For Love of Heaven

For Love of Heaven

Chapter Two: Extenuating Circumstances


"The only thing Irish about this place is the name," was Murphy's disgruntled opinion as they surveyed the bar. Cheap Budweiser signs hung over two old, abused looking pool tables; the cues on the wall looked bowed and unreliable. It didn't smell too good, like stale beer, sweat, and cigarettes, and the fuzzy television up behind the bar blared the football game louder than the country music coming through the shitty speakers at opposite ends of the grimy counter. Small and cramped, the place had the air of someplace you really didn't want to be until you were already too drunk to care. Judging by the looks of the occupants - a few scattered men with uneven beards and stony countenances - such was the case.

Nevertheless, in the row of dusty bottles behind the counter, there was one whose label the Saints recognized. "Aye, but some things are universal," Connor grinned, and bravely took a seat on a stool that wavered under him and squeaked protestingly. "Can we get two doubles o' that there Bushmills'?" he called out hopefully.

The bartender, a young redhead who looked like he would honestly rather be doing anything but endlessly scrubbing chipped mugs with a gray rag, nodded and walked over to them. "Got IDs?" he challenged apathetically, already setting two glasses on the bar in front of them.

Exchanging a pair of amused smiles, they showed him their licenses, and without even really looking at them the guy nodded and picked up the bottle of Irish whiskey from the row. A bit less dusty than some of the others, it was nearly empty. That didn't bother the twins. It just meant the poor lad behind the counter would have to open another bottle soon - and that that one wouldn't be stale.

"That's twelve-fifty," the bartender told them, watching the last of the bottle drip into the second glass. Slapping a fifty on the counter, Connor flashed him a wide smile.

"Howsabout you go find another bottle of that, mate? We'll be here for a while." Grinning at the bored expression on the redhead's face, the brothers laughed as they picked up their glasses. With a wink and a wordless toast, they tossed them back.

The night had begun.


(Several hours later)


"That's -cheatin'-," Murphy protested, watching as Connor poked the cue ball with a fingertip.

Two bottles of whiskey and four games of pool later, they were still in the dingy little taproom, which had gotten a bit more crowded as the night went by. To the dismay of the only two women there, the brothers had ignored everyone but each other and the tender, and had proceeded to get cheerfully drunk and entertain themselves.

Now, leaning over the ratty felt of the ancient pool table, Connor gave his twin a look and held up the cue. "This thing's more bent than Smecker," he said disdainfully, and shook his head. "Sides you're winnin' anyway."

The regulars of the bar, unused to newcomers and strangers, kept eyeing the two of them, but, bollixed as they were, they couldn't have cared less. With four more balls on the table than his brother - Connor was only good at pool when he was still sober - the elder of the two frowned, and attempted to use the use, aiming carefully before he shot.

The cue ball careened forth and ricocheted off of one of Murphy's striped balls before it bounced around the table, knocking it into a hole and scoring a point for his brother. Cursing, Connor watched as it narrowly missed two of his own solids and shot right into the corner pocket.

Laughing, Murphy sauntered to the end of the table. "Scratch," he said teasingly, taking no offense at the middle finger Connor flipped him with a scowl. "You really suck at this game, you know that?"

"Fuck you," Connor muttered, disgruntled, and watched as Murphy carefully set the ball on the table. As much as he sulked outwardly, he wasn't really hurt. No, he was too busy admiring the way Murphy's shirt slid over his back when he leaned over the table to make his shot. In fact, he was so distracted that he didn't notice Murphy had -made- the shot until his twin straightened with a crow of glee. Only then did Connor realize that Murphy had sunk both of his last two balls, and was now homing in on the eight ball with a cocky grin.

Muttering under his breath, Connor watched as his twin lined up effortlessly, the shaky cue not a hindrance. "Eight ball, left corner pocket," he said cheerfully, and sure enough, with a clack of one ball against the next, the eight ball was knocked right down, the cue spinning idly at the ege of the pocket while Connor groaned and Murphy did a drunken victory dance.

"That's five out of five, Connor, you should probably give it up now," Murphy taunted, and merely laughed when his twin thunked the cue down with a vengeance.

"Aye, aye, we'll see who's losin' later at cards," he vowed, but couldn't keep a frown for long in the face of Murphy's bright amusement. Finally he gave in and chuckled, and clapped an arm around his twin's shoulders. "You were good."

Murphy leaned against him easily, and they were both grinning as they went back to the bar for another round. "Aye, I was. Remember when I couldn't beat you at pool, ever."

"You could barely see over the edge of the table," Connor snorted. "Old Man Jacob had to let you stand on a phone book, just to keep you quiet."

"And yet I'm taller than you now," Murphy said with a pleased grin, flopping carelessly onto the stool, which twisted somewhat under him. Not that he noticed, really.

"Like hell if you are!" Connor retorted sharply. "You've never been taller than me, Murph. It's all in your head."

"A spiky hairdo doesn't make you taller'n me," Murphy laughed, and ruffled his brother's hair with a grin. "That's cheatin'."

"Not when I'm still taller than you, bald as a baby's ass!"

By now the bartender was sort of wondering how they didn't fall off their stools, much less keep up this kind of banter, but, he had to admit, they were pretty amusing. Pouring the two men another drink, he shook his head.

Shame they had to kill them, really. They were kinda cute. Although, he supposed, his job as recon allowed him to observe them for a bit before turning them in to his boss, so he didn't have to rat them out just yet.

Besides, the boss would be really upset if it was a false alarm. With a shudder, the human recalled the last time his demonic master had been... upset. No, that was NOT an option. These two looked like habitual drunks, they'd be back.

All he had to do was wait.


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