In fact, I’d get in his fucking face, and I’d ram my fist into his—
"Oy, fucker," Finn snapped, kicking my foot. "Why the fucking fuck didn’t you fucking tell me your motherfucking ass was at Conor’s?"
"Wasn’t that pure poetry?" Conor questioned, ambling over from a part of the room I couldn’t see within the confines of my blanket fort.
He had that stupid cat in his arms, the one with diamantés and now frozen custard covering it.
I didn’t think he took the creepy ass thing to bed, but Conor rarely surprised me.
Everyone thought he was batshit because he was a genius. That was because they didn’t know the truth. Would never know it either.
A shiver whipped its way down my spine making me feel like one of those eggs in the scramblers I’d been watching on TV—
"Jesus, is he having a seizure?" Finn rasped, his concern clear even if it wasn’t my priority right now.
If I looked like I was having a seizure, then that was nothing to how this personal earthquake felt.
"Nah, he’s getting better now. Just a little longer and he’ll stop looking like Stig of the Dump."
"Who’s that?"
"A character in a novel."
"Never heard of him."
"He's by Clive King, a British author."
"Clive King?" Finn queried. "Are you being irritating on purpose?"
"No," Conor said slowly. "I don’t think I am. I mean, it’s not my fault that all you read is Playboy."
"Feck off, and don’t you dare tell Aoife that," he groused. "I read one fucking copy when I was sixteen and it was yours—"
"Semantics," Conor disregarded, before he plunked himself down on the sofa.
Right on top of me.
"What are you doing?" Finn spluttered.
"It stops the tremors," Conor replied easily. "Pass me the marshmallows."
I heard bags rattling, paper crinkling. The sweet sugary scent of candy combined with Finn’s lemongrass aftershave almost made me want to puke, then I felt more pressure, and realized Finn had sat on top of me too.
Brothers.
Fucking pains in my ass.
God love ‘em.
"Why are you here anyway? Aside from critiquing my cat?"
"It’s weird, Conor. You’re like some Bond villain. Except, at least, Blofeld’s cat was alive."
"This one doesn’t shit or piss or need feeding. Which part of my lifestyle makes you think me having something alive in here would be a smart move?"
"Do you think it’s wise that Aidan’s staying with you? I don’t want him to become something ‘dead’ because you’re incapable of keeping something alive."
Conor grunted. "He’s autonomous. Mostly."
Finn snorted. "Good to know."
Paper rattled some more, a bag creaked. "Why are you here anyway? Thought it was your day off?"
"Yeah, and I should be dick deep in Aoife right now but that fucking friend of hers—"
"Which one?"
"Jen." He huffed. "She showed up. Some guy screwed her over."
"She’s hot. Can’t blame him for the screwing."
"She’s insane. The guy dumped her so she took a key to his Ferrari."
Conor snickered. "Sounds like fun."
"Well, it might have been at the time but now the guy’s suing."
"For how much?"
"Forty grand for the paint job and thirty for emotional distress."
Conor guffawed. "Emotional distress? For the paint job?"
"Probably after being in a relationship with Jen." Finn grunted. "Anyways, she’s there, snotting all over my fucking furniture and Aoife being Aoife is way too goddamn soft where that shark’s concerned."
"Which is why you’re here? And why we’re being graced with your charmingly miserable company?" Conor queried.
Finn lived just across the way. You could see his building from every angle in the room we were currently sitting in.
"Well, that, and did you hear?"
"I mean, I might have. I have ears. What in particular?"
"Such a pain in my ass," Finn muttered under his breath. "Davidson’s making a speech about the Sparrows."
Conor cackled. "So, Mr. Oval Office has decided to fly his yellow belly into the nest, huh?"
"More like out of it. It’s on Channel Four. Took him long enough."
Through my misery, I saw the infomercials I’d been watching flick over to Channel Four. I didn’t complain, because what the fuck did I care what we were watching? What the fuck did I care about the Sparrows or the President or—
"My fellow Americans, the stain on our democracy from these so-called New World Sparrows need only be as deep as we allow it. If we can stop that taint from spreading further," the President declared, "then their toxicity can be cut off at the source.
"After a brief investigation by the FBI, several Congressmen and -women, Senators, even staff within my household have been uncovered as being a part of this body of people who, right here right now, I’m declaring as enemies of the state.
"I will not allow such a presence to undermine this republic in which we all live, for which millions have fought and died to protect…
"As of this moment, I can assure you, whether you voted for me or against me, the Davidson Presidency has your back. We will purge this presence from American soil and restore it to its former glory!"
"Puke alert," Conor mumbled.
Finn hummed. "He’s good though. You can’t deny it. That’s how he reels them in."
"Like suckers." Conor made a gagging sound. "I don’t mind his politics, just how he does his speeches."
"He’ll get in again. You know that, right? Especially if he gets the exterminators in for the NWS like he’s promising."
"You don’t think he is one?" Conor queried. "It’d fit. Why wouldn’t they have Sparrows in both parties?"
Even in this state, a state that made ‘death warmed over’ seem like a walk in the fucking park, I knew what he was talking about.
As he sat back, his weight settling on my legs in a way that was seriously uncomfortable, the TV flickered off of Davidson and switched to scenes from a few days back.
City Hall surrounded by cop cars, an active shooter alert ongoing, and then scenes that I was sure most would find harrowing. Except, my brothers and I weren’t exactly the norm.
A dirty cop was squatting in a corner of the New York City Mayor's office, squealing like the pig he was, about how he’d been given the job of killing Mayor Coullson by a Republican politician.
Jason Young had, only a couple years ago, been the running mate of Davidson’s opposition. That he was a Sparrow and that he’d been arrested in conjunction with Coullson’s death was all over the news still.
"My name is Detective Craig Lacey of the 42nd Precinct," the squealing pig declared to the world in a video that had since gone viral after his death and the Mayor’s murder. "Yesterday evening, I received a call on my burner cell from Congressman Jason Young." He grabbed something from the table, turned it around to display Jason Young’s Caller ID on the log. "At nine-twenty-four, he made the request that I dispose of Mayor Coullson as he had broken ranks and was in talks with someone who was working against the organization.