Hey hey hey! I'm so glad to finally be posting this! This is a little prequel of sorts to "Warrior Shepherds" that's been gathering dust for a little over a year now (for any new people, if you haven't read WS yet, feel free to do so, though it's not required for this story). This is pretty much the result of our boys and my girl Renata occupying the same space in my head as Nickelback and Theory of a Deadman for a significant amount of time..."Gotta Get Me Some" and "Bad Girlfriend," respectively. I'll be posting it in three parts, and I hope you like it!

I don't own Connor and Murphy (damn it) or any other characters from BDS. Renata, however, is mine all mine, for better or worse.

And away we go!

Murphy was dreaming of Suzanne Somers and watermelon when a wailing siren pierced his alcohol-induced coma like a power drill through his skull. He sat upright with a start, cursing bitterly at the headache aggravated by the motion, then opened his eyes with a loud groan.

The sunlight filling the loft was painfully bright... Well, that made no fucking sense. How could there be sirens inside the loft? It wailed again, and this time he understood. The phone was ringing.

It's too fucking early for this shit...

He leaned off the edge of his bed to pick the handset up off the floor-no, wait, he wasn't on his bed, he was on Connor's. He looked across the room and saw his twin passed out on their much-abused couch, head propped at an uncomfortable angle against the arm rest and his jeans laying discarded on the floor just inside the door. His mouth hung open and Murphy smirked to notice how he drooled all over the couch.

The phone rang and he picked it up and answered it. "Hello?"

"Rise an' shine, ye little bastards!"

Murphy jerked the phone away from his ear with a startled outburst, the shout coming over the line as deafening as it was painful. He should have seen it coming; it was Saturday morning, and time for Ma's wakeup call. Annabelle MacManus knew good and fucking well her boys had gone out and gotten scuttered on Friday night, and a hung-over morning after was as good a time as any to harass them.

"Jesus, Ma," Murphy said, whining as he cautiously spoke into the receiver. "Ye get louder every fuckin week."

"Lord's name, boyo," she told him, cackling at his complaining. "Which of ye pissants am I talkin to?"

"It's Murph...again."

She laughed even harder. Under ordinary circumstances, Murphy slept like a log and Connor woke up at the drop of a hat, but after a night of drinking it was Murphy who could be easily roused, usually with a splitting headache, and Connor who could sleep through the Tribulation and be none the wiser. The past three weeks in a row, it was Murphy who answered the phone to their mother's merry torment. Here you go, Murph. Here's the shit end of the stick...and it's got your name on it! "What's that brother a yers doin?"

"Still out cold, lazy fuck." Murphy picked up one of his boots and heaved it in the direction of the couch, where it connected with Connor's head with a satisfying thud. He woke with a hiss of pain. "Ow, fuck..."

"He's awake now, Ma."

Connor sat up, rubbing his head and wiping the drool from his mouth. "Ye're a right fuckin asshole, Murphy."

Murphy shot him the bird.

"Ye boys didn't get inta any trouble last night, did ye?" Annabelle demanded.

"No, Ma," Murphy replied warily. Three thousand miles and an entire fucking ocean lay between them, but she would still chew their asses if they stepped out of line.

"Ye best not lie ta me, Murph," she warned him. There was a pause, an inhale and an exhale, and he could picture her on the other end of the line with a half-smoked cigarette in hand. "I'll find out if ye are, ye know."

"Well, now ye mention it," he said slowly, speaking as if reluctant to confess but casting a devious look at his twin, "I mighta seen Connor gettin a blow job from a hooker in the back room a the bar..."

"That's a fuckin lie!" Connor burst out, suddenly alert. He leaped at Murphy, trying to wrestle the phone away from him. "For Christ's fuckin sake, Ma, don't listen ta that shit!" he yelled. "He's lyin his fuckin ass off!"

"Murph, give him a good smack for blasphemy," Annabelle instructed.

Murphy reached up and cuffed Connor over the head. "Lord's name, eejit."

"Now put him on for me."

He handed Connor the phone; Connor held it to his ear, listening patiently, then boxed Murphy's ears. "That's for lyin, dumbshite."

Murphy shoved him away, massaging his ear, and he got to his feet, still on the phone. "No, Ma, I promise, no hookers...aye, we were at Doc's place...we didn't get inta anythin ta go to confession for..."

"Really?" Murphy asked loudly. "Ye seen yer neck lately?" It was impossible to miss the giant hickey stark and bold on Connor's golden skin, and in an extra dose of irony, it was situated perfectly beside his tattoo of the Virgin Mary.

