Author's Note: This chapter is a good example of how the MacCoy twins loved to fuck with my plans. Originally, Niamh wasn't going to hate Murphy; they were supposed to be really good friends. But then Devin [who incidentally is the character who possessed me to write this story in the first place] revealed this little secret to me, and when I asked Niamh about it she went off on a bitter, bitter rant [that gave me a headache and my plot bunnies Viagra]. So I had to go back and change quite a few details to make that plot twist make sense. When you read about what Niamh did at the end of this chapter, please don't hate her [too much]; she has her reasons, which I'll explain.
Disclaimer: This is a minor point, but I'm going to cover my ass just in case. It's come to my attention that the middle name I picked for Connor is also used in another story here on ffn- Bean an Gcroîthe, by Aoife129. Though I find her story [and everything else she's written] incredible, I promise I didn't steal Connor's middle name from her. I could give you a whole rationalization for why I chose Connor's name [and Murphy's, and everyone else's], but I don't think you're that interested. Instead, just read this chapter [and check out Aoife129's stuff!].
Special Thanks: Thanks to my beta George for helping me decide where to end this chapter. He was also the one that more or less decided Murphy's relationship history for me, so if you find it unrealistic or overly romantic, take it up with him. He also helped me pick Devin's play-by. Many thanks, Blanco!
Veritas
Connor padded out of his room late in the afternoon and opened the fridge in search of something to eat. Fortunately, the senior MacManus had gone out for food sometime in the last two days, and there was plenty of edible, non-perished food to choose from. Connor grabbed a carton of Chinese food and a beer, then walked into the living room, where Murphy was laying on the couch, staring blankly at the TV.
"Mornin'," Connor mumbled before digging in to his food.
"It's afternoon, idiot," Murphy replied without looking away from the TV, his voice lacking its normal mocking tone.
"I jus' woke up. So it's mornin'," Connor answered. "Are we goin' out tonight, then?"
Murphy didn't reply; in fact, he made no sign that he had even heard his twin.
"Murph?" Connor tried again. "I hear there's a new waitress at McGinty's, we should go introduce ourselves."
Still no reply. Connor raised his eyebrows.
"Murphy!"
Still nothing. Connor rolled his eyes in complete and utter exasperation. He loved his twin, he really did [though it would take an act of God to ever get him to admit it out loud], but sometimes Murphy's moods were bad enough to try the patience of all the saints in Heaven.
Calm, he admonished himself. Stay calm. He was on a mission, and he'd be damned if he failed.
"Jaysus, Murphy, will ye stop fuckin' ignorin' me fer two fuckin' seconds?" he exclaimed.
So much for staying calm…
"Oh, stop ignorin' yeh," Murphy shot back, getting up for another beer. "Jus' like you've been not-ignorin' me for the las' two months?"
Connor sighed. "I've not been ignorin' ye! I've been busy, is all. Christ, stop bitchin' like a fuckin' woman."
"Oh, I know," Murphy grumbled. "Yeh've been real busy chasin' skirts all over town."
Connor couldn't help himself; he rolled his eyes again. "Ya sound like I've abandoned ye. Which makes ye sound like a fag. Yeh know what? Ferget I said anythin' about McGinty's. The skirt'd be better company than yeh today."
Connor turned on his heel and went into his own room with his food, kicking the door shut behind him. It was days like this that he really appreciated moving out of the warehouse loft and into this place; he had somewhere where he could get away from his twin when Murphy was brooding. Connor threw himself onto his bed, muttering incoherently. That had not gone well.
Niamh would be back in town again tonight, and Connor knew that Murphy would love a chance to see her. Their tempers had often clashed when they were all growing up in Ireland, but when they weren't furious at each other, they'd been great friends. Connor wanted them to reunite at McGinty's tonight, but with the mood Murphy was in, it didn't look like that was gonna happen.
A few hours and a phone call to Niamh later, Connor walked back to the living room to try again. He found Murphy on the couch still, his eyes still blankly fixed on the TV. The fact that he was silent and still was worrisome enough; the fact that the TV station was on QVC nearly had Connor in a panic. Something was wrong with Murphy, and Connor was determined to find out what it was.
