Murphy can still remember the first time something other than anger slipped across Connor's face when he slammed him up against a wall. His head hit the plaster hard enough to leave a ringing in his ears and his teeth bit through his lip. He doesn't remember why, he probably picked a fight with someone wholly inappropriate and the protective side of Connor slipped out. But it was the look on his face that got Murphy, something dark swimming under the surface of his eyes just before he released him, fingers sliding down his arms. His ears rung for hours after that.

It isn't Connor the next time, not at first anyway, some hulk with stale beer on his breath and grease in his hair, Murphy's wise mouth running away with him and the wall hard against his back. Connor is suddenly there in an explosion of glass and the hulk slides to the floor, Connor grins, his eyes flicking down over Murphy's body. Murphy fights the urge to shift under the gaze and Connor's hand on his shoulder and then Rocco is laughing, and Doc is shaking his head and Murphy is grinning back at his brother, adrenaline and something else pumping through his veins.

The second time it was because Murphy had started another fight and they had both split in the chaos, hidden in an alley behind the bar, Connor's hand over Murphy's mouth as "The fuck?" fell from his lips far too loudly to be conducive to hiding. Connor's thigh had slipped between Murphy's and the dark look came back into his eyes. Murphy had shut up then and if he had arched slightly into Connor it had been completely unintentional.

The next time had been intentional. Murphy had wound Connor up on purpose, wanting to see the look in his eyes, the one that spoke of so much more than brotherly affection, the one that Murphy had been dreaming about in the dark of the night, muffled breathes behind his own hand as he touched himself, like no brother should thinking of the other. Connor's temper, Irish down to his very core, had flared quickly, slamming Murphy against the nearest wall and raising his fist to punch. The look floated across his features quickly when Murphy arched upwards, and strangled "Murph" left his mouth just before Rocco barrelled through the door, drunk as a skunk and the moment was broken.

The last time, before all the times after it, and Murphy has been taunting Connor. Enough to get Connor riled up, not enough to let anyone else know though and Connor slips, good Catholic boy mask slips from his face and he's dragging Murphy through the door and using their combined weight to slam it shut. Murphy winds his fingers into Connor's shirt and pulls him in, mouths slamming together, lips bruised and Connor kisses back like he needs it. "Jesus Murph." He drags his lips across Murphy's jaw, stubble rough and skin smooth and Murphy chuckles, "Lord's name, Con."

It started with walls and thats where the beginning of this ends. A wall behind him and Connor buried in him, on him, all around him, hands and tongues and lips, muttering words in every language they know. They're good Catholic boys, born and bred, say they're prayers, and neither of them wants to damn the other. But its just an extension of who they are, one soul, two bodies and all that, Connor watches for the subtle change in body language, the shift from Murphy the brother to something else, watches as Murphy's eyes go wide. Murphy watches as Connor loses control, shuddering against him, Murphy's name on his lips.