Work Text:
They're everywhere, they're nowhere. They're ghosts; disappeared on the long, long way to a destination neither of them are sure of.
In a small town, between bland buildings and bland faces, Conner asks, “Is this it?”
They leave again in broken cars on dusty roads, the look over their shoulders familiar in a way it shouldn't, and yet, and yet.
It's motel rooms and deconstructed houses, sometimes a car, once a park. Rosaries hidden beneath layers of clothing, sleeves rolled down, necks turned up. Conner asks, “Is this it?” when they're in a city big enough to drown in the masses, blending in, and then he asks again, in a town small enough to live in peace.
They go on.
Murphy thinks about a time when Connor will grow tired of the question, he dreads it, he wants it, he wills it.
On a windy path on the shore, sea salt heavy in the air, Connor looks over at him, question clear. “There's not enough green,” Murphy wants to say, but he doesn't. The back of their hands brush, and they stay.
It lasts a week before someone breaks into the small bakery, stealing flour of all things, but it brings out police officers nonetheless. They leave at night, as quiet as they came, and Murphy doubts there's one person who's noticed they've been here in the first place.
It's a good thought, and a sad thought.
He asks Connor about it and their arms brush, and they're on the road again, driving along the shoreline in unspoken agreement.
The days grow shorter and the wind sharper, the stacks of money dwindle down until they share cigarettes again, sitting in the dark. Murphy wants Connor to ask, he wants the question so he can make himself clear, to make his brother understand this is not it.
Connor doesn't ask and Murphy doesn't offer; days pass by and they're restless and Murphy thinks, maybe, maybe they've been on the run for too long, maybe they’ll never find a place, because nothing will be good enough, this is their life now.
The news reports on them start to slow down.
They find a little church, cramped between heavy industrial structures, out of place and out of time. They go in, in between masses, and pray side by side, on their knees. It takes longer than it would've, before, and Murphy thinks that's not right, you can't make up for lost time by praying longer, you should pray harder instead. Or maybe it's the other way around.
It's a question for a priest, but Murphy doesn't think he could make himself clear, how could he explain that they could go to church on a regular basis? They could go to mass, they could, they could.
They don't.
He crosses himself and doesn't go to confession, and when he gets up from his knees again, Connor already waits by the door, hand flexing around the handle.
They lean against the car, dirt from the streets smearing their clothes, and they smoke and then they stay.
Murphy thinks of Agent Smecker and Eunice, of Romeo and Duffy and Greenly. Memories so distant he has to concentrate to see the details. It hasn't been that long. It's been a lifetime.
Connor moves next to him, restless, brushing their shoulders together, squinting against the sun. “Is this it?” he finally asks and Murphy smiles without meaning to and thinks, maybe.
They know which church to go to, if they ever want to, if they should, if they must. Getting in contact with Eunice and Smecker - friends, possibly, in another life - is easier than it should be. Within a week, there's enough money for them to go on for a while, and then some more.
The priest looks at them differently now, and Murphy sighs, drawn out and weary, his sleeves itching on his skin, turtleneck too constricting around his throat and Connor sees. They leave the church, shoulders brushing with every step, the priest’s awed look against their backs.
They pack again.
This time, they're leaving for somewhere warmer and Murphy isn't sure if Connor makes the decision intentionally, but it's a way to excuse baring their arms again, tattoos free for everyone to see and Murphy breathes again.
Connor doesn't. Murphy tries to pretend, but days pass and Connor is jumpy, smoking through their cigarettes like he has somewhere to be and Murphy thinks; he did this for me.
He sends Connor to the store, restocking on food and water and cigarettes and everything that fits into their lives now. Everything that fits into a few bags and strangely, they don't lack anything.
Murphy packs and Connor doesn't come back for long enough that Murphy has to sit down, back against the wall, legs drawn up and head on his knees. It's the Hoag all over again; separate cells, heavy security, threats everywhere and he can't breathe, he can't-
Connor's hand is on his neck, presses down, holds him, grounds him. He keeps apologizing until it's night again, a different motel in a different state, until Murphy can't bear to hear it anymore and he makes himself clear, embarrassed, but when they go to bed, he settles on his side, eyes on Connor until he falls asleep.
After that, they don't try so hard. They don't hurry anymore, tunnel vision disappearing slowly until they start to take in their surroundings again. Murphy doesn't remember the last time he could just be, and when the news reports die down at last, tension slowly leaves Connor's face as well.
For the first few weeks, it's nice. Connor tans again and Murphy catches himself looking, taking his brother in, images of him over the years blending together; fewer scars and darker skin, muscles and a slim frame, less anger, more bravado. Fewer tattoos. No shared tattoo.
Murphy drags at his cigarette, feeling warm and uncomfortable and he crosses himself in apology. He doesn't know what for.
