part two: ash wednesday blues (Las Vegas)

It took them half a week to make sure that everything was settled for a trip to Vegas. Murphy knows that when Connor suggested it, he meant to go right then - Murphy knew that Connor had said it to scare the flatness out of Wesley's eyes, and it had worked.

But when you're on the run from the FBI and also when you're carrying the credit card of a high-profile lawyer with a freakishly well-connected, thoroughly evil law firm - Wesley's words, not Murphy's - there are extra precautions to take before you hit Sin City.

Wesley had leaned into the car, Murphy in the driver's seat and Connor asleep in the backseat, while it was stopped in front of his flat. The sun was just starting to come up, tinting everything pink, and Murphy thought that the world looked less scary than it actually was, all rose-colored and soft.

"I think you'd best take your brother home," he'd said. "I'll make the arrangements and be in touch." He'd slammed the door and turned away from the car before Murphy could say that Wesley didn't know how to get in touch with them.

That was early on Saturday morning, if Murphy was counting sunrises he'd seen correctly. The last time he'd slept was Wednesday evening, and Connor'd only had a drunken nap on Wesley's floor.

Murphy took a long nap and when he got up, he called Kate.

"We're going to Vegas," he says to her when dispatch finally puts him through late Sunday night. Kate doesn't want the rest of the Los Angeles Police Department to know she's babysitting - her word, not Murphy's - three dangerous hardened criminals, but Murphy knows that he doesn't convincingly sound like a distant relative, either.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she says, and she sounds like their Ma worrying, only less drunk. "What am I supposed to tell Agent Smecker? Yeah, I was watching them, but they called me up to tell me that they were going to Las Vegas and I thought they needed a break. It won't fly, Murphy."

"You don't have to say anything," Murphy promises, hoping that she won't. "We'll be gone and back so fast you won't have noticed."

"Who are you going to Vegas with?" she says.

"No one," Murphy lies. "Just me and Connor and our Da. What I need, though, Katie, love of my life, is some bullets. A lot of bullets. All the bullets you can get us."

"Are you going to Vegas to kill all sinners?" Kate sounds weary and suspicious. The life of a policeman, Murphy thinks. How glad I am to be a criminal.

"Something like that," Murphy says.

"I'll do what I can," Kate says. "No promises. And try not to kill any mob bosses while you're in Las Vegas."

Murphy thinks she's sort of missing the point of their whole operation, but he doesn't say so. Kate would yell if he said that.

Kate surprises him by stopping at the motel on Monday afternoon. Connor is still sleeping. He's been sleeping since Murphy dragged him up the stairs early on Saturday morning, crawling out of the motel bed they're sharing only to eat and piss and, Murphy thinks, wank in the loo. Connor's sleeping like he's dead, not moving even when Murphy prods him. He should probably turn Connor over, avoid messy bedsores, but he can't be bothered.

If Connor wants to hide in the bed, then Murphy isn't going to make it easy for him.

Kate comes by with a box so big she can hardly carry it herself. He takes it from her and tries to shove the door closed in her face - not that Murphy's not grateful, he is, he really is. He'd never say that they'd have done anything but drink and sulk in L.A. if Kate hadn't been around, even if it's true. But he really just doesn't want to answer a lot of the questions he thinks she's going to ask. Kate shoves her way in anyway, despite his best efforts, and Murphy drops the box of ammo on the one corner of their bed that Connor hasn't sprawled completely across.

Their Da flips the top of the box open and looks up at Kate with a look Murphy's never seen on him before. "Ah, Miss Katie," their Da says. "I could kiss you right now."

Kate smiles at him, patiently and absently, and says, "You're quite welcome, Mr. MacManus." She's wearing her piece today, and she's watching Murphy with the sort of hawk-eyes that Smecker used to turn on him, her fingers resting just on the butt of the gun.

"You're not telling me lies, Murphy?" she asks sweetly. Kate's a good cop, according to Smecker. Murphy could have guessed it from just the tone of voice she uses with him and Connor; it's like the dead man's voice, sharp and low and forceful. "You're going to Vegas, just the three of you?"

Murphy hears a flash of Wesley's cool, dangerous voice in his ears, and he hopes Kate can't read the lust all over his face. "Course I'm not tellin' lies, Miss Katie. Why would I lie to a nice girl like you?"

"If you use my bullets for something that isn't vaguely noble," she says. "I'm going to kick your ass."

"Thanks for bullets," Murphy says. "Can you see yourself out?"

She fixes him with one last lingering look, as though she could tell that he wasn't telling the truth, and then she let it go. "Don't lose too much of the Bureau's money."

Murphy lets the door rattle shut behind her, and turns back to the box on the bed. Connor, naked as the day he was born but, thankfully, finally awake, has the sheet wrapped around his waist and his head bent over Kate's gift.

He looks up and catches Murphy's eye. "Aye, Murphy," he says. "You did good. Where's the dead man?"

Murphy shrugs. "Making plans."

Wesley lets himself into the MacManus family's motel room in the shadowy darkness before the sun rises on Wednesday morning. He's shaking Murphy awake, because he thinks that Murphy is the one who's least likely to throw a punch when he's awakened unexpectedly, but Murphy still comes up swinging, his long, lean torso tangled in sheets and blankets and Connor. Connor makes a grumpy sort of sleep noise and rolls over, away from Murphy, and Murphy blinks at Wesley carefully.

"What the fuck," Murphy snarls. "How the fuck."

"I am friends with most locks," Wesley says quietly.

"What the fuck time is it, man?" Murphy is dragging himself further up the bed, running a hand through hair that's already sticking straight up, and scratching his chest. Connor is still twisting away from them, jamming a pillow over his head and pulling the sheet further down across Murphy's hips. Wesley swallows hard and tries not to stare at the expanse of well-toned Irish skin stretching in front of him. He turns his wrist over to look at his watch, shifting his weight on the mattress, and suddenly someone's jammed the barrel of a gun against the base of his skull.

Wesley freezes.

"Da," Murphy whispers, starting to raise his voice, and Connor shifts again sleepily and swats in Murphy's direction. "Da, it's just Wesley, it's just the dead man, go back to sleep."

The pressure on Wesley's neck rescinds a little, the gun still marking his every move, and he glances down at his watch. "It's a quarter past four in the morning, Murphy," he says. Il Duce behind him grunts, and the bed groans under movement and the gun is gone.

