hear the sound (the angels come screaming) [1/1]
hear the sound (the angels come screaming)
vaguely Connor/Murphy (come on. it's Connor and Murphy.)
The Boondock Saints
4k+ | R | warnings: cursing, angst, possible OOCness with an attempt at IC reasoning. vague allusions to All Saints Day, but no spoilers except for Il Duce's first name. choppy writing, hurr.
This is fiction. I am not Troy Duffy. The MacManus brothers are, to my dismay, not mine.
When they were little their Ma used to say, among other more vulgar things, that the pair of them were really just one soul split into two equally troublemaking bodies.
It was certainly a true statement from the very beginning when Connor’s supposed first course of clear, coherent action was to take a tiny fistful of Murphy’s hair and tug on it. Naturally Murphy’s response had been, not to wail, but to grab his brother’s hair in return and tug twice as hard. According to their Ma they’d both cried a storm and then eventually, when the hiccups subsided, curled up next to each other and promptly fallen asleep, little hands mere centimeters away from each other.
“Yer what drove me t’drink,” she’d say mildly. “Still not sure whicha ya’s louder.”
It’s just something that’s natural, like how the sky is blue and the grass is green. People are born, people die. Connor and Murphy MacManus were two halves of a whole. And two halves of a whole don’t take kindly to the prospect of being separated. It’s something that’s always defined them, their dependence on each other. They’ve got each other’s backs, always, through thick and thin.
That’s why when a bullet makes a valiant attempt to take a chunk out of Murphy’s side, Connor’s already put his own in the forehead of the offending shooter. Still, it grazes and Murphy lets out an impressive slew of curses as blood pumps steadily past the rips of his jacket and drips to the ground before he pushes down on it. Connor’s by his side instantly, a hand pressed over Murphy’s as he makes a face.
“Can’t even mind yourself for five minutes, Murph?”
“Fuck off,” Murphy growls in that way of his, shoving at Connor with his shoulder. “That’s the last one, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Connor echoes, and grins. “Looks like we’re chipping away at those motherfuckers.”
“Damn right.”
Smecker had let them in on some super secret FBI information not too long after the boys blew up in that courtroom. People were afraid, people were hiding, and one particular mob clan had gone deep, deep deep and the FBI had been right on their tail when they vanished. Not exactly the ideal situation given that only a dozen or so of them remained. But Smecker didn’t want them arrested-he knows better than anyone that if even any of the last few members ever made it out of their sentence, the family would be built right back up again. Influence does a lot in the mafia world.
There was really no other option but the boys. And the boys, as everyone knows intimately, are quite good at and fond of their jobs.
“’m gettin’ blood on my cigarettes,” Murphy bitches as Connor helps him hobble towards the car parked out back, Dolly drumming irritably on the steering wheel. When he sees the blood coating their hands and most of Murphy’s jacket, he swears, leans over and pushes the passenger door open.
“You’re explaining to Greenly why there’s a big fucking bloodstain on his baby.”
“It was for the greater good,” Connor replies sagely. “He’ll understand.”
“And if he doesn’t, too fuckin’ bad,” Murphy grunts, finally relinquishing his hold on Connor’s arm and slumping down into the seat. Connor tugs off his jacket and takes the seam of his sleeve between his teeth, pulling until the threads rip. The sleeve comes off easily and he does the other one, handing them over to Murphy before climbing into the backseat.
“Did you at least get the guy?”
Murphy makes a noncommittal noise as he folds up the one sleeve and pulls up his own shirt, hissing as he presses the cloth to the wound. With the other he wraps the remaining sleeve around his waist. Connor helpfully reaches up and holds the cloth.
Dolly watches with mild fascination before starting the car and pulling out towards the road.
“Smecker says they may have tracked down where the family’s settled,” he says, “but we gotta make sure first before we go ahead and send you two in. You up for it?”
“’course we are,” Connor scoffs. “Murph’ll be back on his pansy feet in no time, won’t ya, Murph?” He claps his brother on the shoulder with a cheeky grin and Murphy responds by reaching back and smacking wildly.
“Not while I’m driving!” Dolly snaps before they can keep going-Connor’s clearly on the verge of climbing bodily over the seats and tackling Murphy. “Jesus Christ.”
“Lord’s fuckin’ name,” the boys say in unison.
Dolly groans, and when they hit a red light he hits his head against the wheel hard enough to beep the horn.
-
It takes eight stitches to close up the gash, but it’s still far superior to anything with an iron and Murphy’s not complaining. They can’t spend as much time in the police station as they might like, but the detectives have it on good authority that no one will go searching in their older apartment and given their neighborhood, it’s unlikely that anyone’s going to come clean to any cops who ask around for the Saints. Their father’s cleaning his gun at the table, watching their progress. He’s silent, as usual, but the brothers find his presence comforting.
Murphy takes another long drag from his cigarette when Connor finishes up the last stitch. “How many are left, d’you know?” he asks mildly around the mouthful of smoke.
“Mm. Eleven, I think.” Connor presses a wet cloth to the wound, and Murphy inhales sharply at the cold, taking it from him and holding it himself.
“We’re goin’ later, then?”
“Long as you don’t start bleeding out again,” Connor jokes. “Can’t have you keeling over dead in the middle of a fire fight.”
