A/N: so I lost this notebook over the summer and I decided I'd post the story in it, which of course is still in progress, ha-ha! I like where this story is progressing to.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Boondock Saints characters, story lines, or super sexy accents.
Warnings: MacManus mouths, violence (it's BDS, you can handle this)
A Splintery Cross.
Chapter 1 The Damned Radiator.
I had just escaped being handcuffed to a radiator the first time I ever laid eyes on Boston's most wanted vigilante criminals: The Saints. It's a funny story how I ended up here, handcuffed and bloodied. Certainly not funny ha-ha, but funny ironic.
My head was starting to spin and the room shifted as if we were out to sea I couldn't say why my equilibrium was so off, maybe it was blood loss, maybe the throbbing, dripping head wound I had been dispensed, or maybe it was the sickening smell of onions and body odor, a cocktail of all things vile. Through my haze all my mind could register was the gentle drip sound of my own blood trickling down my metal shackles from the torn skin that was once my wrist. I could hear accented laughter muffled by the door , along with a stream of angry words in a language I couldn't understand. I assumed it was Russian, but that didn't matter. They were evil men, no matter their decent.
My mind slowly stopped its confusing shifting and spinning which was a relief. I didn't like not being able to think clearly, it was a very scary thing to me. I forced myself to inhale a calming breath, doing my best to ease my over actively twitching nerves. Panicking would only suit end my life sooner. I had to focus, assess my surroundings.
Smallish room. High ceilings. Two windows, one broken out. fire escape. Peeling green paint. No furnishing. One door wood floors. Hear shuffling. Cards? Tobacco. Smells thick like cigars. Bloody radiator.
God, was all that blood mine?! I inched away from the damn thing as far as my bindings would allow me. I realized I hadn't been the first person chained to this blasted radiator. Most of the blood was dry and fading, where mine left a sticky coating down just one side. I began to feel woozy again, my head filled with thoughts of how the only thing the world would ever have to remember me by will be a faded red stain on a rusty radiator. "Here lies blood stain 57," I murmured, "Sure she had a shitty life," I spat my faux eulogy bitterly at the ceiling just a bit peeved at the almighty.
I let out a thick sigh. Doubting Him would get me nowhere. Surely He knew what He was doing. I knew from first hand experience. With my free hand- the one not shackled to a dammed radiator- I reached for my rosary, only to remember where it had gone. The Russians had stripped me of my most prized possession and the one thing I had to remember the woman that had been the closest thing to a mother I had. I felt the loss hard, my heart sinking somewhere near my filthy bare feet. I missed the warmth of the small silver pendant against my skin. My hand remained over my heart though, it was strange, not being able to grip an embodiment of my faith as I prayed to the wood-bare ceiling. I thanked God for the blessings He had given me thus far in life. Apologizing for not being stronger for Him, but made sure He understood that I would never give up or die without fighting tooth and nail. But that wasn't exactly my choice if the almighty wanted to greet me, so be it, I'd be delivered after a long, painful fight. And lastly I prayed so hard that maybe, just maybe He'd have mercy and send an angel or two my way. I knew it was asking a lot but hey, when handcuffed to a bloody radiator, with murderous slap happy Russians in the next room, you get a bit desperate.
I had been so wrapped up in my praying that I didn't notice the sudden change in the sound of the next room. No more card shuffling or boisterous laughing or foreign curses. Just silence for a moment. Then loud bloodcurdling screams mixed with war cries. What had at first thought was blood pumping through my tired brain was actually the crack of gunfire. Lots of it.
I could hear all sorts of firearms being let lose. Most sounded irregular, rapid, a bit lost. The frenzied fire died slowly, leaving only two guns left. So in sync. One, two, one, two. Maybe it was one gun pulled by a quick triggered finger. Had a rivaling crew come in and killed the Russians? I knew the last gun didn't belong to a Russian, they were loud and disgusting. I was sure they would shout constant curses in victory or defeat. I had my questions but they were quickly silenced in my head as the old door knob trembled then released, allowing a meaty paw to pass through the paint scarce doorway. The man was just as beefy as his disgusting hand, he limped though the entrance, barely managing to shove the door closed with one hand, the other being held close over an oozing wound in his abdomen.
I recognized this guy as the man who had brought me to this place and a bitter smile played across my pained lips. I had always been a bit of a silver tongue. "Hey, commie! How ya doin?" I feigned concerned, figuring the consequences wouldn't matter. If this big Russian didn't end me certainly the rivaling gang would. "Just kidding! I don't give a crap!" he was standing over me now something grasped in his fist, unwilling to find out what I punctuated my last word with a harsh kick to his insanely solid shin. He went down quickly due to being previously wounded, his body tumbling hard to the old wood floor, the contents of his hand falling to my lap. HOLY SHIT. Resting in my lap was a small key. A handcuff key.
