Follow you

This is a short one-shot, and a Death Fic, so please don't read if you don't like sad things.

The job started like any other. An outfit of the Russian mob was holding a meeting in a warehouse by the bay, and Connor and Murphy meant to meet them there.

They went in like always: confident, maybe even cocky.

But these bastards knew what they were doing.

Connor dived behind a wooden crate, and provided cover fire for Murphy while he tried to get up behind the men. But it wasn't working.

The Russians had blocked off all the exits.

And when Connor saw that they had blocked his brother in, he knew he had to do something.

And something, he did.

He stood up from behind the crate, to present the pricks with another target, and he took down every motherfucker he could.

Murph took the opportunity to make his way back to his twin's side, firing the whole way.

Just when Murph had reached Con's side, the unthinkable happened.

Con got shot.

And then he went down.

Murphy had seen his brother get shot more times than he cared to remember. But remember, he did. He knew every last scar, freckle, and burn on his brother's body. And when the bullet hit him, and Murph heard Connor's scream of pain, and he saw the gush of blood from his brother's chest, he knew.

He knew it was time.

He jumped forward as Con fell, and caught his brother, whose weight brought Murph down with him. Even though he could feel it, in the gaping hole that was starting to form in his heart, that this was the end for his dear brother, a part of him couldn't accept it.

Murph ignored the tears that had begun to stream down his face, and he wept over his brother, whose hand came up to caress his hair. Murph held Connor, his twin's head in his lap, for just a moment. And then he acted.

With a scream of rage, he stood upright, taking care not to injure Con further. And he shot.

He shot every fucker that Connor hadn't taken down to save him.

And when the bullet hit his own chest, he felt nothing but relief.

He shot the last man, the one that had gotten him, and the bastard went down hard.

Murph put his hand to he chest. He gathered up some of the blood onto his fingers. And as he looked down at the red, he smiled.

He fell to the ground, unable and unwilling to continue supporting himself. There was only one thing left to do, after all.

"No, Murph," Con choked out, blood bubbling up from between his lips.

Murph gently placed his fingers on Connor's mouth, smearing his own blood there. "Shhh," he whispered. "It's be'er this way, Con."

Connor met Murphy's gaze, bright blue eyes filled with understanding. "Aye," he said.

And Murphy could have said that he loved him. He could have said that his life wouldn't be worth living without Connor, that he would be a shell of a person without his other half. He could tell him that he would rather die then live a moment alone.

But there wasn't any need. Connor knew.

They were twins. Two bodies with one soul. They understood each other, knew one another more than they knew themselves.

They were soulmates.

So there was no need to waste their last breaths explaining things that both already knew in their hearts.

And so Murphy reached forward, and pressed his bloody lips against Connor's. This kiss wasn't a 'goodbye', but a 'see you soon.' Because, though they weren't sure where they were going, they knew that they'd go there together.

When the police found them later that night, Murphy had his head pressed to Connor's chest, and Connor's arm was still wrapped around his brother's back in a loving embrace.

This wasn't even a complete idea; I just wanted to write something sad. Thank you for reading, and please review to let me know what you think!

Title is from "I Will Follow You Into the Dark." (I prefer the Amanda Palmer version. Much sadder and slower.)