o(12)o

Murphy was being beaten to death by giant butterflies, patted gently until bones shattered and organs liquefied. There were dozens of them, beautiful, vibrant, and deadly as they loomed over him, fanning the air with their enormous wings, each flutter bringing him a little closer to his demise.

He couldn't think of a more stunning way to die.

They crowded around him, whispering to each other in a language he didn't know. It was okay that he didn't understand, though, because it was a language for butterflies only and he wasn't meant to comprehend it. Not yet anyway.

Every so often, one of the butterflies would take wing, soaring off into the sky, revealing glimpses of dark thunderheads, swollen and angry far above him. But then another would land, filling the empty space with another velvety rainbow and new set of wings would begin their dance across his body, stirring up a breeze that mussed his clothing and hair.

Sich umziehen ist an das windet, he thought and the notion sent a odd thrill through him. Change is on the wind.

The new butterfly unfurled an antenna, probing him gently, its globular eyes dark and curious, and Murphy met its gaze evenly, refusing to let it know what he knew.

Change was on the wind.

The dream faded slowly into wakefulness, but the tapping against his chest didn't stop. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring directly into impossibly wide gray eyes.

"Up?" the baby inquired, continuing to pat him lightly, her hands fluttering over his chest and arms.

"I am now," he said, sitting up, rubbing his eyes groggily.

The little one gave a self-satisfied nod and poked him with a chubby finger for good measure. "Hi."

Groaning, Murphy flopped back into his bed. He was suddenly very grateful that he had no kids of his own. "Llo," he mumbled, still rubbing his vision clear.

"Up!" A finger up his nose accompanied the word, and he batted her hand away, groaning.

Shooting a glance across the room, he saw his brother, still sleeping soundly, sprawled out on his back, one knee, the one that still gave him trouble sometimes, bent under the blanket. Early mornings love company, he thought with a smile.

"Why don't ye go and hassle him for a bit?" he asked, pointing at his twin and the galya turned to follow his finger.

"Up?"

"Aye. Go wake him up," he said, grinning as a sudden, wicked, thought struck, "Better yet, go jump on him."

"Jump?"

Murphy nodded, his grin widening.

"Jump!" the baby squealed, giggling and Murphy chuckled as she vaulted off of his mattress, and climbed up onto Connor's, becoming a small blonde missile that was aimed directly at his twin, bouncing happily on the bed.

She landed squarely on Connor's midsection and Murphy whooped at his brother's surprised 'oof'.

"I'm up! I'm fuckin' up!" Connor gasped, grabbing the baby and plopping her on the bed, giving her several bounces and chuckling as her giggles dissolved into delighted screams.

"Mor!"

Connor stopped bouncing her and shook his head. "Not 'til I have a slash, darlin' or we'll both have a mess on our hands."

Letting go of her, Connor looked at his hands, grimacing. "She's fuckin' filthy," he said and Murphy nodded.

"I know; she woke me up first."

The baby stuck a blackened hand into her mouth and Connor lightly swatted it away. "That's disgustin'," he said, "Christ only knows where yer fuckin' hands have been."

Murphy chuckled at his twin, raising an eyebrow, "Ye sound like Ma."

"Fuck off," Connor scoffed, frowning, "I'm serious here, we don't know what kind of shite she was inta last night. She needs ta have her hands and face washed."

"Ick." The galya agreed, holding up her blackened hands and wrinkling her nose.

Swinging his legs over the bed, Connor sat up, running a hand through his hair before shooting Murphy a meaningful look.

"Are ye going to help me or not?" he asked, scooping up the baby and rising to his feet.

Sighing Murphy rolled out of bed, following his twin out of the room. "Yes mother," he muttered, and then dodged his brother's hand, grinning.

It took three tries to get the wriggling baby to sit on the kitchen counter and another two to get anywhere near her face. All they had managed to do thus far was smear the soot around and convert most of the dirt into mud.

Sighing, Connor tossed the rag into the kitchen sink. "This is fuckin' useless, what she needs is a bath."

"Maybe we should wait for her ma ta do that," of all the things that Murphy never, ever wanted to do, giving a baby a bath was probably number one on the list, "she might not be too pleased about strange men givin' her little one a bath."

