"I won't apologize for what I did, but I hope I didn't cause too much damage."
"I've had far worse, lass. Ye made it hurt like hell, dat's all," Noah replies. I can just make out a wry smile beneath his wild tangle of a beard.
If anyone had asked me how I was most likely to be spending my Sunday night, this is not the first answer I would have given them. I have Noah sitting shirtless on a rickety chair next to the bed while I finish redressing the wound on his shoulder. I somehow manage to keep most of the shaking from my fingers, and Noah graciously ignores the few tremors that occasionally make the gauze flutter as I press it down with a fraction too much force.
"Good," I say with satisfaction, though my voice shakes a little as I place a bandage over the gauze. The seeping bullet wound sports burn marks similar to Connor and Murphy's, and I internally shake my head at the three of them. Chalk that one up to genetics, I suppose. Or practicality and no other options. "Serves you right."
He lets out a sharp, barking laugh that makes him wince a little (though I suppose the wincing could be from me jabbing the tape down against the bandage). Despite my lack of finesse in dressing his wound, Noah's expression grows more amused by the second.
Up close and in somewhat better lighting (and minus the whole psycho death glare and the gun pointed at me), Noah is a lot less feral looking, although the intimidation factor is still strong. If he could tame the wild hair, he wouldn't be half as frightening, I think, but it's just possible that, what with getting out of prison, being ordered to murder some men, and being reunited with his sons whom he hasn't seen in twenty-something years, he might've had a couple more things on his mind than stopping by the barber.
Connor and Murphy watch silently from the bed as I finish taping their father's bandage down, both of them wearing matching expressions of utter shock at my behavior. I don't see why they're so surprised. He shot them. I could've done much worse to him in retaliation. They're lucky I didn't have a brick close to hand.
"You're all patched up, Mr. MacManus," I say, ripping off the end of the tape from the roll. I sit back in my chair, doing some wincing of my own as every muscle and joint in my upper body protests and snaps all at once. Even my skin is sore in various places, like I have one hell of a carpet burn or something.
"It's Da or Noah," he says, an uncanny echo of my first conversation with the boys' mother. He reaches over for his t-shirt, pulling it over his head as he continues, "T'ank ye fer th'patch up job, allowin' I might not've needed it if it weren't for ye hittin' me in th'first place."
"If we're going to go down that road," I reply cheerfully as I start placing supplies back in the first aid kit, "I wouldn't have needed to punch you if you hadn't tried to murder your sons."
"Tis a rare one ye've got yerselves, lads," Noah grins, nodding to Connor and Murphy. "Whatever ye do, don't lose 'er, an' don't piss 'er off."
"Believe us, we know, Da," Connor replies, something like awe in his eyes as he glances at me. He shifts on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position for his leg, and the awe is quickly replaced by a grimace of pain. "Hate t'be a burden, lass, but do ye t'ink ye could-"
"I'm sorry, Connor, yes, I can help you. Let's get you stripped and into the bathroom so we can clean you off. Murph, can you get him to the bathtub and help him with his clothes?"
I wash my hands in the sink as the boys shuffle past me, finally allowing my hands to shake as much as they want as I scrub them with soap and the hottest water setting possible. I glance at the counter next to me and see Connor and Murphy's rosaries lying on a hand towel. The cloth is damp underneath, so I assume they must've just washed the beads off. I don't see why they'd need to wash the beads, though; they never have before. Except they wore them to Yakavetta's, and I'm sure every other inch of them was covered in blood at some point, so...yeah.
Yeah. Another deep breath.
It doesn't escape my attention that they cleaned their rosaries before they even attended to all of their wounds.
Connor's leg is easier to deal with than I thought, and I silently thank God that he doesn't need stitches. I bind it as tightly as I can, not wanting to cut off circulation in his inner thigh with the wrap I'm using to hold the bandage in place.
I have Connor sitting on the edge of the bathtub to take advantage of the running water, as he's pretty bloody all over, and I've got him stripped to his boxers to avoid getting all of his clothes wet. I hand him rag after rag to clean as much of the blood off as he can, hoping that I'll remember to ask Agent Smecker how to dispose of them later.
In the sickly yellow light of the bathroom, Connor's still-forming bruises stand out vividly against his skin, mottling his chest, stomach, and back a nauseating light purple. My own ribs ache in empathetic memory of the pain I know he's in, but I don't think there's anything I can do except offer him some Advil when we're done in here.
