Boondock Saints, for those unfortunates who don't know, is a fantastic movie starring Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus as fraternal Irish twins in Boston who decide to take on the Italian and Russian mobs. And win. Go forth and rent it, otherwise this story won't make much sense. This is gen, believe it or not. Gwynedd Rook looked it over, but no one really betaed it, so all mistakes are unquestionably mine.

His boys are sleeping. He watches over them from a chair with its back to the window so he can see them in the early light. Even in sleep they mirror each other, Conner's left hand above the covers and Murphy's right, Veritas and Aequitas stained blue against pale skin. Earlier he knelt in the space between their beds, praying over them the way he had when they were small. The way he had before the Italians had locked him away and forgotten about him, and then dragged him back out to murder his own children.

He does not kill for the Italians anymore.

Conner stirs and turns toward Murphy, murmuring something. He leans forward in an attempt to catch it, and overhears what sounds like a line from a movie. Conner trails off, and Murphy answers with another line. They did this when he was kneeling between them, only then it was scripture breathed back and forth until they ended in unison. There'd been something in the air then, something like a storm coming and the stir of angels just out of sight. He retreated to his chair to let that power flow between his sons. It is gone now, but he is certain his benediction was answered in that moment. He is content to simply watch again.

They don't look twins, though they act it. Conner is seven minutes older, come squalling out of the womb just ahead of his brother. Murphy is dark as Conner is fair, and he remembers setting them down on a blanket on the floor, facing each other wide-eyed and silent until they'd both fallen asleep. Their mother laughed and predicted it would always be like that, though the silence wouldn't last. Now he knows she was right and feels the pain again that he wasn't there to watch them grow pure and strong as she was. But perhaps it is better this way. Their mother taught them everything he would, and she'd kept them clear of his sin.

Though I have used the gift Thou gavest me in the service of evil men, nevertheless I would ask Thy protection, o Lord, he had prayed. For my sons, if not for me.

The light grows, and Conner shifts again, restless. Murphy shadows him a moment later. The pucker of skin high on Murphy's left arm catches his eye and he clenches his fist, allowing himself a little personal satisfaction that Yakavetta is dead. He has an identical scar, dealt him in the same firefight by Conner. Retribution delivered swift and sure. He hasn't yet seen the mark he left on Conner's leg, though he knows it's there. By rights, they should both be dead. He has never in his life aimed so poorly as he did that day, managing to deal each of them only one non-fatal wound while their own bullets struck his protective vest with deadly accuracy. God surely guided his hand to keep him from striking down his sons.

He remembers a belief from the old country, that some twins are born with only one soul between them. If the one who holds the soul dies, the other goes mad. He is glad he did not learn the truth of it. He intends that he never should. God help the stupid bastard who allows Padraig MacManus, the one the Italians call il Duce, to survive the death of either of his sons. Their mother is loss enough in his eyes.

I've found them again, Maire. I'll watch over them, he promises her memory. But our mission is a dangerous one.

"We do what must be done," Conner says distinctly, startling him.

"Evil must not triumph," Murphy replies.

"And should we fall, we fall in service to the Lord."

"And should we fall--"

"He will reward us for that service."

They wake at the sound of his voice, sitting up to face him with eyes full of the rising sun. His sons, dark and fair with their mother's eyes, that some call angels and some claim saints. Beautiful.

"The time is at hand, Da," Conner says, and Murphy nods.

"Evil is stirring."

"So it is," he answers them both as they rise and begin to gather weapons. "So it always is."

~END~