"Can ye tell us about yer dream?" Connor asks. Sandwiches and soup are all I have the groceries and the energy for after our whirlwind therapy session, and all four of us are eating in the living room instead of the kitchen table. Connor and Murphy bookend me on the sofa, while Rocco plops down in my armchair. He starts to kick his boots up on the end of my table but stops mid-movement at my raised eyebrow and drops his feet to the floor, stuffing half his sandwich in his mouth to cover his chagrin.

I set my empty soup bowl on the coffee table, racking my brain for the details that dance just beyond my memory. Something is blocking the dream from the forefront of my mind, trying to hold back the images from me, but I struggle against the block. I need to remember something, anything besides the words I said to Connor and Murphy earlier.

"I can't remember most of it. I just remember being really freaked out, and you three kept trying to tell me things, but I was distracted because...I know Murphy and Rocco both said you're going to need me, that you're going to need my help. And Connor, you said…" I trail off, straining to think.

It's as if someone flips a switch in my brain, and suddenly I can remember bits of the dream, but they're blurry and swift. Details rush through my mind, filmy and wavy like watching a movie on fast forward through a stream of water.

"What did I say t'ye, lass?" Connor prompts gently. As Rocco places his empty plate next to my bowl, I glance around at the four of us as I have another flash of remembrance.

"We were sitting like this. I mean, we were all in these spots. I know we usually sit like this, but...I was leaning against Murphy, you were rubbing my feet, and Roc was in the chair, and-"

I look at my friend, and for one horrible second, his face from the dream replaces the one

I'm seeing now, his skin streaming with gore and stained carnelian. I gulp as the contents of my stomach rise up, threatening to revolt again. But now the floodgate is open, and all at once I can see everything my brain was trying to keep from me.

"It's not what you said, Connor," I say slowly as the dread seeps in along with the recollection of the dream. My eyes flash up to Rocco's. "It's what you said."

"Me?" Rocco asks. Surprise is etched into the tired lines of his face, and for the first time I wonder how much older my friend is than the rest of us. It's as if he's aged five or even ten years since I saw him this morning, and I wonder exactly what the errand was that he suddenly had to run.

"I wasn't even there when the guys had their dream or calling or whatever this fucked up shit that's going on is. How could anything I say matter?"

I hold his gaze, unable to look away from Rocco, still seeing flashes of the dream on his face, the grisly mess on his shirt and skin, the missing fingers. The hole over his heart.

It was a dream, it was just a dream, I just have to keep reminding myself it was all a dream, I think, my pulse throbbing heavily in my temples. My breathing speeds up unpleasantly as I glance at the bandages on Connor's wrists, and all denial drops from my mind. Some of it already is true.

So, then...does all of it have to be true?

"Connor and Murphy said...what I told you before, about destroying evil, and then, Roc, you said that we can't ever stop. You said we're not all going to make it and that I have to be here for the ones who do because it's the hardest stuff we've ever gone through and that I have to keep them going, that...I have to get them out of here, but...but you didn't say who, and you didn't answer me when I asked you. I think you meant them, but you didn't say. And you were all...Rocco, there was...your chest, right over your heart…"

I can't finish. I can't think of it, I can't. The images from my dream, the horrible wounds, the smell of the blood, the crimson streaks, everything flashing past, and that deep resonating voice.

Don't forget, it said. Now that I've remembered everything in my wakefulness, there's not a chance I ever could.

Everyone is silent for a long time, thinking through what I've told them. I avoid looking anyone in the face, knowing I can't handle seeing what they're think right now. After a moment, Rocco breaks the silence by gathering all the dishes up and taking them into the kitchen. I hear him turn the water on in the sink, and it's such a mundane, domestic sound that is ludicrously out of place in the current atmosphere.

Connor reaches over, turning and pulling me so I'm pressed to his side and tucked under his arm. He kisses the top of my head, and I close my eyes, pushing my face into the fabric of his shirt and inhaling deeply. Whiskey, cigarettes, that wonderful MacManus smell, and something else. For a single moment of insanity, I think of the horrible coppery smell from the dream, but this isn't blood. It's something new and acrid, something else I know but can't place.

A memory is called to the front of my mind, me as a teenager back at summer camp, hanging out on the riflery range with my then boyfriend. While that jackass never touched anything more deadly than a bb gun the entire summer (oh, the multitude of excuses he came up with), one of the other riflery instructors showed me how to load and fire one of the low-powered rifles they kept for the older campers. The crack of the rifle almost always startled me even through the ear plugs, but I always found the scent of the range sort of comforting. The open field, freshly mown grass, and that sulfurous, slightly metallic smell of the spent rounds.

Gunpowder. Connor smells like gunpowder.

"Can ye t'ink of anyt'in' else ye c'n tell us, lass?" he murmurs into my hair, shaking me from my flashback.

"You were all hurt," I say, taking one of his hands in mine. I examine the wrappings on his wrist, starting to feel that woozy, disorienting sensation of being outside my body again. I swallow hard, shoving the dizziness away, and focus all my attention on the feel of Connor's skin on mine and the sound of the words I force from my mouth.