I sent a zealous prayer of thanks to the almighty as I quickly shoved metal into metal, reveling at the small click my shackles made before releasing my worn hand. My celebrations short lived and quickly cut off as I heard footsteps, boots, heading my direction. I'll be damned if I'm about to be trussed up and stuck to another fucking piece of porcelain ever again.
I fight my way to my feet ignoring the dull screams my aching bones and banged up head present. I stumble quite a bit having to use the wall for support and grimacing at the bloody smear of a handprint my struggles give me. My foot barely leaves the window sill, crossing into the shadowed night when the door in the room behind me bursts open.
A sort of morbid curiosity kept me there on the fire escape so close to the freedom of the night's chill air, but I had to stay. Had to see.
Two men had entered the nightmare of a room I had just freed myself from. There was a striking resemblance between the two, and though I couldn't clearly see their faces I knew they were both quite handsome. They stood over the moaning figure of the last Russian, disgust visible in their features- shoulders pulled taut under their thick wool pea coats, jean clad legs moving viciously to nudge the man into his final kneeling position.
My heart pounded filling my ears with the sound of my own pulse. It was loud I feared my ignorant saviors would turn their firearms on me, having heard my heart from way out here. The second they entered the room I knew the Russian was a dead man, but they confirmed it as they swiftly raised their pieces to the back of the kneeling man's head. The move came natural to them, with so much ease, they were in perfect unison as they murmured something over the dead man's pleas and curses. The two men's lips moved in perfect sync, not a millisecond lost between the two. Their muscles released welcoming the words like greeting an old friend, but with enough reverence that I realized it was actually a prayer.
"And Sheppards we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee," the Russian stilled, halting his desperate words.
"Power hath descended forth from thy hand, so that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command," the Russian began sobbing, tears dropping to the floor mingling with his and my blood. My stomach clenched, disgusted that I felt no pity for the kneeling man.
"And we shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be, in nomine patri, et filli," twin hammers cocked into place, "et spiritus sancti." Two silenced shots were fired as one, delivering the man that had been dead from the start. And I watched. I wasn't disturbed at seeing a mans head blown in. Nor by his blood and brain to be splattered on the floor. I simply sat there. My limbs frozen in place, my bare feet screaming against the colder than ice metal of the fire escape.
The strangest thing of all- and hell I had had a strange day- was that I felt comfort. These two men, they came for me. I was certain God had answered my prayer and sent forth these two handsome avenging angels. He hadn't abandoned me.
I watched the two angels in the room for a moment longer. The tension had left their bodies as the bullets had left their barrels, they crossed themselves and rolled over the body of the Russian. I watched in mild confusion as one man crossed the dead mans arms over his chest while the other darker haired man rummaged through his pockets giving a victorious smirk as he placed two shiny objects- pennies?- on the man's closed eyelids.
The serious air left the room as the darker haired man socked the other in the bicep, "Oi, ya git, we almost didn't have enough pennies." I was taken aback by the very un-angel like behavior and the crude Irish accent. Angels weren't Irish. I wasn't even sure angels spoke. Didn't they just sing or play harps or something?
The darker skinned, lighter haired man gave the other a hard look- which only made the other's lopsided, goofy grin widen- while rubbing his now tender bicep, "Jesus, Murph!" Murphy was the darker haired man, I made note, "Ye nearly took me arm off!" he whined, his accent just as thick and Irish as the other's "Pennies are yer job anyhow."
"Dah Lords name!" Murphy playfully chided in a sing-song voice as his only response and pinched the lighter on the hand, leading to a swatting match between the two.
It was then I decided to leave. My feet were frozen stiff and my entire body was trembling in the frigid Boston-in-fall air. My thin fitted tee and too big basketball shorts doing nothing to fight the cold. It wasn't just the cold I needed to escape from. The two bumbling men may have unwittingly saved my life, but they could be just as potentially dangerous as the Russian men who had locked me up -despite the comfort I felt to wards these two not angels.
Their not-so-angel behavior had surprised me a bit. I had just been so certain that they were real angels coming to save me directly from Heaven. When actually they were just men, probably in the mafia, who had obviously killed before, and with a frightening amount of ease.
As I once again forced my aching, throbbing joints to listen I heard a mumbled question about handcuffs, it was definitely time to go.
I hadn't known how high up the floor of the building was or how difficult it was to navigate a fire escape until the moment it seemed the most important. My body was hardly in any shape to be climbing down the rickety rust coated structure. Will being my only drive. But, oh did it hurt. I had to force myself forward, calling myself cruel names, thinking up some pretty elaborate insults, doing my best to motivate me forward like I saw coaches do on television once or twice. That did a surprisingly good job, getting me so far as the base of the structure until I nearly collapsed under all the pain.
