Over the coming days, the three of them fell into a routine. Eric would pick them up from work at the end of their shift, bring them back to his house, and then he would discuss other types of work with them. It was Connor he spoke to most, and Murphy wasn't blind to it. From his point of view, it became all too clear that Eric was more than a teacher to Connor at this stage, and when Eric made little-to-no effort to bond with Murphy on any level, the facts became difficult to ignore, and the resentment Murphy felt only grew to palpable heights.

On Friday, as they finished up at the plant, Connor seemed in a good mood. This only put Murphy off further. "What're ya so chipper about?"

Connor, who had been whistling, stopped when Murphy addressed it. "Dunno. Just am." He grunted as Murphy knocked into him on his way to the exit. "What's yer problem, eh?"

"I'm not stupid, Connor."

"What?"

"Don't take meh fer a fuckin' retard, all 'ight? I know I'm yer bro'ter, but I think I'm still owed a little respect!"

"What de fuckin' hell are ya talkin' about?"

Now that they were outside, Murphy lit up a cigarette and puffed at it, smoking it down in no time flat. "Come on, Connor. I see how Malone is wit' ya. I see ya gettin' all friendly-like. Ya even call him by his first name now."

This was the first time Connor had heard anything about Murphy's feelings on the matter, and that alone made him frustrated. How long had he been letting this brew and stir within him before letting it out? "Murph, dere's no reason to be jealous."

"I am not jealous!" He grabbed a handful of his hair and dug his fingers into it, turning away from him.

"Ya clearly are. And m'sorry ya feel dat way. Dere's only so many ways I can tell ya dat I love ya."

"Oh yeh? When was de last time ya said it to meh?"

Connor panicked somewhat as he tried to remember. "Well… ya don't say it much to meh ei'ter, Murph."

"So yer tryin' to find someone else to?"

"Dat's not— what— yer insane, ya know dat?!"

"I love you, Connor! Dere, ya happy now?!"

"I love you too!"

The two of them stood, panting, aggravated, several feet apart. When Murphy's eyes produced a fresh glaze over them, Connor stepped closer, and when he didn't resist, he pulled him into a tight squeeze.

When they caught their breath, Connor lowered his voice. "I'm not goin' anywhere." Murphy's arms swung around his neck and he buried his face underneath his chin, and Connor was lavished with a collection of a apologetic kisses. "Eric's… well, he's got no one else. I'm just tryin' to be a good friend."

"And he only wants yer friendship. He fuckin' hates meh. And I don't like 'im much, ei'ter." What Murphy failed to tell Connor was that he also believed Eric to be a liar. He knew that Connor trusted him, and he didn't want to be a pain in the ass if he didn't have any facts to prove it, or else he'd distance himself even farther from his brother, and he didn't want that. If he had something on Malone he could use, he would use it. Until then, he wouldn't bring it up.

"Just try not to call 'im names," Connor suggested, "And I'm sure he'd be willin' to get along wit' ya."

"Can't help it. He's an asshole. Always has been."

For now, Connor let it go, though he continued to cling to Murphy, who refused to relinquish him to Eric when he arrived. Connor had to practically pry Murphy's arms from his waist before they climbed into the backseat of Eric's rented vehicle. When they entered, Eric greeted Connor, but not Murphy. Murphy shot Connor a quick "told you" glare, but Connor put it out of his mind for now.

"Today is the day I let you guys spread your wings a little," Eric explained as he drove them to his house. "I'm going to send one of you in to do the job alone to see how you can handle it. Murphy—you were such a good shot before, I've decided that you should be the one to do it."

Murphy, unlike Connor, was suspicious right away. "Seems a bit premature to send me off on my own already."

"I think you could handle it. You've got a powerful aggression in you that Connor only has a glimmer of in comparison."

Flattery wouldn't get him anywhere. "Aye? And what's Connor gonna do? Sit and watch meh?"

Eric had to chuckle at that. "Would you prefer he blew you while you did it?"

"Ya t'ink yer real funny, doncha?"

"On occasion." He didn't allow Murphy the chance to retort. "Connor will clean up the mess."

To confirm if this was all right with his brother, he looked at Connor, who glanced back. "Eric… is Murph gonna be… safe in dere?"

"Absolutely. I know the perfect place he can hide in. Really, Connor. Would I put your brother in danger knowing what you would do to me?"

Connor passed Murphy a reassuring smile, but Murphy still wasn't convinced. "And what if I'm not safe? How will ya guys know?"

