swallow your pride and drown

"Ye gonna talk to me, or are ye just going to sulk?"

Connor stares at the ground, avoiding his brother's inquiring eyes. Murphy had followed him into the woods anyway, completely ignoring the "fuck off" Connor had yelled. And here they sit, on a rock next to some small stream running through the warm glow of October in Massachusetts.

"And ye won't talk to Elena," Murphy mumbles as he picks leaves off a twig.

Her name causes Connor's jaw to tighten, and he lifts his eyes to follow the trail of water, watching it disappear through the trees.

What do you want, Connor?

He draws in a breath, his eyes still reaching far into the forest as he softly asks, "What do ye want, Murphy?"

"I want ye to tell me what's going on in that head of yers," he asserts.

"No," Connor shakes his head and finally locks his eyes with Murph's. "What do ye want?" he asks firmly in Irish, hoping their Gaelige can help emphasize the deeper question he needs to know.

The brothers stare at each other like they do whenever they're on their wavelength. Murphy's tone drops low as he admits, "I don't know."

Connor looks away, glaring down the stream as if it's taking away everything he thought he knew. He rubs his hands together, sweeping his fingers over the tattoo. Veritas. "I want this all to be over. Because I'm responsible for…for everything."

"Connor, it's not just ye. We're both responsible here. We're in this together, have been from the beginning."

"But I started it. I didn't have to call that number from the Russian's pager." He rubs his palm over his face. "Fucking free will, yeah? God tells us to destroy all that which is evil, and this is where we end up?" He feels the realization drop deep into his gut as he stands up, and the words crawl out of his throat with ease. "Son-of-a-bitch should have taken me when he had the chance."

If only the water was deeper…

"Stop." He hears Murphy plead as he stands up quickly, moving closer to Connor. But Connor cannot focus his eyes on anything. He steps off the rock, his foot sliding a bit as he walks along the bank, following the water toward whatever void it disappears into. Murphy's voice becomes muffled as Connor's skull fills with deafening guilt. "Just fucking stop that shit."

Connor stops, looking around helplessly like he has nowhere to go, nowhere to disappear. He lifts his arms, running both hands over his face and sliding them up into his hair. His lungs feel heavy…maybe he can drown in his own misery.

"It's all my fault."

Murphy grips his shoulders, holding Connor steady to look him square in the eye. "Nothing is yer fault. Ye hear me? Nothing is yer fault, Connor."

They stare into each other, their MacManus-blue eyes reflecting everything they feel, back and forth infinitely if God wills it.

"I can't…I don't think I can do this anymore."

Murphy's lips curl halfway up his face, looking just like their mother. "Nothing has to be decided today." He sounds just like their mother, too, every time she would remind them about the romantic notion of tomorrow.

"But if ye wake up tomorrow morning and tell me ye want to stop…then we'll stop. I promise ye."

. . .

They mirror each other as they light their cigarettes, the smoke swirling from their tattooed fingers as they blink the bar into focus.

Romeo smiles, his brown eyes shining even in the dim light, and he wiggles a bottle of Bushmills in front of them. "So real men hide their feelings, huh?"

Connor and Murphy blush, dipping their heads down as they realize the biggest difference between Rocco and Romeo had nothing to do with their performance as vigilantes.

"Fuck. We're sorry, Rome," Murphy admits.

The Mexican waves his hand with a smile. "Don't worry about it. I knew what you meant, always." He pours them all a shot of whiskey. "Thank God, Irish," he toasts. The three men tap their glasses together before throwing back their drinks.

"But if it wasn't for us…" Connor starts, still reeling with guilt.

Romeo nods sympathetically. "If it wasn't for you, we all would not have fought for something. Right, boys?"

The twins turn around to see Rocco and Greenly sitting in a booth, holding up their own shots of whiskey with warm smiles.

"If it wasn't for you, evil would continue to reign."

The boys turn back to Romeo, smiling at the Mexican.

"Hell, do whatever you want with your feelings, but promise me you won't stop. Promise you won't stop fighting for good. Promise you won't stop feeling. Prometeme."

Murphy smiles, a small laugh breaking out of his mouth. "Nosotros prometemos."

Connor taps his chest. "Mucho corazón, siempre."

A familiar Celtic tune fades in, just enough to draw their attention to the door. When the boys look back behind the bar, they see Romeo crying. Smiling through the tears, he nods his head to the door. "Thank God, Irish."

They exit the bar and step onto the brilliant green grass of their sheep farm. Their Da stands at the top of the hill, looking out over the Irish countryside. His voice calls out, "While the wicked stand confounded, Doomed to flames of woe unbounded, Call me with Thy Saints surrounded." He slowly turns around, his lips curling up under his silver beard. "My boys."

Connor and Murphy look at each other, tears stinging their blue eyes as they approach their father. They shove their hands in their coat pockets, and both of them suddenly feel so small, like little kids.

"Remember, sons, what ye have been called to do." Da smiles softly, his eyes twinkling. "The question is not how far. The question is, do ye possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far as is needed?"

The twins share a look, their eyes burning from the salt. "Aye," they say simultaneously.

Da walks forward, lifting his hands and cupping their faces, much like their mother used to when they were young lads. He rubs his thumbs along their jawlines, and the brothers feel his unending love.

Connor blinks slowly, releasing the tears to roll down his cheeks. But when he opens his eyes, Murphy is gone, leaving Da cupping his face with both hands. "As far as is needed, Connor."

