It's going to be okay. It is, I know it is. I just have to gather my thoughts, wait a few more minutes. Just breathe, breathe, just breathe.

Let Murphy calm down, let myself calm down. We need to calm down, and it will be okay. Just breathe.

Where is Connor? If he's next door, how did he not hear everything that just happened? He can't be next door; he would've been over the second I started yelling, and if not, then definitely when Murphy broke the mirror, so he must be out somewhere. So, then, he should be back soon, and it will be okay.

God, this door is fucking thin, I can hear every moment of that fucking storm, I need it to stop, to blow away, I need this whole storm to just blow away, but it won't, and I'm going to get washed away if I don't get out of this sinking boat, and-

Is that even an option? Can I really just leave them? Can I walk away from the only family I've ev been able to trust? But…

Can I trust them anymore?

Can I trust myself or my own judgment anymore?

It's not going to be okay, is it?

I don't know how much time passes as I knock the back of my head rhythmically against the wall. I need something steady, something to pull my frenetic thoughts into line, and the rocking seems to help.

But what else could be wrong with Murphy? I don't know what else could have happened. I mean, he wasn't fine when we fell asleep this morning, but he wasn't…

Crazed.

He practically...I mean, I don't want to use the word, but he...he attacked me.

But it wasn't him.

I mean, I know it was physically him, but Murphy just isn't…he just doesn't…that isn't Murphy, he would never-

But he did.

I cringe as I realize I'm having an argument with myself about why my lover assaulted me.

Assaulted me.

God, it sounds so awful when I put it like that.

But it felt even more awful when it was happening.

I just…

How the hell did we get here? What else could possibly have happened to push Murphy over the edge like that?

It's not going to be okay, is it?

My head thumps against the wall a little harder; the rocking really is helping, it is, I just need a little more time to-

The outside door to the room creaks open and Connor's voice filters through the paper-thin door, interrupting my train of thought.

" 'S matter wit' ye, Murph? Ye look worse dan when I left; ye were s'posed to get some more sleep. Where's Grace?"

I don't hear Murphy's mumbled response, but the tone of Connor's voice changes suddenly, and his words still my rocking as I lean forward to catch as much of the conversation as I can.

"Why're ye lookin' so hang dog? T'fuck didja do, Murph? Ye didn't tell 'er, didja? We agreed we'd follow th'plan, tell 'er th'way we worked out wit' Smecker. What did…"

Connor's voice fades into the background. What did Murphy not tell me? What plan? What the hell is going on? And exactly what the fuck does FBI Agent Paul Smecker have to do with anything they have to tell me?

I tentatively reach for the doorknob, but Connor's voice rises, and I freeze in place. His tone is suspicious, brought on no doubt by whatever Murphy looks like right now. Knowing Murphy, I'd say his expression is a mix of belligerence, guilt, and shame on top of how exhausted and worn he already looked. I don't know exactly where I got him with the back of my head, but I don't think it could be bruising quite yet. It probably doesn't look lovely, either.

"How long's she been in dere, Murph? What ain't ye tellin' me?"

Shit.

I need to get out there before this erupts. I start to speak, but my throat is strangely tight, and I have to clear it a couple of times as I turn the knob and tentatively step out.

"I'm right here, Connor."

I'm concentrating on the floor, making sure I don't step in any of the splintered glass littering the worn, stained carpet, so I don't see their reactions to my entrance. I do, however, feel the exact moment the force of their gazes hits me.

The hair on the back of my neck rises as an apprehensive thrill rolls down my spine. I look up to find two sets of eyes locked on me, piercing what little defenses I have left and leaving me feeling even more naked than I actually am. A purely coincidental crash of thunder and blaze of lightning meet at that moment, and I can feel my knees and my resolve weaken. As Connor takes in my naked, disarrayed appearance, he glances to where I had been looking at the floor a moment ago, and the skin tightens around his mouth and eyes, but he somehow stops himself from immediately commenting.

His visible struggle for patience wavers as he looks to me for explanation, but there's no way I'm going to start this conversation. I shake my head solemnly as I pick my way over to the bed, and Connor's face snaps furiously back to his brother, who is slumped at the foot of the mattress. He's hunched over nearly double, his pale fingers clenched viciously into his hair, his bare shoulders strained and painfully rigid.

