Author's Notation: Well, chapter two here. Just to clarify, this is not a Smecker fic. Unless that's a problem; then maybe I can add more Smecker. I do love him. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I don't own Boondock Saints, though I wish I did.


A New Kind of Saint

Chapter Two: Transvestites and Gender Benders


Five minutes and a few scuffles and tussles later and Connor was standing by Smecker's bed, gun trained securely on the figure sitting at the foot of it. Said figure, with brown, slightly longer than average hair for a man, clad in a turtleneck sweater and loose, casual jeans, was glaring impressively between the two brothers. Murphy was still snorting with laughter every two seconds.

"So, this is Smecker's date, eh?" he asked, glancing over the disgruntled man. Or rather, male imposter, as it had turned out. The figure on the bed, though dressed convincingly like a man, was noticeably female, right down to the hellcat temper rising in the heat in her cheeks.

"So, these are the supposed Saints of Boston, eh?" the woman growled out, mimicking Murphy's accent. The brothers shared a moment's tense glance, both their grips tightening on their guns. Her hands were still handcuffed behind her back, where Smecker had placed them at his initial discovery of her true gender. Smecker's humiliated drunkenness now made sense, as only a truly smashed man could have mistaken her for a man.

Conner nudged her cheek with his gun. "Easy, darlin'. Just makin' conversation." The cold steel of his Beretta must have touched a nerve with her, because her already pale face drained of all color, and her mouth closed with a soft intake of breath that only Connor could really hear.

Noting her unease relaxed Murphy, who put the safety back on his own gun. "Now then, who are you, and what's a nice girl like you want with lads like us?" he asked.

"And how'd you know Smecker knows about us?" Connor added, pulling his gun away from her cheek. Ever since they'd met Da, they'd adhered to his standards; no women, no children, no innocents. He only had his gun trained on her in case she tried to pull something. Like rugby-tackling him. Again.

The woman, with her glaring blue eyes and cropped brown hair, tilted her chin up in a manner that was all feminine pride. "I wanted to know about these Saints that kill, and my intuition led me to Mr. Smecker," she said, her voice soft, but firm; afraid, but determined.

Before either Connor or Murphy could comment, Smecker's disgruntled voice penetrated their conversation from beyond the bedroom door.

"You got lucky, kid," he grumbled. "Nothing more."

Connor and Murphy turned their eyes to the "kid", whose feathers had bristled at his remark, the color rising back in her cheeks.

"Quite a temper this one has, eh Con?" Murphy grinned, meeting his brother's stare. This served only to infuriate the cross-dressing woman further.

Conner turned back to their prisoner. "So you fetched into this get-up to get closer to Smecker. Still doesn't tell us who you are," he mused. "Or what business you've got with us," Murphy added.

The woman seemed to be avoiding answering Connor's question, because she turned her gaze to Murphy. "I was interested in you. I wanted to know why you do what you do."

Murphy frowned. "Weak reason for getting into this much trouble," he commented.

She frowned. "Had I known how much trouble you two would be, believe me, I would have stayed at home with the cat. As for my reason, I happen to be a journalist. What else was I supposed to do when I saw the two of you, matching the artist's sketches on your Wanted posters, meeting the FBI agent who'd once been assigned your case? I did a bit of research and came up with an idea."

"Wasn't a very good one," Connor pointed out. "And so far you've cleverly avoided telling us your name. We don't bite. Well," he amended, "I don't."

Murphy smirked. "I might. I've got a temper as well."

The woman paled a bit, struggling futilely against her handcuffs. "Well, that's lovely. Mind telling me why I'm still cuffed?" she asked, sticking her arms out behind her.

"Well, we can't let you go tell all those nice reporters and police officers who we are, now can we?" Murphy asked. "Seems like we'll just have to shoot you," Connor said calmly. Murphy would have laughed, but the woman's shoulders shook ever so perceptibly at the reference to the gun, and her muscles seemed to coil inward.

"Let her be, Con," he said, walking forward and pushing his brother's gun arm down. Turning to her, he grinned somewhat apologetically. "We won't shoot you, but I'm afraid we can't let you go, either. Seeing as you know who we are and all."

The woman sat up a little strainer, leaning eagerly toward them. "I won't tell a soul, I swear," she said earnestly. Connor snorted. "See, though, that's the thing with you American journalists; you're so eager to get your story out, and so ruthlessly willing to swear, lie, cheat, and steal in the name of a story."

"And what a story it is, too, Con," Murphy added. His brother nodded. The woman searched her mind frantically. "I don't know your last names," she said, clutching at straws.

"It's McManus," Connor said, finally dropping his gun in favor of extending his hand. "I'm Connor, and that's me brother Murphy," he said, shaking the chain linking the cuffs behind the woman's back.

"Nice going, there," Murphy commented, before turning to the stunned and slightly hysterical woman. "Well, you know who we are; it's only fair that you return the favor."

