a/n: sorry it took so long to update, school and everything has kept me buuuusy! but i hope this chapter makes the wait worth it...and remember, reviewsfaster updates!!

"Okay, I'll be right back—Christian, hot water and towels, please," Clare said, moving with an authoritative, business-like air that graced her tall, lean frame with a strange sort of toughness about it. Connor furrowed his brow as he tried to place it, but gave up when she left the room and that elusive feeling evaporated.

"Oh, I'm all over it," Christian replied, pausing to wink at Murphy before making his exit into the kitchen. Murphy sighed but then broke into a chuckle as he caught Connor's eye.

"Christ, why d'we always get stuck with the queers?" he said in a low voice, grinning.

Clare was returning to the room with her kit when she heard the brothers talking in low voices. She paused at the threshold, watching them. They were so…together. She couldn't think of the right word. They just fit. Like jigsaw pieces. Like twins were supposed to fit. Then Connor laughed at something Murphy had said, and the end of his laugh trailed off into a surprised, ragged gasp.

"Connor?" Murphy was pushing himself up, getting ready to heave himself across the distance between him and his twin, but Clare gave him a cursory shove back down onto the couch and a glare that clearly said, Stay put. In one fluid motion she had her kit up on the table, the catches undone and the kit open, her fingers nimbly sorting through the compartments until she found the object of her search. Ripping the plastic cover off, she slipped the oxygen mask over Connor's face and pressed two fingers below his jaw. "Connor," she said, "listen to me, just try to breathe deeply. Slow it down."

Her instructions seemed to have no effect on Connor's frenzied, panicked breaths. "Connor?" Murphy said again, this time real concern in his voice. Christian returned with the hot water and towels and knew better than to add to the chaos of Clare trying to calm one brother and chastise the other.

"Christian," Clare said, "take Murphy to the kitchen, please." Her voice was the epitome of sensibility.

"But, fuck—fuck—" Murphy swore as Christian gently but firmly lifted him under the arms and escorted him from the room.

Connor's eyes followed Murphy from the room.

"Connor," Clare said. "Stay right here with me, okay?"

His eyes were glazing over. Clare took a deep breath, took another—you can handle this, you were trained for this. Then another small part of her mind reminded her, This is the training you've tried so hard to forget. Are you going to make him pay for it?

"No," she muttered. Then, louder, "No, Connor, you're going to listen to me." Her voice was firm, almost harsh. "Listen. To. Me. Focus, right here." She stopped taking his pulse and took his chin in her hand. His blue eyes opened a little wider as she leaned in close. "Slow. Right with me. Here. I'm breathing with you, all right?"

The fog on the oxygen mask wavered, then steadied—still fast, but slowing.

"Good. That's the way. Good." She kept eye contact until his heaving chest calmed and the hazy look of panic left his face. Then she inspected him, running her eyes expertly over his body. It looked like most of the damage was to his torso—and she could see the bruised imprint of a thin rope or wire about his neck. She suppressed an involuntary shudder. After a few moments, she gently removed the oxygen mask and laid it on the table. "Better?"

He quirked half a smile in response.

"All right now, I need to get your shirt off," she said.

"Oy, Conn, I knew she couldn't resist ye!" called Murphy from the kitchen. Connor's eyes sparked and he looked as if he wanted to voice a retort but he contented himself with rolling his eyes.

"Quiet down in there, Murphy, or I'll let Christian have the dubious honors of undressing you," Clare replied saucily.

"Oh, can I?" asked an obviously excited Christian breathlessly. There was the sound of someone hastily vacating their chair—Murphy or Christian, Clare couldn't tell. She didn't answer, but smiled to herself as she turned back to Connor. She was met by the full force of his blue eyes, now studying her without reserve, and for a moment her neck tingled but then she cleared her throat and fixed him with a business-like eye.

"Your shirt," she said. "Can you get it off by yourself?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Fuck," he muttered as he moved. Clare tensed but forced herself to sit back as he struggled with his black t-shirt. He was holding his breath as he eased it up over his ribs and then he stopped, wincing, as he tried to extend his arms. "Fuck."

