100 Words: BDS (1/2)
Title: One Hundred Words: Boondock Saints
Author: somehowunbroken
Pairing: gen, het, slash, it's all in there.
Word Count: 10,202
Rating: R/violence and language
Disclaimer: Not mine. I play with them and put them back when I'm done. Mostly.
Summary: One hundred 100word drabbles, all related to Boondock Saints. Written before the second movie was even a pipe dream. All of the words were supplied by my beta; all mistakes are mine, don't blame her.
1. Stegosaurus
“What the fuck is that?” Connor’s voice rang disbelievingly through the small flat.
Murphy crossed his arms defensively in front of him. “It’s a coloring book.”
Connor’s eyebrow raised. “Why?”
“Because it’s stress-relieving,” Murphy said.
“Stress-relieving,” Connor snorted. Then, “Is that a blue stegosaurus?”
“So?” Murphy shot back. “You used to color the whole fucken book orange, remember?”
“I was four,” Connor said mildly. “Orange was my favorite color.”
“Well, blue’s my favorite color,” Murphy huffed, picking the crayon back up. He paused, picked up the orange crayon, offered it to Connor.
“Not enough orange in this book. Help me?”
2. Muffin
They woke in time for breakfast about once a month. Usually it was Murphy who made them miss their morning meal, since he hated to wake any earlier than was necessary. But this morning, he had been up before Connor and was ready to leave the apartment before his brother had awoken.
“Why are you so eager to get out the door this morning?” Connor asked.
“I have this craving,” Murphy muttered, walking quickly towards the diner.
“A craving,” Connor repeated, disbelieving, as the two walked in the door. “For what?”
Murphy sat at their table. “Corn muffin,” he said.
3. Luau
“I don’t want to go, Murph.”
“Aw, why not?”
Connor shifted on the sofa. “I just want to stay here tonight. I don’t feel like going out.”
Murphy stared at his brother in disbelief. “You don’t want to go out? It’s Mardi Gras, Connor! Beads! Luaus! Drinking!” He paused. “Free drinking, actually.”
Connor looked at Murphy from his seat on the sofa. “Free beer?” At Murphy’s nod, he gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Let’s go to your luau, then.”
Murphy smiled brilliantly at his brother as they walked out the door. “You won’t regret it,” he said. “I promise.”
4. Vanilla
“Vanilla ice cream, Connor?” Murphy’s disembodied voice came from the bowels of the freezer. “Why would you get fucken vanilla ice cream? You don’t like it, I don’t like it, so what the fuck?”
Connor was silent, hands clenched, eyes closed, as he sat on the sofa. Murphy pulled his head out of the freezer to stare, wondering why his brother wasn’t responding to his questioning. Taunting. Whatever.
“Well?” Murphy prompted. “The fuck, Conn? Why the vanilla when we’re both chocolate men? Or rocky road,” he added a bit dreamily.
“It was Rocco’s,” Connor said softly, pained. “Rocco loved vanilla.”
5. Friday
Friday is Connor and Murphy’s favorite day of the week. They have Saturdays and Sundays off, so Friday night is reserved for anything that they want to do. Usually, they just go on down to McGinty’s, and this particular Friday is no different.
They walk through the door in time to hear uproarious laughter and find a confused-looking Doc standing behind the counter.
“Honestly, Doc, you need to look up some new metaphors,” Rocco said between gasps of laughter. “This pick-and-choose shit is gonna be the death of me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Connor grinned as he took his Friday-night-seat.
6. Echo
It echoes in here, was Murphy’s first thought as he and Connor walked into their new flat. Three days in America, and the locals at the bar had pointed them to this building, told them that there was an empty spot on the top floor, if they didn’t mind climbing the stairs when the lift broke.
They didn’t mind. It wasn’t much, as they saw when they walked through the door, but a few weeks’ worth of money plus what they had brought from home would buy enough to fill the emptiness - so it doesn’t echo anymore, Murphy thought, satisfied.
7. Stellar
“Y’know what,” Rocco declared drunkenly, “my favorite word is?”
Connor, who was no better off than Rocco, snorted. “Lemme guess… fuck?”
Rocco tried to glare, couldn’t pick the right Connor to glare at, gave up. “No. My favorite word-” here, a pause for dramatic effect “-is ‘stellar.’”
This sent Murphy into a fit of giggles. “Of all the words in the English language, you pick fucken ‘stellar’ as your favorite?”
Connor grinned. “Aye, Roc,” he agreed. “Why’d you pick ‘stellar’?”
Rocco gave a toothy grin. “Because,” he replied, “as words go - it’s pretty stellar,” he finished, obviously proud of himself.
8. Victor
“There is no fucken way I’m gonna play,” Murphy declared to Connor’s suggestion that they play a board game to pass the time. The fourteen-year-old glared at his brother.
“Why not?” Connor returned, holding Scrabble to his chest. “We can play Language Scrabble. You like that one,” he bargained, referring to playing in any language that they knew, and sometimes in all those languages.
“But you always win, no matter what we play!” Murphy exclaimed. “Let’s play cards. I want to win. I want to be the victor for once, okay? I can win at cards.”
“Fine,” Connor huffed. “Poker.”
9. Pamphlet
The pamphlet doesn’t look like much, and Murphy shoves it back into his pocket before Connor can see the bedraggled piece of paper. It had been pushed under the door when the twins had arrived home earlier, and Connor had trampled right over it without thinking.
“What ye got there, Murph?” Connor’s voice asks, and Murphy jumps, guilty, and pulls the crumpled flyer from his pocket.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, pushing the paper towards Connor, who just laughs when he realizes what it is.
“Murph, if ye want to get Chinese for dinner, just tell me,” Connor says, and Murphy smiles.
10. Monitor
Connor can’t look up, can’t glance at the monitor over his brother’s head with its steady blip blip blip that, for now at least, signifies that Murphy is still in there somewhere. Instead he holds his brother’s hand and waits for some sort of sign.
Please Murph please God please please please is all that he can think as he sits, day in day out, waiting for - well, anything, really.
He won’t give up hope until that monitor stops its beeping, and Connor just knows that Murphy is still -
He feels a squeeze on his hand.
“Hey,” Murphy says softly.
11. Pink
Duffy has a secret.
He loves horrendous ties.
Seriously, the weirder or grosser the tie, the more Duffy loves it. Smecker once asked him if he let a blind man or a color blind seven-year-old pick out his ties for him. Duffy had glared at the FBI agent before stalking off, muttering under his breath that his ties were not ugly, thank you, they just had character, which was more than anyone could say for Smecker’s own… matching ties.
So when he spots the pink-and-yellow tie in the store as he’s walking through, he picks it up.
This’ll annoy Smecker.
12. Secret
Doc has a secret that he has never told a soul: he was a ballroom dancer in his youth.
Not just any dancer, either; Doc was in competitions with his wife, Aileen, until the early eighties, when she was diagnosed with cancer. The foxtrot had been their specialty, and the McGintys had been nearly world-class.
Until Aileen was diagnosed, that is. Until Aileen got sick. Until Aileen died, four months later.
