Along with starring Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus, Boondock Saints also showcased an excellent performance by Willem Dafoe as FBI Agent Paul Smecker. This story is a bit of Willem Sue since my appreciation for the boys came through the character, but I like to think it matches the looks he kept giving both of them during the course of the movie. Gwynedd Rook and Sleeps With Coyotes both betaed this bad boy. Any mistakes are solely my fault.

I have a problem. Actually, I have several problems, but the most immediate ones at the moment can all be traced back to the same source.

I'm apparently in love with the MacManus brothers.

I like to fuck men, but most of the men willing to be fucked by me are men I can't stand. Fags. Fairies. Flamers. Men who want to cuddle and talk about their feelings. Men who probably pass out at the sight of their own blood. Do you know what I want? An honest-to-god man. A man who gets into bar fights and swears as much as I do and talks about death without flinching. A man who handles a gun like a pro. A man I can like.

I like the MacManus brothers. I like their conviction and their bravado, the sheer ballsiness of their crusade--yeah, that's the word--against the dregs of the underworld. I like their faith. I have to like it when I have so little of my own. I like their efficiency. I like their intelligence.

I like the way Conner's voice flows like whiskey in my ear, the way Murphy's hair falls so dark and soft-looking across his forehead, the way both their eyes gleam with secret, wary amusement. And therein lies the root of my problem. I'm used to hating the men I lust after. When I'm attracted to a man I actually like, it's a small thing, easily shrugged off. I'm not used to this...this admiration. This hunger.

I sit alone in my apartment on a Tuesday night, the criminal record of one David Della Rocco staring at me from my computer screen. I remember this guy. I remember him slipping past me when I was handling the Press. He brought the brothers their clothes, which I thought was kind of a shame because there's nothing quite like a worn bathrobe and a pair of cotton boxers to show off hard-muscled legs and a well-defined chest and *still* make the wearer look somehow vulnerable. Harmless.

Jesus, I got it bad, don't I?

Now I know it's the brothers cutting a bloody, cleansing swathe through the ranks of the damned. Now I have to decide what to do about it. It's my job to bring them in, no matter how right I think they are. No matter how good I think they are. No matter how my dick jerks at the memory of Murphy's sweet half-smile, Conner's eloquent hands.

"Angels don't kill," I'd said, which is bullshit because what's the Old Testament all about? And then they'd dragged themselves in to answer my questions, battered and spirited and fucking brilliant. I liked them better than anyone I'd ever met before. I thought they were gorgeous, but I thought I'd get over it after a fantasy or two. Because they were just boys killing in self-defense then, just two brothers fiercely devoted to each other...until they escalated it.

They're still learning, there have been mistakes made at each crime scene, but they have a natural aptitude that's quickly overcoming their lack of experience. They're artists. If they hadn't brought in Rocco, I still wouldn't know they were the ones doing it. I wouldn't know, and I wouldn't be growing obsessed, and I wouldn't be sitting here thinking about not doing my job, for God's sake.

Right. The hell I wouldn't know. I should at least be honest with myself about this. I hid the finger because I already knew. And I'd already fallen.

The only evidence I have points to Rocco. I'd bring him in, but I get the feeling he's a stupid fuck. I'm not so sure he wouldn't implicate the brothers. Maybe not on purpose, I like to think they're smart enough not to trust someone who would knowingly sell them out, but Rocco just doesn't have the brains not to let something slip. In normal circumstances, he'd be a dream suspect.

When is my life ever normal?

I pace the length of my apartment, restless and edgy. I can't think about this right now. I can't think. The MacManus brothers are in my head and I want to fuck somebody, but the thought of going to one of the bars and picking up some fag makes me want to puke. I want them, both of them, in my bedroom getting each other ready for me.

It sounds hot, but I can't picture it. I try again, closing my eyes and reaching down into my pants to hold my own dick, imagining that it's Conner's hand down there, Veritas squeezing me gently. That works better, except my dick insists on turning into a gun and why the fuck can I see every move they make at a crime scene when I can't even picture one of them giving me a handjob?

Not that my dick seems to care. Hell, the walkthrough of their firefight nearly did it for me earlier, and I hadn't even confirmed their identities yet. Now...well, now I can do that mental walkthrough with them at the scene, can't I?

