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bds ficlet: my brother's keeper
Written for the Zombie Apocalypse Comment Ficathon, for the prompt Boondock Saints, Connor/Murphy, and death follows with them.
my brother's keeper
Connor/Murphy | adult | ~800 words
Their lives haven't changed much. They're still running, still starving. They still sleep with their guns, still pray to a bruised, empty sky, pennies sliding together in their hands as they wait for an answer.
Content warnings: character death
my brother's keeper
Connor leans back against the wall, his elbows shaking against his bent knees, listens to Murphy snore as he smokes one of their last cigarettes, takes slow hits, drags it out as long as he can. The building they're in is quietly collapsing on one side, might've been a school once, isn't much of anything now.
Smoke curls around Connor's face, stings his eyes as it drifts up toward the sagging ceiling.
Their lives haven't changed much. They're still running, still starving. They still sleep with their guns, still pray to a bruised, empty sky, pennies sliding together in their hands as they wait for an answer.
†
Their car runs out of gas on a bleak stretch of Interstate 10, a slow curve between what's left of Phoenix and the California line.
They walk west on the soft shoulder, gravel and scrub grass crunching under their boots, the desert silent around them, perfectly still. The sun beats down like something from a movie, ruthlessly hot, so blindingly yellow it's almost white, shimmering into every dip and bend in the highway; they're low on food and ammo and water, have dirt under their fingernails, blood on their hands.
Connor's chest aches, a hollow twist like a gunshot.
They find an abandoned pickup outside the specter of Quartzite, a dented heap with bald tires but nearly a quarter-tank of gas. Murphy twists the wires under the dash, a cigarette drooping from the corners of his mouth, drives slower than Connor would like, faster than is probably safe; the reach the border by late afternoon, the sky blood-red and furious as the sun pushes toward the horizon.
Murphy parks the truck in middle of the highway, and Connor stares at the mirage of Blythe as Murphy climbs down the banks of the Colorado, wades into the murky water like a baptism.
†
Murphy shouts, his elbow catching Connor's side as he shoves Connor down, as he fires his gun over Connor's head.
The things don't die so, not until you slit their throats, cut out their bloodless hearts, but the bullets slow them a little, knock them down.
Connor levels his gun at the next one, a tall guy with sallow skin and long, stringy hair. He hasn't thought of Rocco in years, nearly closes his eyes as he pulls the trigger.
†
They move together in the back of the pickup, the sky dark and listless above them, Connor's jeans pushed down to his knees, Murphy's breath catching as Connor's hand wraps around his cock.
Connor hides his face in Murphy's neck, smells blood and sweat and dirt; Murphy is missing a tooth, and Connor's lips are chapped with worry, swollen from a lack of water. They haven't kissed in months, keep touching each other because they always have, too tired now to even break an old habit.
Murphy's ribs make sharp lines under his skin, and Connor presses his ear to Murphy's chest, listens to the rattling beat of Murphy's heart.
†
The truck gives out in Banning, the engine spitting and coughing as it sucks air, chokes on fumes. The walk up the off-ramp with no food and the last of their guns, spend the night in the shell of a gas station, their backs against the counter and their knees pulled up to their chests.
Murphy prays under his breath, reads a Bible that looks too small for his hands, his dirty fingers tearing the pages as he frowns at Revelations. His faith is slipping, pooling around his feet like a shadow; Connor lost his before they went to prison, left in the house where their father died, never looked back.
He wraps his arm around Murphy's shoulder, knots his fingers in Murphy's greasy hair.
†
Murphy takes a wound to the thigh, fingernails instead of teeth, but Connor worries just the same, doesn't have any way to close it, enough water to keep it clean. It reddens after it stops bleeding, puckers and burns under Connor's hands, smells like what Connor used to think of as death; Murphy grits his teeth when he stands, walks with a limp, holds Connor's arm with fingers that pinch and bruise.
He sweats when he sleeps. His eyes hollow, and his skin turns the color of old bones.
Connor kneels between Murphy's legs at the first, dull stretch of dawn, folds Murphy's shaking hand around the butt of his gun. The barrel is cold against Connor's temple; Murphy doesn't even blink.
