A/N: Chapter three is up and running! So far I haven't had anyone beta this so if you would like a chance to get the chapters before I post them, please send me an email or private message via the site. Would love some outside opinion on the characters and plot. Hope you enjoy this little tidbit, more is coming I promise! Don't forget to R&R!

Chapter 3: Moments

It'd been weeks since the incident at the shipyard. She'd had no word about her papers. She was strangely saddened she hadn't heard from at least Connor. He'd at least been mildly pleasant to her.

"Mind ye, ye did threaten to kill 'em if ye ever saw 'em again." she muttered to herself as she lit a cigarette and sat down at her table.

Leaning back she rested her neck on the back of the chair as she inhaled the nicotine. Her fingers traced where her claddagh had once sat. The bastard. She knew he was only trying to get a rise out of her, and it had worked like a charm. Good riddance, she thought to herself, the less ye carry with ye from the past, the better off ye are.

Her arm still hurt like a bitch, but the stitches were done well enough that she could pull them out in a few days and the scar wouldn't be terrible, a thin line that was a penny in length. The burn that covered her bullet wound was nearly healed, fresh pink scar tissue peeked out from underneath her tank top. It would take more than couple of weeks for the ache to subside. She needed to work the muscle more.

With a groan she sat up and put her lit smoke in the ashtray. Craning her neck to stretch it out, she padded barefoot through the morning sunshine spilling into her living room. She flipped the latch off her punching bag and bent down to pick up her wraps.

She hooked her thumb into one and began to loop the fabric around her knuckles. As she wrapped, she paced around her small apartment. It was the fourth floor of a loft style building. They were a plenty down in South Boston. Her "living room" as she called it, was a corner of the open space near the window. Her couch pressed back against the window, facing the door to her fire escape/balconette. She stepped up onto the worn cushion and nudged the window open with her good elbow. The fresh spring air wafted in, bringing the smells of the baker below with it.

Having secured her wraps, she stepped back up to the bag. As she rolled onto the balls of her feet she began to sway back and forth, she started slowly giving the bag a left right manoeuvre. The more she hit, the faster she moved. Her feet jogged back and forth and she began landing harder hits, a jab to the left, a hook to the right, the occasional uppercut thrown in for good measure. Boxing had always been a past time for her, even before she got involved with the Republican Army, and after she joined ranks with the Army, boxing helped her keep her on the ball. The resistance of the bag made her want to move it even more. It was almost like dancing, something she wasn't any good at. Hitting people however, well that was just more her style.

As she pounded the leather bag, she let her thoughts wander. As she landed a hard right hook, she felt her shoulder give a little. She saw Murphy MacManus's face the first time she'd ever hit him. It had been totally by accident, but the bruise had lasted for weeks.

She was swinging. The bitch thought she was something special. Branna could tell. She could always tell the ones who thought they were tough shit. Well, she asked for it. She weighed her options as she stood facing the red headed woman, fists up.

"Go on, hit me ye bleedin' eejit. I dare ye." the girl called. Before she could even open her pissflap of a mouth, Branna had laid into her. The ruckus led to a few other patrons, particurlarly of the male variety, swarming in. Someone went to grab her from behind and she swung, planting a punch square in the face of the quiet blue eyed man she'd seen earlier that day out in the country.

"Fuckin' hell woman. What's got inta yer head?" he exclaimed, clutching the right side of his face. She was shell shocked. She would have remembered those eyes anywhere. Clear pale pools of blue set in a wide face. Those eyes held things that she couldn't quite put to words. Right now there was anger 'bout ready to flood the gates. Before she could offer an apology, the man grabbed her arm and dragged her out into the street. She could hear the angry woman inside screaming bloody murder.

"Good lord, I- I'm sorry." she stuttered out. He was pulling her across the road to a bench facing the town square.

"S'alright I s'pose, but fuck woman. Ye coulda warned me first that ye had a bitch of a right hook." he rubbed the injury and sat down.

"That bloody woman spilt her drink all over me clean jeans and then proceeded to scream at me for stealin' her man. I was sitting all quiet just enjoying me beer, she started it!" Branna bristled.

