Chapter 52 Reviews please; tell me what you think of these three when the sparks fly? Still Murph's POV with Connor in italics.

Butting Heads

I could smell fresh brewed coffee, but burrowed back into the bedclothes, not wanting to face the day, curling on my stomach. The first thing I heard was our girl's quiet voice. They were in the kitchen, the soft clink of coffee mugs on the breakfast bar.

"And how long has he had these dreams?"

Connor's deep rumble came back, rough with lack of sleep and anxiety. "Since de first night after. He's had dem about once a week since it happened."

"And always as violent as this? As vivid?" There was a pause and then, "Jesus Christ, Connor! And you never thought of having him talk to someone?"

"What fer? He's got me t'talk to. I'm de closest person t'him on eart'!"

"Talk to or talk to? Cuz that's the problem."

"What! I see what he sees and feel what he feels." I could hear the defensiveness in his tone. "An' he canna talk t'anyone else about it. Twould land us straight in Long Kesh, ye wee óinseach."

"That's not the same thing as confronting the problem and trying to fuckin' work it out! And don't call me names I can't understand. English!"

"I said 'foolish woman'," he retorted. "An' sure it tis. I understand 'im."

"No, Connor. I heard him last night. It's not the bombing that's messing with him or the dead guy or the injured people. He's done his penance for that. Do you never listen?"

"What de ye mean?" He replied in outraged tones. "O'course I listen. He regrets de people we hurt, as do I! Dere always in our prayers."

"You are a fuckin' idiot. He's afraid of losing you, you dumbass! Of failing you. First he finds what he thinks is your injured or dead body. Then he thinks he's been caught by the police. And after that, he almost shoots you! What the fuck? That's the goddamned problem!" Her voice had risen, fury and concern intermingling.

"Hush, ye'll wake him an' he needs his rest." I curled my head under the pillow and carefully kept my mind blank. But I realized Connor hadn't actually seen my face that day, he could only hear my thoughts. Those were so jumbled in those two minutes when my reality fractured they were just splintered snapshots in time and space and as like to be almost useless. Her insight floored me. I had failed him; it was my worst fear and it had come true that day.

"An' dinna take de Lord's name in vain or I'll make ye go to confession," he said gruffly.

"Fine!" She huffed. "I've got to get ready for work anyway. But this isn't the end of it." The warning was clear in her voice. I heard a shuffling sound abruptly cut off.

"What? Let me go. We'll talk about this tonight when Murph can be a part of it," she said gently, her voice softening on my name.

"Ah, Lass…"

"What Connor?"

"I, uh, I called ye off o'work."

"You did what!"

"Aye, ha' ye no looked in de mirror dis morn? Ye got about seven colors o'de rainbow on yer face. Ye canna go t'work lookin' like dat." Silence stretched out.

His strangled voice continued, arguing his position, "I couldna sleep after. I stayed awake, watchin' ower de two o'ye. De sun started t'come up an' I saw yer face. Lass," he pleaded. "I had t'call ye in."

"Let. Me. Go." She said in measured tones. He must have had a hand on her. I heard her footsteps, more like thunder coming towards the bedroom and carefully kept still. She stomped into the bathroom but had the presence of mind not to slam the door.

Silence. Then the sound of coffee purling into a cup. The distinct screech of metal against glass and the glunk sound of whiskey dolloping into a cup. The quiet whoosh of the refrigerator opening and closing. Connor's soft footsteps coming toward me. The toilet flushed and the comforting sound of proper plumbing functioning warmed my heart. God, it was nice to be here instead of the loft.

I know yer awake, Murph.

Fuck. When?

About five seconds ago. Yer t'inkin' about plumbin'. I cracked an eye, turning toward him, but still hiding under the pillow. He walked into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, a cup of coffee in his left hand. His right came down on the back of my neck and ruffled my hair, his simple touch soothing me. His next thought did the exact opposite.

Am I no enough fer ye? Is she right? Is dat why de dreams persist?

I rolled over to look at him, blinking in the bright light. How bad is it? I asked instead.

He grimaced back at me. Fair bad enough. Ye walloped her a good one before I got ye under control. I'm sorry. It usually wakes me when it first begins an' I kin get t'ye. I'm used t'avoidin' yer fists, ye amadán (foolish man). Dats an easy task. His mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile, but he heaved a sigh of remorse. I ha' no excuse other dan de fuckin.' I was knackered an' so deep asleep I didna hear ye. Well?

I don't know. I always t'ought de dreams would stop. But de one t'ing I do know? Yer de very heart an' breath o'me body, a deartháir. But maybe I do need to talk about it. An' yer wrong. Dere is someone other than ye I kin talk t'now. I've de two o'ye. I nodded towards the closed bathroom door. I forced a smile. An' tis de Devil's own luck, aye? She is a trained professional.

"Out loud!" The words and tone came clearly through the bathroom door. "Fuck!" There was a crash of a bare foot kicking a cabinet and then, "Ow!" My mouth quirked in a real smile this time.

"And fair astute too," I murmured with a hint of irony, nipping the cup out of my brother's hand and taking a sip, the sharp smell of whisky and coffee percolating into my nasal sinuses, clearing them. The door to the bathroom opened abruptly and she stepped through. I couldn't stifle a sharp intake of breath at the sight of her. She was steaming angry and her face was truly a mess; Connor wasn't kidding when he said every shade of the rainbow. She had black circles under her eyes and an angry red welt on the bridge of her nose. The bruises were already beginning to fade into glorious shades of purple, green, and yellow. She glared at us and I jerked involuntarily having once been on the bad side of her temper. Hot coffee sloshed on my chest and I jerked again, slapping a hand over the sting.

"You're fine, Murph. I'm not mad at you." Her expression softened when she met my horrified eyes. But then she turned to my brother sitting next to me and her expression and voice hardened into her nursing mein. She still talked to me, but addressed her remarks to Connor, "Besides, it wasn't your fault any way. I was restraining you and blocking you just fine until your lunk-head brother decided to get involved and grabbed my right arm to pull me away from you. That's when you caught me in the nose."

"Lass…" Connor threw his hands out and his eyebrows winged up as if to say 'what do you want of me?'

"Don't fuckin' talk to me you high-handed son of a bitch!" She raised a finger at him, stabbing forcefully. "I'll not live in tyranny, Connor. Give me liberty or give me death. But don't make decisions for me, you, you…domineering, dictatorial…" Words failed her. "Fuckin' Irishman!" She shouted. She turned on her heel, headed for the front room, limping only slightly. It didn't detract from her fire at all.

"We're bo' in fer it now."

"Nay, Brudder, I t'ink tis only you dats in trouble," I said, smirking at him. I took another deep gulp of whiskey laced coffee in fortification.