Note: Holy Broken Timepieces, you guys have to tell me when I forget to post an update! Seriously, I had no idea I didn't post this week!
Several hours, way too much junk food, and two (no, wait...three...four...no, no, definitely three) boilermakers later, I'm trying to sort through everything Rocco and the twins have told me. I'm still confused (and very buzzed), so I don't think I'm doing a very good job summarizing their misadventures.
It's Sunday night at around 11:30, and McGinty's is deserted. Doc's not usually open this late on Sundays, but he didn't have the heart to kick us out after I gave him puppy eyes and a kiss on the cheek. The lights are dim, and for once Doc has some decent music playing in the background as he wipes down the bottles behind the bar, a classic rock station I'm not familiar with.
We're sitting in the booth I like so much in the back corner, the one that's got chairs on one side and bench seats on the other, and I'm leaning forward, half-sprawled across the table. I'm just barely staying propped up with my chin resting in my palms, peering intently at Rocco and Murphy while Connor rubs my back with the hand that isn't holding his whiskey.
"So, lemme explain this all back to make sure I've got it straight. No, that would take way too long. Lemme sum up," I say as Queen's "Under Pressure" starts up in the background. I take an invigorating swig from my water, having been cut off of the hard stuff by the boys about forty minutes ago. My eyebrows knit together with concentration as I try to recall the most pertinent details from their insane story.
"St. Patrick's Day: Connor and Murphy go to mass, then to work. Connor gets attacked by a giant lesbian. Ma calls, gives you two exactly what you deserve. You go to McGinty's, celebration and libation ensue. Russians come in, break up the party, get beat down and set on fire."
"Par fer th'course so far," Connor smiles, taking a sip from his glass. "Speakin' o'dat conversation wit' Ma, by t'way, been meanin' t'ask ye-"
"Hush, the grown up is talking." I swat at his chest, which has about as much effect as a fly landing on a table, but he graciously lets me continue. "The next day, Thursday, Russians break down the door, which, can I just say I told you so about getting the damn thing fixed? Because I totally did. But anyway, they cuff Connor, take Murphy to the alley. Connor ruins Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's ceiling, jumps off the roof, and the toilet crushes...who? Ivan, the big guy? Is that the ass fire guy or the bandage head guy?" I can't keep all the details straight. Despite a decent night of sleep, I'm still exhausted, and I'm sure the alcohol isn't helping my level of attentiveness. Also, frankly, I'm just plain overwhelmed.
Murphy chokes on his pint, coughing while Rocco pounds him on the back. He sets his glass on the table, still spluttering and laughing as he smacks Rocco's hand away. I glower at him, annoyed at the interruption of my narration.
Murphy finally clears his lungs enough to choke out, "Aye, lass, Ivan was th'ass fire guy who was crushed by th'toilet. Dat was nicely put. An' Connor landed on t'other guy." Okay, I'm slightly mollified by his compliment.
"Thanks. I think. So, anyways, Connor drops the toilet on Ivan Fire Pants, lands on head bandage guy, and passes out because who the hell jumps off the top of a six story building, am I right? And then Murphy beats down Mummy Head with the toilet tank lid, takes their guns and money because, at this point, why the fuck not? And then he picks up Connor, which by the way, Murph, let me just say damn, because I can't even pull the covers out from under him when he falls asleep, much less deadlift his ass. Then you take Evel Knievel over here to the hospital."
"Right in one," Murphy says, saluting me with his glass and smirking at his scowling sibling.
"And I'm not even to Friday yet?" I'm tired of thinking. Thinking hurts. Too much has happened, and I don't think I'm going to be able to keep it all straight.
"So...let's just...fast forward a bit," I say, reaching for my water again. My fingertips brush the glass, but I swear the little fucker keeps moving out of my reach. Murphy takes pity on me and pushes my drink into my hand, kindly refraining from comment. I drain the last of the water from the glass and continue.
"Hospital. Turned yourselves in. Talked to FBI guy who had most everything figured out. By the way, I still don't believe you told him you set Russian Sasquatch's ass on fire. I'm just saying, there's no way you get out of real jail time on that one. But then you have your dream that night, and I have my dream that night, and I would just like to register for the official record that I think it's thoroughly unfair that I get stuck with the Texas Chainsaw Massacre of spiritually awakening dreams, and you just get what amounts to a freakin' long distance phone call and a shower."
