Disclaimer: I do not own The Boondock Saints or any of the characters therein. That honor lies with Troy Duffy. Let me start with a brief explanation...my story starts somewhere in the middle of the first movie. I wiggled my plot into the canon (why do I feel like I'm taking a huge chance doing that?) and let it roll. I'll guide you along as I need to, and I hope you decide to stick around. Rated M for violence, language and sexual content. The violence and language are nothing you can't handle, and as for the smut...well, we'll see about that, won't we? ;) Review, if you'd be so kind, and subscribe if you're so inclined.

And away we go!

There are a few passing similarities between a bar and an emergency room: the smell of alcohol hanging in the air, the general confession of pain and woe, and a number of people in sore need of a drink. Given the right bar at the right time of night, it is also possible to find the same number of injuries.

Connor and Murphy MacManus sat in the waiting area, by all rights lucky to be alive after their tangle with Checkov and his comrade. Connor glanced over at his brother, sitting quietly and staring down at his boots, and he didn't have to ask to know how shaken he was. They had been in plenty of fights, but they had never come as close to death as they had that morning—or worse, losing each other. He examined the bandages on his wrists where the Russian's handcuffs had cut him in his desperation to get to his brother in time, and he couldn't help laughing softly.

"Somethin funny?" Murphy asked.

Connor shook his head, still chuckling. "Wait'll I tell Ma I had ta jump five stories with a fuckin bog to save ye," he told his twin.

"Well, look who's got jokes," Murphy replied. "Wait'll I tell her you started it when ye set some poor bastard's ass on fire. Might not've needed savin then, right?" He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then added, "What the fuck were ye thinkin, ta do somethin like that? Had ye lost yer fuckin mind?"

"Musta," Connor replied, still looking at the bandages. His wrists hurt like hell now that the adrenaline of the moment had worn off, but he hadn't felt a thing when the metal bit deep. "They were gonna kill you, Murph. For fuck's sake, I had ta do somethin."

"Aye," Murphy replied. "Ye always have ta be the fuckin hero. I wouldna lived with myself if ye got yerself killed tryin ta save my ass. Ye didn't think about that, did ye?"

"Fuck no," Connor shot back. "An' you wouldn't have either. Ye woulda done the same for me."

Murphy fell silent. He was right, of course. If it had been Connor in danger, Murphy would have torn down the gates of Hell to save him. That's how it was with them, how it always would be. They would die for each other in a heartbeat. They didn't need to take on Russian mobsters to prove it.

Connor gave him a nudge with his elbow. "Hey," he said, "we made it, right? All in one piece."

Murphy heaved a sigh, feeling some of the tension slide off his shoulders, and nodded.

"An' I'll bet I looked pretty fuckin stupid, jumpin off the roof with a toilet."

"Like somethin outta yer stupid movies," Murphy told him, beginning to giggle. "A real big time hero."

They shared a laugh, shoving playfully at each other, then leaned back in their chairs and gazed around at the ER. A little boy sat nearby looking around the room with apparent nerves and curiosity, momentarily ignoring his wounds. Three nuns who arrived shortly after the brothers continued to mumble prayers and talk in whispers. Sitting farthest away was a scantily-clad young woman, her arms folded tightly across her shivering frame and her face so badly beaten one eye was swollen shut. She wiped blood from a cut on her cheek and locked eyes with the brothers for a moment before looking away.

Murphy turned to Connor and said, "So, what're ye thinkin? Should we go ta the cops?"

Connor shrugged. "It was them or us, wasn't it? Just walk in an' explain without a fuss, we haven't done anythin wrong." He slid a foot under his chair, pushing the bag underneath it further out of sight. Something inside shifted and spilled out; he bent down and scooped up a fallen watch and several wads of cash and put them in the bag, straightening up with a muted curse and finding the little boy watching him. He put a finger to his lips and winked; the boy smiled.

"I called Doc," Connor went on. "He's on his way down."

"An' after he gets here?"

"Still workin on that."

The door at the end of the hallway opened and a man strode into the waiting room. Among the wounded, he stuck out like a parrot in a flock of sparrows with his flashy clothes and excessive jewelry. He scanned the faces in the room, settled on the beaten woman and went to her, talking in a low, harsh voice.

Murphy groaned and massaged his temples. "Christ, my fuckin head..."

"Your head?" Connor shot back. "Been pistol whipped lately? Might have a concussion after—"

Raised voices drowned him out as the man and the beaten woman began to argue, the words amplified in the quiet room.

"—not putting up with your shit, now let's go!"

"Fuck you, I just got the shit knocked out of me, and—"

"And you'll get worse if you don't move your fucking ass!"

The little boy glanced warily at the pair and the nuns had fallen silent, their faces alert. The man grabbed the woman by the arm and tried to yank her from her chair, but she resisted. "You're in enough trouble, bitch, and if you don't start walking—"

"Man, just relax, would ye?" Connor cut in, edging forward in his chair. Beside him, Murphy imitated his movement. "The lady's had it hard enough, ye don't gotta be—"

"Stay out of it, asshole," the man snapped.

"Ye're makin people nervous," Murphy chimed in. "We got women and kids in here, so why not calm yerself down?"

"Why not mind your own fucking business?" He turned back to the woman and tightened his grip on her arm. "Last damn chance, either get up or I'll haul your ass out of here."

"I haven't seen a doctor yet," she protested.

"I don't give a shit!"

"She's made it pretty clear she's not leavin," Connor interjected, an edge creeping into his voice. He and Murphy leaned even closer to the pair, ready to spring into action. "I'd be respectin her wishes if I were you."

"I don't have time for this," the man sneered. He seized the woman by the hair and dragged her to her feet; she tripped in her high heels and fell with a cry of pain.

The brothers leaped to their feet and started towards her, but Connor barely made it two steps before his legs folded beneath him. Murphy hesitated a moment before turning and helping him back into his chair. Across the room, the man kicked the woman in the ribs as she continued to struggle; the nuns gave exclamations of shock and the woman curled in on herself, gasping for breath and clutching at the man's wrist as he dragged her by the hair to the door.

Connor was beside himself with rage, still trying to rise from his chair but restrained by Murphy. "What the fuck's wrong with ye, Murph?" he demanded, trying to stand. "Stop em, do somethin!"

"Calm down," Murphy urged, pushing him back. "Just take it easy, ye can't do nothin when ye can't even walk."

"So ye're just gonna sit an' watch?"

"Listen—" Connor struggled and Murphy pushed him back again, one hand in the middle of his chest. "Listen ta what the fuck I'm tellin you," he insisted. "Ye can't be the hero this time. Ye'll get yer ass kicked, an' he'll take it out on her later. Ye gotta let it go, man."

Connor stared after the man, shooting daggers at his retreating figure. "He's bad news, Murph," he insisted. "Bad news."

"I know," Murphy replied, "but he'll have his day." He turned to the man and yelled, "He'll have his fuckin day!"

The man didn't even look back. The woman gazed after the brothers, no longer fighting her captor, and Connor and Murphy watched her until the man hauled her through the doorway and disappeared.