My body likes the idea. I briefly consider taking this one-man party into the bedroom, then decide to hell with it and sprawl in a chair, undoing my pants and pulling them down far enough to give myself room. I lean back and close my eyes, and I start with the moment they walked in the house.

I know they were wearing masks, the wife said so, but I see them bare-faced, steadfast and ferocious. Were any of the men in that room believers? Did they see the vengeance of God descending upon them in the form of two Irish boys with a gift for languages and weaponry? Did they see Truth and Justice passing judgment? They had time, some of them, to see these were no thugs off the street. They had time to look into pale, bright eyes and see damnation where I'd seen laughter.

God, I wish I'd been there.

I picture them wearing the clothes Rocco brought them, black tee-shirts and jeans, black woolen coats. Workman's clothes, what they'd wear to go on shift at that fucking meat packing plant. I wonder if they've even been bothering to go in since they hit all those Russians. I remember the Russians, all laid out like they were in their coffins, arms crossed and coins over their eyes. Eerie and perfect in that blood-stained room. Like I said, artists. They'd done the same at the house.

And then they'd walked out, and the trap had snapped shut.

I'm doing the walkthrough too fast, this is going to be very unsatisfactory if I don't slow down. But damn, the image in my head of those boys--my boys--walking out to confront six armed men is just too horrific and too beautiful to back away from.

Or was it just one guy? Greenly's a moron, but he did pick up on one thing. If there were six guys, why hadn't they all shot simultaneously? There wasn't enough cover around that porch for Conner and Murphy--and Rocco, can't forget him--to remain relatively unscathed if six determined men had been gunning for them at the same time. But if it was one guy, there should have been a corpse in the street. Right? Unless he was wearing a vest and was just that much better than the brothers.

That idea frankly scares the shit out of me, and it certainly doesn't help my current predicament.

So, back to the brothers walking in the house, opening fire and taking down an entire roomful of scum. Goddamn avenging angels, and even as the cynic in me sneers at the idea, my balls tighten. Seems I've got a thing for religious imagery. This is just my lucky day for revelations.

There was one man at each scene who hadn't died with the first shot that got him. The Russian had been shot again with the barrel right against his chest. At the house, whichever brother got the guy stood a little farther away, and I wonder what the last word was that man saw in this life, Veritas or Aequitas? Since I seem to have a thing for Conner's hands, I choose Veritas, and it's much easier to picture him squeezing that trigger than it was trying to imagine him palming my dick. I imagine Murphy over his shoulder, checking the other bodies with that oddly serene expression he's worn each time I've spoken to him. Rocco's there somewhere, too, but I don't need to see that idiot. Just the brothers.

Just those beautiful Irish men.

I'm down in the chair now, my legs open and my hands pumping away, and I can let it proceed, can let them check every body and find one missing, the one they came for. I see that one opening the bathroom door to give them a fight before he went down. I wonder which of them got the bastard in the end, abandoning the gun and resorting to fists and one cueball to exact a little justice for all the innocents he'd done in his long and sadistic career. It could have been Rocco, whoever did it was right-handed, but a sudden image of Murphy appears behind my eyes, his expression still calm as he beats the sick fuck to death.

Like the face of a painted saint.

I can't take it slow after that, my brain racing ahead to them emerging from the house, and I'll be disgusted with myself later for haloing them in the late sunlight. They raise their guns in tandem, defiant in the face of their would-be executioners. Saints, maybe, but no martyrs. They open fire and I come with a vengeance to the imaginary sound of gunshots.

Coming down takes longer than usual for masturbation. Hell, it takes longer than the last few one-night stands I've had. I'm not sure I want to know what that says about me or my choice of partners. One thing's for damn sure, none of them have ever come close to the MacManus brothers. I have to laugh at that, because neither have I. Across an interrogation table is probably the closest I'll ever be, and now I have to decide if I want to face them like that again.

First thing's first. I'm a fucking mess. The chair seems untouched, but I've got semen drying on my shirt, my belly, and my hands. I need to clean myself up, and I need to sleep on this. And if I can't sleep on it....

Hell, this is Boston. There's got to be a bar open somewhere.

~END~