"A fine time to begin the day," Il Duce says. "Get your brother up, Murphy. Good morning, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce." Murphy shoves Connor off the bed, a flailing mass of arms and legs and twisted sheets, and makes a break for the loo.

"Sit there," Murphy says to Wesley. "Have some coffee, have a fag. Ten minutes."

Wesley spends the next ten minutes wondering how the MacManus brothers ever managed to get far enough in their mission from God to assassinate anyone, much less far enough to get into trouble with the FBI. It's like the best sort of farce playing out in front of him, only instead of underage French maids there are two naked twenty-something Irish men pounding on the door of the bath and punching each other and tripping over their own clothes.

When Connor and Murphy have both managed to put clothes on and find a pack of cigarettes that haven't all been smoked, and Il Duce is sitting in his chair with a cigar, Wesley spreads his information across the bed and looks at the three of them.

"I remain amazed that the two of you ever get anything done without being shot to death," he says.

"Well," Murphy says.

"We've got a bit of a lucky streak," Connor says.

"And Connor's got a thing about rope."

"And we get shot more than your everyday bloke," Connor finishes. "But thanks."

"So what have you got for us, man?" Murphy asks, flicking his lighter open. Connor's cigarette is hanging, unlit, from his lower lip, and he's studying Wesley carefully. Wesley tries to school his face into an unreadable expression and Connor just frowns harder.

"Three rooms at the Bellagio," Wesley says. "One for you, Mr. MacManus, one for myself, and one for you two."

"Oy," Connor says. "Why d'we have to share?"

"Because," Il Duce says. "Mr. Wyndham-Pryce said so, and he isn't dead yet and so I have to approve of his methods."

Connor opens his mouth to say something else and Murphy whacks him upside the head. Connor slaps back and it's about to turn into a full-on fight when Wesley clears his throat. He's spent two days screwing Lilah through the mattress, his brain on fire with flashes of both MacManus brothers fighting and drinking and breathing, and it got him a handful of mind-blowing blowjobs and a list.

The list is the important part.

He hands it to Connor and Murphy, their heads bent over it together, Murphy's cigarette burning down to the filter in his hand. "It's a list," Wesley says, "of every former client of Wolfram and Hart operating out of Las Vegas right now. Complete with addresses, titles and crimes against humanity."

"It's a list of people we could kill," Murphy says slowly, stubbing out the cigarette and meeting Wesley's eyes. Connor's head is still down, staring at the paper. Il Duce clears his throat and Connor turns, looking suddenly young, and passes the list to his father.

"We could kill everyone," Connor says, and he's looking at his brother and not at Wesley.

"How do you feel about that?" Murphy says, and there's some expression tugging at the corner of his mouth that Wesley can't judge; he isn't sure what the twitch will grow into - displeasure or joy or frustration.

"I - " Connor says and stops. "I feel strangely ..."

"... Comfortable with that," Murphy finishes for him with a smirk. It's a routine, Wesley sees.

"I don't, though," Connor says, and his expression is somewhere between broken-hearted and confused, not part of any routine.

"I am not certain about this plan, either, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce," Il Duce says from his wreath of cigar smoke in the corner. "Something fundamentally evil has supplied this list; how can we fight evil when evil condones what we do?"

"It doesn't make us any better than them," Connor says.

"Did your friend give this to you?" Murphy inquires thoughtfully.

"She's nothing more than a business acquaintance," Wesley says. "And she didn't. I took it upon myself to liberate it from her office after a meeting. She wasn't paying attention, and she certainly won't miss it."

"So they haven't said, 'Kill these people'," Murphy says, and it isn't a question.

Wesley answers it anyway. "No. It's merely a suggestion from myself, if you're looking to do some work in Las Vegas."

"How can you fight evil," Il Duce says, "when you are fighting it with the tools of the beast?"

"We're in the midst of evil every day, Da," Murphy says. "Why not take their resources when they're given?"

"I think that's the only way to do it," Wesley says, and finds he means it. "I think, unfortunately, it's one of the great ironies of the world."

Their business is not the sort where you can go around second-guessing your decisions. Theirs is a business of belief and conviction, and if you hesitate for a single moment, you are likely to be shot dead.

Connor knows this. Connor has seen this principle in action.

Connor is sitting in the backseat of their rental car, speeding through the desert that stretches between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, the desert between angels and devils, and he is second-guessing his decision to take the dead man's list and run with it. Murphy's hanging happily over the front seat, blowing smoke in Wesley's face and asking too many questions about that law firm where Wesley has an acquaintance.

If she's just a business acquaintance, Connor will eat Murph's dirty socks.

So he presses his face to the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, staring out the window like he did when he was a kid. The landscape's unlike anything he's ever seen, dry and dusty and full of startling plant life. It's an alien planet they're rolling through, along I-15, and Connor never expected their voluntary exile to be quite such an endless string of coincidences and unplanned occurrences.

It was all unplanned, of course, because it was an exile, but he had expected more of a routine than what he'd found.

He didn't want to make a routine of working from Wolfram and Hart's lists of evil men, either. Taking names from Rocco was one thing, because Rocco stood beside them. Wesley is going to hand them the list and stand behind them, and Connor isn't sure that's how he wants to do this.

But he has to make a decision before the road dead-ends in Vegas.

He knows they don't need Wesley to stand beside them, not in a practical sense. They're fine, the three of them, working by themselves and not taking it outside of the family. The last time they took anything outside of the family, it ended with Rocco dead and Connor and Murph so battered they could hardly move.

He needs Wesley to stand beside them in case anything goes really wrong. Connor isn't going to put his gun to Wesley's head and make him shoot anyone, but he'd like a gun in Wesley's hand in case they take the list too far and end up in a pinch of trouble. Not that they're going to.

It's just that if they're going to do this the way he thinks they should, with a list of names compiled by people at least as evil as the ones on the list, Connor wants Wesley to invest in it.

Wesley is talking to Murphy quietly, outlining security practices in Vegas and what they need to do to not get caught walking around brandishing firepower like they've got. "Act like you're supposed to be there, strapped into shoulder holsters and carrying a gun."

"Guns," Murphy says, and his grin is wolfish. Wesley frowns, and Connor's torn between the two faces. Murphy's loose, easy grin and Wesley's tight frown, they're equally appealing, and Connor thinks, if only I could get them together. There's plenty of time in Las Vegas for that; it's not a sin that he's concerned with except in a very carnal sort of way that makes confession a necessity the next morning.

"Guns," Wesley says. "If you have to wear more than one."

