"So...what now?" I ask. I have a sudden, overwhelming sense of deja vu and shake my head at the sensation. I think I asked this question yesterday, too. I'm so tired, and I don't know how they aren't dropping from exhaustion. "Is it bed time yet?"
"As next steps go, bed sounds about right," Connor replies, standing and offering me his hand. "Fer th'future, dunno. Don't really have a succinct plan, as it were. Roc's got t'right idea, we t'ink, wit' him knowin' who needs t'be taken down, but we haven't really had a chance t'discuss it all, an' we're not entirely sure he gets just how serious dis whole t'ing is. Maybe save dat talk fer when we've all had a better night o'sleep, yeah?"
Once I'm back inside, I hug Doc goodnight and thank him for letting us stay so late, thanks that he waves off with a trembling hand and a pat on the back. The train ride home is subdued, everyone more than a bit lost in their own thoughts. Rocco heads straight for my spare room when we get back to the apartment, and I follow his example, heading to my bedroom without preamble. I'm undressed and unconscious before Connor and Murphy even set foot in the room.
Blessedly, through a combination of alcohol, exhaustion from sleepless nights, and the comfort of having both of my boys wrapped around me, for the first time in months I sleep the whole night through with absolutely no dreams whatsoever.
The next couple of days pass with little to no actual incidents. I follow the news obsessively, watching for any hint that someone has a clue that the guys are involved in the killing spree sweeping through Boston's nastiest. So far, no one seems to have connected the "Saints of South Boston" with the vigilante acts, but I have a feeling it's only a matter of time.
I make a couple of shopping trips around the neighborhood, though not for the clothes I know I'll need next week. Refilling my first aid kit is priority number one for me. The guys don't seem to have any idea when their next hit will be, but there's no telling when they might just up and decide someone's due for killing, so I should be as ready as I can.
As Connor and Murphy tell me, it's not like they have a system.
By unspoken mutual agreement, the boys get what few possessions they have and move them permanently to my apartment, as their flat is pretty much unlivable.
Well, more unlivable than it was before, even by their standards.
The entirety of their combined wardrobes fits into the bottom drawer of my dresser, and honestly, besides their rosaries, they don't really have anything else. The only other change to my apartment that results in their moving in are two nails that appear in the wall over my bedside table as if by magic to serve as hangers for their rosaries.
I make them call their mother and give her my phone number so she can actually reach them if she needs to. They're resistant at first (understatement), but I point out that it's not beyond the scope of her abilities to call every number listed in Boston until she finds them. When they finally do call her, she wholeheartedly agrees with me and gives them a sound tongue lashing for not coming to that conclusion on their own.
By slightly less unspoken agreement, Rocco also gets some things from his and Donna's place and semi-permanently sets up shop in my spare room. I refuse to let him go home to stay. He doesn't get why at first until I indelicately spell out that if his bosses were cold enough to set him up at the Copley, there's a distinct possibility they'd be willing to go after him at home.
I offer to talk to Donna for him, tell her she needs to find a new place for a while for her own safety, but when we go over to their apartment, her stuff is cleaned out, and it looks like no one's been there in a couple of days. I wince at the nasty red splatter coating the wall in the dining room area, and I see that someone has ineffectually taped up a single sheet of paper.
"You guys are seriously some strange new hybrid of idiots and assholes," I mutter as I hold open Rocco's military style duffle bag.
He offers a conciliatory half-smile as he shoves a stack of t-shirts into the bag. "Ya ain't wrong."
Murphy steps in from another room, holding a box full of Rocco's record collection. "What was dat?"
"Just commenting on all of three of you completing lacking any socially or intellectually redeeming qualities," I sigh as Rocco stuffs another bundle of clothing into the bulging sack.
Murphy brushes a kiss along my jaw, and heat spreads over my face from where his lips contact my skin. Rocco shakes his head, taking the bag from me and moving to another room ostensibly to find more necessities he needs to pack, but really to not have to listen to me giggle as a result of Murphy's attention.
We return from the trip with a few boxes, Rocco's duffle bag, and a suitcase, more than both of the twins' things combined. Connor is reclined on the couch, his feet propped comfortably on my coffee table, and I clear my throat. When he glances back, I raise an eyebrow in warning, and he immediately swings his feet to the floor as if that was what he meant to do all along.
"Got ye summat while th' three of ye were out," Connor says, leaping over the back of my sofa with no apparent effort. He pulls me into what I mistake for a hug but turns out to be an overly dramatic embrace that dips into an equally overdramatic kiss that leaves me laughing and severely overheated.
