A/N: DeDe324 mentioned Connor in some sort of 'Fight Club'...more or less, yeah, but think more of Mickey the Pikey (Brad Pitt's character) in 'Snatch'. We're talking illegal bare knuckle boxing. It's gonna get bloody, folks, and messy. I'm going for full on feels. It's been a long time coming, after all. Thanks to those who have read and reviewed, favorited, subscribed, follwed me on twitter, and just general fuckery.


Jack Leary was the opposite of his older brother and sister, in both looks and temper. While Jimmy had dark hair and Pam's was somewhere between brown and red, Jack was a ginger, through and through. His hair was dark auburn, his skin fair and dusted with freckles, and his eyes were dark and grey, stormy, like his current mood. On a whim, he glanced back over his shoulder in time to see said brother and sister walk into the hotel bar. He rolled his eyes as he turned back to the bartender, and motioned for another two fingers of whiskey.

"Jesus, Jack, ya been at it since breakfast?" Jimmy commented snidely as he hopped onto the stool beside his brother.

"Lay off, Jimmy," Pam warned. She glanced at her baby brother. "Had anything to eat?"

Jack successfully ignored Jimmy, something he'd learned to do in high school, and shook his head at Pam's question. He tried to protest when she flagged down the bartender and order bangers and potatoes with a glass of tomato juice, but was secretly warmed. Pam was always looking out for him, and he for her, and it had been far too long since they'd been in the same room.

"How was Thailand?" Pam asked as she ordered vodka and soda from a rather confused looking bartender. She'd consumed enough whiskey the night before.

"Hot," Jack said before taking a sip of his drink. "Humid."

"It's the jungle, ass-jack," Jimmy muttered.

"No shit, boyo," Jack quickly retorted. He looked back to Pam. "Hiked through the jungles, swan in waterfalls, slept on the beaches." He rolled up his pant leg and pointed to an impressive piece of ink on the back of his calf, portraying a charging bull elephant dressed in traditional procession costume.

"Nice color," Pam commented, leaning down for a closer look. "But I'm guessing you didn't go with the bamboo needle?"

Jack laughed. "I'm a fan of tattoos, Pam, not torture. But I have their booklet in my bag; I'll be sure to bring it by to Uncle Seamus'." He picked up a fork and tucked into the plate set before him.

"Shayne is eager to see you," Pam pointed out.

Jack paused his chewing and pointed at Pam with his fork. "Pulling out the heavy artillery all ready?" He winked and picked up the glass of tomato juice. "Can I get some vodka down here?" he called out.

The bartender frowned and pulled a bottle from the shelf. "Lord in Heaven, you'd tink we were in Russia wit all the damn vodka floatin' in 'ere," he joked as he poured a healthy amount into Jack's glass. "Whatever happened to raisin' the young ta like whiskey?"

Pam made a face that made Jack laugh. "She doesn't drink it – at least, not like she should. And last time I checked, it doesn't mix well with tomato juice. Thank you, sir, you are a fine, upstanding gentleman."

"Aye, whatever," the bartender groused. "Don't ferget ta tip, ye Yankee bastard."

Jack raised his glass in salute and took a long sip. He turned back to Pam. "You usually use Shayne as a last resort to get me to show up at a family function."

"Da's funeral is not a function," Jimmy cut in.

"Can we not do this?" Pam pleaded. She looked to Jimmy and then to Jack. "We're all here for one reason, and whether or not we stay for a few days or a few weeks, you know we're going to be spending that time in each other's company. I don't want to upset the rest of the family, so cool it, all right?"

Jimmy and Jack looked at one another and shrugged. "Yes, Pam," they sang. Jimmy shot a final elbow to Jack's ribs and Jack retaliated with cuffing Jimmy upside the head.

The three siblings were silent for a moment, content, until Jack pushed his plate away and drained his glass. "Well," he sighed, signalling for the bill. "Where are we drinkin' tonight?" He looked at his brother and sister with an eager smile.

Jimmy shrugged. "Yer the one who's been here longer. You tellin' me ye haven't scouted out any bars?"

