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In another dingy bathroom in another nondescript motel, Connor washes the blood spatters off his wrists, the only slivers of skin that were exposed earlier in the day. The lone light bulb hanging in its bare fixture is so dim that he can hardly make out the stained, cracked enamel of the sink and the rusty spigot that bathes his skin in cold water, cleansing it of tainted blood. The neon sign outside the tiny window intermittently flashes red, displaying the word vacancy to highway passers-by. Connor wipes his hands on a dark blue towel, thin and threadbare, and finally looks up to see his reflection in the mirror that hangs, slightly crooked, over the sink. He realizes that he looks tired, bags under his eyes, skin feeling strangely stretched over his cheekbones. He knows it's late, but he doesn't really feel tired right now. He's still keyed up, trembling with the sensation of excitement and giddy energy that always lingers after a kill. It won't dissipate for a couple of hours yet, but that's okay. He's used to it by now. He turns off the light and swings the bathroom door open. His father passes him without a word, carrying a change of clothes into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Connor hears the creak of pipes as the shower starts, and he drops his shirt into his bag, gaze falling on Murphy, who's already asleep on their bed. He's still wearing his pants, but his black shirt is lying discarded on the floor. Connor picks it up and lays it over the back of a chair, feeling the dried blood around the collar. Sometimes he wishes they could wear white; they're the good guys, after all. They're the ones who stamp out corruption and evil, sending immoral drug dealers, mobsters, and criminals to meet the Maker. But they can't afford to wear white because it doesn't hide bloodstains. And now, easing his body onto the bed next to Murphy, Connor wonders what life felt like before they found their calling, because he can't remember anymore. He wonders what he and Murphy would be doing right now if the Russians hadn't crashed into their room the morning after St. Patrick's Day, if they hadn't tried to kill Murphy. He knows he'd never seriously contemplated killing anyone until the moment Murphy's eyes met his as the Russians dragged him out of the room. Then there was no contemplating; a rush of fury and desperation overcame Connor, shutting out logic and regret. He hadn't even felt the handcuffs biting into his wrists, tearing at his flesh. He hadn't been aware of the sticky thickness of his own blood running down his hands when he'd ripped the toilet out of its setting, when he'd carried it outside with a brutal strength he'd never before possessed. Connor hadn't thought about any implications his actions could have when he'd let go of the toilet and let it fall, breaking into a thousand shards of heavy ceramic and effectively ending the pathetic existence of the bastard who was holding a gun to his brother's head. He hadn't even watched the toilet fall, because he'd already launched himself off the fire escape, not caring that he would fall four stories and very probably be seriously hurt. He was too focused on the other man, the one whose trigger finger could end his and his brother's lives with two small pulls. His emotions had been a tangle of anger and panic and desperation, indignation that anyone could even try to take the person whom he loved most away from him. Adrenaline motivated him, throbbed through his veins. He'd felt the impact of his body on the other man's, but then everything had gone dark. When he'd come to, he was in a clinic with Murphy, and their white robes were mottled with blood and dirt. They hadn't worn anything white since then. The only times he feels just and pure now is when his finger is on the trigger, deciding who lives and dies. He knows that he's ridding the world of men who would kill someone else's twin, someone else's best friend. Never mind that each man they kill might be someone else's brother or best friend; they're evil, and they deserve to die. It's never been like what he felt that first desperate time, though. Now there's no adrenaline until after their job is done. It's after, not during, that Connor's hands shake and his mind races. Unthinkingly, Connor runs his fingers over the scar on Murphy's arm, the angry red mark left by the hot iron that cauterized his first bullet wound. It was his first, but Connor is under no illusions that it will be his last. He knows that Murphy will die doing this, and that he will, too. Because Murphy doesn't do anything without Connor. They came into this world together, and they'll go out of it together. Losing Rocco was hard enough to deal with, but Connor knows that losing Murphy would literally kill him; killing Yakavetta was enough to slake the thirst for vengeance he'd felt at Rocco's murder, but no number of deaths could ever compensate for losing Murphy. They're intrinsically connected, practically the same person. That's why, when they made their first offering, Connor only had to look at Murphy to know what they would do. The words formed on his lips and spilled out in concert with Murphy's as they offered up their prayer, speaking as one. They dreamt their destiny as one, were baptized in blood as one, and they continue to kill as one. He doesn't want their mission to ever end, because he can't imagine being indifferent again, not feeling the surge of calm and righteousness each time he pulls the trigger and saves someone else from being contaminated by the shadow of evil. Connor senses the change when Murphy awakens, eyes opening in a slow flutter, and he knows that Murphy's looking at his fingers, still tracing the old wound with feather-light precision. And when Murphy and Connor glance up at the same moment, eyes locking, that's when Connor feels at peace. Righteousness and duty fall away, anger and indignation forgotten. He can live without all that; indeed, those things are precisely what will kill him. What he lives for -- what keeps him breathing and walking and reloading his gun -- is what he feels every time he and Murphy look at each other. He belongs wherever his brother is, doing whatever his brother is doing. As long as they're together, he can handle anything and everything. He will do anything for Murphy, no doubts and no regrets, because this is where he belongs. END
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