Fic - "Abiding in the Light"
Title: Abiding in the Light
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Connor MacManus, Murphy MacManus. The Boondock Saints.
Word Count: 1,658
Rating: R
Summary: Murph laughs when he cries hard enough; folks tend to die once someone's made Connor's brother cry hard enough.
Warnings: Saints-level violence, foul language, and some brotherly smooching.
Notes: The summary line was the prompt at comment_fic; the theme was Tears. I re-watched the movie this weekend and developed a powerful urge to write at least one fic for it, and this prompt was my golden ticket! Title is from the Bible, natch, 1 John 2:10: "He that loves his brother abides in the light." I think it's safe to say that Connor MacManus abides in some epic radiance indeed.
Murph’s on his knees, his collarbone grinding on the edge of the table that the big fucker has him pinned against. Connor tries another lunge backwards, but this time there are two men leaning on his back, crushing his ribs almost to the point of breaking along the line of the solid oak bar. He meets his brother’s eyes across the ruined remains of the tables and chairs that have been destroyed in the brawl. Look at me, he commands silently, and Murph obeys.
The fat fucker, the boss man, grabs Murphy by the wrist and slams his hand onto the table, holds it there. Blood is oozing down his face from the gash that Murphy tore into his brow. In his other meaty fist is a bottle of Bailey’s that he raises high overhead. Murph twitches.
Look at me, Connor insists, holding him with his stare, pouring his own strength out like a river.
The hammer falls. The bottle splinters on the back of the trapped hand, and the resulting fountain of creamy liqueur is streaked red with blood. Murph screams once, sharp and clipped like a kicked dog. Connor’s body jolts, electrified, and even two grown men have a hard time holding him down.
“Mick piece of shit,” the boss man leers, disappointed by a single yelp.
The neck of the bottle has been reduced to a jagged glass dagger in his hand, and with a snarl he brings it down again, this time tearing into the already-exposed muscle and bone. Murph bites his lip until blood threads out between his teeth. Then, wrenching his gaze away from his brother, he throws his head back to the ceiling and howls. The boss man grunts in satisfaction and twists the weapon. Murph’s voice is like breaking glass, shrill and devastating as he sobs in wretched agony.
“You motherfucker!” Connor roars, spraying saliva all over the bar, foaming at the mouth with rage.
Then, as the boss man gives the glass another hard screw, Murphy’s final shriek bubbles away into laughter.
Connor’s heart lurches and his mouth fills with acid. He only hears a laugh like that when Murph has been pushed past the point of weeping, and those occasions are rare and unbearable to revisit, even in memory. Now Murph wheezes and giggles, his eyes streaming with tears as he tugs uselessly against those who restrain him. He stares at his mangled hand with an expression of total hysteria, his eyes rolling and his mouth slashed into an unnatural grin.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” the boss man growls. “You think this is funny, you little piece of shit?”
“Touch him again and you’re a dead man!” Connor vows in a voice like thunder, murder in his eyes, but the fat fucker pays no heed.
One last blow from the broken glass and Murph is laughing so hard that he pisses himself, his face a ghastly red--- Connor can see bones sticking up in three different places from the bloody pulp that used to be his left hand. It’ll be eight weeks before the doctors are able to remove the pins and three months before Murph can make a proper fist again. He collapses back against the legs of the thug who’s holding him on his knees, his limbs turning to jelly as shock sets in.
“Pussy Mick fuck,” the boss man snarls, and he slings the bottleneck at Murphy in disgust.
When one of the goons pinning him turns to see the impact, Connor twists his torso just enough--- his elbow slides into the sudden open space between the bastard and the bar, and all at once his whole right arm pops free. In the split-second before the mooks realize what's happened, Connor shutters his eyes and gasps a prayer.
“Lord, if it be Your will, let me avenge my brother.”
Christ smiles, and Connor is able to reach the switchblade in his back pocket. He pops it open and draws it shining from his jeans, the sword from the motherfucking stone, and the blade catches the light for a single silver moment before it buries itself to the hilt between the ribs of the nearest thug. It doesn’t linger. Blood follows the blade in a crimson ribbon as Connor pulls out and pivots, tearing a gut-spilling gash into the other man’s abdomen before the boss man even has a chance to bellow his surprise.