"If we're going to deal with a long list of people who need to see the face of a greater God, Wes," Murphy explains, and Connor wonders when the dead man got to be "Wes." "They're probably the sort of fuckers who've got bodyguards with more guns than brains. If we're going to do this right, we've got to be armed, proper."

"Without attracting attention to yourself," Wesley says patiently, but Connor knows Murphy with an idea, and he knows that Murph has been shaking this like a dog since he tuned them out 40 miles ago.

"Without attracting attention to ourselves," Murph sighs and slumps back against the seat. "Fine."

Connor pinches his smoke from him, spilling ash on the seat of the car Smecker rented from them, and Da turns and says, "Don't go burnin' holes in the upholstery, boys."

Connor takes the last drag on the fag, feeling the filter burn hot against his fingers, and flicks the butt from the window. He leans forward to Wesley, who's studying the list of names and addresses in his lap, fishes through the bag sitting at his feet. Connor's fingers close around the butt of Rocco's stupid six shooter, and he offers it to Wesley butt-first.

"I'm not asking you to shoot anyone," Connor says simply. "I'm just asking you to carry this in case we need the help."

Wesley looks down at Connor's hand and up at his face, brow furrowed, and Connor offers the gun again. Murphy's pressed up close again, thigh squashed against Connor, jamming his face into the gap between the seats and watching avidly.

When Wesley's fingers close around the butt, Connor lets go and Murphy pumps his fist. "I won't shoot anyone unless it's self-defense," Wesley says.

"Great," Connor says. "Defend my self, would you?"

It's one thing to drive Rocco and Connor all over fuckin' Boston, and it's entirely another to be trapped in a moving vehicle with Connor brooding and Wesley obsessing and his father driving like a complete fuckin' maniac, on his way to Las Vegas.

It's making Murphy a little stir-crazy, and he's all talked out in terms of pumping Wesley for suggestions and information, so there's little to do but sit back, clutch the door handle and wait. He's smoking aimlessly, listening to Connor tap his fingers on the window and fret, when his father tears the car off an exit ramp at a speed that's unsafe even for professional assassins, and the Vegas strip is spread out below him.

He can't fidget anymore because he's absolutely frozen, staring at the teeming mass of humanity and neon lights that stretches in front of him. Murphy's seen Vegas before, seen it on the telly and on postcards, but there's nothing quite like the actual sight of the actual city to take the breath away.

It's bright and startling, and the whole place absolutely reeks of sin and sex and booze. Murphy rolls his window down all the way, sticks his head out to see if you could smell sin on the air, and is nearly decapitated by a highway sign as his father screeches the car to a halt at the bottom of the exit ramp.

"Well?" their Da says, turning to Wesley expectantly.

"Turn right," Wesley says. "Follow the fountains."

Murphy realizes that he's been staring blindly - at the hookers who are visibly hookers, standing on corners; at the tourists, who are gaping like he is; at the clumps of men in suits shoving through the crowds, their suits coats pulling back to reveal shoulder holsters. Oh, yeah, they'll fit right in. The traffic's slow and everyone seems to be gaping, except for his father, who's driving cautiously but revving the engine in an impatient way every so often, and Connor, who's studying his hands, wearing the expression that Murphy knows means he's thinking.

Even the dead man's staring out the window, taking in the sights and sounds. He looks almost human again, shadows of his face sharpened by the bright lights, and his eyes are relaxed. They're still dead inside, but it isn't quite so fierce.

"Bloody hell," Murphy says, when Wesley points out the drive to their hotel and it's a sleek, tall place, way more posh than anything they're used to. "Who's paying for this, man?"

"My associate," Wesley says pointedly, and then he slips out the front door of the car, because a bloody fuckin' bellboy's opened it for him.

Murphy is possibly staring when Connor smacks him in the head and hisses, too low to be heard except that he's wound his fingers in Murphy's hair and yanked him close. "Get the guns, Murph, don't let them carry the guns."

There's a bellboy opening Murphy's door and he collects himself and the duffel full of guns and ammo before he slips outside. He fights off at least two bellboys and one porter before he's allowed to carry his own bag into the hotel, and he falls into stride with Connor who's following their Da, who's following Wesley, who's apparently checking in.

"So," Murphy whispers. "Did you hear any of what Wesley said about casino security and how we should deal with it?"

"Hmmmm?" Connor says, which is a clear sign to Murphy that Connor's living somewhere inside his own head. It could be the dead man's arse that's distracting him, it could be that Connor's still tying himself in knots over the morality of the dead man's list. Murphy doesn't see a single problem with it - with either of those things. The list is nothing more than what Rocco gave them, albeit acquired in a less-than-moral way, and the dead man's arse is absolutely flawless.

"Casino security, Connor," Murphy says, poking him hard in the arm. Connor sidles away from him, rubs his arm and glares. "Most of the people packing firepower are casino security, and half of them are plainclothes, like us. So don't act twitchy in public places and nobody will ask us any questions. Okay?"

"You're really all right with using this list," Connor says, and it's hardly even a question.

"We weren't getting anywhere in L.A.," Murphy says. "He's offering. I just don't see how it's different than what Rocco did."

"It's from evil, Murph," Connor says. "Something evil made that list, something we should not stand for made that list, and how can we use that?"

"Even if Wesley'd never stolen that list, we'd have found these guys anyway. And maybe we can teach the bastards back in the city a little lesson," Murphy says. He believes it. Wesley could find trouble, Murphy is certain of it, Wesley could find trouble in a convent. Or trouble finds him. How else does a guy's best friend end up underwater?

Trouble's a given, and they can deal with trouble.

Connor shrugs, just a little, and shifts the bag on his shoulder. Before they can get to the front desk, Wesley's handing them keys, those silly plastic things that hotels call keys, and he presses a folded piece of paper into Murphy's hand. "The top name on the list," Wesley says quietly, his mouth practically against Murphy's ear. "Is a mob boss who owes Wolfram and Hart a considerable sum of money. The firm got him acquitted on a multiple murder trial last year. He has a suite on the top floor of the Bellagio. Just think about starting there, and how you'd like to do it." Murphy can't tell if Wesley's teasing him, taunting him with what there's out there for them to accomplish, or if he's trying to make Murphy think the right way - but it's distracting, and why not wait until they're settled, somewhere less noisy?

Except Murphy's got to admit that the noise covers any information that someone might overhear in a quieter hotel room, and Wesley's smart about that.

