Current mood:	nerdy
Current music:	This Mortal Coil: Song To The Siren

Fic: La Ultima Hora, C/M, R.
It's the 29th here in England, so...

Title: La Ultima Hora
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Connor/Murphy
Rating: R, for violence, death.
Summary: Connor's life takes an unexpected turn.
Word Count: 3,045
WARNING!: This fic has wings in it. And a character death. And angst. Big dollops of angst. So if any of that makes you crave kittens and wool blankets, it's probably wise to skip ahead to something a little fluffier. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Note: Written for the Flying Leap challenge. My Quote: "Fly from the company of the wicked - fly and turn not back." Attribution: Plato (c. 427-347 B.C.), Greek philosopher.
Thanks: Amy, Kady and Kelly for putting up with me while I wrote this. ~heh~
Disclaimer: True only in our heads. McManus brothers borrowed from Troy Duffy. :)




La Ultima Hora

It was snowing. Fat, white flakes drifted from somewhere out of reach, settled like footprints on the ground. He stood, tiny flecks of ice glittering in his hair, watching another man cross the street towards him. It was early, nothing else moved, nobody else was awake. The one who had been waiting, a young, sleepy looking man, turned as the other got closer, and they disappeared into a building together.

*

"Go away." The voice was muffled by a navy blanket, its owner lost in thick woolen folds. "I said it'd be alright."

"He's a good doctor, Conn. Smecker sent him." There was a thump as Murphy's knees hit the floorboards beside the mattress upon which Connor lay. "It's okay to ask for help sometimes, you said. You told me that, remember?"

"Don't need help." The blanket shifted, was pushed aside by a heavy hand. Dishevelled blond spikes were revealed, a pale face beneath them, dark smudges under bloodshot eyes.

"You can barely get out of that bed, Conn. There's nothin' else I can do for you." Murphy sounded desperate, pleading silently with Connor to just give in and let the doctor look at him. He touched his brother's cheek; it was cold beneath his fingers, and he had just been out in the snow without any gloves. "You don't want to die, do you?"

"If God means to take me now..." Connor trailed off, turning away with some effort. Murphy moved his hand, rested it instead in Connor's hair.

"If God means to take you, then the doctor won't be able to help either. So it'll do no harm to let him look, now will it?"

"Will you ever let up if I keep sayin' no?" The question was mumbled, disjointed, as though Connor was fighting tears. Murphy knew they were tears of pain.

"When have I ever quit?" Murphy's smile was weak, unseen. He ran his fingers through thick hair and burrowed his hand beneath the blanket until he felt the soft brush of a feather against his palm.

"Fine. Let him look." Connor fell perfectly still, silent as Murphy pulled the blanket completely away. They both heard the doctor gasp. "Let me guess. You've never seen anythin' like it before?"

"I haven't." The doctor moved, knelt, carried out his examination under Murphy's watchful eye. He measured and made notes, prodded until his finger hit a particularly tender spot that had Connor howling and reaching for Murphy's hand. He seemed hesitant to say anything at all until Murphy asked him, "They're wings, aren't they, doc?"

But the doctor wasn't having it. "Impossible. Some sort of growth at the moment. I must suggest you and your brother make an appointment with a surgeon. You might learn more about this... Condition. I've not seen anything like it, I'm afraid. I've heard of cancerous growths covered with hair, but feathers? I really think you should go to a hospital."

"Connor doesn't like hospitals. Isn't there anything y'can do? Give him some pills or somethin' for the pain?"

"I can prescribe something for that, yes. But it won't make this go away."

Murphy sighed, resigned. "Alright."

*

As soon as the door closed, Connor spoke. "I'm not goin' to some fuckin' hospital. So you can get that notion out of your head right now."

"But you need-"

"All I need is right here." Connor lay his hand on Murphy's foot and let out a shuddering breath. "So please. Please don't make me go, and don't leave me here alone."

