Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel, as Troy Duffy is the rightful creator. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.

A/N: Since I'm about to start my classes in a few days (YIKES!) and may not have as much free time to work on my personal stories and fanfics, I decided to post something new. And I've returned to The Boondock Saints!
The idea for this has been rolling around in my mind since the beginning of the year, and I've had a few key lines written out for months now, but it wasn't until I actually began working on this story and reacquainting myself with the brothers that I remembered just why I love their characters. I believe this is my favorite BDS story so far, and I'm especially happy with it! It's also the first not to feature an Irish title (I just didn't get the same feeling I did with the other three when I translated this one). I feel like this is where my creativity primarily is for the time being, and if I survive the first several weeks of college, I'll hopefully have something else out fairly soon, so pray I don't vanish!

StarKatt427

Murphy hates hospitals: the fluorescent lights, the cleanness, the organization, that sickening smell of antiseptic, alcohol, and something else he can never seem to identify. Though he and his brother usually manage to take care of their injuries themselves, whether it's a busted wrist or a bruised rib or a concussion, there are still times when they have to resort to professional assistance, and even after the outpatient trips Connor and he have made, the stench remains sharp, almost burning and enough to make him cringe as he inhales the air. Sitting in an uncomfortable chair against the wall of the examination room he followed the doctor and nurses into as they brought in his slightly disoriented brother, he cannot help but think of how dissimilar this room is from their apartment: spotless medical bed, paper atop it that is to soon be thrown away; polished sink, jars of cotton balls and tongue depressors around it; the walls painted a pale, ugly as shit green and free from mold and peeling paint. Their flat is messy and dirty but still clean enough, and the walls are stained and cracked, the floor and ceiling creaky, but it's theirs, and it's home. Comfortable. Familiar.

Murphy hates hospitals, not only for the smell, but because he knows that if he's going to one, it means either he or Connor, or sometimes both of them, is hurt badly enough to warrant a visit. And though they were already sporting a few cuts and bruises earlier this morning from the night before, their injuries did not merit a trip to the clinic; now, though, it is Connor the doctor has been checking over, asking questions, looking at dubiously when given an answer. Maybe bringing him to the hospital wasn't the smartest move, what with them having just killed two well known members of the Russian mafia, but Murphy hadn't even considered what suspicion he could be drawing by Connor's wounds, the cuffs on his wrist, or the brief story he'd given the nurse at the front desk; he'd been too worried about how his brother was still unconscious and how dark blood was seeping down his hands, the metal torn into his flesh, and how Connor had looked so small and lifeless and so unConnerlike that Murphy had barely been able to think at all.

The doctor, though, said there was no sign of internal damage or trauma, just some bruising and sore muscles down his right side and leg, a thin cut beneath his hair, and the lacerations on his wrists from the cuffs that had to be sawed off. The man didn't push the subject as to how he sustained all of these injuries, just exited the room only moments ago without prying into their affairs, leaving Murphy to watch a nurse finish wrapping one of Connor's wrists. She does this with a quick yet gentle efficiency, then tells him he needs to stick around a little longer before his release papers are ready, and slides out of the room.

As soon as she's closed the door, Connor's getting to his feet, the action slow and painful to watch; he's not quite steady as he stretches his arms above his head, and Murphy does not miss how his movements are measured, cautious, careful of his sore side from their fight the night before and the tender muscles he gained this morning from hitting the blacktop. His gray robe is covered with blood, from both the wounds on his wrists and where that fat bastard slammed the butt of his gun into his head, but his face is cleaned of red, and save for the small cut hidden by his hair, you wouldn't know he'd been pistol whipped just over an hour ago. "Took 'em long enough ta figure out nothin' was wrong, aye? God, I need a smoke, wish we weren't in no damn hospital."

Murphy smirks ever so slightly, because in all honesty, he needs one as well, and probably more desperately than his brother: his hands, clasped loosely between his knees, have been trembling a little since he first sat down. It infuriates him that he's still so shaken, whereas Connor is the epitome of composure, and he knots his hands together so that the bones rub against each other and it brings pain. "Too bad for you, ain't it, invalid?" he asks, voice not quite as teasing as he aimed for.

