Author's Note: I know many people would have written this chapter from Devin and Murphy's perspectives. But I was more interested in seeing how Niamh and Connor reacted to seeing their twins in pain, but helpless to do anything about it. I think that's much more interesting than focusing on how Dev and Murph are miserable, coz honestly, isn't that kind of self-evident?

Also, as promised, this chapter kicks off the third plot of the story, the one following the Saints' exploits against the scum of Boston. For the purposes of this story, the Saints will only be focusing on one group of bad guys- our favorite villains, the Yakavetta mob. Yes, I realize that Papa Joe was killed [rather spectacularly] at the end of the movie, but I'm using this mob because (a) everybody knows who these guys are, and (b) I could place the mob both in Boston and New York, and that would tie the Saints' job in with the relationships between Connor and Niamh and Devin and Murphy.

Special Thanks: Thanks to my mom, for shipping me a new laptop cord. In celebration of the fact that I have my internets back, I'm posting two chapters instead of just one. Yay.

Parilitas

Niamh paced through the MacCoy girls' Brooklyn studio loft, hands behind her back as her agile, restless mind worked. Back and forth, to and fro, from the partitioned area where their beds lay to the kitchenette at the other end. She kept her pace measured and even as her thoughts ran haywire.

Against her will, Niamh's mind went back to the night the girls had returned from Boston. The moment Devin had dropped to her knees, Niamh had known what had happened. Murphy had played her sister for a fool, again. He had had his fun with her, then dropped her. Though Niamh felt the self-righteousness that came with being right, she hated that she had been right. Part of her had wanted Murphy to prove her wrong, to sweep Devin off her feet and give her what she'd spent years wanting- love, and marriage, and a family. To know that none of that would happen made Niamh all the more angry at him.

She had walked to her twin cautiously, dropping to her own knees when she saw the child-like, devastated look on Devin's face.

"Ye were right," she said, her shock and confusion plain in her voice. "He doesn' love me."

Devin looked up at Niamh, then broke down into tears. Niamh threw her arms around her sister, desperately wishing she could protect Devin from the pain she must now go through. Devin had already had to endure so much, and so much of that at Niamh's hands; she wished she could spare her sister more pain. But Niamh was helpless to do anything but hold on and not let her twin go.

Devin had collapsed into frame-rattling, gut-wrenching sobs, unable to hold herself up anymore. The sight of her normally composed sister so helpless sent the dual pains of anger and guilt ripping through Niamh's heart. She had only seen Devin like this twice before- when Cillian had died, and when she had told Devin that Murphy was dead. This was Devin at her most vulnerable, and Niamh found that she was afraid of seeing her twin like this.

Somehow, Niamh had gotten Devin into the car, and finished the drive to Brooklyn. It had taken Devin most of those two hours to cry herself out. As soon as they'd gotten their things into their loft, Devin had grabbed her wallet and taken off.

Niamh had wanted to follow her sister, but had gotten the feeling that Devin needed to be alone with her pain. So she contented herself with calling her ma and telling her the latest development, and then staying up and waiting for Devin to come home. Which she finally did, at 5 am, reeking of Jameson whiskey and tears. She had immediately staggered to her bed and passed out.

She had still been asleep when Niamh slipped out for early Mass. All through the service, Niamh had fervently prayed for her sister's peace and comfort, and for forgiveness for what she had done. After Mass, she had stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things. When she returned to the loft, she'd found Devin awake and dressed, busily cleaning the apartment while Brooklyn Heights Radio, an online station, blared from Devin's laptop. She furrowed her brow; she had expected Devin to stay in bed all day.

"Dev, what're ye doin'?" she asked, setting down the groceries.
"What's it look like I'm doin'?" Devin asked in a too-bright voice. "I'm cleanin'. This place is a wreck, Ma would be appalled."

Niamh sighed; so this was to be Devin's game. Instead of spending any more time mourning, she was going to go about and pretend that nothing was wrong. Of all Devin's malfunctional coping mechanisms, this was the one Niamh hated the most, because she knew Devin would use it as an excuse to not deal with what she was pretending hadn't happened.

She nodded, her heart skipping a beat when she saw her twin's left hand was bare. "Where's yer claddagh?"
"Gone," Devin replied shortly, her voice rough.
"Gone?" Niamh replied blankly. "But-"
"Nee, please," Devin had cut her off quietly, pausing in her labors of scrubbing dishes, but not turning. "I don' wanna talk about it. I jus' wanna forget."

Niamh had nodded and turned away to tend to laundry. She found that she was incredibly disturbed by the disappearance of Devin's claddagh ring. She knew it was for the best, of course; a future with Murphy was impossible, there was no point in holding on to the past. But to see Devin let go of the symbol of her hopes and dreams so quickly… for some reason, it worried Niamh.