“Funny.” Murphy closes his eyes, breathing slowly as the pain reverberates through his side like a dull ache. Their Da speaks for the first time since they got home.
“You should rest up,” he tells Murphy. “Can’t have the pair of you going out when one’s half cocked.” Murphy rolls his head to look over at their father and then he grunts again, stretching his legs and closing his eyes, cigarette still in his mouth.
“Hnn. Wake me up when we’re goin’ out.”
“Yeah, yeah, get your beauty rest, Cinderella.”
Connor’s not at all surprised when a bloody wet cloth is tossed into his face. Murphy chuckles, eyes already fluttering shut as he buries his face into his pillow, and Connor gives one in return as he digs into his pocket for a smoke before stepping outside.
-
There are moments where you look back and you think to yourself, why did I take that path. Why did I make that decision. Why, why, why. Why never does very much for the here and now, and the Saints rarely put their feet in the past when the present and the future still had so much opportunity.
Still, it’s a pretty near miss when they expect to steal quietly into the hideaway of one of the mafioso’s houses, and instead nearly have their brains blown out. It’s touch and go, wanting to look back, but they’ve got far too much to worry about now.
The stitches in Murphy’s side are pulling and it fucking hurts, but he still manages to mind the bullets whizzing past his head until one lurch too many sends his gun flying out of his hands.
Murphy’s hands scramble at the floor, fingers stretching as far as their reach allows before the tips brush against the barrel. Instead of pulling the gun closer, though, the light touch spins the gun lightly, just out of reach, just barely and Murphy jolts and hisses.
“Fuck-”
Somewhere above him there’s another shot, he thinks he hears Dolly let out a swear but all that matters is getting these sons of bitches, kill shots, as many as he can spare with what ammo is left. He pushes himself up and reaches for his gun, ignoring the burst of pain that spread across his side. The gun is still warm in his hand and he’s checking the chamber when he hears three words that make his blood run cold.
“Oh shit, CONNOR!”
It’s Greenly’s voice, tinged with shock and horror and Murphy freezes for a second before he looks up with just enough time to view his brother jerk three times, eyes wide before he topples over. This isn’t “duck and hide, I’m injured.” This is a marionette with its strings cut. This is wrong.
For one earsplitting moment, there’s nothing but silence.
And then there’s nothing but noise.
Something flares in Murphy’s chest, something dark and feral and there’s a scream that’s tearing itself out of his throat. He’s up before he realizes what he’s doing. There’s no pain in his side, there’s nothing but a sudden stifling terror that encompasses everything, and he’s stumbling. Something grabs him.
“No.”
“LET ME GO!”
He’d never admit it but when he was little, he’d wished for a father’s strong arms to wrap around him, to shield him from everything and everyone. But now he curses those very same arms, they keep him from the brother he so desperately needs to reach and Connor’s name finds its way in between those curses. There’s nothing behind escape and Connor. Connor Connor Connor.
“Let me go!” he roars again, kicking and clawing at the arms that are wrapped around his neck and torso. “Let me go, Da! I’ve got to-Connor! Connor!”
“Calm down, boy,” his father replies but there’s nothing else in that moment but the sight of Greenly crouching down where Connor had fallen, seeing the horror on the detective’s face.
“We need to get out of here,” Duffy yells. “This is a complete clusterfuck! Other cops are going to get here and we need to get Murph gone!”
“Not without my brother! I’m not going anywhere without my fucking brother!” Murphy is beside himself, practically ready to bite his father if it means getting to Connor. Despite his vehement punching and snarling, though, his father just pulls at him, dragging him away from where guns are still firing but Murphy has eyes only for where Greenly is crouched. Even above all the pops and bangs of the guns, Murphy hears the dreaded words, words of his nightmares as Greenly looks up at Dolly with numb terror.
“Connor’s dead.”
The noise that rips itself out of Murphy’s throat isn’t human. It’s agony and rage all wrapped up in terror and he turns around to belt his father across the face. But Dolly and Duffy get there first, grabbing Murphy’s arms as Noah grips his son’s face tightly between his fingers, forcing Murphy to look him right in the eyes.
“That’s enough.”
Murphy stares at his father and the Duke stares back, the detectives’ hold on the young man tightening as he finally stills.
“We need to get out of here,” Duffy repeats as Greenly runs up, pale and blood coating his hands. Murphy stares at them. “Right now. Greenly, stay here, cover it up, I dunno. Do something. But we gotta get Murphy out of here before the rest of the force shows up and realizes all three goddamn Saints are here.”
“Connor,” Murphy says again numbly.
“Come,” his father murmurs, and Murphy’s led by the three older men with an almost bewildered look on his face. He’s gone from the raging, snarling animal of a man to this strangely docile person, letting Dolly and Duffy push him towards the car. For a moment, it seems like he may have actually calmed down. And then the sirens start.
Murphy screams.
The sirens are like a trigger, and it’s just a long wail of agony, it cuts through everyone’s hearts at once and they all jump back in shock. The look on Noah’s face is heartbreaking as he grabs his son, tucking him against his chest so that Murphy can scream into his coat. He’s murmuring something in Gaelic, his fingers threading into Murphy’s dark hair and it seems like Murphy has no idea how to respond beyond that one sound, and they all catch the few words in English.
