Title: My Idea

Author: Sierra

Rated: M for Language

Disclaimer: God, I wish I owned this . . . but I don't. So please don't sue me.

Summary: Murphy deals with his feelings of guilt the night after Rocco's death, and Connor tries to help.

A/N: My very first BDS fanfic! I watched the movie for the first time years ago, and have been a fan ever since, but lately for some reason it is ALL I want to watch. So finally I decided to jot something down. Got it done in about an hour so it's probably a little choppy, I hope you enjoy but please do let me know if you think of any critiques!

xxx

"It was your idea to bring him in!"

Murphy flinched as the words rang in his head again, the accusation laying heavy on his mind and thick in the air; he dropped his head, resting his forehead on his sweaty palms and squeezing his eyes shut. The images were still flashing before him: Rocco, covered in blood, screaming in agony as his finger was blown away. Connor screaming as a finger was dug into the bullet hole in his leg. And finally, Rocco gasping feebly for air, struggling to speak . . . the life draining from his eyes.

My idea.

Connor had resisted the idea of bringing Rocco in, they talked about it amongst themselves when the Italian was in the other room. He was slow, unreliable, quick to fly off the handle, a liability they couldn't afford. But a friend, Murphy had countered, someone they could count on. And it couldn't hurt to have someone else on their side, could it?

It didn't hurt them. But it sure as fuck didn't turn out well for Roc.

Hot tears stung his eyes and he wiped them away furiously, already having shed them for his dear friend; right there in the basement, not caring who heard him sob. He'd buried his face in Rocco's bloody shirt, gasped and struggled, pleaded with God in vain, until finally he pulled himself together long enough for them to escape Yakavetta's house.

That was hours ago, and now they were in a quiet motel room, on the outskirts of the city; Da and Connor had gotten up only minutes before to go outside for a smoke, so Murphy was left alone, which was strange enough in itself. He was never without Connor. Fuck, they practically took shits together . . . didn't have much of a choice, what with their living situation, but still. He felt empty without his twin in sight. And even emptier knowing why Connor had left him alone. Oh sure, he'd offered a smoke, but he didn't even look him in the eye . . . his own eyes were filled with anger, and bitterness. He blamed Murphy.

And why not? It was my idea.

He wished they'd thought to grab some liquor before hunkering down for the night, he sure could use a shot of Doc's finest whiskey; something to make him forget, even for a little while. It'd be worth the hangover in the morning, just to have a couple hours of peace, maybe even a couple hours of sleep. He sure as hell wasn't going to get any sober.

"Fuck!" Murphy spat the word before he even knew he was thinking it, rising from the bed and clenching his fists. He wanted a fight, a way to get it all out . . . goddamn if he couldn't drink, he could at least have a good row, right? Connor would probably enjoy knocking him around a bit, maybe if he went out there and got a good rise out of him . . .

No. He couldn't bear to see that look in Connor's eyes again.

Gasping with frustration, Murphy swung around and plowed his fist into the wall; the wood splintered under the weight of his knuckles, and the skin on his hand broke open. He didn't notice the pain, and threw his other fist against the wall as well, crying out softly as his wounded wrist was jarred painfully; the cuts left from where Connor had broken the handcuff re-opened and slowly began to seep blood down his arm.

"Murph!"

The door was being flung open as Connor's voice cried out, and when Murphy looked over his shoulder his twin was standing there, cigarette still in his hand, his face pinched with worry. In the doorway was their father, gazing upon his boys warily, his expression impossible to read.

"What tha' fuck is goin' on here?" Connor demanded. "There's people next door . . . what if they'd heard ya?" He ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Christ, Murph."

"Sorry . . . " the word came out quietly, even for Murphy.

Connor blinked once, slowly, and looked up. "Are ya alright?"

" . . . 'm fine." Murphy sat back down on the bed, gesturing at the wall. "Just, seemed like tha' thing to do."

It was somewhat of a bark, half-laugh and half-scoff, that came from Connor's mouth then; his face softened into a sympathetic smile as he walked over to his brother. "Typical Murph," he said, fondly, "flyin' off the handle- "

A sob escaped from deep in Murphy's throat as Connor's words were repeated, and he leaned over to hide the tears that he suddenly had no control over. For his part, Connor was shocked into silence, unsure what to do or how to comfort his twin, who began to cry in earnest, no longer attempting to disguise it. Briefly, Connor glanced at their father, who was even less-equipped than he was, to deal with it, so instead he backed out into the night, closing the door softly.

