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Author's Note: Ducks in under the wire Okay, so I missed my post date by a mile, but the internet was being a twat and I couldn't even access the site.
Nifty Fact for the Day: The prayer the Sylvia uses is a hybrid of Act of Contritions number 2 and number 9. Abuelita is a Spanish affectionate for Grandmother.

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The hospital lobby was the same as every lobby that Danae had ever been in, dim and quiet, painted in soothing shades of beige and blue. Tranquil watercolors graced the walls and there were several racks of informational brochures lining a far corner, advertising everything from motorized wheelchairs to STD information.

A lone silhouette leaned against the racks, head bowed, a rosary no doubt clasped in its hands.

Murphy.

She had barely taken a step toward him when he looked up. Half a moment later, she was swept into a crushing embrace. Murphy pressed a kiss against the top of her head, seemingly having no intention of letting her go.

"What happened?" she murmured into his shoulder, returning his embrace.

"Fuckin' Street Priests followed us back from a job. One minute I'm watching the telly, and the next there's fuckin' gunshots outside the door."

"Did you . . ?" she trailed off, looking down at the patterned carpet, already knowing the answer but needing to ask all the same.

"I killed them, aye." said Murphy quietly. He reached out, catching her chin, ducking to meet her eyes, "I had ta."

Gently pulling out of his arms, Danae looked up at him, taken aback at the raw anguish in his eyes and shaken at the errant spatters of blood almost hidden by the muted lighting. She offered a silent, selfish word of thanks that it wasn't his, that the two people she cared about most in the world were safe.

"I know," she said softly, surprised at how steady her voice was, how calm. "How is she?"

Murphy ran a trembling, tattooed hand through his hair and over his face. "Not so good, t'was a messy shot. The doctor was talking about stomach acid and her intestines and liver," he paused, swallowing, "he said that even if she lives, she won't ever wake up. The police took her baby into their care."

"Oh, God," she breathed, "How's Connor holding up?"

Shaking his head, Murphy closed his eyes tightly, "He hasn't spoken a fuckin' word ta me. He won't leave her side."

Danae reached out, winding her fingers through his, not missing the tension that thrummed through him and the blood that was crusted under his nails, a painful reminder of how close she had come to losing him. Again. "I'm so sorry."

He nodded, squeezing her hand gently, "Let's get back, I don't want Conn ta be alone any more than he has ta be right now."

She let Murphy lead her through the twisting hallways and into the intensive care unit, so similar to the one where they had met last fall.

Slipping into the room and motioning her to follow, he paused at the hospital bed, bending to kiss the forehead of the woman that lay there.

"I'm here, deirfiúr," she heard him murmur; "we're all here for ye."

Maire was white as the sheets, her pretty face already taking on the gaunt, slack appearance that all coma patients acquired with time, a ventilator breathing for her, two IVs, one dripping clear fluid and the other blood, cardiac lead and so many other things all keeping this woman alive . . .

Despite the warm room, Danae shuddered. The Street Priests had come after the Saints, going so far as to follow them to their home. It could have just as easily been Connor again, laying on that hospital bed. It could have just as easily been Murphy.

"Where's Connor?" she asked, rubbing at the gooseflesh prickling over her arms.

Murphy shook his head, still smoothing Maire's hair gently. "Hopefully ta get somethin' ta eat, or at least stretch his legs a bit. They wanted us ta," he paused, "ta give them permission ta let her die, it upset him pretty bad."

"They can't do that, you aren't family," her response was automatic, instantly going to something that she could understand and manage. Shaking her head, she winced inwardly at the callousness of her reaction.

Nodding absently at Danae's murmured apology, Murphy took Maire's hand in his own, running his thumb over her knuckles gently and she was taken aback at the twinge of jealousy she felt.

Don't be petty, she reprimanded herself firmly, easing a chart from the plastic holder on the back of the door, finding somewhere to look other than the man she loved holding another woman's hand.

The news inside the chart was even grimmer than the picture Murphy had painted. A nicked intestine, damage to other organs from stomach acids, internal bleeding, shattered ribs, possible brain damage from lack of oxygen. Waking up from this ordeal without some sort of lasting damage would be a miracle.

If she survived at all.

Caught in the crossfire. It was a cruel term for an even crueler fact of life. Maire Kennsett was an innocent who had the bad luck to get caught in the middle of a war. Later, when she really thought about it, Danae would be furious at Street Priest and Saint alike for their actions, for failing to protect Maire from the deadly game they were playing. But now, tears welled in her eyes. Nobody deserved something like this.

Her gaze shifted to Murphy, still holding her hand, praying now, his accent thick in the quiet room. Wiping under her eyes, she amended the thought - nobody deserved to have to watch someone they cared about go through such a thing.

Closing the chart and slipping it back into its holder, Danae frowned as something on the ground caught her eye. Bending down she retrieved the object, rolling the small wooden bead thoughtfully between her fingers. A few feet away she saw another. And another.

What on earth?

"Murphy?" she inquired softly, straightening and holding the beads out toward him.

He frowned down at her outstretched hand for a moment before his eyes flew open.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, scanning the floor and running a trembling hand through his hair.

Danae followed him with her eyes, certain that her heart had stopped somewhere along the way. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Kneeling, he moved quickly, deftly picking up more beads, adding them to the collection in her hands, all the while still glancing around the room, looking for something else.

Finally, under one of the chairs, he seemed to find what he was hunting for. Turning the object over in his hands, he rose to his feet with a swiftness and determination that was both surprising and a little alarming.

"I have ta go," he said quietly, his face unreadable. The man she loved had suddenly been replaced by the vigilante she feared. "I need ye ta stay here and wait for me."

