new BDS fic thing
This is untitled as of right now, and probably will continue to remain nameless for a while. Guess I'll just refer to it as the BDS in Canada story, because, well, they are in Canada, for a duration of the fic. So far I've only got the Prologue down solid - which is weird because the story starts off with the ending and then skips back to the beginning, then ends up at the end again - and am working on the rest slowly, but surely. The beginning of Part One is here, too. Take it for what you will. Thoughts and suggestions are welcomed!
PROLOGUE
There were a million things that could go wrong in a situation like this. For instance, the gun that Murphy held could go off prematurely and at exactly the wrong moment because he was almost positive it had a hair trigger, and the creaky boards they were trying not to shift around on too much could give with the slightest transfer of weight.
And, plus, it was fucking cold – he was sure he had gone numb from head to toe. Thoroughly frozen, so to speak, in the blistering frost of the Canadian outback. He really hated that he couldn’t feel his toes anymore.
“Be cool,” Connor said, his American accent delivered perfectly, given the strenuous situation they were in. Murphy’s own accent was so horrendous and fake that he wasn’t opening his mouth unless he had to.
A groan splintered through the wood, a clear warning that unless they wanted to die of hypothermia drowning in the middle of a freezing lake, they had better haul ass out of there before the boards toppled like a house of cards from underneath them.
Murphy shivered but managed to keep his gun-hand steady and his glare intimidating. He hoped it made up for his lack of verbal threatening.
“I’m seriously hoping you don’t make us shoot you, Mr. Ellison. But we need. That. Money. Now, preferably.” Said Connor. He flicked his gaze over to Murphy for a split second, reassuring him with a subtle look that things were going to work out. They had Ellison shaking in his boots – he was just good at hiding it, like any slime-ball mafioso who got their business threatened at least once a week.
“You forget,” the slick bastard had the balls to toss his head, looking ridiculously bloated in his heavy jacket and three layers of fleece. “You kill me, and the cops will be on to you so fast, you won’t know what hit you. I’m a very important man, in these parts.”
“Yeah? You won’t be so important once you’re dead.” Connor explained very deliberately, as if to a child. Ellison let his hands drop near his waist, and immediately Murphy advanced a step forward and shoved the gun in the man’s face until he raised them again. He winced at the sound of the boards protesting.
They certainly needed to move faster than this, thought Murphy, and glared at Connor impatiently.
Connor, not missing Murphy’s silent push, gave a slight nod in understanding. “Tell us where the money is, and we’ll maybe let you go with a bullet in the foot. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to dig one out of your skull.”
“One million is a lot of money. You don’t think I’d just give it to you.” Ellison said, incredulously.
“It’s not a lot for a man like you, Mr. Ellison.” Connor sneered.
Murphy had discovered at least two things in the past couple of hours that annoyed the hell out of him about Richie Ellison: his ego, and his arrogance. Basically the same thing, but it sounded better to have more than one reason to hate the bastard, not including the fact that he was scum masquerading around like some top-notch, shiny, slick and important entrepreneur.
According to Murphy, Ellison was tackier than the gum on the bottom of his shoes.
His finger itched to just pull the damn trigger already, but he held steady, held back. They hadn’t gotten what they wanted yet – killing him off would be an unnecessary waste at this point. Connor would undoubtedly be pissed.
But hell, it would feel sweet.
“Tell us where – ” Connor’s voice dropped to a deadly quiet pitch, “the money is, or I blow your head off.” He pulled out the pistol hidden in the liner of his jacket and cocked it, the barrel aimed squarely at Ellison’s nose. No more messing around. Two guns were always more effective than one.
That seemed to get Ellison’s brain kicking into reality. He swallowed visibly as true fear entered his eyes, swallowing whatever hesitation he had before and succumbing to the sense of self-preservation. “It’s at the airport, box #76. In a duffel bag.” When he made an attempt to reach inside his coat pocket, Murphy leaned closer so that his gun was pressed up against Ellison’s temple. Ellison’s hand re-emerged with a singular key that he held up to Connor.
Murphy watched as Connor snatched it carefully out of Ellison’s fingers and slipped it inside his glove. He gave Murphy the look to back down, and he did, keeping one ear sharp for the sound of wood splintering. It would be just their luck that something incredibly unfortunate would happen once they got what they came for.
With the pistol still firmly in hand, Connor started moving back towards land while still facing their target, Murphy beside him. “Stay where you are,” Connor warned. Ellison obeyed, but it was clear he was itching to throttle them both. Murphy secretly hoped he would; it would give them a chance to land a few punches.
Slowly, as they cleared the area of apparent danger and shoddy boarding, Murphy turned and whispered: “Why didn’t you shoot the sorry bastard?”
Connor gave him a slightly surprised look, as if he had forgotten the threat he made.
