Author's Note: Huge thanks to Siarh for this chapter and the last.

...

"Holy shit! What the fuck, man?!" Oh, that was…that was definitely the opening line I've been planning for all these weeks, let me tell you. My heart feels like it's going to thud cheerfully right out of my throat, and I can't decide if I'm more startled or pissed. I mean, I don't know this guy from Adam. For all I know, he could be some sort of freak serial killer or something, and now he's staring at me? While I sleep. How fucked up is that?

…

The second guy turns on his stool as we approach, and I know immediately this has to be Connor's brother. They obviously aren't identical twins or anything, but there's something intangible there. Maybe the shape of their faces or their raw good looks. Maybe their piercing blue eyes.

Or maybe just the cocky smirk (saw one just like it on Connor back on the subway) tugging at the corner of his mouth when he spots my hand in his brother's. That's probably it.

"So's this th'girl ye been stalkin' on the train, there, Connor?" Oh, so that's where I left my blush; apparently it was in this bar I've never been to before with a bunch of people I've never met. Should have checked there first.

...

He fixes me with that piercing blue stare that bores right down to the center of my insecurities.

"Dontcha think I'd tell ye if I was gettin' tired of ye?"

I shrug uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze, but he puts a finger to my chin and tilts my face back toward his.

"Did it ever occur t'ye that Connor and I choose t'spend all that time wit'ye?"

Well, no, not really.

…

"Lass, ye practically kicked me an' Murphy t'the curb yesterday with no warnin'. Ye forbid us visitation rights, then ye freak out at us. We knew somethin' was wrong, that's why Murph came t'visit ye last night in spite of what ye said."

His eyes narrow a little more. "Murph an' I, we take care of what's ours. Period. We aren't gonna get tired of ye. If we need some space, ye should know ye'd be the first t'know. I thought you'd know that about us by now. Why would we keep somethin' like that from ye?"

…

"We've grown up very differently, me compared to you and Murphy. I didn't have the strict upbringing of right and wrong and that sort of thing that I'm pretty sure you did. I've had to work most of it out for myself by watching the shit that happens around me."

He opens his mouth, but I hold my hand up. "Hang on, just let me finish, then I'll answer anything you want. What I do know is that there are some things that are right or wrong depending entirely on who's looking at it. But there are some things that are wrong no matter who you are and why you do it. That much I do understand."

"It's not that I don't care about the things on the news, about all the horrible stuff that happens that doesn't even make the news. It's not that I don't think it's wrong and horrible, because I really, really do. I guess it's that I feel like if I actively and openly care about some of it, I'll have to actively and openly care about all of it, and I don't think I could handle that. I mean, you see how I get when I watch movies with sad endings. Hell, look how I get at movies with happy endings. I cry at everything, Connor."

…

"Connor, I don't know what it is that the three of us have going, but I'm sure as hell not done with the two of you yet, and I'm much more likely to get even than to get out."

…

"That's partly why I got so attached to you," I reluctantly admit, "and the main reason why I was so afraid of pushing you away. You both want me around, and there doesn't seem to be a catch like there is with most people. You have to understand that's not something I've experienced much of in my life, and the last thing I want to ever do is lose you."

"S'pose I might be fond of ye, as well," he murmurs, pressing his lips into my hair.

…

As Murphy's gaze finds mine in the mirror, I see something in him now that unsettles me: a side of him, just a small part that I've never seen before; something deep that I have a sudden, instinctual desire to fall into. As open as he's always been with me, I wonder that I've never seen this depth in him. I wonder just how deep this part of him goes and how far I'd have to fall to be able to find out. What would I have to let go of in order to fall, and why is it I'm so afraid of this release?

I have a single, surreal instant where I wonder if Murphy and I are really seeing each other for the first time, and whether I've been found wanting. And without a word, Murphy lets me know that I haven't.

And that's my undoing.

…

"I've got ye," he says, his voice low and steady. He kisses the top of my head, running calming fingers through my hair. "Y'ain't alone dis time, I'm right here wit'ye, an' m'not gonna let anyt'in' happen. Yer safe, an' ye don't have to be alone in dis anymore."

...

"How the hell do you know I haven't told them yet, Roc?" I ask. "I thought this kind of conversation was girly stuff that guys don't talk about. You can't possibly tell me you three have discussed this."

"Because you walk around all the time lookin' like you want to spill some sort of secret but you're afraid to. Can't think of anything else you'd be keepin' to yourself. Besides, I didn't really know 'til just now, anyway."

