The house the cabbie drops me off in front of is so idyllic I almost turn around and call him back. This can't be right; there's no way Connor and Murphy know anyone who would live in a place like this. Maybe Rocco knows the owner? The lawn is impeccable, recently mown and edged, and the siding looks like someone scrubbed it down with a toothbrush very recently. Gleaming white with cheerful red shutters, the tiny house is sandwiched between two larger homes, and I make my way hesitantly up the narrow walk. There are iron grates, tastefully wrought but impressively impenetrable, over each of the windows, and the door is actually solid wood.
I rearrange the load of bags in my arms so I can ring the doorbell. The quiet of the neighborhood descends rapidly as the tones fade, enough so that I can hear a very faint click on the other side of the door.
"Guys?" I call, loudly enough for someone on the other side to hear me but hopefully not loudly enough to draw attention. I feel like there are eyes on me everywhere, although I have no idea who would be following me or even how they would know to follow me. "It's me, let me in."
There's a flutter of curtains in the narrow window next to the door, but before I can see who's watching me, I hear another soft click and the face it gone. Several locks scrape open on the other side of the door, and I decide that whoever lives here may be stuck in the era of Beaver Cleaver when it comes to home style, but they sure do know a little bit about home security.
The door opens a crack, the chain still in place, and Murphy's eyes shine out at me from the gloom inside. As soon as our eyes meet, he shuts the door, and I hear the chain drop on the other side. He opens the door once more, wide enough for me to squeeze past him and slip inside before he shuts it and bolts the locks back in place.
He pulls me into an urgent one-armed hug the second he's done locking the door. Deciding nothing in the bag is too breakable or irreplaceable, I drop everything I'm holding and pull Murphy's mouth to mine, almost sobbing with the sheer joy of seeing him alive and whole, at least as far as I can tell. He meets my frantic kiss just as fiercely, and for one brief, overwhelming moment, all I can feel is an acute sense of relief that leaves me breathless with its intensity.
Murphy is alive and safe, and he's right here in my arms where he belongs. I pull away from the kiss to bury my face in his neck, trying to stifle the foolish tears that are once again threatening to escape. Goddamn Niagara Falls, indeed.
"Thank God you're alive. Are you okay? What happened?" I lean back to look him over, remembering why Connor called me here in the first place. His face is pale and haggard, and the left sleeve of his shirt has been cut open just above the elbow. A white bandage circles his arm, stained pink with seeping blood. Murphy's eyes follow my line of sight, and he shrugs.
"More of a graze dan anyt'in' else; bullet just winged me. Took a little chunk out, but we cauterized it t'stop th'bleedin', s'why we asked ye t'get some o'dat burn cream shit. Should make fer an interestin' scar, though." He offers me a reserved half-smile, gauging my reaction to his attempt at a joke.
I can feel my face folding in on itself in displeasure as I bite out, "I won't ever joke with you about this, Murphy. There's not a thing about it that I find funny."
His smile fades, replaced by weariness and understanding. "Aye, lass, 'm sorry. Know dis isn't sittin' well wit' ye. Come wit' me, I'll take ye back t'th'others."
I take a second to close my eyes and just breathe, dropping my shoulders and rolling my neck around to let out some tension. I'm not upset with Murphy, not entirely, and this day will be a hell of a lot easier to get through if I can just find some sense of calm amidst this shitstorm.
"I shouldn't have snapped, Murphy; I know you're just trying to make me feel better. I'm right behind you." I pick up the bags from the drugstore and the sandwich shop, leaving behind my clothing bags that I didn't want to waste time dropping off at home. I follow Murphy down the short, dim hallway, still wondering whose house this is.
He opens a door on our right, and we step into a kitchen straight out of the fifties, complete with aqua paint and counters and white tiling with some strange, random, pink swirling motif. The kitchen seems spotless at first until I get further into the room and realize that the pink is not in fact part of the tiles but rather faint smears of blood that haven't been completely wiped up.
I can handle this. I can. I will.