Who was he to drag her out of a perfectly good brawl? Normally, she was the one having to defend herself. This time, she'd done nothing wrong and he'd gone and busted up her fun.

"Maybe so, but dontcha think that fightin' a local on her home turf was a wee bit retarded?" he looked up at her pointedly.

He had a point. She relented and sat down on the bench.

"I really am sorry y'know. I never meant to cause trouble at yer local watering hole. Tell yer friend there that alas I don't think that John Darcy'll be treating me too well should I come back."

"Brother." he said.

"Come again?"

"He ain't me friend, he's me brother. Connor, the one who told ye to go there in the first place."

"Well then, tell yer brother that I be terribly sorry if what I did causes the two of you grief with Mr. Darcy. I'm Branna by the way. Branna Ferguson." she offered her hand. He took it up and gave it a light shake.

"Murphy MacManus."

Snapping back to reality, Branna threw all her weight into her next punch. The pain soared through her right shoulder making her gasp and clutch the injured muscles that were throbbing with pain. Fucking Murphy MacManus. How could that man have gotten so close to her heart? There was something volatile in his soul that seemed to call out to her own, kindred spirits someone had once told her.

Taking a deep breath, she released her arm and pushed her bangs off her sweaty forehead. Her skin was slick with perspiration. She should call it quits for a day, wouldn't do to overwork the muscle back into injury. Looking up at the clock hung on the wall she saw she'd been at it almost 45 minutes. Behind her, she heard the floorboards creak. Spinning around she swung with her arm and connected with skull. Her knuckles throbbed under the wraps. The intruder fell back, groaning from the impact. She raised both her fists, ready to strike again if he came for her.

When the stranger stood up Branna immediately saw that it was indeed no stranger but Connor MacManus, reeling in the middle of her apartment.

"Fer fucks sake Connor, ye scared the bejesus right out of me." she didn't offer an apology. Instead she walked over to him and pulled him a chair.

"Take a seat, I gave ya good whollop."

"Aye, a whollop is right. I forgot how well ye packed a punch. I seem to recall that bein' Murph's jurisdiction." he joked weakly, taking a seat. "Fuck woman, ye really beaned me. Fair play."

With a sigh, she sat down across the table from him and lit herself a cigarette.

"What are ye doin' here Connor. How the fuck did ye even get in here? " she asked pointedly.

"I found yer papers. Did a bit of askin' around, they'd been given to some little punk way on the other side of town. Didn't take too much to get 'em back fer ye." he explained as he pulled the documents out of his coat.

"As fer how I got in here, lets just say ye got a wonderful little old lady on the first floor who was more than willing to let a strapping young man as handsome as I in to visit the nice girl who lived upstairs." he laughed.

"Ah, Mrs. Hennessy. She's a dear, not quite up to speed on things, but sweet enough." she smirked.

"Ta be quite honest, when I didn't hear from ye, I figured me threat might've kept ye from it." she added. She pulled the papers over to her and began to flick through them.

"Branna, I gave ye me word. I know yer threat wasn't directed at me, and I'd like to believe it was an idle threat. The Branna I knew couldn't follow through on something like that." he said leaning forward.

"Truth be told Connor, ye didn't really know me too well." she countered, handing him a light. He lit the cigarette and passed it back to her.

"Perhaps, but I know me brother, and I know he doesna fall easy. He fell like a lead balloon fer ye. Say what ye will but I din want to think that the girl who stole me brother's heart away could shoot him faster than she can blink."

"Ye know nothing of the sort. Ten years is a long time. People change. I changed. What Murph and I had all those years ago… it was… " she couldn't bring herself to say it.

"Whatever it was, it's over now." she resigned.

"Aye, people change." was all he said. Standing, he rubbed the side of his head and flashed her a smile.

"All the shootin' aside, was nice to see a familiar face. Maybe we'll see ye around town, now that ye aren't gunnin' fer us anymore."

"Perhaps." Branna smiled. Unlikely, she thought.

As Connor turned to leave, she stood abruptly.

