He takes the old man with him, the last time. Fake credentials and a grief-lined face, skin raw where its been newly shaved. FBI, he says, and no one questions them. The lies come more easily than the truth, now.

It still wasn't enough to save them.

The first thing is Murphy. With his little boy smile, the cigarette smoke seems out of place. Dark hair and big blue eyes, and Smecker almost can't believe he'd beaten a man to death with a chunk of porcelain not thirty hours before.

The next thing, across the interrogation table, is the brother. He watches Murphy's smile, and wears relief like a shroud. Blood-stained bathrobe, and it isn't hard at all to believe he'd killed for his twin.

A long fall, and there is no regret.

The prison is bleak, as all prisons are, the first time he is led to the MO ward. He is alone this time, and the gray of the walls is oppressive. He is fury. Impotent rage in a neat Armani suit, blaming everyone in his mind.

He doesn't know who to hate.

The Copley hotel is a battle field. Silent now, where the soldiers have fallen. The wounds are precise, neat, and the whole thing screams mercy for the men who deserved none.

(there is no mercy for the merciful, when their day comes. It is slow, it is agony. Standing at the crime scene, above the mess that had once been a man, he imagines he can hear them scream for each other. Somewhere, at his back, a rookie is losing his lunch. The bagel sits heavy in his stomach. He wishes it were so easy to expel this.)

he doesn't see it, then. Not yet. The brothers are far from his mind.

(they never are again, after.)

He believes it is a mistake. The waif in the corner of the cell is irreconcilable with the exuberant young man he'd once known. There is madness in those blue eyes, but he seems to be listening intently to the questions Smecker is forced by protocol to ask. He responds in all the tongues of Babel, but the words are always the same. (Mi dispiace….lo siento…Tá brón orm)

There are no answers. Not for this.

What starts with a finger, ends somehow in a Church. He does not believe in a God who doesn't want him. (here too, with their faith scrawled across their skin, the brothers find no mercy in their demise. It is cruelty beyond cruelty, he thinks, when they tell him that one has survived. And looking down at a rosary tangled with the remaining bits of flesh on the autopsy table, he first believes. He believes solely that he might hate.)

The second time is the same. The same words, the same helplessness, the same rage. He doesn't need the psychiatrists to tell him there is no change. His brother is lost to him, and he is lost to the world.

In this, perhaps, the only trace of mercy.

He comes to with a headache, and the feel of blood in his hair. He tries to forget he is wearing a dress, but the breeze on his calves is making it hard. Before the sirens come, he is stumbling away. Back in his apartment, and back in his own clothing, he receives the call. The officer's voice is not the one he wants to hear, and he struggles to feign surprise when he learns of the bodies in the mansion. It is two days before he picks up to the sound of a lightly lilting voice, and they have become three again, before they even have time to grieve. It is all the same, he thinks as he listens to the weariness in Connor's voice. Friend or father, anyone outside of the two is only incidental. He too, is unnecessary. They need only the other to thrive.

(he cannot escape the darting blue eyes. They search, and find him wanting. He is too old, too short. His voice too gravely, with none of the musical lilt. He is not what the broken form in front of him is seeking, and so he is ignored. The eyes glaze over again to a litany of nearly silent apologies.)

It is the third time, and he watches the old man from the corners of his eyes. The killer is gone, and only the father remains. He reaches for his son, and for the first time in thirty years of horror and death, he falters. Prayer, to this man, is natural as breathing, but the words won't come. He chokes on his faith, and Smecker turns away. He is tired of breaking, and tired of the broken.

He won't be coming back.

Two men are at an interrogation table. They are good men, and quick to laugh. They look nothing alike, save for the blue eyes. Eyes that snap and shine and look beyond Smecker to things he'll never see. They are whole, and happy, despite the blood on their hands. They are alive and together, and the simple joy of it brings smiles to their faces. It is as infectious as the plague, and the agent grins in spite of himself.

(He should have known how this would end.)

So there you have it, my first ever boondock saints fanfic. I know it jumps around a lot, but I hope that it was understandable. Reviews are wildly appreciated, especially since this is my first fic here. Let me know what you thought! Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I don't own this (clearly).