Rocco mutters something about never being able to escape and hurries off down the hall. Murphy follows him, grinning and telling him in great detail about all the things we're apparently going to get up to in the apartment that he will not, in fact, be able to get away from now that they're all basically living there.
I had no idea I had so much stamina. Or flexibility.
Connor reaches back over the sofa, lifting up a metal bar that looks to me like nothing so much as an inconvenient sort of crutch.
"Should I recognize that?" I ask, perplexed. I know Connor and Murphy aren't the most traditionally romantic of boyfriends, but I still usually have more reason to expect a flower than a stick of metal from them as a present. One end of the bar has a rubber tip like the bottom of a crutch, and the top has a sort of rubber or plastic u-bend. The whole thing is about three and a half feet tall, though it looks like it could be adjusted to be longer or shorter.
"Tis a security bar for yer front door," Connor explains. He holds the bar next to the door, judging the height of the handle, then fiddles with the height adjustment. He sticks the u-bend under the door knob, wedging the rubber tip end firmly into place on the floor.
"When yer here wit'out us, I want ye t'keep dis under yer doorknob," he says, turning a serious face to me as if he expects protests and is ready for any arguments I might have. But I'm not mutinous, I'm only surprised.
"I didn't expect that," I say honestly, stepping up and pulling his face down to mine, "but thank you. I appreciate you thinking of me. Just don't expect me to be too quick to get the door open the first few times you guys are out later than me. You know I can sleep through a lot if I'm of a mind to."
"Don't plan on leavin' ye sleepin' on yer own too much anytime soon," Connor murmurs against my lips before sweeping me up bridal style and carrying me straight to the bedroom. He deposits me on my bed gently, then turns and steps out of the room. Before I can react to his unexpected departure, he returns with the security bar. He closes the door firmly, locking it and wedging the bar expertly under the handle.
"Murphy's figured out th'trick wit' one o'yer hair pins and dat little hole in th'doorknob," Connor explains, ripping his shirt over his head and advancing on me with a predatory grin. "Can finally get a little privacy now."
…
With three men suddenly taking up residence in my apartment, privacy is definitely in short supply. Every time I turn around one of them is in the bathroom when I need it or rooting through the fridge for something else to eat and flicking the television channels nonstop until they find the most deafening, obnoxious action movie on at the time. Even the conversations are loud and ridiculous, with the boys constantly digging at Rocco for everything from his freakout at the deli to something I refuse to ask for details about involving a passed out stripper at the Sin Bin.
I mean, I thought it wouldn't be such a big deal having them all here since they practically lived here before, but apparently there's a big difference between men spending a lot of time at your place and men having literally nowhere else to go.
By Wednesday morning, I am ready to be rid of all three of them, if only for a couple of hours, just to get some time to myself. I unceremoniously kick all three of them out, promising to use the security bar properly and everything.
"I love all of you, and I'm starting to hate the sight of your faces. Give me a few hours alone, go amuse yourselves, and then come back and pick me up around one for lunch. But seriously, go away, or I will end you."
I shut the front door firmly in their bewildered faces, click the lock into place, and shove the security bar under the door knob. I slump against the door, listening to their footsteps retreat down the hallway. After a few minutes, I realize I can't hear anything: not Murphy bickering with Connor over what channel to watch, not the shower running, not Rocco digging through the fridge. Just blessed silence that rings peacefully through my empty apartment.
I had no idea three days of three men living in my place would be so damned loud. Yeesh. I think a way-too-hot bath full of as many bath oils and epsom salts as I can get away with is called for. Shaving, exfoliating, girly things I can't get done with three men always needing the bathroom for something.
Hell, I might even give myself a manicure.
Three-and-a-half not-long-enough hours later, there's a knock on my front door. As I was expecting the boys, I'm pretty quick getting up, but when I glance through the peephole, all I see is Rocco. It takes me a minute to remove the security bar, but Rocco doesn't seem impatient when I finally get the door open. In fact, he seems kind of subdued.
"Where are the guys?" I ask, grabbing my purse from its hook next to the door.
"They had some sort of errand to run, but they said they'll meet us at the diner, might even be there before us."
I meet his answer with a heavily skeptical eyebrow, and he grins suddenly. "They mean it this time. They know better than to piss you off like that again."
"And they have yet to explain why they couldn't just leave me a fucking message," I mutter, shutting and locking the door behind us.
As we turn towards the stairwell, Rocco says, "They didn't think it'd be safe to leave a message where it could be traced back to you. Hun, they're doing most everything short of leavin' ya altogether to keep you from being connected with what they're doing."
Well, don't I just feel like a bitch now?
"Of course," he adds, being the randomly wise soul that he is, "they've had the whole of the last few days to tell you that themselves, so it kinda knocks off some of their brownie points."
