It's a good thing I don't have to go to work the next day because the three of them don't get back to my place until well after two a.m. I spend most of the night alternating between staring blindly at the television screen while avoiding all news stations and chewing on my nails until they're ragged, ruined stumps.

I want to know what they're doing, want to know if they're okay, whether this is the night they'll return to me blood-stained and full of holes. "Not fer a few days yet," Murphy told me in the dream. That doesn't stop me from having my own private freak-out in the middle of my living room floor.

I eventually resort to pacing the apartment restlessly, listing all the things that can't be wrong with the three of them, that couldn't possibly happen to them while they're out to keep myself from thinking about what could actually be happening. At some point, I come to my senses and get out my sorry excuse for a first aid kit, digging through the dusty, woefully inadequate contents.

"Gonna have to stock up," I murmur, holding up the nearly depleted roll of gauze. The rest of the kit isn't much better, with an old, dried out bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a few Bugs Bunny band-aids littering the otherwise empty kit. I drop the cotton back in the box and return to my pacing. Connor asked me not to go out while they were gone, so there's not much I can do to help my lack of medical supplies at the moment. I probably won't need them tonight, anyway.

I mean, if they're smart, they won't get injured enough to warrant needing any sort of medical attention.

Because that's worked out well so far.

Nearly three hours later, I hear a key slide into the lock, and the second I lay eyes on their uninjured selves, breathing suddenly becomes so much easier. Once I get Rocco settled on the futon in my spare room, I head back to my room and find Connor already passed out, his back pressed against the wall, stripped down to his boxers. From the sounds of running water, I cleverly deduce that Murphy is taking a shower and will join us shortly.

I undress quietly, pulling on a tank top and a pair of stretchy cotton shorts, and join Connor on the bed. In the soft light of my bedside lamp, I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, allowing the sound of the shower and Connor's light snoring to soothe some of the tension from my body.

I missed this while I was gone, missed having them with me, knowing I am absolutely and utterly not alone. I missed knowing I can reach over at any point in the night and feel the warmth of someone next to me, a solid reassurance that I have a place in the universe, and it is very much with someone else. I missed Connor sleeping like a freaking rock and Murphy waking up every time I warm my freezing feet against his legs.

Seriously, my feet were ice blocks the entire time I was in New York.

I trace a finger lightly over the lines of the saint on Connor's neck, a habit I've gotten into whenever he falls asleep before I do, and he grumbles softly at my touch, shifting towards me in his sleep. His left shoulder rolls out of the shadows as he unconsciously reaches for me, and my eyes widen at the ugly, dark blotches that discolor his skin.

My fingers hover apprehensively over the bruises, not wanting to cause him any further pain or discomfort. Dark blue and purple spreads from the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, over and back almost to his shoulder blade and all the way across the top of his deltoid.

"He got dat breakin' free from th'toilet," Murphy says softly from the doorway. I turn back to look at him, my eyes starting to sting once more with tears. He's got a towel slung low on his hips out of respect for Rocco, I suppose. When it's just me and the twins, he typically doesn't bother with anything after a shower.

"Rammed the tank until he loosened the pipes an' cracked th'tank an' base enough t'pull it outta th'floor."

I nod, clearing my throat and blinking my eyes rapidly. I've cried enough today, and no one needs my tears right now. The boys don't need my weakness; they need better than that, and if they're settling for me, then I'm just going to have to rise to the occasion.

I turn so that I'm facing Murphy, and Connor instinctively curls his arm around the front of my shoulders, pulling me snugly against his chest. I look down at the bandaged wrist resting firmly against my collarbone before turning my eyes back to Murphy. I open my arms to him and offer him the first genuine smile I've been able to muster in what feels like years.

"Come to bed?"

So, with my nose buried in Murphy's damp hair, his face pressed into the hollow at the base of my throat, and Connor's snores tickling the back of my neck, the tension steadily drains from me until exhaustion creeps in to take its place. Somehow, despite the tornado of fear and doubt tearing through my brain, exhaustion wins out and sleep finally claims me deeply and soundly.

...

