Saint Grace

Chapter Two - Back to Babylon

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. The story I tell about Connor & Murphy MacManus is my own invention, and it is not purported, or believed, to be part of the Boondock Saints story canon. It is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line.  

A/N: This is a Boondock Saints AU, Murphy/OC romance fan-fiction. A word of caution: At some point during the progression of this story there will be explicit smut, so if that kind of thing bothers you, Saint Grace may not be for you.  

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"May you have the hindsight to know where you've been, the foresight to know where you are going, and the insight to know when you have gone too far." 

~ Irish Blessing 

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Chapter 2

It wasn't anything new for the girl to see them with their shirts off. How else would she have tattooed them?  

They'd discovered when she was little that she had a flare for the artistic. One day Murphy brought home a tattoo gun he'd won in a bet, and gave it to Grace, telling her she better learn to use it because he had plans for her artistic hands. Christ's chest on the cross on Connor's back, and Christ's feet on the cross on Murphy's back. 

"Give me that," she said, taking the knife out of Connor's hand and forcing him to sit down. She climbed up behind him and went to work on his hair, trying to remember what the boys looked like with short hair and without their beards.  

Cutting Connor's hair felt like a sisterly thing to do, and when she was done she slapped him on the shoulder and gestured for Murphy to take his place. As soon as those broad bare shoulders were between her spread thighs, the heat of his skin making full contact with the bare skin on her inner thigh, Grace realized cutting Murphy's hair did not feel sisterly at all. She nicked him more than once out of pure nervousness, but he didn't seem to notice.  

She tinkered with the still while they rinsed the loose hair off. They expected her not to peek as they stripped, but Grace was as curious as a cat. She glanced occasionally over, catching bits and pieces of their bodies, all hard muscles and tattoos. She had to look away when she caught a glimpse of Murphy's ass, and those sexy, perfect buns. When she wasn't sneaking peeks at Murphy, her eyes kept cutting over to the big wooden crate they'd pulled out of the ground behind the farm.  

Grace sensed that this wasn't simply them going off on another sheep run. This was a departure of a whole different sort, and a ball of anxiety settled in her belly.  

She felt Murphy's eyes on her as he stepped out of the water, wrapping a towel around his waist. She knew that look - especially now that the shroud of facial hair was gone. Murphy was thinking hard on something, and whatever it was - for some odd reason she felt confident it involved her.  

"Connor, what's in the crate?" Grace finally asked, her eyes still locked on Murphy - feeling a blush creep up her cheeks under the scrutiny of his silent gaze.  

Connor looked up from the hair he was sweeping up. "Got a job, Gracey."  

"A job?" She frowned, finally breaking eye contact with Murphy to turn and look at his twin. "What kind of job?"  

"Didn't ya ever wonder what happened that day we took you ta tha' hospital in Boston, Gracey?"  

Grace's frown deepened. She had wondered for a long time why the brother's had returned later that night covered in blood, Murphy with a four inch laceration on his right arm - she glanced up at him again and saw the scar from that night - and Connor with a bullet lodged in his calf. But she'd stopped caring long ago - when the peaceful rhythm of their lives in Ireland cast a blessed fogginess over the past. "Not really." She answered, "Why?"