He sat in the armchair, glancing warily at the TV. QVC was selling Irish jewelry in September, of all the random things under the blessed sun. The presenter was going on and on about claddaghs- ah. Connor leaned back in his armchair as the puzzle pieces came together and his twin's bad mood began to make sense. And Connor began to feel guilty for how short he'd been earlier.
"I'm sorry, Murph," he said, quietly but sincerely. "I'd forgotten what day it was."
Murphy nodded silently, clenching and unclenching his left hand. Connor watched him, tuning into the misery and hopelessness his brother radiated.
He spoke slowly, unsure how his brother would react. "I miss 'er too. The lot of 'em."
"I can't get 'er out o' me head today," Murphy mumbled. "I can't stop wonderin' what she's up to."
Connor hid a smile; he'd been hoping for that response. "Well, I can't answer that, but… Niamh's in the States." Murphy's head shot up, and Connor nodded. "Aye, tha's who I've been meetin' fer the last two months. She's comin' down from Brooklyn again tonight. Come to the pub with us, she'll talk yer fuckin' ear off about all the girls."
Murphy hesitated, but nodded. Connor smiled.
"That's me boy. We'll head to McGinty's around 10."
As Connor went to shower and change, he found himself thinking about Murphy's mood- and, more importantly, the cause of the mood.
It occurred to him that if they'd stayed in Ireland, Murphy's gold claddagh ring would be facing the opposite direction. He and his childhood sweetheart had promised their parents when they gave each other their claddaghs at age 17 that they wouldn't marry until they were at least 21. The boys had left only six months later, and Murphy had never heard from her again.
It had been ten years. But the claddagh had never left Murphy's left hand, and he hadn't been with a woman since. Connor could only guess at the amount of self-control it had to take his naturally flirtatious brother to remain faithful to a woman he might very well never see again. He had once asked Murphy how he did it; Lord knew Connor hadn't been celibate for the past decade, and he had no one waiting for him at home. How did Murphy control himself?
"I promised God once, I'd do anythin' He asked of me, if He'd jus' let me see 'er again," Murphy had replied. "I promised Him that I'd never even look at another woman, if I could talk to her jus' once more. An' it's not so hard ta keep a promise like that. No other woman matters to me, coz they're not her."
Most days in the last decade had passed without any mention of the woman Murphy called Mo Chroí; most days he was his normal, enthusiastic, twitchy self. But there were the rare days, days like today, when for whatever reason the floodgates would open, and Murphy would reveal just how badly leaving her had hurt him, and how badly he hurt still.
Nothing hurt Connor more than seeing his brother in pain, whether physical or emotional. Whenever Murphy was hurt, it was Connor's job to fix it. End of story. And no matter how exasperated Murphy made him, Connor would be damned if he failed when his twin really needed him.
Parilitas
Niamh MacCoy looked around McGuinness Irish Gift Shop contentedly. McGuinness was praised as one of the best gift shops in New York City, and for good reason. Unlike some other specialty stores, every bit of McGuinness merchandise came from Ireland. The store sold more than the typical shot glasses and "Kiss Me Irish Arse" t-shirts; you could find reproduction Celtic jewelry, furniture, books, and knick-knacks for any budget. If she closed her eyes and focused on the Uilleann pipe music softly playing, she could almost make herself believe that she was home again, for one of the many town parties.
Niamh opened her eyes and shook her head to clear it of memories of Carrick-On-Suir, then checked her watch for the millionth time that day. The excited butterflies kicked up in her stomach when she saw it was 6 o'clock, and thus the end of her shift. She walked back to the office, where a good-looking man in his mid-30s was on the computer, using some software program to balance the accounts.
"Liam, would ye mind terribly much if I ducked out before Aidan got here?" she chirped in her light, airy voice. "Our ma'll kill us if we're not in Boston before six in the mornin'."
"Ay, Niamh, go ahead," Liam smiled. "It's only a few minutes till Aidan gets here, and yeh've a long trip to the pub. Tell yer ma I send me greetings."
"As always," Niamh smiled. "I'll see yeh Monday."
