"I get why you went to the house," Smecker says abruptly. The ride back to my apartment has so far been quiet but not quite as uncomfortable as the one from Yakavetta's house to the lot. That may just be due to my utter exhaustion, but I'll take whatever small comfort I can get right now. I'm in the front seat of Agent Smecker's car again, this time in clean clothes, as the detectives trail us back to my place.

"In your shoes, I'd do the same thing. I kind of did," he adds with what could be called a chuckle if it came from anyone else. He offers me a wry half-smile, which somehow doesn't reassure me much, although I do have a bizarre, split-second daydream of Smecker actually in my shoes. "Your guys are doing what needs to be done, and if we can help them with that, we should."

"That said," he adds, his fingers clenching tightly on the wheel as he tosses a stern side glare in my direction, "That was probably the dumbest fucking thing you could've done. You know you can't ever do anything like that again. What if it hadn't been me coming down into the basement? What if it was Yakavetta? You didn't even have your weapon, dropped it where you couldn't get to it, and-"

"I know", I say quietly, my eyes fixed on the dash. A dull flush of shame creeps up my neck and stains my cheeks, and I'm glad for the darkness between us. "Believe me, I know exactly how stupid it was. I was the one telling the guys not to go tonight in the first place because of how injured they were and how dangerous we knew it was going to be. But I had no idea you'd be going in, and even if I had, I still might have gone. If there was even the tiniest fraction of a chance that I could help them all make it out of there whole, I had to take it. And I had to try to save Rocco-"

"Why do you keep saying you were trying to save him specifically? I get the feeling that you and the other two are...close...so why do you only talk about helping them and saving the other guy?"

Of course he would notice that. Connor and Murphy said he was sharp. I start to answer him but find myself pausing. I don't know how much the boys have told him about why they started this whole vigilante quest in the first place. If they haven't told him about their dream and I tell him about mine, he'll either think I'm insane or lying, neither of which is a great position to place the three of us in. The twins have put their trust in this guy, so he is holding their fate in his hands, and I feel like it'd be best to not piss him off too badly.

"I...don't know if you'd believe me if I told you," I finally say, unable to verbalize the truth to him. "I just...I was certain this was going to end badly for him. I had a feeling Connor and Murphy might at least walk away, although I didn't really know for sure about any of them, but...I don't think I can...explain it any better than that. I just...I had to go in, I had to try."

He silent for a long time, considering my brief statement and its lack of a solid answer. Finally, he nods and lets out a sigh. Even the lines on his face have lines of fatigue etched into them.

"I don't know exactly why your boys are doing what they're doing. I don't know if it was the Russians attacking them or if they just woke up one day and decided to make the world a safer place, but I do know that what they're doing is right; it's needed. And I will do everything in my power to keep them out of prison and doing what they need to do."

I notice he didn't say anything about keeping them safe, but I suppose safety is a luxury in this line of work.

"Why are you telling me all this?" I ask. "It's not that I mind, but you don't seem like the type to share like that with a complete stranger."

He regards me for a long moment as if still trying to get my measure before finally answering, "Because I think you get it, too. I know you care about them, and judging by the conversation I just had with them, I'd say the feeling is mutual. You get it, so even if you aren't an actual player, you're still someone to consider. And you just proved you'll do pretty much anything for them, so that counts for something in the grand scheme of things, I'm sure."

"Thanks, I think."

That seems to be the end of the conversation for now. I don't think Smecker and I will be bosom buddies sharing secrets over hot chocolate and popcorn anytime soon, but I think we understand each other a little better now. I still can't shake the feeling that every word out of his mouth is measured, though, calculated to get the precise reaction he wants. I'm sure I'm just overwrought and reading too deeply into the conversation, but…

No, I'm just tired. I know I'm seeing emotions and motivations that aren't there. I just need to sleep, and then I'll be able to think a little better. Smecker put himself in actual mortal peril to help my boys, the same as I did, and was even injured doing so. I know he has at least has their survival as a priority, and I really should just give him the benefit of the doubt. I just need to trust him. If the guys trust can put their faith in him, then I should, too.

