at ya when yer holdin' one. Look at meh, I'm fuckin' shakin'."

Murphy tightened his grip around the gun's handle, smirking at his brother, his gaze falling to the tent he was pitching down below. Murphy didn't think Connor was the type to get turned on by the concept of violence, but he did manage to surprise him with something every day. The thrill of turning Connor on had him just as excited, and he no longer felt strange about lifting the gun and pointing it at his forehead. Connor shut his eyes for a brief moment, sighing through his nostrils, his tongue slipping his mouth to glaze his upper lip. When he next opened them, Murphy had a playful look of seriousness on his face. Oh, this would be interesting, Connor felt.

[Semi-explicit erotic scene inserted here. Removed so I don't get punished a la assassination. Full chapter at archiveofourown dot org /works/1840609/chapters/4037289]

As he recalled how to form words, Murphy smacked his cottony mouth. "Dat was…" No word could describe it. It was just that incredible. How did he go through his entire life without receiving oral sex? How could anyone? "Fuckin' deadly," he concluded.

"Yer welcome," Connor said with a chuckle.

"Fuck," Murphy sighed in afterthought. "I can't move."

"Yer gonna have to if ya want more o'dat whiskey."

"Ya can't jus'… bring meh some?"

"Go fuck yerself," Connor dismissed, getting to his feet and leaving the room to head for the bar.

Murphy shouted, "Dat's what I've got you for!" He then grabbed his throat, which was raw and scratchy from so much yelling. When he did manage to climb to his feet, he used the tail of his shirt to wipe Connor's near-gallon of spit off of himself before putting the handgun back where it belonged and joining his brother at the bar. When he sat down in one of the stools, Connor draped an arm around him and crushed him against his chest.

"Fer de record," Connor said when seeing the sleepy eyes of Murphy squint at him. "Ya tasted like beer." Murphy smirked and burst out laughing alongside Connor.

"I could open a brewery, den. Wouldn't tell anyone what de secret ingredient is." He reached for their empty shot glasses and the bottle of whiskey with lackadaisical arms, which had gone sort of limp since blowing his wad. Connor leaned over the bar and grabbed it, pouring them each a shot.

"Veritas," Connor said first.

"Awesome blow jobs," Murphy answered, then gulped his drink before Connor could remark on it. Connor took his shot as well before giving Murphy one of the wettest kisses they've shared, and one of the tastiest. "We're drinkin' dis whole bottle, right?"

"Fuckin' A," Connor confirmed before pouring them some more.

...

Upon entering the house, Eric heard the sound of laughter from the basement, where he was sure neither Connor nor Murphy had set foot out of since he left. He stopped first at his office, where he set his briefcase down and hung up his tie, then he walked into the kitchen to grab an apple from the fridge, hearing F-bombs dropped every five seconds from the room below.

Moving across the house to another room while chewing on his apple, Eric removed his jacket as he entered, the glow of monitors flaring his skin as he sat down and stared at each of them. The feed from each individual camera he had set up in every room concluded that Connor and Murphy hadn't managed to wreck anything in his house, by some sort of miracle, nor had they invaded his privacy—not that they could without his keys. He reversed the security tape just to be absolutely sure of the facts. The camera inside of the arsenal revealed something he felt he should be charging people to look at.

"Lord," he groaned in revulsion, palming his face. Watching Connor blow his brother in his gun closet was one thing he didn't want to see when arriving home, but he supposed he only had himself to blame for letting them stay there. He stopped the tape before his partially digested apple could come up, then headed down to the basement hoping to stop them from any other wild shenanigans they might have been up to.

On entering the basement, he saw Connor and Murphy on the floor, rolling and tumbling in a non-threatening and non-violent wrestling match, spitting insults at each other. They hadn't even heard Eric come in, and they weren't about to. They struggled and fought as one tried to overpower the other, and for reasons that only they knew.

"Say it again, ya fuckin' little shit!"