Jack smiled. "As it happens, I met a charmin' little lass on Sunday at the market in Naas. She owns a whiskey house just off Prosperous Drive. I say we check it out, drink in some local color, so ta speak, and let the evening take us where it will."

Jimmy shook his head. "Christ, Jack, ye always had a way with the girls, didn't ya?"

Jack winked. "Learned everyting from Da."

Jimmy snorted. "More like Uncle Kenny."

The three of them lifted their glasses. "God rest his soul."

Pam looked pleadingly at her brother. "Come back to Seamus' with us, Jack. Stop bein' the loner and stay with us. You know Shayne would love to have you there."

With a resigned sigh, Jack nodded. "All right. Let me pack my things and check out. I'll meet you out front in fifteen."


The twins hadn't spoken more than two words to one another since the fight in the kitchen. Now, they stood in front of the dairy cases at Culligan's Grocer, staring at gallon cartons of milk and baskets of eggs. The silence stretching between them was palatable, and each one eyed the other, wanting the say something - anything. Murphy, who was usually a little sullen and silent, had a million thoughts racing through his brain. Connor, on the other hand, thought of his own pain, and that which he had caused Murphy. The bruises on his younger brother's face would heal; the blood had been wiped away, but Connor's angry words still echoed in both of their ears. Heaving a sigh of resignation, Connor opened his mouth to break the ice.

"MacManus." Someone else beat him to it.

Connor paused at the sound of his surname and slowly lifted his head, turning to the source of it. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Frankie McGee and his cousin Marcus. They pair were part of Kevin McGee's training team, Kevin McGee being the kid he'd trounced three months prior. Stifling a smug grin, Connor nodded with a passive look. "Frankie. Marcus. How's yer cousin?"

Marcus made a face and glanced to Frankie who laughed sharply. "He's been trainin' since ya last met."

"That so," Connor sniffed, unaffected by the obvious bait Frankie was laying. Connor turned and called down the aisle to where Murphy had moved and was now perusing condiments. "Oi, Murph!" The darker twin looked up. "Frankie McGee says young Kevin has been trainin' dese last months." His tone was mocking.

Murphy shrugged and left his spot, pacing up the floor and glancing from Frankie to Marcus, and then finally to Connor. "Aye, good fer him," Murphy mocked.

Frankie rolled his shoulders and puffed up his chest before stepping into Connor's space. Narrowing his light brown eyes, Frankie glared up at the MacManus for a moment. "Ya think yer so unbeatable, doncha, MacManus? Tink' yer special carrying round' wit' tha nickname 'Wolf'."

Connor snorted, not only at Frankie's tone and apparently bruised ego, but the ludicrous nickname the locals had come up with for him. Sure, his name meant 'little wolf' in Gaelic, but being called 'The Wolf' was a little obtuse. Murphy had agued, however, stating that it suited him perfectly – snarling and angry, like a lone wolf without a pack or purpose, one that would fight to the bone to survive, if only to be beaten down the next day. Connor had thumped his brother good after that, but as they sat on the steps to the cabin an hour after exchanging blows, now sharing cigarettes, Connor's mind had started working overtime and the result was permanently etched in ink on the inside of his left bicep, the spot a mirror for the demon Murphy had gotten back in Boston.

Under the bulk of his jacket and sweater, the tattoo flexed as his muscle did, and his shoulders twitched with the same intensity they did before a fight. He knew what was coming so he beat Frankie to the punch. "You wantin' a rematch?"

"That we do," Frankie nodded with a feral grin. "We was thinkin' t'night."

With pursed lips, Connor nodded, and when Murphy sputtered in protest from his spot beside him, Connor ignored him, his eyes fixed intently on Frankie. "It's a bit short notice," he finally seceded, knowing that Murphy was concerned about the beating from the night before.

"We've got the venue. All we need is a full card."

"Who ya got lined up if Connor says no?" Murphy butted in, earning a glare from Connor.

