Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Boondock Saints, nor its sequel, as Troy Duffy is the rightful creator. I wouldn't mind owning the MacManus brothers though.

A/N: Another Saints story? Wow, I surprised myself with just how fun this was writing and how much I love it. This occurs during the first movie when the MacManus brothers and Rocco are in Rocco's mom's kitchen after the firefight (I saw in the script that this is where they go), and it's simply my take on what we don't see. The scene where Connor's wound is being cauterized with the iron really touched me, because he immediately reached back for Murphy, and I fell in love with that moment.

So, as I was rereading for any mistakes, I realized something. I had this scene from the movie pulled up, and while I watched it, I noticed that in actuality, it's Rocco's wound that gets cauterized first, then Murphy's, and finally Connor's. While they burn Murphy's wound, you'll notice Rocco's hand is freshly wrapped, and in the next scene while they have the iron to his hand, Murphy's bandage is still bloody. During Connor's scene, both Rocco and Murphy have clean bandages. But you know something? Even if this is an "error" in the movie, it's perfect the way it is, because then I wouldn't have this story.

Once more, there's an Irish title: anáil, which means "breath". And if anybody actually speaks Irish and I'm totally screwing up the language, please let me know!

Rated mature for language, which is not something new for the MacManus brothers or Rocco, but is a little for my stories. There's a lot more cursing than in my previous BDS work, so just skim if that's not your thing.

***Re-updated as of 7/18/13***

StarKatt427

The mission ended in chaos, what with that six gun-toting asshole waiting for them and shooting up the whole damn place, and all Murphy can think is thank the Lord they only received the wounds they did and nothing worse. Rocco had his finger shot off, Connor's limping around but trying to make it look like he's not as he favors his uninjured leg, and the piece of Rocco's white shirt Murphy tied around his arm is already soaked through with blood. It hurts like hell, a burning ache only associated with gunfire that he knows he's becoming all too familiar with.

Once they got to Rocco's mom's place (thank God the old lady's out of town), they spent the first several minutes yelling at each other, him and Connor both targeting Rocco and their friend holding his own against the both of them, until they eventually settled down to focus on the task at hand. Now, Connor turns the front burner on, placing the iron Rocco brought on top of it, and Murphy watches the flames at they heat the metal, stomach knotting at what is coming but knowing there's no way they can risk a hospital, that this is their only option.

God, he needs a cigarette.

"Roc should go first," Murphy says, motioning to the blood stained rag their Italian friend has around his injured hand. He's not really angry at him anymore, the adrenaline and fear from earlier having gone to his head, causing his fury to spike; now, he feels slightly guilty for bringing Rocco into this in the first place, even though he knows it was his own choice.

Connor shakes his head, a quick movement that rebuffs his statement, and stares intently into Murphy's eyes. "Yer bleedin' the worst. Roc's managed ta get his under control."

He is about to disagree, remind his brother that their friend just lost a finger, but the look Connor gives him makes him keep quiet, a rare occurrence. There's no room for dispute, his jaw firm and eyes steely, but Murphy sees what he's really saying: all that "delaying until the end" shit just makes it worse, and they both know it, so Connor isn't going to let him wait, instead making him go first to get it over with.

It could also have something to do with the fact that, yes, his arm is bleeding something awful, the white wrap steadily growing wet with the blood he's still losing.

Connor glances at Rocco, a severe look that's daring the man to contradict him, but if their friend noticed the silent understanding pass between them, he doesn't comment, instead nodding at Murphy, though it's obvious he himself is hurting.

There's no point in arguing; he's too tired and Connor's too adamant, so Murphy hops off the table and gives his brother a single nod.

Connor looks to Rocco. "Find a dish towel, we're gonna need it."

"What the fuck for?" Rocco asks, pushing back the messy hair from his eyes and sounding slightly exasperated, though it's probably due to the lack of a finger.

It's Murphy who answers. "A gag. Ye honestly 'spect me ta let ye fuckers put an iron ta my arm without somethin' ta keep me from screamin' bloody murder?"