Shouldn't I?

…..

The front door of my apartment is fairly beat up, and the area around the lock and door knob is virtually destroyed from Duffy and Dolly breaking in when they couldn't raise Greenly on the radio. I can't imagine what it must've taken to actually kick in the door with the security bar in place, but I tactfully refrain from asking the detectives.

I end up telling Mr. Cassidy that Rocco was drunk and got a little over excited to try out a move he'd seen in a kung fu movie last night. I promise I'll pay for the damages if he'll send me a bill, and I apologize for waking him up in the middle of the night. I feel a sharp twinge of guilt for blaming the damage on Rocco, but I couldn't think of any other lie off the top of my head, and I figure Roc won't mind too much.

I go straight to my room and start shoving Connor and Murphy's clothes into an old sports bag I find in my closet. The drawer is empty long before the bag is full, and I look around to see if they've left anything else here. They wore their rosaries and coats tonight, and I don't think they had much else to their names.

I leave Murphy's Christmas present in my closet (because what's he going to do with a nurse's costume while hiding out from the maffia?), although I do toss his Bon Jovi CD in with their clothes. While I'm thinking about it, I also toss another pair of my own jeans, some underwear and socks, and a long sleeve shirt into the bag for myself.

I'm working on force of sheer will now, avoiding so much as glancing towards the mirror. I don't want to see myself, and I sure as hell don't want to see anyone else that might be looking out at me. This whole day, hell this whole week, has been a nightmare from beginning to end, and I'm honestly starting to question whether I'm awake. And if I'm asleep, I could probably guess where this dream is going.

So, no...no looking in the mirror until I'm one hundred percent sure I'm awake. And even then, I don't know...

I walk out to the living room in a daze, knowing I should pay better attention to what I'm doin. I look around to get my bearings, and I spy a couple of Connor's movies on top of the VCR. I kneel by the television, looking carefully through the video collection and adding a couple more titles that Connor recorded from my TV, things I've never seen or paid attention to that I couldn't honestly explain if asked about. Upon one final inspection, that seems to be everything, so I zip the bag closed and look up to find Greenly standing over me.

To my utter shock, David sticks a hand out his wordlessly. I take his large hand in my numb fingers and allow him to pull me to my feet. I force myself to meet his eyes without flinching too badly, my face flushing bitterly with shame.

"I'm so sorry, David," I start, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off. He looks anything but happy, but he's not exactly angry, either.

"I get it. I don't fuckin' like it, an' I sure as hell don't appreciate it, but I get it. Just...eh, don't do it again, alright? Not fuckin' cool. And, uh...I'm real sorry about your friend."

I would put money down that Duffy put him up to this, but he seems to really mean it, and to both of our chagrin, I hug him suddenly. He stands stiffly for a second before awkwardly patting my back. I straighten, mumbling another apology and wiping at my stupid, leaking eyes. Exhaustion crept in long ago, and I know I'm swaying a little. I have to lock my knees for a second until I regain my balance, and I clear my throat, still avoiding Greenly's eyes just as avidly as he avoids mine.

"Thanks...for...for understanding, I guess. I promise I will do my best to never tase you and lock you in a closet again. At any rate, I think I broke the stun gun, so it shouldn't be too hard not using you again."

"You ready?" Smecker calls from the kitchen. I glance around the room one last time, a little dismayed at the lack of proof that Connor and Murphy lived here, even if only for a few days. I still have a few souvenirs from the carnival date, but those are mine; there are no pictures of them or us, nothing that says they belonged with me. Rocco's stuff is still spread out in my guest room, but Smecker can go fuck himself if he thinks I'm getting rid of it. I'll put it in my storage space in the basement or something.

I grab the handles of the bag and make a quick stop in the kitchen for my recently re-stocked first aid kit. A glance in the fridge tells me I depleted most of its contents by feeding the detectives earlier. We're just going to have to stop for food on the way. I sling my purse over my shoulder, making sure the envelope of cash is inside and Rocco's pennies are tucked safely into otherwise empty change pocket in my wallet.

