Breathe.
Just...you can do this.
One more minute. Survive one more minute.
It doesn't hurt that bad. You've been injured way worse than this before. December hurt a hell of a lot worse.
Especially when it took so long to finally talk with…
Breathe.
Okay, you made it another minute. That's one more minute than you had before. Go for another.
Smecker will be here any second, and then you can figure out what to do next.
You probably need to talk to…
Come on, thirty more seconds makes a whole other minute. You can do this.
Breathe. Just breathe. In, out. Inhale, exhale.
Repeat.
Repeat.
One more minute.
One more.
We've been sitting in the diner for nearly thirty minutes before Noah speaks. Despite the noise level (dishes and pans clattering, patrons buzzing over the blaring of the news station on the television, the nonstop cacophony of my own internal monologue), the concern in his voice comes across clearly.
"Ye don't have to be nervous around me, lass. Ain't gonna hurt ye."
I'm startled enough to stop chewing on my thumbnail; I haven't done anything since we spoke this morning to indicate that he's frightening me, so I don't know why he would think…
Oh...I guess the continuous nail biting and distressed silence on my part might have something to do with his concern. And the random bouts of brief but uncontrolled sobbing and shaking. That's probably not reassuring him regarding my mental stability, either.
"Believe it or not, you're actually the last thing I'm nervous about right now," I sigh, pulling my nail from between my teeth where I've been worrying at it for the last few minutes. My stomach is alternating between growling and lurching, depending on whether I'm thinking about eating real food for the first time in two days or refusing to think about Connor and Murphy. I feel like I haven't eaten in a week, but I'm worried that if I try to get anything down right now, it'll either hurt the cut on my face too much, or it will come right back up.
Noah frowns across the cheap formica table at me, concern deepening what would be an intimidating scowl if I thought his anger were directed at me. The fluorescent lighting overhead does nothing to soften the baleful glint of his eyes under his hawkish brows, but I've come to realize in the last day or so that I've known him that Noah simply has resting wrath face.
I don't know when I stopped being afraid of him, but I find myself relaxing enough under the comforting weight of his regard that I actually manage to not implode under the weight of my anxiety. I realize that I'm actually almost as comfortable around him as I've only ever been with Connor, Murphy, and Rocco, able to let my guard down and actually trust him.
Noah's presence, while generally terrifying, has done wonders to soothe my frazzled nerves, dropping my frantic energy down from the "pacing, screaming, and throwing things" level to the "chewing on my fingers and fretting, as long as I don't think too hard" level.
Hell, I'm practically Zen.
Besides, there's no point in going full-blown panic mode until I know what to actually be scared of next, right?
"Is dere somet'tin' besides t'obvious dat's eatin' at ye?"
I'm saved from spouting out my mile-long list of issues by the fifth appearance of the haggard waitress whose name tag reads "Gladys ;)". She demands to know what we want in a tone that strongly implies it had better be something simple and quick. As we've been waving her off for more than thirty minutes waiting for Smecker, I figure I should order something before she throws us out.
I go for my usual diner fare of cheeseburger and fries, needing the comfort of something familiar, while Noah sticks to his black coffee. I can't tell whether our orders have pleased or displeased her, but "Gladys ;)" bustles off behind the counter to share her perpetual displeasure with the cook, who takes the order and verbal abuse in stride and disappears into the hazy kitchen.
When I called Smecker, he said he'd be here as soon as he could; I was purposefully unclear about why I needed to see him, both hoping to hurry him along and to catch him off guard enough that he might actually tell the truth. Not that I wanted to call the agent in the first place, but I need questions answered, and he's the only person I know who has information I want. Something Connor said to Murphy, something about a plan and Smecker and telling me...I've got to know, and I can't stomach the thought of talking to the boys right now. Noah had no idea when I asked him, so that leaves the agent.
The problem is I'm just so...scared. I can't stay focused on anything for longer than a couple of minutes, and even when I can, my thoughts don't make much sense even to me. I feel shattered and wrung out, and I really don't know how many more system shocks I can take, so I don't know where to begin when he gets here.
