The shower I take after my episode is one of the most glorious experiences of my life, with brushing my teeth afterwards right up there, as well. Fifteen minutes later, I'm dressed in my warmest sweats and thickest socks, huddled in my warmest blanket in a corner of the sofa. I sip some orange juice from a plastic cup that Murphy handed me, figuring I need to at least attempt to get my blood sugar up so my hands will stop shaking so badly.
"How long's it been since ye ate anythin', lass?" Connor makes the mistake of asking. Instead of answering with the fountain of venom I long to spit at him, I gaze steadily right into his eyes, waiting for him to remember exactly why I ate neither breakfast nor lunch today. It takes him a few seconds, but I see when the realization flickers across his face. He sighs, lowering his head and nodding. His shoulders stay tense instead of slumping, and though the last thing I want to feel for either of the twins right now is sympathy, I'm starting to get an inkling that the last few days haven't been a cake walk for them, either.
"Aye, breakfast. We were...dat's part o'what we need t'talk t'ye about, but it's nearer t'th'end of th'story. Can ye wait until th'end t'hear dat part, let us explain from th'beginnin'?"
I take a moment and drain the last of the juice, feeling a little energy creeping through me. Not only am I low on fuel, but I haven't slept in almost forty hours, and I've been just a tad bit stressed. Before I can answer, Murphy sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of me, silently offering to switch my empty juice cup for a full one. His eyes follow my gaze to where he's just set a plate of buttered toast with grape jelly next to him.
"When ye finish yer juice like a good girl," he answers before I can ask for it. I glare, but there's no heat behind it. Besides, juice is easier right now. I hand him my empty cup and accept the full one, taking a long swallow and an even longer, steadying breath before finally answering Connor.
"I'm calmer now," I say slowly, feeling the throbbing in my temples beginning to recede. "I can hear the whole story. Just...take it slow and be prepared to answer a lot of questions, please. I promise I'll keep my temper in check as best I can."
Murphy gently presses the blanket around my shoulders again, tucking the edges in under my crossed legs before settling back on the coffee table. Connor perches on the arm of the sofa on the end farthest from me, giving me space while staying close enough to help if I need him. The cut on my hand pulses sorely in time with my heartbeat, but otherwise I think I'm okay for now.
The boys start with their arrival at McGinty's, taking me through the whole night and the next day, from the Russian men entering the bar to their waking up in the middle of the night in the jail cell. They don't leave out any details, as far as I know, and they don't mince their words, giving me the facts as straightforward as they can. I do my best to eat my toast without either choking or overreacting.
Although, really...what exactly is considered overreacting when you find out your boyfriends have been attacked and nearly murdered?
"Tell me more about the dream?" I ask quietly, placing my cup on the table. The coincidence of all three of us having some sort of odd, spiritually compelling dream on the same night hasn't escaped me, but from the sounds of it I'm thinking their dream might've turned out somewhat differently than mine. I'm more than a little curious, but it's tempered by the feeling of foreboding I get as the twins watch me with uncharacteristically dark and solemn eyes.
"T'tell th'truth, we're not entirely sure t'was a dream in th'strictest meanin' of th'word," Connor admits, glancing at Murphy. "We both heard th'voice at th'same time, both felt th'force of it, th'...dunno th'word I'm lookin' fer. Compulsion, maybe? Calling? We woke up wit' th'water comin' down, an' we both just knew we had t'do somethin' about all th'horrible t'ings goin' on. We knew that we had to-"
"Destroy all that which is evil, so that which is good may flourish," I interrupt, the words tumbling automatically from my lips before I can stop them. I still can't remember most of my dream; I can only recall the feeling of paralyzing horror, but the words come to me with the force of a command. I raise troubled eyes to meet Murphy's as he stares at me in astonishment.
"How d'ye...where did ye hear dat, love?" Murphy asks, his voice quiet and intense. When I don't answer, he leans forward, gently laying his hands on my shoulders. "Grace, how do ye know those words?"
