ANGEL OF THE BRONX
A.N. Yay! Messa back. Finally. Sorry for the long wait, the plot bunnies finally made it through. Hope you enjoy! She felt worn, used-up, tired. An emotional numbness spread through her without the euphoric lack of physical sensation. She glanced down at her hands, still red from the beating they had taken against the unyielding steel of the refrigerator door. They stung a little in the open air. Her lips pulled up in a sardonic smile as she leaned her head back against the very same door. Her face was moist along her cheeks but she didn't have the energy to wipe them. Her throat burned in the aftermath of her savage screaming. It was only then the kettle began to whistle. Glancing up at the offending object out of the corner of her eye, she felt a slight tremor in her shoulders. The tremor built into a twitch and the twitch became a jerk. Another jerk followed the first, then another. Anna found herself chuckling. The chuckling grew louder, quickly changing into full-blown, almost maniac laughter. Doubling over, Anne wrapped her arms around her stomach, closing her eyes against the force of the sudden mirth. She knew somewhere the clinical side of her mind was evaluating her breakdown, curiously unable to properly diagnose it. Frankly, it didn't matter. It just felt good to laugh. She was vaguely aware she was crying again as she pushed herself up to her feet. Still giggling, she rubbed her eyes and grabbed hold of the kitchen towel hanging off the edge of the counter. Carefully, she lifted the steel kettle off the stove, simultaneously turning off the oven. Setting the kettle on the counter, she stared at it with a dry smile crossing her face. Her mother had always put on tea whenever she was upset. She claimed it was some her mother had done and Anna's great-grandmother before her. Anna started doing it about six months after her parent's deaths, at a time when she couldn't sleep and didn't want to watch TV. There was an odd comfort to the ritual, allowing the mind to wander and hide while the hands ran on muscle memory. She hadn't even realized she had put the kettle on before she lost it; screaming and slamming her hands against the refrigerator in a futile attempt to destructively vent her feelings. She wasn't even sure what had set her off. Maybe it was as simple as having her private home violated by a government official, particularly one that was helping the saints. It was far more convincing evidence then just a voice on the other line. While she had no illusions that justice was incorruptible, the visual evidence was jarring. After all, seeing was believing. It could have been the insinuations Connor made or the fact her information was apparently useless. The thought struck her as funny now. Her outburst being a childish plea for attention or defense. Perhaps it was Connor himself. Her initial dislike and distrust of him still remained set in a constant battle with her sympathy. The battle growing worse as she began to understand what made him tick and realizing (particularly with Rocci's involvement) that she and he were not so different. She was incapable of throwing stones now, acknowledging for the first time that she understood why the Saints did what they did. She hated herself for it. "Miss O'Reilly?" Smecker's voice called from beside her. Glancing over, she saw the FBI agent standing warily at the kitchenette's entrance. His cold eyes were studying her, warmed only by the slightest bit of concern. "I'm fine," she said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears, "I'm fine now." The look on Smecker's face told her he didn't believe it. Wiping the last remnants of moisture from her face, she turned from him to open the cabinet door. "Tea?" she asked, pulling down the box of tea bags and glancing over her should. Smecker shook his head, stepping away from the door. His eyes still held a cautionary concern but his stance was no longer weary. Anna reached up a little higher to pull out a chipped, yellow cup. Pouring the water into the tea kettle, she gently put one of the bags in, bobbing it up and down in the water. "You have my condolences," Smecker said, breaking the awkward silence. He watched the young woman stiffen and noted she said nothing. While the outburst had caught him as well as Connor off guard, he was already well aware of Anna's history: On the evening of March 26, 2003, Emergency Services were called to the scene of a car accident. The O'Reillys' vehicle had been run off the road into the Hudson. Mr. O'Reilly, an FBI informant, had managed to pull his eighteen year old daughter, Anna out of the water and subsequently tried to go back for his wife. The temperature and currents worked fatally against him, and the bodies of both Mr. and Mrs. O'Reilly's were eventually recovered. Anna survived with minimal injuries, while the tragedy was deemed an accident by local authorities. The case had been flagged due to the Mafia connections but, without direct invitation, Smecker and his department were unable to take up the investigation. "Me too," Anna finally replied quietly. Picking up the mug, she took a small sip before turning towards Smecker. The agent backed up further allowing her to pass by. Walking back into the living room, her eyes fell on Connor. The Irishman was sitting on the couch, though by the strain on his face it would have been better if he were laying on it. Anna wondered if he was forcing himself to sit up as punishment. Clearing her throat, she decided to find out. Connor's head jerked in her direction immediately. His mouth opened and closed again, as though he were going to apologize but wasn't sure exactly how. His blue eyes were clearly clouded with confusion. "What the fuck was that?" he finally exclaimed. Anna sighed, slightly bemused by his lack of subtlety. Walking in front of him, she took a seat on the chair. "None of