Time for guns to be drawn. Murphy gets bodily thrown aside as the last henchman standing fumbles for the .45 tucked in his waistband, but Connor flicks the knife towards him and it goes right into his fucking neck. It’s a lucky fucking shot, but Connor doesn’t see it. He can hardly see anything. His vision is red and hazy, hatred and anger staining his eyeballs and telescoping his line of sight down on one fat fucker, one stupid fucking boss man who’s just realized that he shouldn’t have thrown away that bottleneck so soon.
Connor shoulders into him at full speed and follows him down to the floor. The prick lands on his back and Connor sits down hard on his chest, throwing all of his weight into it, feeling the sternum crack under him as he lands.
“That’s right, you scummy cunt!” he bawls, blind with rage. “I broke your fucking ribs with my fucking ass!”
The man paws at him, cursing and striking. Connor lets him flail stupidly for a bit, then grabs him by the wrist, like catching a snake by the back of the neck. While his victim blubbers incoherently, he neatly folds the sweaty hand into a pointing gesture.
“Warned ya,” he breathes. “Didn’t I?”
He jams the boss man’s index finger into his mouth. The coppery taste of Murph’s blood is tinged with a splash of Bailey’s, and Connor’s eyes burn with the force of his wrath. When his teeth reach the last knuckle, he bites down as hard as he can.
It’s not as easy as it sounds--- biting a man’s finger off--- let alone doing it five times. There’s flesh and muscle and tendons to rip through, and Connor’s jaw is aching from the exertion as he spits the thumb out last. Boss man has passed out from either pain or blood loss. It spares him the unpleasantness when his throat is slit by the switchblade, but Connor is satisfied that the fucker suffered enough before he was finished with him.
Murph has dragged himself over to the bar and now sits with his back propped against it, his injured limb cradled in his lap, his eyes dull and staring. Connor crawls over to him, crawls over the bodies he’s just made, and cups his brother’s face in his shaking hands.
“Murph,” he whispers. “My boy. Come on, now.”
“I’m sorry, Connor,” Murphy mumbles and screws his eyes shut tight. “I never shoulda let that fat bastard get me.”
“Hey, hey,” Connor shakes his head. “None of that. They got us both. They got us good, but in the end, we got ‘em better.”
The younger brother chuckles weakly. “I can’t believe you bit his fucking fingers off.”
“Nice touch, eh?” Connor grins, wolfish. “Seemed only fair, seeing what he did to your...”
His voice fails him. Murph is sweating, trembling, and Connor won’t cry, he won’t, God damn it. His hands tighten on his brother’s head, his voice thick with emotion.
“My brave boy. God love you, Murph, you’re a tough little fucker.”
Murph manages another feeble giggle--- but he’s coming down now, and this time the sound distorts itself into weeping. He slumps forward into Connor’s waiting embrace, his face mashed into the crook of his brother’s neck, the dirty black t-shirt catching and muffling his agonized groan. Connor throws his arms around him, crushing Murph against his chest, kissing his damp hair again and again. They rock gently from side to side, lost in each other.
There’s a timid squeaking as the door behind the counter slowly opens. The bartender disappeared when the fight broke out, but unlike the other bystanders who were able to run away, he had to sit tight until the skirmish was over. Now that the screaming has stopped, Connor can hear him creeping cautiously around on the other side of the solid oak paneling. After a fruitless thirty seconds he barks impatiently, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and call a fucking ambulance?” There’s a nervous pause--- the MacManus men are hidden from view, sitting down on the floor--- but the bartender seems to take the threatening voice at face value.
“There’s a phone in the office,” an anxious murmur assures.
Then another door opens and closes and the brothers are alone again.
Connor brushes the sweaty hair from Murph’s forehead. Murph offers him a crooked smile, his face ashen except for his cheeks, which are flushed red from the force of his frenzied laughter. It kills him, the beauty in this face, and Connor’s heart throbs with the truth of it. He kisses him, his mouth pressed hard against his brother’s, giving him his breath, his life, his promise. One day his wrists will bear the scars of his devotion, and then the world will get a chance to see the proof of a love that’s already broadcast unheard in every heartbeat, already written unseen on every inch of his skin.
“Brave boy,” he whispers in his brother’s ear,. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
Murphy sighs, and the heat of his breath against Connor’s neck is as sweet and sacred as a prayer.
