I figure it's safe to call Connor and Murphy around lunch time the next day, thinking they'll either be up or close to it by then. When I ring their place, though, there's no answer. I try again, letting the phone ring a ridiculous number of times before giving up. They're either so dead drunk asleep they can't even hear the phone ringing, or they somehow managed to wake up at a semi-decent hour and are already out for the day.

More likely the first one.

But when I call during my afternoon break, I can't even get their phone to ring; all I get is that annoying busy signal. Maybe they're on the phone with Ma. Nobody else but me calls them, and they don't ever seem to call anyone else. I'm pretty sure they only got the phone in the first place so they could talk to their mother.

I feel a nagging worm of anxiety begin to gnaw in my stomach, but I do my best to shrug it off. Sometimes people go out, and sometimes they're on the phone. Sometimes people don't answer their phones for completely legitimate reasons. It happens. I understand that I'm being ridiculous and paranoid, so I force myself to go back to work and concentrate on training. But now I'm worried, and I don't honestly know why.

I hate that feeling.

Steve doesn't comment negatively on my work, so I figure I'm able to smother my distraction enough to be passably normal. The day drags, but I finally finish and make a quick exit, managing to avoid the usual dinner invitations with as much finesse as I can muster. I grab a taxi straight back to my hotel, and despite the traffic I manage to make it back to my room by six. I order take-out from the first menu I grab from the night stand, barely registering that it's something Asian without really seeing what it is I ordered. I might regret that later, but I have a really uneasy feeling, and I need to talk to Connor and Murphy.

They're fine, I know they're fine, I really do. I'm just being stupid and obsessive and ridiculous. They should know to call me; they know I was going to call them during the day, and since they haven't heard from me, they'll know they should call. I can be patient and wait for the boys to call me. I can totally...

"Who am I kidding?" I mutter as I pick up the phone and start punching in their number. Their phone still gives me a busy signal, though. There's no way they'd be talking on it again. Maybe they tried to call me at the same time I called them?

I give them five minutes, then I try their number again. This time, I get a different noise; not the busy signal, but the other three-toned one that makes you want to punch the phone in the face, followed by an eye-twitchingly calm female voice saying, "The number you have dialed has been disconnected. If you think you have received this message in error, please hang up and try the number again."

My eyebrows rise up in bewilderment. Disconnected? Why? Did they forget to pay their phone bill? They've never forgotten to pay their phone bill. Well, actually, now that I think about it, I'm not even sure they have a phone bill. I mean, their apartment is illegal loft housing; how would they even legally hook up a phone? Unless they illegally hooked it up and now it's legally been disconnected.

I shake my head, trying to pull my wandering thoughts back into some sort of order. Okay, so for whatever totally legitimate and not worrisome reason, Connor and Murphy's phone is out of order. So, who else could I call to try and get a hold of them?

I chew pensively on my lip for a minute before giving in and dialing Rocco's number. Settling my uneasiness will be worth the ribbing I get from him about checking up on the guys.

But no one answers at Rocco's place, either.

Throwing all caution to the wind, I dial McGinty's number. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until Doc answers the phone with a halting, "M..M...McGinty's. How c..c..can I h...h..h...Fuck! Ass! Whatcha want?"

I smile despite myself. "Hey, Doc, it's Grace. I've been trying to get Connor and Murphy all day, and I can't get through to them. Are they there?"

"Good t'hear yer voice, lass! The b..b..boys ain't here, they're down at th..th...the p...p...p...Fuck! They're locked up!"

My eyebrows shoot up and I feel my jaw drop. "They're at the police station? What happened last night?"

Before Doc can answer, I hear the phone change hands, and a slightly familiar voice says, "Grace, this is Duffy. Con and Murph are spending the night down at the precinct. They're not locked up; they turned themselves in, and they aren't being charged with anything. The police said it was self-defense. They had to use their call to get Rocco to bring them clothes since they were there in their underwear, or they probably would've called you."

I let out a nervous laugh before I can stop myself. "So you're saying I missed one hell of a St. Patty's Day?"

"You could say that," he agrees wryly. There are subdued noises in the background, and I wonder if everyone's just quiet with post-St. Patrick's Day hangovers. It's Thursday night; not the most crowded of bar-going nights at McGinty's but certainly livelier than what I'm hearing over the phone. I shrug off my uneasiness again and search for something conversational to say.