"I think some of it was bullet holes, but I don't know that I'd necessarily recognize that kind of wound over another; they were small and mostly circular, I guess? There were a lot of bruises and scratches. At one point, Murphy's thumb was...wrong somehow, I don't think I can explain it. Like, pulled too far in the wrong direction or something. Connor, your neck was like someone had grabbed you hard, maybe even choked you. All of you were covered in blood, and Rocco…Two of his fingers on one hand were just gone. And his chest was-"

One of us is suddenly shaking so hard that I can't even finish my sentence, and I don't even realize it's me until Connor pulls me into his lap, rocking and hushing me like a child as I sob into his neck. His fingers thread tenderly through my hair, pressing soothingly into my scalp as he leans his cheek against my forehead.

"We've got ye, lass; we're right here, an' we got ye. We're fine, we're all fine."

I finally let my emotions rampage and run their course unrestrainedly. Two and a half days of sleepless worry and frustration and panic all pour out of my eyes, and I have never been more relieved to have people I can unleash the worst of my feelings around as I am now. After a minute, Murphy slides across the sofa, leaning his back comfortingly against mine without encroaching too much into Connor's space.

Eventually, the tears slow to a trickle and finally stop. Sniffling, I raise my head from Connor's chest, and Murphy moves back to his side of the couch after leaving a lingering kiss on my damp cheek.

I straighten up and try to offer Connor a small, watery smile. I feel like years of tension have been lifted from my shoulders even though we haven't actually solved a single problem; hell, I still don't even know the whole story yet. Connor reluctantly releases me to slide back to my seat on the couch. I feel like I should have some level of embarrassment about my reaction to the situation.

I mean, I had a dream; big freaking deal. Connor and Murphy were attacked in their own apartment and almost killed. Murphy had a gun to his head, and Connor jumped off a building. What right do I have to a break down?

I feel a gentle poke in my other side and turn to see Murphy holding out a box of tissues and offering me a hesitant half-smile. I try to return it, but judging from his reaction, I'm not terribly successful.

"So...what happens now?" I ask, scrubbing resignedly at my face with a tissue. Rocco apprehensively joins us again, having hidden in the kitchen during my outburst, and he's clearly uncomfortable. I feel a wave of guilt wash over me as I wonder how much he actually heard. I should've kept my mouth shut about the dream, but...don't they deserve some warning or...I don't even know. It's a dream, just a stupid dream. How can I even think of it as a warning when it's just a damned dream?

"Gonna just sit fer a little while, if we can. Haven't slept much the last few days." Connor yawns, stretching back against the sofa and resting his arm across my shoulders. "Startin' t'really feel th'knock t'me head dat Russian fucker gimme-"

"Wait." Russian. He said Russian. They said Russian earlier when they were telling me about McGinty's, the newspaper said something about Russian mafia. I've seen something about the Russian mafia somewhere else recently. Didn't the news report say…

The things they've been telling me over the last few hours coupled with what I read and what Rocco told me suddenly click together in a puzzle that makes an infuriating amount of sense. I feel like I've been punched in the gut, completely blindsided, but at the same time I feel like an idiot for not putting the pieces together sooner.

"Connor, you said it was Russian guys that came to McGinty's on Wednesday. The paper said the guys who attacked you that you killed were from the Russian mob. And the news report about the Copley Plaza Hotel said the same thing, that it was Russian mafia. And you two didn't want me to come back last night, the night that the men were killed at the Copley. What are you still not telling me?"

"Shit," Murphy mutters under his breath, his shoulders sagging. "T'was hopin' ye wouldn't make dat connection fer a little longer. Got a bit distracted b'fore we could get dat far in our story, lass."

"I understand that; I was there for the distraction." My tone is even and as reasonable as I feel I can manage under the circumstances. I just wish my emotions were as well controlled at the moment. "This, however, merits someone besides me remembering the topic and bringing it up. The three of you have literally two minutes to tell me everything else or get your asses out my door. And I mean fucking now. Talk or get out."

So they do. Connor and Murphy pick up their story from Friday morning at the police station through the Russian's pager going off to Connor finding out the details of the mob meeting. They tell me about going to the IRA gun dealer (I'm going to have to remember to ask them how the hell they knew this guy or where to find him in the first place) to crawling through the air ducts to falling through the ceiling and taking out the nine men in the hotel room.

So, I was right about one thing today, at least.

When they get to Rocco's entrance and the boys' screwing with him, the three of them actually start to crack up, like we're telling drunken stories down at McGinty's or something. I stare uncomprehendingly at them as they take digs at each other, acting like the whole situation is some stupid action comedy we're watching on television.

In the middle of Murphy's attempt to recreate what was supposedly a wildly entertaining exposition from Rocco, I suddenly realize I can't stand being in the same room as the three of them; I can't stand the sight or the sound of them, and I need to leave before I say or do something I will definitely regret.

How can they laugh at this? There is nothing, and I mean literally nothing I find even remotely amusing about any part of this shit storm.

I rise to my feet without a word, grinding my teeth together to keep from speaking. Ignoring their startled exclamations at my sudden exit, I leave them in the living room and firmly shut and lock my bedroom door behind me.

This is sheer and complete insanity. This is my life now, and it makes no sense whatsoever. And the three people who matter most to me think this whole fucked up situation is funny.

Real fucking funny, guys.

Author's Note: HUGE shout out to bleedingrose0688 for unclogging my writer's block. Seriously, best commentary ever. She also has a pretty fantastic Boondock Saints story herself called Her Defenses that should be checked out immediately. Everyone, thanks for making it this far. Let me know if you want me to keep going.