I wake with a start and a gasp several hours later. My bed is empty of MacManuses, but there are sounds of movement around my apartment. The shower is running and the television is on in the living room, so at least one person is still here.

Most of the muscles in my body protest vehemently as I sit up, and the crack that reverberates through my neck is nothing short of nauseating. Despite my lack of physical activity the last few days, I feel sore like I've been beaten with something heavy and unpleasant. I wince at the snapping noises that emanate from my back as I stretch and try to rub the crick from my neck. I guess this is what three days of severe tension does to me.

I feel old and worn out. I'm not sure I can muster the energy to face today. Or tomorrow. Et cetera. Being awake seems like way too much effort. But regardless of how invitingly my blanket is calling to me right now, being alone in my bedroom after two months of solitary confinement in my hotel is an even worse prospect.

At least I'll have company if I leave the room.

I reluctantly slip into something closer to decent than my make-shift pajamas and shuffle from my room, yawning and grimacing at the bright sunlight. Rocco waves a hello from the couch as he clicks through television channels. I notice that he's also steering clear of the news stations, and I wonder if his avoidance is as deliberate and for the same reasons as mine was last night.

"Murph went out for some smokes, and Con's in the shower," he says, glancing back at me over his shoulder. I must look as bad as I feel because he can't quite hide his cringe at my appearance. "You doin' okay, hun? Ya look kinda rough."

"Slept wrong," I mumble, barely coherent. "Stiff, like I've been in a fight or something. Might get a shower. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge if you get hungry before Murphy comes back."

A hot shower is definitely the first order of business; Connor is just going to have to share. I stumble over to the bathroom and open the door. The shower is still running, and the room is full of steam. I can just make out Connor through the clear shower curtain. His hands are planted on the wall under the showerhead, his head bowed under the scalding spray, and he doesn't react to my entrance.

Even through the blur of the curtain, I can see his tension and exhaustion in his stance. As stressful as the last few days have been for me, I know they've been that much harder on him. I shudder at the image I have of him in my mind, chained to the toilet in the loft, screaming as Murphy is shoved out the door. For all he knew, that was the last time he would ever see his brother, and I can't even begin to imagine how much that must have damaged him.

I step towards the shower, but my toe hits something soft, and I glance down to see discarded bandages littering the floor and strewn around the counter and sink like he was so pissed off when he removed them that he couldn't even ring the trash can.

I glance down at my palm, at the tiny cartoon band-aid covering an even tinier cut. My eyes flick between it and Connor's discarded gauze. I peel off my pathetic little bandage and drop it into the trash can, my gaze still fixed on the faint traces of blood staining the gauze. I feel like such a juvenile in this moment, so severely ignorant and young when I think about what Connor and Murphy have been through in the last few days. At least, the little I know of it so far.

Then I have a jarring flash, a memory I tend to recall mostly in nightmares, of a face leering over me, alternating between a sneering man with rotten teeth and a slavering wolf's head with a mouthful of fangs. I can't stop the shudder that runs down my spine any more than I can keep my fingers from brushing my throat to make sure no one else's hand is there.

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth…in through the nose, out through the mouth. Calm down and breathe.

The boys need me. If I take nothing else from my nightmares, I have to remember that they need me, and they need me solid and steady, not the quivering mess I tend to slide into whenever I have the flashbacks.

I can be strong.

I watch Connor through the curtain for another few seconds, but he never moves. After a silent, internal debate, I strip and step into the tub behind him. Though I haven't made any noise, he must have sensed me come in because he doesn't flinch when my hands smooth over the rigid muscles of his back.

His skin still holds its usual light tan, something I've never figured out in the two years plus I've known him. Even after being covered nearly head to toe for an entire Boston winter, this man looks like he just spent the afternoon on a California beach, and his skin almost glows under my pale fingers.

Well, apart for the giant bruise on his shoulder.

He straightens gradually, stiffly, taking several moments to finally turn and face me. Lines of pain crease between his eyes, eyes that I'm used to seeing twinkling with mischief or mirth, usually at my expense, but are now dark and haunted by the events of the last few days. This is the first time I've seen him show he's still hurting from his multi-story fall.