_______end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Connor MacManus, Murphy MacManus. The Boondock Saints.
Word Count: 1,658
Rating: R
Summary: Murph laughs when he cries hard enough; folks tend to die once someone's made Connor's brother cry hard enough.
Warnings: Saints-level violence, foul language, and some brotherly smooching.
Notes: The summary line was the prompt at comment_fic; the theme was Tears. I re-watched the movie this weekend and developed a powerful urge to write at least one fic for it, and this prompt was my golden ticket! Title is from the Bible, natch, 1 John 2:10: "He that loves his brother abides in the light." I think it's safe to say that Connor MacManus abides in some epic radiance indeed.
Murph’s on his knees, his collarbone grinding on the edge of the table that the big fucker has him pinned against. Connor tries another lunge backwards, but this time there are two men leaning on his back, crushing his ribs almost to the point of breaking along the line of the solid oak bar. He meets his brother’s eyes across the ruined remains of the tables and chairs that have been destroyed in the brawl. Look at me, he commands silently, and Murph obeys.
The fat fucker, the boss man, grabs Murphy by the wrist and slams his hand onto the table, holds it there. Blood is oozing down his face from the gash that Murphy tore into his brow. In his other meaty fist is a bottle of Bailey’s that he raises high overhead. Murph twitches.
Look at me, Connor insists, holding him with his stare, pouring his own strength out like a river.
The hammer falls. The bottle splinters on the back of the trapped hand, and the resulting fountain of creamy liqueur is streaked red with blood. Murph screams once, sharp and clipped like a kicked dog. Connor’s body jolts, electrified, and even two grown men have a hard time holding him down.
“Mick piece of shit,” the boss man leers, disappointed by a single yelp.
The neck of the bottle has been reduced to a jagged glass dagger in his hand, and with a snarl he brings it down again, this time tearing into the already-exposed muscle and bone. Murph bites his lip until blood threads out between his teeth. Then, wrenching his gaze away from his brother, he throws his head back to the ceiling and howls. The boss man grunts in satisfaction and twists the weapon. Murph’s voice is like breaking glass, shrill and devastating as he sobs in wretched agony.
“You motherfucker!” Connor roars, spraying saliva all over the bar, foaming at the mouth with rage.
Then, as the boss man gives the glass another hard screw, Murphy’s final shriek bubbles away into laughter.
Connor’s heart lurches and his mouth fills with acid. He only hears a laugh like that when Murph has been pushed past the point of weeping, and those occasions are rare and unbearable to revisit, even in memory. Now Murph wheezes and giggles, his eyes streaming with tears as he tugs uselessly against those who restrain him. He stares at his mangled hand with an expression of total hysteria, his eyes rolling and his mouth slashed into an unnatural grin.
“Oh, you think this is funny?” the boss man growls. “You think this is funny, you little piece of shit?”
“Touch him again and you’re a dead man!” Connor vows in a voice like thunder, murder in his eyes, but the fat fucker pays no heed.
One last blow from the broken glass and Murph is laughing so hard that he pisses himself, his face a ghastly red--- Connor can see bones sticking up in three different places from the bloody pulp that used to be his left hand. It’ll be eight weeks before the doctors are able to remove the pins and three months before Murph can make a proper fist again. He collapses back against the legs of the thug who’s holding him on his knees, his limbs turning to jelly as shock sets in.
“Pussy Mick fuck,” the boss man snarls, and he slings the bottleneck at Murphy in disgust.
When one of the goons pinning him turns to see the impact, Connor twists his torso just enough--- his elbow slides into the sudden open space between the bastard and the bar, and all at once his whole right arm pops free. In the split-second before the mooks realize what's happened, Connor shutters his eyes and gasps a prayer.
“Lord, if it be Your will, let me avenge my brother.”
Christ smiles, and Connor is able to reach the switchblade in his back pocket. He pops it open and draws it shining from his jeans, the sword from the motherfucking stone, and the blade catches the light for a single silver moment before it buries itself to the hilt between the ribs of the nearest thug. It doesn’t linger. Blood follows the blade in a crimson ribbon as Connor pulls out and pivots, tearing a gut-spilling gash into the other man’s abdomen before the boss man even has a chance to bellow his surprise.