Connor glares at him. "Invalid my ass. I can still whip ye anytime, anyplace."

In answer, Murphy simply stares at him, one eyebrow cocked doubtfully. "Can ye now?" He knows good and well—just as Connor does but is far too proud to admit it—that he is in no shape to be brawling, especially since he can barely even get around on his own. Connor generally comes out on top during their wrestling matches, whether by strength or cunning; even when their fights are fueled by genuine rage, he keeps his head, which is why Murphy often finds himself pinned beneath him, as he tends to dive in fists first. Of course, the fact that he's a little bigger than Murphy is a significant advantage, too.

Still, they both know that despite Connor having a few pounds on him and being built more broadly than Murphy's wiry frame, with his injuries, it wouldn't take long for Murphy to have him on the ground.

Connor rolls his eyes, wrinkling his nose in a childish manner that acknowledges without him actually saying anything that he knows he would be on his ass in a second. Normally, this would be the prime opportunity for Murphy to poke fun at him, to comment on the fact that he's hobbling around like an old cripple and that, of all the cool, badass things he could have thrown off a roof, it had to be a toilet. He wants to be able to laugh the incident off.

But he can't. No matter how badly he wishes he could be as casual as Connor is about this, he can't; no matter how much he wants everything to be normal, it's not. He watches his brother pat down his robe, searching the pockets for a pack of smokes and cursing when he finds nothing, but then his vision seems to blur; nothing's focused, the shapes present yet unclear, his thoughts back in that alley. Scooping Connor off the ground, adjusting him over his shoulder, afraid moving him might hurt something; shoving the guns, money, and beepers in a bag he grabs from the trash, the same bag he's kept at his side since arriving at the hospital; slamming a porcelain lid into the back of the smaller man's head, sending him to the ground; checking his brother for a pulse, feeling it thump against his fingers—

"Guess we should call Doc, see if he can help us out. What'cha think he'll say when he sees us?"

—looking up, seeing, of all things, a toilet falling from the roof, and his brother right after it, and covering his head; the asphalt scraping his skin and he's pushed to his knees, staring down the barrel of a gun; watching his brother be forced to cuff his hands behind a commode, throwing curses right along with him and realizing, with startling calm, that he is about to be killed as he is led out the door, the only thing left to do look back and see Connor one last time.

"Murph?"

That's the image he can't seem to get out of his head: Connor try to jerk loose, screaming his name, frantic and bloody and vengeful. He fought so violently to get free that he shredded his wrists, and Murphy knows that his skin will forever be blemished by scars, evidence of his struggle, of what those bastards made him do.

"Eh, Murphy? You listenin'?"

The world snaps back into focus, shapes solidifying around the edges and features once again distinguishable, and Murphy lifts his head to find Connor standing before him, looking at him with a curious expression that is not exactly concerned but questioning, wrists no longer bleeding and blue eyes free from pain or anguish. "'m listenin'."

Connor leers at him, remarking, "Sure ye are," as he hobbles over and pulls the doctor's swivel seat up, sitting on it in front of Murphy, hands resting on his legs. "Anyway, ye daydreamin' over here ain't helpin'. We gotta get hold a Doc, see of he can hang on ta that bag long enough for us to come up wit' a plan, figure out what ta say. Don't know why these people won't go on and let me be, 'm perfectly fine, ye know? Had plenty a worse—"

"Do they hurt?"

The question is quiet, curious, and entirely unwelcome, and Murphy nearly slaps a hand over his mouth, even though there's no way to push it back down his throat; it came out without his say so, something he's been silently wondering since the cuffs were removed and he was able to fully see the degree of damage done to his brother's skin, but he never meant to actually ask it.

For a moment, the words sit between them, and Murphy watches Connor blink, taken aback. "Huh? What, ye mean my wrists?"

Murphy doesn't answer, still embarrassed by his childish question, and simply looks at Connor, waiting.

After a startled moment, his brother's mouth pulls into a grin, and he lifts a hand, balling in into a fist. "Doin' grand, they are."