"I really should've been there, huh?" I sigh, willing my nerves to unknot. I roll my shoulders, wincing at the popping noise and willing myself to relax.

Instead of agreeing, Duffy hesitates, then says, "I wouldn't go that far. Probably best you were out of town."

"What do you mean?" I ask, immediately going on alert again. "And why did Connor and Murphy have to turn themselves in for self-defense in a bar fight?" I've been with them for many a fight in the last couple of years, and not once in that time has anyone pressed charges even after the worst of ass-beatings. We're talking trips to the Emergency Room and still no police involvement.

"I think they should be the ones to talk to you about last night. I'll tell Rocco to call you if he comes in again, and I'll make sure those assholes know they fucked up not calling you in the first place. They shoulda spent the night at the station in their damned bathrobes instead of you having to call all over Southie just to find out about their dumb asses."

"But...they're okay?" I ask, feeling my throat start to tighten.

"They're fine," he says quickly, catching on to my panic. "They're a little banged up, but like I said, they're free to go and aren't being held. They're just spending the night at the station to avoid the press."

"The press?!" I squeak, absolutely floored. "What the fuck did you guys do last night?!"

"Shit." Duffy exhales defeatedly. "I just made it worse, didn't I? Grace, the boys are okay, I swear. Doc saw 'em this morning, and Rocco took them some stuff down at the station this afternoon. They both said Connor and Murphy are okay. We will make absolutely sure they call you tomorrow. I promise they're fine."

"Okay." I breathe slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth a couple of times. "Okay. I can live with that for now. I, uh…I guess if you talk to them before I do, just…ask them to call me? I'm not going to make you tell them I love them or anything embarrassing like that. Tell Doc and Rocco I said thanks and that I wish one of them had called me to let me know what was going on. Thanks, Duffy."

"No problem, hun. Come back soon, we miss you down here."

"Saturday night," I promise. "I'm catching the early train back Saturday morning."

"See ya then," he replies, and the line clicks. I hang up before the dial tone can start whining in my ear.

So, now I know Connor and Murphy are alive. They are apparently hurt, but not badly enough to warrant the hospital, or they would be there instead of the police station. Unless they're being stubborn assholes and not going to the hospital when they actually need to. Or they went to the hospital before they went to the police and Duffy didn't tell me because he didn't want me to worry.

Son of a bitch. I am so not going to sleep tonight.

I do sleep eventually, but instead of the usual nightmares filled with empty cities and departing twins, I find myself reliving a night from a couple of months ago: a peaceful, boring Friday night in January when nothing unusual or even remarkable happened.

Connor and Murphy have dragged Rocco over to watch a movie on my TV. Connor insists on making popcorn while directing Rocco to find some Bruce Lee movie-of-the-week that's playing on one of the local stations, and Murphy deposits a couple of six packs in the fridge, sticking a couple of beers in the freezer to chill while I change into a t-shirt and some cut-off sweatpants. I don't mind my scar showing when it's just the four of us; while I know it doesn't actively bother them too much, it's the one area that is sacred enough to the twins that they never tease me about it.

We all learned our lessons from that incident fairly well, it seems.

I'm so wonderfully relaxed and comfortable, leaning back against Murphy who has his arm slung across my middle. Connor is at the other end of the couch, absentmindedly rubbing my feet while Rocco reclines in my arm chair, one hand in the bowl of popcorn and the other flipping through television channels with the remote control.

"What channel was the movie on, again?" he asks around a mouthful.

I shrug, yawning and turning my face into Murphy's shoulder, snuggling closer into his side and clutching his arm tightly to my stomach. Connor's hands slow in their ministrations on my feet, which is, of course, entirely unacceptable. I poke him sharply in the ribs with my big toe, and he lets out a satisfying yelp, snatching my foot away from his side. He shoots me a mock stern glare, to which I respond with a bland, innocent smile.

Holding my ankle up for display, he examines the bottom of my foot, and I am immediately suspicious of his intentions. Sure enough, he raises the fingers of his other hand, wiggling them threateningly towards the bottom of my hyper-ticklish appendage. I jerk away from him, rearing back into Murphy who ambushes me, pinning my arms to my side and holding me in place for his brother's torture.

"Seriously, you three? Can't you keep that shit in the bedroom?" Rocco whines. He continues channel surfing as I squeal and struggle futilely against the twins' attentions, laughing as I try to pull away from both of them at the same time while attempting to not fall off the sofa.