Wesley straightens and says, "We're in 1401, 1403 and 1405. Shall we have something to eat before we hit the casino floor?"

"As good a place to start as any," Murphy says, and like Connor staring at Wesley and thinking too hard, he's pretty sure he means at least two things.

Wesley discovers over dinner that he and Il Duce share a weakness for shrimp cocktail.

They're all sitting at a too-small table in the Bellagio's all-you-can-eat buffets. Connor and Murphy have their heads bent together across the table, whispering in Italian, a language Wesley hasn't ever learned, and if Wesley isn't mistaken, they're talking about the women walking past, nothing more sophisticated than that. Between my demon languages and their foreign languages, he thinks, we could open the most successful translation firm in the history of the world.

The twins aren't very interested in translation, though, and he knows it. They're mostly interested in not being heard by anyone else.

Wesley is leaning back, pulling at his tie, trying to figure out how to get into the penthouse to kill Salvatore Vecchio, when Il Duce throws an arm across the back of his chair and says, "You know, there are many things that are less than pleasant about spending mandatory time in a federal penitentiary, but among the chief problems, I found, was a distinct lack of shrimp cocktail."

Wesley blinks for a moment, and wonders fleetingly if Il Duce is trying to put the moves on him, but when he looks over, the most feared assassin in the history of the Italian Boston Mafia (Lilah told him this, as though she was warning him about something, but he can't figure out what she thought he needed to be warned away from) is peeling shells from an enormous pile of shrimp and happily dipping them in cocktail sauce.

"Yes," Wesley says instead of acting shocked. "It is one thing in which American cuisine certainly outdoes that of the British Isles."

"There are many things in which America outdoes the nation of Ireland, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce," Il Duce replies, coming down heavily on the Ireland - another reminder that they're all foreigners in a strange country, but also foreigners to each other, as well. Another difference between how they live their lives. "Including the acceptance of sin as a way of life, and creating places like this casino in which to indulge those sins. In those cases, however, I cannot say that being outdone by a country that refused to be a part of the British Empire is necessarily a good thing."

Il Duce is right, and Wesley agrees, but Connor and Murphy are staring at them again, Italian ogling of the passing tourists dropped by the wayside. "No wonder they have such problems with criminals," Wesley says demurely. "May I share your shrimp?"

Murphy shakes his head at Wesley and turns back to his brother. "D'you have any quarters, Connor?"

"Nah," Connor says. "And if I did, you couldn't put them in the fuckin' slot machines, anyway, you wanker."

"We're here to work, my sons," Il Duce says through a mouthful of shrimp. "Why don't you have something else to eat and then we can talk about a plan?"

"Plans are for losers," Murphy says, shoving his chair back and standing up.

"Oy, loser, the last time we didn't have a plan, we ended up hanging from the ceiling of a hotel room," Connor says.

They wander off, empty plates sitting on the table, and Wesley thinks he hears Murphy say something about stupid fuckin' rope, but he's not entirely sure about that.

He has spent the better part of the previous week not being entirely sure about anything regarding the MacManus brothers, and while their father is slightly more terrifying, he's a lot more accessible. He doesn't share any sort of strange twin language with his sons, and he's eating his shrimp, staring as curiously at Wesley in his suit as Wesley stared at him, the first time they met in the grimy motel room.

"That's a lovely suit, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce," Il Duce says, as though he can read Wesley's mind. "Might I ask what it's for?"

It's brand new, the suit. He'd used Lilah's credit card and he'd have to justify it to her later - and probably wear it out somewhere too expensive for his tastes - but aside from the way it's tightening uncomfortably around his neck the more nervous he gets, it's lovely. He's never had a suit this well-cut, and he thinks he looks good. If the appreciative look he got from Connor when he walked into their hotel room was any measure, he looks exceptionally good.

Wesley hasn't quite determined the meaning of the hungry looks Connor and Murphy have been shooting in his direction, but he would certainly let Connor peel him out of the suit if it came to that.

It won't, he knows, because they are in Las Vegas on a business trip, but when Connor suggested the trip, it was as a distraction. Wesley is certain that the MacManus boys can get up to all sorts of interesting distractions if given the time and the appropriate place.

Before he answers Il Duce's question, he casts a careful glance around the restaurant. Tourists, mostly, and no one who looks like an undercover FBI agent on the tail of three fugitive criminals with hearts of gold. He lowers his voice and says, "Security in one casino will always assume that you three are security for another casino, with the weaponry you're carrying, and the look of Connor and Murphy in their jackets. We shall simply suggest to the pit bosses that I'm someone important, and you're personal security."

Il Duce raises an eyebrow, peeled shrimp half-in and half-out of his mouth, and says, "You're planning to gamble, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce?"

"It's not my money," Wesley says, and he can feel the lump of cash in his pocket - 25,000 dollars, in cold hard cash, that Lilah had given him. Bring it back double or nothing, she'd said. "I'm simply reinvesting it for a friend."

"The Catholic Church considers that a sin," Il Duce says. It's not a warning, it's simply a statement, but Wesley knows that he's going to end up compromising his principles for these men, because he may have been raised in the Church of England, but all three of the MacManus men believe in the Catholic Church.

"It's a cover, Mr. MacManus," Wesley says. "We're trying to convince the people watching us - and trust me, please, there are people watching us already - that we're nothing more than a high roller and his personal security guards."

Il Duce drops his gaze and goes back to his shrimp abruptly. Wesley can't tell if it's a blessing or a condemnation.

Connor's trying not to twitch noticeably, but it's getting harder and harder the longer he's being made to stand still. He can't tell how long Wesley's been sitting at this craps table, tossing hundred dollar chips onto the felt like they were nothing, and there's not a single bloody clock in the entire fuckin' place. He's trying to sneak a hand back to one of his guns, just to touch the butt and make sure it's there and try and stop fidgeting, but before he can work his hand to the back of his coat, Murphy's smacking his hand away.

"What," Connor spits, speaking French. His accent would be a dead giveaway, and he's glad that Wesley reminded them of that fact. "I wasn't going to do anything, I just wanted to make sure it was still there."

"Aye, and that's why you've got your hand down your bloody pants all the time, just makin' sure your dick's still there," Murph hisses back, his face close to Connor's but his eyes fixed firmly on the back of Wesley's neck. "No drawing attention to yourself, you daft bugger."

"I've lost all sense of time," Connor whispers. "This place is sucking my will to live."

"Oh, bag it, would you," Murph says. "Shut the fuck up and stand there like you're meant to."