Connor gave him an irritated look. "I don't know what the fuck he's talkin about, Ma," he said, bending down to pick something off the floor beside Murphy's bed. "Where'd ye get this, Murph?" he inquired. "Victoria's Secret?" He flung a satin, flesh-colored bra at him, smacking him in the face. Murphy batted it aside and snatched up his t-shirt from where he had thrown in the night before. Connor tapped him on the head with the handset and held it out to him. "For you, little brother."

Murphy took the phone with a scowl. "Yeah, Ma?"

"If I hear ye've been pickin up any low-down, no-account hussies in bars-"

"Ma, I haven't-"

"I won't have any grandbabbies from any one night stands, ye got me?'

"For fuck's sake, Ma-"

"If ye catch anything an' yer cock falls off, ye got no one but yerself ta blame!"

Murphy glared at Connor, who stood watching with a shit-eating grin on his face, and gave up trying to interrupt her. He could hear the smile in her voice and knew how much she was enjoying taking the piss out of him.

She finally ran out of steam and there was another exhale, followed by, "So what did ye boys do last night?"

Murphy opened his mouth to answer, then paused as his memory drew a blank. Garbled images of the night before flashed through his head, all of them vaguely disconnected and none of them making much sense. He glanced over at Connor, eyebrows raised in a look that said, What did we do last night?

Connor's brow furrowed. That's a damn good question.

Friday night
"Would ye fuckin hurry it up?" Connor demanded as Murphy leaned down to tie his boots. It was Friday night, their slog at Noland's Meatpacking was over for the weekend, and their favorite bar stools were waiting for them at McGinty's-assuming Murphy ever got his ass in gear.

"Don't get yer panties in a wad," he shot back. "I'll be ready when I'm fuckin ready." He finished with his boots and straightened up, smoothing his hair flat. The cowlick at the back of his head had never particularly bothered him before, but it had recently become the bane of his existence. "There's nothin stickin up, is there?" he asked.

"The only thing stickin up's in yer jeans, Murph," Connor teased. "Might as well give it up, ye've never gotten anywhere with Maggie before. Besides," he added, running a hand through his light hair with a smirk, "ye know she prefers blondes."

Murphy took a swing at him but he dodged it easily, still smiling. The dark-haired twin had been squirrelly ever since Doc's niece came home from college for the summer and started helping out at the bar, and needling him about his crush hadn't yet lost its novelty. "C'mon, loverboy, let's get movin."

They left the apartment, donning their rosaries on the way out and tucking them under their shirts as they went. They bypassed the elevator and made for the stairs; the fucking thing was still out of service and until enough of the tenants complained loudly enough, the chap that owned the building wasn't likely to have it fixed. Considering the property was industrial, and had been converted and rented out illegally, it was going to take a lot of complaints before any improvements were made.

The MacManuses had been living in their fifth-floor loft for about a year, and while it was still a shit hole it was definitely a step up from their last digs, and their neighbors a lot easier to get along with. They passed old Mrs. Cavanaugh on the fourth floor and exchanged greetings with Bobby Fitzpatrick on his way out to walk his dog. As they neared the landing on the third floor, however, they ran across an unfamiliar face.

There was a young woman outside the Reids' place, hammering insistently on the door. A quick assessment from the distance revealed shoulder-length brown hair and an ass that could stop traffic, and as they got closer the expression in her gray eyes became apparent, caught somewhere between exasperation and annoyance.

"Grace!" she called, pounding on the door again. "I'm locked out, open up!"

"It's no use, sweetheart," Connor told her. "Grace works the night shift on Fridays. She won't be back 'til after dawn."

"Shit," she burst out, her fist dropping to her side. "Now what?"

"Jimmy oughta be in, shouldn't he?" Murphy asked.

"No, his mother had a stroke, so he's staying with her at the hospital the next few days," she answered.

"Ah, I see...are ye family?"

"Kinda. Jimmy is my boyfriend's cousin." She heaved a sigh and wiped the sweat from her brow. Summer had hit Boston with a vengeance and while it was marginally cooler inside the apartments themselves, with window unit air conditioning and a cold drink or two, it was sweltering in the hallways. "Well, shit..."

"Don't ye have a spare key?" Connor asked.

"Sure don't," she said. "I guess I'll just have to head out and kill some time until Grace gets back."

"Ye do know ye're in Southie, don't ye? Not exactly the best a neighborhoods ta be walkin alone after dark." He looked her up and down, trying not to be too obvious about it. She had one hell of a body, not just a nice backside, and dressed as she was in a tight black tank top and short denim skirt, she was sure to attract trouble.

