Title: Each and Every Night
Author: Milady Hawke juliebgood001(at)hotmail(dot)com
Fic Journal: www(dot)livejournal(dot)com/elfrangerslash
Fandom: Boondock Saints FPS
Pairing: Connor/Murphy
Rating: R
Status: 1/1
Summary: Connor says his nightly prayers. Just a little piece about guilt and desire.
Warnings: Twincest slash, subtle blasphemy (you know, the BDS staples)
Disclaimer: I blame Troy Duffy; he's the one made the brothers slashy.
Archive: Knock yourself out if you're masochistic enough. Just let me know where.
Feedback: keeps an author writing.
Dedication: to Esmeralda, for the encouragement and inspiration, and because she's a kinky bugger and a good friend.
A/N: This is my first published fic in this fandom, although I've written a decent bit in LotR fandom. Also btw, most grammatical errors are deliberate; I figured I'd opt for trying to work on colloquial speech patterns as opposed to a badly faked Irish accent. Also also btw, I'm aware that I switch between "Murphy" and "Murph." Murph's a canon nickname.

Each and Every Night

Connor sinks to his knees every night.

He gets down on the stained carpet of whatever motel they're staying at, burnt-out lights on its neon sign - moving, always moving; this week it's Philly - and he folds his hands upon the bed's coverlet.

He remembers their Ma first, hoping she's not drinking away the rent of her little cottage in Cavan or worrying overmuch about her boys. Then he remembers their Da, a few towns over from where he and his brother are staying. He remembers Rocco too.

And next he prays that the Lord keep Doc. Doc, he smiles to himself, Old Fuck Ass. And Connor also remembers Paul Smecker, just because a guy can't appreciate that type enough.

But most of all Connor thinks about Murphy. His brother with the blue eyes that trust him in ways that folk without twins can't understand. Connor tries his damnedest to hide it, but he feels his bravado wearing thin. He just hopes that Murphy hasn't noticed.

Murph, the daft little fuck who picks fights with him that usually end up in a pile of limbs on the floor. Murph, who generally knows what Connor is thinking, though Murphy is still half-dressed more often than not, blithely comfortable in nothing but his dirty jeans. And sometimes Murphy looks for all the world like he's pleased with himself when he saunters around whatever room they're staying in, as naked as the day they were born. Murphy, who always has an arm slung around Connor's waist and who, every so often, sits on Connor's lap, just for the hell of it, a Marlboro or a pint of Smithwick's in one hand and his other arm thrown around Connor's neck even though they aren't kiddies anymore. His brother, Murphy. He could almost swear that Murphy teases him, but of course Connor knows better. How innocent Murphy can be at times. Funny, that.

And Connor is angry at Murphy, for trusting him as much as he does, and Connor hates himself for it.

Because the Lord help him but Connor remembers his weakness. Every night he lowers his head to rest in those hands that are folded upon the motel bed and prays for God to take away his temptation, lest he ruin their souls - though for Murph to be taken away from him is the absolute last thing that Connor wants. God had better know that Connor would never forgive Him if he were left without his twin. Connor just couldn't believe in a God like that.

He couldn't forgive it either if Murphy found himself walking alone one day, lost and lonely down some grey city alley with the stench rising up from the man-hole covers and nothing but empty cans to kick at.

And Connor wonders how he has the gall at all to get down on his knees and pray to God with these twisted feelings swimming in his heart that he's only half repentant for... that low, insistent ache when he thinks about his brother.

And when Murphy walks into the room at last, as he always seems to do at these bad times, there's just no point in praying anymore.

Murphy, naked and dripping from his shower, always quietly looking down at Connor with dark, pointed eyes... and his brother's cock half hard and looking like it'd just been stroked. Looking like sin - almost like his brother'd like it if Connor got down on his knees in front of him and open his mouth around that cock, then reached around to finger Murphy's opening, preparing to lay him down and fuck him good.

But Connor never does any of this - at least, not yet.

He just puts his head back down in his hands that rest on the coverlet.