"You probably shouldn't even be able to walk," I murmur, touching his face with my fingertips. "You do realize you're damned lucky you didn't shatter any bones in your legs, yeah?"

He doesn't answer, his face somber as he looks me over. The spray from the shower hits his back, sending out a fine mist that clouds around us, giving him a kind of hazy, white outline that catches the sunlight from the tiny window.

His face is haggard, looking years older, and there are a few more lines besides those between his eyebrows. I realize in that moment that he is every inch the older twin. His propensity for always making a plan, making sure everything works out and everyone is taken care of should have made it obvious to me long ago. This man ripped a toilet from the floor and jumped off a six story building to save his brother.

He impassively watches the thoughts flicker across my face, waiting for me to say something.

"Can I see them?" I ask tentatively, holding my hands out. Instead of answering aloud, Connor offers me his wrists, placing them palm-up in my hands. The skin around his wounds is raw, rubbed red and sore, but it's the cuts that look truly painfully. They're jagged and deep, slicing into his wrists in irregular lines from his thrashing and straining in the handcuffs. Somehow, though, the torn flesh already show signs of healing rapidly.

"I have no idea how you didn't need stitches," I say. I look up and find his gaze locked on our joined hand. He traces a finger, feather light, next to my own tiny wound, still not responding to my words.

"You bled on me in my dream. I looked down, and your wrists were covering both of us in your blood. I asked you how you got hurt and you told me-"

My throat closes for a second, and I swallow hard, trying to recover my voice. Connor takes a step closer, his hands still resting in mine, and peers down at me. His presence somehow crowds out the worst parts of the dream from my mind, helping to clear my thoughts when he normally overwhelms them.

"Ye still haven't told me what I said t'ye, lass. Was it dat bad?"

I shake my head and clear my throat, answering him with as much certainty as I can muster. "It wasn't bad, I'm just having a period of adjustment, that's all. I keep thinking if I'd been here, maybe none of this would've happened. Maybe the fight wouldn't have been as bad, or I could've-"

"Don't fuss yerself, girl, ye didn't do a thing wrong," Connor says, his gaze settling calmly on me. "Dis was bound t'happen whether you were here or not. I was protectin' me family. I've done th'same fer you an' Roc an' Ma, an' I'll do it again. It's what I do."

My eyes widen as his words echo through my mind. The dream again. Again. How does this keep happening? My fingers begin to tremble against his palms, and I clamp down on my rampaging emotions before they get the best of me again. I have more control than this. I can be strong for him.

He continues to watch me, and though his expression is still, there are so many emotions storming through his eyes that I can't even come close to guessing what he's thinking. I am frozen by his gaze; I feel like he's staring into the deepest parts of me, seeing all the doubt and fear I'm trying to keep hidden inside. After everything that's happened in the last few days, I would readily accept that he is actually able to do just that.

"I love ye, Grace. I love me brudder. I did what I had t'do t'keep him safe. If I was willin' to go dat far a few months ago, mighta been able t'keep ye safe, as well." He reaches a thumb up to swipe regretfully across the faint scar left on my cheek by my attacker's ring.

"Shoulda killed dose fuckers dat hurt ye, but I didn't. Not just fer what dey did t'you an' Mary, but fer all th'people they hurt an' robbed. Shoulda gone after 'em th'moment I knew what they'd done t'Mary, shoulda put more inta findin' 'em. If I ever see 'em again, they're dead men. Ye understand, aye?"

I nod. I get what he means, both what he's said aloud and what he's left unspoken. To Connor, it doesn't matter that it was partially my stupidity and stubbornness that got me into trouble in the first place. It doesn't matter whether or not I agree with what he and Murphy are doing. Those men hurt people, and they did it knowingly and willingly. That is enough to put them on the list.

Connor and Murphy are becoming people I don't completely recognize, people who shake my understanding of the world to its very core. What they're doing is illegal, wildly so, but it isn't wrong. In an ideal world there wouldn't be a distinction between the two, but in an ideal world we wouldn't need men like Connor and Murphy to do what they're doing in the first place.

So, because the world doesn't make sense, we need someone who can take that burden on themselves to do what's right to defend people who need protection before they get hurt, proactively ridding the world of evil before it can touch the innocent.