Shuddering with faint revulsion, I take in a slow breath to steady myself, but that proves to be a huge mistake. There's a lingering smell in the air of burnt meat that makes my stomach turn. My eyes flick to the stove, where a bloody iron rests, and I recall what Murphy said in the hallway about cauterizing his arm. Judging by how much blood has been wiped down in the kitchen, though, Murphy isn't the only one who needed to use that iron.
Connor and Rocco sit at the kitchen table, looking just as worn out as Murphy. Connor's right leg is propped up on a chair, the denim cut away halfway between his knee and hip, much like Murphy's sleeve, and a similar bandage covers the skin there. Rocco leans heavily against the table across from him, nursing a beer with a bandaged hand that now shows only his thumb and first three fingers. What's left of his shirt that hasn't been cut away is stained red and pink.
I freeze in the doorway, not sure if I should try to convince myself if I'm awake or I'm asleep. One of the paper bags slips from my paralyzed fingers, hitting the tiled floor with a sharp slap. Connor's head snaps up, his gun raised in his hand before he fully registers I'm there, and I take an involuntary step back, my stomach twisting with fear as I recall the scene in my apartment a week ago.
"Sorry, lass, sorry," Connor says hastily, laying the gun on the table. "Job didn't go exactly as planned, an' we're still a little...on edge."
I swallow thickly at the rush of saliva in my mouth, willing my lunch to stay put. I'm just barely controlling my breathing as I crouch to gather the spilled contents of the bag. I spread everything out on the counter, directing Murphy to hand out the food while I organize the supplies I picked up from the drugstore.
"The...uh...the pharmacist said not to...to get the over-the-counter burn cream, said it wouldn't do you as much good as the prescription s...stuff, but I didn't have...have a prescription, so, yeah," I stammer, my fingers shaking as I move a few things over to the table where Murphy has joined the other two. "He said aloe with lidocaine first for numbing the area a little and then Neosporin and clean bandages. So...so just...um...just eat, and I'll...take care of that part."
The next fifteen minutes are the most nerve-wracking and gruesome of my life. Murphy's arm isn't as bad as it could be, if one could say that about a bullet wound that's been sealed shut with a burning iron. Though I'm as gentle as I can be, I still flinch every time he grimaces in pain and end up taking probably twice as long as I should because I'm so hesitant to hurt him even more.
Connor's wound isn't nearly as deep, and it seems like the bullet basically gouged a shallow groove across the side of his thigh. This does mean that his burn is significantly longer than Murphy's, so dressing it takes a bit more time.
I kneel on the floor next to him, my fingers trembling as I reach hesitantly toward the wound with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic. I have to stop before I even manage to touch the injury, closing my eyes and taking in a deep breath. I manage to get through wiping down the area and move on to applying the aloe, though my fingers are still shamefully unsteady. Connor reaches down and strokes his thumb across my cheekbone, his eyes bright with pain and concern.
"Don't be afraid t'cause me a bit o'pain, lass. Can take it, an' dis needs t'be done. Yer doin' fine."
He's been shot. He's been actually fucking shot today, and he's comforting me.
When I get to Rocco, though, I can't go through with it. His hand is wrapped in bloody white scraps of fabric, and everything in me is screaming to not remove them, to not see the bloody stump of his missing finger.
"I can't...I need...let me get some air for a minute." I beat a hasty exit to the hallway, turning back towards the front of the house. I stop with my hand on the doorknob, remembering how cautious Murphy was about letting me in, and realize I probably shouldn't actually go outside. I don't know what happened or who could possibly be following them that they'd be so cautious about; so staying inside, while not ideal, is the safest option at the moment.
Shaking and on the edge of completely breaking down, I turn from the front door to see a room I hadn't noticed before. It's set up like an old-fashioned sitting room with a couple of little arm chairs in a floral pattern and a matching loveseat book-ended by delicate little side tables. There's a larger table sitting under windows that are covered with the most delicate curtains I've ever seen. The bright little room is full of frill and lace, and framed photographs cover every bare inch of wall space in the room. Desperately needing a distraction, I take a few steps into the room, careful not to touch anything with my bloodied fingers.