My wrist throbbed, surely leaving a trail of blood behind me, my sides ached with even the most delicate inhale, no doubt the now dead Russian bastard had bruised my ribs fairly well, my stomach felt like it would suck itself inside out, no idea when the last I ate was, but that was a lesser worry. My head hurt the most. Skull pounding, felt like it was nothing but bits of shrapnel, shoving into my brain with my every heart beat. The back of my eyes stung, some miniature football player mistaking them for his ball no doubt. Stupid head wounds.
I grit my teeth in hope it would sate even the smallest amount of the pain to no avail. Actually, it made it that much worse. About to fall over in the alley, stone dead, I heard a rustlings behind me, followed by a sleepy moan.
"Christ almighty." I spat, today just had to get better and better. With a new surge of barely conscious will, I managed to hobble away from the now approaching homeless man. He smelt of piss, and I could just make out the glint of a pocket knife. Whoop-di-fuckin-do.
Shoving off the wall I half ran, half fell out of the mouth of the alley. I was barely able to turn my head away form my almost assailant as I smashed into a brick hard mass of muscle and bone. That nearly did me in. I had slammed into Murphy which made him careen into the other man, the three of us staring dumbly at one another, sprawled out on the damp, chilly sidewalk.
It was in that second that my overdriven nerves and my injured brain decided to betray me. Unconsciousness swooped its ugly wing over me and I was out like a light, skull nearly hitting concrete, though saved by a pair of strong sure hands.
And Sheppards we shall be.
I woke up with a start, the day's events crashing down on me like a column of sea water. My nerves automatically went back into overdrive, my entire body breaking into a panicked sweat, and above all the feeling of pure boundless fury towards myself reigned through my skull. I'm such a stupid fucking idiot. I pointlessly chastised myself. So close to freedom. I was so close. There was though, this nagging voice. From some dark corner of my brain taunting me, "What's freedom to you?" its sickening voice sent chills through me, "You have nothing in this world, you lost all of that long, long ago." I bit down on my tongue making the pain allow me to refocus, shut out pointless thoughts. Freedom did matter, and I most certainly would have mine.
Like so many times before, I opened my eyes to a strange new room, with strange new smells, and most likely strange new men. It was time to evaluate my situation, the same as I had just a few short hours ago.
I was in a big room. It was fairly dark, no light in the room other than a bare bulb dangling over what I could only assume was the kitchen. There was a stove like in a kitchen, a sink as well, and what appeared to by a table though I cold hardly make its shape out due to it being completely covered in all manors of rubbish piled high with stacked, empty, crushed, and spilt beer cans, along with grocery bags filled with God know what. Alrighty the "kitchen" was rather disgusting. I decided, and though I was dying to take a scrub brush to the whole lot, there were more pressing matters at hand. Just at the mouth of the supposed kitchen rested a threadbare, stuffingless ghost of what must have been a couch. And that was somehow even more overflowing with rubbish. I couldn't help but gawk at the haunting mass. What sort of heathens lived here?!
In front the almost couch was a small circular table whose only occupant was a near overflowing ashtray, and in front of the table was an ancient television set, complete with rabbit ears. Directly adjacent the TV was a light blue door, its paint peeling after years of loving abuse. To my left I saw a beat up nightstand housing another ashtray and a bulbless lamp, on the other side of the nightstand was a frameless mattress resting on the concrete floor, a twin to the one I lay frozen atop.
My mental assessment was cut short as the door knob rolled weakly in its socket, a sick sense of déjà vu coiled in my mind. This time though things were different. I found my wrists unbound, no familiar bite of metal on skin or blood flowing down my hand. The only thing to be found on my wrist was clean, soft fabric, delicately wrapped around my scarred flesh. I didn't know what to make of my bandaged hand so I simply relinquished my original ploy of finding a weapon to use against the stranger.
I sat up straight, ready for anything really. Murphy walked though the door first, two heavy looking paper bags in his arms. I was taken back at how innocent he looked with this shit-eating grin plastered on his mug. He must have been laughing at something his brother had said. They had to have been brothers, I was certain of that one, the way they had pulled triggers as one, killing men together as one. How could I think this raven haired man seemed so cute, though I had recently witnessed him ending a life?