I silently hand him another clean washcloth for his face while I fasten the elastic bandage over the gauze to help keep pressure on the wound. Connor's leg took a lot more abuse than Noah's shoulder, and the bleeding is proving just as stubborn as Connor himself, but I'm pretty sure the continuous pressure from the Ace bandage should help.
"That should hold you for at least the night," I say, standing and offering Connor a hand up. He tosses the bloody rag on the pile with the rest of them and uncharacteristically accepts my support to limp back into the main room. I glance at Murphy and Noah, both sitting silently and trying surreptitiously to observe each other from across the room.
"Does anyone need anything else patched up?" This is easily the weirdest night of my life, and yet I still find myself playing the role of tension breaker.
As I help Connor sit down on the bed, he nods towards Murphy, and I notice for the first time he's cradling his left hand awkwardly. His thumb is bent at an odd angle, and there are abrasions all over the skin. I move next to him, holding his wrist delicately as I look over the injured appendage. Just like in the dream. Everything ended up just like the dream.
I finally shake my head and sigh.
"I don't think I can do anything for you, Murph; this is way beyond anything I know how to take care of. Does it feel broken? What does a broken finger even feel like? How did this happen"
"I've had broken fingers b'fore," Murphy says, wincing as he tries to move his thumb. "T'ink it's more likely dislocated. C'n get Connor t'help me pull it back inta place, though."
I shudder, swallowing hard against the rising bile that claws its way up the back of my throat, even after everything I've seen tonight. I scramble to find something to change the subject.
"I don't know what kind of food Smecker picked out for you guys, but it probably doesn't have to be heated. Look through the bags and see if there's anything else you might need in the next few days. He said I had to get your stuff out of my apartment, that it was...too dangerous for you to come back, so I packed everything I could find in that gym bag. There's a change of clothes in there for me, as well. I'm going to take your advice and hit the shower, Murphy, see if I can get...clean. Please...erm...please wait to deal with your thumb until I'm in the bathroom, okay?"
Before Murphy can answer, Noah stands, lifting several of the bags onto the dresser and rifling through them. He selects a bottle of water and a couple of boxes from one of them and turns back to us.
"Going to retire fer th'evenin', if ye don't need me. I'll be next door." With that brusque dismissal, he steps over to a door in the wall I hadn't noticed until right then, and moves into the adjoining room, firmly shutting and locking the door behind himself.
I glance at Connor, perplexed, wondering if I said something to offend their da. After his amusement at my handling of his shoulder, I can't imagine what I might have possibly done, but there's really no telling. Connor shrugs, stifling a yawn as he answers my unspoken question.
"Don't look at me, lass. Never spoken a word t'th'man b'fore t'night since I was old enough t'talk in th'first place. He's been locked up fer th'better part o'th'last three decades, bound t'have some habits we don't understand. S'far's I c'n tell, he was in solitary fer a lotta dat time, prob'ly th'most conversation he's had in years talkin' t'ye t'night."
Murphy stands from the bed and offers me his good hand, pulling me in and kissing me soundly out of nowhere. His lips linger on mine for a long time as the fingers of his right tangle into my hair, and for just a moment, I can forget that today was the worst day of my life. He finally pulls back, bumping his forehead against mine before moving away towards the food.
"Shoulda done dat th'second I saw ye," he murmurs, his gaze avoiding mine as he goes to inspect the groceries. I turn towards him, needing so much more than just the one kiss, but Connor snags my hand, wincing as he tugs me gently to his side.
"I'm sorry I yelled at ye earlier on th'phone, lass." His eyes are solemn, the spark in them all but distinguished, and I know he's apologizing for a lot more than just the phone call. I squeeze his fingers with as much strength as I can muster and drop down to a crouch beside him as I pull his fingers to my lips.
"Don't, Connor. Don't do this to yourself. Let me get a shower, you and Murphy deal with his hand, and then we can do whatever we need to do to make it through tonight. I know we can't fix or change what happened, but we're here together and we can deal with the rest of the night, at least. Let's just make it through the next few hours and take it from there, okay?"
He nods, his face determined, but I can see the cracks in his perpetual armor of confidence. Tonight has shaken all of us to the cores of our deepest selves, but I think Connor might have the hardest time coming back from that brink. He's always had so much bravado and swagger with a fairly convincing front of not letting much of anything bother him. But he watched while his best friend was murdered in front of him tonight, and regardless of how little truth there is to the feeling, I'm pretty sure Connor is trying to shoulder most of that responsibility. It's terrifying to see him this shaken and vulnerable.