The first picture frame shows a grainy, sepia-toned photograph of a young couple standing outside this house, their hands clasped, their faces happy but serious in the way of most older photographs. There's a progression of pictures of the family around the room, and I watch as the couple expands to include a baby who slowly progresses through the stages of childhood. I follow the aging child and couple through a series of pictures around the room that culminates in a formal photograph of a friendly-looking teenager sporting a very seventies hairstyle. The boy is smiling broadly in this picture, and I realize I recognize that grin.
The next picture features a large group of people in dark clothing, obviously posed, with teenage Rocco and the woman from the couple (who I assume is his mother), sitting in the middle. The man from all the earlier family photos isn't present. The photographs continue, although they are far less numerous than they were, just a few more to show the passing of the last eighteen years, and in all of these, only Rocco and his mother are featured.
"My pop passed the week after I graduated high school. Heart attack. It's the reason I got in with Yakavetta in the first place. Had to support Ma somehow, an' I wasn't good for nothin' but followin' directions. Saw all them big shot mobsters hangin' around the neighborhood, livin' what looked like the pretty damn good life, and I thought I could do that for Ma if I just followed orders good enough."
Rocco is leaning heavily on the doorframe, his face drawn and pained. I notice he's wearing a fresh shirt, but the bandage on his hand obviously needs redressing.
"I'm sorry about your dad. So, this is your mom's place? Is she…" I trail off, not wanting to ask the obvious question of where she is, just in case the answer turns out badly.
"Down visiting my Aunt Martha and my cousins in Jersey. Won't be back for another few weeks. As long as we get the place cleaned up and don't break nothin', she won't mind we were here. Said I could use the place if things with Donna got too shitty."
"She sounds like a pretty understanding kind of mom," I offer. I have another one of those surreal, detached moments, standing in the middle of a sea of happy memories of someone else's childhood. I mean, if a childhood as obviously loved and whole as Rocco's could turn out this fucked up, what hope is there for me?
"She's the best," he says simply. "Ya ready to patch me up?"
Suck it up, Buttercup.
I shake myself from my moment of dissociation and follow Rocco back to the kitchen. The twins are still sitting at the table, looking about ready to fall out, their sandwich wrappers lying empty and crumpled on the table, and the tiny television that sits in the corner of the kitchen shows the start of a press conference.
I glance at the man standing in front of the reporters; he's sharply dressed in what looks like an expensive suit, his longish hair styled carefully back. If they boys are watching, then this conference mostly like has something to do with the police investigation following their work. I turn abruptly away as Rocco settles down across the table from Connor and Murphy, picking up his beer with his ruined hand.
I turn away from them, looking over the supplies I have left. I need gauze for Rocco's hand, antiseptic, definitely the antibiotic ointment, but I just don't know if the lidocaine is going to do anything. It didn't seem to help Connor or Murphy very much. I don't have any painkillers any stronger than Tylenol. I'm just going to have dive in like I did with the boys and try to get his hand dressed as quickly as possible.
I can hear the three of them talking in the background, but none of their conversation registers in my scrambled brain until I hear Rocco say adamantly, "Well, I'd say that makes him a lia-fuckin'-bility."
"He's not to be touched," Connor says, his voice deceptively mild. I glance over at him, and though his expression is calm, there's a steely glint in his eyes as he stares Rocco down.
"He's a good man," Murphy adds, though without the veiled threat of Connor's comment. He takes a drag on his cigarette, unaware of the stare down between his brother and his best friend that's going on across the table.
"Okay, whatever," Rocco dismisses sullenly, his gaze breaking away from Connor's as he takes a swig of his beer.