Murphy chokes again and has to walk away from the table for a minute before he is able to recover his composure. I continue my summary without him, trying to get through everything before I lose all the important parts to the exhaustion I feel creeping in. I yawn widely, rubbing my eyes. I have to make it through this conversation, though. It's already taken us the better part of two days to get this far, and I really don't want it to spill over into a third day, if I can help it.
"So you get the page and call the number, get the details for the Russian meeting. Then you, what? Go to the gun dealer guy? How do you even know him, anyway?"
"Worked at th'factory wit' us fer a minute b'fore he left fer a more...lucrative career, let's say," Connor answers. Murphy finally returns, having noticed my drooping eyelids, and pushes a tall glass of Coke across the table in my direction.
I stare at it for a long moment before I look up at him and say with complete sincerity, "I love you. I want you to know that right now."
He smiles, for some reason shaking his head at me. I don't understand why; I totally meant what I said. Murphy gets me, and I want him to know I appreciate it. But if I keep getting distracted like this, I'll never finish my recap of the weekend, and I really need to. I take a long, blissful slurp from the glass, earning me another smile and a head shake, which I do my best to ignore.
"So you go pull the job at the hotel, Steven Seagal kind of stuff in the ceiling and all that. You never did say how you got into the room, by the way."
"Dumbass over there got us lost then started shit when I pointed out how fuckin' shtupid his plan and his damn rope were," Murphy smirks in Connor's direction.
Connor immediately fires back with, "Shtupid fuckin' rope's what kept us from crackin' our skulls on th'floor after yer dumb ass thought ye could take me. Air duct detached an' crashed through th'ceilin'. Dropped us right inta th' middle of th' meetin', an' we got caught in th'rope, hangin' upside down, an' took 'em all down. An' it wouldn'ta happened if it weren't for my shtupid rope, so go fuck yerself, Murph!"
Murphy is obviously gearing up for an epic battle of insults, but I put paid to that on the spot.
"Hold it! First of all, grown up still talking, so shut it, both of you. Second, are you seriously telling me that you two couldn't go without fighting for long enough to get through your plan, and you broke the fucking air duct and fell through the ceiling? What, coffee tables aren't enough for you anymore?"
They have the decency to look slightly abashed, and I figure that's the best I'm going to get out of the two of them, so I continue before I completely lose my train of thought.
"So then Rocco shows up with his gun, and by the way, Roc, I meant what I said yesterday morning about the machine gun. These ass hats were lucky, that's all, regardless of all their bragging. So then you guys have your frat party at Rocco's place and kill that poor cat, and I'm not even gonna comment on that one, you sick fucks. And then you get in a fight the next day about Rocco's bosses setting him up, and Rocco takes off, and that's where I come in, yeah?"
Rocco nods, avoiding my eyes for some reason, and I stare at him, squinting as I consider our conversation. "I saw the news report, and Rocco and I talked about it before we left for the diner, and then Rocco left to run an errand. Is that...is that when you went to Lakeview and...confronted those guys you used to work with?"
I stumble over the question even before he nods, and the realization of what I've done crashes over me. My head drops to my hands as I mutter every curse I can think of, my fingers gripping my scalp in an attempt to keep it from exploding with the rest of my head.
"What's...eh...what's amiss, lass?" Connor asks tentatively. His hand rests gently on my shoulder. He's genuinely concerned, but I don't deserve that kind of consideration right now.
Even I don't understand my answer, as it's muffled by my hands, so I look up at the three of them, tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I whisper, "It's my fault Rocco went there, that he killed those people. I practically killed them. It's totally my fault. Because of what I said. He wouldn't have gone there if I hadn't said anything."
The three men gawk silently at me for a long moment before the protests flood in all at once, but I'm too far into my misery to hear any of it. Finally, Connor sets his glass on the table and waves his hand to shut the other two up.
"Grace, all ye did was make his dumb ass realize what we were tryin' t'tell him b'fore he stormed off like a little bitch."
"Hey!" Rocco interjects, but Murphy silences him with a slap to the back of his head.