Doc has another secret. He hasn’t done the foxtrot since the last dance he did with Aileen, right after she was diagnosed.
And another. He wants to dance again.
13. Century
The McManus family has a history of violence in God’s name.
Aidan McManus, 1899: An argument near a church gets out of hand. Aidan beats a man to within an inch of his life for insulting his family’s faith in the Lord.
Daodín McManus, 1943: Daodín hears that God’s Chosen are being targeted and picks up a gun to free them.
Padráig McManus, 1974: A man leaves his family in Ireland with an ancient family prayer.
1999: A century after their great-great-grandfather began God’s war, Connor and Murphy McManus pick up their guns and bring God’s enemies to his justice.
14. Quarter
Connor was looking for Murphy, wondering how his brother could get lost in the time it took Connor to get up and use the gents’. He sighed, exasperated, finally spotting Murphy at the front of the diner, playing with a twenty-five-cent machine.
Murphy was the very model of concentration as Connor approached, using a stick to maneuver a metal claw and pressing a button to drop it into the prize bin. Connor’s eyes crinkled as he saw that his brother was trying to pick up a small Scooby Doo doll - Connor’s favorite cartoon. Murphy missed, frowned, turned.
“Got a quarter?”
15. Cheer
“Fucken Christmas cheer,” Murphy growled as the twins walked down South Boston’s snow-covered Marine Road. “’m sick of all of these fucken plastic Santas and snowmen and glitter.”
Connor coughed. “Sure not like home,” he agreed. “It makes me miss the way we used to do Christmas.”
“Aye,” agreed Murphy. “Ma’d have a fucken heart attack if she thought we had a giant plastic Santa in our apartment.”
Both men stopped walking, grins on both faces as the evil idea took root.
--
Ma, Hope Christmas was great. Here’s a picture of our Christmas.
Annabelle’s shriek brought her neighbors running.
16. Sketch
Connor stormed around the small flat, muttering darkly under his breath. He was holding a bag and indiscriminately shoving items inside, or so it seemed to Murphy.
“What’re ye doing?” Murphy asked, a bit cautiously.
“Cleaning,” came the short answer. A pause, then, “What’s this?” Connor held up a penciled drawing of himself, sitting at McGinty’s, laughing as a cigarette hung from his lips.
“A sketch,” Murphy said, saving the paper from Connor and his “cleaning.” “I drew it last week, after we came home.”
“It’s really good, Murph,” Connor said appreciatively. Then, mischievously -
“Let’s hang it on the refrigerator.”
17. Music
Murphy wakes to the sound of his own breathing, harsh in his ears. He’s had another dream, another nightmare, another -
But then he glances to the empty twin bed beside him, and it all comes crashing down.
He’s gone, Connor’s dead and buried and gone, and Murphy is utterly, utterly alone. Never again will he see the beauty of his brother’s face, hear the music of his voice, feel the comforting touch of Connor’s hand on his elbow after a job gone right or wrong.
Alone, alone, his mind taunts him, and Murphy sinks down into his bed and cries.
18. Choice
“Why do we do this, Conn?”
Connor blinked. “What do ye mean?”
Murphy looked tiredly at his brother. “What do ye think I mean? This. The whole… everything.”
Connor stared. “We were Called, Murph. We don’t have a choice. We’re doing the Lord’s work.”
“I know that,” Murphy said, exhaustion evident in his voice. “I just… wish we did have a choice, y’know?”
“Would you choose not to?”
Murphy blinked, shook his head no, nodded. Confused, distracted. “I don’t know, Conn. I really just wish I had a say in it, is all.”
Connor nodded. “Aye, Murph, I do know.”
19. Birthday
The birthday question always brings up an interesting conversation with the twins.
“What’s your birthday?” someone would ask, and one twin would say “May fourth” as the other said “May fifth.” Confused looks would follow, as if asking can’t they remember which?
They would continue, explaining that though Ma wouldn’t tell them which was born first, they knew that one of them had been born at 10:48 PM on May fourth, and the other “stubborn little pain in me arse had waited until 6:13 the following morning to wiggle his damn way out.”
It was always good for a laugh.
20. Manage
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Connor said as he put his coat on. “Think you can manage without me?”
“I’ll be fide,” Murphy responded from under his mountain of blankets. The flu had caught the McManus brothers unawares, making Connor sick before passing on to Murphy. “Just bring me some tissues wif lotion in them. These ones -” he pointed to the tissues on the table “-feel like shite on by poor dose.”
“I’ll pick some up,” Connor said; still tired, still achy, but always willing to do anything to make Murphy feel even just a little bit better.
21. Marriage
“Have ye ever thought about marriage?”
Connor’s eyes opened. His twin lay across the room, but in the semi-darkness, fifteen-year-old Connor could see him quite clearly.
“What’re ye on about?”
Murphy shrugged and Connor sensed rather than saw it. “Do ye think you’ll ever get married?”
It was Connor’s turn to shrug. “To tell ye the truth, Murph, I don’t think either of us will marry,” he said softly. “I think we’re meant for bigger things.”
A lifetime later, these words echoing in his ears, Connor closed his eyes and said a prayer before setting out to do God’s work.
22. Whipped Cream
“Mmmm,” Murphy moaned, licking the whipped cream from his spoon. Connor looked up at his brother, wished that he were surprised, then looked back to his cup of coffee.
The twins were at the diner, treating themselves to some actual food (as opposed to the liquid kind). Murphy had wanted ice cream, but Connor had counted their money carefully and realized that they couldn’t get any if they were going to be able to pay their bill and tip the waitress.
So Murphy, being Murphy, had asked for a dish of whipped cream and sprinkles.
“Free dessert,” he pronounced joyously.
23. Hanukkah
Connor sat at the bar. Well, “sat” was an overstatement - perhaps “slumped” would be a more appropriate term. His twin was, for once, nowhere to be seen. Connor had been there for two hours. Murphy hadn’t been there in two hours. Doc was, not for the first time, stumped by the twins.
“Where’s that tw-tw-tw-brother of yours?” he asked Connor.
“He’s not coming tonight,” Connor slurred. “’e’s mad a’ me.”
“I wo-wo-won’t ask, then,” Doc said, refilling Connor’s glass.
“’m out of cash, Doc,” Connor said. Doc shook his head.
“H-h-happy Hanukkah,” Doc said. “You look l-like you need it.”
24. Love
Connor ducks, avoids the punch meant for his face, throws himself at his assailant. The six-year-old’s anger is nearly tangible. The boy he is fighting is two, three times his size, but Connor’s anger is making the older boy rethink his decision.
Suddenly a smaller, darker form flies into the fight, and Murphy and Connor are fighting Aidan together, until the older boy cries uncle and staggers off to nurse his wounds.
Murphy turns to Connor. “What did he do?”
Connor glared at Aidan’s back. “Said you were a baby,” he fumed. “I love you too much to let him.”
25. Moon
The moon was bright, and Connor felt cheated, as though he wanted a cloudy night for his errand.