"Fuck off!" Though there was much hostility in Murphy's words, there were traces of laughter in them.

"I can do dis all day! Go on!"

"Fuck you!"

Amused, Eric watched the fray as he stepped into the room and headed for the bar, wondering if they'd even notice him. Too focused in the brawl, they hadn't. Sitting down in one of the soft stools, Malone noticed the empty bottle of whiskey on the bar top and shook his head.

"Ya fuckin' dumbass!"

"I'll knock yer fuckin' teeth out!"

"Aye, sure ya will! Ya couldn't knock out a baby, ya pussy!"

"I'll do it, I'll fuckin' do it!"

"Fifty on Murphy," Eric said to the brothers, who stopped their boyish wrestling to look at their visitor with bulging, reddish eyes. Connor, who was wrestling Murphy, sat up, pinning him down by sitting on his lap.

"Uh… hi," he said with a sheepish grin.

Murphy, struggling beneath Connor, grunted, "Get off meh, ya fat ass!"

Clicking his tongue, Eric joked, "Do you guys do this often, or just when you're drunk?"

Connor climbed off of Murphy, who got up off of the floor as soon as he was free. "He started it," Connor defended, staggering.

"Bullshit," Murphy slurred with an inebriated leer. "Was you."

"Murphy. Your brother sucks your dick and this is how you repay him?"

"Well, we're not really—" Whatever thought he was about to exclaim culminated. "Wait, what'd ya say?"

"How'd you…?" Connor wondered.

"You think I'd just let you both hang out here in my house when I didn't have cameras everywhere? Please." They both went as quiet as the dead, but the pink shade of their skin told all they needed to convey. Eric bellowed out a laugh. "Don't be so coy. If you're going to fuck each other, take a little pride in it." He stood up and went around the bar as the two of them stood idle beside one another, fidgeting and clearing their throats. Eric retrieved a beer from the small refrigerator and cracked it open, taking a few sips.

"We're sorry," Connor apologized, his embarrassed head low.

"For what?"

"Fer… dat."

"You didn't look sorry in the video."

"Christ," Murphy whined, hiding his shamed face.

"Really, what makes you think I care? It's not news to me that you two bump uglies. Do it all you want, it's your fucking life. Just don't do it in front of me, and we're all good. Or in my gun cabinet…" They both took a deep breath and released it over several seconds. "Now, why the hell were you fighting?"

"We were fightin'?" he said to Murphy in particular.

"We weren't fightin'. Not really."

"Then why is Connor gushing blood?" Murphy, shocked, grabbed Connor and looked him over, checking him for wounds, and when he didn't find any, he glowered at Eric, who was chuckling. "Take a seat, fellas. We need to have a chat." Connor sat to his left, and Murphy sat to Connor's. "I've received a new client. This one's got a bit of a reputation for being a suspected prostitute killer. But he doesn't just kill them. He has these fetishes, you understand?" They nodded, though they didn't really. "Necrophilia. He rapes them after killing them."

"Like… when dey're dead?" asked Connor.

"When they're very dead." Murphy brought a fist to his closed mouth. "Bathroom's over there." He pointed to the door in the corner, which Murphy fled to. Connor made no remark, but Eric didn't wait for one. "He's well-protected, you see. His father is a lawyer. I have plenty of evidence that would put this guy away forever. I'm just afraid it won't be possible. The only way to get rid of him for sure is to… eliminate him from the picture."

"When do we get to it?"

"Soon. You boys are going to scout with me. Have you ever wanted to know what it was like to be a PI?"

"Not perticurlarly…"

"Well, you're going to get a feel for it real soon." Murphy rejoined them, holding his stomach as he slumped back to the bar. Connor folded his arms on the top of the bar, unable to hold his head up. Murphy leaned against Connor for support to keep from falling out his chair. "You're not going to remember this conversation tomorrow, are you?"

"Pro'lly not."