Frankie eyed the darker twin, never quite at ease when the two of them were within arms' reach of each other. He'd never admit it, but he was fairly certain he never wanted to tangle with them in a bar brawl, on their own or as a pair. "Tom Landry says his boy Bobby is ready at a moment's notice. Might be better – he's a mite younger than yer brudder here."

"Fuck you, Frankie," Connor snapped, shouldering Murphy aside. "I've herded lambs tougher than yer cousin. Ya got venue? I'll fill yer card."

"You want in, it's a thousand."

Murphy gritted his teeth and switched to Italian. "Is it really worth it, Conn?"

Connor never blinked, never took his eyes from Frankie, but he answered Murphy readily in the same language. "It's not like we can't afford it."

Murphy's eyes widened for a moment at Connor's breezy approach. "Ya had yer bell rung last night."

"Si," Connor breathed, "an' it won't be tha last. M'fine, Murph. Now, keep it down, right? Yer older brudder is workin'." He switched back to English and spoke to Frankie. "A thousand it is. When's the call?"

"Main even starts at ten. Don't be late."

"Aye, ya just make sure yer boy shows. An' make sure he's ready. This time, m'not takin' it easy on him," Connor replied. This time, he let the smug grin fly.

Frankie growled but shoved his hand out and shook Connor's firmly. He and Marcus turned on their heels and left the MacManus twins standing in the condiment aisle.

For a moment, Murphy stared blankly at Connor, confused at how fast the fight terms had been made. Usually, there was a bit of back and forth, some preamble, and almost always, whiskey was involved. What Connor had just done seemed reckless and it left a bad taste in Murphy's mouth. The fight from the morning had been forgotten. This was seroius shit.

"Quit yer worrryin'," Connor muttered as he led his brother to the dairy case and pulled out two gallons of milk. "The Wolf's got this, aye?" The smile he flashed Murphy did little to assuage the doubt of the dark-haired brother.

"Aye," Murphy nodded warily. "Dat's what I'm 'fraid of."


Pam warily eyed the sign for Madra Dubh, quickly translating it to English. The Gaelic read Black Dog and she felt a tender ache in her throat as she remembered Murphy teaching her the ins and outs of the Irish language, and the reasoning behind the names of Irish Pubs.

"More often than not, ye'll get an uninspired Irishman wantin' ta open a bar wit' his own name. Power to him." Murphy smiled and lifted his glass to Doc. "But den ye get those Irishmen who are too pissed drunk ta see straight or remember their name, and they name their bar after da first ting they do recognize. Hence "Dog and Duck", "Black Swan", "Three Cats", an' "Molly Malone".

She glanced at Jack and then to Jimmy in the rear-view mirrror, and then back to the small, slightly dilapidated one-storey building at the end of a muddy road in Naas. "So this is a whiskey house," she murmured, putting Aunt Maggie's Jetta in 'park'.

"Yep," Jack grinned from his spot in the passenger side.

"Looks like it will blow over in a stiff wind," Jimmy pointed out with a grumble.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Jack laughed. "C'mon, time's wastin'. Whiskey to be drank." He was out of the car and up the broken stone walk before either sibling could say anything more.

"What the hell am I doing here?" Pam mused, gathering her purse and opening the door.

"I told you I was buying," Jimmy pointed out as he exited the back seat. "And Suki said she didn't mind babysitting."

The brother and sister looked at each other from across the roof of the car. "Oh yeah," Pam grinned. "Well, then. Jack's right, whiskey to be drank."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "We couldn't have gone to a place in town? Why the hell are we drinking in a hole in the middle of what is probably a sheep pasture?"

"Look at it this way – this is local, Jimmy. The drinks are free pour and less likely to be watered down."

He squinted at the flickering coach lamps that hung on either side of the door and then made a face at the fogged up windows. "Do you think they take Amex?"

Pam laughed again and pushed open the door, only to be swept up in a gust of hot air that smelled of whiskey and barnyards and sawdust. Jimmy laughed at the grimace on her face. "You sure you don't want to go into town?"

It was a like sauna in the bar. She hadn't even sat for five minutes before she'd pulled off her sweater, and now sat in a snug black t-shirt, much to the other patrons' delight. Jack was already seated at the bar, leaning up on his stool and chatting up the petite girl who was busy pouring whiskey and beer.

