WIP Boondock Saints Fic
Title: More Than You Realize
Author: ruyu
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Future Connor/Murphy
Rating: PG (for now)
Status: WIP
Summary: Connor doesn't know where his brother goes on those lonely nights. This unspoken love just might kill them both.
Connor MacManus taps his finger rhythmically against the stained wood of the counter, wet with alcohol, water and old coffee that some bum hadn’t manage to keep in his cup. His brother, Murphy, is a noticeable absence beside him. He’s started to mark the days by how often his brother leaves him. He never tells him were he is going, he just goes. There’s a troubled look in his brother’s eyes when he leaves that tells him maybe he shouldn’t know.
So it’s another bar, another night that Connor looks beside him and finds the stool empty. Habit makes it hard on nights like these to enjoy the solitude that come with his brothers absence. His friends barrel into the bar after a few hours and he sees their eyes move from his stool to the next in search of his twin, but they’ve learned, just as he has, that Murphy needs his nights alone just like any other man does.
Even so, it takes a while before someone sits in the chair next to him. It’s always been Murphy’s.
The music is dated; some of the old farts must have gotten a hold of the jukebox. It’s worn, crackled quality reminds Connor of the old T.V. shows their Ma used to make them watch. The colorless men on the screen had talked in strange languages. “You’ll learn what their sayin’,” she had said one day, grabbing her bag and leaving, coming back with language books. Connor smiled as he remember Murphy struggling to speak French, but now he was a master - completely fluent. The silky words always caught on his tongue and his brother had sounded so strange. Then something clicked one day and Connor had never heard more beautiful words spoken from another man.
As the jukebox skips and whines, moving the next song, Connor downs another whiskey and slams the shot glass down.
“Another one, then?” The barkeep asks.
Connor looks around him and decides, again, that it just isn’t right without Murphy. “No thanks, my night’s ‘bout done.”
Slipping into his worn peacoat and paying his tab with generous tip, Connor waves off his friends and floats out the exit, climbing the stairs into the wet, moonless night. Passer-bys huddle underneath their umbrella’s, seeking shelter from the light drizzle. Lights flash from inside the closed pawn shops and Giuseppe’s Deli on the corner. Connor raises the lapels of his coat against the rain and makes his way home, taking care to check down the alleys. He’s paranoid these days and old habits die hard. Another glance beside him tells him that Murph still isn’t beside him.
It’s 3AM when Connor hears Murphy fall out of the elevator, boots thumping against the metal guard bar of the floor. Fists hit the wall outside of their apartment and scrap down until it reaches their door. A giggle is hushed and a brief cough signals his brothers entrance. Then all is silent. It always is. It’s like Murphy’s in is own little world when they’re apart, or even just separated by a door, their apartment door which Conner remembered not to lock for his brother. He wants him to come home, after all.
From his bed, just beside his brothers’, Conner curls tighter in his sheets and pretends to sleep. The lights are never turned on as Conner hears Murphy make his way to his bed. The sound of jeans with the belt still on hitting the floor and the squeak of the mattress are the only sounds he hears and then Murphy is snoring.
Conner hates nights like this, but he’d never tell his brother that.
~
Consciousness is brighter and warmer than when he left it last night. Murphy’s head is throbbing and his fists ache. He blinks an eye open and inspects his hands. Bloody and cut - another fight then. The bed dips and he finds his brother pushing a wet cloth into his hands, a tired look on his face. Murphy takes the cloth and meets his twin’s eyes and Conner graces him with his usual, friendly, affectionate smile.
“Do I even want ‘ta ask?” Conner says, inspecting Murphy’s body, picking up his brother’s hands and peering at the wounds. “Who was it this time, eh?
Murphy has never worked up the courage to tell his brother about his outings into the city. It’s like a whole new world out there without him - but not necessarily a good world, he’s discovered. The nights are still dark and dangerous, still unwelcoming and haunting. Murphy kids himself by thinking that Connor doesn’t know about the deeper, darker underworld that hides in their city, dark even than the one they purge. But that’s a lie, and a good excuse for now.
“Oh, you know me. I like to rough things up when I drink me beer,” he says offhandedly. The blood comes off of his knuckles but the scraps and bruising remain and after flexing them gingerly, the pain is also there. Murphy can’t honestly say how he came to have the wounds.
