FIC: Some Questions Are Best Unasked

[bewize]

Title: Some Questions Are Best Unasked
Fandom: Boondock Saints
Pairing: None. Connor and Murphy McManus.
Prompt: Written for philomytha at fic_promptly for the prompt: Author's choice, author's choice, in vino veritas
Warnings: Unbetad.
Rating: Gen - some bad language. (Have you seen the movie???)
Summary: Do you hate God?
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: So, I've not written much in months. And I miss it. So ficlets are the rule of the day!

As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.

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"Do ye ever hate God?" The question, so unexpected, stopped Murphy so sharply that the beer he was lifting to his mouth sloshed over his hand, the letters of his Aequitas tattoo glittering wetly in the weak overhead light of the crummy little bar they'd settled in for the rest of the night. Murphy stared at his twin, shock warring with guilt that came from the sin of blashphemy.

"I mean," Connor looked flushed, whether it be from the considerable amount of alcohol he'd already consumed, the daring of his words, or his inability to shrug off the burdens he bore on his shoulders. "I know that the Church teaches that God's will won't take ye where God's grace won't protect ye, but fuck. Sometimes, I just..." He trailed off and looked away.

"Hate it?" Murphy asked, his voice low enough that the music spilling from the jukebox in the corner would hide it from any eavesdroppers. "Hate Him fer asking it of ye?"

"Thirty-four." Connor said the number like he pronounced his own death sentence.

"Thirty-four scumbags who don't cause any more harm," Murphy corrected. "Are ye having regrets?"

Connor shrugged, but when Murphy raised an eyebrow, he broke. "Aye, some. I miss days when I didn't have to hide my face from every policeman on every street in every town in the whole feckin' country. I miss work that doesn't result in bloodstains that I can't feckin' wash off. I miss the certainty of knowing..."

"That ye really are doin' God's will?" Murphy asked. "Aye, I've felt that way before."

"Do ye hate Him?"

Murphy turned away, draining his beer in three long swallows and signaling the bar tender for two refills. This conversation was going to require a lot more booze. when the refills had been slid into place, Murphy turned back to his brother. "Aye, I have hated Him."

"Do ye have any regrets?"

"Only one," Murphy admitted. "That I can't bear the burden for ye."

"I wouldn't let you," Connor exclaimed indignantly. "Not when ye carry yer own burden."

"Ah, but don't ye see it? If I were carryin' yer burden, ye would be carryin' mine."

Connor brooded over that thought for a while, sipping his beer until it stood nearly empty. "That'd be a fair trade, I reckon."

"Aye." Murphy paused for a moment, then asked. "Do ye still love Him, too?"

"Aye." This time Connor's answer bore no hesitation. "And I still know that this is our work to be done."

Later that night, with Connor snoring softly in his bed, Murphy blew smoke from his cigarette out of the open hotel window and wondered why Connor hadn't asked him if he still loved God. Then he stubbed the cigarette out on the window sill and went to bed.

Some questions were best left unasked.