"I had a dream that night, too."
Murphy's penetrating eyes hold mine for a long, earnest moment. His lips work as if he's hunting for the right words but can't quite seem to land on them; I know exactly how he feels. He searches my face silently for another few seconds before shifting from the table to join me on the sofa. Wordlessly, he opens his arms to me, offering me the comfort I desperately need right now but can't bring myself to ask for. I hesitate for the space of a heartbeat, and then I launch myself at him.
The second his arms are around me, I don't care how pissed I was at Connor and Murphy or how evasive they've acted. I don't care how fucked up the last few days have been, and I don't care about dreams or voices or missions or Russians or anything else. All I care about right this second is that I haven't seen my boys in almost two months and that I nearly lost both of them while I was gone.
My lips are on Murphy's before his arms have finished closing around me. My eyes are streaming, and I know despite my efforts to clean up that I am still an outright mess from my earlier freak out.
Judging by his response, Murphy couldn't care less what I look like right now.
Long before I feel I've properly expressed to Murphy just how much I missed him, Connor reaches down and pulls me up into his arms, his embrace crushing the breath from me.
"Missed ye more dan anyt'in'," he murmurs as my arms circle his neck and pull his face to mine. "C'n ye not travel again fer aw-"
I interrupt him before he can finish his sentence, crushing his mouth to mine with a passion that takes us both by storm. I feel Murphy stand behind me, and as his fingers press almost painfully into my hips, I know this is about to get way too involved for the living room.
"Bedroom," I gasp, pulling away from Connor long enough to say one more word. "Now."
Then my mouth is on Connor's again, and he lifts me from the floor, turning towards my room. I hear Murphy removing his shirt behind me as I wrap my legs around Connor's waist. I lose myself in the kiss, pushing away awareness of anything but the soft feel of his mouth on mine, the silky stroke of his tongue, the hardness of his torso squeezed between my thighs.
Hot, eager fingers skim up my stomach, sliding clothes off hastily in all directions, and then we're twined together on my bed, exactly where we're supposed to be, and I'm shaking for an entirely different reason. There's desperation in everything we do in those next few minutes, a reckless sense of relief at their survival and apprehension of not knowing what's coming next. Touches that were once gentle and comforting are now a little more painful, a little more frantic and incautious.
Connor holds me against him, my back flush to his front as we lay on our side, and Murphy hooks my leg over his hip, entering with one fluid stroke that presses me back against his brother. I tense, not quite ready for him, and Murphy pauses, strain etched across his face as he waits for me to adjust. Connor strokes my hip with calloused fingers, his lips dancing over my neck, and I can feel the taut muscles in my abdomen begin to slacken.
"Breathe easy, lass," Connor murmurs, his mouth hot against my ear. Murphy draws back, and Connor takes the opportunity to slip his fingers between my thighs, pressing and stroking exactly right as his brother starts a slow, steady rhythm. "Close yer eyes, an' just feel it. Ye gotta trust us."
The words strike a chord in my memory, but I'm too absorbed in the moment to hang on to the thought. Two months of barely-handled frustration added to nights full of frantic nightmares and the realization that I nearly lost both of them feeds my fear that they are about to be ripped away from me. This fear of sudden abandonment revolves desperately in my mind until Connor and Murphy are finally able to drown out any coherent thoughts I have left in a sea of sensation.
We're on the verge of slipping into sleep afterwards, momentarily sated, when there's a hesitant knock on the front door.
"Guys? Figured you forgot I was down in the car...Can I come in? I mean, is it safe to come in? I don't wanna interrupt anything….again."
"You left Rocco in the car? Seriously?"
Author's Note: Been on a bit of an inspiration dry spell. I know where I want the story to go and how I want it to get there, I'm just having trouble making it cooperate. Let me know if I should keep going. Thanks for reading.