I'm sliced and bandaged and bruised, and more parts of me hurt like hell than I remember actually getting injured. God knows what I look like right now, but Noah assures me he was able to get all the blood off my face, since I refused to look in a mirror before we left.
At any rate, I'm sure Smecker will have questions about my appearance that I don't want to answer, and I have several questions about these plans that I'm sure he won't want to answer. This whole mess would be hard enough to deal with even if I could keep my head on straight, but then my thoughts start wandering, my hands start shaking, my eyes are leaking, and Noah starts giving me that look again, and…
I just have to push through the pain. Suck it up. Let it go. Deal with it.
Fucking breathe already, Grace.
"It's not that I don't want to tell you what's wrong," I finally reply. "You're actually really easy to talk to. It's more that I really don't…"
I hesitate before voicing my main concern. I don't know Agent Smecker, not really, and he has definitely gone way above and beyond to cover up not only the boys' mess, but also my bungling at the crime scene. He helped us all hole up after the plan blew up in our faces. He's working to keep us safe.
So why am I so on edge whenever he's around or even mentioned? I mean, yeah, so he has a rather disturbing amount of influence on the future of my...well, everything...
Also, I know how messed up I look right now, based on the sideways glances we've received from the other diner patrons since we walked in. With the gauze on my face covering the butterfly bandages, the giant bandage on my neck, the bruises that are blossoming spectacularly up and down my arms, and the elastic bandage around my wrist, I'm sure I look like the survivor of some gory slasher film.
I have no idea how to tell Smecker what happened with Connor and Murphy, or really if I even should. On the one hand, it's none of his business. On the other hand, how is it going to make the boys look if I blatantly avoid the subject since I wasn't in such bad shape when Smecker last saw me, so...I don't know.
Fuck it. I've got to talk to someone.
"I just don't fully trust Agent Smecker. There's something off when he looks at me. He's just so...I don't know...calculating, I guess? Way more calculating than I'm comfortable with, at least, like he's assessing me for weak points and leverage every time he looks at me. And I don't like how much Connor and Murphy and I need him right now. I feel like I can't let him see me so messed up and...needy. I...I don't know, I just feel like we're all relying on him way too much, and I just...don't...I don't trust him," I finish lamely.
I lift my eyes to meet Noah's hesitantly, not knowing whether I'll find understanding for my worries or scorn at my paranoia. Noah regards me gravely for a moment before slowly nodding; a knot in my chest I wasn't even aware of eases, and suddenly I can breathe a little easier.
"He's good at his job," Noah remarks. "Makes him a liability fer someone on t'wrong side of t'law, an' I'm bettin' dis is t'first time ye find yerself in such a position."
Prone figures in a dark, wintry alley immediately flash to mind, but I stay silent.
"Being dat dependent on anudder fer yer safety ain't a comfterble place t'be, either. S'like livin' on yer own fer a while den goin' back t'live wit' yer folks an' dem tryin' t'make decision fer ye an' tell ye how t'do yer work. S'why I'm backin' off from t'lads so much, not try' t'tell 'em what t'do, even though th'Lord knows they need a hard kick in t'arse right about now. Don't want 'em t'inkin' I'm tryin' t'control 'em after I had no hand in even raisin' 'em."
"Maybe...maybe that's part of the reason I resent him," I hazard, making a conscious effort to keep my cuticles away from my teeth. "My parents weren't even close to the hands-on type, so I maybe I'm just chafing at having someone else telling me and mine what to do and where to go, et cetera."
Except I've never really had an issue with authority, so…
"Ye don't look convinced," he observes astutely. Seriously, I'm going to need the MacManus men to share the secret to their telepathic powers one of these days.
"Gladys ;)" once more saves me from answering with the timely arrival of my food. Noah is content to let me dig into my cheeseburger in companionable silence, a task which requires a surprising amount of concentration due to my myriad of injuries. My injured wrist and the cut across my palm makes holding the burger a chore and my cheek stretches and burns under the butterfly bandages with every bite I take, but goddammit, I will not be denied my burger.