Murphy had wanted to be buried back in Ireland, but it wasn’t possible to get his body home, so Connor had returned to South Boston to at least bury him with someone he loved.
Now he stood near the fresh mound of dirt, between Rocco and Doc, hands in the pockets of his pea coat and sunglasses on his face. Connor stared at the headstone, shook his head and turned in the too-bright night, found a shadow to melt into, and left.
26. Finale
This is it, Murphy thinks. This is the end of the show. Our finale.
It’s a fitting end for the two of them, going down in a blaze of glory. It had been a regular job, but then the cops had shown up. The ones they have killed around them are properly dispatched, but for them, there will be no coins, no crossed arms. They will pay their own way.
They turn and embrace, then back away from each other roughly. Both men begin the prayer taught to them in infancy.
Two shots ring out.
Two fall to the ground.
27. Dance
Watching them fight is like watching them dance. Each knows the other’s moves intimately and anticipates with barely a glance. They twist towards and away from each other, bending and coiling and unwinding and just moving with a grace that’s nearly inhuman except, of course, for the bleeding and cursing of a pair of Irish twins.
They don’t actually want to hurt each other, at least this time. This is stress relief, rather than something to settle a score. That’s why tonight, it’s a dance. Tonight, it’s a celebration of movement, an unorchestrated ballet - a pair of fighting Irish twins.
28. Prerogative
Connor walked back to his table at the bar, scowling. Murphy saw his brother coming and began to laugh.
“She didn’t go for it, did she?” he asked his lighter twin amusedly. “Face it, Conn, you’re just not meant to charm the pants off’a the ladies like I am.” He shot a devilish smile at two women and smirked triumphantly as they giggled.
“Oh, aye,” Connor said sarcastically. “Mr. Suave, that’s you, right. Should I go over there and tell them about Mary Connelly? That was suave, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing like a woman’s prerogative to kill the night,” Murphy remarked.
29. Nightmare
He thrashed in his sheets, gasping for breath. Drowning, drowning in an endless sea of blankets and sheets and quilts. Dead at thirteen, he thought. A scream tore its way from his throat get me out get me out God please - and then there was his brother, ripping the sheets from his sweaty body and holding him gently.
“Nightmare?” Murphy whispered gently. Connor nodded into his twin’s shoulder.
“I was drowning,” he said, voice small. “I fell out of the boat and I couldn’t find the surface.”
“I’ll dive in after you, Conn,” Murphy promised. “I’ll never let you drown.”
30. Ghetto
The ghettos of South Boston are ripe with crime and therefore full of the criminals that have become the prey of the Saints. Connor and Murphy have taken to stalking through the guttered alleyways at night, guns hidden but accessible, floating through the shadows before striking, then melting into the darkness. It’s not the life that Ma had wanted for them, not the life she thought they lived, not the life that would lead to grandchildren and them coming home to Ireland.
But it’s the life they know, that somehow lets them sleep at night.
They are okay with this.
31. Surrender
Murphy holds his gun tightly, not quite believing the scene unfolding around him. His eyes dart around wildly, taking stock of the situation. Their marks, dead. Unfortunate witness, dead.
Connor, dead.
His hands shake as he hears voices from outside, telltale sirens nearing his location. Come out with your hands up, the robotic monotone drones. Surrender your weapon and exit the building.
Never give up. Never surrender. The words come back, mocking.
Never give up. Never surrender. Murphy crosses Connor’s arms and places pennies in his eyes.
Then he runs screaming out the door, bringing the Saints to their end.
32. Dignity
“Greenly, have you no dignity at all?” Smecker’s voice snarled from the doorway. Greenly sighed as the FBI agent walked past his desk.
He had been searching for at least an hour. In the pen cup, in a drawer, rolled under the monitor, on the surrounding desks… but his favorite pen, a red pen with a baseball emblazoned with the Red Sox logo, was missing. Hence Greenly, on his hands and knees, rear end sticking into the air, searching under his desk.
Smecker suddenly reappeared and threw something red on Greenly’s desk.
“Get your ass back in your seat, Greenly.”
33. Toxic
Murphy slams his way across the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee, sits down. Drinks. Spits the mouthful of coffee back into the up and glars at Connor.
“This shite is toxic!” he glared. “What the fuck is in it, arsenic?”
Connor raised his eyebrows. “It from yesterday or the day before, Murph,” h said. “What do ye want from me?”
Murphy frowns into the mug at the sludge that nearly killed him. “I’d like not to be poisoned by my breakfast,” he pointed out.
“Make your own coffee then,” Connor said as he stood. “Tomorrow. We’re late for work.”
34. Fool
“Y’look like a damn fool, Connor,” Murphy said, trying not to laugh. Too much.
“I like it,” Connor replied defensively. “It’s warm and it’s broken in.”
“And it’s orange,” Murphy continued. “What is with you and orange, anyhow?”
“It’s my favorite,” huffed Connor indignantly. “And so what if it’s orange? It’s just a coat!”
“A coat which you will never wear in public, correct?” Murphy drawled, then glared as his brother refused to answer. “Never in public, Connor, right?”
Connor sighed, gave in, nodded. “Never in public.”
He waited for Murphy to turn before muttering, “Not while you’re around, anyway.”
35. Medicine
The faceoff in the medicine aisle in the grocer’s is of epic proportions.
One man, tall and blonde, is holding a white-and-red box. The other, dark-haired and slightly shorter, holds a green-and-yellow box.
“That isn’t even medicine,” snarls the smaller. “We have to get this one.” He shakes his choice in the other’s face.
“Generic doesn’t mean it won’t work, Murphy,” Connor snaps back, heading for the register. “This one will work fine.”
“But why?” Murphy whines, petulant now.
Connor smiles, knowing he’s won. “We buy your box, we’re down a few pints’ worth of cash.”
Murphy drops his box.
36. Disaster
This is a disaster.
Dolly knows as soon as he sees the Chief heading towards him. This is it, the end of his career, the end of everything he’s worked so hard for. He’ll be relieved of duty at best, probably thrown in jail for a while. The Chief must have found out about him helping the Saints, or seen him there at Yakavetta’s trial.
“Detective,” the Chief says as he slows next to Dolly’s desk.
“Sir?” Dolly asks, trying to be casual.
“You do good work,” he says, then continues in his stride.
Dolly can actually taste the relief.
37. Torn
Connor has never been more torn in his life.
Murphy will die tonight, without doubt. His wounds are bleeding badly and there is no doctor who would mend them without asking.
Connor’s hands press into the wounds anyway, trying to stop or slow the bleeding even as he hears the sirens approach.
“Go,” Murhpy gasps, eyes wide open and breath coming in ragged pants. “Go, Connor, ye moron, or I’ll haunt your ass in jail. Make you more-” he gasped “-more fucken miserable.”
Connor chokes on a laugh, leans to kiss his brother’s forehead, and runs.
He never looks back.
38. Bullet
A single bullet changed the course of two men’s lives.
After the bullet, they are no longer only working for God, but for Rocco.