"You are insufferable, and I may decide not to buy you dessert," I snap, stuffing a couple of fries in my mouth before I say anything else.

"Honey, that ain't even the worst thing I've been called today," he laughs at me before polishing off his own burger. "So which part are we at in the chick flick yet? Do we paint nails and eat ice cream now? I'm okay with the ice cream, but I gotta tell ya, pink don't do much for these fingers."

…

"For Christ's fucking sake! You want me to tell you what I've been afraid to say? Fine! I fucking love you, alright? Are you happy now? Jesus!"

"Lord's name, lass, an' I love ye, as well. S'matter o'fact, I am fair content. S'middle o'th'night, got me arms around th'woman of m'dreams who finally admitted she loves me, an'm fair on me way t'celebratin' this glorious revelation…Care t'join in?"

"You…just…you're just okay with saying it like that? Just spitting it out like it's the easiest thing in the world to say and doesn't change everything?"

"Far's I'm concerned, nothin's changed 'cept maybe you'll feel a little better. Loved ye fer a long while now. Can't put me finger on when, exactly, but 'm glad ye finally got around t'sharin' wit'th'whole class. Didn't want t'push ye; know ye haven't had a lotta practice sayin' it. Figured it'd be easier fer me to say it den fer you, so I gave ye th'time I thought ye'd need. Was I wrong?"

"I…no…no, you weren't wrong."

...

"I can't...no, I will not accept it if you ever do that to me again. I know I said no ultimatums, but this was the worst thing. This was...you cannot do this to me again."

Connor's hand tightens against my face before sliding around to my back and pulling me closer until I'm pressed against his chest. I'm not crying, thank God, but I will if he speaks so much as a word to me right now. Murphy grumbles in his sleep at my sudden absence and cuddles closer, his arm curling around my waist again.

Connor tucks my head under his chin and holds me silently for a long time. Just as I'm starting to drift off, he whispers, "Not ever again, Grace."

...

"What does this mean?" I ask. "For the three of us?"

They share a look, and Murphy speaks this time. I get the feeling they've discussed this part beforehand, and I'm grateful they know me well enough to expect this question.

"Means we're yours an' yer ours fer as long as ye want us. Means if we lose our tempers, we'll tell ye we need time b'fore we leave. Means we'll see to it yer safe an' protected, even if we can't always be the ones to t'do it, even if dat means makin' sure ye c'n take care o'yerself. We're in it til yer done wit' us lass."

"Will ye have us even after us bein' such arseholes?" Connor asks after a moment of hesitation, sensing something deeper in my silence.

There's no question about that answer, either.

"For as long as you'll have me."

…

Both of them speak to me, filthy promises and tender words, their voices soft and flowing and overlapping, urging me to twist or squeeze, praising everything about me from the heat of my lips to the curve of my throat to the tightness of my legs wrapped around Murphy's waist. I lose track of where their hands are, where my hands are, hell, where we all are. I have no idea how long we twist together, grinding, slipping, and blazing hot. And I finally, finally, get out of my head and absolutely lose myself in them both.

They promised me as long as I want.

I'll take it.

…

"Ye know damn well we'll miss ye," Connor murmurs into my hair, pulling me close again. "Miss ye when I'm at work an' not holding ye. Miss ye when ye run t'th'store 'cause we ate all yer food again. Miss ye when ye go t'take a shower an' don't take me wit' ye. Daft woman, we'll miss t'hell outta ye."

…

"Ye can't go around yer entire life believin' what ye love is gonna be snatched away, darlin'," he murmurs, running his thumb softly over my cheek. "Tis a terrible way t'see th'world. It'll eat at ye til dere's naught left."

….

I don't know how long we've been walking before I suddenly snap back to the present. A biting breeze lashes a strand of hair across my eyes, and I blink hard, reaching up to clear my vision. For some reason, my other arm is linked through Noah's, and we're headed down an unfamiliar street, which isn't difficult, as I've never been to this part of the city. The rain is holding off, as it has been since about ten minutes after we reached the diner, but from the increasingly loud rumblings in the not-so-distance, I get the feeling we're in for another blow out before the night is over.

"When did we leave the diner?" My head feels fuzzy, like I've woken up after a too-short nap; shivers that have nothing to do with the cold run up and down my limbs, and Noah's arm tightens on my hand as he pulls me a little closer. The pavement glistens with water, slick beneath our hurried feet. The air feels tense and crackly, like it's charged and waiting for the storm to return. The hair on my arms stands on end, and I realize I'm fighting the urge to bolt into the nearest building.