A light dawned over Connor's head. "We could put a wire on him. We could hear every'tin'."

"A wire…" Eric repeated, grimacing. He didn't expect Connor to think of something like that. "I… guess that would work."

"If we hear any'tin' I'll come help 'im."

"You should probably let me handle it if that happens, Connor," Eric warned, though Connor was stubborn when it came to Murphy, and he knew it.

"Murph's my responsibility, no matter what we're doin'."

"I realize that… but…"

"I'd rather have Connor come to my rescue den you, to be honest," Murphy sneered with confidence. "Any fuckin' day."

"Fine, Murphy. Have it your way." During their drive back to his house, he stopped for a coffee, and bought some for Connor and Murphy as well, in addition to donuts. Then he brought them to his own house to give them new weapons. He recommended Beretta 92s, which they seemed to like, and included silencers on them, but wouldn't hand them over until they had gloves on.

Eric proceeded to ready the wire that would be strapped to Murphy, a small microphone that would be taped to his chest. Murphy, however, dealt with it in difficulty, as he didn't want Eric touching him. In the past few days, Eric had become more than just annoyed with Murphy. No matter how they spent their time—whether it was staking out the house, in his office going over plans, or just making general conversation, Murphy wouldn't erase the deadly glare from his face, nor would he refrain from making sarcastic remarks. The hostility only seemed to increase when he and Connor would talk to one another.

Unintentionally, Murphy had become a primary liability. He was skeptical, cynical, and had a closer eye on him since he had bonded with Connor, and Eric could sense just how the situation could unfold. With Murphy watching his every move, he had to be twice as cautious with what information he gave them, and he had to be mindful of his influence on Connor, who despite their friendship, would always lean toward Murphy in the event of a dispute. He didn't blame him. Murphy was family, and you don't turn your back on family— especially if they were more than just family to you.

Murphy became too much of a bloodhound in the previous days following his secured friendship with Connor, so much that he had to change the combination of his safe in fear of Murphy learning it. He would hear Connor talk him down from time to time, tell him that he was just being "his usual paranoid self," but Murphy had his doubts no matter what Connor said. Eric had come to believe that Murphy's purpose was more than just protecting Connor's life—it was also protecting his mind from being manipulated. Eric wouldn't deny he used them, nor would he deny he manipulated them. He would deny, though, that he wasn't Connor's friend. He thought himself to be.

The plan was not to set up Murphy for destruction. It was to set him up for failure. He didn't want Murphy dead. Connor would blast his nuts off if he allowed it. He did, on the other hand, want to show him just how badly they needed him for guidance. If Murphy's opinion could be tweaked, he could enforce trust. Connor was weaker without Murphy, and the same went for his twin. He needed them both on his side. He had faced that fact long ago. As an important piece of the puzzle, he required Murphy's assistance, his extra hand for him to control, and he wouldn't acquire it if he so vigilantly chained himself to Connor and challenged him on everything.

Every intimate moment Murphy and Connor spent together only weakened Eric's grip on them, as he was sure that Murphy used that closeness to his advantage to keep him further from him, as well as his plots. He knew there was no way he could ask them to "stop having sex," but there was a line he had to draw between them, a line Murphy wouldn't cross. What that line was, Eric had yet to discover. He couldn't threaten Connor's life—didn't want to threaten Connor's life—since it would only raise the hairs on the back of Murphy's already sensitive neck.

"Take off your shirt, Murphy," Eric instructed, preparing the microphone. Murphy spent a moment glaring at him, but eventually did as he was told. When Eric approached him with the microphone and tape, he allowed it, but scrunched up his nose like he smelled something foul. It might not have been the best time, but Eric snickered. Murphy's lip twitched.

"De fuck's so funny?"

"Not a hair on you, is there?"

"Fuck you."

"Do you kiss your brother with that mouth? Never mind. I know the answer to that."

Murphy said nothing this time, since Connor placed a hand on his shoulder. Once the wire was firmly attached, he asked Murphy to slip his shirt back on, which he did. Once the task was complete, he started packing up the tools he'd need for the job, including the cleaning supplies, and offered the brothers a drink before they left. They shared one with him, but Murphy never took his eyes off of Eric's face while downing his shot.

In the time it took for them to go to the house of David Summers, their target, Connor worried. He didn't want Murphy going in that house by himself, and at the same time, understood that Eric knew best. Murphy would be wired, and they'd be able to hear from inside the van if he was in danger, but it wasn't enough to comfort him. What if he couldn't reach him in time if he heard something?