The news seemed to aggravate her further. She groaned and leaned against the door, sliding down the length of it to sit on the floor. She drew a brand new pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit up, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes on the exhale.

Connor paused thoughtfully, then asked, "Ye wanna join us for a drink, since ye got nothin else ta do?"

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "What?" she asked.

"What?" Murphy repeated.

"We're headin out anyway," Connor went on. "It sure as fuck beats sittin out in the hallway all night."

She shrugged. "I don't know. If you already have plans..."

"Ye don't mind, do ye, Murph?"

Murphy copied the girl's shrug. "It's fine with me." If she held Connor's attention all night the way she already seemed to be doing, he wouldn't have to put up with so much shit about Maggie.

Connor stepped closer, hand extended to help her to her feet while taking in the view down the front of her tank top. "Don't think we've seen ye around before," he said.

"I have," Murphy told him; he'd crossed paths with her in various stages of intoxication a few times in the building. Small wonder she would agree to a drink.

Connor shot him a look; And you never said a word? He helped her stand, surreptitiously pulling her closer in the process. "The name's Connor," he told her, speaking an octave deeper than usual and putting a subtle emphasis on his accent. Murphy let out a snort - well, maybe not that subtle. "When did ye move in?"

"I haven't," she said. "My boyfriend and I just got into town a few weeks ago, and we're staying with his relatives until we get settled." She cocked her head to one side. "And why do you want to know?"

"It's a small building, an' I'm tryin ta figure out how I've only just seen ye for the first time."

Murphy barely kept from rolling his eyes. "Can we get fuckin goin, please? Ye were quick enough ta jump my shit five minutes ago for movin too slow ta suit ye."

"Don't mind me little brother," Connor told the girl, leaning in conspiratorially. "He tends ta get cranky when the weather's hot."

A slow grin spread across her face. "But not you?"

"Nah," he replied casually, fixing her with the blue-eyed stare women seemed to find irresistible. "I like it hot."

Murphy swatted him on the back of the head. "Little, my ass, ye retard. First thing ye need ta know about me dear brother," he said to the girl, "he's full a hot air an' horse shit, an' he tends ta do shit arseways. Here he is, tryin ta go out an' get ye tossed, an' he hasn't even asked ye for yer name."

Connor had the grace to look sheepish.

She took another drag off her cigarette. "I'm Renata."

"Nice ta meet ye, Renata. I'm Murphy, this is Connor, an' if he tries ta convince ye he's older'n me, ye should remember he's full a hot air an' horse shit."

"Twins, ye see," Connor explained. "Murph's a little sensitive about the age thing."

Renata smiled. "So you're literally, Irish twins."

"Aye. Funny how that worked out, innit?"

She giggled. "I love your accent."

"Aw, stop it, I'm blushin. Shall we head out?"

She nodded, finishing her smoke and grinding it under the toe of her sneaker. "Where are we going?"

It was still early, so most of the crowd at McGinty's were regular customers. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the barroom and under the clatter of glass and the clamor of a dozen voices, the radio behind the bar was discernible, tuned into a classic rock station. It was loud and lively, a good place to unwind after a long week.

Connor and Murphy were met with boisterous cheering the instant they walked through the door. Coworkers and drinking mates hailed them as they passed, slapping them on the back and trading greetings and insults with equal good humor. Renata stuck close, turning her fair share of heads as they made their way to the bar, where a man with scruffy hair sat drinking alone.

He turned at a word from Murphy and got to his feet, grinning widely. "It's about fuckin time you showed up!" he burst out, pulling each of the brothers into a bear hug. "Hey, Fuck-Ass!" he called to the old man behind the bar. "Guess who just walked in!"

The old man walked over, white hair combed neatly and eyes twitching behind thick glasses. "Look what the c-c-cat brought back from the dead," he said, smiling. "What are ye b-b-boys startin with?"

"Three pints a black stuff, Doc," Connor replied, pulling up a barstool. "C'mere, sweetheart," he told Renata, gesturing to the vacant stool on his left. "I saved ye a seat."

"She's got a boyfriend, idiot," Murphy reminded him in Gaelic, taking the seat two stools to his brother's right and leaving a spot in the middle for their scruffy-haired friend.

"Do you see him anywhere around here?" Connor shot back, and Murphy rolled his eyes.

Doc set three glasses of Guinness on the bar and Connor slid one over to Renata before raising his own in salute. "Slainté," he toasted, and they drank.