Rocco crows triumphantly as he stumbles across the openings credits of Fist of Fury. Connor's attention is immediately diverted away from my feet and back to the television. I snort, not surprised or even really annoyed, and shake my head at Connor's abrupt abandonment. Murphy releases my arms but reaches a finger out and turns my face to him. He brushes his lips lightly across mine, smirking down at me.

"Don't worry, lass," he murmurs, nudging my nose with his. "I still love ye, even if he doesn't." He settles against the corner of the sofa once more, pulling me firmly against him. I smile to myself, taking in a long, content breath through my nose and letting it out with a happy sigh.

Something is off, though. I can't place it, at first, and it takes me a minute to figure out exactly what's bothering me. Along with the expected scents of popcorn and MacManus, there's a new smell in the air; I don't remember this smell being there in the apartment on the actual movie night, and I don't recognize it, although I feel like I should. I sniff again, trying to place the familiar but somehow disturbing smell. It's heavy and sort of metallic. Pennies, maybe? The longer I try to identify it, the stronger the smell gets until it wholly saturates the air, overwhelming any other odors. It's just…wrong, somehow.

While I'm still puzzling out the overpowering smell, Connor gently takes my foot in his hands to resume his earlier massage. Instead of the familiar, comforting feeling his contact usually evokes, though, his skin is slick and sticky against mine, a revolting sensation that has me drawing my foot back the moment he touches me. The movie must be more riveting than I realize because no one seems to notice my sudden, adverse reaction to Connor's touch.

"What-?" I start to ask, glancing down before I nearly choke on my own exclamation. Crimson streaks my foot and ankle where Connor held me, and I can't stop myself from following the red splashes across the sofa and straight to…

"Connor," I breathe, stuck in that frozen dream-state where I want to scream but can't get out any noise over a whisper. "Your wrists...your...thigh. What...how did...when could you…"

My heartbeat pounds in my ears, the smell of what I realize now is blood clogging my nostrils and turning my stomach. I lean towards Connor, unable to tear my eyes from his shredded wrists. The skin is raw and torn, bleeding sluggishly but steadily, and the thigh of his jeans is soaked scarlet from his knee to his hip.

As in all of the worst nightmares, I open my mouth to scream in horror, but nothing comes out except for a whistling of panicked breath. Connor is oblivious both to my distress and his ghastly injuries; his attention is fixed on the action movie blaring incongruously in the background.

"How did this happen? How could I let this happen?" Though I can barely hear my own whimpers, Connor seems to hear me just fine, and his head swivels in my direction. Rivulets of blood slide down his face like crimson tree roots, streaking his cheek and jaw though he doesn't seem to feel either the wound or the blood.

"Don't fuss yerself, girl, ye didn't do a thing wrong," Connor says, his gaze settling calmly on me. "Dis was bound t'happen whether you were here or not. I was protectin' me family. I've done th'same fer you an' Roc an' Ma, an' I'll do it again. It's what I do."

He is discordantly calm, not reacting in the slightest even as he continues to bleed from his wounds. I blink my eyes hard, willing myself to wake up.

I reach out for him, thinking I can do something to at least cover his wounds, but the hands that stretch towards him are strange to me, can't possibly be my own. I know my hands, and they aren't supposed to be as obscene as Connor's, as streaked and sanguine. But even as I feel my hands shaking with distress, I see the grotesque appendages begin to quiver as well, and I realize that somehow I have become just as bloody as Connor.

But I have no wounds, I realize. Under the thick, viscous mess, my flesh is whole and unharmed. So, where is it coming from?

"Roc, ye wanna pass th'popcorn over here?" Murphy says, releasing me and stretching his hand out past me.

God in Heaven.

I jerk away from Murphy and the gaping hole in his tricep. Crimson droplets spatter freely in my vacated seat, and I look down to see my t-shirt clinging morbidly to my torso, red and utterly ruined.

"Somethin' amiss?" Murphy asks, his eyes concerned as I scramble backwards off the sofa, landing on my ass on the floor, pulling the fabric away from my skin in a panic. My stomach clenches hard against the urge to vomit in terror as my eyes swing from one bloody twin to the other.

"Yeah, hun, what's goin' on? Hey, Con, can ya hand the bowl to Murphy?"

