Title: Blackened Wings
Rating: PG-13, I believe. R is probably stretching it.
Warnings: Slash/Twincest, slight angst, unbeta-ed.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Boondock Saints, or any of its characters. Or the line that I quoted from the movie at the beginning.
Summary: They deserved hell.
Feedback: Concrit is wonderful, anything and everything. Lines to characterizations, to plot(ish) holes.
It was something they always knew. Killing was wrong, even when it was the will of God, and they wouldn't get out of hell, no fucking way. They'd killed going on fifty men. They deserved hell.
Murphy has ceased to be scared of hell. Lying on the bed in an empty room of some nameless hotel, hearing the shower run in the bathroom, he can safely say that hell is what he deserves. What they deserve. The blood staining them will drip to the floor soon, spread around them like a clotted, rotting puddle of pure corruption. And it will be God's will. This he knows. This he believes.
And he knows it is worth it.
They've split, temporarily, from Il Duce (and he can never quite think of him as Da, not after the twenty odd years he's missed, may call him that to his face, never in his mind), five days ago, and it already feels like forever. Murphy can't decide if that's a good thing or not. (Doesn't really want to think about it. Il Duce complicates things.) Sitting there on the flowery bed, booted feet planted firmly on the beige carpeted floor, he realizes, has just realized, the old man's been holding them away from something, holding them back. Something new, something wrong, something important. It's been there, half-formed, since childhood, and the killing's only enhanced it, hands grasping at shoulders, fingers trailing over clothed skin, making sure shed blood is not theirs. But the old man, ol' grey beard, has been pulling them apart, watching their movements, checking their intentions. Subtle, like he only knows how to be. Quick, and quiet, and catlike. And the two of them, knowledge not fully absorbed, only skimming the surface of their minds, let it happen. It takes his absence for the action to sink in. Murphy has the hunch that Il Duce thinks he's still going to heaven. That God will let him in with the blood on his soul that he feels no remorse for shedding. A sodden, saturated red body tainting the up above white. In this way, Murphy believes him a fool.
The shower shuts off; Murphy listens to the sounds of the wet body in the next room, moving. Looks at the door, toes off his boots. Just go for it. What else is there to risk when hell is already a certainty? (Although the niggling doubt picking at his mind tells him to wonder about Connor, what he'll think, what he'll do, but he's not going to let that stop him. Not when he's finally figured it out.)
When Connor comes out of the bathroom, Murphy is staring at the door, watching it open, hands planted firmly on his thighs. Connor shoots him a quick look, almost furtive and half startled. Drags a shirt over his head, pulls on his boxers. Turns around.
"What?" He asks. "What the hell's that look for?"
"Connor…" he starts. Stops. Doesn't know quite what to say (he knows what he wants, and he was never a talker, but he doesn't have the guts yet to just stand up and do it. Not yet).
"Murph, just stop." (Stop? Stop what? Even Murphy doesn't really know. He never quite does.)
"We're going to hell, Connor, you know that," is all he says. Wonders if Connor gets what he's implying. Connor's always been quick, how can he not?
"I know. Just a matter of time, really," and he sits on the bed, sits next to Murphy, hair still dripping wet, face still flushed from the humidity. Murphy wants to run his fingers through that hair, and so he does, he close enough, and he's tired of pretending he doesn't want to. Water drips onto Connor's neck, the collar of his shirt, as Murphy pulls him closer. And Connor is unresisting, and Murphy never thought it would happen this way. This easily.
"Murph…. What are you doing?" And it's not reproachful, really, just curious, slightly nervous (and he's never thought Connor'd be the nervous one).
"Want me to stop? Tell me to stop, and I will." But he's still tugging Connor closer with his fingers, and Connor's are still planted at his sides, not moving at all.
"No…. I don't know. I don't know, Murph." There so much in those words. Murphy doesn't feel like translating the undertones and implications, he's too impatient, always was. He just moves his other hand slowly across Connor's face, thumb brushing cheekbone, jaw, moving back and forth over lips. Warm breath against his finger, shallow, wet. Connor's arms still at his sides, letting Murphy direct, for once, letting Murphy get them into trouble.
"We're going to go to hell, anyway," Murphy whispers, his excuse, his plea. Voice so low even he can almost not hear it. Forehead leaning, pressing against Connor's, eyes closing, thumb moving back and forth, back and forth, over lips.
It's all about the wetness trickling over his fingers, Connor's warm breath against his cheek. He's pushing Connor back, back against the dingy motel comforter, hand still twined in wet hair. He's half over Connor's body, crouching almost, and his hand is moving from lips, down over jaw to cup Connor's throat, delicately touching, not pressing.
He's not crossed any lines yet. They can still back up, take a step away, take a deep breath, gain some distance. Forget this whole thing. But Murphy can feel Connor's breath, too fast too shallow, where his fingers are pressed to throat, foreheads pressed together. His right shoulder is touching the center of Connor's chest, his left hand still woven into Connor's hair. He finds himself whispering, not even realizing it at first, a plaintive plea, repeated over and over.
"Please, Connor, let me kiss you. Please. Just let me kiss, just once. Connor, please."
Connor draws in a long, shaky breath, and Murphy opens his eyes. Presses his lips softly to cheekbone, mouth open slightly, moves slowly down Connor's jaw, still whispering.
"Please, Connor, let me kiss you. Let me kiss you."
He pulls away, just slightly, mouth hovering just above Connor's lips, hesitating still. Connor whimpers, once, in the back of his throat, and Murphy can hear it, can feel it on the palm of his hand. And he groans, just a little, presses their mouths together. It's soft, slow, tentative, and so good. So right. He pushes a little, opens his mouth against his brother's, and finally Connor's hands are moving, reaching up, clutching his shoulders, moving under the loose arms of his t-shirt, sliding against freckled skin. Perfect, perfect.
Too fast, too soon to do anything, to do everything. He kisses Connor's mouth, glides his tongue over his lips, into his mouth, drops his hands, slides them under Connor's shirt. Scratches them lightly over tanned skin, and Connor runs his hands up and down Murphy's back.
They pull apart, a little, breath gasping slightly.
"Can we really do this?" Murphy asks, unsure for the first time, thinking maybe of Il Duce and maybe of God. Connor just butts his head into Murphy's shoulder, nonverbal answers working just as well, and Murphy pulls Connor to him (back to front, can feel Connor's spine against his chest, hard ridges of bone), hands still pressed up against his stomach, under his shirt. He props his head on Connor's wet shoulder, the back of his neck, content, for now, to sleep. Bodies twined together for security on a sterilized comforter.
They're still going to hell, and yeah, it's going to be bad. Worse than they can imagine. But they'll still be able to look back and remember this. Remember when they were still God's chosen. Remember when they meant more to each other than anything. Remember when they were still loved.