"Who isn't to be touched? The guy in the suit?" I ask, turning the sink on and starting to scrub Connor's blood from my hands. I've been careful to wash my hands before working on each of the boys, but I'm cursing myself right now for not thinking of bringing gloves. I spy Rocco's mother's dish washing gloves on the back of the sink, but I reject that idea after a moment's consideration. They're too thick to be useful. I'll just have to scrub harder.
"Was just tellin' Roc, 'tis the FBI agent that interviewed us about killin' th'Russians in th'alley b'hind our place," Murphy says. "He's on th'case, tryin' t'figure out who's doin' all dese mafia killins, an' we're pretty sure he's gonna figure us out sooner rather dan later. Ye didn't happen t'bring any more food, didja, love?"
"There's another sandwich for each of you and some chips and potato salad in the other bag on the island," I say, nodding my head in that direction as I dry my hands on a paper towel. I decide to think about Murphy's comment on the FBI agent after I take care of Rocco.
I drop inelegantly into the chair next to Rocco while Murphy digs through the paper bag. I brace myself as I begin to unwind the gauze, thoroughly dreading what I know I'm about to see. Rocco watches my progress tiredly, cursing when I peel the last layer carefully off the stump of his pinky finger.
"Just one," I mutter absently to myself as I carefully clean around the burns. In my dream, he was missing two fingers, one on each hand. All their wounds match my dream so far: Connor's wrists and leg, Murphy's arm, but Rocco was missing two fingers. What else is different?
I think hard as I smear on a thick layer of triple antibiotic cream. Murphy's hand was smashed to hell, Connor's throat bruised, the hole in Rocco's chest...Head wounds. They all had cuts on their faces; that's where a lot of the blood had been coming from in the dream.
"None of you got any cuts on your face today?" I ask suddenly. I lay a cotton bandage over Rocco's stump, wrapping gauze carefully around his hand to hold the bandage in place.
"Not as we've noticed, lass. Why d'ye ask?" Murphy asks around a mouthful of ham.
"Just checking," I answer tiredly as I tie the gauze securely to itself. I offer Rocco a forced half-smile. "All b...all done."
I seriously almost just said, "All better." To a man who had his finger ripped off.
"Any more injuries I should know about? Anybody want to tell me what happened today?"
"Got fuckin' ambushed on our way out," Connor spits out, his narrowed eyes shifting to Rocco. I see Rocco stiffen out of the corner of my eye, but Connor continues before he can say anything. "Old man, totin' six fuckin' guns in some sorta special holster vest. Professional, he was, if ever I saw one."
"How th'fuck would you know?" Murphy asks, pausing midbite, one eyebrow cocked at his brother. "Seen a lotta professional hitmen, have ye?"
"Fuck you, any fuckin' idiot could tell he knew what he was doin'." There's no heat behind Connor's words anymore, though. He's slumped in his chair again, his arms resting on the table once more. I can tell everyone is ready to drop, their adrenaline rush having worn off long ago.
"So, what...they're sending actual hitmen after you now?" I interject. This definitely sounds like the exact situation that calls for the exit strategy were talking about this morning. "Is this not the worst case scenario you guys were warning me about earlier? Are we leaving town tonight?"
The twins share one of those glances, and I instantly know they're about to tell me something I won't like. I can feel my hackles rising, but I force myself to wait until I hear what they have to say before jumping to conclusions.
"Dey haven't completely figured out who we are yet, lass, or they woulda sent someone after ye dis mornin' at th'same time dey came after us; s'why I asked Jen if she'd noticed anythin' amiss. We figure you're safe enough, an' we know ye've got yer job an' all. We didn't wanna disrupt t'ings for ye too much, so we decided we should head outta town fer a few weeks, let the heat die down in Boston an' draw any attention away from ye in th'meantime. We need t'get away from here b'fore dat FBI man figures out who we are. Thought we'd head up t'New York early Monday, get lost in th'commuter crowd."