Connor laughs and scuffs his head and pushes off the bed. “We gotta go.”
Murphy frowns and looks at the dingy alarm. 7AM. Damn, only 4 hours of sleep. Connor must have not heard him come in this morning. “What for?”
“Business.”
~
It doesn’t faze them anymore as they slip inside the caged armory. The awe of it now lost to them. A shine off one of the automatics catches Connor’s eye, but he pass it and heads toward the Beretta 92FS supplies that the dealer keeps for especially for them. Tradition, really. Murphy's behind him with his bag held open, well practiced from their frequent visits. Hell, they have a fucking key to the supply room. Connor finds the weight of their full bags strangely comforting. With a nod from their dealer and soft pat on his back from Murphy, they leave, stealing away into daylight of their city.
~
“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 commands.
And we shall flow a river forth to Thee
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti.”
Murphy hadn’t seen the hit coming. The boney elbow that caught his brothers cheek just moments before is then blown off by one of his well aimed shots, splattering Murphy’s exposed neck and the holes in his mask with blood. The man howls in pain, but he doesn’t feel any sympathy for him as he collapses on the floor. They make their way through the pool room and with a few helpful directions from prostitutes and rent-boys they find the main office one of the new suppliers that was stupid enough to set up shop in their town.
The door is marked “OFFICE” by a wrinkled piece of ledger paper, a dull glow emanates through the cover glass on the upper section of the door. Connor pulls one gun from its holster and lifts his other gloved hand to brush against Murphy’s cheek. “Murph...” he whispers and grips his gun tighter. He hates this sometimes; but he trust his brother to protect both him and himself if the need arises. He still hates the danger he puts them both in. Murphy would say that it is both of their decisions to do what they do. Equal and in agreement in all things. No one is leading the other, but rather they are going in the same direction. That though comforts Connor and he touches his forehead to Murphy’s temple, pulling back and nodding as he pulls his other gun out. Murphy’s eyes are wide in confusion but he doesn’t say anything, he just nods in return and together they kick open the office and do what they do best.
~
The reflection in the mirror shows a bruised and tired man... men; he can see Murphy in the reflection now. Connor allows himself a small laugh, both tickled and horrified with himself that this is one of his favorite times with his twin. Hunching over the sink, blood dripping from the cut on his chin, Connor meets his brothers eyes in the mirror, an unspoken, desperate and comforting message passing between them.
So I will very gladly spend for you everything I have and expend myself as well. If I love you more, will you love me less?1
Turning and pulling Murphy to the sink, Connor pats the ledge and encourages Murphy to hop up on it so he can tend to his wounds. Murphy rolls his eyes but hops up anyways, hands falling behind him to lift and balance himself. A light blush rises on his brothers cheeks as he pushes his knees apart and allows Connor to begin dabbing at the blood on his face, neck and torso. Connor’s stomach turns as he eyes the large bruise on Murphy’s cheek, which was now turning a sickly purple-yellow color. God, how he hated what he did to his brother...
“Aye...” Murphy grunts, looking down at his lap and loosening Connor’s bone crushing grip on his thigh.
“Shit,” he whispers,” I’m sorry, Murph.” He hadn’t felt himself touching his brother, much less squeezing his leg.
“It’s okay.”
Connor feels sick again. “No, Murphy,” he forces out. “I’m sorry for all this, for everything.” Connor lifts his bare hand and brushes it against the ever darkening bruise on his beloved brother’s face. “I’m sorry I let you get hurt.” Detaching himself and stepping back, Conner raises his hands in surrender; in surrender of what, Connor isn’t sure.
Just has he turns to leave, Connor hears his brother speak.
“Lord... how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me?” Murphy is hunched over, supported by his elbows on his knees, face hidden to Connor. “Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times...’” Murphy’s eyes are wet when he lifts his head to meet his eyes. “...but seventy-seven times.2”
Their bathroom is silent as Murphy slides from the sink and walks to Connor, pausing in front of him. “Is it you or me who should be apologizing?”
“What do you have to apologize for?” Connor prompts, confused and nervous.
“More than you realize, I think.” Then he’s dressed and out of the door and Connor can’t bring himself to chase him.
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.
________________________________________________
12 Corinthians 12:15
2Matthew 18:21-22
TBC...