Never stop, Rocco’s voice haunts them, and though they never talk about it, they both know that they have added until you kill that bastard to the end of his sentence, at least in their heads.
And even after they kill Yakavetta, they don’t stop. The bullet had left them with more purpose than they’d stated with. Never stop became their motto, their creed.
If they never stop, maybe they can prevent another Rocco from dying.
39. Listen
“Listen,” Smecker snaps, and instantly all are silent, straining to hear what he hears.
A breeze carries faint voices down the alley, and they unconsciously lean forward in synchrony.
“Fuck,” growls Smecker. “They’re early.” His head whips around, and his eyes find everyone in the dark room within mere seconds. “Is everyone in place?” His whisper reaches all corners of the room and nods meet his question.
The voices are closer now, recognizable, louder. Unaware.
“On my count,” Smecker breathes.
The doorknob turns.
Smecker counts and the door is open and the men are inside.
“Happy birthday, Connor and Murphy!”
40. Gravity
Connor laughed as he grabbed Murphy’s arm. His brother’s punch stopped two inches from his face. Murphy scowled.
“How do you always do that?” he asked, still scowling.
“Because you fight sloppy when you’re drunk, Murph,” Connor said matter-of-factly. “It’s not about anger, it’s about peace.”
“Was Bulletproof Monk on television again?” Murphy asked, citing a favorite comedy of his brother’s. “You gonna start telling me that gravity only exists if I want it to?”
Connor looked solemnly at his brother. “It’s not about power,” he continued to quote. “It’s about grace.”
Murphy growled and threw himself at Connor again.
41. Storm
The storm is so loud that it wakes Connor from his sleep, and he turns automatically to Murphy, who isn’t there.
Connor sits up and glances around, seeing his twin at the window. “Murph?” he calls.
“It’s amazing,” Murphy replies, and there is awe in his voice. “The lightning - and the thunder - it’s all so, so…”
“It’s just a storm,” Connor says, unimpressed, and goes back to sleep.
“No,” Murphy says, and he knows he’s talking to himself. “It’s beautiful. It’s…” He pauses, confirming that Connor can’t hear him. “It’s a sign. From God. That we’re doing all this right.”
42. Arms
In the dream (nightmare?) he’s reaching for something, but he can’t quite reach it, it’s not there -
- and he always wakes just before his arms wrap around it.
“What am I trying to reach?” he asks Murphy, asks Smecker, asks God.
Murphy has no answer for him and God seems to be busy listening to other people today, and Connor’s dream (nightmare.) goes unanswered again.
Until Smecker speaks up. “Reaching, right? Just reaching?”
“Aye, reaching,” Connor confirms, wondering if Smecker might know
“Peace,” Smecker says, and the answer is so simple. “You’ll never reach it, though. I never did.”
43. Fate
Fate is cruel when it takes Murphy from him.
Fate is awful, and Connor stands outside in the pouring rain and screams at the skies, at Fate itself, but Fate is cruel and doesn’t answer back.
Fate is cruel when Smecker is discovered, arrested, and the Boston police are too afraid to help the lone Saint. Connor is done with his screaming, so this time he just laughs bitterly and continues on.
Fate is cruel when Doc is diagnosed with cancer and dies almost immediately.
But Fate is kind when Connor can finally slip into his own eternal sleep.
Finally.
44. Artist
When they were younger, Ma had taken them to a man in the city, who had studied their faces and nodded. Ma handed the artist an envelope, and the confused five-year-olds bundled back into their coats to head home.
“Who was that, Ma?” Connor asked once safely in the car.
“Mr. Neill,” was the curt answer. “Never you mind.”
Thirty years later, Murphy pulled a framed painting of two five-year-old boys from his mother’s closet. He sat back on his heels, wiping at the edge of the frame.
Seamus Neill, it says. And, under that, Me boys, always with me.
45. Weakness
“What’s your one weakness?” Rocco asked them once.
“Weakness?” Connor asked, frowning.
“Every superhero has a weakness,” Rocco had replied, shrugging.
Murphy laughed. “Hardly superheroes, Roc. We’re just… like…”
“Like superheroes?” Rocco filled in. “C’mon, you have to have a weakness.”
“Peanut butter,” suggested Connor. “I hate peanut butter.”
Murphy grinned then and jumped in. “Oh, I’d say liver,” he declared. “Hate the stuff.”
Rocco just rolled his eyes. “You guys never take shit seriously.”
Connor and Murphy were glad he let it go, because they didn’t want to have to admit what their weakness was, though they knew it.
46. Alive
“Sometimes I think he’s still alive,” Murphy says into the dark, and there’s no answer. “Sometimes. Not all the time, not any more, but sometimes I think if I just go back to Boston, to McGinty’s, he’ll be on a bar stool, having himself a beer.”
The silence and the darkness are oppressive, and Murphy keeps talking, if only to separate himself from that emptiness.
“And I know that he’s gone, that he’s not in Boston and me here by myself, but sometimes…” He catches his breath for a moment. “Sometimes I think he’s still alive.”
But he never is.
47. Overcome
Connor is very, very silent as he steps into their small flat. He’s got a small bag in his hands, and its contents are secret, sacred.
Connor eases past his snoring twin and sits at the table in their makeshift kitchen. He glances over, but Murphy’s still sleeping. Good.
Connor is overcome with childish joy as he delves into the bag and pulls out the first of several cookies. Each is only a bite, but they fill his mouth with an incredible taste.
He hears a noise and looks up, seeing Murphy staring at him from the bed.
“Greedy bastard.”
48. Broken
Tears slipped out, one by one, and Murphy let them fall. Connor had always been the stronger, more stoic one, the one thing that had held Murphy together - but now he’s dead, Murphy’s mind rebuked harshly. Dead forever.
Murphy’s heart wrenched. How are you? Smecker had asked, and he had replied I’m fine but he had meant to say broken, was glad he didn’t have to actually say the words. Was glad that Smecker just knew and hauled his grieving body to Smecker’s own apartment, where he had fallen on the couch, asleep.
I’ll fix you, Smecker promised. I will.
49. Need
“But I need to,” whined five-year-old Connor. Annabelle sighed at her son, then nodded.
“Be quick,” she admonished. “And take your brother!”
Connor nodded as he grabbed Murphy’s arm and ran into the bar. Looking quickly for his uncle Sibeal but not finding him, Connor made a mad dash for the “employees only” part of the building.
“Uncle!” Connor yelled, and Murphy echoed. “Uncle!”
“What’s wrong, me lads?” Sibeal’s voice rang from the attic, alarmed. “Tell Uncle Sibeal what ye be yelling about.”
Connor looked up the ladder, all puppy eyes at his uncle.
“I need ta use the bathroom!”
50. Scars
They have so many scars between them that they’ve lost count.
There are childhood scars, roadmaps to memories of games that they played with each other, with friends, with family, in a country so far away that it seems to not exist but for memories.
Then there are the scars from their line of work. God’s business is a messy one, and rare is the hit where either one of the men escapes untouched. Each scar is a story, none with a happy ending.
Finally, there are the emotional scars. These are the worst of them all. These never heal.