Though I know in my bones that I absolutely should not look, I can't stop the compulsion that turns my gaze to Rocco's outstretched hand and the bowl of popcorn. Then I really do gag, clapping my hand over my mouth as tears burst from my eyes. My mind reels against what I'm seeing, trying to shut out the sight of my mangled best friend, but I can't look away.

The hand holding out the bowl is utterly ruined, the pinky finger ripped off and just…gone. Blood flows thickly from the stump on his left hand, coating the contents of the bowl like cheap movie theater butter. I will never be able to eat popcorn again after this.

"Roc, your hand! Where the hell did your finger go?" My voice is strangled, barely reaching my own ears. I look around as if I might find the missing digit, but everywhere I look now, blood and gore are splashed. Bits of torn clothing and things I can barely identify -is that skin? - are strewn over the top of my coffee table and the fabric of my couch and chair. An iron, smoking and stained, rests incongruously on the corner of the table, the pieces of burnt flesh that cling to it sending their noxious fragrance into the air.

"Sorry, hun, didn't catch that. Did you want some of the popcorn, too?"

I make the mistake of actually looking into the proffered bowl despite my fearful premonition. My eyes are drawn inexorably to the finger resting cold and lifeless on top of the kernels, just as I somehow knew it would be.

My stomach can't take any more, and I twist to the side, vomiting until it feels like my entire abdomen is hollow. Dry heaves rack my body even after the contents of my stomach have ejected themselves, and I swear hours before I'm able to push myself away from the puddle on my floor, sobbing and shivering.

"This is a nightmare. I'm asleep, and this is a fucking nightmare."

I shut my eyes against everything, pressing the heels of my bloodstained palms hard against my face as my chest and stomach heave with every shuddering breath.

"I don't understand," I whimper, shivering. "I don't understand, I don't...when did this happen?"

"Not fer a few days yet," Murphy replies casually. "Gonna need yer help when it does, though. Need t'stop th'bleedin', an' we can't go t'hospital this time. Too many questions."

My help. They need my help. They think I can help with...with this? Turbulence racks my mind until I can't think straight. Blood permeates everything, the smell clogging my nostrils and sliding between my hands and my face, gluing my eyelids shut and slicking my hair to my scalp.

I need to...something, there has to be something I can…Maybe I could...

"I can't help you," my voice finally rises above a strangled whisper. I sound shrill, alarmed, and I don't recognize my voice at all. "How can I help with this? I can't...I don't know how...Murphy, I told you a long time ago I don't know...I only know basic things. I don't know how to help with this, I can't help you! How can you even think I could?"

I open my eyes and find myself standing, facing the three of them though I'm sure I never moved. They're lined up on the couch now, Connor and Murphy still in their seats but with Rocco between them. And though I should be screaming now that I've found my voice, all I can do is stare frozenly at them.

Each of their faces is a bruised, beaten, bloody horror. Murphy's mouth is ringed with blood, as if he's been hit repeatedly, and I want to ask about his teeth, but that numb sensation has spread to my tongue, and I am once more silent. His hand rests on his thigh, the thumb somehow ruined and sticking out at an odd angle. Connor's throat is bruised, dark lines ringing his neck under his chin, and Rocco…

Oh, God.

His face is lacerated and bruised. His perpetual white t-shirt is now maroon and nauseatingly gory. Another one of his fingers is gone, the pinky on his right hand torn away like the other one, but that's not even close to the worst. There's a hole in his chest, small but utterly fatal and centered right over his heart. His torso seems sunken around the wound, with pieces of skin and muscle surrounding the hole as crimson stains through the material of his shirt, adhering the fabric to his skin. Every beat of his ruined heart pushes more vital fluid from his body, and I have no idea how he's still moving.

Then it's as if a switch is flipped, and my brain can't process what I'm seeing anymore. The carnage and gore abruptly seem so acceptable, as if everything is exactly the way it should be. I stare at the three of them, coolly taking in all the grisly details. They're like characters in a grindhouse film, one of the gruesome ones I refuse to watch with Connor, the kind where the crew must have purchased red paint by the barrel. They stare back up at me, oblivious to the damage, waiting for me to speak again.

It's as if my brain has shifted on track with theirs, and I accept the situation easily and calmly, taking everything in with a detached interest that should disturb me.

"How did this start?"