"Ye didn't kill anyone, an' ye ain't responsible fer killin' anyone. Ye probably saved Rocco's life. If he hadn't figured out which way was up an' had gone back inta work or summat, I guarantee he wouldn'ta lasted th'day."
I gaze up at Connor from where I'm sprawled on the tabletop, wanting very badly to believe him. "How Soon Is Now" by the Smiths follows "Under Pressure," and I'm distracted enough for a moment to wonder who is picking the playlist down at the radio station tonight. I sniffle and glance hopefully from one twin to the other. They both nod seriously at me, and I start to think that maybe I'm not entirely responsible for Rocco's rampage.
"So...okay, I'll accept that for now, but have I missed anything so far?"
"Did you guys tell her about the little briefcase you found in the hotel room?" Rocco asks suddenly.
"Briefcase?" I ask, looking from Connor to Murphy. Did they have to sit so far apart? It sucks turning my head this much. I should probably just lay it down again, and-
"Can't fall alseep yet, darlin'," Connor murmurs in my ear. I come to with a jerk, my eyes flying open. I blink, shaking my head a little, wondering when I closed them in the first place.
"Not asleep," I yawn, stretching and reaching for my soda. I take a long, delicious, icy gulp, and I swear I can feel the caffeine spreading through my veins. "Checking my eyelids for light leaks. What briefcase?"
"Dere was a little case in th'Copley dat we spotted afterwards," Connor answers, pulling me up and snugging me into his side to keep me upright. If he wants to keep me awake, though, that's not the best idea, since he is way more comfortable than the wooden tabletop I've been lying on. And a lot warmer. And he snuggles back.
"Found it on th'bar in th'hotel room," Murphy takes up smoothly as he pushes my drink into my hand again. "Filled t'th'brim wit' cash. All we can figure is dey were plannin' on financin' somethin' dat won't ever happen now. 'Round t'two hundred grand or so in it in stacks of new hundreds an' fifties."
Holy shit. I am fully awake now.
"Two hundred thousand...dollars? You three have two hundred thousand real dollars? Like, U.S. currency? Not Monopoly money?"
I don't see what's so terribly amusing about my questions, as I'm being entirely serious, but the three of them are cracking up over my reaction.
"Well, it ain't rubles," Connor grins down at me. "Aye, lass. Tis very real. Ye c'n smell it an' everythin'. Got it hid somewhere safe. Ye dont' have t'worry 'bout us blowin' it all in one go."
"I wasn't." And I'm really not worried about that part. Them spending the money didn't even cross my mind. I'm still trying to wrap my head around Connor and Murphy, who live in what basically amounts to an abandoned warehouse and wear threadbare bathrobes that had to have come from either a donation box at church or just straight out the trash can somewhere, having enough cash on them at one time to literally buy a freaking house. I cannot process this information right now.
"So. Okay. I'm gonna have to put that aside to think about later. Let's talk about something easier to understand. I need to finish recapping before I lose too many details. Okay. So The Lakeview happened, and it wasn't really my fault. You guys stand me up. What was that all about?"
"Waitin' fer dis dumbass t'get back in one piece, den he has his hissy fit an' pretty much breaks up wit' Donna, we leave his place an' make a quick stop, den we came t'find ye," Murphy fills in.
"Okay, so then I have my shopping rampage. I read the newspaper. You two come busting into my place and scare the shit outta me. Fast forward to Saturday night when you three all leave to go...somewhere. Now is the time to explain where somewhere was and what you did there."
Instead of answering, Connor and Murphy both look to Rocco, who looks surprised by their sudden attention.
"What? Why me?"
"We were dere b'cause of ye, Roc," Connor answers slowly, like he's speaking to a small, exasperating child. "Maybe ye want t'tell her why?"
"Oh! Right! Sorry. Yeah, so, the guy who set me up in the first place and sent me to the hotel with nothin' but a six-shooter for nine guys, this fat fuck Elvis wanna-be asshole, he always goes to this titty dancer joint the same night every week. We're talking' about it in the car, and I realize these two idiots don't have any sort of plan on how to carry out their new 'mission,' like no idea how to pick and find the scum they wanna get rid of, so I point out that I know fuckin' everybody, right? I know everything about 'em, where they live, what they do after hours, and-"
"Get on wit' it, Roc," Murphy snaps, smacking Rocco's arm.