I mull that over for a minute, frowning. I don't like this plan of separation, but it's not completely unreasonable. If there's no connection for me to what's been going on, it makes sense for them to leave before someone does any of said connecting. It also makes sense for them to take a break from all this before that agent figures them out. I've survived being away from them for two months; I guess I can live with a few more weeks. And we have tonight and tomorrow to-
"Wait, why are you waiting until Monday? There's plenty of Sunday crowd on the trains to lose yourselves in."
"We got th'job t'morra, lass, we toldja-"
"Are you fucking serious?" I stand abruptly, cutting Connor off. My chair topples over backwards, clattering loudly across the floor tiles in the otherwise silent kitchen. His eyes widen at my outburst, as do Murphy's, and both of them stare at me in silent astonishment. "You have a job tomorrow? A job?! I have a job. You have a death wish. All three of you nearly died today. You've all been shot! Rocco lost his finger, just like I told you he would, and you're telling me you're still going to Rocco's boss's house!? HAVE YOU ALL COMPLETELY LOST YOUR GODDAMN MINDS?!"
My shouts echo around the silent room, the air thick with tension. I take a few steps back from them in utter disbelief. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, panic crashing over me in waves. I raise my hands, about to run them through my hair in agitation before I see the blood on them, Rocco's blood smeared over my palms.
Fuck. Fuck.
"Lass, we toldja b'fore, dis is still th'perfect time t'go after 'im. His men are down, an'-" Connor starts, clearly winding up to launch into his brilliant plan.
"No," I snarl, livid beyond anything I've felt before. I cut Connor off mid-explanation with a fierce glare, daring him to try again. "No. You're all injured. Connor, you can barely walk. You're beyond lucky to be alive, and I'm telling you now your luck is fucking gone. I told you what I saw, and all three of you know what hasn't happened yet. THERE IS A HITMAN HUNTING YOU DOWN. This isn't a movie where the good guy comes out at the end, mangled but alive. This isn't a game. These are your lives, and you're just going to throw them away. What the fuck is wrong with you?! Wait a few days, at least! Why does it have to be tomorrow?!"
"He's injured," Murphy offers hesitantly. He seems torn between backing his brother up and placating me, and his eyes shift nervously between the two of us. "Th'hitman. One of us tagged him in th'left shoulder, dat's why he ran off an' we could get away t'day."
"One of you 'tagged him in the shoulder'? And you think that makes it safe for you to march into another war zone, bled half to death with bullet holes and missing body parts?"
"Never said dis was gonna be safe, lass. Ye knew how dangerous dis was gonna be," Connor reminds me. He looks far from happy, but his stubborn streak has reared its head, and he's not backing down even a little. The vein in his forehead has begun to stand out, and I know he's under tremendous stress right now, but that doesn't give him the right to act like a moron in the face of almost certain death for at least one of them.
I stare incredulously at both of the twins, incensed and wholly without understanding. They stare back at me with the same looks of caution they had in my kitchen when I was holding them at knifepoint. I refuse to break the silence, glaring furiously at Connor and Murphy who seem at a loss for words.
Connor's face is set with conviction, but there's something in his expression that tries to draw me in, something in him that wants me to understand and accept what he believes they need to do. Murphy's face is almost as set as Connor's, his eyes pleading with me to try just a little harder to understand where they're coming from. The problem is, I don't know if I have it in me.
To my surprise, Rocco is the one to break the stalemate.
"Hun, we talked about this. You know why we have to go." I glance down at my friend, and for a moment the vision of his bloodied face and the gaping wound in his chest wars with the picture of him as a goofy, grinning little kid sandwiched happily between his parents.
"What about your mother?" I finally say, desperate for anything that might deter them. "What will she do without you?"
"She don't need me, she's got her sister an' their kids. She'll be better off without me anyway, away from all this shit." There it is. Rocco knows what's coming, and he's accepted it. And there's nothing I can do or say to change his mind.
That doesn't mean I can't try.
"But...Roc, you can't just...Please, Rocco, please don't." I can't articulate my words any better than that. The shrieking in my head is threatening to erupt again; if I say anything else to him, I know the screams will come, and I don't know if I'll be able to stop.