your damn business, Connor," she replied, though not coldly. She caught sight of Smecker entering the room. The agent was watching the pair now, anxious for hostilities to break out again. "It's very well my damn business," Connor exclaimed, "Wot, with ya yellin' at-" "Connor," Anna's voice didn't raise in pitch, but it certainly took on a darker tone. Connor's voice died away as he looked at the young woman. Smecker noted, however, Connor's expression was not one of anger. Rather, he looked as though he were trying to simply understand. "I'm sorry," Anna said, "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that." Smecker smirked, seeing Connor's expression rapidly change to one of shock. The younger man seemed entirely taken aback by the apology, as if he had never been given one before. "Y-yer forgiven," he stammered, crossing himself absently for no real reason at all, "I'm sorry too. I never knew your Ma and Da..." "I never told you," Anna interrupted him, "And for good reason. It was none of your business." Connor paused, processing the statement for a second. Nodding silently, he seemed to accept it for what it was. "But now that you know," Anna continued softly, looking into her steaming mug, "It seems we have more in common then we first realized." She paused to look up at Connor. "I can't condone killing Rocci," she said quietly, "As much as would love to see that bastard hung from the highest tree. I can't condone taking the law into my own hands," her gaze drifted briefly to Smecker before returning to Connor, "But I know what sort of man Rocci is and what he's capable off. I can't in good conscience stand by and not help you find your brother. So, I'm going to ask you. What are we going to do about this?" "Please...please..." Murphy's voice cracked, just above a whisper. He lay on the grey concrete floor, shaking uncontrollably. The lights were far to bright after so long in the darkness. Even shutting his eyes didn't help. His senses were overloaded beyond what he could bear, "Please, no more." He felt a shadow pass over him and curled tighter in on himself, afraid of what was coming next. His prayers for death had gone unanswered because there was no one there to listen. He felt long, cold fingers press into the small of his back, causing him to shudder more. Lazily, the fingers drifted up along his spine, tracing their way slowly across his throat, and finally coming to rest against the side of his face. "No more," a familiar male voice repeated in English, "No more." Murphy risked opening his eyes to glance up in his torturer's face. For a moment, he almost believed he saw a glimmer of compassion in it. Of course, that was before the fingers lifted and the back of the man's hand descended soundly against his cheek. Murphy whimpered, his head slamming into the concrete floor. The man grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him up. "Open your eyes," he ordered. Murphy kept them close. "Open them!" the man repeated shaking him. This time Murphy man was looking at him as though he were a bug on display. Murphy stared back at him, fighting the urge not to look away or to give in to his fear. He didn't know how, but the man had managed to break him. "Someone's coming to save you," the man said, his voice slow and deliberate so Murphy heard every word, "When they get here, I want you to kill them." Murphy blinked. Someone was coming for him? What kind of bullshit was that? There's was no one else...everyone he'd ever cared for had been killed by this man. Everyone except Smecker. The thought sent a chill down the young man's back. He could still remember the sound of his friend's voice on the other side of the phone line. It hadn't been an illusion, it had been a ploy. This...this man wanted him to kill Smecker? "No," he said, horrified, "No." The man smirked. Leaning in closer to Murphy, his grip tightened painfully. "Yes, you will," he said, his breath hot and stinking, "Because if you don't, I'll put this person through the same shit I put you through." The chill grew into a tight knot in Murphy's stomach. He believed the man instantly. "And I'll make you watch as I break him," the man continued, "And then I'll make you watch as I kill him, just like your dear old Da. All because you weren't man enough to deliver him. Do you want that on your conscience before I send you to hell?" He let go of Murphy, allowing the beaten man to sink weakly to the floor. "However," he continued, "If you do as I ask, I'll release you." Murphy looked up at the man before him. He didn't have the strength left to lunge at him, despite his physical freedom. The man had ensured that by the starvation and beatings. Yet what the man was giving him a chance to escape all this, even though the price...it was outrageous and wrong. He couldn't just take a life, even to save his own. Especially if that life might be that of a friend. However, he had no illusions the man wouldn't fulfill the other half of his promise. He had capture Murphy after all, and killed both Connor and their father. He had robbed Murphy of everything but his life, and was giving him the chance to save that and what was left of his sanity. Murphy was certain the other side of the man's deal would take both of those away. In either case, Murphy realized, there was no way to receive or deserve absolution. He would be damned for the murder of an innocent or he would be damned and tortured for doing nothing. It was merely a question of which one would weigh heaviest on his conscience. Looking up at the man, he nodded slowly. His soul be damned, he couldn't live with himself if he allowed another human being to go through what he just had. The man smiled, almost affectionately at him. The last thing Murphy felt was the warm scratch of a wool blanket. As always, reviews appreciated.
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