The weather is just as nice as Saturday morning, warm even, and I revel in the freedom of not having to wear my winter coat. I glance over at Rocco, intending to say as much, only to find him silent and brooding again. This time I'm not taking any chances. I stop where I am on the sidewalk, grabbing his coat by the sleeve to halt his forward progress.
"Okay, this time you're going to talk to me before you go off on some sort of rampage. What's eating at you, Roc?"
"Are ya sure, hun? It's to do with...y'know, this stuff that...we've, uh...gotten into, and I know that don't make you the most comfortable."
I know he means well, but I'm serious. "Well, Roc, it's either that or I inadvertently send you off on another killing spree. Just talk to me already. It's not like you have to hold details back anymore, am I right?"
"Yeah, you got a point." He lets out a breath, then starts walking again, and I have to skip a little to catch up with his long strides. "I've just been thinkin', I'm supposed to be the guy that knows everyone, that knows who to go after and all the details and shit, but I'm havin' a hard time thinkin' of who would be the right one to do next. I mean, don't get me wrong, I know a shit ton of guys the world needs to be rid of, but it's like, how do I know who to tell Connor and Murphy about first?"
"Well, I will freely admit this is not a problem I've encountered before," I say carefully. "Try this: think of all the jobs you've done, all the guys you worked with, like the seriously bad ones. What was the worst thing you ever saw someone do? What about...well, there was that job you told me about a few months ago, that night you told me about the party Donna had where she and...her friend, and that guy...in your bed….Dude, are you gonna rescue me here, or let me keep talking about shit neither of us wants to rehash?"
I startle a laugh out of Rocco, and I'm relieved when he says, "Yeah, I know what night you're talkin' about."
"Thank god. Anyway, the thing is, I've never seen you that bad except for...well, except for this last Saturday right before you, erm...gave your official resignation? Is that something you think might be worth...looking into?"
I mean, it's not like I have experience helping people think of who they're going to kill next.
Rocco is quiet for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts. When he does speak again, I am shocked into silence. For most of the time I've known Rocco, I've been aware that what he does for a living is not legal or even morally defendable. But it's Rocco: he's my friend, and he's got a good heart, for the most part, even if his head isn't in the right place.
The story he tells me finally fills in all the details he left off the night we went on our first dessert date, and to be completely honest, I'm very not sorry he didn't tell me the details that night. A whole family, basically erased and thrown away like a bad term paper, and this...hit man, I guess, acting like he's doing nothing more serious than taking out the garbage. If Rocco had told me all this a few months ago, I know I wouldn't have been able to handle the details. I can barely handle them right now, even after everything I've been told. I don't interrupt him or ask questions; I let Rocco talk until he's out of words and trails off into uncomfortable silence.
And the whole time, we just keep walking, like we're discussing nothing more serious than Monday morning traffic.
As we near the diner, I put my hand on Rocco's arm as he reaches out to open the door for us. He glances up at me, his eyebrows knitted together, and there's a hesitant shine in his eyes. He thinks I'm going to come down on him for what he just told me, and after the way I've acted the last couple of days, I don't blame him.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," I say simply before pulling him into a tight hug. He's startled, stiffly and passively accepting my embrace for a moment before finally responding by squeezing me hard enough to make breathing momentarily difficult. I don't protest, though; he needs this reassurance; of all three of them, he might even need it the most.
"I love you," I say, pulling away from him finally and holding him at arm's' length. "I can't understand the life choices you made, but I do see that you're trying to make up for them right now, and that you've always tried to not be that type of person. I know it hasn't worked out great for you, but you're my friend, and I will do whatever I can to help you and support you right now. And I think you need to tell Connor and Murphy what you just told me."
He takes in a slow breath before nodding and pulling the door open. I step inside, Rocco on my heels, and immediately look to our usual booth. True to their word, Connor and Murphy are slouched on one side of the table. They've already ordered for us all, and my usual cheeseburger sits next to Rocco's. I'm so happy to see my food already there that I don't even care they've started without us. I wave to Becky on the way over to our booth, and she looks more than a little relieved to see me relatively back to normal.
One magnificent cheeseburger later, I'm finishing up my fries, and Connor and Murphy have only just begun to realize that Rocco has barely touched his food. Before they can start in on the solid teasing, I stand and nudge Rocco's leg gently with my toe. I nod at his inquisitive glance, and I wonder if my face is as sad and serious as it feels.
"Tell them," I say quietly. In the far reaches of my mind, I conjecture as to whether I'm going to regret prompting him, but in the end, that's the role he's accepted in this endeavor. He is the source of information, so he needs to inform them.