"Murph . . . " Connor knelt to the floor, dipping his head so he could find Murphy's eyes and locked gaze; the watery blue eyes that met his caused his throat to constrict and his own eyes to sting. Neither spoke a word, just sat still as Murphy gasped, trying to catch his breath in between his sobs.

Finally, Connor took his twin's hand and inspected the angry gashes on his wrist, the cuts on his knuckles. "We best be takin' care of that," he said, "can't it gettin' infected." He patted Murphy's shoulder as he stood up, walking over to the cabinet and retrieving the few medical supplies they'd carried with them. "Here we go," he muttered, speaking more for himself than anyone else, as Murphy didn't seem to hear a word anyway. Peroxide, a little gauze, some tape . . . ought to do the trick.

"Let me see." Connor spoke quietly, but Murphy always obeyed; they never talked about it, but it was always Connor as the big brother, caring for the younger one even though they were minutes apart.

"It's not that bad," Murphy murmured, wincing ever-so-slightly as Connor took his hand and began to examine it.

"I think it's broken," Connor said, chewing on his lip, trying to focus on the task instead of the tiny whimper Murphy made when he turned over the hand.

"You a fuckin' doctor now?"

"Fuck you, I know shit." Connor smiled, his eyes twinkling mischieviously but dying just as quickly when he saw no humor reflected back on Murphy's face. One eye was bruised so dark it was nearly black, his nose was bent at an awkward angle, dried blood was stuck around his mouth; as usual, he'd taken a worse beating than Connor, always the one to run his mouth and suffer more because of it.

But Connor wasn't a doctor, and there wasn't a whole lot he could do with medical supplies from a drug store. He worked quickly, dabbing at the cuts on Murphy's wrist and a nasty one over his eyebrow; he wrapped the swollen, purple hand as tenderly as he could, not sure if he was helping any but feeling like it should be done.

He looked up quickly when another, tiny sob came from Murphy, this time followed by words, barely ground out: "I'm sorry, Connor . . . I'm so sorry."

"What tha' fuck for?" Connor was beyond confused.

"You know."

"I surely don't!" Still kneeling in front of his twin, Connor reached up to take Murphy's chin. "Look at me, brother."

Murphy grimaced, hardly able to look Connor in the eye. " . . . Rocco."

"Well, I'm sorry about that too- "

"No," Murphy interrupted, "I'm sorry, Connor. I know it ain't somethin' ya can just forgive but I, I can't stand it- it was my fault, I shouldn't have made ya let him in- if I'd just listened to ya he'd still be here! He'd -"

"You cut that shit out right now!" Connor snapped, the hand on Murphy's chin now pointing at him. "This wasn't your fault, Murph."

"Yes, it was." Murphy swallowed hard, his face beginning to crumple as more tears fell. "Ya said it yourself . . . it was my idea. I know ya must hate me for it, and I don't blame ya . . . "

"You're talkin' crazy now!" Quickly, Connor got onto the bed next to his twin, wrapping one arm around his shaking shoulders and pulling him close. "I could never hate ya, Murph. And I don't blame ya. Not one bit."

"It was my idea."

"And it was what Rocco wanted."

Murphy sniffled, leaning into his brother's embrace and relishing the comfort he found there, knowing Connor didn't hate him, could never hate him. "I just can't stop seein' him like that," he whispered. "Layin' there . . . "

"I know." Connor pulled him a little closer and rested his chin on top of Murphy's dark hair. "Me too."

"What tha fuck were we thinkin'? We're gonna end up just like him . . . we don't know what we're doin', Conn."

"God's will, Murph," Connor reminded him, gently. "We were meant to do this."

Silence for a few minutes as Murphy calmed once again, and Connor held onto him tightly; then, quiet words, muffled as they were uttered with Murphy's face pressed into his brother's chest. "I can't lose ya, Connor."

Connor sighed, placed a kiss on top of his brother's head, and wrapped his other arm around him.

"Never gonna happen, Murph."