A/N: First Boondock Saints fanfiction. I would appreciate it if you didn't give me any flames. I'm a sensitive person and it's bad when I see someone trashing something I get passionate about. Now, I'm all for constructive criticism because that's meant to help you. If you're just going to be rude, I don't even suggest saying anything. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this! :3

Chapter One

If, for a second, you think I'm lying you might as well not even listen to this damn story. What would be the point in it?

Yes, I know the Saints personally. No, I do not know where they went. Was I involved romantically? Possibly. That's none of your Goddamn business.

But if you must know, I guess I should tell you the whole fucking story. After all, a firsthand account is the best to have.

The story starts with me. Rhiannon Marie Welch. Best friend to David Della Rocco, AKA "The Funny Man". He supposedly was part of the Italian mafia but I never saw what he did in it really. Just ran around delivering messages like a chicken with it's head cut off, that was about it. He tried his best to move up but was stopped at every possible chance.
At the time, I lived on the poor side of Boston. I couldn't afford anything but cable and a shitty VHS which hardly worked half the time-on a good day, I was able to watch maybe ten or twenty minutes of Ghostbusters or This Is Spinal Tap before it decided to shit out on me. A DVD player? You could fucking forget it. If I could barely afford cable, how the fuck was I supposed to afford a DVD player?
I was told by many people-mother, father, sister, brother, friends, lovers-that I was a creature of habit. I had a ditch that I liked to walk each day, figuratively speaking of course. My routines were the same each morning. Get up, thirty minute shower, eat breakfast (which usually was whatever I had in my fridge at that particular moment), drink my coffee, get dressed, hair and make up, and then it was off to work. Then a thirty minute lunch break, followed up by at least two to three more hours of working before I was sent home. After that I would walk into my apartment, grab the morning paper, skip the articles and look at the funnies, and go to bed promptly at eight to start the morning over again. I lived what some would call a dull life. To me, that's just how shit was. I never expected anything different.

I liked to wear baggy clothes. They were comfortable and wouldn't cut off my blood circulation. I preferred sweaters that were at least a size too big, so that when it got cold I could be warm. But it seemed, at least as of late, my smallest sweater seemed to be a little loose.

I never dressed up much. I never saw the point in it. Not many guys would cast glances my way (or if they did, I never noticed). My long blonde hair reached my waist, it hadn't been cut in years-I never had the money-and the numbler of split ends that I had were plenty and counting. The most I would do-could do-was braid it.
My eyes were deep set, the bright emerald green color that peered out from under my long, thick lashes strong enough to draw enough attention and then some. I never saw green as attractive. I hated the color green. Absolutely despised it. But yet, it was staring back at me every time looked in the Goddamn mirror.
How fucking lovely.
In the spare time that I had outside of my routine, I would play guitar and write stories-namely short stories, of far off lands with princes and princessess, that sort. Some would say it was childish, but it was what I liked to do.
But enough about me. Let's actually start this damn story.

It began on a day like any for me; for the Irish, today was a day of celebration.
St. Patrick's Day. March 17, 1999.

I worked at a caffee shop that opened around seven in the morning and closed around eight or nine, depending on the days. There was really only a morning rush, and around noon was when it finally slowed down. At night there were only few visitors that came in and out for their coffee or a muffin. That was about it.

I looked up from the bar to greet the next customer and crossed my arms. Rocco stood there, a shit eating grin on his face.

"Rhiannon."

"Rocco. Whatcha need?"

"You to come with me to McGinty's tonight."

I raised my eyebrows. "McGinty's?"

"It's an Irish bar, okay? Come on. Just one night." He shrugged.

"Rocco..." I sighed, shaking my head. "Look. I get off at seven. I go to bed at eight. At the latest nine. I ain't going out tonight. Go find one of those whores you know."

"I tried, they're out of town."

"Of course they are." I sighed. "What's in it for me?" I crossed my arms.

"I'll buy you a beer."

"A beer?"

"Alright. A round."

"That's better." I nodded and grabbed a coffee cup. "Black?"

"And scalding."

Walking into McGinty's that night, I was greeted by laughter and yelling from the bar. Two men especially were having a great time, banging their hands on the bar and hooting and hollering like they've just heard the best joke ever. Rocco put an arm around me, keeping me close.

"Hey, fuck-ass, get us a couple of beers!" he told the bartender.

"Fuck-ass?" I looked at Rocco.