"Here, let me help," she said quietly, knowing it rankled his pride even though he hid it well. With a bit of careful maneuvering she got the shirt up and over his head—she noted that he bit back a sound when the shirt stretched his arms upward. Then it was her turn to bite back a moan of sympathy when she saw his battered body, the bruises marring his ribs and chest and the blood coalescing above his collarbone, the thin white lines of old scars and the angry red weals of new ones.

"Did they do this to you?" she asked, a fierce anger welling up behind her words. He didn't answer her and wouldn't meet her eyes.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he said finally. She laid a finger gently on his ribs and he tensed. There were other things she wanted to say but she held them back and instead pulled on a pair of gloves from the medical kit.

"Can I come back in? Or am I banished forever fuckin' more?" came Murphy's voice. "Oy—you—no, thanks I don't need a fuckin' physical—Jesus fuckin' Christ--"

"Let me poor brother in," murmured Connor.

"I could be merciless and leave him to the tender ministrations of Christian," Clare replied, slowly feeling Connor's ribs. He jerked when she touched a broad black bruise on his left side. "Hold still." Connor closed his eyes and his breathing quickened again as she explored the rest of his ribs. "All right, Murphy, you can come back, but only if you can get your brother to stay still." Murphy was at her side like a shot. She spared him a glance. "That was amazingly quick for an invalid."

"Yes, well, ah—let's just say the motivation was right—"

Christian brought the bowl of hot water and cloths back into the living room. "Why don't I get to take off someone's shirt?" he pouted.

Clare sighed. She was starting to regret involving Christian, much as she loved his quirkiness. "Christian, do you have to go to the boutique at all today?" She could feel his gaze on the back of her head and didn't turn around; she knew what he would look like: so heartbreakingly akin to a kicked puppy that she wouldn't be able to maintain her resolve.

"Sure, I should…check on the Manolo order that was supposed to come in yesterday…damn FedEx…" He brushed past her and gave her a ghost of a wobbly smile. "I'll pick up some food on the way home."

"Thank you, Christian," she said sincerely.

"Beer!" said Murphy. "Get us some beer!"

"Shut up," said Clare. "You are not getting beer."

"Ah, fuck," said Murphy. He stood and felt around in his back pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes—then he paused and looked down at Connor, slid the pack back into his pocket and sat back down heavily. "Sorry." He ran his hands through his hair. "I don't really want fuckin' beer."

"I know," Clare said softly. Her fingers were moth-wing light as she investigated a particularly worrisome cut on Connor's side. "Damn it," she swore.

"What?" Murphy leaned in close.

"There's a foreign body in the laceration…I don't know what it is but it sure as hell isn't supposed to be there." Clare shook her head and sat back. "He really needs a hospital."

"No," Connor murmured. "I don't."

"Conn," started Murphy. The worry in his eyes was almost palpable.

Connor opened his eyes with an effort and said to Murphy, "Don't."

Murphy nodded slowly and then gripped his twin's hand. "All right, all right." He turned to Clare. "Do what ye can fer him, everything ye can." He looked at her medical kit. "Ye've enough supplies to last through fuckin world war three…"

Clare nodded. "Come with me to the kitchen for a moment." It was her business-voice.

He followed her and as soon as she was sure they were out of earshot she rounded on him. "Look, yes, I've got training, but I'm—out of practice. And this isn't a hospital. You have to be honest with me right now. Is what would happen to you if you went to a hospital worse than Connor dying?"

Murphy closed his eyes. "Fuck, fuck, don't say that, Jesus fuckin' Christ. Don't…don't say that."

"I'm just being realistic."

"No. No hospitals. He said it himself." Murphy looked at her with pain in his eyes. "I can't go back on me word. Not when I gave it to me brother."

"Fine. Just stay out of my way," Clare said briskly.

It was going to be a long day.