Connor shuts up and stands there like he's meant to. Murphy's still staring at the back of Wesley's neck, his eyes practically burning a hole through the collar of the suit Wesley turned up in before they'd eaten. Connor doesn't blame him; Wesley looked good enough to eat and Connor had nearly suggested they skip the meal and have Wesley instead.

He hadn't, though, because it wasn't quite the moment for it, and as much as he'd like to rip Wesley away from the table and fuck him up against a wall, it's not the moment for that, either. He's supposed to be watching for people watching them; he's supposed to be watching Wesley's back, and Murph and his Da's backs, too, and if Murphy isn't going to, Connor'll have to.

Still - he knows why Murphy can't look away. There's something so wonderfully wounded about Wesley, the way he's closed himself off and flinches at a touch. It's the sort of thing that Connor would like to shag straight out of the man, because there's no one who won't open up to a good old fashioned shagging.

Or at least he's never met anyone who didn't. Who knows? Wesley might be an exception, but you never know until you've fucked.

Time slows down, or speeds up, and Connor entertains himself by picking out the plainclothes security guys - they're mostly the ones who walk past them, catch the shadow of a shoulder holster underneath their coats, catch a glimpse of Wesley in his suit at the table, and nod solemnly.

No one's paying them a lick of attention.

Wesley shoves back from the table with a stack of chips twice as high as he'd had to begin with, and Connor can't even tell how long it's been. While Wesley's thanking the pit boss solicitously, their Da's scanning the crowd for the best way out, and Connor's got a hand on Wesley's back, just marking the territory.

Wesley's back is tense underneath Connor's fingers, and he's practically shaking while he cashes the chips out, folding the wad of bills into his pocket. When the cashier's finished, he says, "Reinvested," and Connor's not got a fuckin' clue what he's on about, but there's his fuckin' Da nodding at Wesley with a tiny smile like he knows exactly what Wesley means.

Brits, Connor thinks. Stupid fuckin' race.

Their walk back through the casino floor, to the lifts that will take them up to their room and later up to the penthouse - Connor knows that they were going through with the first name on their list, if not all of them - felt like a scene out of some Hollywood blockbuster. No clocks in the casinos, no way to see that you've spent six hours and three hundred dollars throwing your money away, and it is like a slow motion movie pan, walking through the casino.

The crowd fuckin' parts for Wesley to pass through, Connor and Murphy close at his sides, Da in front, and every single head turns to watch him pass. If they're trying to pass Wesley off as a high roller who isn't to be messed with, they've certainly done their jobs.

Steering Wesley through the crowds and back into their hotel is a hell of a job, and when they finally make it through to the lobby, there are more than a few interested women (and men) trailing behind them. Connor reaches to put a hand on Wesley's back, proprietary-like, and his fingers collide with someone else's hand, not the smooth back of Wesley's suit. When he glances down, the hand on Wesley's back has a familiar tattoo: Murphy's.

Connor grins at him, and Murph tries to stifle his own grin, but it twitches through at the corners of his mouth. They've got the same idea, it's absolutely clear to Connor, and if Wesley's not twisting away from their hands on his back - well, there's nothing better after a satisfying job than a good fuck.

Murph agrees with him, apparently.

Murphy still thinks that plans are for losers, but Connor's been skeptical since they fell through the ceiling into the Russian hotel room (that was Connor's fault, Connor's stupid fuckin' rope, all of that was Connor's fault, Murphy had nothing to do with it) and Wesley seems like the sort of guy who has a plan. Maybe not good plans, Murphy thinks, because his best friend's in a box at the bottom of the ocean, but plans all the same. Wesley's a big fan of plans.

Which is why he walked into their hotel room, threw his suit coat over the back of a chair, and started explaining, very patiently, much like you would to a small child, that Vecchio had only one guy up there with him, a big guy who was good on the beating people up but not so great on the brains end of things. And then he suggested that they come up with a plan.

"So that's our plan," Connor says. "We walk up there, knock on the door, blow his henchman away and shoot Vecchio in the back of the head and leave him in the bathtub to rot."

"It's up to you three to do the actual shooting, but yes, I was thinking it would go something like that," Wesley says.

"That's no fuckin' plan, Wesley," Murphy says. "That's a hunch about how things might go." And it is, and it's dumbass fuckin' hunch, too, the sort of plan that's likely to go wrong and get all four of them killed.

"You know for certain, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, that Mr. Vecchio only has one bodyguard?," their Da says. "I prefer not to walk into situations undereducated, if at all possible."

"Just the one," Wesley confirms. "There was a chambermaid who was quite willing to tell me everything I needed to know, and there's a certain price that buys any sort of silence you need." He says this with the sort of wink at Murphy that, coming from Connor, would have an entirely different meaning, and Murphy takes a step backward. There's a sudden burst of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, a feeling he's used to experiencing when Connor's talking up a bird in a bar, but with the dead man?

Not like Murph had any claim to him at all. He had no right to his jealousy, none at all.

"So there's just one guy, and he's not too bright, and then Vecchio?" Connor's talking to Wesley when Murphy tunes back in.

"According to my informant," Wesley says.

"We've walked into worse, Connor," Murphy says, and Connor just grumbles. He's got his thinking face on, and Murphy knows that Connor's trying to work out if this is an acceptable risk. If this is as far as they need to go.

"Aye," Connor finally says. "We have. Da?"

Their Da says, "As far as necessary, my sons." Which is no help at all, as far as Murphy's concerned, because they could still walk into the room and expect two men but find six.

Connor answers the question for him. "You've got to carry something, Wesley, and not that shite six-shooter, either. You've got to be ready to come in behind us."

If Murphy wasn't watching, he'd have missed the tiny frown Wesley gives before he nods. "So be it. I did watch his trial. He's rather an abominable man."

"So let's get it over with," Connor says.

No fuckin' plan, Murphy thinks. This will not end well.

Wesley jimmies the lift into taking them up to the penthouse suites and it's the only door on the hallway when they walk past it once, twice, three times. Murphy's listening for voices, and he doesn't know what Connor and their Da are listening for, but he hopes they've got a better plan than he does.

On their third pass by the door, Connor stops directly in front of it and turns to Murphy and Da. "I'll put him on the floor. You two shoot. And then we get the door locked and Vecchio unarmed and on the floor as quick as we can."

"I'll lock the door," Wesley says, sounding exuberantly helpful, and Murphy shoots him a look.

