Disclaimer: I don't own the Boondock Saints. If I did this would be a movie and not a FANfiction, I would be well acquainted with Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus, and I would be a guy named Troy Duffy with a funky mustache. I'm not and that kind of makes me sad (except for the being Troy Duffy…I'm fine not being him.)

Rating: R…for language and personal, brutal violence.

Nicholas de Vilance: Yeah, I know. "You always start stories and never finish them." So shoot me…Someone read my story "Handcuffed to a Toilet" and told me to write a long term story. Here it begins. PLEASE REVIEW!!! Even if it is to flame me, yell at me or hurt my feelings, I like reviews.

Mary Barrette wasn't a popular person. She didn't stand out in a crowd. Even when she walked into the emergency room wearing a tank top in the middle of autumn in Detroit. The shirt revealed a good many scratches and bruises that were result of a mugging. She had by now gotten used to the fact she was not safe on the streets. (She got the guy who did it with pepper spray—right in the eyes.)

Thus, she sat in the waiting room at the hospital, nursing her sores and delicately rubbing her arms against the cold. She soon saw that last person she had expected to see that night. "Hey Joseph!" she called as he walked in. Quiet as she was—so as not to disturb the people around her—he recognized her at once.

Joseph was her boss, but that didn't stop them from being good friends. "Jesus, what happened to you?" He walked slowly over to her, shaking the rainwater off his coat.

"Just the usual thing that happens when I'm out late chasing a good story." She smiled for the first time in that painful night. "Some desperate guy trying to pretend he has the balls to hurt somebody. What are you doing here?"

"My wife just called me and said she sliced off her finger while she was making dinner. I hope to God she was exaggerating." The lady at the counter called some one's name, sounding bored with her job. "What are you doing running around Detroit in a tank top, girl? You'll kill yourself."

Mary laughed lightly and sat back, a warm feeling coming back to her. "It's refreshing, you should try it."

"No thank you." He took off his jacket and handed it to her. "Here, you can give this back the next time you come into the office."

Normally she wouldn't have, but the need being dire she gratefully took his coat and pulled it on. It was ridiculously big for her. "Thank you, Christos."

"You calling me a Messiah?"

"Just a bit, just go see how your wife is doing." She watched until he had disappeared into a hallway and turned a corner. She loved that man, but don't get the wrong ideas. Joseph is much too old for her. She had to be at least eleven years younger than him. He was like a father to her and seeing him always brightened her day a little, even if it didn't need to.

With good thoughts on her mind, she found her waiting a less gruesome task. She took to counting the cars outside the window as they passed by. She was up to thirty-six when something odd caught her eye. A figure, just barely noticeable, toppled to the sidewalk, stood back up and limped awkwardly past the window. A few seconds later that figure entered the hospital. It was a man, tall, lanky and pale. He was soaked through all of his clothes and he limped almost as though his leg was broken.

Four, maybe five steps past the door his eyes met hers and she realized she was staring at him. She didn't like the way he looked (as though he was ready to keel over right there). Slowly, she stood and took a step toward the stranger. "Are you all right?" she started to say.

His eyes rolled slightly and he fell forward. A fit of coughing that erupted from his throat caught the attention of everyone in the room. Mary ran up to him because she felt like no one else was going to help him, the least she could to was try. He was pushing himself up and he flinched when she touched him as if he expected some violent action directed at him. "Stay away," he muttered his breath coming in short, gagging gasps.

For a moment she thought he was just scared of getting help, but then she realized the true intention of his warning. She stepped to the side and kneeled down beside him. "Take a deep breath," she told him softly, rubbing his back comfortingly. "You're all right, okay?" She saw him gag again and patted his back lightly.

For just a moment he felt the rage of pain and nausea in his stomach die down. He glanced up at her and meant to say something. He was rudely interrupted by a steady stream of vomit surging up his throat. He turned away just in time to direct his sickness towards the floor, instead of the lady next to him.