The laugh on his face died when he spotted me, but it lived on in his eyes. The brother whose name I hadn't yet learned followed closely to the darker, his smile broadening to match his brother's. Oh, dear, why isn't he just as handsome? My stomach did little flips as my eyes passed between the two men, and I wasn't sure if it was because of fear or attraction. I could feel the embarrassing blush creep up my neck to rest on my cheeks. Oh Christ, am I developing that damn "fall for your captor" syndrome crap? This couldn't possibly end well.
Lighter set his bags along with his brothers in the kitchen, they both faced me, nervous looking and a bit uncertain. No name came a bit closer but after seeing me tense he stopped about five feet away and knelt obviously concerned.
"Lass," he started gently, clasping his hands together, elbows resting on his knees in a somewhat mock prayer, "We aren't gonna hurt ye alright?" he tilted his head, puppy-like. I hated to admit it but with those melt-your-heart-blue eyes I had no doubt in this man. Him or matching baby blues over there could tell me the sky was made of blue bubblegum and that I was a rodeo clown, I certainly couldn't question them.
I opened my mouth to speak but only a rough grating sound came out. Well that was attractive. Blondie waited patiently for a reply, and I hoped for the both of us it would come soon-as I was running out of creative things to call him of course. I tried again, "W-what's your name?" I asked, quite proud of myself, though my voice did eerily resemble a rusty car door opening.
"Connor," Bluer-than-blue eyes-Er, Connor replied happily, raising a thumb over his shoulder to motion to the darker, "And this is my brother-"
"Murphy." I cut him off, more than a little triumphant now. I had taken the two by surprise, Connor's smile growing a bit perplexed.
"What's yer name?" I heard Murph's gruff voice mumble around the cigarette nestled between his thin lips. Oh dear…
"Liss," I muttered, more than a bit wary, causing Connor to offer an apologetic smile on his brother's behalf, who was as of now sauntering in our direction to go plopping down on the other mattress.
"That's a lovely name, Liss," he smiled once again, and I got the feel he was treating me like a child, or a delicate doll. Not exactly an unwanted treatment, but one that certainly grated on my nerves.
I looked between the two, checking them out just as I had the room. They were rather lovely in a masculine, beer soaked, scruff covered sort of way. I noted matching neck and forearm tattoos, then similar ones running along their trigger fingers. Their hair and eyes seemed to be their biggest differences other than their drastically different facial features. Their eyes. Where Connor's eyes were filled with kindness and obvious concern, such a gentility to their every flicker, Murphy was the Moon to his Sun. Murphy's eyes bore into me, making me chill, ice running through my veins where Connor had left a hopeful sort of warmth. But I certainly wouldn't complain. His stare wasn't one that lacked in everything Connor's had had, no, that was all there, but simply presented differently.
It seemed that Murphy was a person you had to coax to you, offer him trust, love, and treats, where Connor would happily bound to your side. Jesus, look at their faces! They're just kids, or puppies! Puppies that killed, I had to remind myself. It was so very shocking to think about after seeing sweet, childish smiles.
"Miss," Murphy spoke up again seemilingly uncertain, "were ye the one cuffed to the radiator?" his eyes darkened with something like rage. Neither seemed to really want the answer , but both needed to hear it.
"Don't call me miss." I automatically replied before my head dropped a bit, the joking air I had unconsciously assumed slipped away from my tongue, "Yes, I was," I could only offer them a rather weak smile as they looked to one another, a very pregnant silence passed between us. I was certain none of us would ever speak again until my stomach decided enough was enough, letting a boisterous rumble bounce off all the walls.
Murphy was struck with a fit of giggles and I couldn't help but join. Thank god for Connor. Being the sensible man he was he made his way to rummage amongst the groceries pulling a red can out the bag. A very familiar red can.
My jaw went a bit slack at that and my mouth turned into a mock Niagara Falls as Connor held the Spaghetti-Os triumphantly in the air. I must have made some sort of needy moaing noise for Murphy was sent into another spasmodic fit of laughter and I joined in. The brothers carried a loving air that deleted all seriousness in a second.
I hadn't a clue how I found myself laughing along with two complete strangers with a murderous tendency but there in the rubbish strewn, smoky dank excuse for an apartment there I was. Giggling to the point of tears. It became very obvious that these guys didn't mean me harm directly, maybe they'd hand me off to their boss or something, I wasn't sure. But I once again felt the comfort rolling off these two in waves.
I wasn't sure if it was Murphy's sweet brown beauty mark that kept attempting to hide in the smile crevice near his lip, or Connor's spiked blondish head bobbing in laughter over where he was heating delicious orange goop for me, but for the first time in so- so, so, so- long I truly felt safe. Yes, I didn't know these men. Yes, I was clueless as to their intentions. Yes, I was in a strange place, so unfamiliar to me. None of that mattered in a moment of laughter and smiles.
A/N: it's corny, I know! I like it though.