Disclaimer: Don't own 'em...just love 'em to death. The title of the fic comes from the Flogging Molly song "Rare Ould Time".
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There's blood on the stairs, and everything goes cold and still inside of her at the sight of it. Her first thought is that it belongs to one of them, that one of her men crawled down there to die, but no…Jimmy's in jail (maybe, hopefully, might be going to rehab) and Sean's in the hospital with a tube down his throat and she just saw Kevin and Tommy (God, Tommy with his eyes like stones) and this blood's old.
The scent of bleach burns her nostrils as she fills her bucket and finds a scrub brush. One of them, one of the boys (no, men) who she grew up with is a murderer. Not Sean and that's good because the thought of Sean with a gun or a knife or even just his fists turning someone's face into so much hamburger would be more than she could take right now. Because it's Seanie, the little boy who used to give her Eskimo kisses and bring her ladybugs in a jar. Not Kevin who might just be the mailman's son for all that he lacks the Irish temper—the Donnelly temper—and has held her back on occasion when some creep pushed all her buttons and made her forget all admonitions to be lady-like. Not Tommy because he's smart enough to know you don't shit where you sleep.
Not Tommy…not Tommy…not Tommy repeats as she drags the bristles over the stained concrete. It's half a prayer.
That leaves Jimmy, and that makes sense, and suddenly all the unanswered questions aren't nearly so inscrutable. "Hail Mary, full of Grace," she whispers as pinkish water swirls down the drain. This is like penance, only worse, because she's not doing this for herself (not yet), but Christ, Jimmy's the one who's always been there to protect her with his fists and a rep that made men twice his size quake.
Not Tommy…not Tommy…not Tommy… But it could be, next time. She saw the bloodstain on Kevin's sleeve that Helen so quietly tucked out of sight. Not Tommy—she squeezes her eyes shut and that is a prayer.