"Fuck's goin' on wit' t'pair o'ye? I leave fer couple o'hours, an' dis place looks like a battleground. One o'ye-"

He cuts off, and I realize he's staring at my neck. I hadn't thought he'd be able to see it from that far away in the pitiful lighting, and I had secretly been hoping we could either ease into the subject or maybe avoid it altogether.

I knew better, though. I don't like conflict, but…this is too big to avoid.

Connor is across the room in three furious strides, but his fingers are gentle as he examines the bite. He searches my face silently for a moment before glancing down at my wrist, which I'm cradling in my opposite hand. Both of my arms are starting to show faint bruising, and I know they'll look absolutely terrible tomorrow.

Without breaking eye contact with me, he tells Murphy to bring him the first aid kit.

"And put some fuckin' clothes on."

I can't help the grimace that crosses my face as Connor probes my injured joint. He frowns but doesn't speak, still waiting for one or both of us to begin explaining.

"I hit my wrist on the bedside table," I offer quietly, unable to stand the choking silence any longer. I deliberately leave out how I came to hit my wrist on said bedside table. Murphy just as deliberately avoids looking directly at me or his brother as he sets the first aid kit on the edge of the bed nearest Connor and me, along with a pile of my clothes. I reach for a t-shirt, stubbornly struggling to dress on my own.

Connor watches with growing exasperation as I struggle pitifully for a few minutes before he lets out an irritated grunt and tugs gently at my shirt to turn it in the right direction. Before I can respond, he helps me step into my jeans and carefully but insistently settles me on the bed.

Connor searches my face silently for a long moment, his silence saturated with disbelief. His mouth is a thin line of barely suppressed ire as he turns to my box of medical supplies and pulls out some antiseptic.

"Just th' one wrist, den? Did it happen t'bruise both yer arms as well, love? In th'shape o'fingers?"

I'm amazed at his restraint. He's had even less sleep than Murphy and me, and I know this whole disaster is weighing heavily on him, and yet he's making obvious effort to be gentle with me. He's not even pushing hard at getting an explanation out of us. This stalemate can't last.

I endure Connor's cleaning and dressing of my neck without comment. I can't explain my wounds. I don't know why Murphy acted the way he did, not really, and he's got to be the one to explain himself. I've tried for nearly three years to never come between the two of them, not in any way that could damage their relationship, and I have the feeling that if the three of us are going to survive tonight with any sort of "us" left over, Murphy's got to be the one to speak up.

Connor finishes pressing the tape into place around the bandage on my neck. He sighs for a moment, looking as worn down as I feel, then he delicately lifts my wrist from where I'm cradling it against me. I wince at the light pressure but force myself not to make a sound. I will live, and this is far from the worst injury I've received. His jaw clenches, and a muscles twitches beneath his left eye as he turns my arm in a couple of directions, none of which feel very pleasant.

"Dunno how damaged i'tis. Gonna wrap it fer now, we'll get ye t'a proper doctor an let 'im look at it t'see if it needs summat."

I sit as still as I can, enduring the discomfort as he tightly winds the elastic bandage around my wrist. He finally releases me and turns away, straightening and standing from his crouch to face both his brother and me. Murphy watches his brother warily from where he stands at the foot of the bed, his eyes shadowed and his arms crossed defensively. There's a large red spot spreading from his temple down to his cheekbone that looks like it's going to be quite the dramatic bruise tomorrow. His jaw tenses, and I can see his bottom lip tremble for a split second before he stills it, biting hard against the inside of his cheek.

"One or both of ye start talkin' right th'fuck now. I ain't got it in me to deal wit' dis silent treatment bullshit. Fuckin' spill it, already."

Connor impresses me by holding out for a nearly a full minute before exploding. Never patient with his brother's reticence in the first place, his tolerance for Murphy's mulish silence snaps violently. He takes two steps towards his brother before fist connects with his Murphy's jaw, sending him sprawling across the bed. I jerk back from the two of them in surprise, just managing to scramble up instead of falling as Connor lays into his brother, sickening thuds of flesh beating flesh swallowed up by another deafening thunder clap.

I've seen them fight before, seen them tear into their friends, perfect strangers, Rocco. Hell, they destroyed my living room. I know what they're both capable of, and all that is bad enough, but this…this is worse than anything I've seen them do.

Connor pounds into his brother, screaming curses and incoherent threats that turn my stomach almost as much as the sound of his fists connecting with his brother's body. To my horror, Murphy takes every hit, barely bothering to curl up defensively to spare himself any pain, and it's not even thirty seconds before the sheets are splattered with Murphy's blood. I don't know if his nose is broken, but it's got to be close, and his abdomen is splotched deep red everywhere that Connor's blows land. His face is not long from becoming a pulpy mess, and I know this can't go on much longer.