Part Two
Author: somehowunbroken
Pairing: gen, het, slash, it's all in there.
Word Count: 10,202
Rating: R/violence and language
Disclaimer: Not mine. I play with them and put them back when I'm done. Mostly.
Summary: One hundred 100word drabbles, all related to Boondock Saints. Written before the second movie was even a pipe dream. All of the words were supplied by my beta; all mistakes are mine, don't blame her.
1. Stegosaurus
“What the fuck is that?” Connor’s voice rang disbelievingly through the small flat.
Murphy crossed his arms defensively in front of him. “It’s a coloring book.”
Connor’s eyebrow raised. “Why?”
“Because it’s stress-relieving,” Murphy said.
“Stress-relieving,” Connor snorted. Then, “Is that a blue stegosaurus?”
“So?” Murphy shot back. “You used to color the whole fucken book orange, remember?”
“I was four,” Connor said mildly. “Orange was my favorite color.”
“Well, blue’s my favorite color,” Murphy huffed, picking the crayon back up. He paused, picked up the orange crayon, offered it to Connor.
“Not enough orange in this book. Help me?”
2. Muffin
They woke in time for breakfast about once a month. Usually it was Murphy who made them miss their morning meal, since he hated to wake any earlier than was necessary. But this morning, he had been up before Connor and was ready to leave the apartment before his brother had awoken.
“Why are you so eager to get out the door this morning?” Connor asked.
“I have this craving,” Murphy muttered, walking quickly towards the diner.
“A craving,” Connor repeated, disbelieving, as the two walked in the door. “For what?”
Murphy sat at their table. “Corn muffin,” he said.
3. Luau
“I don’t want to go, Murph.”
“Aw, why not?”
Connor shifted on the sofa. “I just want to stay here tonight. I don’t feel like going out.”
Murphy stared at his brother in disbelief. “You don’t want to go out? It’s Mardi Gras, Connor! Beads! Luaus! Drinking!” He paused. “Free drinking, actually.”
Connor looked at Murphy from his seat on the sofa. “Free beer?” At Murphy’s nod, he gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Let’s go to your luau, then.”
Murphy smiled brilliantly at his brother as they walked out the door. “You won’t regret it,” he said. “I promise.”
4. Vanilla
“Vanilla ice cream, Connor?” Murphy’s disembodied voice came from the bowels of the freezer. “Why would you get fucken vanilla ice cream? You don’t like it, I don’t like it, so what the fuck?”
Connor was silent, hands clenched, eyes closed, as he sat on the sofa. Murphy pulled his head out of the freezer to stare, wondering why his brother wasn’t responding to his questioning. Taunting. Whatever.
“Well?” Murphy prompted. “The fuck, Conn? Why the vanilla when we’re both chocolate men? Or rocky road,” he added a bit dreamily.
“It was Rocco’s,” Connor said softly, pained. “Rocco loved vanilla.”
5. Friday
Friday is Connor and Murphy’s favorite day of the week. They have Saturdays and Sundays off, so Friday night is reserved for anything that they want to do. Usually, they just go on down to McGinty’s, and this particular Friday is no different.
They walk through the door in time to hear uproarious laughter and find a confused-looking Doc standing behind the counter.
“Honestly, Doc, you need to look up some new metaphors,” Rocco said between gasps of laughter. “This pick-and-choose shit is gonna be the death of me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Connor grinned as he took his Friday-night-seat.
6. Echo
It echoes in here, was Murphy’s first thought as he and Connor walked into their new flat. Three days in America, and the locals at the bar had pointed them to this building, told them that there was an empty spot on the top floor, if they didn’t mind climbing the stairs when the lift broke.
They didn’t mind. It wasn’t much, as they saw when they walked through the door, but a few weeks’ worth of money plus what they had brought from home would buy enough to fill the emptiness - so it doesn’t echo anymore, Murphy thought, satisfied.
7. Stellar
“Y’know what,” Rocco declared drunkenly, “my favorite word is?”
Connor, who was no better off than Rocco, snorted. “Lemme guess… fuck?”
Rocco tried to glare, couldn’t pick the right Connor to glare at, gave up. “No. My favorite word-” here, a pause for dramatic effect “-is ‘stellar.’”
This sent Murphy into a fit of giggles. “Of all the words in the English language, you pick fucken ‘stellar’ as your favorite?”
Connor grinned. “Aye, Roc,” he agreed. “Why’d you pick ‘stellar’?”
Rocco gave a toothy grin. “Because,” he replied, “as words go - it’s pretty stellar,” he finished, obviously proud of himself.
8. Victor
“There is no fucken way I’m gonna play,” Murphy declared to Connor’s suggestion that they play a board game to pass the time. The fourteen-year-old glared at his brother.
“Why not?” Connor returned, holding Scrabble to his chest. “We can play Language Scrabble. You like that one,” he bargained, referring to playing in any language that they knew, and sometimes in all those languages.
“But you always win, no matter what we play!” Murphy exclaimed. “Let’s play cards. I want to win. I want to be the victor for once, okay? I can win at cards.”
“Fine,” Connor huffed. “Poker.”
9. Pamphlet
The pamphlet doesn’t look like much, and Murphy shoves it back into his pocket before Connor can see the bedraggled piece of paper. It had been pushed under the door when the twins had arrived home earlier, and Connor had trampled right over it without thinking.
“What ye got there, Murph?” Connor’s voice asks, and Murphy jumps, guilty, and pulls the crumpled flyer from his pocket.
“Nothing,” he mumbles, pushing the paper towards Connor, who just laughs when he realizes what it is.
“Murph, if ye want to get Chinese for dinner, just tell me,” Connor says, and Murphy smiles.
10. Monitor
Connor can’t look up, can’t glance at the monitor over his brother’s head with its steady blip blip blip that, for now at least, signifies that Murphy is still in there somewhere. Instead he holds his brother’s hand and waits for some sort of sign.
Please Murph please God please please please is all that he can think as he sits, day in day out, waiting for - well, anything, really.
He won’t give up hope until that monitor stops its beeping, and Connor just knows that Murphy is still -
He feels a squeeze on his hand.
“Hey,” Murphy says softly.
11. Pink
Duffy has a secret.
He loves horrendous ties.
Seriously, the weirder or grosser the tie, the more Duffy loves it. Smecker once asked him if he let a blind man or a color blind seven-year-old pick out his ties for him. Duffy had glared at the FBI agent before stalking off, muttering under his breath that his ties were not ugly, thank you, they just had character, which was more than anyone could say for Smecker’s own… matching ties.
So when he spots the pink-and-yellow tie in the store as he’s walking through, he picks it up.
This’ll annoy Smecker.
12. Secret
Doc has a secret that he has never told a soul: he was a ballroom dancer in his youth.
Not just any dancer, either; Doc was in competitions with his wife, Aileen, until the early eighties, when she was diagnosed with cancer. The foxtrot had been their specialty, and the McGintys had been nearly world-class.
Until Aileen was diagnosed, that is. Until Aileen got sick. Until Aileen died, four months later.