Niamh headed for the door, wrapping her white trench coat over her white, floral-patterned sundress and belting it around her tiny waist before stepping into the slight chill of the September evening. She smiled to herself as she headed for the bus stop on Avenue U; she loved Brooklyn in the fall.
After taking the B3 bus to 86th street, and the B1 bus to 82nd- a trip that took about 52 minutes on a good day- Niamh made it to Peggy O'Neill's Pub. She pushed open the door, standing on her tiptoes in an attempt to see through the crowd. Despite her strappy sandal heels, she was having trouble seeing over the heads of the bar patrons. Even though her sister wasn't working tonight, Niamh knew she'd be in the pub anyway, most likely sitting on the bar counter, or lending a hand if the bartender was really busy.
Niamh ducked outside quickly, flipping open her phone and punching in the number she denied to herself that she had memorized.
"'Ello?" came an exasperated voice.
One corner of Niamh's voice rose in a smile. "Hey, Manny."
"Hey, Bright Eyes," Connor replied, his voice lightening.
"I'm at the pub to pick up Trioblóid, and we'll be in Boston in a few hours," Niamh said.
"Niamh, it takes eight hours ta get to Boston from Brooklyn," Connor protested.
Niamh shrugged. "I'll speed."
Connor laughed. "I'd almost forgotten how ya love goin' as fast as possible. Look, I'm doin' what I can to bring Murphy along, but 'e's been actin' like a first-rate pissant all day."
Niamh tensed. "Maybe ye shouldn't bring 'im."
"Why not?" Connor asked.
"Because I haven't told 'er that I've been seein' ya," she replied. "She has no idea that you boys're in Boston. She thinks we're jus' comin' down for another o' my work weekends."
"Then it'll be a nice surprise for 'er," Connor said. "Look, give us a call when you're in town, will yeh, love? I gotta go, sounds like Murphy burned supper."
Connor had hung up before Niamh had a chance to protest his decision to bring Murphy to McGinty's. She stared down at her phone, biting her lip and wondering if she shouldn't just cancel this trip. She knew what her sister's reaction would be if she saw the MacManus brothers, and she didn't want her twin to have to go through that. It was the reason she hadn't told her sister that she had reconnected with Connor. She'd thought it was for the best, but now she wondered if she had taken the right course of action. Sending a silent prayer up to the Lord above that tonight wouldn't be a diaster of epic proportions, she took a deep breath and re-entered the pub.
"Devin!" she called as she reached the counter.
From where she still sat perched on the bar counter, Devin MacCoy looked up at the sound of her twin's voice. Though she normally hated anything that wasn't jeans and a plain top, today Devin was garbed in a black, embroidered dress that had once been an Irish stepping dress and was now serving as a long-sleeved sundress. Her shoulder-length, choppy layered, dark brown hair was pulled back with a clip, but strands still fell in her pale face and emerald eyes. And, to Niamh's eternal chagrin, Devin was wearing black flats. Someday, Niamh vowed anew, she would get her twin to appreciate the glory of heels…
When she made it to the bar, Devin gave Niamh her patented half-smile, half-smirk. "Hóigh, Draoidín!" she said cheekily.
Niamh drew herself to her full height of 5'5" with her heels on, and glared. "I'm not short."
Devin jumped off the bar gracefully, towering over her twin. "Yer 5'2". I'm 5'8". Yer short."
"Girls, if yer gonna start fightin' over height, neither o' you will get a single drop to drink!" the bartender, Sean, threatened.
"Tha's alright, Sean, we're leavin' anyways," Niamh said.
"Another weekend in Boston?" one of the patrons asked.
"Aye," Niamh nodded. "Friends o' ours invited us fer a baptism on Sunday. We're leavin' as soon as I get Trioblóid outta here."
Devin nodded and headed for the door, surprisingly docile for her. She reached for her coat, shaking her left arm to loosen her wooden rosary bracelet, identical to Niamh's. She slid on the ancient, threadbare wool peacoat that was slightly too big for her, then walked out the door.
The twins walked the few short blocks to their apartment silently, then got into the ancient blue four-door sedan that Niamh had packed the night before. Both sisters were quiet as Niamh began driving; it wasn't until she turned onto the I-278 W that Devin turned in her seat and broke the silence.
