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: This is way later than I would have liked, but my creativity left me high and dry for a bit there, and I didn't have any motivation to finish this chapter; which is sad, because I really like the idea for Age 5. I'm finally adding in some actual conversation! I did a little research on the school system in the UK while writing this, so I hope everything's accurate; Connor and Murphy are in the Junior Infants class (kids are 4 and 5, I believe), which is the equivalent of the US's K4 or K5 probably.

I'm planning that after this chapter (and probably the next) to have the story told usually from just one of the twin's perspectives, although there would be future chapters where we get both of them, so I'll have to see where I want to go with this.

StarKatt427

When they are five, they get their first real taste of fighting.

They have just started primary school, are four weeks into term, and Murphy and Connor stand against three boys almost half their size and twice their height on the play area, chins high and thin chests pressed out in an emblem of defiance. They do not cringe away from the sneers that are thrown at them by the Second Years, nor experience the terror of impending doom fill their bellies; they have done nothing wrong, after all, and even if they had, they have no qualms when it comes to facing those older than them. So, being the dauntless boys that they are, they stand out from their small group of friends and wait to see where this confrontation will lead.

The blonde in the middle, known only to them by his last name of O'Hare and presumably the leader of the opposing group, grins down at them, a wide display of teeth and gums that is more wolfish leer than actual smile. "What have we got here, lads? Ye trying to play ball?"

"Yeah. Now give it back," Connor says in reference to the football the boy cradles under his arm, having caught hold of it when one of their friends kicked too hard and it rolled to a stop near where the band of Second Years stood.

O'Hare repositions the ball, twirling it idly in both hands and glancing to the boys flanking him, smirk ever present. Connor and Murphy watch him closely, a tautness that can only be anticipation swelling inside them, spreading to their limbs. They've seen these boys at work before, whether when they're picking on their fellow classmates or targeting the younger students, and the twins have done well at avoiding them so far; not out of fear, of course, but they know that an argument is likely to escalate into a brawl, and they both promised Ma the night before school started that they would try their best to avoid trouble.

Standing here now, knowing things are likely to get out of hand and somewhat hoping they do, they both think she should be proud of them for lasting as long as they have.

O'Hare looks back to them, then briefly at their friends, a kind but intimidated lot who neither step up nor back away. "Seems to me like ye could use some proper training, ain't that right?" he asks, tossing the ball to the brunette on his left, the thickest of the trio.

"Sure is," he says in answer before passing back to O'Hare, who then hands off to their thus far silent companion. "We could school ye, give ye a real lesson."

Not one of the six boys chooses to take them up on the offer, though after a brief pause, Connor is the one to say, "We're fine."

"Come on, it's just a bit of sport, aye?" laughs O'Hare.

"He said we're fine." Murphy, who is steadily growing more agitated, cannot fully swallow down the irritation that leaks into his voice, jaw set mulishly as he glares at the challenging eight-year-old.

The boy on his right—green eyes, several shades darker than the grass—hands off to O'Hare again, whose eyes are fixed on Murphy in contemplation. "Is that right?" Without warning, he pushes the ball out from his body, the short distance between them making it accelerate in speed so that it nails Murphy in the chest with a resounding thwack, causing him to nearly lose his footing and topple into the boy behind him. His eyes widen for a second, more from surprise than pain, yet not a startled breath leaves him as he regains his balance, and he doesn't let the ball drop, hands managing to catch hold before it hits the ground.

Connor looks at his brother, Murphy's eyes cut to him, and like that, it's settled: there's no way they're letting these boys off lightly. However, they've been raised to never throw the first punch (if they can help it), so they wait, eyes frigid ice and the atmosphere suddenly ten times thicker, tenser, heavy with an upcoming tussle.

Staring up into the cocky, smirking faces and watching the looks that pass between the older boys, they are suddenly reminded of a story their mother read through with them not two nights back, one from the Bible that they are both particularly fond of. Two armies preparing to fight each other, Hebrews against Philistines. David verses Goliath.

In that moment, they are twin Davids facing down a three-headed Goliath, warriors battling a deadly Hydra, and they are not afraid: just as David was confident that he would come out victorious, there is no doubt in their minds that they aren't going to win this fight.

O'Hare snorts and casts a deriving look over them, one that only a spoiled child can achieve. "Probably can't even play. Ye have te have someone to teach ye, right? From what I've heard, it's just you two and yer old lady. Heard yer dad took off long 'fore ye were born. Probably got sick of that cow ye call a mother."

With that, something snaps, and the MacManus twins are upon them.

Murphy, still holding tight to the ball, forcefully takes aim and pegs O'Hare directly in the face, firm rubber making a painful sound when it collides with weak flesh; they don't give him a chance to recover from the shock, though, because both are simultaneously diving in, Connor's fist making direct contact with a freckled cheek, knuckles just beneath one eye, and Murphy using his entire body to slam into him, knocking the older boy flat to the ground so that he can straddle atop him and mercilessly pound on his chest while his brother lays waste to his face, wiping the simpering grin from his features. The other two boys, momentarily stunned, jump in and try to pull them off, one snatching at the scruff of Connor's neck and the other slamming a fist into the side of Murphy's head, but all this earns them is Connor's teeth latching onto the softest part of the first boy's hand, digging in just deep enough to draw blood, and Murphy kicking the brunette in the stomach so that's he doubles over.

Murphy may have been the one to take the initiative, and Connor might have been the one to land the first blow, but both give it everything they have because neither will tolerate having their father and, more importantly, their mother, spoken ill of.