The stress was too much for him, and he couldn't calm the rise and fall of waves in his stomach as they reached the house. "I t'ink I should go in wit' 'im."

If it was one thing Eric learned from speaking with Connor and Murphy, it was how to speak to them, and what to say that would get the response he was looking for. "Do you not have faith in Murphy's abilities?"

"Dat's… not it. I believe he can do it, I just…"

Murphy placed his hand on Connor's knee, and Connor stared for a moment into his brother's bluish eyes. "Beidh mé ceart go leor. (I'll be okay)

"Ba mhaith liom é seo a dhéanamh. (I want to do this)

"Tá mé ag dul chun a fháil amach cad atá sé ag dul i bhfolach. (I'm going to find out what he's hiding)

"Tá a fhios agam go mbainfidh tú a bheith ag lorg amach dom." (I know you'll be looking out for me)

Connor nodded at him. "Aye," he whispered. "I gcónaí." (Always)

Before that point, Eric had no idea that the two of them were multi-lingual, but now that the facts had surfaced, it unsettled him. They could have conversations around him without him understanding a word, and for all he knew, they just told each other something valuable, or incriminating.

Not wanting them to get another word out that he couldn't distinguish, he interrupted their "moment." "All right, Murphy. Here's what you'll do. Once you enter the house, there's a hallway. The first door on the right is a study. Our target always stops by that room first. You're going to hide in that room until he comes in. You'll be waiting for at least thirty minutes before he comes home. The far right corner is the best place to hide, behind the desk and the potted plant. You should be able to get a clear shot from there."

Eric tested the microphone, making sure the sound was clear enough through the headphones attached to the radio within the van. Everything was ready to go, all except Eric, who wondered now how this would play out. Perhaps things would go according to plan regardless of how they had set the stage, but only time would tell.

Murphy slid the door open and prepared to hop out, but Connor called him back for a moment. Murphy leaned inside to give Connor a deep, elongated kiss before telling him he'd see him soon. Connor couldn't help but feel overwhelming dread at his departure, as though he were about to travel overseas to fight in a brutal war, despite him being no more than several yards away. Regardless, he allowed him to leave, wishing him luck.

Murphy slipped into the house through the front door, which was for some reason unlocked. That was only the first bad sign. He shut the door behind him before going down the hallway that Eric mentioned, finding the first door on the right. When grabbing the handle, he realized that it was locked when it wouldn't turn. He jiggled it a few times, but no dice.

"De fuckin' door's locked," he told Connor through the microphone. "De one to de study."

Connor, hearing this over the headphones, peered at Eric in his peripheral vision. He wanted to ask him about it, but he also didn't want him to know. Something about this didn't add up, and he'd rather get all of his ducks in a row before pointing fingers.

"I'm gonna check out de bat'room," Murphy said next, then went on a hunt for the restroom, opening a few more doors down the hall. He cracked open the final door on the left, and reached inside to flip the light switch on. What he anticipated to see was what any lavatory had: a toilet, tub, sink, mirror—but something else lied in wait for him inside, something not commonly found in bathrooms, and that something was thigh-high, four-legged, and covered in brown and black-sable fur.

The German Shepherd's head lifted the instant Murphy opened the door, but it was the beacon of light that startled the both of them. Murphy had encountered many dogs in the past, and he thought he made a good companion to them. He believed this encounter to be no different; that is until he heard the deep rattle of the canine's growl and saw its glinting fangs as its maw curled, and before Murphy's brain could even register a reaction, it had lunged for him.

Murphy bolted out into the hallway, and the mountainous dog careened out of the room, its thunderous paws slamming on the floor, its claws clicking on the wood. He sprinted for the living room, toppling tables over to slow the animal down. The beast of a dog only leapt over them, chasing him down, barking all the way. His destination was now the sliding glass door leading to the back step at the rear of the house. He jerked on it to open it, only to find it locked, unlike the front door. He didn't get the opportunity to turn around and look into the eyes of his attacker before he was leapt upon and brought to the ground by the fabric of his shirt.

"Fuck!" he screamed, though it wasn't the first word he thought of. He tried to shove the dog off of him, only to get his arm snapped at. "CONNOR!" he called at last when his breath could manage it. He drew his gun, getting ready to shoot in case his brother didn't reach him in time, and shooting the dog was the last resort.