"You'll see in a minute." He looked over at the two men at the bar, greeting them with a grin. He took his arm off me as the strangers hugged him the best they could, while a few others patted him on his head. I stood there for a moment, messing with my hands. I felt a little out of place, being the only woman. I wore a green sweater (after arguing with Rocco about the whole damn thing for at least thirty minutes) with a v-neck cut that showed more than enough cleavage, at least for me-I told you, even my tightest sweaters were getting loose- my black jeans, and my old, faded Converse that I wore everywhere since my senior year of high school (and I graduated six years ago).

Rocco's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Boys, this here is Rhiannon Welch, a dear old friend of mine." He had his arms around the men I had mentioned earlier. "Rhiannon, these are the MacManus brothers. Connor," he motioned to the man on his left. He had brown hair that was a bit wayward, spiking up in places it pleased. Connor smiled, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and putting it out. "And Murphy." Rocco motioned to the man on his right. Murphy's hair seemed to be a tad bit darker than Connor's, though with the dim light it was hard for me to tell. His hair laid flat on his head, though there were few spikes here and there. And his eyes were the bluest I had ever seen on a man-unless you counted Michael J. Fox, who was my celebrity crush growing up (my hopes and dreams of marrying him were dashed when he married Tracy Pollan in 1988).

From what I could tell, the brothers had a tattoo of Mary Magdalene on their necks and on their hands were the words Veritas and Aéquitas. Veritas was on Connor's while Aéquitas took residency on Murphy's.

"Hi." I waved.

"How are ya?"

"Nice ta meet ya."

The brothers smiled at me and I smiled back, shyly. They had thick accents. I could say it was Scottish. But I would have been dead wrong.
I've been to Ireland twice in my life. These men were Irish, through and through. Case closed, motherfucker.

Murphy motioned to my sweater.

"Are ya afraid of gettin' pinched?" He joked.

"What?" I looked at my sweater and remembered that it was a thing on St. Patrick's Day. Don't wear green, you get pinched. "Oh, no. Rocco made me wear it."

"Pickin' out girls' clothing, Rocco?" Connor teased him. "Want to try it fer yerself?"

"No, I don't want to try it for myself. I like helping unfortunates any way that I can."

"Oh, well gee, thanks." I hid my smile the best I could and placed a hand on my hip. Connor and Murphy laughed as I moved to hit Rocco with my purse. When he flinched, I smirked and set it down on the bar.

The bartender was an elderly man with white hair, combed over to one side, and thick glasses to help him see better. He had Tourette's syndrom, shouting "Fuck!" and "Ass!" at random times, usually one right after the other, hence the nickname "Fuck-ass".

The people left sat at the bar. There were three men to my right, Murphy to my left. Next to him sat Rocco and next to him was Connor. After that, it was a few other men I didn't know the names of.

"Listen, everyone, I've got some very bad news." The bartender addressed us, holding his hand up to quiet us down. "I'm gonna have to close down t-t-the bar." Also, he stuttered a bit. I was used to people with a stutter. My brother's was exceptionally bad. "The Russians are buying up buildings all over the town, includin' this one. Fuck! Ass!" he turned his head for a moment when he shouted those and then turned back to us. "And they're not lettin' me renew my lease."

There was some disgruntled chattering throughout the small crowd left at the bar. That was a shame. The place was beginning to grow on me, not that I would've mentioned that to Rocco, who would've given me a shit eating grin and started chanting "I told you so!".

I readjusted myself on the bar stool, my leg bumping into Murphy's for half a second. I glanced over at him to see if he had noticed, but if he had he made no sign of it. He probably didn't care.

"Let me talk to my boss. Maybe he can do something." Rocco suggested.

"What the fuck's your boss gonna do?" Connor stared at him as Murphy hit him upside the head.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey. Listen, fellas," the bartender held his hands up again. "I don't want anyone to know. So you keep your traps shut! You know what they say: People in glass houses sink s-s-ships."

I furrowed my eyebrows as laughter erupted at the bar.

"Hey, Doc, I gotta buy you, like, a proverb book or somethin'. This mix-and-match shit's gotta go." Rocco laughed.

"What?" the old man looked a little confused.

"A penny saved is worth two in the bush, isn't it?" Connor smiled. Murphy tapped the bar twice.

"And don't cross the road if you can't get out of the kitchen." He added. The laughter continued.

At least until a door slammed shut and all sound in McGinty's ceased.