She stared at them for a moment, her face a mixture of apprehension, horror, and fear, before slumping her shoulders. "Cathleen Palmer," she sighed, collapsing backward, only to remember too late that her arms were bound behind her. "Ouch," she commented as her wrist broke and blackness swallowed her.


The first thing Cathleen realized when she woke up was that her entire arm was yelling at her in several different languages, all screaming pain. The second thing was that her hair was abnormally short, and the third was that there were two heavily Irish voices arguing somewhere in the distance.

"-illiant, Con; that's just great. And what are we supposed to do with her?"

"She can fend for herself for a bit. Earn her keep and all that."

"Da's not going to like this. This isn't punishing the wicked, this is kidnapping. Of an innocent, no less."

"That's her problem."

"Well, it's not entirely her fault, now is it? "It's McManus." Honestly."

"What the fuck were we supposed to do? She put herself in danger and we've got to watch our own backs, haven't we?"

"We can't watch hers too, now, can we?"

"Listen, we keep her here until Da gets home. He'll know what to do."

"Fine. But you're cooking for her."

Cathleen had somehow made it up to her feet off the low mattress she had been laid out on. Her arm swung against her chest in a makeshift sling as she made her way towards the only door in a bare white room.

"I can make my own food," she said absent-mindedly as she walked in on the two men who'd taken her hostage standing in the middle of a tattered living room. They both turned to look at her in surprise.

"Someone's in a better mood," Murphy whispered. Connor, uncharacteristically, said nothing. Cathleen felt awkward as his blue eyes slowly perused her body. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, noticing for the first time that the men's clothes she'd been wearing for her meeting with Smecker had been changed into a different set of men's clothes that smelled faintly of cigarettes, man, and laundry detergent. The bandages that had been wrapped around her chest to conceal her gender were gone.

Her head darted up, her new short locks brushing over her eyes, causing them to sting and flutter a few times. "Who undressed me?" she asked, taking a small step back, mentally checking her body for any abuse or soreness. Other than the searing pain in her wrist, she felt relatively unharmed.

"Smecker," the McManus brothers said simultaneously.

"Sure," she said, dropping her fears again as her stomach growled. "Listen, I'm still scared out of my wits, and make no mistake, this will not be a permanent arrangement, and I am far from finished talking with you two, but I'm starving. Can we dispense with the hostilities and kidnapper-kidnapped relationship for breakfast? Then you can tie me back up and point guns at me all you like. Though obviously, I'd hope you wouldn't."

Connor and Murphy stared at her at a bit of a loss.

"Christ, Connor, she's worse than you," Murphy remarked as he led the way to the kitchen.

Connor followed after him, sparing Cathleen one last glance.

Cathleen, a slave to her stomach, was about to follow them, purely out of instinct and habit, when she realized that now there was nothing stopping her from rushing out the front door and getting the hell away from these crazy Irish fuckers and their guns.

Her mind was made in a matter of seconds. Slipping across the room on her toes, she gingerly turned the knob, unbolted the door as silently as possible, and cracked it open. A light icy breeze swept past her ear as a clang came from the kitchen. Cathleen paused, terror streaking down her spine until she heard Connor and Murphy engage in some kind of war with kitchen utensils. Letting out a breath, she swung the door open and darted out in one fluid motion.

Elation didn't even have time to sink in. Not a step outside the door and Cathleen found herself facing black wool and in a tight embrace of burly, warm arms. She let out a muffled scream as she tried to bring her arms up.

"Ow, fuck," she hissed, giving in to the arms that scooped from behind her to wrap around her waist as she cradled her throbbing wrist to her chest. She was pulled inside, bouncing against the chest of whoever had plucked her out of midair, and hauled into the kitchen, where Connor paused, wielding an egg beater over Murphy's head.

"Well," the deep voice belonging to Cathleen's current captor rumbled as he let her down gently, "while you two were fucking around with your spatulas, I picked up this lovely young lass." Cathleen sunk moodily into one of the collapsible chairs around the plastic card table.

Connor and Murphy stood, looking a bit sheepish. "Aye, Da," Murphy said, giving Connor a meaningful look. "We were meaning to talk to you about her."

The man behind Cathleen took a few steps forward. Curiosity compelled her to look, and her eyes met another pair; grey-green and sparkling with mirth under the heavy weariness of age. The rest of him gave only a vague impression of bushy grey hair and a robust frame. To her immense surprise, his smile was a pleasant one when it came.

"And who might you be?" he asked, his voice naturally gruff, but friendly. Cathleen found herself likening him to her favorite uncle.

"Cathleen Palmer, sir," she said, and heard immediate protests from one of the twins, probably the one called Connor. "Brilliant. Sure, she tackles me, but she's best friends with Da," he grumbled. The man called 'Da' turned his attention away from Cathleen to furrow his brow at the twins. "Maybe if you'd learned some manners from yer Ma, Miss Palmer here might have been a bit more open with the two of ye's," he growled.

"Now then," he returned his attention to Cathleen, "just what sort of mess did you get into to warrant being stuck here with my boys?"