Connor chucked the headphones away from his ears and rocketed out of the van quicker than Eric could call him back, not that doing so would make him change course. Free from the stifling vehicle, Connor blazed into the house, nearly kicking the door down, his gun raised while clenched in both hands. He followed the sounds of the scuffle to the living room, where he saw the dog nipping and snarling at Murphy, who was doing his best to shove it off of him. Blood snaked down Murphy's forearm, the tail of his shirt ripped clean.

"Ay!" Connor called to the aggressive mutt, whose nose turned toward Connor. Connor puckered his lips and whistled to it. No longer focused on Murphy, the dog then charged at him, both rows of teeth showing, its voice rumbling in a snarl. Connor ducked down the hallway, entering the first room he saw, the German Shepherd rushing in after him. When they were both inside, he circled around the canine and fled the room, slamming the door behind him, trapping it inside. The dog continued to bark and scrape at the door as Connor raced back to Murphy, who staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding arm.

The moment he reached him, he looked over the gash on his forearm before taking his face in his hands, which by now was pretty pale. "Are you all 'ight?"

"Y-yeh…" Murphy muttered, dazed and lightheaded.

"I'm taking you back to de van. Eric can do dis one himself."

Remembering he still had the wire on, Murphy switched languages. "Bhunaigh sé mé suas." (He set me up)

Connor's brow furrowed. He sensed the same feeling, but he wanted facts before condemning anyone. "Ní féidir linn a bheith cinnte." (We can not be sure)

"Connor…" Murphy said, on the edge of a whisper. "Tá mé cinnte. (I am sure)

"Cuireadh faoi ghlas an doras. (The door was locked)

"Bhí a fhios aige mar gheall ar an madra." (He knew about the dog)

Connor sighed and rubbed his brow, which was throbbing. "Níl a fhios againn an fhírinne." (We do not know the truth)

Murphy hoped Connor would listen to his warning, but at his defense, he scowled. Connor had never chosen a side opposed of him before. "Right," he snarled.

"Come on, before ya fuckin' bleed to death." Connor put his arm around him, but Murphy shrugged it off as he stormed out the front door, Connor in tow. Eric jumped out of the van, staring at Murphy's gushing forearm.

"So…" he started, wrapping his arms around his chest. "What happened?"

"Ya fuckin' know what happened!" declared Murphy as Connor tried to get him into the safety of the vehicle, and to prevent him from blowing their cover by making a scene.

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, Murphy."

Murphy punched a strong index finger outward, aiming it at Eric's face like a pistol. "I'm onto you. Ya t'ink yer so fuckin' clever, schmoozin' up to my bro'ter, kissin' his ass. I'm not stupid."

"I take it you're not going to explain."

"Dere was a dog inside," Connor told him, only to receive a jab of the elbow from Murphy. "Ow."

"A dog. It attacked you?"

"What d'ya fuckin' t'ink? Ya see de fuckin' blood on meh?!"

Connor once again scrutinized the wound. "We should pro'lly take ya to de hospital."

Eric's tone and stance stiffened. "No! No hospitals. You'll have to cauterize." Connor squinted, and Eric read it as confusion. "I'll teach you. For now, get a bandage on it. There's a kit in the truck, in the glove box. You two sit this out. I'll handle it." With a disappointed shake of the head and a condescending sigh, he strolled into the house.

Meanwhile, Murphy ripped the taped microphone from his chest, wincing at the sting it fashioned as Connor searched for the first aid kit. As he wrapped Murphy's arm in a tight bandage, he felt his brother's eyes burning through him.

"Ya see what he's doin'? He made it so we'd rely on 'im. He knows dat now you'll never let me go into ano'ter house by myself after dis."

"I know how it looks," explicated Connor as he tended to his injury. "But ya need to watch yerself, ya know dat? If ya really t'ink he's lyin' to us, ya can't just confront 'im like dat."

"Oh, m'sorry, Connor. Fergot ya were de fuckin' brains of de operation." He grunted in agony as Connor tightened the bandage on his arm.

They dropped it for now, as Murphy was too exhausted and in too much pain to deal with it for the moment. The discussion, however, would be left for a later time.

It took another fifteen minutes for the owner of the house to arrive, and Connor and Murphy watched the scene from the van, which sat on the opposite end of the street. The act ended as abruptly as it began, and though they weren't present to witness their target meeting their maker, they knew it had happened when Eric exited the house from the same place he entered.

Eric popped the back doors of the van open to collect his bag and sheets of plastic and tape. "Well," he told them both, though he directed Connor. "Come and do your thing."