So terrifying that I give in to my weak selfish impulse and all but flee from him, using every last bit of reserve strength I have to gently close the bathroom door instead of slamming it shut between me and the boys. I slump against the door, my eyes clenching as I allow myself the small relief of being out of their sight for a few moments.
If they can't see me, I don't have to hold myself together for them. I know they need me, and I...I can be there for them, I just...I don't have anything left. I need to shower to recharge, at least a little. And if I can make it through the shower, then I can eat something. Rather, I can try to eat something, and then we'll do what I told Connor.
Just try to make it through the next few hours and take it from there.
The scalding water is heavenly, and I empty the entire tiny bottle of shampoo over my head, sudsing and rinsing as many times as I can before the soap washes away. I studiously look anywhere but down, avoiding the sight of the crimson streaks streaming off of me and swirling down the drain.
Despite my determination from not five minutes ago to hold together just a little longer, I can feel the pounding water eroding the walls I so adamantly placed in my mind around tonight's horror story. As they were rather shoddy to begin with, my mental barriers crack and break away with each passing second, and with every bit that falls away, I see the faces of the dead men from Yakavetta's house until there's a parade of gruesome corpses across my vision. It doesn't matter whether my eyes are open or closed; I either see them on the backs of my eyelids or on the cracked, stained walls of the shower. Bloody bullet wounds, sliced throats, puddles of blood that expand and suck me in until I'm drowning in their clotting, suffocating depths.
The faces streak by faster and faster, black and red streaks spinning like some fucked up nightmare of a carousel, until I can't see anything else. My hands slap flat on the wall, fingers grasping desperately for purchase on the tile as the images careen into a frightening blur that sends waves of vertigo rolling through my body.
Just as I think my knees are going to give out, the spinning stops, and every single one of my thoughts slams into singular focus on my last sight of Rocco bound to the chair. He is lit up from every angle, as if by an army of spotlights, and each wretched detail is brought into sharp relief. I try to wrench my eyes away, but this is all in my head, and this time I can't just walk away.
Even as I fight my own thoughts for some sort of reprieve from this nightmare, the pool of coagulated blood beneath Rocco grows steadily, fed from the steady flow running from his missing fingers and the gushing hole in his chest, rising up above his ankles, his knees, his waist, his chest.
As the blood reaches his chin, Rocco's head snaps up, his eyes shining bright and so wrong against the sanguine lake around him, and his gaze fixes unerringly on me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I never hear his words. The blood rises still, flowing into his mouth even as he thrashes against his bindings, climbing over his nose, covering his eyes, until my friend is lost from sight.
My throat constricts, cutting off even my ineffectual gasping, and the acrid burn of tears bites at the back of my eyes, bile rising in my throat until my stomach heaves and I drop to my knees on the floor of the shower, retching violently. There's nothing in my stomach to eject; l gag, choking on the bitter acid that sears its way up.
And still Rocco wont' get out of my head, clawing tenaciously to my thoughts and turning them from one memory to another. Rocco laughing at my embarrassment of not knowing Connor's last name the first night I went home with him. Rocco helping me clean up my living room after Connor and Murphy wrecked my coffee table. Rocco burning his fingers on the fresh pignolata while the waiter shakes his head in mock exasperation. Rocco hugging me goodbye and telling me to take care of Connor and Murphy. All those bear hugs and bearded kisses I'll never feel again.
And then back to the chair in the basement. Over and over, seeing all those moments spent with Rocco, and then I'm right back to staring at him in that chair, the basement brimming with his blood, where I watch him fighting and disappear over and over, until all I see is red.
I'm starting to think I never left that basement in the first place. Maybe I should quit trying to get out; maybe I'm supposed to stay there. Maybe this is what I earned from not trying harder to save Rocco. Maybe...
But that can't be right, because Rocco's still fighting. Even in my mind, even in death, Rocco throws himself against the restraints of his prison as the blood swallows him, his eyes set resolutely on mine, his mouth opening one last time to tell me-
"Grace."
I don't even realize I'm gripping my hair that hard until whole strands come away in my clenched fists. I slowly, painfully force my fingers open, the joints aching and stiff, and watch bewildered as several lengths of my hair slide languidly down the drain. I remember falling down here, I remember throwing up. Rocco was fighting, trying to tell me, but...I don't remember…
"Grace?"
I look up, only to be slapped in the face by the stinging, freezing cold spray of the shower. When...when did the water turn cold? My scalp aches, and my shins sting as I lift my shoulders and back, gripping the side of the tub fiercely so as to not faceplant. There was something I was supposed to be doing, but I can't-
"Grace, I'm comin' in!"