Doc has another secret. He hasn’t done the foxtrot since the last dance he did with Aileen, right after she was diagnosed.
And another. He wants to dance again.
13. Century
The McManus family has a history of violence in God’s name.
Aidan McManus, 1899: An argument near a church gets out of hand. Aidan beats a man to within an inch of his life for insulting his family’s faith in the Lord.
Daodín McManus, 1943: Daodín hears that God’s Chosen are being targeted and picks up a gun to free them.
Padráig McManus, 1974: A man leaves his family in Ireland with an ancient family prayer.
1999: A century after their great-great-grandfather began God’s war, Connor and Murphy McManus pick up their guns and bring God’s enemies to his justice.
14. Quarter
Connor was looking for Murphy, wondering how his brother could get lost in the time it took Connor to get up and use the gents’. He sighed, exasperated, finally spotting Murphy at the front of the diner, playing with a twenty-five-cent machine.
Murphy was the very model of concentration as Connor approached, using a stick to maneuver a metal claw and pressing a button to drop it into the prize bin. Connor’s eyes crinkled as he saw that his brother was trying to pick up a small Scooby Doo doll - Connor’s favorite cartoon. Murphy missed, frowned, turned.
“Got a quarter?”
15. Cheer
“Fucken Christmas cheer,” Murphy growled as the twins walked down South Boston’s snow-covered Marine Road. “’m sick of all of these fucken plastic Santas and snowmen and glitter.”
Connor coughed. “Sure not like home,” he agreed. “It makes me miss the way we used to do Christmas.”
“Aye,” agreed Murphy. “Ma’d have a fucken heart attack if she thought we had a giant plastic Santa in our apartment.”
Both men stopped walking, grins on both faces as the evil idea took root.
--
Ma, Hope Christmas was great. Here’s a picture of our Christmas.
Annabelle’s shriek brought her neighbors running.
16. Sketch
Connor stormed around the small flat, muttering darkly under his breath. He was holding a bag and indiscriminately shoving items inside, or so it seemed to Murphy.
“What’re ye doing?” Murphy asked, a bit cautiously.
“Cleaning,” came the short answer. A pause, then, “What’s this?” Connor held up a penciled drawing of himself, sitting at McGinty’s, laughing as a cigarette hung from his lips.
“A sketch,” Murphy said, saving the paper from Connor and his “cleaning.” “I drew it last week, after we came home.”
“It’s really good, Murph,” Connor said appreciatively. Then, mischievously -
“Let’s hang it on the refrigerator.”
17. Music
Murphy wakes to the sound of his own breathing, harsh in his ears. He’s had another dream, another nightmare, another -
But then he glances to the empty twin bed beside him, and it all comes crashing down.
He’s gone, Connor’s dead and buried and gone, and Murphy is utterly, utterly alone. Never again will he see the beauty of his brother’s face, hear the music of his voice, feel the comforting touch of Connor’s hand on his elbow after a job gone right or wrong.
Alone, alone, his mind taunts him, and Murphy sinks down into his bed and cries.
18. Choice
“Why do we do this, Conn?”
Connor blinked. “What do ye mean?”
Murphy looked tiredly at his brother. “What do ye think I mean? This. The whole… everything.”
Connor stared. “We were Called, Murph. We don’t have a choice. We’re doing the Lord’s work.”
“I know that,” Murphy said, exhaustion evident in his voice. “I just… wish we did have a choice, y’know?”
“Would you choose not to?”
Murphy blinked, shook his head no, nodded. Confused, distracted. “I don’t know, Conn. I really just wish I had a say in it, is all.”
Connor nodded. “Aye, Murph, I do know.”
19. Birthday
The birthday question always brings up an interesting conversation with the twins.
“What’s your birthday?” someone would ask, and one twin would say “May fourth” as the other said “May fifth.” Confused looks would follow, as if asking can’t they remember which?
They would continue, explaining that though Ma wouldn’t tell them which was born first, they knew that one of them had been born at 10:48 PM on May fourth, and the other “stubborn little pain in me arse had waited until 6:13 the following morning to wiggle his damn way out.”
It was always good for a laugh.
20. Manage
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Connor said as he put his coat on. “Think you can manage without me?”
“I’ll be fide,” Murphy responded from under his mountain of blankets. The flu had caught the McManus brothers unawares, making Connor sick before passing on to Murphy. “Just bring me some tissues wif lotion in them. These ones -” he pointed to the tissues on the table “-feel like shite on by poor dose.”
“I’ll pick some up,” Connor said; still tired, still achy, but always willing to do anything to make Murphy feel even just a little bit better.
21. Marriage
“Have ye ever thought about marriage?”
Connor’s eyes opened. His twin lay across the room, but in the semi-darkness, fifteen-year-old Connor could see him quite clearly.
“What’re ye on about?”
Murphy shrugged and Connor sensed rather than saw it. “Do ye think you’ll ever get married?”
It was Connor’s turn to shrug. “To tell ye the truth, Murph, I don’t think either of us will marry,” he said softly. “I think we’re meant for bigger things.”
A lifetime later, these words echoing in his ears, Connor closed his eyes and said a prayer before setting out to do God’s work.
22. Whipped Cream
“Mmmm,” Murphy moaned, licking the whipped cream from his spoon. Connor looked up at his brother, wished that he were surprised, then looked back to his cup of coffee.
The twins were at the diner, treating themselves to some actual food (as opposed to the liquid kind). Murphy had wanted ice cream, but Connor had counted their money carefully and realized that they couldn’t get any if they were going to be able to pay their bill and tip the waitress.
So Murphy, being Murphy, had asked for a dish of whipped cream and sprinkles.
“Free dessert,” he pronounced joyously.
23. Hanukkah
Connor sat at the bar. Well, “sat” was an overstatement - perhaps “slumped” would be a more appropriate term. His twin was, for once, nowhere to be seen. Connor had been there for two hours. Murphy hadn’t been there in two hours. Doc was, not for the first time, stumped by the twins.
“Where’s that tw-tw-tw-brother of yours?” he asked Connor.
“He’s not coming tonight,” Connor slurred. “’e’s mad a’ me.”
“I wo-wo-won’t ask, then,” Doc said, refilling Connor’s glass.
“’m out of cash, Doc,” Connor said. Doc shook his head.
“H-h-happy Hanukkah,” Doc said. “You look l-like you need it.”
24. Love
Connor ducks, avoids the punch meant for his face, throws himself at his assailant. The six-year-old’s anger is nearly tangible. The boy he is fighting is two, three times his size, but Connor’s anger is making the older boy rethink his decision.
Suddenly a smaller, darker form flies into the fight, and Murphy and Connor are fighting Aidan together, until the older boy cries uncle and staggers off to nurse his wounds.
Murphy turns to Connor. “What did he do?”
Connor glared at Aidan’s back. “Said you were a baby,” he fumed. “I love you too much to let him.”
25. Moon
The moon was bright, and Connor felt cheated, as though he wanted a cloudy night for his errand.