Author: ruyu
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: Future Connor/Murphy
Rating: PG (for now)
Status: WIP
Summary: Connor doesn't know where his brother goes on those lonely nights. This unspoken love just might kill them both.
Connor MacManus taps his finger rhythmically against the stained wood of the counter, wet with alcohol, water and old coffee that some bum hadn’t manage to keep in his cup. His brother, Murphy, is a noticeable absence beside him. He’s started to mark the days by how often his brother leaves him. He never tells him were he is going, he just goes. There’s a troubled look in his brother’s eyes when he leaves that tells him maybe he shouldn’t know.
So it’s another bar, another night that Connor looks beside him and finds the stool empty. Habit makes it hard on nights like these to enjoy the solitude that come with his brothers absence. His friends barrel into the bar after a few hours and he sees their eyes move from his stool to the next in search of his twin, but they’ve learned, just as he has, that Murphy needs his nights alone just like any other man does.
Even so, it takes a while before someone sits in the chair next to him. It’s always been Murphy’s.
The music is dated; some of the old farts must have gotten a hold of the jukebox. It’s worn, crackled quality reminds Connor of the old T.V. shows their Ma used to make them watch. The colorless men on the screen had talked in strange languages. “You’ll learn what their sayin’,” she had said one day, grabbing her bag and leaving, coming back with language books. Connor smiled as he remember Murphy struggling to speak French, but now he was a master - completely fluent. The silky words always caught on his tongue and his brother had sounded so strange. Then something clicked one day and Connor had never heard more beautiful words spoken from another man.
As the jukebox skips and whines, moving the next song, Connor downs another whiskey and slams the shot glass down.
“Another one, then?” The barkeep asks.
Connor looks around him and decides, again, that it just isn’t right without Murphy. “No thanks, my night’s ‘bout done.”
Slipping into his worn peacoat and paying his tab with generous tip, Connor waves off his friends and floats out the exit, climbing the stairs into the wet, moonless night. Passer-bys huddle underneath their umbrella’s, seeking shelter from the light drizzle. Lights flash from inside the closed pawn shops and Giuseppe’s Deli on the corner. Connor raises the lapels of his coat against the rain and makes his way home, taking care to check down the alleys. He’s paranoid these days and old habits die hard. Another glance beside him tells him that Murph still isn’t beside him.
It’s 3AM when Connor hears Murphy fall out of the elevator, boots thumping against the metal guard bar of the floor. Fists hit the wall outside of their apartment and scrap down until it reaches their door. A giggle is hushed and a brief cough signals his brothers entrance. Then all is silent. It always is. It’s like Murphy’s in is own little world when they’re apart, or even just separated by a door, their apartment door which Conner remembered not to lock for his brother. He wants him to come home, after all.
From his bed, just beside his brothers’, Conner curls tighter in his sheets and pretends to sleep. The lights are never turned on as Conner hears Murphy make his way to his bed. The sound of jeans with the belt still on hitting the floor and the squeak of the mattress are the only sounds he hears and then Murphy is snoring.
Conner hates nights like this, but he’d never tell his brother that.
~
Consciousness is brighter and warmer than when he left it last night. Murphy’s head is throbbing and his fists ache. He blinks an eye open and inspects his hands. Bloody and cut - another fight then. The bed dips and he finds his brother pushing a wet cloth into his hands, a tired look on his face. Murphy takes the cloth and meets his twin’s eyes and Conner graces him with his usual, friendly, affectionate smile.
“Do I even want ‘ta ask?” Conner says, inspecting Murphy’s body, picking up his brother’s hands and peering at the wounds. “Who was it this time, eh?
Murphy has never worked up the courage to tell his brother about his outings into the city. It’s like a whole new world out there without him - but not necessarily a good world, he’s discovered. The nights are still dark and dangerous, still unwelcoming and haunting. Murphy kids himself by thinking that Connor doesn’t know about the deeper, darker underworld that hides in their city, dark even than the one they purge. But that’s a lie, and a good excuse for now.
“Oh, you know me. I like to rough things up when I drink me beer,” he says offhandedly. The blood comes off of his knuckles but the scraps and bruising remain and after flexing them gingerly, the pain is also there. Murphy can’t honestly say how he came to have the wounds.