An hour later, Smecker and I pull to a stop under the flickering light of a street lamp outside one of the seediest motels I've ever seen in real life in one of the worst parts of town I've ever been. I guess it's not like Connor and Murphy need to worry about protecting themselves, but still.

"They said to tell you room 228. Knock twice, wait a few seconds, then knock twice again. Someone will answer the door" I nod and slip out the open passenger door, reaching into the backseat for Connor and Murphy's things and the bags of groceries Agent Smecker picked up for me from the only market we could find nearby that was open this late. I manage to juggle everything around so I can still toss my purse over my shoulder and get a hand on my first aid kit. I start to turn away, but Smecker calls me back.

"I'm going to come by around noon tomorrow so we can get stories straight and figure out where to go from here. Let them know, okay?" I nod, realizing I'm going to have to call Jen and tell her I can't make it to my first day back at work. Probably not the best start to my new position.

"Take this," Smecker says, pulling me from my thoughts. I reach across the passenger seat and accept the card from him that has both his office and his cell phone numbers. As I stuff it hastily into my purse, he says, "Call me if you need something between now and then."

I nod once more and step back from the car, shutting the door and watching as he pulls away into the night. Glancing up at the second floor of the motel, I shiver as a chill breeze cuts straight through my light sweater. I was in such a rush to get to Connor and Murphy that I didn't even think to grab a jacket.

I spot the room a ways down on my left on the second floor and head to the correct set of stairs, watching carefully where I put my feet. This place is run down badly, and the last thing we all need is my going to the hospital from here with broken bones because of wonky stairs. I think even Smecker wouldn't be able to keep the boys out of the hospital, and with their own obvious wounds, there would be questions and-

Stop it. Just breathe and watch what you're doing, and there won't be any of those imaginary issues. There are enough problems for real without you making up a lot of extra ones to add to the pile.

I make my way to the end of the building and hesitate for a moment outside room 228. There's no sound from inside, and I can't see any light leaking out around the curtains, but they probably would've taken precautions against anyone hearing them or being able to tell they're inside.

I knock twice, then wait a few seconds as instructed and knock twice again. It's late enough that the neighborhood is eerily quiet, and I once again hear a soft click on the other side of the door. The door opens just a crack, and I can see the chain is still in place. A section of unfamiliar face peers out at me through the narrow opening, lit only be the flickering street lamp, and I'm taken aback by the depth of savagery I see there.

"Deir ma, what's 'er name?" snaps a terrifyingly familiar voice. I know this voice; how the hell can I know his voice? Why do I feel like I'm going to collapse again? My throat closes up before I can answer, and all that leaves my gaping mouth is a breathless sort of squeak. I see movement about chest high in the doorway as the muzzle of a silenced gun that I never even saw moves away from the opening. The bags in my hands begin to rattle as my fingers trembling shamefully, and I force myself to calm down and breathe with everything I've got left in me.

"What?"

"Th'boys, what's deir ma's name? Tell me quick, lass!"

"An…" I clear my throat and try again. "Annabelle."

The door clicks shut, and I hear the chain slide free on the other side. The door swings just wide enough for me to be able to slide inside, but I hesitate. I've seen and heard absolutely no evidence that Connor and Murphy are in there, and this man is scaring the shit out of me. I have no intention of being alone with him.

"Come inside, lass," Murphy's voice calls out from inside. He sounds as exhausted as I feel and terribly strained, but he doesn't sound like he's under duress. I think. Because I so know how that would sound…

I slip through the narrow opening, and the man holding the door closes it swiftly behind me, sliding the locks back into place. I drop everything I'm holding, my eyes searching the dimly lit room for my boys. Then I'm engulfed in Murphy's arms, the breath squeezed from me as he pulls me tight, and the world is almost right again.