Murphy had wanted to be buried back in Ireland, but it wasn’t possible to get his body home, so Connor had returned to South Boston to at least bury him with someone he loved.
Now he stood near the fresh mound of dirt, between Rocco and Doc, hands in the pockets of his pea coat and sunglasses on his face. Connor stared at the headstone, shook his head and turned in the too-bright night, found a shadow to melt into, and left.
26. Finale
This is it, Murphy thinks. This is the end of the show. Our finale.
It’s a fitting end for the two of them, going down in a blaze of glory. It had been a regular job, but then the cops had shown up. The ones they have killed around them are properly dispatched, but for them, there will be no coins, no crossed arms. They will pay their own way.
They turn and embrace, then back away from each other roughly. Both men begin the prayer taught to them in infancy.
Two shots ring out.
Two fall to the ground.
27. Dance
Watching them fight is like watching them dance. Each knows the other’s moves intimately and anticipates with barely a glance. They twist towards and away from each other, bending and coiling and unwinding and just moving with a grace that’s nearly inhuman except, of course, for the bleeding and cursing of a pair of Irish twins.
They don’t actually want to hurt each other, at least this time. This is stress relief, rather than something to settle a score. That’s why tonight, it’s a dance. Tonight, it’s a celebration of movement, an unorchestrated ballet - a pair of fighting Irish twins.
28. Prerogative
Connor walked back to his table at the bar, scowling. Murphy saw his brother coming and began to laugh.
“She didn’t go for it, did she?” he asked his lighter twin amusedly. “Face it, Conn, you’re just not meant to charm the pants off’a the ladies like I am.” He shot a devilish smile at two women and smirked triumphantly as they giggled.
“Oh, aye,” Connor said sarcastically. “Mr. Suave, that’s you, right. Should I go over there and tell them about Mary Connelly? That was suave, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing like a woman’s prerogative to kill the night,” Murphy remarked.
29. Nightmare
He thrashed in his sheets, gasping for breath. Drowning, drowning in an endless sea of blankets and sheets and quilts. Dead at thirteen, he thought. A scream tore its way from his throat get me out get me out God please - and then there was his brother, ripping the sheets from his sweaty body and holding him gently.
“Nightmare?” Murphy whispered gently. Connor nodded into his twin’s shoulder.
“I was drowning,” he said, voice small. “I fell out of the boat and I couldn’t find the surface.”
“I’ll dive in after you, Conn,” Murphy promised. “I’ll never let you drown.”
30. Ghetto
The ghettos of South Boston are ripe with crime and therefore full of the criminals that have become the prey of the Saints. Connor and Murphy have taken to stalking through the guttered alleyways at night, guns hidden but accessible, floating through the shadows before striking, then melting into the darkness. It’s not the life that Ma had wanted for them, not the life she thought they lived, not the life that would lead to grandchildren and them coming home to Ireland.
But it’s the life they know, that somehow lets them sleep at night.
They are okay with this.
31. Surrender
Murphy holds his gun tightly, not quite believing the scene unfolding around him. His eyes dart around wildly, taking stock of the situation. Their marks, dead. Unfortunate witness, dead.
Connor, dead.
His hands shake as he hears voices from outside, telltale sirens nearing his location. Come out with your hands up, the robotic monotone drones. Surrender your weapon and exit the building.
Never give up. Never surrender. The words come back, mocking.
Never give up. Never surrender. Murphy crosses Connor’s arms and places pennies in his eyes.
Then he runs screaming out the door, bringing the Saints to their end.
32. Dignity
“Greenly, have you no dignity at all?” Smecker’s voice snarled from the doorway. Greenly sighed as the FBI agent walked past his desk.
He had been searching for at least an hour. In the pen cup, in a drawer, rolled under the monitor, on the surrounding desks… but his favorite pen, a red pen with a baseball emblazoned with the Red Sox logo, was missing. Hence Greenly, on his hands and knees, rear end sticking into the air, searching under his desk.
Smecker suddenly reappeared and threw something red on Greenly’s desk.
“Get your ass back in your seat, Greenly.”
33. Toxic
Murphy slams his way across the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee, sits down. Drinks. Spits the mouthful of coffee back into the up and glars at Connor.
“This shite is toxic!” he glared. “What the fuck is in it, arsenic?”
Connor raised his eyebrows. “It from yesterday or the day before, Murph,” h said. “What do ye want from me?”
Murphy frowns into the mug at the sludge that nearly killed him. “I’d like not to be poisoned by my breakfast,” he pointed out.
“Make your own coffee then,” Connor said as he stood. “Tomorrow. We’re late for work.”
34. Fool
“Y’look like a damn fool, Connor,” Murphy said, trying not to laugh. Too much.
“I like it,” Connor replied defensively. “It’s warm and it’s broken in.”
“And it’s orange,” Murphy continued. “What is with you and orange, anyhow?”
“It’s my favorite,” huffed Connor indignantly. “And so what if it’s orange? It’s just a coat!”
“A coat which you will never wear in public, correct?” Murphy drawled, then glared as his brother refused to answer. “Never in public, Connor, right?”
Connor sighed, gave in, nodded. “Never in public.”
He waited for Murphy to turn before muttering, “Not while you’re around, anyway.”
35. Medicine
The faceoff in the medicine aisle in the grocer’s is of epic proportions.
One man, tall and blonde, is holding a white-and-red box. The other, dark-haired and slightly shorter, holds a green-and-yellow box.
“That isn’t even medicine,” snarls the smaller. “We have to get this one.” He shakes his choice in the other’s face.
“Generic doesn’t mean it won’t work, Murphy,” Connor snaps back, heading for the register. “This one will work fine.”
“But why?” Murphy whines, petulant now.
Connor smiles, knowing he’s won. “We buy your box, we’re down a few pints’ worth of cash.”
Murphy drops his box.
36. Disaster
This is a disaster.
Dolly knows as soon as he sees the Chief heading towards him. This is it, the end of his career, the end of everything he’s worked so hard for. He’ll be relieved of duty at best, probably thrown in jail for a while. The Chief must have found out about him helping the Saints, or seen him there at Yakavetta’s trial.
“Detective,” the Chief says as he slows next to Dolly’s desk.
“Sir?” Dolly asks, trying to be casual.
“You do good work,” he says, then continues in his stride.
Dolly can actually taste the relief.
37. Torn
Connor has never been more torn in his life.
Murphy will die tonight, without doubt. His wounds are bleeding badly and there is no doctor who would mend them without asking.
Connor’s hands press into the wounds anyway, trying to stop or slow the bleeding even as he hears the sirens approach.
“Go,” Murhpy gasps, eyes wide open and breath coming in ragged pants. “Go, Connor, ye moron, or I’ll haunt your ass in jail. Make you more-” he gasped “-more fucken miserable.”
Connor chokes on a laugh, leans to kiss his brother’s forehead, and runs.
He never looks back.
38. Bullet
A single bullet changed the course of two men’s lives.
After the bullet, they are no longer only working for God, but for Rocco.
Never stop, Rocco’s voice haunts them, and though they never talk about it, they both know that they have added until you kill that bastard to the end of his sentence, at least in their heads.