"What, don't I even get an introduction?" the scruffy man demanded, giving Connor a shove in the shoulder and causing him to spill some of the beer.

"Ah, fuck, Roc, ye're wastin good shit!"

"Who's your new friend, numb nuts?"

"Christ...Roc, this is Renata. Renata, our friend Rocco, an' yes, he's as thick as he looks."

"How's it going?" Rocco asked, reaching in front of Connor to shake her hand and grinning cheerfully.

"Say, Doc, is Maggie around anywhere?" Murphy asked from down the bar.

"Aye," the old man replied. "B-b-been runnin round all fuckin night, like hell f-f-f - fuck! Ass! - fuckin froze over."

Murphy glanced around the bar, guessing Doc must have meant "a bat out of hell" when he caught sight of a familiar figure speeding around the patrons, a tray of drinks balanced on one hand and a look of cool concentration on her face.

"Looks like she's too busy ta talk, Murph," Connor teased.

"Shut yer fuckin mouth," Murphy told him, flushing slightly.

"You gotta talk to her sometime, Murph," Rocco encouraged, lighting a cigarette. "Quit stalking her, for fuck's sake."

"Lay off, Roc, I'll talk ta her when I fuckin feel like it."

"I could c-c-c-" Doc began, "c-c-c- oh fuck it. Maggie!" he shouted over the noise in the bar. "C'mere!"

"Doc, what the fuck're ye-"

The young woman walked over, a rather pretty young woman with long hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. "Yeah, Doc?" she asked.

"Doc's niece," Connor explained to Renata, leaning closer and lowering his voice. "Murph's had a soft spot for her for weeks."

"Yeah," Rocco agreed, "and-"

"A hard one?" Renata suggested.

He burst out laughing and gave Connor a slap on the back. "Where the fuck did you pick this one up?"

Murphy suddenly busied himself with downing half his beer in three long gulps, and judging by the intense blush spreading across his face and neck, he had heard the whole exchange.

Maggie, it seemed, hadn't. She looked expectantly at Doc, saying again, "Yeah?"

Doc glanced at Murphy, who didn't seem prepared to speak, then finally said, "M-M-Murphy here just wanted ta say s-s-somethin ta ye."

Murphy shot him an incredulous look while Maggie turned her expectant eyes on him. "Yes, Murphy?"

"Ah, aye, um..." he said uncertainly, unable to look at her. "I just..."

To his left, Connor, Rocco, and Renata tried to hold in their laughter; Doc stood on the other side of the bar looking sympathetic and exasperated; Maggie stared at him and waited for him to speak. Too many fucking eyes, all the fuck at once.

"Come on, now, she hasn't got all fuckin night," Connor goaded. "Spit it out, already!"

Blushing all the way to his ears, Murphy stared at the floor and mumbled, "Yer shoes are untied."

There was a stunned silence and Maggie raised her eyebrows in surprise, glancing at her feet. "Oh. Thanks." She set her tray on the bar, adjusted her laces, then went back to work.

There was an uproar as soon as she was gone, and even Doc was laughing at Murphy's expense. Murphy himself kept quiet and finished his beer, still blushing.

"That's gotta be the worst fuckin line I've ever heard," Rocco declared, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette and shaking with laughter. "I've used some pretty shitty ones, but Jesus!"

"Way ta go, Casanova!" Connor crowed. "She was ready ta hand over her knickers for ye!"

Murphy plucked the cigarette from Rocco's fingers and flicked it into Connor's beer. "Four onta one," he groused. "Ye motherfuckers don't fight fair, not a fuckin one a ye."

"All's fair in love an' war, lad," Doc replied, pouring Connor a new pint.

"I'll be damned! Ye got one right, old man!" Connor took the glass and gave Renata a nudge. "Ye gotta keep up, sweetheart," he told her, gesturing to her drink. "Ye'll never get tossed, the rate ye're goin."

"I'll catch up," she promised.

"Ye wanna watch it, drinkin with him," Murphy warned her. "He's a fuckin predator tryin ta get up that skirt ye're wearin."

"Is that so?" she asked. She raised her glass and drank, and drank, and drank, emptying the glass and setting it back on the bar with a loud chink. "I think I can handle him."

The brothers stared at her in amazement and Rocco demanded, "Seriously, where the fuck did you pick her up?"

Part two to follow in a few days, along with a WS update. In the meantime, as Beyoncé said, if you like it then you shoulda put a comment on it. ;) Thanks, guys!