Connor started to reply, but stopped, batting the baby's hands away from her mouth again.

"Seein' that she came ta us on her own," he said, "she's got ta trust us a little bit. Besides, we can't just fuckin' leave her like this."

Murphy met his twin's gaze, trying to ignore the look Connor was giving him, then gave up, sighing resignedly, "bath it is then."

o()o

"'plash!" the baby announced happily and Murphy and Connor exchanged a helpless, perplexed glance.

Baby bathing was easier said than done.

"How the fuck are we goin' ta do this?" Murphy asked, shooting a cagey glance over to where the galya sat, fully clothed, in the empty bathtub, contentedly playing with an empty beer bottle.

Connor shrugged, "I haven't a fuckin' clue."

"It can't be much different than giving Spig a bath when we were kids right?"

"Spig the dog?" Connor asked, raising an eyebrow.

Murphy nodded, encouraged, "Aye."

"So, ye're suggestin' we take her out back and shoot her with the garden hose then?"

"Bit cold for that innit?"

Connor snorted, shaking his head. "Ye're a fuckin' retard."

"Do ye have any better ideas?" his twin retorted.

Connor didn't, and the more he thought about it, the better the garden hose idea sounded. Shaking himself from the idea, Connor sighed, "Well, first thing's first," he said slowly, "she can't have a bath with her clothes on."

"Right then," Murphy agreed, turning toward the little girl and frowning. "Ye do it."

"Me?" Connor looked skeptically at his twin, "Fuckin' why me?"

"She likes ye better."

"Go on outta that," groaning, Connor picked up the baby and presented her to his brother, amused as much by the girl's delighted squeal as he was by the horrified expression on his twin's face. "Ye hold; I'll strip."

Murphy took the galya gingerly, holding her at an arm's length, looking as though Connor had just handed him a live bomb. "This is fuckin' loopers," he muttered and Connor scoffed, taking a swat at his brother's head.

"Will ye just fuckin' shut it and hold her still?"

Stripping the wriggling baby down to her diaper, Connor took another moment to gently check her for any injuries they might have missed the night before, but the little girl seemed whole and healthy.

Her ma had done a fine job by her.

"Do ye think she can have a bath in her nappy?" he asked frowning at the diaper, reluctant to remove it.

Murphy shrugged, "I guess we'll find out."

Between the two of them, Connor and Murphy managed to get the little girl clean, thoroughly drenching the entire bathroom and themselves in the process. Water puddled on every available surface, dripping down the mirrors, walls and soaking through both brothers' shirt and jeans.

"Ye," Connor said, holding open a moderately dry towel, "were one dirty galya."

Wiping beads of water from his face, Murphy reached down to lift the girl from the now filthy bathwater, grunting.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he said hauling her out of the bathtub, "what did ye do ta her? She weighs four-hundred pounds!"

Connor rolled his eyes, ready to chide his twin for being such a mollycoddle when he noticed the diaper, now three times its normal size, slipping off the baby's backside.

"I didn't do shite," he protested, pointing, "the fuckin' nappy soaked up all the fuckin' water!"

Murphy glanced down, eyes wide, and jiggled the little one until the diaper slipped all the way off, landing on the bathroom floor with a wet splot.

"I guess nappies weren't meant for the bath after all," he said.

Connor took the baby from his twin, wrapping her in the towel and rubbing her briskly, grinning at the lip vibrating 'brrrrmmm's she made as he did.

" Conn?" Murphy nudged the sodden diaper with his toe, eyeing it warily. "She doesn't have anything ta wear and we don't have any more nappies."

"Well, she can have one of our shirts ta wear and . . ." Connor paused, trying to decide what to do about the diaper, "we'll figure something out," he said at last.

Following his twin out of the bathroom, and into the kitchen, Murphy halted briefly in front of the kitchen counter. He grabbed a nearby roll of paper towels from their place by the sink and lobbed them over his shoulder as he meandered into their bedroom.

Connor caught the roll one-handed, grinning, "Fuckin' brilliant."