“I know, I know,” he whispers, and before anyone can stop him he takes his gun and with the butt of it cuffs Murphy against the back of the neck. He goes limp and Noah looks at them all, his son wrapped up in his arms. He looks at the three detectives, but says nothing. The look in his eyes says it all.
“Shit,” Duffy finally mutters, running a hand through his hair. “We fucked up.”
“Aye,” Noah says at last. “That you did.”
-
“’nough, Con,” Murphy mumbles in his pillow, trying to ignore the nudging on his shoulder. “’ll get up w’en ‘m good’n fuckin’ ready.”
“It’s not Connor, lad.”
There’s a long enough pause that it appears as if Murphy’s dozed right back off again, but then he slowly lifts his head, blinking against the light seeping in through the windows. He’s on his stomach, the pain in his side intensified with his growing awareness. He touches his fingers lightly to the bandage before letting them graze over the back of his neck. It stings like a motherfucker and he lets his hand fall. Only one thing comes to mind.
“Da,” he mutters. “Where’s Connor?”
Noah doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes that almost looks like pride that his sons think of each other above themselves. And underneath it there’s a terrible, terrible sadness. He stares at Murphy for a moment, eyes shadowed, and when he speaks it’s with the words Murphy had dreaded with all his heart.
“He’s dead, son.”
Murphy stiffens, as if he’s suddenly been carved from stone. He makes no other motion, no other noise, just looks up as his father with the wide-eyed look of a frightened child. The words appear to penetrate, but Murphy doesn’t give even the slightest indication that he’s heard. He doesn’t give any indication that he can do anything at all.
Noah reaches out and gently cups Murphy’s head, threading old fingers into the dark strands of his hair.
“Murphy.”
There’s a soft noise, the first response from Murphy.
“Son.” Noah’s fingers tighten as he gently tilts Murphy’s head towards him. “Look at me.” When he still gets no response whatsoever, he shakes him just enough to rattle him a little. Murphy blinks, and they’re at two for two. Noah pulls him forward, presses their foreheads together as he whispers the same words he had before.
“I know.”
They sit there for a long moment, father and son, foreheads touching, until finally Murphy speaks. It’s just one word, it’s soft and pained and terribly, terribly broken, but there’s no mistaking those two syllables. It’s wrapped around the stifled choke of a sob.
“Connor.”
-
It takes two days for Noah to get another word out of Murphy. He spends a lot of his time curled up on one of the beds, usually Connor’s, sometimes his own. Noah wouldn’t let him near the police station. One of the Saints was found dead at the scene, and the police were working hard to keep it covered up. It was a hotspot.
Murphy doesn’t move very much, and Noah sometimes wonders if he’s asleep, or if he’s just staring at the wall. Greenly shows up at some point, quietly talks to Noah under his breath and hands over a small package that ends up sending Murphy into another fit of mind numbing grief, clutching the contents to his chest, knees practically under his chin. It’s something Noah had never expected to see from his son.
He tries to get Murphy to at least sit up and walk around, but he’ll have none of it. It’s clear Murphy just wants to lie around and wallow in his grief. But Noah knows where this will head. He remembers. And he hates that his son will head in that direction as well.
At some point, Smecker shows up with news, and he’s very gently about how he delivers it.
“Murph, we… we found the warehouse where the rest of the hitmen are,” he says carefully. “I don’t know if you want to go after them-”
It’s in a flash, but suddenly Murphy’s gone from that fetal position to spine-straight, gun pointed between Smecker’s eyes. Both rosaries are clutched in his other hand and the quiet clink clink of the beads is loud in the silence of the room. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Murphy says, voice hoarse, “Get out.”
He backs away quietly, leaving the grieving brother to slowly lower himself back onto the bed. He shouldn’t be surprised, but when Smecker walks into the holding cell later, he finds Connor curled up on the cot, reciting a quiet prayer to himself.
-
“I don’t care if I come out alive or not,” Murphy says quietly as he loads up on ammunition. His father watches on silently. “‘cause no one else is either.”
-
Murphy had never been particularly merciful, even before they became the Saints. He had one hell of a pokerface and once, when they were eleven, Connor had pinched his arm and Murphy responded by kicking him in the balls. Tit for tat and all that nonsense. He was only kind to those who deserved it, and Connor, little fucking brat though he may be-had been-is, godfuckingdamnit, deserved it more than anyone.
And he certainly deserved better than being gunned down in an ambush. It’s for that reason that when Murphy fires the first shot, there’s nothing in his eyes beyond pure concentration. Murphy isn’t here to send them to their gods. He isn’t there to reap what they’ve sown. He’s there because they killed his brother. There is no other reason necessary.
Half of them are down before they even know what’s going on. He doesn’t know which one fired at Connor so he shoots them all with equal malice, with equal vengeance and with equal disinterest.
He stands in the middle of his carnage, head cocked as he glances down at each body. Not one shot to the head.
Murphy quietly reaches into his pocket and pulls out the handful of pennies he’d brought with him. They lay shining and new in his palm. His eyes are narrowed. Without a word, he unfurls his fingers and watches the coins cascade in a bronze waterfall onto the bodies.
And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, unscathed.