"Aye," Connor says. "You do that."

He knocks on the door hard, practically pounding, and not five seconds pass before they hear the heavy footsteps of the apparently stupid bodyguard. Click, slide, snap of the locks and the guy yanks the door open almost all the way, which is the first clue that he's really not the brightest bulb and that they've lucked out.

Connor says, "We're acquaintances of the late Pappa Joe Yakavetta."

"Oh, yeah?" the bodyguard says. "What's that -" but he doesn't finish his sentence because Connor's broken his nose with one hand, driven him backwards into the room with a well-placed shoulder (the one, Murphy notices, without the wound from Wesley's crossbow), and slapped a hand over the guy's mouth. There's blood running down onto Connor's wrist from the big guy's nose and Connor's flushed and panting and Murphy almost forgets to shoot the big guy in the head because Connor's looking so fuckin' distracting.

But he remembers, and he and Da both put bullets straight through the guy's skull after Connor shoves him to the ground. Murphy thinks, It is not supposed to be this easy.

Yet it is, it has been, every single time except for that one time in Philly that's the reason they're out here to begin with, but they don't talk about that, and it was Smecker's fault besides.

Their Da says a quick Our Father over the body, drops pennies on the big guy's eyes, and straightens up.

Connor's standing there, panting like a dog, and they can suddenly hear movement and a faint voice from down the hallway, and Murphy says, "Wesley, do something with this."

"With what?"

"The dead bloke, you daft wanker, what else? We've got somewhere to be."

"I'll just," Wesley swallows hard and it makes Murphy stare at his mouth. Pretty fuckin' mouth, too. "I'll just cram him in the closet, then."

"Sounds like a plan," Murphy says, and claps a hand down on Wesley's shoulder, feeling the tiny sparks of heat that touching Wesley cause on his skin, and follows Connor and his Da down the hallway. It's an awful way to set up the bloody fuckin' penthouse, long hallway before you even get to the main room, and so fuckin' easy to sneak down.

Connor's leaning against the wall, mouthing a Hail Mary and looking studious, and their Da is standing with his gun cocked and his head to one side. "What," Murphy breathes, so quiet he can hardly hear himself in his own ears, and Connor puts a finger to his lips.

"Oy, lump head," a voice says, a thick Italian accented voice. "Was that room service?"

"Now," Connor breathes, and they turn the corner and Vecchio's just standing there, skinny little guy with a fat stomach hanging out, wearing nothin' but his pants.

He looks like nothing, and when Murphy cocks his gun, his head whips around and Vecchio has time to say, "Who the fuck are you fucks?" before Connor and Murphy have him on his knees, guns against his skull and their Da's standing behind him, his gun resting against the palm of his hand.

"Do not kill. Do not rape. Do not steal. These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace," their Da says. "These are not polite suggestions, these are codes of behavior, and those of you that ignore them will pay the dearest cost. Mr. Vecchio, you have crossed over into our domain, and today we are very happy to send you to whatever God you choose. When I vest my flashing sword, and my hand takes hold in judgment, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me. Oh Lord, raise me to Thy right hand and count me among Thy saints."

He cocks the hammer of his gun and sets it between Murphy's and Connor's, at the very base of Vecchio's skull.

It's the most mind-blowing thing Wesley's ever seen. He's struggled to shove Vecchio's bodyguard into the closet, and when he turns the corner into the main room of the suite, Connor and Murphy and Il Duce have the guy down on his knees, guns to his head. All three faces are blank; all three men look deadly serious, and Wesley realizes that he has underestimated them.

Then they open their mouths and speak. "And shepherds we shall be, for thee my Lord for thee, Power hath descended forth from thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command, we shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be."

Il Duce says, "In nomine patris ..."

Connor: "... et filii..."

Murphy: " ... et spiritus sancti."

Then three guns, firing as one, and Vecchio is slumped over on the floor. Murphy bends over to turn the body and put two coins on the corpse's eyes, and Connor crosses the man's arms across his chest. Il Duce makes the sign of the cross on his own chest, and Wesley watches the freakishly still tableau for a long moment before clearing his throat.

Murphy's head snaps up immediately, searching for the noise, and Connor's hand goes straight to the hammer on his gun, as though he expected to be surprised by another mob boss, coming out of the bathroom behind them. "Well," Wesley says, because he isn't sure what else to say, not with Murphy's gaze burning straight through him and Connor licking his lips like that. "You are certainly are efficient and ... inspiring as I've heard you were."

"Inspiring?" Connor snorts, and nudges his brother with his hip. "That's a new one, eh, Murph?"

"Aye, Connor, it is a new one," Murphy answers. "We've never been called 'inspiring' before." They've both relaxed into the mischievous, wolfish grins that Wesley's become quite fond of, and they're holstering their guns and moving toward him with the practice of two people who know what they want.

Before either gets too close, Il Duce clears his own throat. Wesley's aware of Connor and Murphy's turning towards their father, but he's already looking in that direction, so he doesn't see the movement. He feels vaguely as though he's been caught doing something that he's not supposed to be doing, and it takes him a moment to focus in on Il Duce.

"I think it would be prudent to not stand at the scene of the crime much longer," he says, and Connor looks sheepishly back at Wesley, as if to say, sorry I was busy ogling you, let's get outta here before we get arrested.

"Right," Wesley says. "You're entirely correct." He's still frozen, watching Connor watch Murphy watch him, and the sight of their practiced and routine assassination was still playing out in his mind's eye.

"So come on, then," Murphy says, moving across the room and wrapping an arm around Wesley's waist. "Let's get out of here."

They take the stairs back down to their floor - "goin' down's easier than goin' up," Connor says - and all four of them stand awkwardly in front of the door to Wesley's room for several long, quiet minutes. Connor twitches and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. Murphy stares at the ceiling.

Wesley tries not to stare at anyone's mouth, but Murphy tilts his head back down and catches his eye just as Wesley runs his tongue across his lower lip; he can't help himself. Murphy grins at him, a smile that's more sexual than predatory, and runs his own tongue across his mouth, slowly and seductively. Wesley can't contain a tiny shiver of lust, straight up his spine. Murphy can't contain the desire in his eyes as he notes Wesley's own lust.

"Well," Il Duce says. "I find that the best relaxation after a difficult job is a glass of hot milk and a bit of VH1. Would you like to join me, my sons, or do you have other plans?"

"Other plans, Da, but thanks all the same," Murphy says, putting his hand back on Wesley's spine and steering him gently away from Il Duce.