I go at my food with a grim determination until only a few lonely fries remain. Having offered them to Noah, who politely declines, I settle back, resting my head against the squeaky vinyl of the booth and closing my eyes against the harsh, fluorescent glare of the overhead lights.
I just need to focus on waiting and keeping my food down. Some ridiculous little part of me thinks if I can just keep my food down, then the day might turn out alright after all. One more little victory, yeah?
I am weary to my bones. There's too much to think about, too much to figure out. My boys are losing it; if there was ever a time they needed me, it's now. Murphy is beyond distraught. He's slipping, I know that much, and I'm pretty sure he's drowning in grief. He's cracking, and he needs my help. I know he would never knowingly hurt me like that, but what if...I mean, I don't even know what set him off. Did he have a bad dream? Did he just get carried away?
And Connor...God, he's just so angry. I've never seen him so wretched and enraged before, so out of control, not even when I got hurt in December. When he tore into Murphy, for one terrifying moment, I was afraid that he might not stop, and...
I'm so angry at both of them, but once I get past my injuries (which I know were accidents), I realize that I don't even know who or what I'm mad at. They were stupid assholes, but they're always stupid assholes, and they didn't mean to hurt me. I know they didn't, it's just…
Breathe.
And I finally have to admit to myself that I'm not just angry, either. I'm flat out terrified. We're all falling apart, and I'm so afraid we're all toppling in different directions, and we won't ever be able to fit back together. The pieces of our lives are disintegrating, and I don't know...I just...
Smecker's arrival coincides with my ordering a slice of apple pie for no other reason than to give myself a focal point that isn't inside my head. He asks the waitress to bring out the same for him, plus coffee. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slipping one between his lips and flicking his lighter to life.
"Since your phone call was so delightfully vague," Smecker begins, lighting up and inhaling before he even sits down, "would you mind letting me in on the oh-so-important reason for this meeting that couldn't even wait until I was done for the day?"
I glance at the clock hanging above the kitchen window and turn a questioning eyebrow on him. "It's after nine. When would you like to me to call? Midnight?"
"Some of us don't work a cushy, neat, little nine to five office job," he snaps just as the cell phone clipped to his waist buzzes. He glances at the device then ignores it, turning his considerable ire back in my direction as he settles into the booth next to Noah. He exhales slowly, facing off squarely with me and generally inexplicably ignoring Noah entirely after a brusque nod of greeting.
I open my mouth, ready to snap another retort in his direction, but a tiny shake of Noah's head reminds me this is neither the time nor the place. I need Smecker, we all need his help right now, and the last thing I need to do is antagonize him, no matter how much he needles me. I close my eyes, slowly sucking in a breath through my nose before letting it out and looking him calmly and directly in the face and mustering every bit of sincerity I have left in me.
"You're right. You're busy. I get it, and I'm sorry for interrupting your work, but I need help, and I need information, and you're me best chance of getting both right now. I didn't have anyone else left to ask, and you said I could call you if I needed help."
He takes his time replying, assessing each of my injuries with inscrutable eyes over the rim of his mug (good God, who the hell puts Sweet and Low and lemon in their coffee?). His face is worryingly blank as he takes in the scrapes, bruises, and bandages. I notice his eyes lingering in the vicinity of my cheek and wrist, but I remain resolutely silent. I remind myself that if ever I need a good poker face, it's with this man.
"Trouble in paradise?" he remarks blandly.
"Fuck you."
My blood is up, and the remark is out before I can stop it. A smirk flickers across Smecker's face, and my jaw clenches when I realize I'm rising to his taunt. My pulse spikes to sprinting pace as I glare across the table at the miserable bastard. How fucking dare he-
I feel a gentle nudge against my foot under the table reminding me to reign in my temper. Noah placidly receives my redirected fury, giving me a gentle nod before I am finally able to convince myself not to hurl my empty plate right into Smecker's smug fucking face.