Over the next days, Murphy spends a curious amount of time comparing the images of his brother in his head, as if hasn't seen him every day of his life since he can remember.
Except during the stay in the Hoag, which he doesn't think about if it can be avoided.
Connor has grown up.
Murphy hasn't looked in a mirror for so long, he wonders if it’s the same for him, if Connor sees him differently, if he looks at him and thinks he's changed. He asks, once, when the curtain doesn't quite block out the glaring light of the street lamp outside, when he lies on his side and thinks and thinks, staring at his brother and not being able to sleep.
“Aye,” Connor says, but he doesn't say anything else and Murphy drops the topic until he goes out to buy them new clothes, and he sees himself in a full body mirror and does a double back.
There are lines on his face where there didn't use to be and he looks hard and mean, suddenly, he looks as deadly as he always wished himself to be, back when they got into schoolyard fights and then later, after the Russians and even later, when Noah came back and offered them nothing and everything at once-
Connor's hand is on his shoulder. He steers him with a firm hand, pressure not easing for a second.
They're outside, and Murphy suddenly breathes. This has to stop, he thinks, but his hands are shaking and his mind is shaking and Connor looks at him like he knows something, knows something he doesn't and Murphy stays quiet.
They go back to the motel and they watch TV and drink beer and order pizza and everything is fine, everything is like it should be.
They never talk about looking for a flat.
He can't sleep without Connor in his view, and even then, it takes time.
Weeks go by and Murphy waits, he waits for the question and it doesn't come. He's getting restless with it, and Connor works out in the corner of the room, he goes through his whole routine and doesn't look up at Murphy once, so Murphy takes the keys and gets in the car.
He drives around for a bit, passing a little church and pulling over, debating with himself. In the end, he doesn't go in, but he prays an Our Father on the sidewalk in front of it, nobody around to give him shite about it. There's nobody around, Murphy thinks again. No one.
When he gets back, it's dark, and Connor yells. Murphy throws a punch and sends Connor reeling back, he crashes over a chair and then he stops yelling, awfully quiet all of sudden.
Murphy wants to plead with him, he wants to rile him up, he wants to fight, to punch, to kick, to yell, he wants blood, and Connor says, “How was I supposed to know ye weren't somewhere having one of yer attacks again, ye stupid shit. It's getting worse, Murphy.”
“It's just the stress,” Murphy says and lies, and somehow, that sends Connor packing; he grabs one of their bags and starts throwing in clothes and knives and shoes and money, all jumbled up and messy and Murphy feels his heart rate increase and he thinks- not fucking again, but then Connor stops dead in his tracks.
He moves over and he doesn't touch him, not anymore, but he grabs another bag, and then he starts to pack Murphy's clothes, too, and Murphy can see and hear and feel again.
The shame with it all renders him mute for three whole days - three days on the road, at that. They leave the warm places and Connor drives them back towards the sea. On the other side, this time.
Connor tries for conversation at first, and it's not like Murphy ignores him; he listens, he does, and he nods and shakes his head. He just doesn't feel like talking, because there's nothing to say. After a while, Connor stops, but his increasingly worried glances don’t.
They sleep in their car the whole while, in the middle of nowhere. It's gross and unhygienic, by now Murphy craves a shower more than an explanation for his broken brain. He takes to watching Connor again and he's not subtle about it, because there's no one to see it but Connor, and Connor knows anyway.
Just before they reach civilization, the outskirts of a small town already visible on the horizon, Connor reaches over and puts his hand on Murphy's arm, gently sliding up to thumb at the fading letters.
Murphy looks down at the hand, and then at the road again, gripping the steering wheel tighter.
Later, when they’ve booked in yet another motel and it's dark and they've showered and eaten and changed their clothes, Murphy asks, “Will ye pray with me?” and Connor is on his knees in an instant, his face a picture of pure relief and Murphy hates him for it.
They stay for a few weeks and Murphy grows tired with the routine and he grows tired of not hearing the question again; he needs it like air now, he wants to hear it, he wants to answer, he wants to say, no, Connor, this is not fucking it, it's not it by a long fucking shot, and he wants to say, yes, and not mean it.
They've lost purpose.
After a while, they simply leave again. There's no reason for it. The car breaks down and can't be revived and they debate whether to save the trouble and rather take on the next Greyhound, but Murphy is used to them, now, again and he doesn't think Connor wants to either, so they spend a majority of their money on another car and drive out of town.
It's almost winter by now and something is coming, Murphy thinks, put he can't put his finger on it. He still has to lie on his side to watch Connor when he wants to fall asleep and he pretends to having developed a new favorite position, arm pressed right in front of his face, so he can pretend, so he can watch, if needed, and pretend, pretend.