The foot pulled sharply out from beneath Connor's hand, slid down as Murphy stretched out beside his brother. "When have I ever..." He was almost angry. Connor had never been without him, not really. Even if he was a block away, because it had never been further than that, Murphy could feel Connor with him. He'd always been certain that Connor felt the same way. "When have I ever left you alone?"

Connor's eyes grew wide, round, and he reached desperately for Murphy's hand. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry, it's just that this hurts. And I know you'd rather be anywhere but here. No, don't try to tell me it's okay," Connor silenced Murphy's protests with nothing more than whispered words. "I know you hate this."

"I don't hate it. I love you, don't I?"

Connor nodded, ground the heel of his hand against each of his eyes, trying to stem the threat of tears. "I'm sorry, Murphy. I just want to know why. It's makin' me crazy, I just... Want to know why."

*

Murphy woke with a start, five seconds before Connor started screaming. The room was pitch black, but Murphy's hands still found his brother's body, pulled the writhing form in close and safe. He hushed Connor, eyes stinging and wet, and held him tightly to let him know he wasn't alone. The smell of blood filled Murphy's nostrils; he clung to Connor and wept even harder, praying that this wasn't the end. Not yet, not now, please God, not now.

The room grew light around them, and still Murphy didn't let go of Connor. He held on to every shiver, every violent twitching of muscles, every ragged sound. Connor was still alive, and that was all that mattered. Murphy didn't think about anything else; just Connor, Connor's heartbeat, Connor's breaths. He didn't think about the blood beneath his fingers, nor the strange, new shape of Connor's shoulderblades. He resolutely didn't think about the faint rustling of feathers.

*

When Murphy next woke, he was alone. He pulled back the covers, his mouth becoming suddenly dry as he saw the blood, downy feathers stuck to the sheets.

"Connor." Murphy stumbled out of bed, reaching for his boots. One quick look around the room told him what he already knew; Connor was not there. "Oh, Jesus, oh no. Don't fuckin' do this to me, Connor."

He didn't bother to tie his laces, just grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the door and ran, crying his brother's name. People stared as he tore down the street, wild and terrified. He searched all the places he thought Connor might be, but couldn't find him. No reply came to his desperate cries. When he could run no further, Murphy simply let himself fall to the ground. He turned onto his back and stared up at the sky. Connor was up there, somewhere. He was gone.

Murphy closed his eyes. "So take me too, Lord," he whispered.

Then it came. A stirring in the air, the sound of breath catching, the heavy sound of slowing footsteps. A touch, different somehow.

"Where were you?"

"I thought I was dead."

Murphy laughed, the sound hollow, almost bitter. "You thought you were dead? What the fuck did you expect me to think?" He frowned, about to open his eyes, when Connor's mouth covered his. Warm and soft, the tongue pressing between Murphy's lips. New. Dangerous. He felt Connor drawing away, put up his arms to try to catch him. "Stay," he murmured, breathing in Connor's own breaths. "Please." He wanted to look, but didn't dare to as his fingers found feathers that shuddered under his touch. "Connor..."

"Ssh. Don't ask me, alright? I don't have any answers yet."

"We've got so much to do. Tell me there'll be time."

"There will be."

Murphy moved his hands, rested them instead on narrow, strong shoulders. Muscles jumped under his palms as he squeezed, pulled, insisted Connor's mouth back over his own. He hadn't kissed like this before, hadn't kissed like anything for years, but all his doubts were swallowed, lapped up by a hungry tongue. Connor relaxed more fully, his weight pressing Murphy into damp grass. And then he shifted, and that, that was a new problem. It was fight or flight, and Murphy wasn't the one growing wings around here. So he shoved, throwing Connor off balance, and scrambled to his feet. Something grey, tinged blue, passed before his eyes as he finally opened them. He stood, panting.

Connor was gone again. Murphy couldn't see him. "What the fuck?" He was going insane, that was it. The only possible explanation for all of this was that he'd finally lost his mind.

"I'm sorry."

Oh. Oh. Murphy stared up at his brother, ignoring the aches awakening throughout his body. "How did you...?" He trailed off. It was a dumb question, after all, if he just gave in and believed what he was seeing. "You should get down from there before you hurt yourself, y'dumb fuck. You're not fuckin' Superman yet, alright?"

