Title: Day of Wrath
Author: St. Stephen's
Series: The Copycat Series (2)
Summary: Series: How the Saints affect two lives. Story: A man changed the way Cameron thought about himself. Three men and one girl changed the way he thought about the world.
Disclaimer: No money, no sue, yeah, Mr. Duffy? I mean, come on, you have enough problems getting ASD together. You don't need the hassle of suing lil ole me, right?

AN: (PLEASE READ, DO NOT SKIP!) Ok so, my brilliant beta MKOLO says that I should explain how this series is working, so that everybody understands what's happening when. I told her that you were all genius mind-readers, but she seems to disagree, so here we go. Be Thou My Vision and Day of Wrath are the same action from two different points of view and take place at the same time. Here is the timeline:

March 1999: Boondock Saints Main Action
June 1999: Yakavetta trial (what you mean you didn't see the 'Three Months Later" subtitle?) Ch.'s 1 of both Day of Wrath and Be Thou.
Late August 1999: Ch.'s 2
September 1999: Ch's 3
Fall 1999-January 2000: Ch's 4
March 2000: Ch's 5

Get it? Got it! Good! Anyway, on we go! (any questions, see me after class.)

Chapter 1: Nature Quaking

"Oh come on, Cameron. Let's talk about something else."

He was left sitting alone on the couch when Mark got up to get another beer. The baseball game on the TV continued, but Cam hated baseball, and he hated it when Mark called him Cameron. He hated their apartment, a tiny, dirty one-bedroom across from the airport, with barely enough room for their bed, a couch and a coffee table. But it was all an EMT and an out-of-work actor could afford, even in a small town like Roanoke. Cam spread his arms across the back of the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table.

"No. I'm talking about this."

"Well it's fuckin' depressing!" Mark's New York accent was muffled by the refrigerator door as he dug into the back of the fridge in search of the elusive beer.

"Don't drink my Boddington's!" Cam called out, lighting a cigarette and reaching for his ashtray.

"That shit? Tastes like piss." Mark reappeared, leaning against the open doorframe into their galley kitchen. He was holding a Miller Lite and he smirked as his boyfriend shuddered.

"Thus sayeth the man holding an American beer." Cam slid down a little into the couch, flicking the ash from his smoke into the ashtray next to him. Mark grimaced and crossed the room to open a window. "What the fuck are you doing?" Cam exclaimed. "It's June! You trying to air-condition the neighborhood?"

"What are you, my mother?" Mark shot back. "Oh wait, no. My mother doesn't smoke."

"Doesn't know what she's missing," Cam snorted.

"Well, at least I got you off of the depressing topic of conversation." Cam shot Mark a glare. "Aw, fuck. I just postponed it for a while, didn't I?"

"Yep." The game over, channel ten switched over to the eleven-o'clock news. "Oh, look, saved by the slutty anchorwoman."

"You and your newshound ways," Mark snorted. "But yeah, she does kind of look like she should be shouting 'Hey honey, wanna date?'."

"Shh!" Cameron leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, catching the newscaster mid-sentence as Mark sighed and reluctantly slid down in his seat to watch.

"…trial of infamous mafia Don, Giuseppe 'Papa Joe' Yakavetta ended abruptly today when three gunmen invaded the courtroom and shot the mobster in full view of 54 witnesses, including reporters and the judge. Although no recording devices were permitted in the courtroom, the New York Times has quoted the vigilantes as saying 'Do not kill, do not steal, do not rape…or we will send you to whatever god you wish.' Despite the numerous eyewitnesses, accounts vary. The only thing all accounts seem to agree on are these facts: One of the three was older, perhaps in his late fifties. All three had accents of some kind, although reports vary as to the type. They hurt no bystanders, and they promised to continue to kill criminals. The Boston Herald and CNN have already begun referring to these vigilantes as 'The Saints'."

Cameron dropped his burned-out cigarette into the ashtray and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced over at Mark, who was staring intently at the screen, his lip curled in a sneer.

"Wow," Cam breathed.

"Yeah, Mark answered. "Yeah, that's about what I was going to say."

"It's amazing," the blonde man muttered.

"It's disgusting," Mark retorted. Cam sighed and leaned back into the sagging couch cushions, running his hand vaguely up and down the leg of his jeans. 'Oh Christ,' he thought. 'Here we go' But he couldn't stop the flood of words rising in his throat; it seemed he never could, not with Mark.

"Disgusting?"

"Cold-blooded murder in front of fifty-four innocent witnesses?" Mark sneered derisively. "Yeah, I'd call that disgusting."

"I'd call it justice." Cam's voice rang out clear and loud in the tiny apartment, the TV blaring on, now on some human interest story about a local Little League team.

"Justice?" Mark asked incredulously. "No, that's what he was in that courtroom for, and that's what those men deprived him of."

Cam just snorted, lighting another cigarette.

"What?" Mark demanded.

Cam shook his head and let it drop back against the back of the couch.

"No, come on," Mark persisted. "You always do this, Cameron. Just say what's going on in that head of yours."

Cam's head snapped back up and he stared intently at the handsome, lanky man on the other end of the couch. Mark stared back, his long legs splayed in front of him, his arms crossed.

"If you honestly think that Yakavetta was going to see justice, real justice in a Massachusetts courtroom, you're more naïve than I thought, Mark."

"Naïve?" Mark snorted. "Me? Please. Look who's talking." Cam shot him a glare, warning 'Do NOT bring that up right now' but Mark just didn't seem to get it. "I mean, you're sitting there in your designer jeans that probably cost more than my mom's car-"

"Oh, bullshit," Cam interrupted. "Why can't you get over that? So my dad has money. Do you think if I let him buy me everything I ever wanted, I'd be living in this shithole, working as an EMT? I'd be halfway through medical school by now!"

"So why aren't you?" Mark retorted.

"Christ, Mark, make up your fuckin' mind!" Cam burst out. "Should I be taking advantage of my dad, or shunning him completely? Which is it?"

Mark just shook his head, a response that was completely incomprehensible to Cam as hot anger flooded through his veins. It pushed him to his feet, taking a heavy drag from his cigarette as he glared down at Mark, nearly shouting now. "Am I a snotty rich brat who's slumming it for a few years? Is that what you think? That I'll wise up, go back to school and forget all about the man who changed my motherfucking life?"

"Will you?" Mark asked calmly, his eyes focused firmly up at Cam's which were now snapping with anger.

"Mark." His voice was low, calm and silky as he replied, "You're the first man I ever loved. And for Christ's sake, you're the first lover I've ever hated." Cam threw his cigarette butt to the floor, grinding it into the worn linoleum with his boot before rushing for the door, grabbing up his car keys along the way.

But Mark of course, had to have the last word, as always, calling out,

"Seen your silver spoon lately, Cameron?"

Cameron stopped, his body halfway out the door, hesitating over the threshold. He didn't turn around, but he threw a parting shot over his shoulder.

"Yeah, Mark. You've been eating with it. Good luck with your next audition. You're going to need the money."

AN 2: oh my, but that was a tough one to get through. What in the world do guys fight about? What do guys even TALK about when there aren't any women around? I have no clue. Here's hoping the rest of the story will go better!! Also: Story and chapter titles come from "Day of Wrath, O Day of Mourning" by Thomas de Celano, 13th century. Also, interesting tidbit: This is the hymn that the lines "While the wicked stand confounded/call me with Thy saints surrounded" come from! Google it, it's amazing poetry.