ANGEL OF THE BRONX
A.N.: Okay, sorry for not updating on my regular daily schedule. This chapter was a little hard on me since I really wanted to capture a lot of different emotions and opinions in one swoop. Hopefully, I succeeded, but I'll leave that to you to decide. As always, reviews are appreciated. Anna regarded her visitor, rolling his question through her mind. In all honesty, she wasn't sure really what she should do. She couldn't consciously leave him beside the alley she found him in, no matter how she wished so. He wasn't strong enough to survive very long even admits the general pick-pockets and homeless scroungers. At the same time, though, she couldn't turn him in since she had given her word not to speak to the police. Though not overly religious, Anna considered any promise she made as binding as a vow, and therefore, unbreakable. It was conflicts like this which made her wish sometimes she no longer had a conscience. "I don't know," she finally answered, seeing the impatient expression on Connor's face. "Oh," the older man's face dropped a little as he finished, "Well, good to know we're on the same page, then." Anna restrained the desire to roll her eyes. Walking over to the apartments small kitchenette, she pulled out a clear plastic glass from the cupboard. Turning on the faucet, she filled half the glass with cool water. Grabbing the pills the hospital had given her, she crossed the room, stopping just short of the couch. Handing the bottle and glass to Connor she took a step back. Connor stared at the glass and medicine before looking at Anna and back at the items. "Ye know," he said, looking back at her, "Yer under no obligation to me. Ye've done more than should e'er be asked of ya." "Take the damn medicine," Anna ordered, "The faster you get better, the faster I get rid of you." Connor smiled a little at the comment. The tone she delivered it with reminded him more than a little bit of Ma back home. The young woman was full of surprises. "For someone who doesn't think much o' me," he said, opening the cap to the bottle, "Yer doin'..." "Now for some ground-rules," Anna interrupted him, "Rule one, we don't talk about what I'm doing for you. As far as I'm concerned, I'll keep to the idea you're presence here is a laps of any good judgement I might have had." "Now wait one fu-" Connor started. "Rule two, let's just not talk at all," Anna continued, ignoring him, "Unless you absolutely need something. Rule three, the kitchenette and the bedrooms are mine. Your not to enter them under any circumstance. If you do, I will call the police. And rule four..." "Quite a bit o'rules there," Connor interrupted, irritated. He paused as he saw Anna's eyes flash dangerously. "Rule two," Anna reminded him, wagging a finger in his direction, "And rule four, you have to promise that you will forget this place once you leave. That you and the men you work with will never, never enter this building again. " She glared at Connor, half daring him to contradict her. The Irishman looked back at her, half impressed by her spunk and half irritated at her and her damn rules. She's helping you though, a small voice in the back of his head said, not much of guardian angel, but she was sent when you most needed her. "I promise," he replied. "Fine," Anna responded. With that, she turned towards the room on the left. "Hey, hey," Connor called out, "Question?" "What?" Anna replied, not turning around. "Is it alright ta use yer phone?" Connor heard another sigh. Anna turned back, an unreadable expression on her face. "I swear, " Connor said, raising his hands defensively, "I jus' want ta give me ma a call. She...she has the right ta know I'm alright." Again, he found himself under her deep, scrutinizing glare. Keeping a straight expression, he tried to wait her out. Finally, she nodded her consent. Why not, she thought, turning around, I've already let a murderer into my house. Pausing in the door frame, she looked back at Connor. "Does your mother even know what it is you do?" she asked. Connor glanced up, surprised at the question. "I thought we weren't speaking," he said jokingly. When he saw her eyebrow raise in a warning glance he added honestly, "No. Well, she knows we do'n work at the packaging plant anymore. But we...Murphy, Da, and I...we couldn't tell her." "Couldn't or wouldn't?" Anna demanded. "A wee bit a both, I suppose," Connor replied, curious as to where this was going, "Can't exactly have her callin' every day makin' sure we're safe. And..." He paused, not sure how to complete his thoughts. "I see," Anna said, when he didn't finish. Without another word, she turned and entered the room, shutting the door closed behind her. Connor sat there for a moment, staring at the close door. What the fuck was that?he thought. He wasn't a complete idiot. He knew the girl was trying to make a point of some kind. Shaking his head, he decided not to go down that train of thought. There were more important things to do. Reaching over, he picked up the phone on the table. Dialing a familiar number, he waited. The phone raing twice before he heard the click of someone picking up. "Smecker," the gravely voice on the other end answered. "Any news on my brother?" Connor replied, forgetting all sense of formality. "We have located some possible sources, chief," Smecker continued calmly, "Let me put you on a more secure line." A moment later the FBI agent continued, "Alright. Sorry about that. Can't have the damn chain listening to all my calls." "So, have