"True. I don't own any tights, for a start."

Murphy smiled, despite himself, and sat back down on the grass. The damp was chilling, but his blood was humming and hot. "I don't know why I did that."

"Because you're a good Catholic boy?" Connor suggested with a smirk.

"A better one than you, eh?" Murphy sighed, laying back to stretch out in the sun. "Kissin' is one thing, Conn. That..." He squirmed, just thinking of it. "That was quite another."

Above, Connor was pulling at one of his wings, thick grey feathers fluttering in the breeze. "You liked it," he said, accusation in the words.

"That's why it's a sin. Like Ma said. Everythin' y'might enjoy is a sin."

"She was probably drunk at the time."

Murphy's eyes widened as Connor stepped off the edge of the roof. Drifted down with the slightest fluttering of wings, didn't fall. "I think she had the right idea," he muttered.

"Come home," Connor said.

"You are not walkin' through the streets with those."

"I can't just leave them here, now can I?"

Murphy felt the urge to poke his tongue out, but managed to resist. "Fine. You go the back way, though and I'll meet you there, alright?"

*

Murphy wasn't sure why, but it surprised him that Connor was there, waiting for him, when he got home. He shut the door, leaning back on it, and just took in the sight. Slim, Connor was, almost to the point of being too skinny. But there was muscle, and battle-scars, and Murphy was suddenly seeing the beauty in all of it. Then there were the wings. They looked heavy, layers of feathers giving them a fullness that made Murphy ache to touch them again, properly. They drifted down Connor's back, pale against tanned skin, their tips just brushing the backs of his knees.

"We do have a lot to do," Connor said, sounding far away, in a dream. Then, as if anticipating Murphy's question, "God spoke to me. I thought I was dead already, in heaven with all of His angels. But He spoke to me, Murphy, and He told me... He told me we have work to do."

"We knew that, didn't we?" Murphy tried not to sound as sullen as he felt. He knew it was wrong of him to wonder just what the fuck made Connor so special. Besides, maybe he just had to wait his turn. Maybe he was next on the list for wings. "We've always had work to do, Conn. Why's now any different?"

"We can reach people we've not been able to reach before."

"You can. I can stand on the ground and watch."

Connor turned, and Murphy felt his breath catch in his throat. He swallowed, inhaled again. Was that new? Or had he just never noticed it before? That look in his brother's eyes, something like hunger, lust or whatever. A lot to do. Murphy repeated it to himself like a mantra. No time to be distracted by this. By slender, solid arms encircling his waist, lips ghosting across his throat, over his shoulder, teeth scraping without warning while feathers tickled his chin. He wanted to say this changes everything, but it seemed like he was wrong. They were just wings. And this was just his brother kissing him.

Just? He heard himself moan before he could stop the sound coming out, and Connor seemed to smile into his skin, satisfied.

Murphy let his hands drift down, pulled lightly at feathers that felt like air between his fingers. He touched, and he closed his eyes when Connor touched him, and he felt himself overcome with sadness. He didn't smile when Connor slowly relieved him of his shirt. He hissed with the touch of lips to his chest, gripped Connor's hair tightly, following the movement of his head as it went down, lower. He heard Connor's knees hit the floor, and he knew what was going to happen next, but he still didn't smile. He wanted it, wanted it badly, but he was certain that once it was over, nothing would ever make him happy again.

"Work to do," Murphy mumbled, pulling Connor's head back. God, but those eyes... So full of hope and future and want and love. Murphy wanted so much to give into them, to make Connor happy even if he himself couldn't be, but there was something holding him back. Like a shadow. Not really fear, more like helplessness.

"We have time now," Connor said, kissing Murphy's stomach, pressing his nose into the fine trail of hair there. "Please. Just let me..."

"No. No, Connor." Murphy's voice was thick, the air felt like tar in his lungs. "If you do this, God-"

"I'm in His favour. And you want this, don't you? So let go."