There are shrieks from the girls, and the instructors are yelling at them, but they do not stop, each switching his focus from O'Hare to one of the two offending boys until they all have some physical evidence that they've been bested by children three years younger than them.

As they throw down, surrounded by a throng of excited and panicked children of different ages, their hands throbbing and skin smarting when the older boys get a hit in, something begins to take shape in Connor and Murphy's minds. This is different than their own scuffles, when the scratches and punches aren't enough to leave behind any long term damage and they are back to being the closest of playmates by the end of the day; it isn't like the spats they get into with their cousins or the few neighbor boys or their school friends, because it's all in good fun then. No, this is different. It is a red sensation, burning and bitter on their tongues, like the blood that swells from Connor's busted lip or the inside of Murphy's mouth where his teeth have torn into soft tissue; it's a rush, something flaring into existence that they never knew was within them, adrenaline and pain and exhilaration, the flavor of life, and though the tang is coppery, neither has tasted anything sweeter.

It comes to them in the very heart of the fray, the conclusion they arrive at.

They enjoy fighting.

It takes several teachers and even a few of the older students to pull the thrashing, panting boys apart, and Connor cannot help but grin when he sees that the fearless O'Hare has been reduced to a sniveling mess where he leans moaning against his grade's teacher. He laughs, still pulling at the hands that restrain him, as he watches the boys be ushered off. "Can't take what ye get, can ye? Cowards, that's what ye are, all of ye!"

Beside him, Murphy laughs breathlessly, and they look at one another, identical grins spreading their mouths, and though it tugs painfully on Connor's bleeding lip and Murphy's jaw aches, they do not stop smiling. They are led to their teacher, who hadn't been on recess duty but came outside when she heard the ruckus, and despite the fact that she reprimands them, asks them what they were thinking, checks to make sure they're not seriously injured, leads them to the principal's office, they don't care.

This is the first time they've ever experienced this feeling, and they are absolutely in love with it.

However, their battle high wears off almost as soon as the headmaster announces he's phoning their mother.

And that's the actual ending to this chapter! It wasn't, however, the initial one. While finishing up, the idea above came to me and was just too good for me to pass up, so I chose to let that be how the chapter closed. I love the original idea so much, though, that I couldn't bear to trash it, so here it is: Year 5.5.

When Annabelle MacManus is called to retrieve her troublesome children, she arrives a half-hour later in a near palpable rage, face just shy of being the same color as her hair and mouth a rigid line, expression only tightening when her gaze settles on two grass-stained little boys who sit with their eyes glued resolutely to the floor. Murphy has an angry bruise marring his cheekbone, ears red and sore from being boxed and a small stream of blood dried beneath his left nostril, while Connor's bottom lip is busted and his shirt stretched so that it hangs, baring one scrawny shoulder and a scratch just above his collarbone.

Just the sight of them sitting before the headmaster, all battered and fretful, makes her want to both tear their backsides up and tend to their wounds.

It takes more than a bit of conversing the matter over with the principal and their teacher—nearly an hour—before she is allowed to take her boys home—and is asked to keep them there for the next three days.

Damn. She's grown quite fond of her time alone, when she can actually do something without having to pull them apart every ten minutes.

The drive back is silent, though for various reasons: Annabelle is trying to decide on how she wants to handle the situation, while Connor and Murphy aren't sure if speaking would earn them a backhanded slap to the face or not. In all honesty, they would rather be confronting those boys again than staring at Ma where she sits on Murphy's other side behind the steering wheel of their truck; she hasn't looked at them once since starting the engine, and they aren't sure whether this is a bad sign or not.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "Ye better have a damn good reason for that fight."

Neither comment on the fact that she cursed—the older they get, they've learned, the more inclined their mother is to inserting these words into her everyday vocabulary, so long as they know not to repeat them. Connor fidgets with his seatbelt, while Murphy stares out the window at the rolling countryside.

Annabelle looks at them, and just the feel of her piercing glare is enough to have both boys squirming in their seats when they glance up at her. "Well?"

She expects an answer, and now.

"They insulted Da," Connor says with a fire in his eyes, frown petulant. "And you. What else were we supposed to do?"

"Ignore them."

"We can't!" they cry concurrently.

"Well, yer gonna have to," she snaps. "Half the trash them boys spew is lies no better than the ones the Devil himself will try to whisper in yer ears. Sometimes, it takes more strength not to fight."

Murphy scowls, arms crossed over his chest. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Eh, shut it."

They do just that, not sure if their lecture is ending or just beginning but afraid to find out. She can't be letting them off that easily, can she?

"Anyway, I suppose I should be punishing ye now. What'll it be, boys?"

Identical groans, heads flopping back onto the seat; both know that question is not to be answered.

They are silent for another half-mile before Annabelle asks, "So? What do ye have to say for yerselves?"

Connor and Murphy look briefly at one another. Then, in their chiming, unrepentant little voices, they say through proud grins, "Ye should have seen the other boys."

For a moment, Annabelle simply stares at them, and neither can read the expression on her face. Then she looks back to the road, mumbling under her breath (the only part they can make out is smart aleck little buggers), and finally says, "Three days off, huh…helpin' me with the clothes washin' sounds like a nice place to start, doesn't it?"

Still, even as she's dishing out their punishment, they catch the brief twitching of her mouth, a very contrary expression, almost as if she's fighting a smile.