Mary made a face at the smell of throw up, but didn't leave his side. Poor guy, she thought. She had to wonder what had happened to him to make him so ill. She heard a lot of the staff of the hospital start to bustle around to figure out what to do with this strange man that had just come in and thrown up all over their floor.

A nurse came up and addressed Mary. "What happened?" she demanded sharply, almost accusingly. "Are you related to this man?"

Suddenly a thought occurred to Mary, that she didn't recognize right away. Still it made her lie to the nurse. "No, he's my boyfriend." The nurse nodded and together they hefted the man up—he now seemed to lack the strength to stand. Another doctor helped them get him in a wheelchair.

"You'll need to fill this out," the nurse said as they wheeled him out of the room. She handed Mary a clipboard with a sheet of paperwork and a pen on it. "I don't think I can let you come, though."

"Don't give me that, lady," she said, pretending to be protective of her "boyfriend." "I want to know everything that happens to him, understand?" Mary always prided herself as a good actor, and now those skills paid off.

The nurse gave in quickly, obviously not wanting to come between an overly protective lady and her love.

There were very few things that he could remember at that moment. The moment that he came to and realized that he was in a nice bed with a roof above him holding back the rain he knew there was something wrong. He felt considerably better than he had before he'd passed out, but that still wasn't saying he felt particularly good. He squeezed his eyes shut against a headache that pounded just near his ears. Then he noticed the reason he'd woken up.

That lady from before was standing over him and prodding his shoulder with a sharp finger. "Fuckin' Christ, Lady," he muttered, lifting a hand to stop her from leaving another bruise among the many he had collected.

"Hey, watch your language." Her voice wasn't near as soothing as it had been. "I just wanted to ask you something before I have to leave. You could be a bit more considerate, or at least grateful." His silence didn't bother her as much as his glare did. "Have I seen you on TV?"

The question obviously caught him off-guard. "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Yep, you're Irish all right. 'Fuckin' this and fuckin' that.' Like you never knew proper English—Hey, you're not supposed to get up yet." She tried to keep him from getting out of bed.

"Where are my things?" He pushed her gently, but firmly out of the way. "I gotta get outta here."

"I know I recognize you from somewhere," she went on, "Were you on the news?" She definitely did not understand the situation—but then again, how could she? She hadn't been there.

He walked across the room looking for any sign of his bag or even his gun. Maybe his clothes even, being that he didn't like the hospital dress thing. "I'm serious, Lady, where's my stuff?"

"I'll give it to you if you answer my question."

He glared at her threateningly, though he knew he wouldn't hurt her. There passed an unofficial contest between them (who would falter first?). "Fine…yes, I've been on the news, all right? Now where are my things."

She pointed to the chair in the corner of the room that he hadn't noticed before. He felt a bit stupid at that moment, but quickly got over it and checked to see if everything was there. She hadn't noticed his gun, because it was still in his bag. "D'ya mind?"

She took the hint that he wanted to get changed and walked across the room to pull the curtain around him. She didn't know what compelled her to wait, but she did. Maybe it was that she was slowly trying to recognize him, but it was harder than she thought. "What's your name?"

"Ya can leave, ya know."

She made no move to do so. "What happened to you? Why were you all beat up and nauseous?"

"I was a little punch drunk, now leave me alone." He shouldered his bag and tossed the curtain aside, being fully dressed and liking it that way. "I have to get outta here."

"Are you one of the Saints?"

He stopped dead just as he passed her, three steps from the door. Apparently even in Detroit they were known. "Shit," he muttered, "Did you tell anyone that?"

"You are, aren't you?" Her eyes were wide with admiration; but then again maybe that was a bad thing. "No, I didn't come to this conclusion until now." A long pause passed between them, and she then realized how dangerous this man was. "You're wanted, you know."

He didn't like where she could have been going with this. He pulled the gun out and she looked panic-stricken. "Yer really gettin' on my nerves," he said, aiming it at her haphazardly.