Laying the baby on the kitchen, he unrolled a fair amount, bunching them up and putting them where they needed to go. Surveying his work, he gave a pleased nod; the hard part was done, now he just needed a way to make them stay put.

In the other room, he could hear his twin swearing, probably trying to find something for the baby to wear.

"Hey, Murph," he called, "Do we have any tape?"

o()o

Maire coughed herself awake, each breath dragging through her throat like broken glass, her chest feeling raw and stripped. Disoriented, she reached out instinctively for her daughter and encountered empty space.

Oh god . . .

"Sasha!" the word came out a painful croak, her heart suddenly jackhammering against her ribs.

"Take it easy now," a voice soothed, "she's right here,"

Looking up, Maire saw Connor-from-the-hospital standing in the doorway, Sasha cradled in his arm. Her daughter was engulfed in a black tee shirt that was comically too large, contentedly munching dry cereal.

"Mah!" she beamed, reaching out a crumb-covered hand.

"Baby." The relief sweeping through Maire was almost painful as Connor gently settled Sasha into her arms. Immediately, her fingers flew over her daughter, probing for any injuries from the previous night.

"She had a couple of scrapes and bruises," Connor supplied, "nothin' serious."

Nodding her thanks, Maire continued her inspection. It was a long-honed instinct to check Sasha's diaper, and she was more than a little surprised when instead of the anticipated elastic band, her fingers encountered something else entirely.

"You taped paper towels to my daughter?" she asked, raising her eyebrows uncertainly as she examined the makeshift diaper.

Connor shrugged, "t'was all we had. We're lucky Murph found the medical tape when he did, otherwise we would've had ta duct tape them ta her."

Blinking, Maire found herself suddenly very grateful to whoever Murph was and even more grateful for his discovery of medical tape.

"Thank you," she said softly, running a hand over her daughter's head, "for taking care of her, of us."

Connor nodded, remaining silent and Maire shifted her attention to a point above his head, unsure what to say.

A dark haired man moved into her line of sight, making her jump as he peered over Connor's shoulder. She recognized him as the same man that had answered the door last night.

"Glad ta see ye're awake," he said, offering her a hint of a smile before disappearing from sight.

Connor watched the man from the corner of his eye before glancing skyward and shaking his head, offering Maire an amused smile.

"My brother, Murphy, on some mission, no doubt."

"I'm lookin' for galya food." Came a reply from down the hallway and Connor chuckled.

"Fuckin' eejit."

Still leaning comfortably against the doorframe, he folded his arms across his chest, sobering.

"We bandaged ye up as best we could last night," he said, "but ye'll want ta check and make sure that you're all right. We can take ye ta the hospital if ye need us to."

"No hospitals," she said quickly, shaking her head.

Connor frowned at her, his eyes dark and searching, "Are ye certain?"

Last chance, she thought, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. She could still get to the brightly lit safety of a hospital, still have a doctor check Sasha over and still find security in the professionals that were meant to help her.

But deep down, she knew better. Chances are, they were already there, searching for her, waiting for her to show up so they could finish what they started.

"I'm sure." She whispered, feeling more lost and alone than ever.

Connor inclined his head slightly toward the other end of the room, his face unreadable. "Bathroom's through there then."

"I can't leave my daughter."

"She's spent most o' the morning with us already, I think a little longer won't hurt her."

Right on cue, Sasha began to wiggle restlessly in Maire's lap, fussing against her mamma's protective embrace.

"There's nothing around that can hurt her, right?" Maire asked, raising an eyebrow as she glanced around the room, wrangling the increasingly irate ball of energy that was her daughter.

Bottles littered every available surface, beer and harder alcohols, as well as several take-out containers stuffed in between the glass. There were towels and clothing piled together with stacks of newspapers and the floor looked as though it hadn't seen a vacuum sweeper in . . . well, ever.

Bachelor pad, she thought with a sigh.

Connor shook his head, his eyes flicking from point to point around the space. "There isn't. We moved it all earlier."

Nodding, she reluctantly let the baby slide off the couch and Sasha immediately wandered to the far end of the room, picking up something from the floor and popping it into her mouth.