ye heard anything?" Connor replied anxiously. "Nada. Zip. Nothin'," Smecker replied, "He's disappeared off the map. I've pulled out on guys undercover to see if there's news of enforcement on the chain. Somebody talking about a little basement action, stuff like that. Everyone's turned up scott-didley." "Yer sure," replied Connor, feeling his stomach clench at the news. Either Murphy was long dead, or the top men had put him in a hole so deep not even Smecker could reach it. "Connor," Smecker's tone had taken on a consolitory nature, "I've got my best guys going on this. Hell, I've even got beat-cops checking every morgue all the way to Manhattan. There's absolutely no trace of you're brother...I think, I think you need to consider the very real possibility that he..." "Now fuckin' stop right there!" Connor yelled into the phone, an irrational anger taking hold of him, "Murphy's alive. And he's goin' ta stay that way if I have any say in it." "Connor," Smecker's tone was similar to that one would use with a daft child, "This work you and your brother do. You had to know eventually it would end up with one of you dead, or worse. It won't do you any good trying to deny that." "Oh, what do you know about anything, you fuckin' faggot?" Connor exploded, regretting the words the moment they left his mouth. On the the other end of the line, he heard an annoyed intake of breath, "God, I'm sorry...I..." "It's alright," Smecker replied, masking his annoyance. He could barely imagine what the young man on the other end of the line was going through, "You're angry and upset. The hospital gave you some pills to kill the pain, right?" "Aye," Connor replied sheepishly. "Good. Take them. Get some sleep. Call me when you have your head on straight." Without another word, Agent Smecker hung up the phone. Connor put down the receiver, stunned. He felt ashamed for what he had said. While he didn't agree with Smecker's life choice particularly, it didn't change the fact the Agent was a good man and friend. Taking in a deep breath, Connor reached for the pills Anna had given him. He never felt so out of control of his life before this point. Everywhere he went, there was always a plan, whether by work of God or man. And everywhere he went, there was always Murphy. His brother, his ground. They shared almost everything together. The little bastard could make him crack a grin or piss him off better than most anyone else. Without him here, Connor felt the world empty just a little bit. Dry swallowing a couple of pills, he laid down on the couch. A few minutes later, he barely noticed himself drift off to sleep. Later that night Anna turned on her bed grabbing the extra pillow to pull it closer to herself. She tried to force herself to sleep, but it wouldn't come. Part of the reason, of course, was having a murderer not more than a foot outside her door. The other was more personal. Turning over a second time, she decided she wasn't going to get any sleep that night. Sitting up, she ran her hands through her messy hair. Walking to the door, she opened it carefully. Immediately, her hand went to her mouth as she covered a snort. Connor lay sprawled on his stomach on her couch. One arm lay across the top in a position that would be uncomfortable if he were awake. The other arm hung uselessly over the edge. Both legs extended over the other side, while his face remained half buried in the cushion. His coat lay crumpled on the floor beside him, right next to his boots. His t-shirt had rolled up slightly, revealing the still tanned skin of his lower back. Furthermore, Anna could make out the unmistakable sound of light snoring. Shaking her head, Anna tried to ignore the slight regret that reared its ugly head as she passed the sleeping form. In another world or a different circumstance, she would be more than thrilled to have someone like Connor sleeping on her couch. Hell, she would have been more than glad to join them there or maybe offering a spot more comfortable. Though, she could probably do without the tattooes, but that was more personal preference than anything else. She had always had a thing for older men. They were more mature, for one, and tended towards being quieter and more protective. They were her silent guardians. Of course, she did have a thing for men with darker hair than Connor's, men a little taller, and... "What the hell am I thinking?" she whispered to herself in the dark. She gave herself a mental kick in the head for the direction her thoughts had taken. Here she was, practically mooning after a self-righteous, murdering psychopath. Shaking her head, she decided to blame this and all the rest of her bad decisions on Nightingale syndrome. It was the only logical explanation. Crossing the room, she grabbed a second glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. Taking a deep drink, she set the glass back in the sink and headed back to her room. She flinched as she accidentally stepped on a creaking board. Her eyes turned to Connor, but the Irishman simply shifted slightly and his arm dropped form the top of the couch. "Oh...macho Murphy..." he mumbled in his sleep. Anna couldn't stop the small smile that crossed her face. She had to admit, though, he was rather cute when he slept. A little more innocent than when awake, like a little child. Of course, Manson was probably a cute little kid too. Shaking her head again, she walked to her bedroom door and quietly closed it behind her.
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