"We've got better things to do," Connor says with a wink.

"We should discuss our upcoming plans," Wesley says, but he's silenced with Connor's hand over his mouth. It's rough, calloused palm and fingertips, and it smells of gunpowder and tobacco and soap. Wesley resists the urge to run his tongue across the creases of Connor's palm.

"Plan later, limey," Connor says. "Drink now. Let's go. Hop to it."

Murphy propels him down the hallway to the twins' doorway, calling over his shoulder, "G'night, Da, sleep well, and don't watch the show about the 70s, it just riles you up!"

Connor, ahead of them, has the door open and his coat off, showing the stretch of his shoulder holster against his back. Wesley finds all the blood in his body pooling somewhere unexpected; not that he hasn't slept with or been attracted to men before, but he really has meant to keep this entirely professional. If the way Murphy is leaning against the door, having flipped all three locks shut, and staring at him was any example, professionalism might fly straight out the window in somewhere less than an hour, or however long it takes the twins to get drunk.

Connor's bent over the mini-bar in the corner, and Wesley, turning at the clinking of bottles, has opened his mouth to warn him off that liquor when Murphy pins him up against the wall with his full body. "Don't even think about complaining," he says, and then he lets Wesley go abruptly and walks toward his brother, tossing his jacket on the floor and peeling his own holster off. He drops it lazily on a chair and has a hand on Connor's ass - Connor's head is still stuck into the icebox, bottles rattling under his hands - before Wesley can blink.

Connor straightens up, holding half a dozen tiny bottles of liquor in each hand. "Jack or Jim, Wes, pick your poison."

"Can't we have something better," he hears himself saying, sounding plaintive.

"Tough luck, man," Murphy says, liberating several bottles from his brother's fingers and unscrewing the top on one. "Jack and Jim're all we've got, unless you'd like to skip the drinking entirely." Wesley tries not to stare at Murphy's throat as he swallows the bottle down in one gulp.

Gulp, indeed, Wesley thinks. He's swallowing hard, himself.

"I think I shall skip the drinking entirely, then, Mr. MacManus, and excuse myself for the evening. Enjoy yourselves."

Wesley turns to leave, thankful for the easy out Murphy has given him, and runs straight into Connor, both hands still full of liquor bottles.

"We're a sight more fun than watching the telly by yourself, Wes," Connor says, taking a step towards Wesley and forcing him back into Murphy.

"Aye," Murphy says, and when Wesley stumbles, still being forced backward into the room by Connor, Murphy catches him against his chest and snakes a hand underneath Wesley's suit coat. Murphy, sans coat and holster and having stripped off his shoes somewhere, is pressed full-length against his back, thin t-shirt and jeans hardly hiding the fact that Murphy had definite ideas about what was going on in this hotel room this evening. "Aye," Murphy says again, mouth directly against Wesley's ear, and runs his fingers along Wesley's ribs and up to tug on his lapel. "And you should definitely be more comfortable."

"Jack or Jim, Wes," Connor says again, taking a final step closer. Wesley's trapped in between both MacManus brothers, Murphy's hand languidly stroking up and down Wesley's chest, twisting a nipple here, sliding between two buttons there, Connor's groin pressed firmly against his own, Connor's mouth a scant few inches away from his own.

"Neither," Wesley breathes and he can't hear his own voice for the rushing of blood in his ears (and, if he is going to be honest with himself, his groin). Murphy is studiously unbuttoning his shirt from behind, though Wesley's tie is still hanging loosely from his neck, and from the sound of glass on carpet, Murphy's still drinking from the mini bar bottles and tossing them on the floor, as well.

"Neither?" Connor says, and he raises an eyebrow in an eerie imitation of his father and licks his lips. "Alright, then."

Murphy's mouth is warm and wet on Wesley's neck and Connor's tongue is in Wesley's mouth. There's a tugging at Wesley's throat, the wet kisses on his neck not abating, and through the haze of lust flooding straight into his head, Wesley takes it to mean that Murphy can't quite figure out how to get his tie off. Murphy growls against his neck, fingers insistently tangled in his tie, and bites down on Wesley's shoulder, teeth sinking into muscle through two layers of clothing.

Wesley groans. He can't help it - and two strong tugs at his tie later, Murphy's pulling away, peeling Wes's coat back off his arms and tossing it behind them. Or at least Wesley assumes it's behind them, as the muffled crash from the corner behind him would suggest. Connor's working a hand inside Wesley's shirt, calloused thumb stroking gently against Wesley's hip as Connor kisses him soundly and backs him quietly into the room.

Murphy's weight against his back is gone, and Wesley stumbles again while he's trying to walk backwards, but before he falls, Murphy is pressed against him again, arm around his waist, mouth on Wesley's ear, guiding him backwards until Murphy can twist away and push him down onto the bed.

Connor tries to follow Wesley's mouth and trips over his brother, sprawling into Wesley's lap and scattering a handful of small bottles across the bedspread. Murphy, Wesley could see, was humming happily at the foot of the bed, stripping of his t-shirt and moving over to tug his brother's guns out of the holster and the holster off his brother's shoulders, while Connor stares down at Wesley, wearing an expression between hunger and apprehension.

"I knew you were hiding something under all that dignity," Connor says, and Wesley hears a combination of teasing and lust in his voice.

"Ah," Wesley says. "Yes."

Murphy presses up against Connor's back, propping his chin on Connor's shoulder, peering down at Wesley. "Hey," he says, and Wesley twists his head, trying to look up at Murphy. Murphy has one hand wrapped around Connor's waist, thumb hooked into a belt-loop, and his eyes are dark and dilated with lust. "This isn't okay, Wesley, you just tell us."

Wesley gulps. It was okay, it was extremely okay, but he'd never said as much to the MacManus brothers; this was their prerogative, and he could see that Murphy didn't really want to be guilty of rape. "It's fine," he says, and cringes, because even for Wesley, who knows he's still buttoned up a little further than Connor and Murphy and just about everybody in the world, that's awful. It isn't what he means at all, and he can feel Connor's body tense above him. "It's good," he says hurriedly. "It's ..."

Wesley can't find the words to tell both these men that it's fine, and he's going to look past the fact that Murphy's draped across his brother because somehow what might have seemed strange in the real world seems just fine, seems normal, in Las Vegas, in a world where the MacManus brothers can show up on his doorstep with guns pulled and all three of them end up half naked in a hotel room in Vegas.

