Nicholas: Forgive me. I forgot to mention in the previous chapter that I dedicate all kidney-kicking and lead-pipe-smacking to Amanda Nutmuffin and thank God I have a muse like her! This is it, folks! The epilogue!

Amazingly, Connor made it up the stairs by himself. He smiled at what Mary had said about it. Maybe he was healing nicely. When he entered the apartment, Da was sitting on the couch, staring off into space. That seemed to be a habitual trait in the MacManus line. Something about the way Da looked told Connor that his father was thinking about Ma. "Is Mary okay?" Connor asked at length, reluctant to disturb the old man.

"Aye, she's asleep," Da replied, looking up out of his daze. "I didn't know which room was hers, so I put her in the one on the right of the bathroom."

"Yeah that's hers." Connor leaned awkwardly and heavily on his cane. There was a tight pain just behind his knee, but he tried to ignore it. "Ye can sleep in the one on the left tonight, Da. I don' think she'll have a problem with that."

Da nodded and stared at the ceiling again. Connor thought he wasn't paying attention anymore, so he took the time to inch towards Mary's room unnoticed. "Don' wake her up, Connor," Da said stiffly, not even glancing at his son. Connor never would understand how parents seemed to see you even when they weren't looking. "Are ye gonna tell me how ye hurt yer leg, or what?"

With a shake of his head, Connor smiled. "Not tonight." He really didn't want to talk about it. "Now I think I'll say good night to Mary." Before Da could say anything else, Connor escaped to the hallway and then found his way in the dark to Mary's bedroom.

He'd never been in that particular room before, so he had a childish curiosity of what may lie inside. He felt the same apprehensive rush when he killed some one as when he entered her room that night. Quietly, he stole over to her bedside, just able to see by the light that came in through the window. Mary's face was serene and peaceful—nothing compared to the ferocious woman he'd seen kill Coccotti. He liked her better that way for a obvious reason. Out of impulse, he leaned down—awkwardly because of the pain in his leg—and kissed her on the cheek.

"Connor?" One wouldn't have been able to tell at that point if she were awake or not. "Is that you?" Her eyes flickered open and shut for a moment. One of her legs shifted under the blanket.

"Aye, Mary, it's just me," he said, matching her quieted tone.

"Don't go away, Connor," she muttered, her eyes finally open. She touched his face as if to make sure he wasn't a lingering dream. "Stay with me, okay?"

After a short beat, Connor's smile turned smug. "Now who sounds corny?" he asked triumphantly. She ignored him and sat up, putting her arms around his neck. She was still shivering, but he couldn't tell what from. It wasn't because of the man she had killed, that had worn off. He put an arm around her, and used the other one to keep himself from falling over onto the bed. "Ye should go back ta sleep."

"Will you sleep in here tonight?" she asked in his ear. "My bed will fit two." She asked in earnest. Nothing suggested a hint of seduction in her voice. All she wanted was some one with her. "Please?"

"I don' think…" Connor trailed off, feeling her arms tighten around his neck. He sighed. "I hate wearin' pajamas. I don' think that's very appropriate."

"I've seen you in boxers before."

She had him there. He shrugged and nodded. "Okay, ye win." She immediately let go and scooted over for him to sit down. As she pushed herself under her covers farther, she watched him undress. She was already wearing her T-shirt and shorts that she often wore for pajamas. He had trouble getting his jeans off, but she didn't think he'd appreciate her help with that. She knew men well enough than to mess with their pride. When he pulled his shirt over his head, she resisted an urge to reach up and touch his back. His skin looked so soft that she wanted to know what it felt like.

She curled up against him when he finally lay down beside her. It seemed that he self-consciously pulled the sheets all the way up to his chin. It was most likely because the wounds on his chest from Coccotti's knife-play five days before were leaving scars. When Connor put his arm around her, Mary ran her hand over the raised marks on his skin. He placed his hand over hers.

"Should I not?" she asked, seeing discomfort on his face in the dim light of her room. He didn't answer her. "You don't have to hide it from me. These scars are what made you a martyr."

"Yeah, but the thing about martyrs is that they have ta die," he said with an ironic laugh.

She remembered something he'd said before about knowing some one is dead and knowing you can't help them. "Some things are worse than death," she said, "and you survived." A smile and a sigh were her reply. "Anyway, if you had died, I would have gone to hell or heaven to get you back. God can't have you until I'm done with you."

"Yer sayin' ya will tired o' me then?"

She smiled, being much happier being in his presence. Then she kissed him on the cheek. "Never."

The End