Another breath.
"Please don't bait me," I say as evenly as I can from between gritted teeth. "I get that you and I are not...whatever we should be in order to get along, but let's just...look, I will try if you will, but please don't fucking bait me."
To my surprise, his shoulders droop a little, and he sets his coffee down so he can scrub exhaustedly at his face with both hands. I was too keyed up when he walked in to notice how drawn and worn-down he looks, not nearly as put-together as when I saw him a few hours ago. The shadows under his eyes are almost as pronounced as mine, and the lines in his face seem more deeply drawn than earlier. His hair looks like he's run his fingers through it a few too many times, and both his sleeves are raggedly rolled up past his elbows.
God, was that only this afternoon? I feel like it was last week.
"You're right," he finally says after a long, tired drag on his cigarette. "Let's just...stick to the main points and keep the personal stuff personal. I told you to call me if you needed anything, and I meant it. What do you need?"
"What plan did you and Connor and Murphy come up with?" I ask abruptly, getting right to my main concern, hoping to catch him at least a little off balance. "They mentioned something about a plan they worked out with you, and I'd like to know what that is. Noah said he left to take a walk before you three started in on that part of the discussion, so I'd appreciate it if you could fill me in."
"You didn't think to ask your boyfriends before dragging me out here?" Smecker says, his eyes narrowing with annoyance. "You three not talking now? They seemed pretty intent on getting you back; I figured you were fine with them. What happened?"
I bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep from replying as my face flushes hot and angry. "You-"
I stop to clear the lump that suddenly forms in my throat before starting again.
"You said to leave the personal stuff personal. That's none of your business. If there's a plan that you came up with that involves me, don't you think I should get information from the source?"
"Unfortunately for the both of us, your love life is very much my business at this point," he says. He sounds tired at first, but the longer he talks, the more heat his words gain, burning into me with the fire of accusation. His fingers clench, contracting around his cigarette to the point where I'm afraid he might cut it in half.
"Are your boys the type to go off on you like that whenever they get angry, or is this a special occasion? Have they hurt you like this before, or was this some moment of insanity? If I'm supposed to trust them, I need to know what kind of guys they are. They say they want to get rid of the bad guys, but how can I trust them if they're just as bad as the slime they're getting rid of?"
I have to stop myself from physically shrinking away from him as he continues his incensed tirade.
"And despite what you think of me," he adds, his red rimmed eyes blazing as he visibly works to get his temper back under control, "I don't trust men who do this to someone they claim to care about. I may be an asshole, but I don't hurt women."
"They didn't-" I start, but he cuts me off with a disbelieving scoff. Despite how angry I was with Connor and Murphy not two hours ago, my own fury rises to meet Smecker's, fueled by his quick assumption of the boys' guilt.
"Neither of them did anything to me on purpose," I hiss. "Yeah, Murphy hurt me, but he's crazy with grief and didn't know what he was doing. He was horrified when he realized what he's done. And the rest.."
My stomach drops suddenly, and my expression must fall similarly because Smecker actually stays silent after my outburst, his face relatively neutral as he lets me sort through the realization that has just slapped me in the face.
"I...they...it was an accident, and they...they both...they didn't mean to hurt me. I...I jumped in when I shouldn't have. They were fighting, and I...I got in the way."
Silence.
"Again," I practically whisper. My cheeseburger sits like a brick in my stomach as the repercussions of what I've done twice over in the last forty-eight hours hits me fully. Murphy begged me not to do something stupid like this again. I want to help people, want to protect them, so I run straight into situations I have no business being in the middle of, and...I get hurt.
The alley in December...Yakavetta's house...Connor and Murphy's fight. God, when am I going to learn? No wonder Murphy is having a breakdown, after watching Rocco die and then he and Connor can't find me and then he finds out that I...