"Ye must be Jackie's sister," the bartender deduced as she plunked a shot of whiskey and glass of Guinness in front of Pam.

Pam looked up from stashing the car keys in her purse and visibly started. The girl behind the bar bore an eerie resemblance to Wren, in a sense that she was small, compact, with a smattering of freckles on the pale skin of her face. But her hair was black, and her eyes almost gold, and Pam shook herself from her memories and raised an eyebrow.

"Jackie?" She repeated sceptically. She glanced at her younger brother. "He must really like you if he lets you call him that. I'm not even allowed to call him that."

The bartender smiled. "I'm Bryn. Welcome to Madra Dubh."

Pam took the hand that the girl held out and shook it. "Pam Leary."

Bryn winked and slid a second beer and whiskey shot over to Jimmy. "I thought dat Jackie musta had a sister. No way he could come up wit' da tings he says if he was raised in a houseful o'boys. I would know. I'm da only girl of six." She winked at Jimmy. "Hiya, handsome. Looks like da Leary genes are good ones. Nice lookin' lot."

Jimmy, who had been sourly inspecting the gouged bar top and the spots on the glasses, now grinned roguishly and leaned onto the bar. Pam rolled her eyes and picked up her glass of Guinness, leaving the whiskey untouched.

"That's top shelf, on tha house as it were," Bryn said as she passed, pointing to the shot of whiskey.

Pam felt her cheeks warm at the slight scold. "Oh, I had enough last night."

Bryn planted her hands on her hips and smirked. "Aye, but 'ave ye 'ad any t'day?"

"No," Pam said slowly.

"Then drink up, lass. Here, I'll do one wit ya." She poured a second shot and sat it on the bar next to Pam's. "On tree, aye? One," Bryn started, curling her fingers around the glass.

Pam chuffed a small sigh, knowing that she was beaten. She picked up her own glass. "Dha," she continued.

Bryn's eyes lit up. "Oh, yer takin' the piss, aren't ya? Tri!"

Pam winced as the whiskey splashed the back of her throat and she clutched the glass of Guinness, chasing the hard liquor with it. Her empty shot glass was refilled almost immediately.

"An one fer yer Da, God rest his soul." Bryn raised her glass, and the Leary siblings followed suit.


"It's a little slow this evenin', lass," Jack purred a few hours later as he leaned over the bar to reach for the whiskey once more.

Bryn dove and smacked the bottle from Jack's hand with a sharp scold and a glare before filling his glass once more and setting the bottle well out of his reach. "Dere's a fight down in Toughers," she replied. "The industrial estate just west on R445."

"A fight?" Jack and Jimmy chorused in union.

Pam groaned and rolled her eyes before lifting her third glass of Guinness. The whiskey had done her some good, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could stay awake. The time change was still dogging her, and she felt bad for leaving Shayne alone their first night in Ireland. She checked her watch – it was half nine already.

"Aye, they got The Wolf fightin' Kevin McGee," Bryn nodded as she made change for a man waiting at the bar.

"It's fixin' ta be a right bloody time," the man replied. "The Wolf hasn't lost a fight since he started."

The man's friend joined him, shrugging into his coat. "Keep it down, Farley, aye? They ain't local, they're tourists. They open their gums an' we'll have tha coppers down on us in no time, breakin' tha whole ting up."

The first man waved off his friend's protests, and Jack stood proudly. "I'll have ya know dat we are very local. We're Danny Leary's kids."

Both men paused and drew the sign of the cross over their chests and then nodded gravely. "Aye, lad, aye, we heard tell you lot was comin' in. Shame about yer da, he was a fine gentleman. God rest his soul." The first man nodded to Jimmy and Jack in turn, and took Pam's hand and briefly held it before he turned and left.

"Aye, tha same goes fer me. Look, if ya need directions, we're headin' down ta Toughers now. Ya can follw if ya like."