To distract myself even just a little, I turn back to the sink and scrub my hands under the hottest water I can stand, using most of the remaining soap from the container. I consider for a second hunting for some bleach, but I suppose that might be taking things a little far. My fingers tremble under the water, and I angrily scrub even harder, convinced I can still feel Rocco's blood on my skin.
I shut off the water, working to get my ragged breathing under control. I promised the boys I would try to understand what they're doing, try to be there for them, but they're going into a situation knowing one or more of them could and probably will die. They could wait even just a few days, but they're insisting on going right away, knowing there's someone out there literally gunning just for them. This is something I don't think I'll ever be able to understand, and if the cyclone of terror and disbelief is any indication, I may not ever be able to handle it, either.
My fingers dig into the edge of the counter in front of the sink, trying to use the pain as an anchoring point to here and now. I've said it so many times over the last week; this is absolute insanity. I can't, I will not just stand by while they throw themselves into almost certain death. I can't deal with the dread ripping through my gut, and for one brief second, I think my whole grip on reality is about to shatter.
Then the moment passes, and all that's left in its wake is dazed indifference.
"So you're set on this, all three of you?" I ask finally. No one else in the kitchen has moved for a solid ten minutes, the whole time I've had my internal debate in front of the sink. My emotions have finally detached completely, it feels like. I shouldn't be this calm, but suddenly I don't feel anything except numb. My voice is flat, near emotionless, wildly different from the first half of our conversation.
"Aye," Connor say, his eyebrows knit together at my sudden change in demeanor. He knows I'm still not happy, and he doesn't trust the calm. I would say smart man, but I know better than that now. "'S'what we hafta do."
"I won't say I understand, because I still don't," I say honestly. "I don't understand why you can't wait until you're at least able to walk without limping, Connor, or Murphy can lift a beer without his arm shaking. You've all-"
I cut myself off as my vocal cords start to tremble. Clearing my throat, I look away from the three of them for several long seconds, my eyes focused on the blank television screen. When I finally look back them, I realize that some part of me is ready to say goodbye because that part of me thinks I won't ever see them again, and it's tired of the fear and sheer lunacy of the last two weeks.
Murphy sees the change in my eyes and stands, his mouth working for a moment, panic crossing his face. My heart aches at the sight of his distress, but my brain clamps down hard and refuses to give any more ground.
"Grace, love, can ya just-"
"No, I can't. Stay here tonight. Don't come to my apartment. I'm going home."
The door to the kitchen closes behind me on utter silence. As I stop in the front entryway to gather my bags, I hear a crash echo down the hall, followed by angry, incensed shouting. Setting my shoulders, pretending I don't really care if anyone's lying in wait outside, I leave the idyllic little house and start walking.
It's a long time before I make it home. It takes about an hour of walking to reach somewhere I can just hail a cab from the sidewalk, and then a wreck on one of the main streets back plus construction detours us another thirty minutes. When I finally step through my own doorway, it's after dark, and I am too exhausted to do anything other than lock the door, drop my bags where I'm standing, and collapse on my sofa.
Several minutes pass before the reality of our argument fully dawns on me. Several hours pass before the sobbing subsides. Eventually, I realize I should probably eat something, but I can't stomach the thought of even trying.
I eventually stumble to my bed, and the night creeps haltingly by as I lie awake, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling in the dark. My chest aches, feeling hollow and cracked, and I know I only have myself to blame. I told them to stay away, and they should. I obviously can't handle their new lives, their new purpose, and all I'll do is distract them. If I can't support them, I shouldn't be trying to stop them from what they think they have to do. Maybe if I'm not standing over their shoulders spouting doom and gloom all the time, reminding them of the horrible things I've seen, they'll make it through this nightmare in one piece. I mean, I did have dreams for months telling me to let them go. Now must be the time to do that.
I'd rather have them alive and never see them again than see them all dead.
I repeat that to myself for the rest of the night.
Author's Note: Ta daaaa. You guys are awesome. Leave some love.