I turn and head towards the bathroom; just as I open the bathroom door, I hear Rocco say, "All right, let's talk some business here. I know a sick fuck who makes the ones we been doin' look like altar boys."
The restroom door swings shut, and I slide the lock into place before leaning over the sink, resting my forehead on the cool mirror. I need a moment to myself to think about what I've just done. I pull back a few inches, my eyes sweeping over the image before me. In the fluorescent light of the tiny bathroom, I stare at my pale, washed out reflection, searching my face for answers I don't have.
Why did I feel the need to get involved just now? Why did I prompt Rocco? I mean, he probably would have come to the same conclusion on his own eventually, but this is real, this is dangerous shit, and I've just encouraged them to go kill someone else. There's no way Connor and Murphy won't go after this guy. He is the epitome of everything they're out to rid the world of.
So why am I upset that I opened my mouth and got involved?
Shaking my head, I turn on the tap and splash some shockingly cold water on my face. I scrub hard with a paper towel, trying to bring some order to my scrambled thoughts, and glance up to meet my own troubled eyes in the mirror again.
Why did I speak up? Because they're going to do this anyway, and if I can help, I will. That's the best answer I can come up with at the moment. Maybe I'll get more insight into my motivation later.
Sighing, I return to the table to find the three of them discussing details and specifics of this guy's habits and his family's routine. The fact that he has a family shakes me hard for a minute, and I almost miss the bench as I sit down. I mean, I only know of one of the jobs this hit man has done, and I'm already seeing him as this horrible monster from my nightmares, and now…
Now I know he has a wife and a little boy who might even miss him when he's gone. How can you justify killing someone, knowing that his family will go through hell afterwards. But how do you balance out his family's pain against the pain of all his victims' families?
"Can we maybe walk while you guys talk about this?" I ask suddenly. "I need some air."
Maybe it's the wobbly tone of my voice or the familiar shade of green I'm sure I've turned, but no one argues and no one teases me as I rise and make my way to the register. Murphy puts an arm around my shoulders, leading me outside as Connor settles our bill. We get a few feet away from the door, out of the way of the major sidewalk traffic, before Murphy turns me to face him. His eyes are concerned but neutral, and I know what he's thinking.
"I promise I'm okay. I'm not going to interfere with or object to what you guys have to do. I just...knowing this guy has a family and all, it threw me. A lot. Sometimes I forget that monsters have families, too."
As always, honesty is the best policy with Murphy. He nods slowly, understanding washing over his features.
"Y'know we ain't gonna hurt his wife an' kid, aye?"
"Jesus, Murphy, why would you even think you needed to say that to me?" I'm hurt he thinks he needs to remind me of that. I know they would never hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, and the fact that he thinks he needs to tell me pisses me off way more than it probably should.
I shrug his hands from my shoulders and turn sharply, striding down the sidewalk, not one hundred percent sure why I reacted so badly. He catches up with me easily, but for several minutes he just keeps pace next to me, silently letting me work through my tangled web of thoughts. When he does finally speak, his words are quiet and measured, and I can tell he's been working on them the whole time we've been walking, maybe longer.
"Maybe...because I need t'remind myself. So I can hear who we ain't hurtin' 'stead o'just who we're killin'."
Every time one of them pisses me off, every time I start to think I can't handle this whole situation, one of them says something that catches me completely off guard and reminds me why I'm with them.
Wordlessly, I reach over and slip my arm around his waist, pulling him tight to my side as he drapes his arm around my shoulder again.
"Period of adjustment," I finally say by way of apology as he holds open the door of my apartment building for me. "Thank you for being patient with me."
I meet his eyes as I step past him through the doorway, and he gives me a tired half-smile. He doesn't seem to have a smirk in him today, which hurts my heart just a little bit. I glance past him to see Connor and Rocco about halfway down the block, deep in conversation as they walk towards us, most likely planning for this coming Saturday.
I have a sudden mischievous thought and throw Murphy a conspiratorial smirk. If he can't muster one up, I'll be happy to show him mine. He raises an eyebrow questioningly and waits, still holding the door open.
"Wanna beat them up to the apartment and pay Connor back for his stunt with the security bar in my bedroom yesterday?"
Murphy, ever the gentleman, treats me to a firsthand reenactment of fireman's carry he used to get Connor out of the alley, and we make it up to the apartment in under a minute.
Author's Note: Oh, Murphy, the things you do to my imagination. Sigh. Also, unrelated, I uploaded this chapter to the doc manager, then went on my merry way. Hours later, I was confused as to why I hadn't been notified the chapter had posted yet. That would be because I had not posted the chapter. Double sigh. Thanks for reading so far, everyone! Please take a second to leave a thought in the box on your way out.