Between Saints and Sins

Summary:

All I wanted was to escape. Escape the pain. Escape the self-hatred growing and festering within my heart. All I wanted was to become obsolete. With my first chance at freedom since for as long as I can remember, I looked forward to escaping into the new life presented before me.

Now, if I can only get the stupid, antagonizing voice to leave me alone for a moment, I might just be able to make friends with the locals.

Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints. Sera Maxwell and her future-set companions are of my own creation.

Author's Note:

It might be a bit slow in the beginning, but this will eventually grow into bigger, longer and more in-depth chapters. This story starts before Halloween before the first movie. I'm trying to stay away from typical stories where the OC meets the brothers and immediately become friends and all that shit. I want it to be believable to an extent. Sera isn't going to come out and blurt out every detail of her past and she will most likely not being in the midst of the action of the first movie, but instead play a supporting role as her friendship with the brothers continues to grow. Sera is most introverted, her view points and thoughts more expressive than the words she says. She is what you would call 'a woman of few words' believing that actions speak more than words do.

This story is going to be broken up into different parts, or story arcs, the first part focusing on Sera starting a new life and becoming friends with the MacManus brothers, which takes place before the first movie. The second arc will be set during the first movie, third arc set between the first and second movie, fourth arch set during All Saint's Day, fifth arc will branch off because I'm sure I'll get to the fifth arc before we get a third movie.

This will probably develop into a Murphy/Sera(oc) story, but instead of jumping straight from meeting to 'ohmygodiloveyou', their relationship will develop like most do in real life.

Part One
Chapter One
Starting Anew

"Are ye' sure, lass? This isn't exactly the nicest neighborhood for a lass like ye' to be livin' in."

Looking around the mediocre loft apartment, I muse over the open space of the floor plan, "I'll be alright," I respond in an off-hand manner, giving a half-smile to the older man, "Thank you for your concern."

Ignoring the suspicious gleam flashing in the man's gaze as my well-cultured and articulated words carry an undefinable accent, "Well, I will be by at the end o'each month to collect yer rent."

"Do you charge extra for any changes to the apartment, paint or pictures?" I ask as the man turns to leave, silently looking forward to a project to get my mind off of recent memories.

The man snorts, "As long as ye' don't go knockin' down the walls, I don't care what ye' do."

Giving a gentle nod, I whisper a soft word of gratitude before the man exits. Feeling the initial cold of the coming Winter months, I drag a large metallic trash bin to the center of the loft before striking a match, tossing it into the bin. As the open flames begin to warm up the loft, I step out of apartment and start my way down the eight flights of stairs. Inwardly groaning as a cool, October breeze blasts my face as I step out of the apartment complex, I tug my jacket tighter, silently making my way to the crap car I recently acquired. Unlocking the trunk, I hoist both large duffle bags, both large enough that my small stature could easily fit inside, over my shoulders, I slam the trunk down and begin the same trek back up the staircase.

The slow trek up the stairs causes my mind to wander, musing over the others. I wonder how they are doing? Are they safe? Are the settled into their new lives? Does it seem as though everything is slow and repetitive to them, as it does to me?

'Does it matter?'

Maybe it doesn't matter. It isn't like I'm going to be seeing them ever again.

'See? They're moving on. Don't you think we should?'

Perhaps I should move on. I have the right to do so, don't I? After everything these hands have done, don't I have the right to start fresh and clean?

"Shit! Sorry, bambola."

The sight of boot-clad feet, the boots well-worn and scuffed, standing only a few steps up, I pull out of my inner thoughts and glance up into the blue eyes of the olive-skinned Italian. His hair falls along his face in a mess of wavy, light curls, a dark-brown almost black color that matches his facial hair. He doesn't appear to be a threat of any kind, in fact he seems apologetic and his gaze seemed to lock onto the two bags hoisted on my back.

"Do you need help carrying those?"

Briefly glancing over my shoulders at the bags, I give him a small twitch of the lips in the most sincere smile I am able to muster, "No. I am fine. I would also appreciate it, if you would not refer to me as 'doll' or any other moniker," Seeing his eyebrows raise in a mix of surprise and confusion, I fight back the urge to sigh, "My name is Sera. I am not fond of common, feminine nicknames."

"Oh, everybody calls me Rocco," the Italian greets, extending a hand in a cordial fashion.