My skin flashes nauseatingly between hot shame and cold dread as my eyes slide up to meet Smecker's suddenly sympathetic gaze. I know what the boys talked to him about now, and he knows it.
"They told you to find some place to send me, didn't they?" I ask quietly, not needing Smecker's short nod in reply. "I'm too much of a liability for them. I'm...I'm too much of a risk to their...mission."
I practically choke on the wave of bitterness that comes with my last word, and my lips clamp down hard together to cover the absolute devastation that washes over me. They...they can't...They wouldn't. They promised me, they begged me to stay, and…
And...
And everything is different now.
Rocco is dead. They know they can lose now, know that even if God did give them this mission, He isn't going to make it easy for them. And they can't trust me to stay safe, to stay out of the way.
So they're going to, what, stick me in the cupboard until it's safe to come out?
"And you three thought I'd just passively go along with your plan?" I hiss, fingers gripping the table's edge as if it's the only thing holding me to the earth. "You figure you all know best for me, the fuck-up vigilante girlfriend, and you'll just find a safe place to stash me for a while? Who the fuck do you think you are?"
I have to hold tighter to the table, have to get my fingers into the plastic so nothing can pull me away, not overbearing boyfriends or rogue FBI agents or my own rapidly disintegrating sense of reality.
"I'm the fucking FBI agent controlling this investigation from the inside and keeping those two and you out of prison," Smecker replies, his voice hard and pitiless as his eyes flash a warning I have no intention of heeding. He exhales, stabbing two fingers in my direction, the glowing butt of his cigarette clenched fiercely between them."You are a loose cannon and a fucking liability, missy, so don't think for a second I'm going to let you-"
"Let me what?!" I spit out, cutting him off. "Decide the course of my own life with the only two people whose opinions count? Because you are not in charge of me, regardless of what you've done for me."
"And don't think for a second, Agent Smecker," I add, my own voice bitter enough to match even his, "that you can send the three of us to prison without you going down, as well. If I get even a hint that you're planning on turning on us, I will turn myself in with a full confession, and we'll see what comes of your case and your fucking mission then."
My little speech bounces off Smecker like dandelion seeds against a tree. No matter how much backbone I might have developed in the last few days, this is a seasoned agent used to dealing with much more intimidating figures than me, and my bluff is as ineffective as a paper airplane in a hurricane.
He stares me down silently, disapproval and disgust etched clearly in every line of his face, until I feel every bit of my righteous indignation drain away. My resolve starts to crumble, and when he finally speaks, doubt seeps deep into the cracks, eating away at what little willpower I have left.
"You are too dangerous to the mission. You can't be trusted to follow instructions, even to keep yourself out of danger. And now you think you can threaten me with petty little comments about my career against the magnitude of what I'm proposing Connor and Murphy could accomplish? They could bring down one of Boston's worst criminals, a fucking murderer, and you want to throw that all to hell because, what? I make you uncomfortable?"
"And if your guys are worried about you," he adds, and I know this is the crux of his argument, "they are unfocused, and they will get hurt. Maybe even make a fatal mistake. If I'm unfocused, have to worry about one of your little temper tantrums because you aren't the center of their attention anymore, I can't watch out for them as much as I should. Is that what you want? You want their deaths on your conscience on top of what you've already done?"
A sharp stab of shame streaks through my chest, and I open my mouth to reply, but I can't. I want to deny all the horrible things he's accusing me of, but...isn't he at least a little right? I'm not the most important thing in their lives, and that has burned me from the start of this fucked up misadventure.
Smecker' phone goes off once again, it's shrill tone screeching the conversation to a halt. He ignores the first set of rings, watching my face for any sign of give, but when the phone starts in on a second round of alerts, he snaps the phone open and answers with a curt, "Smecker. Make it fucking quick."
Though his expression remains inscrutable, the tension in our booth thickens to the point of painfulness. The fury in Smecker's eyes flares, alarming in its intensity. He listens silently for a long time, not asking a single question as the call goes on, the quiet in the booth palpable and nearly unbearable.