Connor sits on his bed one day, shirtless and rosary swinging slightly against his chest, and he says, “I'm gonna go grab a few things, yer fine with that?” and Murphy frowns at him, because in what world would that be not okay-
He thinks that maybe Connor has planned this, though his brother never stroke him to be cruel, and he knows him best. He knows him.
Murphy waits with his back against the door. He smokes through an entire pack, and then he has to get up to grab another one, throat raw and tongue burning. It's late morning, and the sun creeps over the carpet, steady on, and it's afternoon and Murphy looses all feelings in his legs, and then it's evening and he's sitting in the dark, stomach hollow and heart hollow, and he doesn't know how to get up anymore.
It's night and the room is illuminated by the moon, and Murphy can’t take it anymore, he curls around himself and in the end, when the door opens - finally, finally - it hits his back, hard, and Connor comes through, lip bloody and eye swollen and the stench of alcohol all over him.
He says something, he says a lot of things, Murphy thinks, but he can't find it in himself to listen. With shaky legs he gets up and walks to the bathroom, staying until the noises of Connor bumping around the room stop and then waiting some more, just in case.
He sleeps with his back turned to him and in the morning, they don't mention it.
Another week later, Murphy searches through their bags, looking for a pair of sunglasses he knows he put in there, because the weather is icy and sunny to a fault, but what he finds isn't a pair of sunglasses. It’s their guns instead.
He's forgotten about them by now. He's forgotten a lot, he thinks.
Carefully, he lifts his own gun out of the bag and checks for bullets on reflex, weighing it in his hands and trying to remember the last time either of them sat down to clean them and he comes up empty.
He puts them back where he found them, but somehow Connor knows anyway and the next time they go out, buying food this time, Connor bumps their shoulders together again.
Murphy smiles.
He tries not to, but he goes back to his sleeping habit, one eye a direct line of sight to his brother, and sometimes, Murphy doesn't know what makes the difference on those days, but sometimes, Connor watches him back.
Another few days, and their money will run out. There's a decision to be made and when Connor asks him to come with him, Murphy does, where else would he go, but then they're at a church, at one of their churches, and Murphy drags his heels.
Connor stands beside him, waits, sunglasses on his face and collar of his coat turned up. He doesn't even fidget.
Murphy lights two cigarettes and hands one over to Connor, and they wait.
“I don't want another sign,” Murphy says eventually and he hopes Connor understands what he's not saying; I don't want to go in there, for the Lord will surely find me, find I do.
Connor looks at him, face impassive, smoke curling and sun illuminating him from behind. Murphy blinks and blinks again, and he knows, suddenly, that he can do it, if Connor wants him to. If Connor truly wants to, he will go with him, he won't let his brother go alone on a Holy Mission.
Connor turns on his heels and walks the few steps back to the car, opening the door and pulling out one of their bags. Murphy's stomach sinks and then his cigarette is finished and he can't stall any longer, so he follows Connor inside.
The priest, another one this time, but cast in the same mould, notices them the second they walk through the doors into the empty church. His eyes widen and he smooths over the fabric of his cassock and strides over to them at once.
“We need to use yer phone”, Connor says, friendly enough. The priest nods, and turns away to lead them to his office, but Connor turns to Murphy instead, hand coming up to rest against his chest, stopping his movement.
Murphy frowns, but Connor says “Please.” in a voice he hasn't heard in a long while, so he shrugs and leans against the wood of the aisle, ready to wait.
Connor disappears into the office and Murphy takes some time to take in his surroundings, fingers closing around his rosary in reflex. He debates whether he should pray, since he's here already, but then the door of the office opens again, even though it couldn't have been more than five minutes.
With one last look to the stricken priest, Murphy follows his brother outside. He tries to read his thoughts by staring at his head, and when that doesn't bring anything forward, he uses his words.
“It's done,” Connor says, voice tilting curiously. He looks calm and certain and strong and steadfast and Murphy doesn't- there's no-
“Christ, Murphy,” he hears his brother's words. His back is pressed against something familiar, the smell of old cigarettes and leather all around him.
He's in the car and Connor hovers outside the door, face angry and soft at once and when he sees that Murphy's brain decided to boot up again, he inhales deeply.
“Ye listen to me now,” he starts, sharp attention focused only on him. “I talked to Smecker and it's done, because it wasn't a fucking negotiation. I told him our Mission is over and that he mustn't expect us calling him anymore. I exchanged our guns for the stash of cash they had in the church, and then I left. Ye hear me? It's done, Murph.”
Murphy breathes in deeply, once, twice, and again, and then he says “Oh, thank God.” and crosses himself right afterwards, barely missing Connor's eye roll.
Somehow, they leave again. Murphy guesses it's because they’re known in this town now, even if it's just by a single priest, but they don't talk about it.