“You know he’s just gonna come looking for us when all this is over,” Murphy continued, reasonably. They were going to have to race to the airport in order to get there before Ellison’s goons, whom he was going to alert as soon as they left his line of sight.
“Well, if you insist –” Connor leveled his pistol and closed one eye as he aimed, then opened both and squinted at Ellison’s figure. They weren’t that far away, but it was a fairly substantial distance. Then Murphy watched, somewhat disappointed, as Connor squeezed off two shots, and missed intentionally, he supposed.
PART ONE – Hell, in the incarnation of the modern-day kitchen and food-servicing establishment
He never thought he’d be working. As a bus-boy, no less. Of course, he was stuck with the odd job, while Connor was stuck with the glamorous job of waiter.
“I told you to shave before the interview,” Connor had said, somewhat smugly.
“My fucking razors were stolen, so bite me.” Murphy had responded sarcastically, but he’d regretted not taking his twin’s advice in the end.
They’d labeled him as the undisciplined and shabby counterpart of the two, and decided to stick him behind a cart full of dirty dishes. It wasn’t so bad, if he took into consideration that he could spit in people’s meals whenever he liked.
It was only a temporary job, just until they get could get enough money to fly Canada Air and go for the big load, one big-time narcotics-pusher and arms-dealer who had enough in the bank to make them millionaires. It was becoming increasingly annoying to wake up one day and have the electricity be cut because they couldn’t pay bills, and they couldn’t be expected to live like squatters forever.
“How long?” Murphy asked. They were in the kitchen near the freezer in the back, Murphy smoking where he shouldn’t be, and it was some hour after lunch and before dinner, the calmest time of the day. Three weeks in, and already the blisters on his feet were starting to grow their own colony, not to mention the ones on his hands. He shuddered to think of what agonizing state Connor’s feet were in.
“At least two more months – we’ve barely started.” Connor said and shook his head. He leaned against the freezer door and watched Murphy puff smoke with a disgruntled look on his face. “If this job bothers you so much, you should find somewhere else to work.”
“But – ” Murphy took a long drag and exhaled languidly, closing his eyes and slowly opening them again, focusing on Connor with a slow look. “You’d still be here. I’m not sure I could last a day anywhere without you keeping me in check. Probably have a pretty sore fist every night from all the punching.”
Murphy watched as Connor grinned, the exact reaction he was fishing for. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but then Murphy couldn’t tell him the truth without sounding like a sap.
Besides, Connor knew the truth already, and Murphy was pretty positive Connor knew what he meant. He didn’t have to communicate those sorts of things; it was an innate feeling that, upon deeper inspection, simply meant a brotherly kind of love.
They cared, they were family. Murphy wasn’t going to leave Connor for anything, not if he could help it. He’d learned from years of experience that whenever Connor was out of his sights, there was likely to be trouble just around the corner for either one or both of them.
Ever since Il Duce had gone MIA, Connor was the only immediate family Murphy had left in America. Murphy was beginning to suspect that his brother would be the only person he could ever trust who was not their mother, which was equal parts comforting as it was disturbing. He thought their mother would be proud of her sons, even though she was blind to the kind of danger their lives were put in on a regular basis.
It’s all part of the grand scheme, Murphy would say to her, if he had the chance and the courage. It’s our calling. Murphy would make her see, make her accept. Their mother would have to understand that sometimes truth was harder to swallow than lies.
She would argue, and maybe cry a little when Murphy would mention the time when Connor got two bullets lodged into his shoulder and upper chest, after which he was given a bed at the hospital for two weeks to stabilize his injuries. Under regular circumstances, they would’ve avoided the shifty looks and the hospital forms, but that time Connor’s injuries were so bad, they had no other choice but to call in a favor from Smecker to get Connor checked into the hospitable pretty much under the radar.
Murphy could trust Smecker, he mused silently, but only to a certain extent. Agent Smecker no doubt had to enlist saving his own tail as his number one priority, and when helping vigilantes like Murphy and his brother, such a task was often treading the fine line between the moral high ground and the pursuit of their brand of justice.
“Hey,” Connor snapped his fingers in front of Murphy’s eyes. Connor slowly came back into focus as Murphy blinked. “Where’d you go?” He asked.
Great question. Only reminiscing, merely thinking.
The bus-boy gig was obviously making him morose.
“Thinking,” he said, simply, and reached over to a shelf, finding an old and cracked plastic ashtray to toss the stub of his cigarette in. “I was just thinking.”
“I know,” Connor’s lip twitched wryly, “I could see the damn wheels turning from here.”
tbc...comments/suggestions welcomed!