"Fuck you. Anyway, so we get our shit together and head down there and take care of Vincenzo first thing, but then these other guys come in, buncha real low-life scumbags, y'know? And Connor and Murph recognized 'em, knew they did some rotten shit, so we, uh...cleaned house."
My stomach turns involuntarily, and I gulp silently, forcing soda past the sudden knot in my throat. My eyes drift down to the table as the boys recount some of the details. I'm starting to feel a little dizzy again, but I don't think it's from the alcohol. As Murphy begins to rip into Rocco, making some comment about tipping of all things, Connor stands, pulling me up with him.
"Gonna step outside fer some air," Connor tells Murphy and Rocco before I can ask. Murphy takes one glance at me, huddled under Connor's arm with my face probably some delicate shade of green, and nods, starting to rise from his seat.
"It's okay, Murph," I manage with a weak smile. "I'm fine, I just...need another period of adjustment, that's all." Murphy resumes his seat, looking mildly mutinous, but he stays put as Connor leads me away.
Instead of turning to the front door, I steer us towards the back, and Connor dutifully opens the door that lets us out into the alley. There's a nice, comfy pile of discarded wooden crates, and I settle down gingerly on the nearest lone box, wondering how long it will support my weight.
The alley doesn't smell the greatest, even by South Boston back alley standards, but the night is cool, and there's a good breeze going. I watch Connor pull a pack of smokes out of his back pocket, extracting one and lighting up in a fluid series of motions that is more habit than conscious decision. He stands a few feet away, downwind of me, the lit end occasionally illuminating his face with a faint reddish-orange glow.
"What's on yer mind?"
I realize I'm staring at a very particular spot on the ground, my eyebrows knit together in concentration. I don't know what my face looks like, but if it's mirroring the bog of turmoil and chagrin that is my mind, it's got to look pretty troubled right about now. I clear my throat, willing my stomach to settle down. At least if I throw up again, there's nothing out here I can ruin.
"Just...well, I feel like a bit of a hypocrite at the moment, actually."
This statement is apparently not what Connor was expecting to hear. He lowers his cigarette, gauging the dejectedness of my tone and my slumped over posture, then stubs his smoke out on the sole of his boot, sticking the remainder behind his ear. He drags another crate around so he's sitting in front of me, his knees on either side of mine. He leans forward so his hands are resting on my thighs and he's eye level with me from just a couple of inches away.
Even in the faintly flickering light of the dim light bulb above Doc's back door, I can see the concern and confusion etched across his face.
"Why d'ye feel dat way? What do ye think ye did t'warrant it?"
"I keep freaking out over every little thing you guys tell me about the few days," I finally answer. It's hard to put into words exactly what I'm thinking right now, but Connor is patient as I sort through my emotional snarl. My thoughts wind all the way back to New Year's Eve a few months earlier, rehashing the brief interlude that took place not ten feet away from where I'm sitting right now.
"Connor, I crouched in this alley, right over there, and ruined the hands of two men because of the violent crimes the committed. I didn't regret it then, and I don't regret it now. I'm more bothered because I acted as judge, jury, and an executioner of sorts, on my own with no prompting from you."
"No prompting except us delivering those assholes straight t'yer lap," Connor says neutrally, his eyes locked on mine. His fingers press a little harder into my legs, but as I'm beginning to tremble again, I get the feeling that he's trying to steady me more than anything.
"Still, though. I did something well outside the law, something violent, something I felt was right because I thought it was what I needed to do. I can't think of a single instance that could make me regret what I did to those men. I know part of that comes from what they did to me and Mary and that girl Carla, but…"
Connor waits patiently, letting my tipsy thoughts sort themselves out. Another breeze rolls through the alley, chill and invigorating, rousing my sluggish brain a little more. Somewhere nearby, a siren rises then fades away. Connor's eyes never leave mine, though, focusing entirely on me as he waits for me to finish.
"I did that all that of my own volition, and yet when you tell me what you've done, I can't handle it. I mean, I basically did the same thing, and-"
"Grace." He speaks my name softly, but it's enough to cut me off mid-ramble, even though I'm building up quite a head of anxious steam.