"What're we doin' in Boston this time?" she asked.
"Nothin' work-related," Niamh said. "We're takin' a weekend off ta go ta McGinty's."
Devin raised her eyebrows in surprise, but seemingly accepted her sister's explanation, and sat back in her seat. As she drove, Niamh kept an eye on her sister. Devin had fallen into a brooding melancholy with which Niamh was all too familiar, but which nevertheless hurt her heart every time she saw it. For a time, Niamh merely kept watch over Devin, knowing the source of her sister's mood the second Devin started playing with the gold ring on her hand.
"I've been thinkin', Devin," Niamh said delicately. "I mean, it's been a long time now since he died. Maybe ye should put yer mind to forgettin' him, try ta move on."
"No," Devin said quietly, shaking her head. "I'll never be able ta forget 'im. I've tried to, God above knows how I've tried. But I can't. I'll never love again, Niamh."
"It's a lonely life yeh'll lead," Niamh observed.
"I'd be lonely if I found another, too," Devin returned. "I'd be lonely wit' anyone that wasn't 'im."
Niamh wisely dropped the topic, but every mile that brought them closer to Boston made her more and more apprehensive, and more and more afraid of what was likely to happen when they got to McGinty's. Lord above, this was going to be a disaster…
It normally took eight hours to drive from Brooklyn to Boston. But Niamh knew plenty of shortcuts, and she always drove the car as fast as it would go. They made it to Boston in three hours. They parked the car in the church parking lot, and took off on foot for the bar. The closer they came to McGinty's, the more Devin's mood seemed to improve- which Niamh knew from long and bitter experience meant that Devin was merely repressing her true emotions and putting on the mask she'd so painstakingly crafted over the years. It was a good mask, and could fool anyone- everyone except Niamh.
When she saw the good-for-nothing bastard who'd done this to Devin, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. And she hoped he choked on it.
McGinty's was crowded, as usual. Niamh and Devin made their way up to the bar after hanging up their coats, greeting the familiars they'd come to know in the past three years they'd been coming to the bar.
"Batten down the hatches, boyos, it's the MacCoy girls come back ta town!" crowed Clare, the bartender.
"Good ta see ye too, Clare," Niamh grinned, sitting on the barstool and arranging the skirt of her sundress around her.
"Where's Doc?" Devin asked, sitting on Niamh's left side.
"He's fixin' ta retire and let me take over," Clare replied, setting two glasses of Guinness before the girls.
"We'll have ta come down more often, then," Niamh said, raising her glass. "Sláinte."
Niamh smiled as she heard the music playing. She drank round after round of Guinness as she and her twin socialized with the bar patrons and with Clare. When Devin was on her eighth Guinness, Niamh hopped off her barstool.
"Come 'ave a dance wi' me, Devin," she pleaded.
At the mention of dancing, some of Devin's affected cheer died. "Not yet, Niamh. I've not had enough to drink."
"Don' yeh dare start tha'," Niamh threatened. "Every time I ask fer a dance, yeh refuse me. Up till yer eighth beer yeh tell me yeh've not had enough ta drink. When yeh've had nine ye tell me yeh've 'ad too much. So eight beers must be the magic number. Now get off yer arse and come dance."
"I refuse yeh coz I know what dance yeh'd have us do," Devin retorted. "And tha' dance can't be done without a coupla good Carrick boys."
Niamh sighed, taking her sister's hand. "Please, Devin," she begged softly. "I've not seen yeh dance in ten years. Tonight of all nights, ye should dance for love of 'im. Dance to remember 'im."
Devin looked up at Niamh, unable to talk through the lump in her throat. Finally, she nodded.
"There's a good lass," Niamh said, pulling her sister to her feet.
Aequitas
Murphy walked beside Connor quietly, doing his damndest to empty his mind of all thoughts. Especially thoughts of his one-time bride-to-be.