Oh, and, I've been a bad friend, neglecting my friends page. It's somewhat terrifying to look at because its so freakin' huge. Take pity upon this poor soul and keep my up to date about important fandom related things, and real life things as well that are going on with all you lovely people? I am still checking friends list, just not as often as before, since school has been eating up so much of my time.
oh, this Halloween. I was Dana Scully. Fun! With badge and suit and everything...it was great. How was everyone else's?
PROLOGUE
There were a million things that could go wrong in a situation like this. For instance, the gun that Murphy held could go off prematurely and at exactly the wrong moment because he was almost positive it had a hair trigger, and the creaky boards they were trying not to shift around on too much could give with the slightest transfer of weight.
And, plus, it was fucking cold – he was sure he had gone numb from head to toe. Thoroughly frozen, so to speak, in the blistering frost of the Canadian outback. He really hated that he couldn’t feel his toes anymore.
“Be cool,” Connor said, his American accent delivered perfectly, given the strenuous situation they were in. Murphy’s own accent was so horrendous and fake that he wasn’t opening his mouth unless he had to.
A groan splintered through the wood, a clear warning that unless they wanted to die of hypothermia drowning in the middle of a freezing lake, they had better haul ass out of there before the boards toppled like a house of cards from underneath them.
Murphy shivered but managed to keep his gun-hand steady and his glare intimidating. He hoped it made up for his lack of verbal threatening.
“I’m seriously hoping you don’t make us shoot you, Mr. Ellison. But we need. That. Money. Now, preferably.” Said Connor. He flicked his gaze over to Murphy for a split second, reassuring him with a subtle look that things were going to work out. They had Ellison shaking in his boots – he was just good at hiding it, like any slime-ball mafioso who got their business threatened at least once a week.
“You forget,” the slick bastard had the balls to toss his head, looking ridiculously bloated in his heavy jacket and three layers of fleece. “You kill me, and the cops will be on to you so fast, you won’t know what hit you. I’m a very important man, in these parts.”
“Yeah? You won’t be so important once you’re dead.” Connor explained very deliberately, as if to a child. Ellison let his hands drop near his waist, and immediately Murphy advanced a step forward and shoved the gun in the man’s face until he raised them again. He winced at the sound of the boards protesting.
They certainly needed to move faster than this, thought Murphy, and glared at Connor impatiently.
Connor, not missing Murphy’s silent push, gave a slight nod in understanding. “Tell us where the money is, and we’ll maybe let you go with a bullet in the foot. Otherwise, they’re gonna have to dig one out of your skull.”
“One million is a lot of money. You don’t think I’d just give it to you.” Ellison said, incredulously.
“It’s not a lot for a man like you, Mr. Ellison.” Connor sneered.
Murphy had discovered at least two things in the past couple of hours that annoyed the hell out of him about Richie Ellison: his ego, and his arrogance. Basically the same thing, but it sounded better to have more than one reason to hate the bastard, not including the fact that he was scum masquerading around like some top-notch, shiny, slick and important entrepreneur.
According to Murphy, Ellison was tackier than the gum on the bottom of his shoes.
His finger itched to just pull the damn trigger already, but he held steady, held back. They hadn’t gotten what they wanted yet – killing him off would be an unnecessary waste at this point. Connor would undoubtedly be pissed.
But hell, it would feel sweet.
“Tell us where – ” Connor’s voice dropped to a deadly quiet pitch, “the money is, or I blow your head off.” He pulled out the pistol hidden in the liner of his jacket and cocked it, the barrel aimed squarely at Ellison’s nose. No more messing around. Two guns were always more effective than one.
That seemed to get Ellison’s brain kicking into reality. He swallowed visibly as true fear entered his eyes, swallowing whatever hesitation he had before and succumbing to the sense of self-preservation. “It’s at the airport, box #76. In a duffel bag.” When he made an attempt to reach inside his coat pocket, Murphy leaned closer so that his gun was pressed up against Ellison’s temple. Ellison’s hand re-emerged with a singular key that he held up to Connor.
Murphy watched as Connor snatched it carefully out of Ellison’s fingers and slipped it inside his glove. He gave Murphy the look to back down, and he did, keeping one ear sharp for the sound of wood splintering. It would be just their luck that something incredibly unfortunate would happen once they got what they came for.
With the pistol still firmly in hand, Connor started moving back towards land while still facing their target, Murphy beside him. “Stay where you are,” Connor warned. Ellison obeyed, but it was clear he was itching to throttle them both. Murphy secretly hoped he would; it would give them a chance to land a few punches.
Slowly, as they cleared the area of apparent danger and shoddy boarding, Murphy turned and whispered: “Why didn’t you shoot the sorry bastard?”
Connor gave him a slightly surprised look, as if he had forgotten the threat he made.
“You know he’s just gonna come looking for us when all this is over,” Murphy continued, reasonably. They were going to have to race to the airport in order to get there before Ellison’s goons, whom he was going to alert as soon as they left his line of sight.