A sudden surge of anger, whether at Connor or those mobsters they just killed or at himself, has Murphy's chest tightening, and he scowls. Anytime he gets his ass kicked, Connor says he's fine, that he's not in pain, even when Murphy can see it; of course, Murphy does the exact same thing, and it infuriates his brother to no end, so it's understandable that seeing Connor wince with every other movement, flinch when he bends his wrist the wrong way, nearly loses his balance, has a bitter taste settle on the back of Murphy's tongue. "Don't give me that shit. I asked ye if they hurt."

He sees a flash in the blue of his twin's irises, eyes narrowing and upper lip curling in annoyance. "And I said they're fine."

"Yer a fuckin' liar." This is good, Murphy realizes; if they're arguing, he doesn't have to think about anything else. He can just be angry, even though he knows he has no right to be; his brother just saved his life, but all he can think is what if Connor, that idiot, had died instead?

If he's fighting with Connor, that means he's still alive (though Murphy sometimes imagines they'll be arguing long after they're both in the grave and six feet under).

Connor pushes up from his seat with an aggravated breath, the movement quick and causing him to jerk his body too fast; he doesn't stumble, but Murphy sees his hand go to his side as he turns away. "I'm ain't doin' this shit here, not when we have bigger problems ta worry 'bout. Fer fuck's sake, I told ye I'm fine, now drop it."

Murphy is about to snap back at him, vowels and consonants on the verge of taking form as argumentative, spiteful words, but without him ordering it to and without his consent, his hand deftly reaches out and takes hold of Connor's right one, pulling him to a halt. It surprises him a little, how just the familiarity of his brother's skin makes his anger slowly evaporate, and he's left with something lost and aching that burns through his chest. Connor tenses, but does not free himself, instead going utterly still as Murphy grips tighter to his hand; it's filled with strength, like Connor, tanned and worn and as well known to Murphy as his own, and his fingers slide over Connor's, brushing knuckles and tendons as their tips touch the fresh bandage.

"Murph."

Murphy doesn't look at Connor, doesn't need to, because he can see the expression on his face from simply hearing the tone of his voice: brows furrowed over his eyes, jaw held tight, lips parted just slightly and eyes searching. The exasperation is gone, and he sounds tired, and definitely concerned now, and a little apprehensive, because even Murphy knows it's not like himself to behave so uncharacteristically, for his anger to leech out of him so quickly, for him to be the first to pull out of a fight. Connor turns back to face him, but Murphy, rather than meet his gaze, traces up Connor's other hand, fingers gentle on both bandages, picking at the dressing, saying nothing yet screaming everything.

A light laugh, one that is a bit too forced, followed by fingers on the back of his hand, stilling his restless tugging. He looks up to find Connor smiling. "Honestly, 'm fine. Everythin's fine."

Murphy knows he's right, that he's safe and that the injuries he received are nothing compared to what could have happened, that they are both lucky to be alive and that he should be making fun of his brother for executing a scene worthy of those retarded movies he's always obsessing over. But he can still see Connor jumping from the roof, his body sprawled out on the pavement, limp and comatose and with blood still ebbing down his wrists and forehead.

And it's terrifying. Murphy had been able to accept his own impending death, facing it head on, because at least he'd known Connor would remain alive; that was all that mattered, knowing those men wouldn't kill Connor once they'd murdered him and his twin would live through that. But seeing him unresponsive and bloody, carrying the dead weight over his shoulder and not hearing any smartass replies when he told him how fucking stupid he was…it was frightening in a way nothing else has ever been, because that was the first time he might have actually lost his brother: the adrenaline may have settled, the fear departed, but what it's left behind is even worse, and that's anxiety. No matter how much he tries to calm the frantic unrest, to remind himself that those Russians weren't even planning on killing Connor, it still leaves Murphy a little unnerved.

He doesn't want to think about just how close he could have come to losing Connor today, but it was always a possibility. If he hadn't landed on that man…if he'd hit the ground without anything breaking his fall…

Murphy looks into Connor's eyes long enough to say quietly, much smaller and rougher than he would like, "It might not 'ave been. Ye could be gone, and then what a fuckin' mess I'd be in. What were ye thinkin', jumpin' of a damn roof? If ye hadn't landed on that guy, ye would have hit the fuckin' asphalt and…an'…"

The words lodge in his throat, voice unsteady and nearly breaking, and Murphy lets his head drop down, unable to be mad when he can still taste the coppery terror of having to check his twin's pulse. He would much rather feel angry, because it inflates him, takes him on a high so that, at least for a while, he is able to block out everything else; now, though, he feels like everything is collapsing inward, the weight crushing him, and he sucks several sharp breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth.