He paid no attention to Connor, who kept getting calls- from Niamh, most likely. Though happy that Connor had gotten back in touch with his best friend, Murphy wasn't sure he wanted to see her. Not that he didn't like her; Niamh had always been like a sister to him- a very annoying, overly opinionated and too damn stubborn for her own good sister, but a sister nonetheless. But seeing her was sure to make him bitter that Connor had what Murphy wanted- a reconnection with the most important woman in his life other than his ma. And seeing Niamh was sure to bring up painful memories, memories he wasn't sure he was strong enough to face tonight.
"Murph, do us a favor and take a peek t'rough the window," Connor said.
Murphy blinked, wondering when they'd gotten to McGinty's and how long they'd been standing outside. Shaking his head slightly, he walked up to the window and looked inside, his heart giving an unwelcome lurch when he heard Blood of Cuchulainn playing. Once upon a time he, Connor, and the MacCoy twins had won step competitions with a routine they'd danced to this song. They'd been about to take the dance to the national competition when the boys had left Ireland.
The bar floor had been cleared, and there were two girls beginning a dance. One was petite and strawberry blond, the other a statuesque brunette. Her dark brown shag covered her face, but Murphy only needed to see the steps of the dance to know who the girls were… and for a decade's worth of joy and pain to overwhelm him.
"Devin," he whispered, staring at his one-time fiancée as if he'd seen a ghost.
Omnis
Hardly aware that he was moving, Murphy strode into the bar, the steps to the dance returning to him as if he'd only done it yesterday.
"Oh Christ," Connor muttered. "Saints above preserve us."
Nevertheless, a smile grew on his face as he followed his twin inside. He walked past Murphy and headed straight to Niamh; this light, airy section of the music had been theirs to dance to. He took Niamh's hands and began stepping with her, his feet remembering what his head had forgotten.
"Evenin', love," he grinned as they danced around each other.
"Perfect timin', Manny," Niamh returned.
Devin's back was to the scene on the floor as she explained the dance to the bar patrons. "It's a dance about the Lady o' Light and her White Knight, fightin' against the Queen o' the Night and the Shadow Warrior. This was Niamh's part. She and Connor would dance about like a coupla faeries. 'Twas pretty ta watch."
Niamh and Connor stepped back as Devin took the floor. Devin was clearly a better dancer than her sister; there was a grace and a charisma in her movements that Niamh lacked.
"And then 'twas Devin's turn," Niamh took up the tale. "All flyin' hair and skirts. She'll lay a spell on ye with her dancin', she will. See how focused she is? As if her Murphy were still here, dancin' with 'er."
Devin closed her eyes as she expertly stepped and twirled. Her heart ached and her eyes smarted as a wave of pain flooded over her, as she remembered the one she'd loved and had lost.
Then there was no need to imagine her partner behind her, for there were hands holding hers, and someone was standing behind her, expertly mirroring her movements. She could feel a ring on his left hand, and she smelled the comforting, familiar scents of Guinness, cigarettes, and something that was uniquely his.
She refused to open her eyes and break the spell. It would hurt her more in the long run, but for now she needed to imagine that Murphy was still alive, that he was here with her. Though she didn't open her eyes, a new vigor came into her dancing, and for that moment- if only for that moment- she was the 17-year-old Devin that had died the day she'd lost Murphy.
The song ended, as all things must. Finally, Devin forced her eyes to open… and then she stared.
"Murphy," she whispered.
She had to be seeing a ghost, for there he was, all pale skin and earnest blue eyes and crooked smiles, his claddagh on his left hand and the Aequitas tattoo on his right. She stared at him for a moment, chest heaving, before she turned to bar, where Clare had four glasses of Guinness waiting.
"Clare, me love, yeh'd best cut me off after this pint," Devin croaked, snatching a glass and taking a deep draught, as if trying to drink away the apparition. "Me Guinness-bleary eyes coulda sworn I was dancin' wit' the MacManus twins. But tha's impossible," she said, fixing Niamh with a stony gaze that her twin couldn't quite return.
"How's that, Devin?" Clare asked, laughing.
"The MacManus boys've been dead these ten years," Devin replied through clenched teeth.
Connor and Murphy froze in shock, shooting astonished glances at an increasingly guilty-looking Niamh. The bar quieted down, watching the unfolding drama, while Devin forced herself to keep speaking.
