A/N: This takes place after "All Saints Day" and also happens to be my first BDS fic. Enjoy.

Eight Years is a Lifetime

Eight years. Eight fucking years of thirty-five. That's all they had to get to know their father. That's all they would ever get.

In a very rare occurrence, Murphy MacManus stood at the edge of an old, wooden dock, alone. Dark blue water lapped hungrily at the creaking wood, reflected in the bright blue eyes of the uncharacteristically subdued Irish man. He didn't see the water though; he didn't see anything at the moment but the past. At what should've been, at what was taken away by one man's greed.

Certainly, Murphy would be the first to admit that he had been slow to warm up to their long lost father. He hadn't been ready to open up him and his twin's close knit circle, their world of two. He hadn't trusted him, had even hated him for a while, feeling abandoned by this man who had the nerve to walk into their lives and place his hands on their faces as though he had never left. It wasn't until later, when he had heard the particulars of why they had grown up without a father that Murphy began to open up, even if only a little. He still couldn't shake the feeling of abandonment. Connor, his twin, was more open and understanding, willing to overlook the past in order to embrace the future.

Now? Well, now Murphy felt like a right ass. If he had opened up sooner, if he had let his walls down for once in his life, he'd have had more time with his father. Connor, in his acceptance had had the full eight years with their Da. Murphy couldn't even claim that, if he were being honest with himself.

All he had now were what-ifs and should've beens.

While their stay at Hoag had been relatively short, given the circumstances, the twins had certainly made a name for themselves inside. Or rather, more of a name. Sure most of those lads were chomping at the bit for a chance to get at the infamous Saints of South Boston, they quickly learned why that was a bad idea. After a while, there were rumors floating around of people talking about the usually segregated population forming tenuous truces just to get at the brothers. Connor would be lying to himself if he said he was disappointed at the timely parole given them by their mysterious benefactor (who turned out to be Smecker and the whole Catholic Church and where the fuck did that come from? Last they had heard Smecker was dead. It was true what people said: The Lord works in mysterious ways). Going up against mob bosses on the boys' terms armed to the teeth with weapons of their choosing was one thing, getting in to a prison brawl with naught but a shiv made out of a toothbrush was altogether another.

So there they were, back home in the Emerald Isle, enjoying the freedom given them and a bit of downtime before they were "put to work" as Smecker kept saying. A week ago the boys had been locked down in a maximum-security prison. Sure, they enjoyed a few liberties from the guards there, being that they had done what the guards only wished they could do, but it was still a prison. When they had recovered enough to be locked up properly, well it only took about two days for Murphy to start going stir crazy, which in turn got Connor riled up, 'cause sharing a rundown apartment loft with his whirlwind of a brother was one thing, sharing an eight by ten cell with a door that didn't open was a completely different matter. To say that breathing the crisp air of their homeland was a welcome turn of events was a massive understatement.

Almost immediately after arriving in Ireland and settling in to their new home, Connor had noticed a change in Murph. He was back to his old self, had room to move and the freedom to smoke as many cigarettes as he wanted. Something was missing though. While his brother's playful nature was there, it was decidedly more subdued and the little sparkle that popped into his eye when he was about to do to something to you, well it wasn't there anymore. Connor couldn't remember seeing that cheeky smile that he both loved and hated appear on his twin's face since, well, since the cluster fuck at The Roman's greenhouse. And there was the crux of the issue, wasn't it?

After living with their Da and depending on no one else but the three of them for eight years, well a connection really builds with those kinds of conditions. Since they were unable to properly mourn their father straight away, Connor took the opportunity to do so on their arrival in Ireland. Early the next morning, after having a chance to rest and get cleaned up, he had taken the short walk to the monastery to sit in the church and pay his respects. Any attempts to get Murphy to go with him were met with refusal. Certainly that set off warning bells in Connor's mind since he couldn't remember the last time they didn't go to church together. The simple answer was: never. Murph had said that, with the colder weather, his leg was bothering him and he didn't feel like walking over there. Connor let him have that, he knew his twin's leg still gave him trouble quite a bit, still causing him to limp. Deciding to let it go for the time being, Connor let his brother sleep (which really, he'd been doing a lot of since their arrival now that he thought about it), while he went down to the church to grieve for their father. While he would always feel the void left by his loss, Connor felt he was able to overcome the death of their Da with a bit of time. He was coping. Murphy? Murphy he wasn't sure about.