They don't drive as long anymore, taking their time instead. They don't sleep in their car, but make proper stops at night and eat breakfast in the mornings. Sometimes they stay in one motel for a few days in a row, the urge to go on run dry over the long time on roads.
When the sun is getting stronger again and the green around them fights back to its intended color, they've slowed down enough to keep circling the same few towns, always coming back to their favorite ones.
One day, the owner of the corner store greets them with a friendly nod and puts their usual order on the counter; cigarettes for both and a different paper for each. Murphy nods in thanks and when they leave the store, Connor puts his arm around his shoulder, holding on tight for a moment before his hand comes to rest against Murphy's neck and they walk back to their motel in peace.
In the evening, Connor sits down next to him on his bed, face open and neutral and asks, “Is this it?” It sounds final, somehow.
Murphy wants to say, yes, this is it, this is good, we deserve it.
He doesn't.
Connor sighs, but it's a quiet noise, not meant to offend. Murphy thinks he looks lost, but he hasn't seen his brother being unsure of anything in the last few years, so he's probably wrong.
“It wasn't worth it,” Murphy offers instead, voice quiet but firm. “What we did, what Good we did, it wasn't worth what we got. What we might've gotten in the future.”
Connor looks lost again, this time Murphy is sure of it. He blinks through the smoke lingering around his head and holds the cigarette out for Connor to take.
“Why?” Connor looks like he doesn't want to hear the answer. Murphy looks on, watches Connor finishing the cigarette, eyes averted through it all, until he feels mean and cruel and he says,
“One of us would've died and I wouldn't have been the one to worry about it, Connor, because if it wouldn't have been me who died, I would've died anyway and if it had been the other way around-”
“Stop.” Connor's voice is firm and he's holding his hand out like he wants to stop him physically as well.
Aye, Murphy thinks, cruel indeed.
They sit in silence until Connor's hand stops flexing into a fist every few seconds and until Murphy doesn't feel ashamed anymore.
Connor clears his throat and moves closer, jeans dragging over the blanket. He puts his hand on Murphy's neck and pushes, pushes until Murphy bows his head and Connor presses a kiss to his hair. “I'm taking ye home,” he says.
They leave within the hour.
It's different, without Noah there. Father Sibeal kept an eye out for the house, but the sheep are all gone and their horses have to be brought back from their neighbor, who will most likely not cooperate well, if Murphy remembers her correctly.
Connor wanders about, inside the cottage and then outside again, checking whatever he thinks needs to be checked, now, with the stars already visible in the sky.
Murphy sits on the bench on the porch, with his head back and a cigarette in his hand and the smell of grass all around him; clear air and green everywhere, the smell of sheep still lingering and he thinks he doesn't want to move even if someone comes and threatens him right this second.
Eventually, Connor slows down and joins him. He lights a cigarette of his own and mutters something about no beards this time, but Murphy listens only halfheartedly and soon afterwards, Connor falls quiet as well.
Somehow, their silence has a new quality to it, Murphy thinks. He blinks up into the sky, taking in all the stars visible now, without the light pollution of a city nearby. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Connor watching him. He feels warm with it.
Connor nudges his boot against Murphy’s leg and when Murphy turns his head, he sees Connor staring at his hands. “I won't ask again,” Connor says, voice low.
“That's a shame, because I have an answer now.” Murphy smiles and then Connor looks up from his hands, a slight frown on his face, and Murphy thinks he missed something.
“Is that right?” Connor asks and his voice is low and tight. “Yer happy, no? If not, Murphy, ye have to ask me for the rest.”
Murphy breathes through his mouth, heart in his throat all of sudden. He wants to deny, but denying would mean acknowledging what Connor is insinuating and there's no way-
“I don't know how,” Murphy admits before he looses his nerve.
Connor stands up and Murphy thinks, that's it, they'll never talk about it again, but then Connor says, “Ye do.” and his knees hit the wood next to Murphy's hips and he's settling down on Murphy’s thighs, hands on the back of the bench for support.
Murphy breathes shallowly, the smell of Connor in his nose and his solid weight on his legs and he says, “Ye’ve already done so much for me,” but he lays his hands on his brother anyway, strong thighs underneath his palms, and then upwards, to his hips.
“I always will,” Connor says and his breath ghosts over Murphy's face, beer and cigarettes and peppermint and Murphy shivers with it; he grips him tighter, “But this is not for ye.”
Connor vibrates above him, and Murphy doesn't know if it's tension or the strain on his muscles or anticipation and he feels like he could get lost in the feeling, but Connor's waiting.
“Ask me again,” he says, voice already husky, and slides his hands around to grip Connor's arse and pulls him closer, closer, closer, until Connor has to let go of the bench and grips his neck for support.
Murphy has his mouth on him before Connor can get out the question.
Later, he thinks; yes. This is it.