"Con," she called. He turned back. "Thanks for fixin' me up. Ye did a good job with the stitches."

"Ah, wasn't anything special. Just don't be askin' me to mend yer shirts. Murphy learned that the hard way." he winked and started for the door, giving her a quick wave as he closed the door.

* * * *

Downtown, Murphy was sitting in the cathedral. He was watching the priest meander through the wide open aisle while the altar boys prepared for service tomorrow morning. It was a quite Saturday morning. Quiet everywhere except in his head.

He couldn't get the image of Branna out of his head. Her thick chocolate brown hair in that braid, wisps too short to be restrained hanging loosely around her blank face. Her eyes, hardened as she'd pointed the gun at him. She would've shot him if she hadn't been shot first. What the fuck was he doing? Why wouldn't the woman just let him be? She'd been the one to disappear.

When her eyes finally saw who she was holding the knife too, panic swept through them. Dropping the weapon, she scrambled backwards, dragging herself through the blood as she tried to put as much distance as she could between them.

"God, Murphy, I-" she'd started.

"What the fuck is happenin' Branna? Why the fuck is there a dead body on yer floor and what the fuck are ye doin' covered in blood?" he asked.

He was kneeling in the blood now. When he'd realized this, he'd shot upright. Pacing back and forth he saw Branna, out of the corner of his eye, shakily trying to pull herself up into a standing position.

"Ye don't understand Murph, he'd come to kill me. The Army'd sent him. I was getting' to close, I was sloppy -"

At the words "kill me" he'd stared wide-eyed at her.

"The Army? Kill ye? What for? Close to what? Goddamnit all to fucking hell, ye better start explaining."

"I'm the Army's cleaner. I tie up loose ends, make sure their accounts are paid in full." she said with resignation. Obviously, she hadn't wanted him to know that. For good reason. She stood before him, covered in blood, her beautiful green eyes hollow.

"They sent him. He came to kill me for goin' after Colin Fitzpatrick, the man who set the bomb that killed Seamus." she breathed. "Ye don't understand, this is bigger than me."

"Ye were goin' after Colin Fitzpatrick? Are ye bloody daft? The man lives with AK forty-fucking-sevens under his pillow at night! There was no fucking way you'd ever have been able to get close enough!" he'd started shouting.

How could he explain that he knew exactly what she was talking about? That he understood the dark pull to follow the evil into its bed. He couldn't very tell her about Boston. He knew what those men were capable of. Did she? Or was she just another Rocco, a lackey that was expendable when they said so?

"I had to. Ye have to understand Murphy. This was it. Once I had him, once I knew he could never hurt another human being again, I was done. I want to disappear with ye Murphy MacManus." she'd come forward then, close enough that he could see the slice across her eyebrow, leaving a trail of blood down her cheek.

She'd started to cry then, tears mixed with blood. She reached for him, to pull him close. He couldn't. The sting of betrayal sat too close to the surface right now. Backing away he shook his head in disbelief.

"Disappear with me? Fuck! Seems I barely even knew ye! Siding up with the Army? Doin' their fucking dirty work? Yer lucky ye got an eejit who didn't know how to use a fucking knife dear, cause had it been me after ye, ye wouldn't be the one standing right now. I just can't fucking deal with this shit. I don't even fucking know ye."

He watched as what he was saying registered in her head. Her eyes widened, he saw the lump rising in her throat. God, was he so sick in the head that even covered in blood, he found her as beautiful as an angel? He closed his eyes, trying to replace the Branna he saw now, as regal as the angel of death covered in another man's blood, with the Branna he'd thought he'd known just days before, laughing and smiling as they spent afternoons laying in bed.

"Murph, love, please. Please, ye know me. Ye know me better than anyone in this whole wide fucking world. Please, ye just have to understand…" he heard her plead. Stiffening his resolve, he took yet another step back.

"I think I understand well enough."

He'd left her there. Left her to clean up her own bloody mess. The next day he'd heard she'd left. His beautiful Irish angel, gone.

The cathedrals bells chimed the noon hour. The clanging melody brought him back to where he was.

"Father forgive me." he whispered as he made his way out of the church.