It’s in a a daze that he slowly makes his way to the police station. He’s got his sunglasses on, his hood up, and it’s cold enough in Boston that he passes as another chilled pedestrian, hands in his pockets and shoulders under his ears. He takes the hit with even more casualty than all the others. He thinks about lighting a smoke, but decides instead to keep walking.
There’s nothing left to do, really. Maybe the cops have another hit for him.
It could work.
Murphy takes the stairs slowly, watching his feet. It could easily work. His father would be furious, and his mother would be devastated, but it’s an easier plan than anything else he could hope to try. He pushes up his glasses as he steps up into the station, the warm air colliding with the cold. He should’ve had that smoke after all.
“Hey,” he calls, looking up to address the detectives.
He freezes.
“Hey, Murph,” Connor says quietly.
There’s a shockingly long pause as the brothers just stare at each other.
There really shouldn’t be any surprise when Murphy hauls off and punches Connor in the face.
-
“Hell no. It’ll never work.”
Greenly’s always been that obnoxious little shit who’s absolutely, one hundred percent positive, but even Duffy and Dolly are on the brink of admitting that the kid may have a point here. The main issue with this plan is that a lot of it rides on psychological stability, and though they all love the boys deeply, there’s no getting around the fact that psychological stability is something the boys could stand to pick up some more of at the store.
I’m just sayin’,” Greenly says, holding up his hands. “I’d rather have Connor be the vengeful one any day of the week.”
“And why is that?” Smecker asks, in the tone of one so patient it’s become painful.
Greenly shrugs. “‘cause between the two of them? Con’s less likely to come bursting in here like God on wheels shooting the place up like it’s Cinco de Mayo.”
“He’s got a point,” Duffy allows.
“What the hell’s all this for anyway?” Dolly demands. “Either one’ve them would go apeshit.”
“I’ll tell you what this is for,” Smecker interjects. “Let’s think for a moment. When one is in trouble, what does the other do? They put themselves in even more danger. And that’s when they’ve still got another person in the picture.” He pauses for effect. “If they’re willing to get themselves hurt when there’s still two… what happens when push comes to shove, when the curtain falls, there’s only… one?”
There’s a silence.
“You want… to kill one of them?” Dolly says hesitantly like he’s wrapping his head around it.
“We’ve seen up close and personal what happens when you threaten one of them,” Smecker is saying when Connor peeks his head around the corner. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the context of the statement and Connor silently touches the smooth, white scars that wrap around his wrists. Yeah. “These boys are highly codependent to the point where they’re willing to do anything for the other.”
“Now that’s not fair,” Connor cuts in and three heads look up, while Smecker smirks to himself from where he stands. “It’s a broad assumption. Never needed an extra pair of hands when I needed a piss, for example, and may God look upon me with grace the day I have to ask that favor.”
“Where’s Murphy?”
“Takin’ a nap. Da insisted on it,” Connor replies, leaning against the wall with his hands groping for his pockets. Sure enough, the ever present pack of smokes makes itself known and Connor plucks one out of the box. “So what’s this I hear about me’n me brother being overly brotherly?” Lips curl playfully around the smoke, though he doesn’t light it. When everyone looks at each other awkwardly, the cigarette falls a little limp as Connor frowns.
“Well?”
“We have a proposition for you,” Smecker starts.
It goes about as well as any of them would have imagined.
“Fuck you!” Connor is still snarling, and Dolly and Duffy are having a hard time keeping him back. “Fuck you and your fucking propositions! Aye, I’ve got a proposition for you, you motherfucker-” Greenly has to run forward and keep Connor from dropping trou right there in the station, though it’s a very near miss. He’s got the button and the zipper half down.
“Calm down, Connor,” Smecker says calmly, hands up to try and pacify the raging man. “Never did I actually say we’d kill for real.”
Connor looks like he’d like to spit in Smecker’s face, but given that he stops trying to present his “proposition” for Smecker, it’s a start. He slowly stops struggling, though Duffy and Dolly keep a firm grip on his arms. Connor narrows his eyes, staring down the FBI agent until finally he speaks.
“You’re not killing my brother, fake or otherwise,” he says in a low voice.
“We wouldn’t,” Smecker responds. “Wouldn’t have the right effect given that you already know about the plan, huh? For this to work, we’d need the element of surprise. And for that,” he points at Connor with both fingers, “we need Murphy.”
-
“They gave me a bullet proof vest,” Connor explains quietly. They’re sitting on the roof where it all began, legs off the side like little boys, smoke wafting around them in a cloud. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, as close as they can possibly sit. Murphy’s never going to admit it, not ever, but he’s (for lack of a manlier word) clingy. Once Connor had finished nursing his bruised cheekbone Murphy had decided he didn’t need much use of his ribcage or lungs either.
“Still hurt like a motherfucker, getting shot like that. Da was in on it too, didn’t want to be though. And Greenly had some fake blood, made it look like I’d been shot,” he continues. “Murph, if I didn’t think it wouldn’t work-”
“Shut up,” Murphy replies. “I don’t care. Just don’t pull it again, ever, you motherfucker.” He shifts where he sits, contemplates for a moment.
“Think I’d like to get out of here for a while,” he finally says, in a much softer voice.
“Hn.” Connor takes a moment, and when he speaks his voice is soft. “The old country’s nice this time’a year.”
Murphy takes a long drag from his cigarette, gaze distant.