Despite loathing that he called it "their thing," they took to it as their civil duty once it was addressed, leaving the vehicle and reentering the house together as one dark entity to tend to the deceased like preordained morticians.

Connor was the first to kneel beside the dead man, whose nose was still leaking blood, whose gaping bullet hole was still smoking. When Connor recited the mantra, the prayer of their father, Murphy refused to join along, but encircled the corpse like a shark while his brother spoke over it. When Connor finished with their family's words, he reached into his pocket and fished out a handful of change, picking a couple of pennies from the pile while Eric stood idle nearby, watching the spectacle. He passed the copper to his brother who then kneeled on the opposite side of the deceased.

Placing a penny on top of one closed eyelid, then the other, Murphy was the one who finished the bizarre ritual, leaving Eric befuddled, but it didn't much matter either way. Soon the man would be disemboweled. If he were going to leave the body there, he'd have his objections to their leaving evidence behind.

"What's with the pennies?" questioned Eric out of curiosity.

"Tradition." Of course, it was more complicated than that, but Connor didn't expect a man like Eric to understand if he explained it to him. He thought he heard him utter "whatever" under his breath, but neither of them instigated.

"So," Murphy said after clearing his throat. "What'd ya do wit' de dog?"

Eric, while unraveling the plastic sheet, responded with: "It'll live."

Murphy already had a hard enough time understanding if he was serious or sarcastic, but that answer was by far the hardest to read. While he did want to know the true answer, he decided against pushing for information, because he also didn't wish to hear it.

Once the scene was cleaned up, the body loaded in the van, and everything set up for disposal, Eric brought them back to his own house, taking them into the bathroom, asking Murphy to climb into the tub. He did, but objected to being alone in the room with him. Eric was fine with this, since he wanted to educate Connor as well.

"Go ahead and take the bandage off of your arm," Eric commanded before stepping out of the room.

Resting on one knee beside the tub where Murphy sat, Connor took a hold of his arm and unwrapped it like a macabre birthday gift, and blood immediately dripped down his skin, which had soaked through most of the bandage at this point. When Connor asked if it hurt, he shook his head, but he knew that whatever Eric planned, it was not going to be a pleasant remedy.

When Eric returned, he had an iron in his hand, which he plugged into the outlet on the wall and switched on. While waiting for it to warm up, he looked upon each of the darkened faces of the MacManus twins. He didn't ask why they stared at him like that, but he recognized the expression as one of doubt and speculation. There were no answers he could give them that would not incriminate him. Sometimes it was best to keep your mouth shut.

Once the iron was heated up, Eric waved for Connor to come near. He did so. "Seeing as how Murphy isn't one to enjoy my proximity," he opened with in amusement, "I'm going to be asking you to take care of it. You're going to take the iron and press it against Murphy's wound."

"What?!" laughed Murphy.

"Ya want me to do dat to my bro'ter?" Connor asked, incredulous.

"If you want to stop him from bleeding, yes."

"But… I… ya want me to burn his arm?"

"Yes, Connor." With a casual point of the finger, he nodded toward Murphy, who could only stare at them with a gaping mouth. "You'd better hurry before he bleeds to death."

"Connor," whimpered Murphy. "Yer not seriously t'inkin' of…"

"You can't fucking tell me you two have never heard of cauterizing. It stops the blood flow. Unless you two want to take the time to find tools for stitching and learn how to do it in less than twenty minutes, be my guest. Otherwise, you're going to have to do it this way."

"I dunno," Connor said, suddenly feeling very weak. "I dunno if I can do dat."

"Murphy, would you rather have me touch you, or bleed to death?"

"Bleed to death," Murphy answered without hesitation, his upper lip raised.

"You're going to have to man up and do it, Connor, or Murphy will have to do it to himself."

"I couldn't do it to myself," Murphy said with a sigh. "Connor… it's okay." He waved him over, closing his eyes and holding his gushing arm outward. Connor looked from his injured brother to the steaming iron in his hand, then swallowed the wad of saliva that had collected in his mouth before sitting back down beside his trembling other half.

Eric handed Connor a rolled towel to pass to Murphy, telling him to bite onto it. Murphy feared the implications—that it would hurt bad enough for him to bite down that hard. He slipped the towel into his mouth and clamped his teeth onto it, squinting, then nodded to the sweating, shaking Connor. Connor took a few deep breaths, gearing himself up for what he considered a form of imminent torture, then forced the troubling thought from his mind as he shoved the searing hot metal to the surface of Murphy's reddened skin.