So he reaches a hand up, stretches his arm as far as he can reach, and grabs the back of Murphy's neck, pulling him down into a deep kiss, sandwiching Connor between the two of them.

"Oh, fine," Connor mumbles into his neck, tongue snaking out to lick behind Wesley's ear, and Wes can't help himself, he shivers into Murphy's mouth. "You got a new definition of fine out there in California, must be, because this is really fuckin' good. That's what this is."

Connor pushes up and breaks the kiss tumbles Murphy onto the center of the bed, flat on his back. Murphy is flushed and panting, and Wesley thinks that if he looked in a mirror, he would see the same sex-drunk expression on his own face as the one Murphy's currently wearing. Connor crawls over Wesley's head, following his brother, and Wesley closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and shrugs out of his own unbuttoned dress shirt. No need for it here.

When he opens his eyes, Connor is straddling his brother, Murphy's wrists pinned above his head by one of Connor's strong, broad hands. Murphy has thrown his head back, tattoo stretching up along the tense muscles, and Connor's free hand is engaged in opening the top button on Murphy's jeans. It's another automatic response, but Wesley sucks his breath in through his teeth, and in the silent room, the only noises Murphy's frantic panting and the air conditioner, it sounds obscenely noisy. Connor and Murphy both whip their heads around, ever on guard against someone shooting them in the back, but Connor's hand doesn't stop moving on the zip of Murphy's trousers, and Murphy doesn't stop writhing up towards his brother's crotch. They both grin, the feral, hungry grin that Wesley's seen before.

Connor says, "C'mere," and his voice is low and throaty. Murphy adds nothing but a groan and a thrust of his hips towards Connor's.

Wesley does what he's told. He's never been one to balk at orders from authority figures, and the way Connor's fingers are wrapped around Murphy's wrists tell him straight off who the authority figure in this scenario is. He crawls across the bed and Connor takes the hand that he'd pressed flat against the swell of Murphy's cock and wraps in through Wesley's belt loops, tugging him closer. Connor's half bent over, still holding Murphy to the bed with his hand and his hips, and he tugs on Wesley's trousers until Wesley bends down and kisses him.

Connor makes a satisfied noise against his mouth, and his tongue is warm and wet and licking at Wesley's bottom lip. Wes opens his mouth to Connor and slides a hand underneath the t-shirt Connor's still wearing. Connor's skin is smooth and warm and when he feels the touch of Wesley's hand, Connor deepens the kiss. Wes is twisting his wrist, stretching his hand up across Connor's back and running his finger over thin, raised scars when a needy groan comes from somewhere near the head of the bead.

He doesn't want to pull his mouth away from Connor's, but he does, resting his forehead in the crook of Connor's neck, and stares down at Murphy, who's still panting, mouth hanging open, groaning like someone's killing him.

"Sorry, Murph," Connor breathes. "Got a little distracted." He rolls off Murphy, keeping his hands pinned to the bed, and Murphy thrusts again, just once, and makes a plaintive moaning noise. Apparently watching his brother kiss Wesley has left Murphy rather speechless, and Wes feels himself flushing with pleasure and not a little bit of lust.

Quite a lot of desire, in fact, if the erection straining at the fly of his trousers is any indication, and he thinks it is. "Wes," Connor says, and Wesley gets the idea that he's been calling Wesley's name for quite a few moments by now. "Hold his wrists while I get something, alright?"

Wesley blinks. Murphy groans. Connor slides off the bed as soon as Wesley's wrapped a hand around Murphy's wrists and crawled further up the bed to straddle his hips. Connor hits the floor, toeing off his boots and stripping off his t-shirt in one clean motion, and he crosses the room to rummage in one bag. Murphy's still panting hoarsely, staring up at Wesley, and as long as Wes has him pinned to the bed like this - well, there are certainly plenty of productive things for him to do.

Keeping Murphy's wrists firmly pinned, Wes uses his other hand to finish the job on Murphy's half-open fly, pulling the zipper down slowly and peeling the denim away. Murphy's not wearing pants under the jeans, and his cock is hard and leaking, leaving slick trails across his belly. It's a struggle to peel Murphy's jeans down, with one hand still wrapped around the soft skin on the undersides of Murphy's wrists, but Murphy helpfully lifts his hips and Wesley wrestles them down to his knees, freeing his cock.

Connor is still clanking around in their luggage behind Wesley, and with Murphy almost free of his jeans, Wesley has a chance to sit back and just look for a long minute. Murphy's chest is flushed, his nipples flat and smooth and brown on the hairless skin, and he has Connor's name tattooed just above his left nipple. There's muscle underneath the skin, flexing gently against Wesley's restraining hand, and a thin trail of hair leading down his belly. He's uncut, like Wesley, like Connor, Wesley assumes, and his cock is hard and sleek, bobbing gently as Murphy turns against Wesley's restraining hands.

Wesley's no stranger to sleeping with men, and he isn't tentative, either. He wraps a hand around Murphy's cock, pressing his thumb to the base, and Murphy jumps and groans again. It's almost words this time, and Wesley thinks he hears his name in the incoherent mumble. He presses his thumb down once more, and strokes up, not at all gently, and Murphy keeps groaning. Wesley's running the pad of his thumb across the head of Murphy's cock when Connor walks back up to the bed, something shining gleaming in his hands.

"Alright," Connor says, staring down at his own hands. "I found 'em ..." He looks up and trails off and his mouth drops open. "Holy fuck," he says.

"It's," Murphy grits out, his hands twist strongly in Wesley's fingers, and Wesley won't be able to hold him much longer. "It's not fuckin' polite to stare, Connor, you fuck," he manages, but he's not looking at Connor, he's twisted his head around to stare down the bed at Wesley's hand on his cock, and he's thrusting hard against Wesley's slow stroking. "Hurry the fuck up," he says in a groan. "Come on, Wes, come on."

"Handcuffs," Connor says simply, crawling up alongside Wesley. "We stole 'em from Kate back in L.A., and I knew they'd be good for something." He snaps one bracelet around Murphy's wrist, the cool metal bumping up against Wesley's hand, and the sensation of metal on one hand and hot, hard flesh in the other is overwhelming. Connor twists the chain through the headboard and snaps the other bracelet around Murphy's other wrist.

Wesley flexes his fingers as Murphy pulls against the restraint. "Fuck, Connor," he says, "I said I'd be good."

"You don't know how," Connor says, licking his lips. He's not looking at his bro