"Maybe you are. But I'm not, alright? I love you, but not this. Not now. We've work to do." Murphy pulled away roughly, picking his shirt up off the floor.

"Yes, now."

Murphy stopped at the tone of Connor's voice. "Why?"

"It's the middle of the day." Connor looked uncomfortable. "You know the worst of them come out at night. I want you, now."

"It's not that fuckin' easy, alright?" Murphy pulled on his shirt and headed to the door. "I'm goin' out. If you're comin', then come."

"Of course I am."

*

Vigilantes. Unsung heroes. Servants of God. That's what they were supposed to be. Heroes didn't linger in backalleys while the bad guy did his thing. Murphy ground out another cigarette, patience worn thin. "For fuck's sake, Connor. What's wrong with you? What are we waitin' for?"

"I don't want to go in there."

"No, I get it. All you want to do is fuck!"

"I don't care about that any more."

Murphy knew that was an out and out lie. Connor could never lie well. At least, not to him.

Connor looked at the building again, his apprehension clear. "We'll take care of this one tomorrow."

"Like fuck. When God knows how many more kids are dead from the shite he's puttin' on the street? Get a fuckin' grip." Murphy checked his gun again, smacked the back of his hand across Connor's chest. "Come on. We get this over with and we can go home, have a beer, do whatever the fuck y'want." He started towards the side of the building before Connor could answer, soon heard his brother's steps behind him. He heard, too, the unspoken words. Got a bad feeling about this. But it was what God had told them to do. So they would do it, bad feeling or not.

They were silent, ascending the stairs. Connor moved ahead of Murphy, listening. He'd always had the better ear. When they reached the top floor, they stopped. Quietly recalled the plan, such as it was.

*

There were only supposed to be three guys. Four, tops. But this wasn't a drug deal, it was a fucking mob pow-wow. Murphy went left, Connor ran to the right, and the shooting began. There was nothing in their favour. Gunfights didn't happen in slow-mo, and these guys weren't the old mob. They were new, young. They were fast. Still, Murphy dodged and shot, swore loudly as a bullet zipped past his ear, almost dropped his gun as another grazed his knuckles. But he never gave in.

Dust rose, choking the air from the room. Another shot, then silence, because chaos always ended with perfect calm, right? Murphy stayed pressed to the wall, waiting for the dust and smoke to clear. He was lifting his hand to rub his eyes when he heard it, across the room. Connor, screaming. Glass breaking and another shot.

"Flap your fuckin' wings, dumb Irish fuck."

Laughter, then, which Murphy would never forget. He took aim and fired the final shot, heard the cry as it hit home. Dazed, he staggered across to the broken window, looked down into the street below. Everything down there was perfectly still. Including Connor. Murphy felt numb at the sight. He wanted to follow. He wanted to fly, away from the mess behind him. Away from this evil fucking city. He put his hand on the edge of the window-frame, smiled through a grimace, through tears, as a shard of glass dug into the heel of his hand. But he didn't climb through.

By the time he got down to the street, a few people had gathered, ghouls come to gawk at the battered body of a winged man. A man whose chest still moved, haltingly. Murphy dropped to his knees beside Connor, his bloody hands fluttering restlessly as he tried to work out where to touch. He lay them both over Connor's heart, felt the erratic rhythm of it.

"Don't die, please don't die," Murphy pleaded. He would have screamed for someone to call a fuckin' ambulance, but that was something other people did. All he could do was lift Connor into his arms, hold him close and whisper a prayer. All he could do was burn, cry until his throat was too raw to make another sound, bleed until he was aching and weak. He kissed Connor's mouth, kissed his eyes and his brow. They'd had time, hadn't they? But now it was lost.

Don't look back. Murphy didn't know if Connor spoke the words. When he looked, Connor's lips only quivered as the last breath left his body. Murphy watched the life, the light go out of his eyes. He watched Connor die.

Something wrapped around his heart, warm and beautiful. He kissed Connor once more, and then...

Then he finally flew.


end.