“Aye.”
end
vaguely Connor/Murphy (come on. it's Connor and Murphy.)
The Boondock Saints
4k+ | R | warnings: cursing, angst, possible OOCness with an attempt at IC reasoning. vague allusions to All Saints Day, but no spoilers except for Il Duce's first name. choppy writing, hurr.
This is fiction. I am not Troy Duffy. The MacManus brothers are, to my dismay, not mine.
When they were little their Ma used to say, among other more vulgar things, that the pair of them were really just one soul split into two equally troublemaking bodies.
It was certainly a true statement from the very beginning when Connor’s supposed first course of clear, coherent action was to take a tiny fistful of Murphy’s hair and tug on it. Naturally Murphy’s response had been, not to wail, but to grab his brother’s hair in return and tug twice as hard. According to their Ma they’d both cried a storm and then eventually, when the hiccups subsided, curled up next to each other and promptly fallen asleep, little hands mere centimeters away from each other.
“Yer what drove me t’drink,” she’d say mildly. “Still not sure whicha ya’s louder.”
It’s just something that’s natural, like how the sky is blue and the grass is green. People are born, people die. Connor and Murphy MacManus were two halves of a whole. And two halves of a whole don’t take kindly to the prospect of being separated. It’s something that’s always defined them, their dependence on each other. They’ve got each other’s backs, always, through thick and thin.
That’s why when a bullet makes a valiant attempt to take a chunk out of Murphy’s side, Connor’s already put his own in the forehead of the offending shooter. Still, it grazes and Murphy lets out an impressive slew of curses as blood pumps steadily past the rips of his jacket and drips to the ground before he pushes down on it. Connor’s by his side instantly, a hand pressed over Murphy’s as he makes a face.
“Can’t even mind yourself for five minutes, Murph?”
“Fuck off,” Murphy growls in that way of his, shoving at Connor with his shoulder. “That’s the last one, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Connor echoes, and grins. “Looks like we’re chipping away at those motherfuckers.”
“Damn right.”
Smecker had let them in on some super secret FBI information not too long after the boys blew up in that courtroom. People were afraid, people were hiding, and one particular mob clan had gone deep, deep deep and the FBI had been right on their tail when they vanished. Not exactly the ideal situation given that only a dozen or so of them remained. But Smecker didn’t want them arrested-he knows better than anyone that if even any of the last few members ever made it out of their sentence, the family would be built right back up again. Influence does a lot in the mafia world.
There was really no other option but the boys. And the boys, as everyone knows intimately, are quite good at and fond of their jobs.
“’m gettin’ blood on my cigarettes,” Murphy bitches as Connor helps him hobble towards the car parked out back, Dolly drumming irritably on the steering wheel. When he sees the blood coating their hands and most of Murphy’s jacket, he swears, leans over and pushes the passenger door open.
“You’re explaining to Greenly why there’s a big fucking bloodstain on his baby.”
“It was for the greater good,” Connor replies sagely. “He’ll understand.”
“And if he doesn’t, too fuckin’ bad,” Murphy grunts, finally relinquishing his hold on Connor’s arm and slumping down into the seat. Connor tugs off his jacket and takes the seam of his sleeve between his teeth, pulling until the threads rip. The sleeve comes off easily and he does the other one, handing them over to Murphy before climbing into the backseat.
“Did you at least get the guy?”
Murphy makes a noncommittal noise as he folds up the one sleeve and pulls up his own shirt, hissing as he presses the cloth to the wound. With the other he wraps the remaining sleeve around his waist. Connor helpfully reaches up and holds the cloth.
Dolly watches with mild fascination before starting the car and pulling out towards the road.
“Smecker says they may have tracked down where the family’s settled,” he says, “but we gotta make sure first before we go ahead and send you two in. You up for it?”
“’course we are,” Connor scoffs. “Murph’ll be back on his pansy feet in no time, won’t ya, Murph?” He claps his brother on the shoulder with a cheeky grin and Murphy responds by reaching back and smacking wildly.
“Not while I’m driving!” Dolly snaps before they can keep going-Connor’s clearly on the verge of climbing bodily over the seats and tackling Murphy. “Jesus Christ.”
“Lord’s fuckin’ name,” the boys say in unison.
Dolly groans, and when they hit a red light he hits his head against the wheel hard enough to beep the horn.
-
It takes eight stitches to close up the gash, but it’s still far superior to anything with an iron and Murphy’s not complaining. They can’t spend as much time in the police station as they might like, but the detectives have it on good authority that no one will go searching in their older apartment and given their neighborhood, it’s unlikely that anyone’s going to come clean to any cops who ask around for the Saints. Their father’s cleaning his gun at the table, watching their progress. He’s silent, as usual, but the brothers find his presence comforting.
Murphy takes another long drag from his cigarette when Connor finishes up the last stitch. “How many are left, d’you know?” he asks mildly around the mouthful of smoke.
“Mm. Eleven, I think.” Connor presses a wet cloth to the wound, and Murphy inhales sharply at the cold, taking it from him and holding it himself.
“We’re goin’ later, then?”
“Long as you don’t start bleeding out again,” Connor jokes. “Can’t have you keeling over dead in the middle of a fire fight.”