“Well, if you insist –” Connor leveled his pistol and closed one eye as he aimed, then opened both and squinted at Ellison’s figure. They weren’t that far away, but it was a fairly substantial distance. Then Murphy watched, somewhat disappointed, as Connor squeezed off two shots, and missed intentionally, he supposed.
PART ONE – Hell, in the incarnation of the modern-day kitchen and food-servicing establishment
He never thought he’d be working. As a bus-boy, no less. Of course, he was stuck with the odd job, while Connor was stuck with the glamorous job of waiter.
“I told you to shave before the interview,” Connor had said, somewhat smugly.
“My fucking razors were stolen, so bite me.” Murphy had responded sarcastically, but he’d regretted not taking his twin’s advice in the end.
They’d labeled him as the undisciplined and shabby counterpart of the two, and decided to stick him behind a cart full of dirty dishes. It wasn’t so bad, if he took into consideration that he could spit in people’s meals whenever he liked.
It was only a temporary job, just until they get could get enough money to fly Canada Air and go for the big load, one big-time narcotics-pusher and arms-dealer who had enough in the bank to make them millionaires. It was becoming increasingly annoying to wake up one day and have the electricity be cut because they couldn’t pay bills, and they couldn’t be expected to live like squatters forever.
“How long?” Murphy asked. They were in the kitchen near the freezer in the back, Murphy smoking where he shouldn’t be, and it was some hour after lunch and before dinner, the calmest time of the day. Three weeks in, and already the blisters on his feet were starting to grow their own colony, not to mention the ones on his hands. He shuddered to think of what agonizing state Connor’s feet were in.
“At least two more months – we’ve barely started.” Connor said and shook his head. He leaned against the freezer door and watched Murphy puff smoke with a disgruntled look on his face. “If this job bothers you so much, you should find somewhere else to work.”
“But – ” Murphy took a long drag and exhaled languidly, closing his eyes and slowly opening them again, focusing on Connor with a slow look. “You’d still be here. I’m not sure I could last a day anywhere without you keeping me in check. Probably have a pretty sore fist every night from all the punching.”
Murphy watched as Connor grinned, the exact reaction he was fishing for. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but then Murphy couldn’t tell him the truth without sounding like a sap.
Besides, Connor knew the truth already, and Murphy was pretty positive Connor knew what he meant. He didn’t have to communicate those sorts of things; it was an innate feeling that, upon deeper inspection, simply meant a brotherly kind of love.
They cared, they were family. Murphy wasn’t going to leave Connor for anything, not if he could help it. He’d learned from years of experience that whenever Connor was out of his sights, there was likely to be trouble just around the corner for either one or both of them.
Ever since Il Duce had gone MIA, Connor was the only immediate family Murphy had left in America. Murphy was beginning to suspect that his brother would be the only person he could ever trust who was not their mother, which was equal parts comforting as it was disturbing. He thought their mother would be proud of her sons, even though she was blind to the kind of danger their lives were put in on a regular basis.
It’s all part of the grand scheme, Murphy would say to her, if he had the chance and the courage. It’s our calling. Murphy would make her see, make her accept. Their mother would have to understand that sometimes truth was harder to swallow than lies.
She would argue, and maybe cry a little when Murphy would mention the time when Connor got two bullets lodged into his shoulder and upper chest, after which he was given a bed at the hospital for two weeks to stabilize his injuries. Under regular circumstances, they would’ve avoided the shifty looks and the hospital forms, but that time Connor’s injuries were so bad, they had no other choice but to call in a favor from Smecker to get Connor checked into the hospitable pretty much under the radar.
Murphy could trust Smecker, he mused silently, but only to a certain extent. Agent Smecker no doubt had to enlist saving his own tail as his number one priority, and when helping vigilantes like Murphy and his brother, such a task was often treading the fine line between the moral high ground and the pursuit of their brand of justice.
“Hey,” Connor snapped his fingers in front of Murphy’s eyes. Connor slowly came back into focus as Murphy blinked. “Where’d you go?” He asked.
Great question. Only reminiscing, merely thinking.
The bus-boy gig was obviously making him morose.
“Thinking,” he said, simply, and reached over to a shelf, finding an old and cracked plastic ashtray to toss the stub of his cigarette in. “I was just thinking.”
“I know,” Connor’s lip twitched wryly, “I could see the damn wheels turning from here.”
tbc...comments/suggestions welcomed!
Oh, and, I've been a bad friend, neglecting my friends page. It's somewhat terrifying to look at because its so freakin' huge. Take pity upon this poor soul and keep my up to date about important fandom related things, and real life things as well that are going on with all you lovely people? I am still checking friends list, just not as often as before, since school has been eating up so much of my time.
oh, this Halloween. I was Dana Scully. Fun! With badge and suit and everything...it was great. How was everyone else's?