"Lean on me if ye feel like yer gonna check out again," he replies, his tone gruff and, for some reason, strained. "After what Smecker told us about yer friend's ma's house, didn't want t'waste any time gettin' ye somewhere outta sight b'fore one o'Yakavetta's people spots ye. Got a safe room; set it up soon as I got outta th'Hoag, just in case. We'll get ye settled, den I'll go get th'boys, an' you t'ree can talk dis out like ye shoulda done."

I really want to protest, want to argue that all this fuss is not necessary, that I don't want to see Connor and Murphy yet, that I'm fine and couldn't possibly be in any danger, but the image of an adorable, picturesque house reduced to ash and rubble flashes across my vision, and I can't breathe for the phantom smoke clogging my throat, for the lightning I can't see but I know is lurking in the clouds somewhere nearby, just overhead-

"Keep yer legs a little longer, lass; me carryin' ye down th'street would be a bit outta place, even in dis neighborhood."

We hurry down a couple of more blocks before turning onto a smallish street and stopping a few doors down. All I manage to catch as Noah ushers me inside is peeling paint and neon sign with burnt-out letters that may have been a hotel sometime last century.

Once I step inside, he sweeps past me, leading me by a front desk occupied by a snoring attendant. I get a strong whiff of gin and a glimpse of long, tangled hair as we pass. I have to jog just to keep up with the old man, so all I get of the building as we move swiftly through is vague impressions of stained wallpaper, peeling carpets, and a miasma of stale booze, old cigarettes, and decades of rotting garbage.

We turn several corners, climb a flight of stairs, and end up at what I think is the back of the building, although I'm so turned around I can't be sure. Noah unlocks one of the doors (the room numbers are missing) and ushers me inside, shutting and bolting the door behind him.

After our whirlwind sprint through the corridors, I'm relieved to be standing still long enough to actually take in my surroundings. The room looks to have been furnished in the same decade as the motel where I left Connor and Murphy, but everything seems of slightly higher original quality, so it's at least held up a little better. A narrow dresser stands against the far wall, its top loaded with what looks like all of Noah's gear, and there's an ancient television set bolted high up in a corner.

A single lamp sits atop a small table by the windows, its dim light mixing with the orange illumination that filters in through the closed blinds. A hand towel and washcloth hang on a bar beside the ancient, rust-stained porcelain sink, and a pair of ragged, narrow twin beds, both made neatly to the point of military tidiness, completes the room.

"Figured ye'd want t'freshen up an' maybe get some shut eye," Noah says suddenly, ending my silent assessment of the room. He slips an odd vest over his shoulders, what looks like a six-weapon holster, and begins loading it up with guns, each of which he checks over carefully before sliding it into place. He catches me staring at his odd choice of clothing and speaks before I have a chance to ask.

"After what Smecker told us, I'm not takin' any chances. S'why I'm gonna call Connor and Murphy from somewhere outside t'th'hotel an' tell 'em where t'go. Won't be gone but fifteen minutes, but it'll take 'em long enough t'get here dat maybe you could rest a bit."

"But you don't need to get them!" I burst out suddenly, startling both of us. I grip my elbows hard, my shaking arms crossed over my chest as I stare at Noah, my panic welling rapidly out of nowhere. "I can't, I can't…they can't come here, I don't know what to...What do I say when…They want to send me...Noah, what do I do?!"

My last words end in a desperate cry that leaves me just short of hyperventilating.

They can't send me away, they have no right, they promised me as long as I wanted them, I'm not done with them, I'm not, I don't care how stupid they are, I don't care about saving the world, I don't care, GODDAMMIT, I DON'T FUCKING CARE-

Strong fingers clench hard around my biceps, forcing my arms apart as they give me a sharp, forceful shake.

"Stop it, girl!" Noah barks, giving me another shake as my eyes flash hysterically to his face. "We don't have time fer ye t'break down right now! Ye've been strong fer dem boys so far, an' dey need ye to keep it up. Ye'll have plenty of time to have yer hysterics when all's settled an' done, but til den, yer gonna pull yerself t'gedder. Yer better dan dis, lass, an' ye can't lose it now. Now, look at me and tell me ye understand. An' fuckin' mean it, ye hear me?"