“Funny.” Murphy closes his eyes, breathing slowly as the pain reverberates through his side like a dull ache. Their Da speaks for the first time since they got home.
“You should rest up,” he tells Murphy. “Can’t have the pair of you going out when one’s half cocked.” Murphy rolls his head to look over at their father and then he grunts again, stretching his legs and closing his eyes, cigarette still in his mouth.
“Hnn. Wake me up when we’re goin’ out.”
“Yeah, yeah, get your beauty rest, Cinderella.”
Connor’s not at all surprised when a bloody wet cloth is tossed into his face. Murphy chuckles, eyes already fluttering shut as he buries his face into his pillow, and Connor gives one in return as he digs into his pocket for a smoke before stepping outside.
-
There are moments where you look back and you think to yourself, why did I take that path. Why did I make that decision. Why, why, why. Why never does very much for the here and now, and the Saints rarely put their feet in the past when the present and the future still had so much opportunity.
Still, it’s a pretty near miss when they expect to steal quietly into the hideaway of one of the mafioso’s houses, and instead nearly have their brains blown out. It’s touch and go, wanting to look back, but they’ve got far too much to worry about now.
The stitches in Murphy’s side are pulling and it fucking hurts, but he still manages to mind the bullets whizzing past his head until one lurch too many sends his gun flying out of his hands.
Murphy’s hands scramble at the floor, fingers stretching as far as their reach allows before the tips brush against the barrel. Instead of pulling the gun closer, though, the light touch spins the gun lightly, just out of reach, just barely and Murphy jolts and hisses.
“Fuck-”
Somewhere above him there’s another shot, he thinks he hears Dolly let out a swear but all that matters is getting these sons of bitches, kill shots, as many as he can spare with what ammo is left. He pushes himself up and reaches for his gun, ignoring the burst of pain that spread across his side. The gun is still warm in his hand and he’s checking the chamber when he hears three words that make his blood run cold.
“Oh shit, CONNOR!”
It’s Greenly’s voice, tinged with shock and horror and Murphy freezes for a second before he looks up with just enough time to view his brother jerk three times, eyes wide before he topples over. This isn’t “duck and hide, I’m injured.” This is a marionette with its strings cut. This is wrong.
For one earsplitting moment, there’s nothing but silence.
And then there’s nothing but noise.
Something flares in Murphy’s chest, something dark and feral and there’s a scream that’s tearing itself out of his throat. He’s up before he realizes what he’s doing. There’s no pain in his side, there’s nothing but a sudden stifling terror that encompasses everything, and he’s stumbling. Something grabs him.
“No.”
“LET ME GO!”
He’d never admit it but when he was little, he’d wished for a father’s strong arms to wrap around him, to shield him from everything and everyone. But now he curses those very same arms, they keep him from the brother he so desperately needs to reach and Connor’s name finds its way in between those curses. There’s nothing behind escape and Connor. Connor Connor Connor.
“Let me go!” he roars again, kicking and clawing at the arms that are wrapped around his neck and torso. “Let me go, Da! I’ve got to-Connor! Connor!”
“Calm down, boy,” his father replies but there’s nothing else in that moment but the sight of Greenly crouching down where Connor had fallen, seeing the horror on the detective’s face.
“We need to get out of here,” Duffy yells. “This is a complete clusterfuck! Other cops are going to get here and we need to get Murph gone!”
“Not without my brother! I’m not going anywhere without my fucking brother!” Murphy is beside himself, practically ready to bite his father if it means getting to Connor. Despite his vehement punching and snarling, though, his father just pulls at him, dragging him away from where guns are still firing but Murphy has eyes only for where Greenly is crouched. Even above all the pops and bangs of the guns, Murphy hears the dreaded words, words of his nightmares as Greenly looks up at Dolly with numb terror.
“Connor’s dead.”
The noise that rips itself out of Murphy’s throat isn’t human. It’s agony and rage all wrapped up in terror and he turns around to belt his father across the face. But Dolly and Duffy get there first, grabbing Murphy’s arms as Noah grips his son’s face tightly between his fingers, forcing Murphy to look him right in the eyes.
“That’s enough.”
Murphy stares at his father and the Duke stares back, the detectives’ hold on the young man tightening as he finally stills.
“We need to get out of here,” Duffy repeats as Greenly runs up, pale and blood coating his hands. Murphy stares at them. “Right now. Greenly, stay here, cover it up, I dunno. Do something. But we gotta get Murphy out of here before the rest of the force shows up and realizes all three goddamn Saints are here.”
“Connor,” Murphy says again numbly.
“Come,” his father murmurs, and Murphy’s led by the three older men with an almost bewildered look on his face. He’s gone from the raging, snarling animal of a man to this strangely docile person, letting Dolly and Duffy push him towards the car. For a moment, it seems like he may have actually calmed down. And then the sirens start.
Murphy screams.
The sirens are like a trigger, and it’s just a long wail of agony, it cuts through everyone’s hearts at once and they all jump back in shock. The look on Noah’s face is heartbreaking as he grabs his son, tucking him against his chest so that Murphy can scream into his coat. He’s murmuring something in Gaelic, his fingers threading into Murphy’s dark hair and it seems like Murphy has no idea how to respond beyond that one sound, and they all catch the few words in English.