Connor bursts into the bathroom to find me crawling listlessly from the bathtub, not able to summon the energy to properly stand. He throws the only remaining clean towel around my shoulders, gripping my upper arms firmly as I struggle to find my footing. Murphy appears in the doorway, his concerned expression a mirror of his brother's. Murphy squeezes past us in the tiny room to shut off the water, and silence falls among the three of us.
"I'm drowning," I murmur, my gaze falling to the floor under their avid scrutiny. "I...can't get out of the basement. But...but I'm trying." Anything else I was going to say is cut off by sudden, violent tremors. I abruptly realize that I am freezing, and my teeth are chattering too hard to allow me to speak anymore. I shuffled towards the other room, desperate for the bed and some semblance of warmth.
"Ye shoulda called me, lass," Connor says softly, rubbing the rough towel over my icy skin, using friction to bring warmth. I stumble but continue determinedly forward. "Can ye make it?"
I nod, my vocal cords refusing to respond, and make it the last few feet to collapse onto the bed.
"Murphy, strip yer shirt off an' get under th'covers. She needs heat."
Connor's voice is calm, but even in my lethargic state, I can hear the tremor of tension. Murphy slides onto the mattress behind me, pulling me into his blazing embrace. He presses his body down the length of my back, and I turn into his arms, dropping my head on his shoulder.
Connor joins us on, still clad in nothing but his boxers, looping his arm around my waist and pulling our hips together, somehow fitting the three of us together in that perfect interlocked position I've grown accustomed to. Someone pulls the covers over us and switches off the light, and I'm engulfed in a darkness, warm and secure. Both twins work their hands gently over my skin, chafing feeling back into my limbs, and as their heat seeps into my bones, my thoughts begin to shake off their momentary fog of despair.
They were beaten at Yakavetta's, maybe even tortured. They were shot yesterday, by their father no less, and tonight they watched their best friend die right in front of them. And now they have to take care of me. Shame creeps in with the heat, and my breathing begins to hitch against the knot reforming in my throat.
"I'm-"
"Don't, Grace," Connor murmurs into the crook of my neck. "Ye won't let me do it t'meself, an' ye don't get t'turn dat around. None o'dis is yer fault. Ye warned all of us as much as ye could, an' we went anyway. Not a damn t'ing more ye could've done." His arms constrict around me, and I take in a shuddering breath. I don't know if I can agree with him, though, as I shiver between the two of them. I don't know if any of us are to blame or if any of us are blameless. We could've...I don't know, we could've tied him to a chair and refused to let him out of the apartment. I could have done something else, anything else, to keep him from going.
But Rocco made his choice, and he stayed at the twins' sides. And if he hadn't done so, they might both be dead.
The image of the twins in Rocco's place shakes me in a way I didn't think an idea could. The two of them, just as lifeless and...and…
Just as quickly comes the idea that with allowing Rocco to leave, knowing he was going to die and they would live, I've somehow unconsciously traded their lives for his. I nearly vomit again, and I jerk hard in the twins' arms, shoving the heels of my hands into my mouth to keep from screaming. Just...just...don't…
I just have to breathe, to...breathe. Just breathe.
"Let it out, girl, tell us what you're thinkin'," Murphy murmurs, his forehead pressed painfully to mine. "Lemme help ye." But I can't let him in on this, not this time. I can't lose them, too, can't deal with this, can't deal, I just can't, and...
"No," I finally answer. I don't know where this steadiness has come from, this still and focused voice that reminds me of someone I used to be. "I can't share this. Not even with you." My mood swivels on the edge of a razor, draping back and forth from steady to despairing with the grace and speed of a prima ballerina, and I can't keep up with my thoughts anymore.
I tried to stop Rocco, I did, but in the end, I just accepted his decision, let him walk out the door, and hoped really hard my dream was wrong and that he and the twins would come back to me. But I knew he wouldn't. And I knew they would. I knew, and I still let it happen.
"Ye...ye c'n tell us anythin'," Murphy says quietly, his voice muted by surprise. I've never flat out refused to tell him anything before, at least not serious things, and my refusal gives all three of us pause.
"I don't think I can share this. Maybe eventually, but not tonight. Too much...there's been too much tonight. I need to just...I need to feel you both here with me, know I've still got you and you're as safe as I can make you. I can't lose anyone else tonight, even if it's just emotionally, so let me keep this to myself until I'm ready." Murphy hesitates before nodding slowly, and Connor's lips brush over my shoulder blades.