In Nomini Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti.
Connor closes his eyes, figures it isn't suicide if they're both already dead.
my brother's keeper
Connor/Murphy | adult | ~800 words
Their lives haven't changed much. They're still running, still starving. They still sleep with their guns, still pray to a bruised, empty sky, pennies sliding together in their hands as they wait for an answer.
Content warnings: character death
my brother's keeper
Connor leans back against the wall, his elbows shaking against his bent knees, listens to Murphy snore as he smokes one of their last cigarettes, takes slow hits, drags it out as long as he can. The building they're in is quietly collapsing on one side, might've been a school once, isn't much of anything now.
Smoke curls around Connor's face, stings his eyes as it drifts up toward the sagging ceiling.
Their lives haven't changed much. They're still running, still starving. They still sleep with their guns, still pray to a bruised, empty sky, pennies sliding together in their hands as they wait for an answer.
†
Their car runs out of gas on a bleak stretch of Interstate 10, a slow curve between what's left of Phoenix and the California line.
They walk west on the soft shoulder, gravel and scrub grass crunching under their boots, the desert silent around them, perfectly still. The sun beats down like something from a movie, ruthlessly hot, so blindingly yellow it's almost white, shimmering into every dip and bend in the highway; they're low on food and ammo and water, have dirt under their fingernails, blood on their hands.
Connor's chest aches, a hollow twist like a gunshot.
They find an abandoned pickup outside the specter of Quartzite, a dented heap with bald tires but nearly a quarter-tank of gas. Murphy twists the wires under the dash, a cigarette drooping from the corners of his mouth, drives slower than Connor would like, faster than is probably safe; the reach the border by late afternoon, the sky blood-red and furious as the sun pushes toward the horizon.
Murphy parks the truck in middle of the highway, and Connor stares at the mirage of Blythe as Murphy climbs down the banks of the Colorado, wades into the murky water like a baptism.
†
Murphy shouts, his elbow catching Connor's side as he shoves Connor down, as he fires his gun over Connor's head.
The things don't die so, not until you slit their throats, cut out their bloodless hearts, but the bullets slow them a little, knock them down.
Connor levels his gun at the next one, a tall guy with sallow skin and long, stringy hair. He hasn't thought of Rocco in years, nearly closes his eyes as he pulls the trigger.
†
They move together in the back of the pickup, the sky dark and listless above them, Connor's jeans pushed down to his knees, Murphy's breath catching as Connor's hand wraps around his cock.
Connor hides his face in Murphy's neck, smells blood and sweat and dirt; Murphy is missing a tooth, and Connor's lips are chapped with worry, swollen from a lack of water. They haven't kissed in months, keep touching each other because they always have, too tired now to even break an old habit.
Murphy's ribs make sharp lines under his skin, and Connor presses his ear to Murphy's chest, listens to the rattling beat of Murphy's heart.
†
The truck gives out in Banning, the engine spitting and coughing as it sucks air, chokes on fumes. The walk up the off-ramp with no food and the last of their guns, spend the night in the shell of a gas station, their backs against the counter and their knees pulled up to their chests.
Murphy prays under his breath, reads a Bible that looks too small for his hands, his dirty fingers tearing the pages as he frowns at Revelations. His faith is slipping, pooling around his feet like a shadow; Connor lost his before they went to prison, left in the house where their father died, never looked back.
He wraps his arm around Murphy's shoulder, knots his fingers in Murphy's greasy hair.
†
Murphy takes a wound to the thigh, fingernails instead of teeth, but Connor worries just the same, doesn't have any way to close it, enough water to keep it clean. It reddens after it stops bleeding, puckers and burns under Connor's hands, smells like what Connor used to think of as death; Murphy grits his teeth when he stands, walks with a limp, holds Connor's arm with fingers that pinch and bruise.
He sweats when he sleeps. His eyes hollow, and his skin turns the color of old bones.
Connor kneels between Murphy's legs at the first, dull stretch of dawn, folds Murphy's shaking hand around the butt of his gun. The barrel is cold against Connor's temple; Murphy doesn't even blink.
In Nomini Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti.
Connor closes his eyes, figures it isn't suicide if they're both already dead.