This is who Connor has become, who Murphy has become, maybe even who they always have been. I can't change this part of them any more than I can change the ebb and flow of the tides. It doesn't matter how upset or confused or torn I am by what they are doing; I can accept them and support them in their calling, or I can let them go.

I don't know if that's a decision I can fully make right now. I want to immediately soothe his fears, to reassure him that I'll always be there with and for him and Murphy no matter what, but a nagging little feeling in the bottom of my heart holds me back from simply diving head first into an affirmative answer.

But he needs me here right now, in this moment, and I can at least give him that.

I raise Connor's hands to my lips, placing gentle kisses on his palms before kissing carefully next to the cuts on his wrists. I pull his face down to mine, pressing my lips to his forehead and his closed eyelids, on his cheekbones and finally on the corners of his mouth. He accepts these kisses passively, even submissively at first, but as my lips brush the edge of his, I finally elicit a reaction from him.

His hands move shockingly fast, fisting in my hair and pulling my mouth firmly to his. My scalp aches under the pressure of his grip, and I don't even remotely consider asking him to release me. He turns us so the spray hits my back, and I inhale sharply at the drastic change in temperature. His lips drop to my throat, sucking water droplets from my skin, and my arms go around him automatically, dragging him impossibly close as I breathe his name out like a prayer.

"Stay wit' me, Grace. I need ye more d'n I can ever tell ye." The words are heated and determined, flowing over my skin wherever his lips touch. "I know ye, I know yer not okay wit' what we're doin', an' I can't force ye t'accept it. All I c'n do is ask ye not t'go. Yer th'only t'ing in me life dat's sane right now. Yer anchorin' me t'what still makes sense, and I need ye."

As he speaks, he backs me into the corner of the shower, and the chilled tile is pressed abruptly to my flushed skin, raising goosebumps and sending tiny shivers down my back. His lips drop lower, laying open-mouthed kisses between and around my breasts before moving down the plane of my belly and finally to the tops of my thighs. Connor slides smoothly to his knees in front of me, his eyes boring entreatingly into mine before he turns back to his task.

"You cheat when you ask me like this," I moan, gazing slack-jawed down at his head moving down the inside of my leg. His teeth scrape along my inner thigh, and I shiver with anticipation. "That's not fair, Connor, I can't think straight when you do that."

He looks up at my words, and the fierce possessiveness that burns in his eyes evaporates any of my remaining protests. When he speaks, his voice is a low, primitive growl that I reverberates to my marrow, and though he's quiet I have no trouble understanding him over the rushing water.

"Mark me, lass; I never once told ye I'd fight fair t'keep ye. I'll do any fuckin' t'ing I can t'hold onto ye. Don't even t'ink fer a second dat I'll be fair when it comes to protectin' ye an' lookin' after ye. Yer mine, girl, an' I keep what's mine. Now hold on t'me, 'm gonna show ye just how fuckin' much I missed ye while y'were gone."

Even as the thrill of his heated words washes through me, sending sparks to exactly the right places, he dips his head again, lips and teeth leaving faint, reddish trails as he applies his gilt tongue to a spot on the inside of my thigh about eight inches above my knee that he knows for a fact will make my brain short out.

"Don't you dare...think you can...push me over with...with your tongue, Connor. Staying is...my...my decision and...I will...I am NOT just staying for...for the sex…Dammit, Connor!"

He pauses, and I can feel his grin against the inside of knee. "Would never in me life call ye a pushover, lass. God in Heaven help me if I t'ought fer a second I could push ye 'round. Dis is more of a 'thank ye' dan anyt'in' else. Know ye ain't stayin' just fer th'sex, lass, but ye gotta admit it ain't exactly a turn off for ye, neither."

I hate it when he's right.

His tongue snakes up my thigh, tracing a burning line across my skin before centering on the juncture of my legs. He trails tiny nips downward that make me jump with every thrilling pinch and have my fingers threading tightly into his hair just to have something to hang on to.