Eric rubbed his brow. Once again, he only had himself to blame for that one. "The couch is a sleeper-sofa. You're welcome to sleep on it."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say ya wanted to watch us on yer little cameras some more."

With a roll of his dark eyes, Eric shook his head. "I'd rather suck a tailpipe, Connor."

Connor swayed in his spot as he spoke. "Dat sounded mildly sexual."

"To someone like you, I can imagine so."

"Ah, go on. Deny it all ya like. Ya wanna get a little piece o'de action. Well too bad, Malone. I'd sooner shoot ya den to see ya lay a hand on my bro'ter." Murphy smiled at him, though it was tough to tell with how intoxicated he was. He grinned even wider when Connor's hand traced his spine.

"I wouldn't lay a hand on your brother if my life depended on it."

"Good. Ya don't wanna see dat side o'meh."

"I'll take your word for it." Despite the odious manner in which he spoke to him, he couldn't help but smile at Connor's demeanor.

Connor glanced at Murphy, who had passed out with his head tucked between his arms. He sighed and slid off of his stool and picked him up off of his seat. The ritualistic, customary method in which this was performed had Eric all the more curious about their closeness. As Connor draped his brother over his shoulder, Eric got up as well.

"Do you need help with him?" he offered.

"Nah. He ain't heavy." His lips spread into a grin as he sang, "He's my brotheeeeer."

Eric hadn't heard or felt himself use a genuine, entertained laugh in longer than he could surmise, but that had him giggling. Mystified, he wondered how a young man like Connor had even heard that song. He had to admit he was impressed. He watched as Connor carried Murphy to the comfort of the couch, which faced a large-screen television, which was on, but muted. He laid him down and threw a blanket over him before giving his forehead a wet smooch, which Murphy responded to by swatting at his face.

"Little pain in de ass," he cooed at the conked out Murphy. Once that was taken care of, he looked at Eric, who observed them. "Ya said to meh once dat ya had a bro'ter."

Nodding, he said, "I do. Sort of. We don't speak anymore, not since he's been in and out of prison."

"Ya miss 'im?"

That question had never been asked of him before. When faced with it, he had no idea what to say. He tried his best never to think of him unless it was absolutely necessary. "I don't know, Connor."

"I'm sure he misses you."

"I'd rather not discuss it right now."

Thinking this was a fair proviso, Connor let it go, save for one final question. "May I ask what his name is?"

Eric's dry lips parted. "Marshall."

He committed the name to memory for later conversation. "T'anks."

"May I ask why you don't like the rosary?"

Connor hoped he'd never notice he was without it when they saw each other. Now he had to explain himself, and he was never very good at that. "I… like it and all… it's just…"

"Too personal."

Those were indeed words Connor might have chosen had he not be so far under the influence. "Aye."

Finally leaving his stool, Eric came to Connor's side and placed an empathetic hand upon his shoulder. "That's all right. You don't have to wear it. Just hold onto it in case you ever might need it."

Alleviated by the fact that Eric wasn't going to snap his neck for it, Connor smiled at him. "I appreciate ya understandin'. I know ya didn't mean any'tin' bad."

Checking his watch, Eric heaved a deep sigh. "I have some paperwork to go over. You'll both be all right down here?" Connor waved his head up and down, then wished he hadn't. The whole room now spun in circles. "Good night, then." Connor also wished him good night before sitting down on the couch next to Murphy, watching television for a while before also catching a few blackout Zs.

As Eric slipped into his office, he dwindled on Connor's question. Did he miss Marshall? Loved him, definitely. Missed him? That was a tough call. He didn't keep in contact with most of his family anymore, just in off chance that he did happen to get caught doing what he did. He trained himself to forget them, to distance himself from them, even to despise them a little. He never would have considered before that he missed them in any way.

There was more than taking innocent lives that Eric wanted to take back, but now it was too late, and things needed to get done, whether or not his conscience was clear on the matter.