Maire was halfway off the couch before she realized what she was doing. The sudden agony flaring across her back and down her leg made her knees buckle, sitting her back down hard on the sofa.

Shooting her a concerned look, Connor closed the distance between himself and Sasha with a couple long strides, picking the baby up and hooking a finger in her mouth.

"Out with it," He said.

Sasha fussed, twisting to get away from him, but he held her easily, "listen ta me now," he said firmly and Sasha stopped squirming, staring up at him. "Spit. It. Out."

In a flash of memory, Maire saw him sitting next to Martin, watching avidly as her son created a masterpiece from glitter and Crayolas.

She had only spoken to him once, this man who had befriended her son, but she had habitually watched him through the glass of the pediatric ward, unnoticed, and guiltily wondering how much better things would have been for her family if Greg had been a little more like Connor.

Now, watching him interact with her daughter the thought resurfaced. Almost as quickly, she pushed the notion away. She couldn't get him involved, couldn't risk his life too. It was just too dangerous.

Sasha spat the object out into Connor's open hand and Maire had to give him credit for not even flinching at the amazing amount of baby drool that came along with the mystery thing.

He glanced briefly down at the thing in his hand before setting it unceremoniously on top of the television, wiping his palm on his jeans. "T'was only an M&M." he said, shrugging.

"Ick?" Sasha inquired, staring up at Connor with wide eyes.

He nodded at her before setting her down. "Go find Murphy," he said with a grin, "he'll be glad ta see ye."

The baby toddled out of the room, babbling around the finger in her mouth, and Maire resisted the urge to get up and follow her every step. Lord only knew what else she'd find and try to eat from the floor.

"Ye should get cleaned up," Connor said quietly, extending a hand to her. We'll try ta find something that ye can change into."

"I'd appreciate that," she said softly, holding the robe together and taking the offered hand. She winced as he pulled her to her feet and Connor frowned at her, eyes sweeping over her from head to toe.

"Where are ye hurt?" he asked.

"My back, I think," she said, clumsily gesturing toward where the pain was the worst.

"Turn around and let me see."

On impulse, Maire pulled the robe tighter around herself, shaking her head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

He was the same man that she had met in the hospital all those months ago, the man with the kind smile and a way with children that was almost supernatural. The same man who had spent a majority his own recovery time with her dying son in a display of compassion that was unheard of in this day and age. She wanted to trust him, but for all he had done, he was still a stranger.

"I'm not about to hurt ye," he said, speaking her thoughts to her, "I need ye ta trust that, even if ye don't trust me."

Closing her eyes, Maire took in a deep breath and turned around, flinching as she felt his hand tug gently on the collar of her robe. Leap of faith, she thought with another wince.

Clutching the ruined fabric to her front, she allowed Connor to slide the robe from her shoulders. His hands ghosted over her skin, and although his touch was warm and gentle, she cringed away from it, resisting the urge to bolt.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, what the fuck happened ta ye?" he murmured, Ye're fuckin' black and blue from shoulder ta arse."

"My house was on fire," she choked, bringing hand to her mouth, "I had to jump out of the window otherwise we . . ."

Oh God . . . Oh my dear God.

The night came back to Maire in a rush of blazing, searing, sensation, flooding her veins with adrenaline, making her stomach clench and her hands turn to ice. She had been so close to dying, so close to . . .

"Hey," Connor said, moving to stand in front of her, placing an awkward hand on each of her shoulders. "Don't. Whatever's happened, it's over, now, ye're safe."

Maire shook her head, swiping at the few scant tears that were trying to escape. He couldn't have been more wrong. Once they found out that she hadn't died in that fire, it would only be the beginning. She was homeless, helpless, alone, and no place would ever be safe.

Connor pressed a hand against the small of her back, jerking it away again as she flinched. He swore softly, shaking his head. "Habit," he said ruefully, "I didn't even fuckin' think about it."

Maire barely heard him, though, as the true meaning of what had happened struck, shaking her to the core.

No place would ever be safe.

Connor frowned at her, concern in his eyes, "C'mon, now," he encouraged, "Murphy'll keep an eye on yer galya and ye'll feel better once ye're cleaned up and changed."

o()o