ANGEL OF THE BRONX
Based on the movie "Boondock Saints"

A.N. Yes, I'm back. I don't know for how long, but that's life. Sorry for not updating in so long! Hopefully this chapter makes up for it.


Anna seemed, if possible, less peaceful when she slept then when she was awake. At least that's what Connor decided as he watched the willowy form curl into an even tighter ball in the visitor's chair. This was the fourth time in at least twenty minutes she had shifted and still remained deeply asleep. As of right now, her legs were crossed at the ankles, with the knees pulled up against her chest. Her head hung loosely along her right shoulder as her right arm lay in the slight space between her legs and stomach. Her left arm, however, remained uncomfortably pressed against the chair arm and the small of her back. Yet the girl let out a slight snore, breathing out with the steady breath of deep rest.

Shaking his head, Connor turned to look out through the cracks in the window blinds at the nurses' station across the hall. A dumpy blond, probably around fourty sat at the desk concentrated on a computer screen. Sighing, the light-haired Irishman leaned back into the bed to look up at the ceiling. Blank, sterile white stared back at him, offering neither comfort nor hope. His hand moved absently to his chest only to feel bare skin and hair beneath the paper thin hospital gown. A sudden feeling of utter emptiness washed over him. Not having Murphy around was bad enough. Without him Connor was without his counterbalance, his equal. The perfect symmetry by which the two lived most of their lives was something neither had ever learned to live without. It was part of who they were together and separately. Without the rosary, though, Connor felt an absence almost as profound. It felt almost as though God had been cut off from his as well. Sure, he could still pray and go to confession but the simple comfort the little symbol represented was gone, possibly to never return.

The sharp intake of breath startled him, though he would never admit it aloud. Turning, he saw Anna had moved her left arm out from underneath her letting it hang limply over the front of the chair. A deep frown was etched into her face as her closed eyes clenched into an expression of pain or distress.

"No, no...can't..." she mumbled, her head turning away from Connor.

Connor sat up, wincing as his ribs rebelled against the movement. He could see Anna tense suddenly, her straight black hair now kinking into random messy angles. There was the sound of another sharp intake of breath. Connor froze, staring at the young woman in disbelief.

"Anna," he called out, concerned. It struck a strong chord in him to see someone in distress, even more if the person was a woman. Yet, he found himself helplessly unsure what to do. Anna's unpredictable temperament made it difficult enough to judge what sort of reaction would ignite from a certain action, and he doubted she would appreciate being woken up by him. He could call someone, but then they might be suspicious of the both of them and, though he didn't know intellectually why, he felt this was not a moment Anna would like anyone more stranger to her then himself to see. Finally, he just felt physically weak. An unconscious fear of collapsing again motivated his body in every sense to refuse motion, even at the selfish expense of another. Or, at least so he thought, until there came the sound of a light sob and Anna's body began to shake.

"Lass, Lass, ye have ta wake up!" Connor exclaimed, beginning to swing his legs off the bed.

It may have simply been the volume of his call, or perhaps the familiar uniqueness of his accent to her ears that finally woke Anna up. Blinking blearily, she could feel the faint touch of the tears falling on her face. Taking in a shaky breath, she lifted her arm, quickly wiping them away. She could hear the creak from Connor's bed and knew it was too late to shake off any sounds he might have heard. Not even bothering to hide the redness she knew had come into her face, she turned around uncomfortably to find the man with one foot out of the bed and the other midway in progress.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" she exclaimed harshly, sitting up. Connor paused, a look of stunned confusion passing through his eyes.

"What do ye mean, what am I doin'?" Connor responded, putting his second foot on the floor. He ignored the chilliness that raced up his legs in a way it never had before, "Yer were the one havin' the fuckin' nightmare!"

Anna clenched her jaw unintentionally. It drove her nuts breaking down in front of anyone, made her feel vulnerable. Some of if was natural pride derived of both her heritage and her general view of the world. Some of it came from something deeper. A feeling of cold swept over her, blood-chilling cold like that found in Hudson on a winter evening. She shut her eyes forcing the though far back into her mind. She hadn't cried when she was told they were gone. She hadn't cried when she put them in the ground. She had made herself strong for her own sanity and she wouldn't allow herself to be seen as weak by anyone. Especially not some insane vigilante who had no real right to even believe he had the right to become God's vengeance. Opening her eyes, she fixed Connor with an indifferent glare.

"Get back in the bed," she said, her tone calm and controlled despite the the slight waver she couldn't stop. Connor opened his mouth to argue, but paused. With a resigned nod, he pulled himself back into the bed, a flash of pain crossing his face. Laying on his back, he turned his head away from Anna.

Anna waited patiently until she saw the edges of his eyelids meet. Watching till his breath evened out from sheer exhaustion, she once again curled herself into the visitor's chair. She had no intentions of sleeping again, but rather let the familiar wariness of exhaustion collect around her as she fought to keep it at bay. It had been weeks since the last time she had dreamed about her parents or the river. She suspected it was probably the situation she was currently in which drove the remembrance, but she couldn't understand why. She had driven herself to bury her memories and the feelings associated with them, to keep a strong front for everyone. She refused to believe a brief moment of sentimentality could crush the walls she had built.

Against her own volition, Anna glanced over at Connor. She knew, of course, that she was lying to herself. There was one reason and one thing alone that could truly break through her walls and chill her like she was now. Fear. Connor's words had frightened her. His confession that someone was brave enough to attack the Saints, to challenge their legend. It scared her that someone had almost succeeded. She would never, could never condone what the Saints had done, but she wasn't blind enough not to understand the power behind him. From an analytical standpoint, the strength of their belief that they were in the right fueled their legend while the spread of the their story by the media increased their conviction. Society and the Saints fed on each other. It worried her more than she would admit the damage that could be reeked if the Saints were show to be beatable.

As the analytical side of her mind slowly broke the strength of her resolve and exhaustion ebbed against her, Anna yawned. Letting herself relax, she allowed the rest of her train of thought slide from her grasp. In particular, a sense of fear for her own person should the anti-Saints find out she was protecting Connor.

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