Time for guns to be drawn. Murphy gets bodily thrown aside as the last henchman standing fumbles for the .45 tucked in his waistband, but Connor flicks the knife towards him and it goes right into his fucking neck. It’s a lucky fucking shot, but Connor doesn’t see it. He can hardly see anything. His vision is red and hazy, hatred and anger staining his eyeballs and telescoping his line of sight down on one fat fucker, one stupid fucking boss man who’s just realized that he shouldn’t have thrown away that bottleneck so soon.
Connor shoulders into him at full speed and follows him down to the floor. The prick lands on his back and Connor sits down hard on his chest, throwing all of his weight into it, feeling the sternum crack under him as he lands.
“That’s right, you scummy cunt!” he bawls, blind with rage. “I broke your fucking ribs with my fucking ass!”
The man paws at him, cursing and striking. Connor lets him flail stupidly for a bit, then grabs him by the wrist, like catching a snake by the back of the neck. While his victim blubbers incoherently, he neatly folds the sweaty hand into a pointing gesture.
“Warned ya,” he breathes. “Didn’t I?”
He jams the boss man’s index finger into his mouth. The coppery taste of Murph’s blood is tinged with a splash of Bailey’s, and Connor’s eyes burn with the force of his wrath. When his teeth reach the last knuckle, he bites down as hard as he can.
It’s not as easy as it sounds--- biting a man’s finger off--- let alone doing it five times. There’s flesh and muscle and tendons to rip through, and Connor’s jaw is aching from the exertion as he spits the thumb out last. Boss man has passed out from either pain or blood loss. It spares him the unpleasantness when his throat is slit by the switchblade, but Connor is satisfied that the fucker suffered enough before he was finished with him.
Murph has dragged himself over to the bar and now sits with his back propped against it, his injured limb cradled in his lap, his eyes dull and staring. Connor crawls over to him, crawls over the bodies he’s just made, and cups his brother’s face in his shaking hands.
“Murph,” he whispers. “My boy. Come on, now.”
“I’m sorry, Connor,” Murphy mumbles and screws his eyes shut tight. “I never shoulda let that fat bastard get me.”
“Hey, hey,” Connor shakes his head. “None of that. They got us both. They got us good, but in the end, we got ‘em better.”
The younger brother chuckles weakly. “I can’t believe you bit his fucking fingers off.”
“Nice touch, eh?” Connor grins, wolfish. “Seemed only fair, seeing what he did to your...”
His voice fails him. Murph is sweating, trembling, and Connor won’t cry, he won’t, God damn it. His hands tighten on his brother’s head, his voice thick with emotion.
“My brave boy. God love you, Murph, you’re a tough little fucker.”
Murph manages another feeble giggle--- but he’s coming down now, and this time the sound distorts itself into weeping. He slumps forward into Connor’s waiting embrace, his face mashed into the crook of his brother’s neck, the dirty black t-shirt catching and muffling his agonized groan. Connor throws his arms around him, crushing Murph against his chest, kissing his damp hair again and again. They rock gently from side to side, lost in each other.
There’s a timid squeaking as the door behind the counter slowly opens. The bartender disappeared when the fight broke out, but unlike the other bystanders who were able to run away, he had to sit tight until the skirmish was over. Now that the screaming has stopped, Connor can hear him creeping cautiously around on the other side of the solid oak paneling. After a fruitless thirty seconds he barks impatiently, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and call a fucking ambulance?” There’s a nervous pause--- the MacManus men are hidden from view, sitting down on the floor--- but the bartender seems to take the threatening voice at face value.
“There’s a phone in the office,” an anxious murmur assures.
Then another door opens and closes and the brothers are alone again.
Connor brushes the sweaty hair from Murph’s forehead. Murph offers him a crooked smile, his face ashen except for his cheeks, which are flushed red from the force of his frenzied laughter. It kills him, the beauty in this face, and Connor’s heart throbs with the truth of it. He kisses him, his mouth pressed hard against his brother’s, giving him his breath, his life, his promise. One day his wrists will bear the scars of his devotion, and then the world will get a chance to see the proof of a love that’s already broadcast unheard in every heartbeat, already written unseen on every inch of his skin.
“Brave boy,” he whispers in his brother’s ear,. “You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
Murphy sighs, and the heat of his breath against Connor’s neck is as sweet and sacred as a prayer.
_______end.