"They disappeared from County Tipperary when we were but seventeen, leavin' naught but this necklace and this ring behind," she said, motioning to Niamh's silver Celtic cross necklace and the gold claddagh ring on her own left hand. "We searched for 'em, we did," she continued, forcing the words around the lump growing in her throat. "And when we'd searched the length and breadth of Ireland, we searched the East Coast. But they were gone- without a word, without a trace. Then one day, Niamh came to me an' told me that they were dead."
Devin turned from Niamh, who was staring into her lap, and raised aloft her beer, looking at the bar patrons who were enthralled in the train wreck that was Devin's impending emotional meltdown.
"So raise your glasses with me, lads," Devin said fiercely, desperately fighting a losing battle against her tears. "God rest Connor Fearghal, the air that flowed in me twin's lungs," she said, pouring a libation on the floor. "And God rest Murphy Diarmuid, the blood that pumped in me 'eart," she finished, pouring a second libation.
The crack in Devin's voice was all that was needed to break the spell that had rendered Murphy frozen. He broke free of his shock, strode forward, and crashed his lips on hers, wrapping his arms around her. Devin dropped the remains of her Guinness in shock, but was soon kissing back with just as much passion. Only the cheering and jokes of the bar patrons jerked Devin back to reality. She pulled away from Murphy, stared at him for a second… and then turned and ran.
"Devin!" Murphy called, making to go after her.
"You leave 'er the fuck alone, Murphy MacManus," Niamh spat.
Murphy turned, incredulous. "You told 'er that I was dead?!"
Niamh glared at Murphy, stalking over to him. "Ye left 'er. Ye broke 'er heart. She values fidelity above all things, and ye broke 'er trust in yeh. It was better for 'er to think ye dead than fer her to know the truth- that ye never loved 'er."
Murphy had never in his life raised his hand to a woman [well, except for that lesbian in the meat plant, but she'd deserved it], but suddenly he felt that if he didn't get out of the bar that instant, he would draw his suppressed Beretta 92f pistol and shoot Niamh through the forehead. Shooting her a glare filled with the utmost loathing, he turned on his heel and stormed out of McGinty's, determined to fix what Niamh had broken.
Name Meanings [all names from behindthename . com]
Devin: from an Anglicized surname- O Dubhain [Dubhan means 'little black one'] [DAY-vin]
Fearghal: 'man of valour' [FER-gal]
Diarmuid: 'without envy' [DEER-mid]
Guide to Foreign Languages [tranlsations from freelang . net and tranexp . com]
Mo Chroí: 'my heart'
Trioblóid: 'trouble'
Hóigh: 'hello'
Draoidín: 'shrimp'
Parilitas: 'justice' [I know that Murphy's tattoo Aequitas is often translated as 'justice', but for the purposes of my story, his means 'equality']
Omnis: 'all'
Note About Music: Blood of Cuchulainn was written by Mycheal Danna, and it's the theme song for The Boondock Saints. I stuck the reference to the song in purely for my own amusement.
When I was working out the plot for this story, I chose four songs to serve as the defining song for each character. A lot of the time, I would listen to these songs [all can be found on youtube] when writing each character's POV.
Murphy: Blood of Cuchulainn, by Mychael Danna
Connor: Caoineadh Cu Chulainn, by Davy Spillane [there's another version by Brian O'Brien]
Niamh: The Child Dierdre, by Mychael Danna
Devin: Iona, by Mychael Danna
Note About Geography: I used Google maps to figure out how to get from McGuinness Irish Gift Shop [where Niamh works] to Peggy O'Neill Pub [where Devin works], and to figure out how long it takes to get from Brooklyn to Boston. Yes, McGuinness and Peggy O'Neill are both real places. Yes, Niamh's bus route is a real one. Yes, I took the literary license to let Niamh drive to Boston in 3 hours instead of 8.
Additional Notes: I realize that Niamh has given 3 conflicting stories for her trips to Boston. There's a reason why Niamh keeps changing her story, I promise.
Also, please forgive me for my shite description of Irish step dancing. I know absolutely nothing about it, so I just made it all up.
Devin's play-by is Mila Kunis.