Jack was already digging his wallet out, pressing bills into Bryn's hand with a promise of returning sometime later – quite later – and then he picked up his jacket. He swung an arm over Jimmy's shoulders and then leaned against Pam. "C'mon, then." He pulled his older siblings to the door. "There'll be blood t'night!" he crowed in farewell.


"I can't believe you talked me into coming here," Pam groused as she was shuffled into the large warehouse of a former feedlot.

Jack threw her a grin and laughed before accepting a flask of something thrust at him by another random patron. "I didn't do so much talkin' as tha whiskey did," he gasped after a gulp from the flask. He held it out to Pam with a lopsided grin.

"Shut up," Pam replied, elbowing her younger brother for good measure and taking a slug of whiskey before passing it along to Jimmy. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and took a deep breath, catching the scent of old – and new – blood, of sawdust, and stale whiskey and beer.

"Keep it down," Jimmy added, casting his dark gaze about, wary of the type of place they were in. Trust Jack Leary to find the only illegal boxing match in the county and drag his siblings to it, lock, stock, and key. He sighed and waved off the offer of whiskey that came from his sister.

Jack rolled his eyes at his older siblings and shrugged his shoulder. "C'mon. We best get in – I want to sit as close as possible."


In the backside of the warehouse, in the old staff locker rooms that now served as the fighters' quarters, Connor sat hunched on a wooden bench, watching as Murphy paced back and forth. Smoke streamed from the darker brother's nostrils, and he spun on his heel and stalked back across the space between lockers, muttering to himself.

"Murph, settle tha fuck down," Connor sighed, standing and rolling his right shoulder. It had stiffened up in the cold on the walk over and he was waiting for the water on the small camp stove to boil so that he could put together a makeshift compress. He folded a towel and tucked it into the bottom of a steel bucket, and checked the progress on the stove. "I've fought him b'fore. Ain't nothin' different."

"An' I'm tellin' ya, something's not right," Murphy countered. He turned and looked at his brother, his tilted blue eyes narrowed in the dim light cast by the bare bulb in the ceiling. "This isn't goin' ta end well. I feel it…"

"Christ above, don't say ya feel it in yer bones; ya sound enough like Ma as it is."

"Aye, yea, Lord's fuckin' name," Murphy replied, and the twins paused and hastily drew the cross and muttered a quick Hail Mary. When they were finished, Murphy finished his cigarette and immediately lit a new one, and dragged on it heavily. "Ya can't keep doin' this, Connor," he said at last, naming his fears and his doubts in one sentence.

Connor cast Murphy a quick glare from over his shoulder, and then upended boiling water over the towel in the bucket. Steam rose around him and he inhaled deeply. It smelled like sweat. "Did Da put ya up ta this?" he asked calmly. Beneath the surface, however, his blood was turning hot. Maybe it was the upcoming fight, maybe it was his younger brother telling him what he could and couldn't do, but Connor would not back down this evening.

"No, Da didn't fuckin' put me up ta this, ya fuckin' jackass." Murphy's hand came down on Connor's good shoulder and he pulled him around to face him. "Listen ta me, Conn, aye? M'yer brother. M'yer goddamn twin." He caught Connor's blue gaze, so like his own, and held it for breathless seconds until he saw the spark of recognition from somewhere deep in Connor. "Don't be reckless t'night, aye?"

Connor was usually unruffled by Murphy's broodiness, by his darker half's sudden ability to just feel things out. Would have done him a world of good back in Boston. Still, he nodded, more or less to get Murphy to stop spouting his bad omen bullshit than to actually agree with him. He wouldn't admit that Murphy was right – that something was off about the evening. The mood had turned as quickly as the tide, suddenly, and a feeling of something achingly familiar had washed over Connor not ten minutes earlier. It had made his skin turn cold.

Murphy made a face, not fully convinced that Connor was actually listening, but he wasn't about to push his luck. These days, Connor was more likely to blow up at anything and anyone, including his twin. Instead, Murphy merely nodded and took the steaming towel from Connor's hands, and laid it on the affected shoulder. He held it in place with one hand while the other cupped the back of Connor's neck, steadying them both. With a reserved sigh, Murphy leaned down, pressing his forehead against Connor's, and silently, together, they prayed.


