Author's Note: This is an older fic of mine, first written somewhere around 2004-2005. I'm still happy with it, though, so I decided to republish it here. This story takes place after the "toilet" scene in the first Boondock Saints, the night after the boys escape. I hope you enjoy! ~ Tsuki

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The Prayer

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I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to Troy Duffy, 20th Century Fox, Franchise Pictures et al. I'm making no money off of this story.

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"And thou shalt be secure, because there is hope; yea, thou shalt dig about thee,
and thou shalt take thy rest in safety." — (Job 11:18)

…

The room has that thick, wet smell that always permeates the heart of Boston right before the rain starts. It's worse here, though, where the stone walls are cracked and moist. The cold seeps in like silent secrets, making Connor shiver slightly as his skin ripples into waves of swollen goose bumps. But he refuses to move and put his shirt back on. His mind is too focused, his body too weary.

Murphy's already asleep on his police issued cot, snoring— though if Connor ever called him on that, he would quickly deny it. Murphy looks peaceful, even with the dried purple blood crusted on his bottom lip.

He looks angelic.

Connor shudders again, but now it's not because of the cold. It's because the terror, which he had since restrained with astronomical amounts of control and adrenaline, slams into him full force. God, he was just so… so fucking… scared.

His knees start to numb and prickle, his legs beginning to fall asleep, and Connor realizes that he has been kneeling on the hard holding cell floor for half an hour now, and has not even begun his original intention. He has not even begun to pray.

He crosses himself slowly, his hand trembling slightly. Just so fucking scared!

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…" he whispers. The opening of his prayer is simple, engrained into him, etched in his blood. But beyond that? Words cannot grasp his feelings. His entire body is screaming tonight, but he cannot form a single coherent word.

Murphy almost died today— almost fucking died!

Connor bites his tongue at the realization. His chest hurts too much to even breathe. The words repeat over and over in his mind, a mantra. Dead… gone… alone…

…

When Connor and Murphy were born, their Ma put them in the same crib. If you look at those faded, cut-rate photographs, you can barely see the small shadow that separates one body from another. From the start, the two infants clung to each other as if still in the womb. They sucked at each other's fingers instead of their own, mimicked the other's expressions and motions like most infants mimic a mirror.

For their first birthday, Ma's key present was a second creaky oak crib, the perfect replica of the one the twins had shared for the past twelve months.

It varies on who is said to have been placed in the new crib that night, depends on when the story is told, who the story is being told to. But what is given as fact is that no one got any sleep that night. The twins shrieked and screamed, as if the devil himself were hovering by their bedsides. Their faces were scarlet flushed, their tiny throats were hoarse within moments of their separation.

Ma waited as long as she could; they had to be separated at some point, eh? But finally her resolve wore out and she picked up tiny Connor— currently screaming louder and more furiously than his brother— and moved him to Murphy's crib.

Both twins fell asleep the instant Connor hit the soft cotton sheets, his round, pale head nuzzling against Murphy's shadowed neck.

It soon became a sort of ritual— Ma attempted to move the boys at least once a year, but the howling monsoon would begin again, and they would be returned within half an hour to each other's trembling arms.

When they were five, Ma gave up even trying to separate her children. As a woman of sense, she knew their fierce inability to leave one another's side would be trouble as they grew older, but as a woman of faith, she was sure God had stitched those two as one— one soul, one string of providence.

For Christmas that year she bought them a queen bed— as large as her own, but cheaper as it was lacking a box spring. The boys didn't care about box springs, though. The bed was theirs to make a fort out of, or jump on, or hide mud pies under. They didn't care, because it was not "his" or "his," it was theirs.

They were ten before there ever was "a problem." They were just so used to being with each other. And no one questioned, because everyone else was used to it as well. If Connor went out to play football in the rain, Murphy was sure to join him— though he would probably play goalie as he preferred to stand and watch, more than play. Not that it would stop him from coming home covered from head to toe in mud, just like his brother. And if Murphy went fence hopping and tree climbing, Connor was sure to be right behind him, scraping his knees and making them bleed just enough to rival his brother's.

But then Jaine— a professor friend of Da's— went on a bird watching excursion.

It was supposed to last a week. Poor woman was lonely as hell; the boys both knew that. So it made sense that the husbandless, childless woman would invite Connor and Murphy to go with her. They had gone on trips with Jaine before, and they were always spoiled rotten, which naturally meant they had a wonderful time.

But this trip was run entirely by the Irish Wildbird Conservancy. And she could only bring one boy along—had to list them on the paperwork as an official apprentice. Could only bring one. One. No, not both. One. Understand, boys? One.

They should have known. Should have said no. But Murphy loved bird watching, and a week wasn't all that long.

Jaine came back in just three days.

The moment Ma opened the door, Murphy threw himself over the threshold, bounding up the twisted wooden stairs. He could vaguely hear Jaine explaining that Murphy had been fine until the first night, and then he started crying and simply didn't stop… wouldn't stop… couldn't stop…

Connor had spent the last three days secluded in his room. He refused to talk to Ma, refused to play, refused to eat, refused to sleep, even refused to pray. Hugging his pillow to his chest, he only faintly heard the sound of the front door, only vaguely recognized the pounding of footsteps, and only slightly processed the sound of Jaine's voice. But Connor was wide awake the moment a small but solid bulk jumped onto the mattress with him, wrapping its wiry arms around his thin torso, and began moaning into the curve of his neck. Connor flipped over and clutched Murphy to him, whimpering as Murphy clutched back just as intensely.

Ma crept up the stairs a few moments later and peaked in her boys' room. They were both asleep, wrapped together in such a pile of limbs that it was impossible to distinguish whose arm and leg was whose. The elder woman found herself reminded of a William Blake design— white-bodied angels entwined like serpents, mirror images to the devils writhing below.

Since then, there hasn't been a day when they have been separate. Oh, there are moments, sure. But not days.

And, of course, now they can sleep in separate beds without howling in grief. They choose not to, but they can—they are men now, after all, not boys! (Though, Connor would be forced to admit, if asked directly, that his stomach pangs in fits of anxiety every time he and Murphy are forced to spend nights outside the protective barrier of each other's arms.)

But God… Murphy almost… he almost…

…

Connor holds back a shrill cry, biting his lip until it bleeds. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something is laughing, reminding him that Murphy's lip is also cut, blood dried and crisp. They'll match now. Identical.

Murph…

But Murphy isn't dead. The sound of a loud snort as the brunette rolls over on his side reminds Connor of this. He is breathing, alive… here.

Connor wants to go over there and bury his face into his brother's neck. He wants to breathe in the spirit, the blood, and the body that he lives for. Miracle made flesh, life of life, brother of brother, kin of kin…

But there are still police officer's here, patrolling the quiet linoleum hallways. And even though Connor knows this shouldn't matter, it does.

So Connor breathes.

The clouds have finally given up their battle; the rain has begun.

Connor crosses himself again. His prayer is finished, complete in his utter silence. He kisses the edge of his rosary. He climbs back into the cold bed, trying not to imagine Murphy bloody and broken, trying not to imagine Murphy dead. Connor tries instead to focus on the drip-drip-dripping of the rainwater, nature's own silent prayer.

He listens, and lets it lull him to sleep.

…

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

FIN