"Same as it's starting with you, hun," Rocco answers. "They had a dream that told 'em they were needed. And now you're having your dream. Now you know they need ya. We all need ya, really. I ain't gonna lie, it's gonna get real bad."

"What happened to all of you?"

"We did what needed t'be done," Connor says as he turns back to the movie still blaring behind me. He looks straight through me as he continues. "Destroy all that which is evil."

"So that which is good may flourish," Murphy adds conversationally, reaching a hand into the ruined popcorn.

"And we can't ever stop. We're gonna need your help," Rocco says. "We ain't all gonna make it, and you gotta be there for the ones who do. Hardest shit we've ever gone through. But you gotta keep 'em goin'. Ya can't let 'em stop. Ya get 'em outta here."

I feel automated, like a robot being guided through a series of commands. Something is asking these questions through me, forcing me to hear truths I don't want to know.

"Who do you want me to get out of here? The twins? Why not you? How could I help you? What could you possibly need me for in the middle of all of this?"

An itchy, sticky sensation shivers over my skin, and I realize the blood on my skin is beginning to dry. I glance down to see small pieces flaking off my legs like some sort of macabre baby powder.

"Lass, we need ye fer everythin', always," Murphy says. I look back up at him only to find him completely unharmed and spotless. I glance at Connor and Rocco and find them much the same. Both are whole, uninjured, with no traces of the blood and wounds they were both covered in. Everyone is back in their original positions, with Rocco in the arm chair munching on the pristine popcorn. I shudder, pinching my lips closed automatically against the wave of revulsion that washes through me.

Sensation starts to trickle back into my limbs, bringing with it the creeping dread that filled me before. I can function, I can handle myself now that I see they're actually okay, but the memory still burns behind my eyes. I reach up to rub the images away only to find I'm still covered in Connor and Murphy's blood. The crimson streaks are drying but still tacky, staining deep into my skin. I know immediately and irrevocably that I will never be rid of the sight of their blood on my hands.

"Don't forget."

I turn in place, looking for the source. It's the same voice from my other dreams, the resonant, haunting one that continuously tells me I have to release Connor and Murphy.

"We told ye we wouldn't leave ye again, an' we meant it when we said it," Connor says suddenly, and I wonder if he heard the voice as well. "Ye gotta trust us. The voice told us what we need t'do, an' we know th'path now. Just gotta find th'start o'th'trail."

"The voice told me I need to let you go. If you're listening to the voice, then why shouldn't I?"

"Because ye don't let people give ye shit," Connor says, smiling. "Ye don't let us tell ye what t'do. Why th'fuck would ye listen to a dream?"

"An' when th'time comes, y'do hafta let us go," Murphy adds. "But this is just a dream, r'member? Can't put stock in some fucked up dream, can ye? Now, do ye want to come back down here so we c'n finish th'movie? 'Tis no fun watchin' wit'out ye."

For a long moment, all I can do is gape at them, dumbfounded. This whole situation is moving so much faster than I can grasp. Not a minute ago, they were staring up at me like the victims of some slasher film, and now they're completely whole and want me to rejoin them for movie night.

"But I'm covered-" I begin.

"We'll take ye however y'come to us, lass," Connor says, holding a hand out to me.

I just can't make myself believe that they would want or need me in this state. I'll ruin everything, and they'll never-

"Lass," Connor says, drawing my shattered attention back to him. His hand still hovers steadily in the air, offering sanctuary from the storm of uncertainty that is tearing through my very soul. "We need ye. We love ye. Do ye believe us?"

I nod reluctantly. I do believe them, but-

"Then ye gotta trust us. Come back to us while there's still time. Whatever happens, we still have now."

Now is all we ever have, I think abruptly, and take his hand. He pulls me down to the sofa, and Murphy opens his arms, inviting me back to his side. Neither of them acknowledges or even seems to care about the mess of gore crusting my limbs and clothing.

So, like nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, we settle in to finish the movie.

Despite the horrible things I've just seen, gentle peace and reassurance seeps into me wherever I'm touching Connor and Murphy. As my body slowly relaxes against the twins, I find myself sinking deeper into sleep until I finally reach a place where I thankfully can't dream anymore.

I wake up in the morning with only the vaguest memories of my night terrors and a very strong conviction that I need to see a shrink.

Author's Note: Yeah. So. This one was longer. That's good, right? I do understand that I also need to see a shrink. Please drop me a line to let me know if you want me to keep going with this. Thanks for reading.