"What's going on?."

"I have ta find Connor," he said, already tugging on his jacket, the object from the floor still clutched in his hand.

"I thought Connor was here."

Murphy shook his head, "Not anymore. I need ye ta stay here, can ye do that?"

Danae nodded, frowning, "Whatever you need."

Taking her hand, he gave it the briefest of kisses before slipping out of the room, having to actually tug his hand out of her own - something told her that she might not get to touch him again for some time. He took a few hurried steps away before breaking into a run, disappearing down the hallway.

Bewildered, Danae glanced down at the object he had left in her hand, catching her breath as she saw what it was.

A carved wooden crucifix, exactly like the one at the end of his rosary.

With a curse worthy of any MacManus, she slipped the cross into her pocket along with the beads, hoping she had them all.

After one last look down the hall, trying in vain to catch one last glimpse of Murphy, Danae pulled a chair up to the bed, taking a pale, thin hand in her own, and quietly humming the first song that came to mind.

It was going to be a long night.

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Sylvia often prayed for her Alejo when she knew he was selling Absolutionand there had been many days when she wished her lover had never discovered the Sacerdotes at all.

But he had a habit to feed, and so did she, and as often as she prayed for his safety, she spent more time wishing that he would save her a hit at the end of the night when all was said and done.

Her grandmother had always told her that the Diablo wore many faces and spoke all the languages of man and beast. When she was a child, she had laughed at her abuelita's words, slamming the door on the old woman's threats of hellfire and damnation as she went to find Alejo and whatever drug he had for her that day.

Now, however, in the dark, sticky, alley, hunkered amongst the reeking garbage, her knees and palms stinging from where she hand landed on the concrete, she prayed harder than she ever had before.

Dressed in a black coat and torn jeans, his face handsome as that of any of Heaven's angels, the stranger had Alejo pinned against the unforgiving stone of the building by his throat, a gun pressed against his forehead. And as the man threatened her lover in perfect Spanish, so out of place with his pale skin and lighter hair, she realized that her abuelita had been right all along. They had lived in sin and now the Devil had come for his pound of flesh.

Alejo's features were so contorted by fear that he could have been one of the graffiti caricatures spray-painted on the brick behind him. His voice broke as he answered the Devil's snarled question, insisting that he had no idea where the Sacerdotes gathered.

Sylvia knew that her lover was lying, and a bone-crunching blow from the Devil proved that he knew it too. Alejo's rapid-fire Spanish turned into and agonized scream and Sylvia cried out with him.

Despite the finger that was now sticking out at an impossible angle, Alejo held fast to his lie, foolishly loyal to a gang that cared nothing about him. They would never know that he lied to protect them, but the Devil knew and the Devil was a thousand times more dangerous than the Sacerdotes.

Alejo's voice rose, pleading as he tried to back away from the looming figure before him and looking as though he wanted to disappear into the wall he was pinned against. The Devil remained silent, but his hands moved out of the shadows, swift and precise.

The sound of another bone snapping seemed to echo off the brick of the alley, followed by another tortured scream.

God, why was no one coming to help them? Sobbing frantically, Sylvia looked toward the mouth of the alley, where a couple hurried by without a second glance; their indifference shook her to the core. What was wrong with these people? How could they just look the other way?

"Stop!" She cried. The Devil turned slowly to look at her over his shoulder and Sylvia cringed away from the look on his face. "Please," she whispered weakly, what little courage she had mustered failing, "stop."

The Devil regarded her silently for a moment longer before turning back to Alejo, landing a vicious blow across his face, the metal of his gun connecting ferociously with fragile bones.

"Last chance."

Tears streaking his face, Alejo nodded, cradling his ruined hand against his chest. "Si," he gasped, "Si, I will tell you."

The Devil leaned in, listening as Alejo spoke, his eyes narrowed. "Is that the truth?" he asked and Alejo nodded rapidly.

Watching them, Sylvia realized with a sudden, horrible clarity that her lover's day of judgment had come. It didn't matter if what he said was truth or not, God was nowhere to be found in this filthy, reeking alleyway.

"It's the truth," Alejo whimpered, his voice thready and pained, "Go now and leave me alone, I won't tell anyone. I swear."

The sound of a gun being cocked sliced through the night air and for a moment, silence reigned supreme. Certain that he had their attention, the Devil smiled. It might have been a nice smile once, crinkling the corners of his eyes, but now, it reminded Sylvia of flesh rotting away to reveal the grinning skull beneath.

"I know you won't."

There was a collective breath between them, then a sound like a cork popping out of a bottle, and Alejo's face disintegrated before her eyes.

What was left of the body crumpled to the ground and if Sylvia had been a stronger woman, she would have screamed, shrieked until someone heard and came to help, but terror had stolen her voice and all she could do was stare at the great, gaping hole where Alejo's face had once been. Blood was pouring out of him and spreading along the concrete, soaking into the garbage that littered the street, turning the litter an ominous shade of crimson.

"My God," she choked, genuflecting, "I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good . . ."

A shadow fell over her. The furious volley of prayers that had been racing through her mind evaporated, along with all of the saliva in her mouth and she looked up into the face of her fate.

"Nobody's coming," the Devil said, his English accented and just as flawless as his Spanish.

Then, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing hollowly, the black of his coat billowing out behind him.

Sobbing, Sylvia crawled over to where her lover's corpse lay, blood smearing across her torn tights and palms. Pressing herself into the furthest corner, she stared down at her crimson-smeared hands, rocking slightly.

"And in His blood may my soul be made clean. Amen."

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