That had been three weeks ago. Devin hadn't mentioned the MacManuses once, and so neither had Niamh. Devin had done all she could to appear happy and normal. She kept herself supernaturally busy, never letting herself stand still, and she laughed and joked with everyone she saw. But Niamh knew that Devin wasn't nearly as fine as she pretended to be; she knew that late at night, when Devin thought her twin was asleep, she would curl up in a tiny ball and quietly cry herself to sleep, as she had done ten years ago when she thought Murphy dead.

Devin's pain was her fault, and Niamh was finding it increasingly hard to live with that guilt. Oh sure, most of it was Murphy's fault for playing her for a fool. But none of this might have happened if Niamh hadn't lied to Devin ten years ago. If only she'd told Devin the truth, that the boys weren't dead but that they were never coming back. Devin would have mourned, yes, long and hard. But then she would have gotten over Murphy, and moved on with her life, not pined for him only to get hurt again.

She wanted to make it up to Devin somehow, but knew there was nothing she could do except help her sister hide from the pain. Which was what she was going to do. Hence her current pacing as she waited for Devin to return from her errands.

The door opened, and Devin walked in, her arms full of newspapers. "We have a problem," she announced, dumping the papers on the table and tossing a black duffel bag onto the floor with a clunk.
Niamh walked over to her sister. "What kind o' problem?"

Devin flipped through the pages of the New York Post, pointing to a certain article. Niamh pulled her glasses out of her pocket and fixed them on her face before leaning over the table, skimming the article. The headline read Mob Boss Moves.

"What th' fuck?" she asked, picking up the paper and taking a closer look while Devin tossed the black duffel into a cupboard.
"Conzenio Yakavetta's leavin' New York an' movin' down ta Boston," Devin replied, starting a pot of water for tea.
Niamh smirked. "Tryin' ta escape justice, is 'e?"
"Not exactly," Devin said, measuring tea leaves into the caddy. "'E's movin' ta take over as head o' the family, now Papa Joe's dead. If he can consolidate th' Boston an' New York branches o' the family, he'll be one o' the most powerful dons on the East Coast. An' work'll increase tenfold."
"Oh, tha' reminds me," Niamh said. "We need ta go ta Boston." Devin stiffened, and Niamh rushed to explain. "Sorry, I didn' mean fer it ta come out that blunt. But the Angels have themselves a coupla copycat killers. Some idiots in Boston, callin' 'emselves the Saints. They killed Papa Joe a few months ago- in public, no less, yellin' an' causin' all kinds o' confusion. They've done jobs here, too."
"Yeh've gotta be shittin' me," Devin said, pouring the water and caddy into a teapot. "They can't be doin' a proper job of it, they've gotta be lookin' fer publicity."
"Aye, but they've come into our territory. An' they're copyin' what we do, an' doin' it damn well," Niamh said grimly. "An' we're gettin' the blame fer it. Or credit, if ye wanna be optimistic."
"So yer suggestin' that we take care o' Yakavetta, an' while we're at it get rid o' these Saints?" Devin asked.
Niamh nodded. "I don' think Conzenio'll stay in Boston. He's spent years gettin' New York under 'is thumb, he'll move headquarters here. Keep a few underbosses in Boston, at the most. But the Saints're in Boston, an' I don' want 'em followin' us an' tryin' ta take our hits."
Devin nodded. "Boston it is, then."

Niamh nodded again. Lately, Devin had buried herself in work, both at the pub and as an Angel of New York. She supposed it had something to do with the tattoo on her sister's hand; Devin considered faithfulness the most important thing in the world. Murphy had broken faith with her, so she transferred her devotion to him into keeping a faithful watch over the five burroughs, protecting the city from evil.

Ten years ago, in Ireland, the MacCoy sisters had been Called. The MacCoy women had a history of being Called to do the Lord's work in various ways- usually as spies and assassins. Now it was Devin and Niamh who bore the burden of being the Almighty's chosen ones, and it was they who recited the family prayer as a battle cry.

"When I raise my flashing sword and my hand takes hold on judgement, I will take vengeance upon mine enemies, and I will repay those who hate me. O Lord, raise me to Thy right hand, and count me among Thy saints."

They had killed many evil men throughout the five burroughs, but for the last year they had focused on the Yakavetta mob. Conzenio Yakavetta had taken over the New York branch of the mob. Now that Papa Joe was dead, it looked like Conzenio was angling to step up to the top position. And where he went, the Angels would follow.

Niamh walked outside to clean the car out in preparation of another trip to Boston. As she went, she flipped open her cell phone, knowing there was only one person who could help ease her helplessness, guilt, and frustration.

"Connor? I need ye. I'm gonna be in Boston fer a while, can ya meet me?"

Veritas

Connor MacManus was not a patient man. Granted, he was better than his brother (thus, in his mind, proving he was the elder twin), but patience was not one of his virtues. So the fact that Murphy had spent the past three weeks silently brooding had Connor wanting to pull his hair out. He had no patience. Especially not when people were bringing misery upon themselves by their own stupidity or stubbornness.