"Connor…"

He scrapes his teeth across a particularly sensitive spot just above my clit, and I jump, my skin squeaking against the tile. One of Connor's forearms comes up to press flat against my belly, pushing me back against the wall of the shower and holding me firmly. Fortunately, he switches from surprise nips with his teeth to leisurely exploration with his tongue, and I can feel the tension in my legs begin to wash away in the spray of the shower.

"I can't...can't answer you if you're going to k...keep that up, Connor, I-"

His tongue plunges downwards, swirling and circling over every nerve ending between my legs before running down my slit to dip inside me. My admonitions die on my lips, and I let my head fall back against the wall with a defeated moan, my fingers clenching reflexively into his hair as I hang on for dear life.

Connor moves his attention to my clit, tonguing it with deliberate pressure as he runs his free hand up the inside of my leg. His fingers knead my flesh slowly and deeply on their way up, and my knees weaken as desire sparks through me, hot and painful. His thumb replaces his tongue, pressing hard against the swollen bundle of nerves, and I jerk with shock at the sudden change in sensation, my back arching away from the wall. He leans back, watching me writhe in front of him as he slides two fingers inside me, curling them exactly right against my inner wall.

"You're killing me, Connor," I manage to say just before he adds a third finger and his thumb bears down. My breath catches in a sharp, gasping whimper, and I can't help but rock my hips forward in time with his thrusts, shamelessly chasing the release I feel coming.

"'Tis my pleasure, lass. You're fuckin' gorgeous when ye ride me hand like dat. Ye gonna come fer me?" His fingers tilt forward just a shade more, and my knees really do buckle then, but Connor manages to keep me upright with his supportive arm as the hot water pouring down on us slowly begins to cool.

"Yes...God, yes, Connor, I-"

He exchanges his thumb for his tongue once more, his fingers keeping that exquisite rhythm inside me. I am in Heaven, and yet somehow I still want more. I want more than just his fingers on me and his mouth working me over. I want all of him, and I want him fucking now. I pull hard on his hair, jerking his face away with an abrupt, painful loss of sensation.

"Lass, what-"

"You, inside me, now," I pant, aching and frantic with need.

"Turn around an' plant yer hands good on th'wall." His tone leaves no room for argument, and my hands are on the tile without further delay. There's not really anything to grip, but I trust him not to let me fall. I feel him stand behind me, deliberately dragging his hands up my legs, my hips, my ribs, the side of my breasts. My breath catches over and over, roughly every inch or so of his progress, until I'm a dizzy, quivering mess.

His hands reach my shoulders, dragging my sopping hair to side, baring my neck to his torturous kisses. His fingers ripple gently, teasingly light on my skin as they glide back down my spine and around the side of my hips. He lifts, pulling my ass back and out just a little, lining himself up before entering me languidly. I am in no way responsible for the noise that escapes my throat then, and I hear him sigh in rapt satisfaction.

His strokes are deep and thoroughly unrushed. After just a few moments, though, he steps closer to me, pulling me upright and flush against him, pressing my stomach and breasts flat against the wall. His chest and shoulders are steaming against my chilled back, and I moan drunkenly, my breath steaming across the cool, clammy tile.

I didn't realize having not a single millimeter between us was the one thing missing from this encounter. Connor presses impossibly closer until his chin rests on my shoulder, his hand covering mine on the wall next to my cheek.

"Yer mine," he snarls savagely in my ear, his tone disquietingly incongruent with the steady, calculated pace of his strokes. "Ye hear me?" His days old stubble grates against the tender skin of my neck and ear, and for a delirious moment I wonder whether that might be my favorite feeling in the entire world. Then he thrusts into me once more, grinding against me and crushing me against the wall. He squeezes the air from my lungs, and I have to wait until he pulls back again to answer him.

"I thought I was yours and Murphy's-"

"When we're both wit' ye, ye belong t'bot' of us. But Murphy ain't here right now, an' when it's just you an' me, yer fuckin' mine, girl."

I'm finished before his sentence is.

Author's Note: I'm glad people are enjoying, but remember, the more response the story gets, the faster the update goes. To put it in perspective, this is chapter 10. I'm currently working on chapter 26. Ergo, the more response, the faster you all get the next bit. I mean, come on...this chapter was exciting, right? Let me know if you want me to keep going. thanks for reading.