My fingers twitch, the rather annoying cackle in the back of my mind piercing through my attention for a brief moment, "It is nice to meet you."

Rocco seems to understand my reluctance to shake his hand and instead of being offended, he just grins broadly, "Yeah, well, I take it you are the new tenant on the top floor?" I nod, wondering if he lived in the building, "Well, welcome to the building, Sera. I don't live here, if that's what you're wonderin'. I have a couple of friends that live on the fifth floor."

I nod politely, 'Is there a point to this conversation, or can we get back before our new place goes up in flames.' I roll my eyes mentally, 'Although, it would probably be an improvement.'

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Rocco, but if you don't mind," I motion to the ascending staircase behind him.

He lets out a sound of remembrance and chuckles self-deprecatingly, "Sorry about holdin' you up. Hopefully me and the guys will be seeing more of ya'."

I shrug indifferently before squeezing by him, resuming my ascension to the eight floor loft apartment. Stepping into the apartment, I don't even look back as my foot swings back, hooking around the edge of the door and tugging it shut. Dropping the bags to the floor, I sigh as the warmth surrounds me, allowing me the chance to pull off the black, leather duster jacket, hanging it by its enlarged hood. Cracking my knuckles while simultaneously cracking my neck, I shake my agitated nerves loose.

Now to unpack.

Within a two days, I've managed to make the mediocre loft apartment look more livable. The queen sized bed resided against the furthest wall, black and deep violet bedding giving the area marked as my 'bed room' a little color. The area that is supposed to be a living room, and since I have no inclination to purchase a television, I transformed into a make-shift art studio. I have long-since realized sketching, painting and writing were perfect outlets for the tempest raging within my mind. The kitchenette area is small, the appliances only the most basic and the fridge was bare of anything other than necessities.

Today, I pull the hood over my head as I step out of the apartment complex and into the cold, Boston night. Deciding to use tonight as a means of getting an understanding of my surroundings, I make a quick stop at a nearby convenience store to purchase a pack of menthol cigarettes. Taking to the streets in what is considered one-hundred percent Irish neighborhood, I take in the small restaurants and diners, most decorated with the colors of the approaching Celtic holiday of 'All Hollows Eve'. Churches seem to encompass almost every other street corner, all with different prophets of devotion or with different religious subtext. I, myself, am all but religious. Perhaps there is some divine power out there, but I'm not about to limit what I feel I should and shouldn't do by a series of religious 'rules of decorum'.

'Religious words given to us by Men can only be held in so much regard.'

I snort, agreeing with the thought. I figured out a long time ago, if God has a plan for each and every person, than a certain set of rules don't matter in the end. I pull out of my inner musings as I come across the only establishment that didn't seem decorated with the Hallmark holiday of Halloween, but instead carried deep Celtic decorations appropriate to the original belief. McGinty's etched on the frosted-glass of the entrance door and even from the street, I can hear every laugh, cheer and upbeat Irish-inspired music. Figuring now of all times is not the time to be alone, I push my way into the pub, weaving around the rowdy patrons. Locating an empty booth, I sit down and drop my sketch pad on the table. Tracing over the silver 'Sera W. Maxwell' etched into the black leather cover, I smile softly before opening the book and flipping to a new page.

"Can I get ye' somethin' to drink?"

Looking up at the waitress, I nod briefly, "Yes. Can I get a glass of Jameson, light on the ice if you don't mind?"

Seeing the surprise in her gaze, I realize this must be one of those times where I am considered a 'minority'. As she walks off to fill my order, I snort, realizing I'd have to have knowledge of my family background in order to actually know what ethnicity I am. As the glass of cool, amber-gold whiskey is set on the small round table, I give her a nod of thanks before turning my attention back to the sketchpad. Taking two, long sips from the glass, I feel a familiar hum travel along my body at the familiar taste, my fingers fishing out a pencil from the inside pocket of my jacket. Before long, I become lost in the strokes as I sketch out the strong, handsome features, bright eyes illuminated with mischievous intent. James Samson, if I recall correctly. One I can truly count on. Returned to the deep-seeded South, the memory of his thick accent abusing the English language at every passing chance.