"Th' whole world's turned upside down in under a week. Ye left fer two months, an' when ye came back, nothin' made sense. I t'ink ye got a right t'feel a bit messed up in yer head an' yer heart. An' yer stomach," he adds, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "What ye did on New Year's, dat was one t'ing, but ye've never taken a life, an' I don't expect ye t'accept t'dis like it was a regular t'ing. Takin' anudder person's life ain't a normal part o'everyday life, an' I won't say it's a nice t'ing, but I will say it's a necessary one in dis case."
"I...I know it is. I just...I don't know. Why am I having such a hard time and you guys act like it was a typical Saturday night hanging out?"
"Don't rightly know, love," he says, his voice heavy with something. Sympathy, maybe? I automatically feel rotten and burdensome that after everything he and Murphy have been through, he still has to feel sorry for me. I'm not the one who's been forced into this role, who feels that compulsion to wipe out the evil in the world.
"Do ye t'ink we were wrong in any of what we've done? Honestly, deep in yer heart?"
I shake my head, not trusting my trembling vocal cords.
"Do ye t'ink we coulda done anythin' else, given th'circumstances?"
Again, I shake my head. The knot pulling my heart and stomach painfully tight slowly begins to loosen, and I feel like I can breathe a little easier.
"Can ye stand wit' us, at least stay wit' us if we keep doin' what we're doin'? Do ye have it in ye to keep hearin' th'stories an' dealin' wit' th'aftermath? It ain't pretty, an' I know it ain't always gonna go well. Knowin' we have ye dere fer us when we come back from this, it means more dan anythin' I c'n put inta words, but if ya can't do it, I won't…"
He trails off, his gaze fixed intently and imploringly on my face. I can't answer right away; I feel like he and Murphy deserve my full deliberation, and as hard as it is to think right now, I'm going to do my damndest.
Both twins have asked me this question today. They've both asked me to stay, and in those moments, just the two of each of them alone with me, I knew what I wanted, and yet I still couldn't give either of them the answer I know they want to hear. Sitting here in the dimly lit alley, the scene of my own quasi-vigilante moment, I know that I need to think this through as thoroughly as I can, and when I tell Connor my answer this time, I need to know exactly what I'm saying.
Up until a few months ago, I'd never really experienced violence. I'd seen news reports and such about the crime in the city, but I didn't know anyone who had been personally affected, and I had never been directly affected. Yeah, I'd seen some bar fights at McGinty's a few times, but there was no malevolence there, just a bunch of drunken idiots letting out aggression.
I know what Connor and Murphy are doing is right. The real question is can I go through them doing these things, recounting the reasoning and the planning and the killing over and over. I knew in the shower with Connor this morning, I knew with Murphy in bed just a little later, and I know now that I don't ever want to be apart from them.
But am I what they need? Am I good enough, strong enough to stand behind them throughout this...what, crusade?
I remember a time, about a year and a half ago, when the three of us were a new thing. The first night Murphy and I spent together, after Connor and I had been semi-serious for a few months, I went up on the roof to sort through my sleepless thoughts. I came to the same question that night, too. If I'd never been good enough for one man before, how could I be good enough for two?
The question rings through my head more than ever now. They picked me out of all the women they could've had, and somehow we've managed to stick together. Now they have this calling, and I have to figure out if I can handle being their support system in a situation I'm not even sure I can stay afloat in. Can I do that for them, be there through all the violence and the death and the weight of this responsibility? Can I help them carry this burden for possibly the rest of our lives, however long or dreadfully short that might be?
I don't know.
I raise my eyes back to Connor's, frowning as I wrangle my thoughts into coherent sentences.
"I don't know if I can, Connor. But I know that I want to try. I can't promise that I'll always immediately understand and accept what you're doing, but I can promise I will try to. Can that be enough for now? Can I have that chance?"
"Aye, lass." He opens his arms, and I lean into his embrace, gladly shutting my eyes and burying my face into the warmth of his chest. "If ye c'n stand t'take a chance on our sorry arses, we c'n stand t'take one wit' you."
Author's Note: You guys have to keep me informed if it's too long between updates! Seriously, I have no sense of time whatsoever. Like, PM me if it's been more than a week or something. If you're liking what you're reading, leave a thought or two in the box on your way out. Thanks.