"For fuck's sake, Murph, if ya miss 'er that much, jus' fuckin' call 'er!" he exclaimed, after walking in on Murphy laying on the couch, staring out the window moodily.
"I can't," Murphy mumbled.
"O' course ye fuckin' can!" he said. "She gave ye her number, that means ye fuckin' call 'er! Ye love her, she loves ye, drive up ta see 'er!"
"I told 'er I was endin' it," Murphy cut in.

Connor was, for once, speechless. For a whole two seconds he could only blink, his jaw slack as he tried and failed to form words. Then he exploded.

"Jaysus fuckin' Christ, ya bloody idiot! Why the holy fuck would ya do somethin' like that?!"
"I can' take care of 'er an' be a Saint both," Murphy yelled.
"Bullshit," Connor said immediately. "Yer so fuckin' stupid! What the fuck are ye thinkin' of?"

That was the point that Murphy tackled Connor. The next moments passed in a blur of limbs and screams and punches. Then a strong pair of hands had grabbed them and knocked their heads together, and Connor couldn't see straight.

"Tha's enough," Da said evenly.

Murphy pulled free of their da and stormed off to his room, leaving Connor to stare, bewhildered.

"What the fuck's wrong with 'im?" he asked, rubbing the growing bump on his forehead. "He spent ten years cryin' for 'er, then 'e has 'er fer one day an' lets 'er go?"
"Leave 'im be, Connor," Noah said heavily. "Murphy did what he did out of love, an' it's killin' him."
"But it makes no sense, Da!" Connor protested.
"Have ye ever been in love, Connor?" Noah asked.

Connor made a face and shook his head. He'd always mistrusted love; look where it had gotten his parents, and look what it had done to Devin and Murphy. There was no room for that in his life, not with his Calling.

"It'll get to the point where love becomes the center of everythin'," Noah said, looking down the hall towards Murphy's door. "Where ye'll do anythin' ta keep the one ye love happy, an' safe. But Murphy's not free ta give Devin what she deserves. If he were ta do as yeh advise, an' marry 'er, he'd subject 'er to a life o' constant danger, an' fear, an' the possibility that he could die an' leave 'er. The only way fer him ta protect 'er is ta stay away, an' that's what he's doin'."

Connor was quiet for a moment, absorbing what his da had told him. It made sense, in theory; anyone connected to the Saints would be put in jeopardy. But he had the feeling that Devin was more than up to the challenge.

Personally, he couldn't imagine being in his brother's shoes. He imagined that it would be like having to give up Niamh… not that his friendship with her came even close to what he knew Murphy felt for Devin, but just the thought of shutting Niamh from his life again made Connor's blood run cold. He shook his head and spoke to clear his mind of the thought.

"Niamh's comin' inta town this weekend, with Devin," he told his da in a low voice. "Niamh has business ta take care of, she said they'd be in fer a week."

Noah nodded silently. Neither of them had to state that they wouldn't share this information with Murphy unless absolutely essential.

"Then I think we need ta go up teh New York," he said. "Papa Joe's brother is supposedly comin' down ta take over the family."
"If they rear their heads again, we'll be ready," Noah said sagely.
"And I've been talkin' ta some o' the boys in the police department, they said we've got competition," Connor said uneasily.
Il Duce looked up intently. "What?"
"They're called the Angels o' New York," Connor said. "They go after criminals in the city, been doin' it fer years now." He paused. "D'ye think they've been Called?"
Noah thought before answering. "I don't know. But we'll find out, an' if they're not…"

Connor nodded. He'd never considered that God would Call others to the path that he and his family walked. If these so-called Angels were frauds, they would feel the vengeance of God's truly called Saints.

Miscellaneous Notes

First off, about the chapter title. I realize that "helpless protection" is an oxymoron; that's kind of the point. Both Niamh and Connor feel helpless when faced with the misery that is Devin and Murphy right now, and they're both bound and determined to protect their sibling from further harm. Additionally, "protection" refers to the war that seems to be brewing between the Saints of South Boston and the Angels of New York. I hope that plot hasn't been done to death, because I'm really looking forward to it…

The girls' prayer comes straight from the movie. Da MacManus speaks those lines in a voiceover during the first scene when the twins are in church- right before the whole Kitty Genovese speech. I figured that the Angels should have a family prayer, and they couldn't know the MacManus prayer, so there we go. Whether that one word is 'haste', 'hate' or 'haze', I'm not sure; I can't find any two sites that agree with each other. So I made a judgement call.

Communication Notes

I wanted to find a Brooklyn radio station that played Irish music, but I had no luck in googling it. So I went with the online site. Also, I hope everyone realized that the New York Post is a real paper. I kind of wanted to find a Brooklyn paper, but the only one I found isn't in print anymore, so we went for the big city rag.