I don't even know how I stood the first few seconds, but when I hear a crunch as Connor's fist slams into Murphy's cheek, I launch myself at Connor and grab his arms at the biceps, struggling fiercely to pull him back.

"Stop, damn it!" I shriek frantically, digging my heels into the carpet and straining backwards as hard as I can. "You're going to kill him, Connor, stop!" I know Connor won't kill his brother, somewhere deep inside I really do know that, but in the midst of this insanity, I don't know if he can stop himself.

Without any warning, Murphy launches himself off the bed, laying into Connor with equal ferocity. Taken completely by surprise, Connor, jerks back away from his brother's attack, and I lose my grip, ricocheting off the dresser and faceplanting hard on the floor next to the sink.

I start to push myself up, but a stabbing pain in my left palm stops me short, and I swear loudly, jerking my hand back. The movement of my cheek as I curse sends a streak of fire across the side of my face, leaving me gasping as my breath locks in my lungs. I reach up with my uninjured hand, and my fingers come away dripping crimson.

"Grace, yer face! What-"

"The glass," Connor growls, suddenly behind me. He lifts me from the carpet. My legs sting fiercely, but it's nothing to the throbbing of my face and hand. I can feel the bile rising in my throat as my temper flares, and It's all I can do to wait until I'm steady on my feet. The moment I have my balance and am clear of the glass, I yank myself from Connor's grasp.

"Don't fucking touch me, either of you."

I can't stand the sight of either of them right now, much less even the thought of their hands on me.

"Is your dad next door?" I ask, my jaw clenched as I move my mouth as little as possible. Twin looks of anxious confusion cross Connor and Murphy's face as they glance at each other. Under most circumstances, I'm typically amused by the "twin sense" they share: duplicate emotions, telepathic communication, the works. Not this time. I'm done with this shit, just absolutely done.

"Lass, yer face...we need ta-"

"I am fully aware that my face is bleeding!" I snap and immediately regret the abrupt speech as a tearing sensation snaps along my cheek. I count to five deliberately, my uninjured hand clenching hard, cutting my nails into my palm.

"Just answer the fucking question, Connor. Is your father nextdoor?"

"Aye, but-"

I snatch the first aid kit from the bed and stalk over to the dividing door, ignoring both Connor and Murphy. I'm done with their immature, macho bullshit. They get in a fight, and my stuff gets destroyed. They get in a fight, my best friend ends up dead. They get in a fight, and now I'm going to have at least two more scars to add to my collection.

I don't care how fair it is to blame them right now, I think as I jerk open to door between the two rooms and cross the threshold. I'm hurting, too, and I don't go around attacking people because of it.

I turn back to them, and my vision is shaky and infuriatingly blurry as I stare them down.

"Go back to beating the shit out of each other. I don't want to see you again until you can act like adult humans instead of violent, immature assholes. I'm leaving, and don't you dare try to stop me. We're all hurting here, and I'm-"

I cut myself off. I refuse to say I'm sorry now. I've said it too much already, and if I said it now, it would be a lie. It hurts to talk, it hurts to breathe, it hurts to fucking exist.

"I can't deal with either of you anymore today. I need some space. I nee... I just need some fucking space. So, beat each other to death or whatever the fuck you feel like doing, but leave me out of it."

I close the door on them, deliberately refusing to notice a single detail about either of their expressions, and firmly snap the lock into place. Noah watches me from the rickety chair by the desk, the end of a cigar smoldering in the ashtray next to him. His eyes are grave and concerned, but he remains blessedly silent as I cross the room and offer him the first aid kit. We stare at each other wordlessly for a long moment, his inscrutable expression softening into a sympathetic grimace.

"I need a little help," I finally whisper. The anger has burned off, leaving me limp, shaky, and thoroughly miserable. "I don't know if there's glass in the cuts, and I don't think I can take it out of myself if there is."

What a perfect metaphor for my life right now.

He nods sagely, graciously keeping his thoughts to himself, and searches the kit for tweezers. Despite his lack of comment, I get the feeling Noah understands. Either that, or he's very good at pretending. I settle into the chair across from him, bracing myself. I decide to take a leaf out of Noah's book, and as he gently tugs a splinter of glass from my face, I pretend like nothing hurts at all.

Not a single bit.