“I know, I know,” he whispers, and before anyone can stop him he takes his gun and with the butt of it cuffs Murphy against the back of the neck. He goes limp and Noah looks at them all, his son wrapped up in his arms. He looks at the three detectives, but says nothing. The look in his eyes says it all.
“Shit,” Duffy finally mutters, running a hand through his hair. “We fucked up.”
“Aye,” Noah says at last. “That you did.”
-
“’nough, Con,” Murphy mumbles in his pillow, trying to ignore the nudging on his shoulder. “’ll get up w’en ‘m good’n fuckin’ ready.”
“It’s not Connor, lad.”
There’s a long enough pause that it appears as if Murphy’s dozed right back off again, but then he slowly lifts his head, blinking against the light seeping in through the windows. He’s on his stomach, the pain in his side intensified with his growing awareness. He touches his fingers lightly to the bandage before letting them graze over the back of his neck. It stings like a motherfucker and he lets his hand fall. Only one thing comes to mind.
“Da,” he mutters. “Where’s Connor?”
Noah doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes that almost looks like pride that his sons think of each other above themselves. And underneath it there’s a terrible, terrible sadness. He stares at Murphy for a moment, eyes shadowed, and when he speaks it’s with the words Murphy had dreaded with all his heart.
“He’s dead, son.”
Murphy stiffens, as if he’s suddenly been carved from stone. He makes no other motion, no other noise, just looks up as his father with the wide-eyed look of a frightened child. The words appear to penetrate, but Murphy doesn’t give even the slightest indication that he’s heard. He doesn’t give any indication that he can do anything at all.
Noah reaches out and gently cups Murphy’s head, threading old fingers into the dark strands of his hair.
“Murphy.”
There’s a soft noise, the first response from Murphy.
“Son.” Noah’s fingers tighten as he gently tilts Murphy’s head towards him. “Look at me.” When he still gets no response whatsoever, he shakes him just enough to rattle him a little. Murphy blinks, and they’re at two for two. Noah pulls him forward, presses their foreheads together as he whispers the same words he had before.
“I know.”
They sit there for a long moment, father and son, foreheads touching, until finally Murphy speaks. It’s just one word, it’s soft and pained and terribly, terribly broken, but there’s no mistaking those two syllables. It’s wrapped around the stifled choke of a sob.
“Connor.”
-
It takes two days for Noah to get another word out of Murphy. He spends a lot of his time curled up on one of the beds, usually Connor’s, sometimes his own. Noah wouldn’t let him near the police station. One of the Saints was found dead at the scene, and the police were working hard to keep it covered up. It was a hotspot.
Murphy doesn’t move very much, and Noah sometimes wonders if he’s asleep, or if he’s just staring at the wall. Greenly shows up at some point, quietly talks to Noah under his breath and hands over a small package that ends up sending Murphy into another fit of mind numbing grief, clutching the contents to his chest, knees practically under his chin. It’s something Noah had never expected to see from his son.
He tries to get Murphy to at least sit up and walk around, but he’ll have none of it. It’s clear Murphy just wants to lie around and wallow in his grief. But Noah knows where this will head. He remembers. And he hates that his son will head in that direction as well.
At some point, Smecker shows up with news, and he’s very gently about how he delivers it.
“Murph, we… we found the warehouse where the rest of the hitmen are,” he says carefully. “I don’t know if you want to go after them-”
It’s in a flash, but suddenly Murphy’s gone from that fetal position to spine-straight, gun pointed between Smecker’s eyes. Both rosaries are clutched in his other hand and the quiet clink clink of the beads is loud in the silence of the room. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Murphy says, voice hoarse, “Get out.”
He backs away quietly, leaving the grieving brother to slowly lower himself back onto the bed. He shouldn’t be surprised, but when Smecker walks into the holding cell later, he finds Connor curled up on the cot, reciting a quiet prayer to himself.
-
“I don’t care if I come out alive or not,” Murphy says quietly as he loads up on ammunition. His father watches on silently. “‘cause no one else is either.”
-
Murphy had never been particularly merciful, even before they became the Saints. He had one hell of a pokerface and once, when they were eleven, Connor had pinched his arm and Murphy responded by kicking him in the balls. Tit for tat and all that nonsense. He was only kind to those who deserved it, and Connor, little fucking brat though he may be-had been-is, godfuckingdamnit, deserved it more than anyone.
And he certainly deserved better than being gunned down in an ambush. It’s for that reason that when Murphy fires the first shot, there’s nothing in his eyes beyond pure concentration. Murphy isn’t here to send them to their gods. He isn’t there to reap what they’ve sown. He’s there because they killed his brother. There is no other reason necessary.
Half of them are down before they even know what’s going on. He doesn’t know which one fired at Connor so he shoots them all with equal malice, with equal vengeance and with equal disinterest.
He stands in the middle of his carnage, head cocked as he glances down at each body. Not one shot to the head.
Murphy quietly reaches into his pocket and pulls out the handful of pennies he’d brought with him. They lay shining and new in his palm. His eyes are narrowed. Without a word, he unfurls his fingers and watches the coins cascade in a bronze waterfall onto the bodies.
And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, unscathed.