That's what drew Connor out here, in the early morning light, a fine mist tickling his face. He woke up that morning, not really knowing what it was that woke him, until he turned to his right and found Murphy's bed empty. His twin had been withdrawing more and more over the course of the week, and Connor had let him, knowing it was one of his coping methods, but he could count on one hand the times that the twins had spent any extended length of time apart. Deciding enough was enough, Connor slipped on a worn pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a thick wool sweater, threw his boots on and went in search of his wayward twin.

It was never difficult to find Murphy, not like he would leave a note or a trail that was easy to follow. Connor just knew where to find him, felt a pull like they were connected with a rubber band and if one got too far away, the other would snap right back to him. To be honest, Connor had assumed he'd have to borrow one of the old cars and drive to the nearest pub to find his brother, so it was with a bit of shock to see his familiar silhouette standing at the edge of the docks apparently staring into the depths of the waters below.

Connor slowly made his way down to the water, taking his time now that he had his brother in eyesight and could see he was no worse for wear. Upon reaching the wooden platform, he could have quieted his steps and sneaked up on Murphy, but now wasn't the time for jokes and pranks. Connor let his footsteps sound clearly so his brother knew he was there. Coming to a stop, shoulders touching, he elected to say nothing and just observe the peaceful scenery stretched out before them. One thing about Connor, he really did know when to talk and when not to, most times he chose to ignore that little voice in his head though. Most times that didn't involve his brother, in any case. They stood there, two bodies, one soul, not talking, not needing to, for close to an hour before Murphy's quiet voice finally broke their reverie.

"I miss 'im."

Reaching into his left back pocket, Connor pulled out a pack of smokes. He tapped one out, placing it to his lips and searched anew for his lighter. Finding it, he lit the cigarette, took a drag and slowly blew the smoke out.

"Aye. Me as well."

Connor finally looked to his left, at his brother, his simple black t-shirt soaked through, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched up against the cold. Murphy must've been out there for a while, apparently not aware or caring enough to wear something to block out the cold. Connor's musings were interrupted by another hard won sound from his twin. A quick sniff, which would seem the simple clearing of a congested nose if Murphy were standing next to anyone else other than his brother, an extension of his own self. Taking another drag, he held the smoke in for a moment before blowing it out the side of his mouth and passing the cigarette to his brother. After a beat, Murphy reached out a slightly shaking hand and accepted the offer, taking a long pull.

The mist eventually grew into full-blown rain, the sun struggling to peek through the thick overhang of heavy grey clouds. Connor looked up, letting the cold droplets splash on to his face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Murphy start to chew on his thumbnail after blowing out a lungful of smoke. It was one of the few outward signs of nervousness or stress that he allowed to show, probably not even realizing it. Taking his left hand out of his pocket, Murphy wrapped that arm protectively around his midsection, resting his right elbow on top, leaving his hand at mouth level to easily chew his nail or smoke his cigarette. Murphy let out another sniff. That particular sound had been coming more frequently over the course of their time out there. Connor reached out his left arm and circled it around Murphy's shivering shoulders, letting his hand rest over his brother's eyes, Veritas a gentle weight on his closed lids, hiding the warm wetness there. Connor gingerly urged Murphy over, holding him close and bringing his head to rest in the crook of his neck, offering protection and warmth.

There, The Saints stood in a silence born of guarded release and quiet understanding on the edge of a weathered old pier in Ireland, welcoming a new day.