"Who's fighting tonight?" Jimmy asked as he sank down on Pam's left side.

Pam shrugged. "Don't know. Illegal boxing matches don't seem to have programs," she muttered, shooting Jack a pointed look. She was uneasy, and for good reason. Her last experience with an illegal boxing match, though after the fact, had resulted in bullet holes and the scent of burning flesh permeating the space so much that a year later, when she'd brought Matt home for the first time, he'd commented on it.

Jack ignored the dig from his sister, knowing that despite her comments, she was actually intrigued by the turn of events – he could tell by the gleam in her eye. "Um, some local named Connor McLeod or something. He's up against Kevin McGee."

"Connor McLeod," Pam repeated, her heart stuttering at the eerie similarities, "is the guy from Highlander." Beside her, Jimmy snorted.

"That guy at Bryn's said something about 'The Wolf'. I'm guessing that's McLeod. Will you two stay here for a minute? I have to see a guy about a bet." Jack rose and wove through the crowd, and soon he was swallowed by the milling men and women that circled the ring like hungry sharks.

"Jesus, he's not even hiding it, is he?" Jimmy uttered, craning his neck as he tried in vain to keep an eye on his little brother.

Pam bristled once more. She was not going to sit idly by while her youngest brother dug himself into an early grave. She'd seen first hand what gambling did, what it was capable of. Nate Abernathy was proof enough. "I'll get him," she said as she stood.

Jimmy nodded, standing too. "I'll go this way. You go the other way. Together, we should be able to cut him off before he gets into too much trouble."


Connor ducked out of the locker room and barreled through the crowd, following the broad set of Murphy's shoulders. He kept his vision straight; the hood of his sweatshirt hid him from the prying eyes as he made his way to the ring. The crowd was epic that night, and they seemed louder…rowdier…than he could remember. Despite the path that automatically opened up before he and his brother, he was still treated to hard fists to his shoulder, slaps on the back, and shoves, and shouts of encouragement and for blood rang in his ears. Murphy looked back once with a lifted brow, but said nothing, and shoved the spectators aside as they came to the ring.

There was no need to announce the fight; it wasn't that type of thing. It wasn't like Boston, when Gin Rickey had fought Tommy the Natural. Hell, he'd been adamant about the whole knuckler thing from the beginning, but this was nothing like laying a beating for Colm Gareghty. This wasn't about money. It was about blood, and his fists and his fury. Da had been wrong; the feelings hadn't gone away, hadn't mellowed or faded in the least. They'd boiled and distilled, and worked through his veins until he could feel it in his fingertips.

Murphy held the ropes apart for him, and Connor bound up the rough hewn steps and ducked into the ring. Now, the crowd roared again, as their returning working-class-hero entered the fray. He paced a few times and then finally pulled his sweatshirt off and tossed it to Murphy, and then took a seat on the low stool and stared across to the other corner where Kevin McGee sat.

The last time they'd fought, it had been well matched. McGee was seven years younger than Connor, and he'd been full of piss and vinegar, but Connor was seasoned and hardened after his stint in Boston and the fights that had led up to that first time. They'd gone eight rounds before Connor finally took pity on the kid and opted not to use his boyish face as a speed bag. He let loose his famous right hook, followed by a brutal uppercut, and the kid had staggered back against the ropes, still conscious enough to keep going, but smart enough to call the fight.

Connor had made a lot of money that night.

Now, McGee was glaring at him, his once perfect nose permanently crooked from the last meeting with Connor's right hand. His dark eyes were narrowed as he looked for any crack he could find in Connor's armor. He wouldn't admit it to the throng of cousins that surrounded him, but McGee was nervous about the fight. The pain he'd suffered from his last bout with The Wolf was still fresh, though it had been three months prior. More than his body had suffered – his pride had, too. Connor MacManus was rumored to be more in his whiskey than his fights, and McGee had counted too heavily on that. He never thought that the drink would be a driving factor. He waved away the bottle that Frankie held to him and continued to gaze back at Connor's unwavering stare.