Rocco, as if realizing just how painful this is going to be, quickly does as Connor said and begins opening and closing kitchen drawers until he pulls of a checkered hand towel. Murphy wrinkles his nose at it, but knows it's stupid to stretch things out any longer, so he turns away and presses his chest flat on the table, looking at the white top spattered with blood that belongs to all three of them.

When they don't follow, he glares over his shoulder to find Rocco fidgeting with the towel and his brother watching him with something he doesn't give Murphy time to process or recognize, gaze shifting to the stove where the iron sits.

Murphy scowls. "Hurry it up, ain't got all fuckin' day."

Connor and Rocco meet each other's eyes, and then they begin moving, Rocco circling around the table and Connor coming to stand in front of Murphy. Rocco straddles over him, knees on the table, and Murphy's tempted to make a joke about how he'd better not try anything if he doesn't want to lose another finger, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. He's struggling with the edginess that threatens to dominate him, and when he imagines the heat of the iron and sees the flames licking at it, he doesn't even have the ability to be a smartass.

A hand presses to his back, one that is not Rocco's, and Murphy looks up into his twin's eyes, focusing on the way that hand seems to ground him. Connor's lips twitch in an attempt to smile, but he says nothing: does not tease him, doesn't say words of comfort. Why should he when his hand says it all?

They stare at each other for just a few seconds, Murphy finding himself calming ever so slightly, before he nods.

He gingerly touches the bandage on his arm, and Murphy flinches against his will, trying to ignore the pain and angry with himself for being such a pussy; if that hurt, how the hell is he going to handle the damn iron? Connor's eyebrows draw down apologetically, but he doesn't pull his fingers away, instead carefully unwinding the stained material, and Murphy bites the inside of his jaw as the rag pulls free from the gunshot wound, sticking to raw skin. The bleeding's slowed to a light trickle, congealed blood dark crimson as opposed to the bright red oozing out and down his arm.

Tossing the soiled fabric in the sink, Connor walks to the stove and grabs the iron, limp more pronounced, even though he hides his pain well. Rocco reaches around Murphy to slip the gag past his lips, gripping the ends of the towel behind his head and applying a little pressure to his back, ready to hold him down. Murphy stiffens automatically before forcing himself to try and uncoil, relax as best he can, but it doesn't work.

Connor lifts his good leg, pressing his knee against Murphy's arm while slipping his blood covered hand along his wrist so that he has a good hold of him. Fingers curl over his pulse, the beating rapid like a baby bird's, and his brother gives his hand a brief squeeze that Murphy returns with just as much force.

He doesn't look at the iron; it would only make it worse, so he grips the table with one hand and lets his brother hold tight to his wrist, taking in deep breaths when he feels Rocco's hold on him intensify, the gag tightening a little in his mouth. Connor's hand constricts against his, knee pressing into his arm more forcefully, restraining.

Then the iron touches his skin, and almost every coherent thought is shattered.

He is thankful for the gag, because without it, his scream wouldn't be muffled at all and would exit his throat with enough force to shred his lungs, an agonized, wordless yell without room for the profanities that so easily spew off his tongue. His body is jerking away from the scalding burn, thrashing violently against the table Rocco has him pinned to, and as another scream is swallowed by the gag, the hand on his wrist tightens drastically. Two fingers slide into his grasping palm, and he clutches them, hardly caring if they snap at the moment as he tries to rid himself of the pain that he knows he has to endure, though every nerve is on fire with it and his muscles are tensed and twitching and he's having to force himself not to black out by clamping his teeth on the towel.

Murphy's trying to remember his prayers. He can faintly feel the rosary around his neck, hear it as it clinks against the table with his jerking, and he tries to pray for strength, for fortitude, but almost as soon as he's begun to silently recite the words, the throbbing intensifies and shatters his thoughts, sends him choking down more cries.

The stench of burning flesh feels like it's choking him, the smoke from the iron burning his eyes, and as Connor's hand finally slips completely into his, both keeping him steady and conveying everything words cannot, his clings to the palm that is calloused and familiar against his. Breathe, brother.

