Disclaimer: Don't own anything but the idea behind the oneshot.

Deartháireacha:

Conner came to, blearily aware that he was in a hospital. The hard, uncomfortable bed beneath him was a solid sign, as well as the noise of countless people bustling by outside the door to the room he was in, confirmed his suspicion. He could hear that there were other people in the room as well, more than one hushed voice was speaking somewhere off to his right. None of the voices registered, and his thoughts automatically turned to where his brother was at that moment.

Peeling back heavy eyelids Conner immediately saw the sterile, blue curtain that was drawn around his bed, the flimsy thing offering the least bit of privacy in the multi- patient room. The florescent light bulbs above his half of the room were turned off; the only light in the room was filtering through from the other side of the curtain. He was still in his bathrobe, the soft material now marred by vicious looking blood stains spattered over it, and his boxers, his boots having been removed at some point during his blackout.

Without assessing any damage Conner turned his head to the side, and was met with the feeling of a hammer smashing into his head, though he figured that taking the blunt end of a gun to the head was more likely the cause of the pain. He'd forgotten about that. Through watery and pained vision he met blue eyes that he could've seen staring back at him in a mirror.

Murphy leaned back in his chair once Conner had noticed his presence, anxiety and relief plastered plainly over his face. He'd managed to fair better from the fight than his brother had, the only trauma he'd received was emotionally. Murphy slouched and propped both elbows onto the armrests of the chair, lacing his fingers and reading Conner's face with a careful and expert eye. "How ye feelin'?" he asked as his brother made a pitiful attempt to sit up.

Conner quickly surrendered to the pain that pierced through him and settled for propping an elbow beneath him to look at Murphy without his head feeling like it would split open. "A bit like a mean Russian took a fuckin' sledge hammer to me head. So all in all pretty fuckin' dandy." He replied, trying to get purchase with his foot to scoot so that he was more sitting than lying, until pain erupted up his calf. "Fuck, and me foot." He added, only then noticing the bandage that was wrapped tightly around his ankle.

"Yea you're lucky that's not broken by the way." Murphy told him. "What after falling five fucking stories with only a fat Russian to cushion your fall." He said with a disapproving glare.

Never one to give up, Conner finally managed to lever himself up, his movement accompanied by a few choice profanities, and threw his legs over the side of the gurney, meeting his brothers unflinching gaze. Neither Irishman said anything; everything that needed to be expressed was done so silently in a way that only close brothers could manage.

Conner rubbed his arm wearily, absently noticing the bandages that encircled his throbbing wrists. Are you alright?

Murphy gave him a small smile. I'm fine.

Conner shook his head slightly, wincing at the stab behind his eyes. We're not telling Ma about this.

Murphy chuckled. She'd swim across the fuckin' ocean just so she could pummel us senseless for gettin' in a scrap… again.

Well it wouldn't so much be the scrappin' as it would be the whole pissing off the Russian mob and getting a gun pointed at us cause of it, thing.

Murphy's smile faded and his gaze hardened, but it didn't stop Conner from seeing the concern and vulnerability behind the steeled front.

Don't you ever fucking do that again. Conner knew he was thinking by the way Murphy suddenly chewed on his thumb, a nervous habit from their childhood. He was referring to Conner's death defying stunt with the toilet and five story fall.

"What would you've done, Murph?" he asked, the image of his brother sending him one last look over a shoulder as he was dragged out the door to his death, flashing in front of his eyes. The image would forever haunt Conner. "S'not like I could just fucking stand by and wait t'hear the gun shot that would've been the end a' you."

"Well o'course not, never once suspected that you would." Murphy replied leaning forward in his chair. "But was jumpin' off the fuckin' roof really the best way to avoid that?"

Conner rubbed the muscle at the base of his neck, his own nervous habit. "Perhaps not… but in the heat of the moment it seemed like me best choice."

"Best choice my ass." Murphy said, intending to call his brother's bluff. "Don't even try to fucking hide that in the back of yer mind you were thinkin' that if you were too fucking late to save me, jumpin' down there would've meant that at least you wouldn't be left alone." He said seriously. "That fall could've fuckin' killed ye." He'd hit the right nerve, Conner couldn't meet his eyes and that he'd hit that nerve scared Murphy more than having the Russian's gun to his head did.

There was a long stretch of silence before Conner finally spoke. "Murph," he took a deep breath, his eyes turning toward the ceiling as he shook his head. "Jesus fucking christ, I don't even know. Maybe I was thinking that. If I had been too late maybe it would've been easier dyin' than havin' to live with your death on me hands." He met his brother's gaze. "I don't know, Murph."

Murphy hated hearing those words from his brother, hated what they meant, hated everything about them. If he had died he would've wanted to die knowing that his brother was still breathing, still fighting. To hear Conner confess that he would've rather committed suicide than have to go on living without him made Murphy want to drag Conner to church and make him sit there and pray till his head sat strait again. "That's fucking stupid Conner, and you fuckin' know it." He finally managed after a moment.

"Don't even try to fuckin' pull that." Conner spat, his morbid calmness ebbing away into anger. "What if it'd been me that was dragged away to be executed, what if you were the one handcuffed to that fucking toilet… what would you've fucking done?" he asked, managing to circle around to his original question.

Murphy stared at him, finally finding some reason behind his brother's actions. It was cruel of him to expect Conner to go on living without him if he wouldn't want to if the roles had been reversed. They were brothers, twins. It seemed impossible to find one without the other. No matter where they went or what they did they were always by each other's side, it had always been that way.

Conner saw the understanding in his brother's eyes and sighed, his anger dissipating. "Suicide is a mortal sin." He simply stated rubbing a hand furiously across his eyes.

"Aye." Murphy replied. "Then when we do go, we best piss off enough fuckin' people that we go together." He said with a small smile.

"Well, with the day we've had it seems like it won't be that fucking hard now does it?" Conner said chuckling despite the eeriness that had settled over the twins.

Murphy laughed too. "We do have a knack for makin' idiots around us wanna take a gun and unload it into our heads."

When Murphy's laughter quieted silence stole the air again. Both brothers sat in quiet, unsettling yet somehow comforting acceptance that they would never have to be without the other. They'd come into the world together, and they'd go out together. That alone seemed to help them balance all of the weight on their shoulders with a little more grace.

After a while Conner broke into a smile. "You've got to admit one thing, at least." He said looking at his brother with humor in his eyes.

"An' what's that?" Murphy asked.

"That was one well fuckin' aimed toilet."

-The End-

Deartháireacha- pronounced [dri-haw-rakha] means "Brothers" in Irish Gaelic.

The unsatisfied need to know what happend at the hospital made me start writing this, though I was a little surprised where Conner and Murphy's conversation ended up leading to, but I'm pleased with the result none the less (especially since I wrote this within about two and a half hours). Really hope I managed to portray our favorite Irishmen correctly! Reviews are greatly welcomed, even criticism (it helps me grow).