Of all of the sounds Connor had heard in his lifetime, none pierced his ears with worse pain than the sound of Murphy's shrieks of agony. The high-pitched wail accompanied with the gentle sound of his whimpering made it feel as though he was killing Murphy with his bare hands in the most excruciating method possible. When he removed the burning steel from his arm, Murphy grabbed his sensitive arm and pulled it away from danger as his eyes leaked.

Connor passed the iron back to Eric, who looked at the job he had done on Murphy's injury. He nodded to him to show he had done it correctly, then carried the iron out of the room. For a moment, Connor and Murphy didn't speak to each other. The only sound was that of Murphy's light sobbing.

All Connor could think to do at that point in time was grab Murphy and yank him close to his chest, cradling his head against the base of his neck and collarbone while stroking the thin follicles of his short hair. He apologized to him so many times that the words started to lose their meaning after several repetitions. The many kisses he planted all around his head seemed to calm him, however. If he had been in Murphy's position, he might not have been as courageous. The thought of being burned anywhere, even just from a bit of stray ash from the cherry of his cigarette, was horrifying enough in itself. Having to deliver such pain to Murphy tore his soul to ragged shards.

Murphy could hardly speak, as his voice was hardly recognizable with how strained it had become. Connor's affection provided only temporary relief from the pounding, throbbing and persistent sizzling on his skin, but relief it did bring him. He and Connor had been at each other's throats many times in the past—fought over trivial things, called each other foolish names, played childish jokes on one another—but Connor had never felt so ripped through from Murphy's anguish as he felt in that moment. For every one of the tears he felt splash against his neck as he cried against it, identical ones sprung up in Connor's eyes. He hoped, prayed, begged of the highest powers that he would never have to cause him such grief a second time.

Perhaps, Connor felt, risks were involved in their line of work, and they had to take them, whether they liked it or not. On the other hand, Murphy would not be in so much pain now if he had insisted to enter the house alongside him. Though Eric might have been the true one at fault, it was only himself that he blamed for the misery his brother now lied in. If he had just pressed the matter… if he had put his foot down… maybe…

"I'm so sorry," he said for about the fiftieth time, though now laden with great mourning.

"S'not yer fault." These were the first words Murphy managed to get out since being forced through the sensation of his skin cooking.

"If I… I had…"

"Shut up," Murphy sighed. "I'll be all 'ight."

"Maybe we should… reconsider… this whole…"

"Connor… I'm okay."

Connor's response was to clasp Murphy's head against him once more. Murphy wrapped his good arm around his neck, comforting both Connor and himself. When Connor mashed his perspiring forehead against his brother's, he was consoled with a kiss to the mouth. This only rent Connor's heart further.

Eric had reappeared a while ago, but he didn't interrupt them, knowing it would only exacerbate Murphy's abhorrence. When he did reveal himself to them again, he brandished a tube of ointment, which he passed down to Connor. "Should help with the burn. It'll stop infections, too."

Connor found thanking him difficult. His primary concern was tending to Murphy and making him feel better. Eric vacated the room, leaving them alone once again. Connor went right to work applying the gooey stuff to Murphy's burn, which he hissed and grunted at, and Connor apologized profusely for.

When Connor next had the chance to speak, he said, "You're gonna have quite de nasty scar."

"Yeh… too bad. I liked de way my arm looked."

"You could always put a tattoo over it."

Murphy scoffed. "Dat'd look fuckin' stupid."

"Not if I got one, too. Den I'd just tell people ya copied meh." When Murphy smiled at this, enamored with his creativity, Connor mirrored his adorable grin.

"Guess dat'd be okay." He cooed when Connor stroked him on the back of the neck. He missed that, a lot.

Eric provided Murphy with a new set of bandages to help cover the gash while it healed, and asked whether or not they wanted to go home. Connor was open to the idea, but Murphy resented it. He told Connor he wanted to go home—to their home, no matter how poor it was. He was still a lot more comfortable there than he was anywhere near Eric Malone.

As requested, Eric took them home before carrying on with his job. While taking a warm shower with Connor, Murphy reviewed the events of that afternoon. Not only did the encounter with the dog disturb him, but something else nagged at his mind. He remembered Eric mentioning that their target was married. While inside that house, he never saw a single indication that it had been true. There were no wedding photos; the bedroom contained a bed large enough only for one person; the toilet seat was up; nothing at all pointed it to being a marital home.

He wouldn't tell his brother, but he intended to call in sick to work the following day, for he had some scouting of his own to do.