Murphy knows the instant the iron is pulled away, the fire beginning to retreat but still burning through his skin, and as the gag in slid out of his mouth, his body sags, lungs sucking in great gulps of air as he closes his eyes and coughs on the smell of his burnt skin. He can't feel Rocco behind him anymore, can't even feel his body except for the pounding in his arm and the hand that remains in his.

A head presses to his, the sweat of his brother's brow mingling with his own, and he forces his eyes open to meet Connor's; his twin is taking slow, even breaths, trying to sooth out Murphy's ragged inhalations, and he struggles to follow, regulate his breathing. He does after several long seconds, until it's nothing more than soft gasps and a burning in his arm that he can bear.

He feels Connor's other hand on his face, surprisingly gentle as he pushes back his hair. "Deep breath, Murph. Síochána." Peace.

Murphy nods, allowing himself just a few more moments of rest, of deep breaths and the comforting touch of his twin. But then he remembers that Rocco's still hurt, that Connor is hurt, and so he pushes himself up with his good arm, ignoring the way it shakes beneath his weight and declining the help of his brother's extended hand, refusing to be weak when he knows strength is required.

Sitting up, he looks at his arm; the skin is still red with blood and raw with a fresh burn, but it will heal, and that's what matters. He stands up, scrubbing his right hand over his face, then heads to the lavatory to clean up.

After putting some Neosporin on the burn, hissing and cursing under his breath the whole while, Murphy finds a clean wrapping in the cabinet over the sink, plus a bottle of pain reliever, and carefully binds his arm before returning to the kitchen. He's met with Connor bent over Rocco's hand and the iron back on the burner to heat, and he tries not to think about the skin he knows is scorched onto it.

Connor, seeing he's returned, straightens up, wincing visibly at the action, and a jolt that has nothing to do with physical pain racks through Murphy at the sight; his brother has had his ass kicked before, and Murphy has seen him in a lot more pain than this, but if he'd been hit any deeper…

Connor walks to the stove and lifts the iron, looking back to their friend where he sits in a chair. "'Kay, Roc, yer turn."

Murphy can't describe what hits him. Annoyance? Anger? Or maybe it's just Connor making sure everyone else is taken care of before himself that causes the space between his chest and stomach to tighten; waiting until the end.

Damn his brother.

Murphy scowls at his brother. "Yer an ass."

Connor smirks, taking a few steps toward him and slipping the iron into his hand. "Shut it."

It's just like Connor to go last, to take care of everyone before himself; sometimes, he really hates that his brother is this way, bearing more than he should have to and definitely more than Murphy wants him to. He can see the pain in his features as Connor steps back, the blood staining his jeans and the piece of Rocco's torn shirt he has tied around it, and anger floods through his veins, ready to kill that bastard who ambushed them and not as furious with his brother for getting shot as he wishes he could be.

As if he can understand what he's thinking (and Murphy doesn't doubt it), Connor rolls his eyes like he's annoyed, but the hand he touches briefly to Murphy's shoulder is anything but.

Murphy sits the bottle of Tylenol on the counter, dead serious when he says, "Not 'til yer both taken care of." Connor may still believe he can take on anything thrown his way, but Murphy isn't going to allow his own pain to lessen when his brother's does not, even though his arm is throbbing and the ache is fierce.

It seems as if Connor wants to argue that point, but he concedes after a moment with a single nod.

Murphy can't say for sure, but he thinks Rocco thrashes a bit more than he did, although his position is different; this time, Murphy is the one with the iron and Connor is restraining their friend, Murphy pinning Rocco's arm to the table with his knee and hand as he keeps the iron pressed to where his pinky finger used to be. Connor holds the gag that muffles his screams, Rocco's right hand gripping his arm as he fights against the pain, and his brother ends up having to use his bad leg to keep him from skirting away and causing Murphy to burn himself. But soon enough, he's got the iron back on the flames and is kneeling next to Rocco, hand on his friend's shoulder as he and Connor help the Italian to his feet.