And even after they kill Yakavetta, they don’t stop. The bullet had left them with more purpose than they’d stated with. Never stop became their motto, their creed.
If they never stop, maybe they can prevent another Rocco from dying.
39. Listen
“Listen,” Smecker snaps, and instantly all are silent, straining to hear what he hears.
A breeze carries faint voices down the alley, and they unconsciously lean forward in synchrony.
“Fuck,” growls Smecker. “They’re early.” His head whips around, and his eyes find everyone in the dark room within mere seconds. “Is everyone in place?” His whisper reaches all corners of the room and nods meet his question.
The voices are closer now, recognizable, louder. Unaware.
“On my count,” Smecker breathes.
The doorknob turns.
Smecker counts and the door is open and the men are inside.
“Happy birthday, Connor and Murphy!”
40. Gravity
Connor laughed as he grabbed Murphy’s arm. His brother’s punch stopped two inches from his face. Murphy scowled.
“How do you always do that?” he asked, still scowling.
“Because you fight sloppy when you’re drunk, Murph,” Connor said matter-of-factly. “It’s not about anger, it’s about peace.”
“Was Bulletproof Monk on television again?” Murphy asked, citing a favorite comedy of his brother’s. “You gonna start telling me that gravity only exists if I want it to?”
Connor looked solemnly at his brother. “It’s not about power,” he continued to quote. “It’s about grace.”
Murphy growled and threw himself at Connor again.
41. Storm
The storm is so loud that it wakes Connor from his sleep, and he turns automatically to Murphy, who isn’t there.
Connor sits up and glances around, seeing his twin at the window. “Murph?” he calls.
“It’s amazing,” Murphy replies, and there is awe in his voice. “The lightning - and the thunder - it’s all so, so…”
“It’s just a storm,” Connor says, unimpressed, and goes back to sleep.
“No,” Murphy says, and he knows he’s talking to himself. “It’s beautiful. It’s…” He pauses, confirming that Connor can’t hear him. “It’s a sign. From God. That we’re doing all this right.”
42. Arms
In the dream (nightmare?) he’s reaching for something, but he can’t quite reach it, it’s not there -
- and he always wakes just before his arms wrap around it.
“What am I trying to reach?” he asks Murphy, asks Smecker, asks God.
Murphy has no answer for him and God seems to be busy listening to other people today, and Connor’s dream (nightmare.) goes unanswered again.
Until Smecker speaks up. “Reaching, right? Just reaching?”
“Aye, reaching,” Connor confirms, wondering if Smecker might know
“Peace,” Smecker says, and the answer is so simple. “You’ll never reach it, though. I never did.”
43. Fate
Fate is cruel when it takes Murphy from him.
Fate is awful, and Connor stands outside in the pouring rain and screams at the skies, at Fate itself, but Fate is cruel and doesn’t answer back.
Fate is cruel when Smecker is discovered, arrested, and the Boston police are too afraid to help the lone Saint. Connor is done with his screaming, so this time he just laughs bitterly and continues on.
Fate is cruel when Doc is diagnosed with cancer and dies almost immediately.
But Fate is kind when Connor can finally slip into his own eternal sleep.
Finally.
44. Artist
When they were younger, Ma had taken them to a man in the city, who had studied their faces and nodded. Ma handed the artist an envelope, and the confused five-year-olds bundled back into their coats to head home.
“Who was that, Ma?” Connor asked once safely in the car.
“Mr. Neill,” was the curt answer. “Never you mind.”
Thirty years later, Murphy pulled a framed painting of two five-year-old boys from his mother’s closet. He sat back on his heels, wiping at the edge of the frame.
Seamus Neill, it says. And, under that, Me boys, always with me.
45. Weakness
“What’s your one weakness?” Rocco asked them once.
“Weakness?” Connor asked, frowning.
“Every superhero has a weakness,” Rocco had replied, shrugging.
Murphy laughed. “Hardly superheroes, Roc. We’re just… like…”
“Like superheroes?” Rocco filled in. “C’mon, you have to have a weakness.”
“Peanut butter,” suggested Connor. “I hate peanut butter.”
Murphy grinned then and jumped in. “Oh, I’d say liver,” he declared. “Hate the stuff.”
Rocco just rolled his eyes. “You guys never take shit seriously.”
Connor and Murphy were glad he let it go, because they didn’t want to have to admit what their weakness was, though they knew it.
46. Alive
“Sometimes I think he’s still alive,” Murphy says into the dark, and there’s no answer. “Sometimes. Not all the time, not any more, but sometimes I think if I just go back to Boston, to McGinty’s, he’ll be on a bar stool, having himself a beer.”
The silence and the darkness are oppressive, and Murphy keeps talking, if only to separate himself from that emptiness.
“And I know that he’s gone, that he’s not in Boston and me here by myself, but sometimes…” He catches his breath for a moment. “Sometimes I think he’s still alive.”
But he never is.
47. Overcome
Connor is very, very silent as he steps into their small flat. He’s got a small bag in his hands, and its contents are secret, sacred.
Connor eases past his snoring twin and sits at the table in their makeshift kitchen. He glances over, but Murphy’s still sleeping. Good.
Connor is overcome with childish joy as he delves into the bag and pulls out the first of several cookies. Each is only a bite, but they fill his mouth with an incredible taste.
He hears a noise and looks up, seeing Murphy staring at him from the bed.
“Greedy bastard.”
48. Broken
Tears slipped out, one by one, and Murphy let them fall. Connor had always been the stronger, more stoic one, the one thing that had held Murphy together - but now he’s dead, Murphy’s mind rebuked harshly. Dead forever.
Murphy’s heart wrenched. How are you? Smecker had asked, and he had replied I’m fine but he had meant to say broken, was glad he didn’t have to actually say the words. Was glad that Smecker just knew and hauled his grieving body to Smecker’s own apartment, where he had fallen on the couch, asleep.
I’ll fix you, Smecker promised. I will.
49. Need
“But I need to,” whined five-year-old Connor. Annabelle sighed at her son, then nodded.
“Be quick,” she admonished. “And take your brother!”
Connor nodded as he grabbed Murphy’s arm and ran into the bar. Looking quickly for his uncle Sibeal but not finding him, Connor made a mad dash for the “employees only” part of the building.
“Uncle!” Connor yelled, and Murphy echoed. “Uncle!”
“What’s wrong, me lads?” Sibeal’s voice rang from the attic, alarmed. “Tell Uncle Sibeal what ye be yelling about.”
Connor looked up the ladder, all puppy eyes at his uncle.
“I need ta use the bathroom!”
50. Scars
They have so many scars between them that they’ve lost count.
There are childhood scars, roadmaps to memories of games that they played with each other, with friends, with family, in a country so far away that it seems to not exist but for memories.
Then there are the scars from their line of work. God’s business is a messy one, and rare is the hit where either one of the men escapes untouched. Each scar is a story, none with a happy ending.
Finally, there are the emotional scars. These are the worst of them all. These never heal.
Part Two