It’s in a a daze that he slowly makes his way to the police station. He’s got his sunglasses on, his hood up, and it’s cold enough in Boston that he passes as another chilled pedestrian, hands in his pockets and shoulders under his ears. He takes the hit with even more casualty than all the others. He thinks about lighting a smoke, but decides instead to keep walking.
There’s nothing left to do, really. Maybe the cops have another hit for him.
It could work.
Murphy takes the stairs slowly, watching his feet. It could easily work. His father would be furious, and his mother would be devastated, but it’s an easier plan than anything else he could hope to try. He pushes up his glasses as he steps up into the station, the warm air colliding with the cold. He should’ve had that smoke after all.
“Hey,” he calls, looking up to address the detectives.
He freezes.
“Hey, Murph,” Connor says quietly.
There’s a shockingly long pause as the brothers just stare at each other.
There really shouldn’t be any surprise when Murphy hauls off and punches Connor in the face.
-
“Hell no. It’ll never work.”
Greenly’s always been that obnoxious little shit who’s absolutely, one hundred percent positive, but even Duffy and Dolly are on the brink of admitting that the kid may have a point here. The main issue with this plan is that a lot of it rides on psychological stability, and though they all love the boys deeply, there’s no getting around the fact that psychological stability is something the boys could stand to pick up some more of at the store.
I’m just sayin’,” Greenly says, holding up his hands. “I’d rather have Connor be the vengeful one any day of the week.”
“And why is that?” Smecker asks, in the tone of one so patient it’s become painful.
Greenly shrugs. “‘cause between the two of them? Con’s less likely to come bursting in here like God on wheels shooting the place up like it’s Cinco de Mayo.”
“He’s got a point,” Duffy allows.
“What the hell’s all this for anyway?” Dolly demands. “Either one’ve them would go apeshit.”
“I’ll tell you what this is for,” Smecker interjects. “Let’s think for a moment. When one is in trouble, what does the other do? They put themselves in even more danger. And that’s when they’ve still got another person in the picture.” He pauses for effect. “If they’re willing to get themselves hurt when there’s still two… what happens when push comes to shove, when the curtain falls, there’s only… one?”
There’s a silence.
“You want… to kill one of them?” Dolly says hesitantly like he’s wrapping his head around it.
“We’ve seen up close and personal what happens when you threaten one of them,” Smecker is saying when Connor peeks his head around the corner. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the context of the statement and Connor silently touches the smooth, white scars that wrap around his wrists. Yeah. “These boys are highly codependent to the point where they’re willing to do anything for the other.”
“Now that’s not fair,” Connor cuts in and three heads look up, while Smecker smirks to himself from where he stands. “It’s a broad assumption. Never needed an extra pair of hands when I needed a piss, for example, and may God look upon me with grace the day I have to ask that favor.”
“Where’s Murphy?”
“Takin’ a nap. Da insisted on it,” Connor replies, leaning against the wall with his hands groping for his pockets. Sure enough, the ever present pack of smokes makes itself known and Connor plucks one out of the box. “So what’s this I hear about me’n me brother being overly brotherly?” Lips curl playfully around the smoke, though he doesn’t light it. When everyone looks at each other awkwardly, the cigarette falls a little limp as Connor frowns.
“Well?”
“We have a proposition for you,” Smecker starts.
It goes about as well as any of them would have imagined.
“Fuck you!” Connor is still snarling, and Dolly and Duffy are having a hard time keeping him back. “Fuck you and your fucking propositions! Aye, I’ve got a proposition for you, you motherfucker-” Greenly has to run forward and keep Connor from dropping trou right there in the station, though it’s a very near miss. He’s got the button and the zipper half down.
“Calm down, Connor,” Smecker says calmly, hands up to try and pacify the raging man. “Never did I actually say we’d kill for real.”
Connor looks like he’d like to spit in Smecker’s face, but given that he stops trying to present his “proposition” for Smecker, it’s a start. He slowly stops struggling, though Duffy and Dolly keep a firm grip on his arms. Connor narrows his eyes, staring down the FBI agent until finally he speaks.
“You’re not killing my brother, fake or otherwise,” he says in a low voice.
“We wouldn’t,” Smecker responds. “Wouldn’t have the right effect given that you already know about the plan, huh? For this to work, we’d need the element of surprise. And for that,” he points at Connor with both fingers, “we need Murphy.”
-
“They gave me a bullet proof vest,” Connor explains quietly. They’re sitting on the roof where it all began, legs off the side like little boys, smoke wafting around them in a cloud. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, as close as they can possibly sit. Murphy’s never going to admit it, not ever, but he’s (for lack of a manlier word) clingy. Once Connor had finished nursing his bruised cheekbone Murphy had decided he didn’t need much use of his ribcage or lungs either.
“Still hurt like a motherfucker, getting shot like that. Da was in on it too, didn’t want to be though. And Greenly had some fake blood, made it look like I’d been shot,” he continues. “Murph, if I didn’t think it wouldn’t work-”
“Shut up,” Murphy replies. “I don’t care. Just don’t pull it again, ever, you motherfucker.” He shifts where he sits, contemplates for a moment.
“Think I’d like to get out of here for a while,” he finally says, in a much softer voice.
“Hn.” Connor takes a moment, and when he speaks his voice is soft. “The old country’s nice this time’a year.”
Murphy takes a long drag from his cigarette, gaze distant.
“Aye.”
end