Once Rocco's hand is medicated and wrapped, it's Connor's turn. He sits on the table without any complaint, though the movement causes him obvious pain, and unties the makeshift bandage before ripping open his pant leg more so that the angry wound is completely visible. For a minute, all Murphy can do is stand there, staring at where the bullet hit his brother's thigh, at the blood streaking his skin, at the pain it's causing him.

He has to get rid of that pain.

Murphy takes a step toward the stove, ready to be finished with this but not looking forward to seeing his brother's reaction to the burn, but is stopped by a tug on his sleeve. He looks back to find Connor staring up at him, silent but saying a million things at once, pale eyes mirror reflections of his own.

And he sees it, understands that Connor doesn't want him to have to be the one to do this, though he took it upon himself to cauterize Murphy's wound. That isn't what he needs, and when Murphy realizes what it is he needs, his eyes widen a fraction of an inch and he comes back to stand beside him.

Rocco, watching them, knows something has transpired, but doesn't comment on it thankfully, instead motioning to the stove and then looking at Murphy. "I got it."

He gives his friend a slight smile, then moves to stand behind where his brother sits, arms locking around his shoulders. He can feel the way Connor tenses, feel his lungs expand and his heartbeat pounding through his back: the only indications that he's not quite as calm as he's let on. While they wait for Rocco, Murphy rests his chin on Connor's shoulder for a minute, hoping he can give the assurance his brother gave him and knowing that it won't be enough to drive out the pain, but this is all he has to offer.

Connor's heart is still hammering, but his breaths even out, and he slides his hand along Murphy's forearm to grip at him for a moment.

Then Rocco's back, iron steaming in his hand, and Murphy inhales to steady himself and slips the gag into his twin's mouth, feeling his brother brace himself for the pain they both know is coming.

Murphy doesn't want to see this, and he is secretly glad that it's Rocco who's doing the burning, that Connor needed him here rather than there, because he's really not sure if he could handle causing his brother so much agony. He knows Connor, and he knows that it's the same for him, but the difference is that his thick-headed brother will do anything possible to keep him from having to endure such pain. It all comes with Connor believing he's the eldest, Murphy imagines, and even if that's true, it doesn't mean that he shouldn't have to take care of his twin sometimes.

Connor doesn't need console; a time for that will come soon enough. Right now, he needs Murphy to be strong, and that's what he is going to be.

So when Rocco presses the heated iron to the wound on Connor's leg and his brother goes completely rigid against him, Murphy tightens his hold on the gag he has between his teeth. Connor barely even moves, though his entire body is trembling with pain, the screams that exit his throat choked off enough so that they are just groans, and when he reaches back to grab onto Murphy's hair, to hold onto him so tightly that Murphy has to swallow down his own pain, he does so without hesitation and presses tighter to his twin, restricting him from bucking and yet reminding him that he's there, because it's his turn to be strong for Connor; Connor, who has always been the one to save his worthless ass when he needs it the most, who had reassured him with his twenty-seven-year-old familiar touch before lowering the iron to his arm, who held his hand as the burning agony ripped up his body. He does it because Connor is his brother, and that's just what they do for one another.

When all's said and done and Connor is gasping for breath, forcing down screams, he falls back into Murphy, hand now gentle in his hair. "Deartháir?" Brother? His voice is a hoarse whisper, struggling to put words together.

Murphy reaches back to hold onto the hand wrapped in the hair at the base of his skull, resting his head against Connor's. "Tá mé ar dheis anseo. Tá mé leat." I'm right here. I have you.

For a brief moment, Connor leans his face against his neck, regaining himself, just as Murphy had done. One breath after another, until he is able to sit up properly, Murphy holding the back of his neck and massaging the knotted muscles.

Connor smiles briefly at him, clearly exhausted and still feeling the throbbing burn as he puts his hand atop the one Murphy has on his neck, and in return, Murphy's lips twitch into a tired smile, understanding without any words being conveyed.

This is going to be the only time they have like this; they have plans to make, weapons to reload and a kitchen to clean up. But for now, they just stay like they are, Connor sitting and Murphy standing behind him, one breath after another.