"But…I'm not sure I can." He feels so weak, so embarrassed in front of his father. But Da smiles warmly as he wipes Connor's tears.

"When yer heart feels it, yer very soul…ye will know." He nods to the side, directing Connor's attention to a stone path crossing over the hill toward a church. The sun catches in his eyes, and as he blinks he sees a figure walking away from him. She looks over her shoulder to him, her eyes and her smile shining as her hair blows around her face. Elena…

Connor tries to take a step, but his feet are heavy against the green grass, and he looks at his father with wide worried eyes. "Da?"

Da rubs a hand on Connor's shoulder, that knowing smile curled up more under his beard. "You deserve peace. Creid dom, a mhic," he softly assures. Trust me, my son.

. . .

Connor wakes up suddenly to Murphy shaking his shoulders. His eyes struggle to focus, and he groggily swears in displeasure.

"Ye didn't wake up with me," his brother explains, a wash of worry coating his voice.

Connor's eyes finally adjust as he sits up straight, pressing his eyebrows forward in confusion. "What?"

Murphy's face is clearly distraught. What he occasionally lacks in logical thinking, he always makes up for in emotional maturity and empathy. "Ye always wake up with me when we share dreams. Ye didn't wake up this time."

Connor can tell Murphy is still recovering from the adrenaline rush. They were only separated for a few seconds in the dream, but it's hard to tell how long Murphy spent in reality, fearing his brother would not wake up.

Murphy gnaws on the side of his finger, studying Connor intently as he groggily sits up in bed. The dark-haired brother's voice softens as he asks, "What happened to ye?"

"What do ye mean?"

"In the dream."

Connor blinks, trying to hold on to that look Elena gave him, trying to hold on to what their father had said, trying to make sense of it all. He doesn't even hear his own voice repeat the words, just Da's gruff, soothing voice echoing back from heaven.

"When yer heart feels it, yer very soul…ye will know."

Murphy narrows his eyes carefully. "The fuck does that mean?"

Connor shrugs and rubs a hand hard over his face. "No fucking clue, brother."

Confused and unconvinced, Murphy moves to get dressed, as if it's the only way he feels useful anymore. He chuckles lightly, a realization warming up his tone. "Ye'll figure it out, though, yeah? I mean, ye always do."

Connor rubs his face again, like he's trying to shake the lingering self-doubt. He watches Murphy stick a cigarette behind his ear, indicating that the dark-haired twin is ready for their morning routine of coffee and cigarettes. He raises his eyebrows curiously at Connor. "Ye coming?"

He waves him off, still gathering his senses from the abrupt wake-up. "I'll be down in a minute." Murphy gives him a look but leaves without argument.

Blinking a few times, Connor gets up and pulls on his jeans. He glances at his healing wound on his abdomen, and as he picks up his t-shirt, a folded piece of paper falls to the floor. After he finishes getting dressed, he picks up the paper and sits back on his bed. And his heart skips a beat as he unfolds it.

A torn page from Elena's notebook, with a sketch of Connor and Murphy.

He searches for the memory, realizing that the drawing is from their first therapy session with Elena in prison. They had sat stubbornly in silence, staring at her for the entire hour. The memory becomes clearer as Connor remembers watching Elena's hand moving a pen across that notebook. He figured she was writing down her observations and assumptions about the MacManus brothers. It wasn't until later that he realized she had been drawing, too, during their sessions. Once, he caught a glimpse of her sketch of his rosary. Even after they escaped, he'd see her sketching something whenever they had downtime. But he never bothered to make the connection back to that day they met.

He blinks, seeing her handwriting under the drawing. "Síochán leat," she signed. Peace be with you.

Peace. The enemy of memory. But something Elena believed Connor and his brother both deserved.

The weight of his reaction from the day before pulls at his heart. He was feeling angry, hurt, and guilty all at once when she told him how Copley Plaza…how he set everything in motion. He's not mad at her…he's angry at himself and took it out on her.

"Connor?" Murphy calls softly from the door. Connor quickly wipes his eyes, avoiding looking at his brother approaching. "Elena's gone."

The statement makes his stomach drop. "What?"

Murphy's face creases with concern. "She left. She's not in her room, and the guys haven't seen her since yesterday."

Connor looks down at the drawing again, the image blurring as his eyes sting with salt. A tear escapes down his face as he replays that moment he pushed her away over and over, that moment he walked away from her. And now, he'd give anything to be able to take it back, to fix it…to know what the fuck to do with his feelings.

"As far as is needed, Connor," he hears Da's voice echo in his soul.

His heartbeat accelerates, and Connor swallows hard, ready to drown from the adrenaline burning in his chest.

His brother looks on while Connor hastily ties up his boots and gathers his things, his mouth a thin line still laced with worry. Murphy picks up the drawing carefully, shaking his head with a slight smile as he studies the image and reads Elena's handwriting. "Gotta love Catholic guilt, right?" But as he's met with silence, Murphy's face falls again, obvious concern coating his tongue. "Connor?"

Drawing in a slow breath, Connor straightens his back and answers with certainty, "I'm going to go find her."

He stares at his twin, his entire body aching with the truth he's been so afraid to admit.

Murphy shakes his head. "No, we are going to find her. Me and you." He hands the drawing to Connor, the half-smile crawling up his face again. "And I think I have a plan."