After an hour of sketching and being surrounded by the loud, but comforting atmosphere, I snap the sketch pad shut and slide out of the booth. Lifting up my half-empty glass, I begin to make my way to the bar, weaving around the masses. Managing to turn my body, in an attempt to dodge two arguing men that appear to be close to throwing punches in a few minutes, I finish the turn, only to slam into a decidedly masculine body. The sudden jostling forces the remaining contents of my glass to splash over the rim, coating the plain, blue shirt visible through the opening of my jacket.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

The curse leaves the man's lips, his right hand running along the front of his own black t-shirt, Aequitas tattooed along the index fingers in bold blue, all capitalized letters. Curious word to ink on one's own finger, but my inner musings are cut short as another male reaches out and cuffs him across the back of his head, the man's head jerking forward before those same fingers run through his own unkempt black hair, rubbing at the back of his head.

"What the fuck was that?" the dark-haired Irishman spits out at his companion.

"Lord's fuckin' name."

The dark-haired man groans in response to the dusty-blonde haired man before he mutters a quick prayer, dragging two fingers from his forehead, to the center of his chest, then to his right shoulder over to his left. I recognize the familiar religious context in his words and actions and smile softly at the obvious devotion. They say those of Celtic families often display a more devoted sense to the Catholic religion.

"Sorry 'bout knockin' inta ye', Lass," dark-haired man states, sheepishly grinning before motioning to my empty glass in my hand, "Can I buy ye' another?"

Shaking my head, I give him a small smile, "No thank you. I was just leaving."

My arm stretches out, my hand sliding between him and his companion, before I place a ten dollar bill on the bar, setting my empty glass upside-down on top of it. Giving a curt nod to the dark-haired Irishman, I turn on heel and slip out of the pub. Lighting up a cigarette, I huddle back into my jacket as I begin my trek through the dingy neighborhood. Maybe this new life will remain as quiet as it has started out to be.

'Not likely.'

Ignoring the sing-song inner voice, I take a long drag from the cigarette, glancing up into the smog-filled sky. Yeah. It's probably right. My life has never been quiet. Approaching the apartment complex, I make it up the eight flights of stairs and begin unlocking the door when I hear the generic ring from the house phone pierce the air. Rolling my eyes, I push my way inside before picking up the phone.

"Maxwell residence. This is Sera speaking," I answer, knowing it can only be one of six people.

"How's it goin', sweetheart?" My eyes roll again, the familiar Southern accent traveling through my mind like age-old American whiskey, as I begin to strip out of my jacket and soiled shirt, "I just managed to get settled in and figured I'd give my favorite girl a call."

"How courteous of you," I respond dryly, earning a hearty chuckle, "If you must know, I just arrived at the apartment after getting a feel for the surrounding neighborhood."

"Oh? How is the neighborhood? I'm surrounded by a neighborhood filled with the walking personifications of red-necks and hillbillies."

I snort, "You should feel right at home, yes?" A sarcastic laugh sounds on the other line, "If you must know, I'm most likely the only non-Irish person living in the middle of a hundred-percent Irish neighborhood."

"I'm going to take a wild guess and state that your accent still doesn't match their's?"

Sighing as I slip a clean shirt over my head, I run my fingers through my short, pixie-cut black curls, "Well, if I had the same linguistic slur and horrible grammar, I'm sure part of my accent could derive from Irish background, but no. Still nothing that's set."

"Well, you be sure to let me know if you get any ideas. We can have Stefan process it for ya'."

I smile, despite the situation, "I will."

"I'm gonna hit the hay, as they say," I cringe inwardly at the purposely horrible grammar, hearing the chuckle on the other end causes me to realize he did it on purpose, "I miss ya', girl."

"I know," I respond, "Sleep well, Jimmy."

Hanging up the phone, I drop it on the receiver before falling back onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, I grumble inwardly. Bits of Irish, Scottish, British, French, Italian, Greek and Scandinavian. Bits and piece of each dialect, language and accent so far has shown influence over my current accent. Still, nothing comes to mind when I think about it. How can I be born American, yet be so influence linguistically by cultures on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean?

'We've got to find out what happened for those five years.'

Right. The missing five years. Let's not forget about the sudden appearance of a very opinionated secondary voice in my head.

'Hey! I'm awesome!'

Rolling my eyes, I shove the voice away as I close my eyes. A new place. A new life. A new start.

'Let's hope it stays that way, no?'