"No more-" I have to stop and clear my throat as my emotions tips towards desperation again. I force the dancer back to the knife's edge, imposing a tenuous balance and swallow the lump in my throat. "No more talking tonight unless it's to tell me how much you love me and how you're never going to leave me."
Connor's fingers slide possessively over the curve of my hip, squeezing hard as he presses his face between my shoulders, bringing us even closer together. I slide my own hand down over his wrist, and I can feel the tendons standing out there, rigid and strained under the newly forming scars.
"When nobody answered at yer place when we tried t'reach ye, I was convinced Yakavetta sent his men after ye. Just knew somethin' had happened, an' I almost lost me mind. Was seein' ye beaten an' bloodied in dat alley again, not breathin', an' it was all b'cause we weren't-"
"That's against the rules," I whisper thickly, my eyes closing against the ache in my chest. I don't have any tears left; I think I might honestly dry out and dust away if something sets me off again.
"Please, Connor, I know tonight...tonight was...bad, and we'll have to talk about it eventually, but I can't think about any more of it right now. Just...we don't have to say anything happy, but no more about tonight. Please. I just don't have anything left."
The air is still around us, the sounds of the neighborhood muffled and distorted. I can hear Murphy's heart beating steadily next to me, and I use that faint sound as an anchor to hold me in place. Though I can feel Connor's gaze on my face, I willfully keep my eyes closed. I just need to pass out. I need blackness, I need nothingness, I need to be able to breathe without feeling like I'm going to scream, explode, or disintegrate.
I need to be able to close my eyes without seeing someone dead.
"Please, Connor, can we...can we just sleep?" I feel movement around me, and from the change in the tension, I know the twins are having another silent conversation. They shift subtly against me, Murphy adjusting his arm so my head isn't pressing on his bullet wound. Connor's fingers stroke lightly down my cheek, and he lifts his head to press a kiss to my temple.
"Murph's got ye fer now, lass. I ain't leavin' ye, I just need t'go fer a bit of a walk, straighten some shit in my head. 'M sorry fer pushin'; I know how ye feel right now, an' I'll give ye time. Just lemme know when yer ready. I love ye. Now try to rest, aye?"
"Thank you," I manage. The bed moves next to me as Connor stands. I hear some shuffling around the room as Connor gets dressed, his movements slow and hampered by his injuries, then the door opens and shuts softly as he steps out into the night.
"I'm going to have the nightmares, Murphy," I whisper. "I know I need to sleep; I want to sleep, but I...I…"
I turn my face by instinct, pressing into the crook of his neck. The shivering has mostly subsided, what with Murphy's ridiculous body heat, but I can still feel a slight tremor running through me. He tilts my chin up towards his face, and I finally relent and open my eyes to find him gazing somberly down at me, waiting for the rest of my thought.
"I'm afraid to let go."
He's quiet for a long time, our eyes locked, and I find my vision has adjusted to the lack of lighting enough that I can just make out his expression. I've never seen Murphy this worn and world-weary. Even that day in the kitchen just a week ago when he cried into my hands feels like years in the past.
The darkness in Murphy's eyes reaches out to me as it always has, and I find myself thinking back to the night at the carnival, when Murphy took me to the mirror maze in the fun house. I found a depth within Murphy's eyes that I wanted to sink into, to lose myself in, but I was afraid to let go then, too.
Murphy remains silent, watching the thoughts drift over my expression, and I realize that he needs that release as much as I do. Maybe tonight we can let go of everything else if we can just...I don't know...hold on to each other?
Maybe Murphy and I can keep each other afloat tonight.
I reach for his face on reflex, my thumb smoothing over the delicate, bruised skin beneath his eye. Purple marks are starting to appear over most of his face and neck, and if Connor's battered torso is anything to go by, Murphy is in a lot of pain, as well. His now-bandaged hand closes over mine, pressing it to his cheek, and I can feel my own tremors echoed in his grip. His eyes close as he places a kiss on the palm of my hand before pulling me tighter again him, tucking my head under his chin. Even in the stillness of the otherwise unoccupied room, I have to strain to hear his reply.
"We're both gonna be fightin' some o'th'same demons t'night, lass. Least we c'n face 'em t'gether."
Author's Note: Been sick. Getting better. This chapter went through a few different version because it just wouldn't work, so it took longer than I wanted to get the update posted. HUGE shout out to bleedingrose0688, who looked over this chapter SO many times before I was satisfied. She's got an epic Boondock Saints story herself that is finishing up, go check it out. Thank you for all the support with the last chapter. Let me know how we're doing.