Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.
A/N: When I got the idea for this chapter, I knew it was exactly what I'd been waiting for to continue onward with this story. I mean, toddler-age Connor and Murphy? And their mother? Yeah, it really appealed to me, especially since I've never written anything quite like this before.
I know Annabelle isn't exactly depicted as the motherly type, but I really wanted to capture a maternal version of her younger self that still possessed some of the fire we see in the deleted scene for the first movie. That's why I wrote this from her point-of-view, because I felt like her description of the boys at this age would be better than one I could do for them.
Reviews are welcome, and I hope you like it! Next up (most likely) is age 5!
StarKatt427
When they are two, having just gained steady traction as they toddle around after their mother's rustling skirts, they are a mess, leaving chaos in their wake and testing her patience on a day-to-day basis. She cannot blame them entirely, though; her boys, unfortunately, seem to have gained her disposition rather than their father's more tolerant nature, possessing tempers as fiery as their mother's red hair and the same powerful lungs that fuel the anathemas she screams to the high heavens and the wails they let forth when enraged. And while they are very much like her, in them, she sees even more of their father: he is in the stubborn set to Connor's jaw and the narrowed glare little Murphy will sometimes shoot her when she chastises him, the charming grins they flash her way that almost instantly sooth any irritation. Regrettably, like her Noah, they have quite a knack for finding mischief, little imps that seem to take pleasure in tormenting her, the maniac giggles that echo throughout the house the only giveaway as to their location when they're hiding from her wrath.
Some days are more difficult than others; not necessarily because of her boys, but because she is a single parent, is the sole provider for her children. Sure, there are neighbors, and her relatives are oft to stop by and help out, though not as frequently as when the twins were still babies. But she does her best not to complain, only in times of extreme weakness or when there is whisky scorching her tongue, addling her brain, and she curses that man for leaving her behind to raise not one, but two children.
Annabelle doesn't hate her husband; never could. After all, she married him, even if she does call him bastard when the strain becomes too much and she remembers that he is not there and hasn't been since before Murphy and Connor were born. Because Noah isn't there to bring them up right, to teach them the ways of the world as only a man can and direct them down the right path, it has been left up to her to make them into strong, capable lads, to lead them to God and remind them never to forget themselves, a task she is devoted to accomplishing and one that weighs heavily on her shoulders. But she loves him still, and when she sees her boys' blue eyes and feels the sticky pressure of sloppy kisses against her cheek, she loves him all the more, for without him, she wouldn't have her children.
They are so similar, but as they grow, they are becoming distinctly different people. Her Connor is both the older and louder of the two, the one who laughs more, but it is Murphy's hoarse voice that carries across their small home; Connor who seems to be the natural leader of the pair but who will nevertheless follow diligently after his twin, Murphy the sneakier of the two but also the one more likely to search her out to clutch at her leg. Their features have changed with age so that while they are still obviously brothers, they are less likely to be noticed as twins: Connor's hair is as fair as it was the day he was born, whereas Murphy's has darkened, her younger boy's face a little leaner that his counterpart's and even now one pound behind in weight.
Yes, they can be little devils when they want to be. And yet they have their moments, Annabelle muses, when they aren't snarling over toys or wrestling each other into the ground, a maelstrom of flailing limbs and snapping teeth and screeching voices and fingers tugging violently at hair. Murphy will sometimes return from the yard with a handful of flowers, theirs roots still attached and his little fingers grimy with dirt, mouth a wide grin that captures her heart as she graciously accepts his gift. Connor, after sucking down a bottle of warm milk, will burrow his face into her neck and say he loves her just before falling asleep, and her affection will get the best of her as she clutches her dozing babe closer.
It is the mornings that are her favorite, though, when she quietly enters their nursery and simply gazes at them for a few moments where they both lay in one of the two cribs, despite her best attempts to keep them in their own beds. Most nights as of late, one will wake, or both will, and they will squirm and climb about until they are in the same bed, wrapped around each other like wee angels, symbolic of their time shared in the womb. Sometimes, when she comes to wake them, Connor will have a leg thrown over his twin's hip, or Murphy's arm will pin his brother down; other times, they are on opposite sides of the mattress, but even then, they are touching, the tips of their fingers brushing in sleep.
And when they wake, blue eyes bleary behind their rubbing little fists and hair sticking up in the back, they will look at one another first, a look she cannot understand (for she is not a twin), as if to assure themselves that the other is accounted for. Then she will catch their attention where she stands over them, watching the whole occurrence fondly, and their eyes will alight with love as they smile sleepily at her.
It's when Annabelle has one on each hip, Murphy's fingers catching in her hair and Connor's head against her shoulder, that the screaming and fighting and frustration and stress become worth the wrinkles and gray hairs she knows will soon be cropping up. It makes every hardship meaningful, and as she kisses each atop the head, she loves her boys more fiercely than she ever has or will anything.