His stern, decisive tone and one last shake bring the room back into sharp focus, and suddenly I can breathe again. After another couple of moments, the floor stops tilting, and I find my balance, but Noah's iron grasp remains. My upper arms protest the rough treatment, but I ignore it in favor of finding the courage to look Noah straight in the eyes.

I don't see anything there but determination and an intensity that would be frightening in any other circumstance. There's no sign of sympathy or indecision, and that stoic strength snaps the last piece of me back into place.

"You're right. I understand. I…" I stop, closing my eyes tightly as I swallow the lump that threatens to rise in my treacherous throat. I take in a deep breath through my nose, clench my jaw, and then I finish, "I understand. Hysterics later. Plans now."

He searches my face, the expression on his face both terrifying and comforting at the same time. Is this what it's like to have a dad who actually pays attention, one who's pissed at you but still cares enough to make sure you do the right thing?

I don't know what to do with that.

"Ye gotta have faith in dem, lass," he says finally. His grasp softens, turns tender rather than admonishing, and his hands move down to gently cradle mine. "Ye've been through shit t'gedder already; not as bad as all dis, but ye gotta have faith in dem an' yerself. Ye've got strength in ye, I can see it, but ye gotta have faith in yer own constitution t'get ye through dis storm. Don't let it wash ye away. Hope fer t'best an' plan fer t'worst, aye?"

I guess he finally sees what he's been looking for because he pulls me to him and places a scratchy kiss on my cheek that reminds me so overwhelmingly of Rocco that my eyes sting involuntarily. Then he releases me and turns back to his work, leaving me to my own devices.

Cleaning up a little sounds like a good option, so after receiving Noah's assurance that the washcloth is at least clean, I carefully rub at the grime on my face, doing my best to avoid the bandage. Making a valiant attempt at normalcy, I finger-scrub my teeth as best I can and rinse my mouth out. After commandeering a comb, I attempt to tame my hair into something less wretched. I manage decent headway before deciding I've put in enough effort and returning the comb to Noah's duffel. Despite the oddness of my situation (or maybe because of it), I still find a little comfort in something that at least resembles a routine.

By the time I've finished, Noah is by the door, shrugging on his coat. He looks up, catching my eye, and offers a small smile.

"Won't be gone more dan, say, twenty minutes. Th'boys'll take longer, so ye've got time fer a quick lie down when I get back, if ye want. Stay awake long enough t'let me back in, though."

I glance at the array of locks, most of which were obviously added recently, and remark, "I'm surprised you didn't add brackets and a security bar across the whole thing."

He turns an appraisingly eye to the door, his lips pursed. "Not a bad idea, if I stay much longer. Good t'move 'round a bit, though. This'll do fer now, especially if ye stick a chair under that handle. Give ye plenty o'time to go fer th'winda."

"You really think I'll have to?" I ask. I am painfully aware of how little use my brief stint with a self-defense class will be in this situation, and I curse myself inwardly for not being more proactive after December.

"Bein' overly precautious will almost never hurt ye, lass, an' never a'tall in a situation like dis. Dere's just no tellin' what Yakavetta knows at dis point. He most likely doesn't know about ye, an' even if he did, he doesn't know about dis place."

"But," he adds, his face creasing back into its habitual scowl, "he also didn't trust me once he got me out, an' dere's no tellin' if he put a tail on me, nor whether a tail would be able t'keep up wit' me, so dere's dat t'think about."

"Latch all th'locks b'hind me. Don't come t'th'door fer anythin' til ye hear two knocks, a pause, then two kicks. Don't look through th'eye hole, no matter what ye hear. If somethin' happens, if ye hear commotion in th'hall or someone is tryin' t'get in, go fer th'fire escape. Find th'first payphone ye can, an' call Smecker."

"I can do that. I can do this," I add as a brief flash of worry crosses his face. "I have to. And I swear I'm paying attention, Noah. I'll be fine until you get back."

He frowns for a moment before nodding once and hesitantly opening his arms. I stare at him in confusion, and it takes me longer than it should to realize what he's offering. I step into his embrace, my arms twining around his neck, surprised once again at how soothing his presence actually feels, despite the mutiple guns digging into my torso through his coat.

My new reality is a strange place.

"New at dis whole 'da' thing," he mutters as he releases me.

"I'm new at the whole 'having a dad' thing," I return tentatively. "I guess we can figure it out together."

He looks me over one more time before nodding and opening the door.

"Toilet's in th'room at th'end of dis hallway. I'd avoid it an' figure out howta use th'sink if I were you." He cracks an actual smile at my horrified look of disgust.