When Murphy finally lifts his head, he sees that Connor is taking this all in silence, a fact that both infuriates him and deflates any fury left in his body, instead making him feel even more pathetic and weak; normally, his brother would be firing right back at him, never at a loss for words and unafraid of their impact. But this time, the first time Murphy can remember clearly, Connor simply stares back at him with a nearly unreadable expression, his face drawn and eyes ever so slightly narrowed but not with irritation, mouth pulled into an apologetic frown. His fingers, still on top of Murphy's, have been still, but then they give his a soft grip before sliding away.

Connor slowly sits back down and leans against him, forehead warm and hands calloused as they brush against his jaws before holding to his hair, knocking their heads together. His brother laughs, but it doesn't sound right, too breathy, and then he's smiling, though it's oddly sad; there's a darkness in Connor's eyes, a fear that he has been trying to keep in check, one Murphy hasn't seen in his entire life until today: it was there amid the swirling color and black pupils when he was taken outside to be killed, fierce and longing and agonized and terrorized, and it was still there when Connor finally woke up, eyes frenetic as they searched the room and lethargic body struggling to sit up; only after Murphy had taken hold of his shoulders, only after their eyes had met, did Connor seem to finally breathe and relax into him.

Murphy realizes, for the first time, just how good his brother can be at hiding his emotions.

A finger brushes lightly over the cut Murphy acquired the night before during the bar fight, reopened earlier this morning and crusted with fresh blood. "Then imagine how I felt, ye eejit."

And Murphy, staring into his brother's eyes, does so. He tries to think about how it would have been different if he'd been in Connor's situation, and the scene that fills his mind does so with startling clarity: being pushed to the ground, having to lock himself to a toilet and watching as Connor is held a gunpoint, hearing those God awful words—I kill your brother—and snarling out cuss words, screaming Connor's name, watching as he's pulled to his feet and taken away, fighting to get to him and terrified that he won't be able to, that he'll free himself only to see his brother's blood splattered along the sidewalk and his body limp and unmoving.

With that last image comes such a stab of pain that Murphy has to close his eyes, squeeze them shut tightly enough to see spots as his hands clench into fists in his brother's robe. He wonders how Connor could have born that, having to watch them drag him outside, unable to get free, knowing his brother was about to be murdered and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. And when he thinks about it, it's easy for him to see where Connor found the strength to tear that damn toilet from the floor, struggling enough to bring blood, the cuts deep and red, and not even caring. Because when Murphy was taken outside, the last thing he'd seen in his brother's face was not fury but desperation, and he knows that he would have fought just as fiercely if it had been Connor stolen from him.

Murphy clenches his jaw, eyes intent when he opens them and meets Connor's, whose gaze is still shadowed by the terror of possibly losing his twin, not smiling but giving Murphy an unusually tender look. He lifts his hands, sliding them up Connor's arms, careful of his wrists, before letting his hands rest atop his brother's, their fingers near matches. "Never again, ye hear me? Not ever."

Never again will Murphy be subjected to such gut clenching, body shaking fear, or let anyone go free once they've laid hands on his brother, or permit his twin to risk himself like that, or force Connor to be left alone. Never again will Murphy allow Connor to scare him so deeply.

There's no way they can avoid staying out of trouble entirely; life would be boring without it, and besides, they both like fighting too much, reveling in the thrill and the hype and the way it makes them feel so undeniably alive. This has been their closest call, the first time they had to face the reality that one of them might not be there to open his eyes onto a new day, and something's changed, something Murphy can't describe, but he now knows that it truly isn't possible for one of them to live while the other does not. They are each other's something to protect, they are in this together, whatever life throws at them, and there's no other way Murphy would have it.

Sitting there, this knowledge passes between them but remains silent, never spoken and only thought, but Murphy can see it in Connor's eyes, and he knows his brother catches it in his own: You will not lose me…and I will not lose you.

Connor simply smiles. "Sounds good ta me."