This is my first BDS fic. I've been watching the movie constantly lately, and haven't been able to get this idea off my mind. In case you don't know, this is the mind of that red-haired woman Il Duce talks to in the court room, and says "you must watch, it'll all be over soon." I thought that was such a great moment. Anyway, BDS is not mine, nor are the characters. But if Sean and Norman ever go on sale…. Lemme know. Reviews GREATLY appreciated. PLEASE. I might continue this, dunno. I just really needed to bang this one out.

Caitlin woke trembling, watching the scene play against the darkness of the room, smelling burnt blood and hearing screams in her mind. She gathered her blanket around her shoulders, huddled against her pillows an headboard, trying to calm down. She gasped for air and wiped at her cheeks with her covering and felt how cold her skin was.

She had had the same nightmare for seven days.

Three men, two young and one elder, charging into the courtroom, guns flashing and demanding obedience. She watched through her memories as the judge was pulled from his high seat and as the security guards relinquished their weapons. She couldn't remember what was being said, until the man with the beard stood alone, and the other two were pillared behind the Italian mobster.

Caitlin had been there because Yakavetta had caused the death of her mother, years ago. She had debated whether or not to go to the trial, but in the end had wanted to see his face. She knew it probably wasn't a very Christian emotion, but all of God's teachings had yet to heal her wounds.

She was still shaking as she rose from bed and silently moved to the window, wrapping her quilt around her shoulders. She felt the cool air seep through the glass and mist across her face. It felt good. She watched a car drive through the alley of her apartment, slightly glad to be home after a six-day stay at her father's house to recover and finish up the interviews with police and curious yet shrewd reporters. It seems that the media community had adopted her as the poster witness in the Yakavetta trial, loving her pale, innocent face and wide trusting eyes. She had a feeling that her Irishness was also a bonus for them, representing the Catholic roots of the 'Saints' ideals.

Now was the time in which to recover and find her former self.

She had a feeling she was lost.

The quilt around her shoulders suddenly was painfully familiar, reminding her of he red woolen shawl she had prudently donned on the day of the trial. It had managed to stay in place even as she fled the scene and was jostled about by the paparazzi. She had pinned it, but not securely. When she got to her father's house the next day, wearing the clothes she had worn through the trial and hours of police questioning, she had looked down and thought it was a blood satin. She threw it out. Her white dress had been stained with coffee from a cop and ink from a cheap pen. She kept it in her closet.

Caitlin resigned herself to another night without enough sleep, and picked a book from her shelves, then settled in a creaky armchair by the window. She was trying to turn her mind from the sight of red pools around the bottom half of the Italian's head…

Three high-power guns had that effect on human heads, the cops had sighed as they looked at photos. Blew his skull to powder and paste.

She put her book down and rushed to the bathroom, heaving for the thirteenth time in seven days. She flushed and sat back on the tiles, reached behind her for a washcloth and cleaned herself carefully. Her chin tingled, and she recalled the warm pads of the man's fingers, tilting her eyes to his, feeling her weak trembling, and telling her it would all be over soon. She had believed him, even as she cried silently. She had seen the rough tenderness in his gaze, and knew he was a good man.

That was why she still dreamed. It wasn't the blood, or the screams or the shots that echoed with the walls, it was that she knew they were good men. It made her sick that they had to, and that they couldn't stop. It was now their responsibility, and she was disgusted that anyone had to have such a task.

Two sons, one father. Three guns, one body. A room of witnesses, one purpose. Their prayer for condemned man had rung of justice, glory, and faith. As she recited it to herself once again, she curled into a ball on the bathroom tile, and felt her body go limp with exhaustion.