Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the Boondock Saints story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.

A/N: This is a Boondock Saints AU, Murphy/OC romance fan-fiction. A word of caution: At some point during the progression of this story there will be explicit smut, so if that kind of thing bothers you, Saint Grace may not be for you.

….

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

An old Irish Blessing.

Chapter One:

She was only ten years old when they came and forced her into her own Da's casket, burying her alive. It was a reminder to the O'Shea family never to cross the Ivanov family again. Poor Da' had refused to sell his pub to the Ivanov's, and the Russians had killed him for it.

Grace knew she would have suffered the same fate, if Murphy & Connor MacManus hadn't heard about what the Ivanov's had done to her. They came to Mount Hope Cemetery, and dug her out, barely alive. Connor carried her in his arms all the way to the Irish health clinic. They left her in the care of the nurses, and when they returned, hours later, they were covered in blood, and both wounded.

Grace still had nightmares, almost every night, about waking up smashed between the cold, stinking corpse of her Da, and the lid of his casket, buried six feet under the ground. Grace had tried, unsuccessfully, to claw herself out of the wooden box.

"When they heal, we'll take you somewhere, have them painted pink." Connor had promised her, as the doctor had bandaged her torn, bloody fingertips.

The twins inquired at the apartment building Grace was living in when her father died. They learned that Grace's Ma' died when Grace was three. With her Da' gone, the only blood relative Grace had left was an aunt with too many mouths to feed already. The twins couldn't bring themselves to leave Grace at a Boston orphanage, so they spirited her away with them, to a little white cottage, and a sheep farm, in Ireland. And to the sweet old man with the beard who smelled like wood smoke, and made beautiful furniture, and told her Irish bed-time stories by candlelight on stormy nights.

It was Noah who eventually got Grace talking again, and though she still didn't have much to say after two years of silence, she could speak when she wanted to.

The four broken people became a family, and as Grace grew the twins, and their da, imparted their knowledge and abilities to her. She was proficient in five languages; Gaelic, Russian, Spanish, French, German, and Italian. She could disassemble and reassemble a Beretta quicker than Connor, she could defend herself in a proper fight, and she was raised catholic.

During their first seven years in Ireland, the twin's were at peace living a simple life, but as the eighth year went by they started showing signs of restless, and for reasons Grace didn't understand, the peaceful life they'd had for so many years, didn't seem as permanent anymore.

Then came the day Father O'Carrigan came to tell them about the murder of a priest in Boston. Grace had excused herself after supper – she had a hard time being around people other than the twins and Noah – preferring machines to human beings. She was in the barn adding the newest part they'd received to the Uisce Beatha still they were building. Uisce Beatha was the Gaelic term for whiskey, and meant "water of life." It was mostly Grace's project. She was more mechanically inclined than the others – due to all the mechanics books she read constantly – and she always liked having a project to tinker with. It kept her mind off of her recent feelings for one of the twins – feelings she didn't understand.

Grace was sitting on her stool in front of the still, covered in grease, a wrench gripped in her right hand, her untamed red curls tied back, a couple frustrating locks falling in her face, when the barn doors burst open, revealing the stormy night outside. Connor and Murphy, the sweater's Grace had knitted them for winter drenched, ambled purposefully into the barn. "There she is, shoulda known we'd find her 'ere," Connor said, "how long you been at it this time, young one?"

"Long enough," Murphy said, answering his brother's question for her before she could.

She blinked, glancing down at her watch and felt a little ashamed. She was neglecting her chores, and tending to her part of Noah's upholstery work. Grace stood up, feeling her muscles protest the movement after so many hours of sitting. "The good Father brought that new part from town." She mopped the sweat off her brow with her sleeve. "And I've been obsessing a little."

Connor veered off toward the wall with all the tools hanging on it, and Murphy joined Grace. He knelt down, looking into the mess of copper piping. She saw his eyes light on the part she was trying to fit on. He reached toward the wrench, their eyes met for a brief moment, and she handed over the tool, looking away, feeling her face heat up.

Murphy stole her stool, and leaned in to the space she'd been working in, wrench in hand.

She glanced up at Connor. He had two large shovels, one in each hand and was turning toward them. "What'll you be wanting those for?" She asked, nodding at the shovels. It was too late in the season for any garden work.

Connor glanced at her, then at Murphy, rolling his eyes. "Great. Now ya got that arse 'obsessin''' too."

"Who ya callin' an arse, ya fucker?"

Grace rolled her eyes. And it begins, she thought.

Then she heard a sound that was music to her ears. The bolt that had been troubling her clinked into place, and Murphy leaned back, smiling, the expression pulling on his long beard. "Why don' ya give 'er a whirl, Gracey?" he said, gesturing up at the big copper machine.

Grace tucked back a flaming red tendril of hair, wiped her greasy hands on her work apron, and went over to the power switch. She looked at Murphy, he gave her an encouraging nod, and she pushed the switch to the 'ON' position. She beamed in delight when the still hummed to life, and a cloud of steam rose from the machine. She quickly turned it off again. She wasn't quite ready to start brewing yet. "Murph gets the first pint tonight." She announced, pointing proudly at Murphy.

She expected arguing from Connor and gloating from Murphy, but instead all she got was dead silence, and grim looks from both the boys. Murphy's eyes darted over her shoulder at his brother, and he started chewing on his bottom lip.

"What? Am I missing something?" She asked, looking to Connor for an explanation.

"'M afraid we leave tonight, A stór." He sounded sad, as he invoked the old term of endearment from her girlhood. A stór. My treasure.

Another trip out to check on the sheep she guessed. The twins were in the habit of leaving for days at a time, herding, and camping out the woods, needing their space from the monotony of Noah's life, and her life now too. "I see," she said, wiping more grease off her hands with her apron.

"Not sure you do, Gracey, but ya will." Murphy said, standing up and taking one of the shovels from Connor. "Three shovels are better than two, I always say. Why don't ya grab one for Grace?"

Connor frowned, seemed to consider his twin's proposition for a moment, and then gave a quick nod. "She turned of age last year. S'pose that means she's ready." He went over to the wall and grabbed a third shovel, tossing it to her. She frowned down at the shovel. Setting it aside, she took her apron off, aware of them watching her. She picked up the shovel again, gripping it with both hands.

"All right," she said, nodding at them. "I'm ready." Though she wasn't entirely sure what exactly she was ready for, she wasn't one to back down to a challenge.

"Da won't like this," Connor told his brother, as they shut the barn doors.

"He won't like it, but he'll understand. Grace's family, she's fuckin' one of us, Connor. She has the prayers," he pointed to his head. "She can shoot, she's fast as fuckin' lightnin', and she can speak all the languages. She's ready, and we're not the young lads we used to be. It's fuckin' now or never."

"Aye, but she hasn't been Called, Murph."

"She will be." Murphy replied, his tone full of conviction. "So what do you think?"

"I'm strangely comfortable with it." Connor answered, rubbing his bearded chin.

Connor and Murphy stopped on the back side of the barn. Simultaneously both brothers dropped their shovel blades into a particular spot of earth. There was a bright flash of lightning and she saw their hand tattoo's illuminated in the light. Veritas and Aequitas. Truth and Justice. A chill ran up Grace's spine. She gazed down at the spot they had chosen, puzzling over what could possibly need digging up.

….

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of Saint Grace. I plan to post the next chapter a week from today – which will be longer and have a little more romance.

If you have time to review, I'd love to hear what you think about my version so far.