Connor laughs and scuffs his head and pushes off the bed. “We gotta go.”
Murphy frowns and looks at the dingy alarm. 7AM. Damn, only 4 hours of sleep. Connor must have not heard him come in this morning. “What for?”
“Business.”
~
It doesn’t faze them anymore as they slip inside the caged armory. The awe of it now lost to them. A shine off one of the automatics catches Connor’s eye, but he pass it and heads toward the Beretta 92FS supplies that the dealer keeps for especially for them. Tradition, really. Murphy's behind him with his bag held open, well practiced from their frequent visits. Hell, they have a fucking key to the supply room. Connor finds the weight of their full bags strangely comforting. With a nod from their dealer and soft pat on his back from Murphy, they leave, stealing away into daylight of their city.
~
“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 commands.
And we shall flow a river forth to Thee
And teeming with souls shall it ever be.
In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti.”
Murphy hadn’t seen the hit coming. The boney elbow that caught his brothers cheek just moments before is then blown off by one of his well aimed shots, splattering Murphy’s exposed neck and the holes in his mask with blood. The man howls in pain, but he doesn’t feel any sympathy for him as he collapses on the floor. They make their way through the pool room and with a few helpful directions from prostitutes and rent-boys they find the main office one of the new suppliers that was stupid enough to set up shop in their town.
The door is marked “OFFICE” by a wrinkled piece of ledger paper, a dull glow emanates through the cover glass on the upper section of the door. Connor pulls one gun from its holster and lifts his other gloved hand to brush against Murphy’s cheek. “Murph...” he whispers and grips his gun tighter. He hates this sometimes; but he trust his brother to protect both him and himself if the need arises. He still hates the danger he puts them both in. Murphy would say that it is both of their decisions to do what they do. Equal and in agreement in all things. No one is leading the other, but rather they are going in the same direction. That though comforts Connor and he touches his forehead to Murphy’s temple, pulling back and nodding as he pulls his other gun out. Murphy’s eyes are wide in confusion but he doesn’t say anything, he just nods in return and together they kick open the office and do what they do best.
~
The reflection in the mirror shows a bruised and tired man... men; he can see Murphy in the reflection now. Connor allows himself a small laugh, both tickled and horrified with himself that this is one of his favorite times with his twin. Hunching over the sink, blood dripping from the cut on his chin, Connor meets his brothers eyes in the mirror, an unspoken, desperate and comforting message passing between them.
So I will very gladly spend for you everything I have and expend myself as well. If I love you more, will you love me less?1
Turning and pulling Murphy to the sink, Connor pats the ledge and encourages Murphy to hop up on it so he can tend to his wounds. Murphy rolls his eyes but hops up anyways, hands falling behind him to lift and balance himself. A light blush rises on his brothers cheeks as he pushes his knees apart and allows Connor to begin dabbing at the blood on his face, neck and torso. Connor’s stomach turns as he eyes the large bruise on Murphy’s cheek, which was now turning a sickly purple-yellow color. God, how he hated what he did to his brother...
“Aye...” Murphy grunts, looking down at his lap and loosening Connor’s bone crushing grip on his thigh.
“Shit,” he whispers,” I’m sorry, Murph.” He hadn’t felt himself touching his brother, much less squeezing his leg.
“It’s okay.”
Connor feels sick again. “No, Murphy,” he forces out. “I’m sorry for all this, for everything.” Connor lifts his bare hand and brushes it against the ever darkening bruise on his beloved brother’s face. “I’m sorry I let you get hurt.” Detaching himself and stepping back, Conner raises his hands in surrender; in surrender of what, Connor isn’t sure.
Just has he turns to leave, Connor hears his brother speak.
“Lord... how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me?” Murphy is hunched over, supported by his elbows on his knees, face hidden to Connor. “Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times...’” Murphy’s eyes are wet when he lifts his head to meet his eyes. “...but seventy-seven times.2”
Their bathroom is silent as Murphy slides from the sink and walks to Connor, pausing in front of him. “Is it you or me who should be apologizing?”
“What do you have to apologize for?” Connor prompts, confused and nervous.
“More than you realize, I think.” Then he’s dressed and out of the door and Connor can’t bring himself to chase him.
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.
________________________________________________
12 Corinthians 12:15
2Matthew 18:21-22
TBC...