"I'm leaving now," he barks at whoever is on the other end of the call. "Keep everyone but arson out of the scene; give me twenty minutes." He slams the phone shut, his fingers tightening around it until the plastic creaks in protest. He takes a long, slow breath, and a tremor runs through his hand as he stabs out what's left of his cigarette.
When he finally acknowledges me again, his head is bowed towards the table so I can't see anything of his face. His tone, however, is rigid, quietly vicious, and utterly unforgiving.
"Connor and Murphy believe they are doing the right thing, that this whole shit storm is their calling. I find myself at odds recently with what the law says and what I know is right, and it was something of an awakening to find men who not only feel the same way but actually have the balls to act on those feelings."
Paul Smecker lifts his face to mine, and I'm taken aback by the fierce determination blazing in his eyes. "Your boys, as you call them, believe in this mission. I believe in this mission, and I believe in them. I believe what they're doing is right, and I'm going to do whatever I can to help them. I thought you believed the same thing, but now I know differently."
I find my voice again as he's standing to leave, tossing a few dollar bills on the table for his coffee and untouched pie.
"What happened?"
"Your dead friend's mother's house burned down. Luckily, she was out of town visiting family, but in addition to telling her that her only child is dead, now we get to tell her that she's lost everything else and has to go into protective custody, as well. It's only dumb fucking luck that she wasn't in the house at the time of the fire."
I force myself to meet his gaze, to hold it despite the tremor in my arms and the dread in my stomach, but he speaks again before I can figure out what I should even say.
"This is why you have to leave them. You think you'll be okay with Connor and Murphy, that they can do these jobs and keep you safe, that you can be with them and not believe in their mission. But this is what Yakavetta does. He will find out about you if he hasn't already, and he will kill you, and that will absolutely break them. And then Yakavetta will have them exactly where he wants them, and everything they've done, everything they could do, hell, even your friend's life, will be for absolutely fucking nothing. Is that what you want?"
I...
"Think really hard about your next move, because all of your lives literally depend on it." He lets those words sink in, watching the maelstrom of emotions wash over my face.
"This calling is more important than you, more important than your relationship, more important than me or anything any of us have done in our entire lives. This is a chance to right a hell of a lot of wrongs, to take some seriously evil people out of the world, literally make the world a better place. Who are you to stand in the way of that?"
I...I am nothing in the face of all that.
Sensing the crumbling of my defenses, Smecker sets an alarmingly gentle hand on my shoulder.
"Call me when you decide to do the right thing," he says, squeezing my shoulder for emphasis before turning and leaving me with the fractured ruins of my life lying at my feet like so much detritus.
"Lass..."
In the wreckage of the conversation, I've completely forgotten Noah is even there. His hand covers mine gently, but I can barely feel it. I'm numb all over, dazed and obliterated. Am I...am I really standing in the way of everything Smecker said? I believed Connor and Murphy when they said they could get some gangsters and a few bad guys off the street, but...God, seriously, making the whole world a better place?
Could they really do that? Am I really in the way off something that vital?
And Rocco's mother….God, that beautiful house...The delicate furniture and knitted covers; the aqua tiles and out of date but well cared for furniture in the quaint little kitchen. All those pictures...proof that my friend lived and loved and was happy, curled up and burnt to ash. Every physical piece of Rocco destroyed and swept away by this disaster, like the universe is trying to wipe away all traces of him.
"Is...is he right?" I whisper brokenly. I can't see Noah's expression, my blurred vision focusing on our joined hands. His fingers tighten around mine, but he either won't or can't answer.
"I can't...they're...they're so, so stupid, both of them, and this whole mess is...it's not...they're so stupid, but they're mine. I'm theirs. That's...that's how this works. They're my...my family. They're...they're all I have. Do I have to give them up?"
I know now why Murphy was so wrecked, why Connor tore into him so badly. They can't want this any more than I do, but they see...they...they understand better than me, they have to understand better than me because...
Because...
I don't want to go.