I don't even realize I'm practically chanting "Thank God" until Murphy leans back, but instead of pulling me in for a kiss he holds me at arm's length, his face awash with concern as he looks me over. I rub tears from my cheeks with the heel of one hand, refusing to let go of Murphy with my other.

"Lass, are ye hurt? Why's dere blood on yer jeans?" he asks, his voice rough with tension. I glance down where he's looking and realize there is, in fact, blood and small rips all over the front of my jeans from the knees down.

"I...must've done it when I fell while I was on the phone with Connor," I murmur, perplexed. I remember a stinging sensation when I got up, but this much blood? Murphy reaches a tentative hand as if towards my cheek, but rather than touching my skin, his fingers brush the hair from my temple. The hair sticks and pulls strangely, and a shiver of revulsion runs down my spine at the nauseating sensation.

"Yer hair's a bit…'M not criticizin', I swear, but ye prob'ly want t'get a shower b'fore ye look at it in a mirror, love. Ye got...eh...Connor's tryin' t'clean off in th'bathroom, maybe ye want t'give 'im a hand an'...get a quick rinse off?"

Murphy's anxious tone catches my attention, and I frown. "What's wrong? I mean, I wasn't going for any fashion awards tonight, Murph-"

"Ye've got blood in yer hair, love," he says softly, looking as if he wishes he were saying anything else. "I c'n see ye tried t'clean up, but ye've streaks of it mattin' yer hair down an' stainin' yer skin."

No wonder Smecker volunteered to go into the market for me. I must look like a survivor of a slasher film. Weary to my bones, I release my grip on Murphy's arm and nod my acquiescence. "Yeah, I can help Connor. I need to look at his leg, anyway. Can you hand me the first aid kit?"

As Murphy stoops to snag the box for me, a clearing throat catches my attention, and I turn back to the man who opened the door that I've somehow managed to entirely forget about in my relief at seeing Murphy relatively whole and safe.

"Y'goin' t'introduce us, lad?" The man's accent is even thicker than the boys, and the eerie familiarity of his voice strikes me again. I open my mouth to say something, put voice to my apprehension, but I have no clue how I would even vocalize what I'm feeling. Murphy, on the other hand, looks like Christmas has come early this year, his face lit with some sort of inner light I've never seen before.

"Lass, yer not gonna believe dis, but...dis is our Da. He's th'hitman Yakavetta hired t'take us down. He found us at th'house an' recognized us from th'prayer we was sayin'. He's been in th'pen dis whole time, an' Papa Joe got 'im out just t'take us down. Da, dis is Grace. She's our…" He pauses, trying to think of the right words to describe our unorthodox relationship to his absentee convict/assassin father. "Well, she's ours."

Silence hangs thick between us as I stare down the man that nearly killed all three of my guys. I take a step closer, looking him over.

"You're their father, the man who's been gone for twenty-five years," I say, my voice low and even.

He eyes me carefully before answering, and I realize some of the menace from his appearance is due to the cruel slant of his bushy gray eyebrows and his crazed beard and hair. He's not terribly tall, standing about an inch or so higher than Murphy, although, again, his hair adds the the impression of height.

"Aye," he answers cautiously.

"And you're also the assassin hired by the maffia to murder the men who were hunting them down, therefore making you the man who shot Connor and Murphy and ruined Rocco's hand," I say, my voice still relatively calm and neutral. Cold rage creeps slowly through my limbs like ice water, and my fist clenches at my side.

Apparently, Murphy sees or hears something he finds concerning because he takes a step towards me, raising one of his hands in what he must think is a calming gesture. Before he can react further, I lift my arm, drawing my fist back, and drive my knuckles as hard as I can straight into his father's left shoulder, right where Murphy mentioned he was shot yesterday.

Author's Note: Happy Valentine's Day. Don't say I never gave you anything. For all you know, this could actually be just for you. You know who you are. Thanks for keeping up with the story. Please show a little love and leave a review. Seems like most people have ditched the story, and it's hard to keep going when it feels like people don't like it anymore.