"Spent most o'me time locked in solitary, lass," he says. "C'n t'ink of quite a few t'ings worse'n pissin' in a sink."

And then I'm alone with the quietest hotel room and the loudest thoughts in the entirety of Boston.

As I flick lock after lock into place, a sharp stinging from my legs reminds that I've been walking more than I'm used to on top of my lower legs being scraped to hell and back. My cheek and neck ache miserably, and my wrist let's me know that any heavy lifting in the near future is out of the question. I think a good, long sitting has been earned.

I suppose I could take a minute to clean up some more, make myself more presentable for Connor and Murphy. I mean, they've seen me at my worst before now, but I don't know. I'm more used to worrying about my appearance, about making an effort for them, but that would involve a) standing, and b) way more effort than I'm willing to expend right now.

I would also have to go look in the filthy, chipped mirror hanging over the sink and deal with whatever I found looking back at me.

Nope. Not today.

So, instead of dealing with that unpleasantness, I get to think about everything else. I know the plan, at least somewhat. I am too dangerous, too distracting to keep around. And I can't say I didn't have any forewarning. There were the dreams; Noah's voice, somehow finding me months before I would ever even meet him, warning me I had to let them go. And then the advice about hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

Well, this isn't the worst it could get, but we're close.

I have a life here, I have a family, but that's been battered to the point of unrecognizability. I have a job where I just got my dream promotion, but I may not even have it anymore after that way I just called in without actually talking to my supervisor and then never showed up. How many days ago was that? Was it...was it really just...yesterday? This morning?

God, I don't even know what day it is anymore.

But Smecker wasn't wrong. If I stay, Yakavetta will find out about me, and then he'll actually find me. If he doesn't torture me, the least he will do is kill me straight off just to send Connor and Murphy a message. And even if he doesn't get to me, I keep involving myself where I shouldn't, getting into messes I have no business with and getting hurt in the process. I mean, yeah, I'm trying to do the right thing, but that doesn't mean I'm actually hitting the mark.

And then there's the whole standing in the way of Connor and Murphy destroying evil to make the world a better place…

Are my boyfriends really a pair of...what, Biblical heroes? Is that what's happening here?

But where can I go? And why does it have to end with me all by myself?

Again?

That's the crux of it, I realize. I was alone for most of my life before Connor and Murphy. I had some friends along the way, but no one close, and nothing like family. And then I had two people I could count on for absolutely anything. Three people, really.

I was genuinely happy. For the first time in my life, I could see something like a future, and a family...literally everything I ever wanted. Now my best friend is gone, but I still have some of my family, some of my life left. And I have to knowingly leave it all behind.

I mean, Connor and Murphy would be fine without me under normal circumstances. Well, fine within reason. They drink too much , they smoke way too much, and both of their tempers mean they're far more likely than your Average Joe to get severe head trauma in a bar fight, but otherwise they'd be just as good on their own as before they met me.

Except now the Italian and Russian mafias have vendettas against them, so their odds of survival have just dropped significantly.

I allow myself a full minute of bitterness, silently railing against the fate that would give me everything I've ever wanted only to snatch it away in nearly the worst way possible. I wallow in the unfairness and the god-awfulness for another thirty seconds, cursing the Russians, the Italians, the fucking Irish, the entire goddamned world for all this bullshit.

I give myself one more minute of the deepest self pity I can come muster, and then I shut it down and switch on the ancient television set, settling down to wait for Noah.

I don't have long to wait, though. He's back after only ten minutes, and as I wait anxiously for the two kicks to follow his knocks, a tiny part of me wonders exactly what his phone conversation with the boys consisted of.

"Don't understand how ye c'n drink dis stuff. It's practically syrup," Noah greets me after I let him in, "but I got ye one o'dem sodas ye like so much." He holds out a Coke as he shakes rain off his overcoat. "Got ye some Tylenol t'see if it'd help with yer aches, as well."

Speechless, I accept the soda and the pills, working hard to keep my lips from trembling. He glances at me over his shoulder as he hangs his dripping coat in the tiny closet, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.

God, I am such a mess.

"Lass, are ye-"

"I'm fine," I say quickly, smiling to take the sting out of my interruption. I'm not fine, and we both know it, but honestly, I'm better than I was a few hours ago. Everything hurts just as badly as it did before he left (worse, really), but I'm definitely calmer than I was. My smile widens at his look of disbelief.

"Okay, so I'm lying a little...a lot. But I've been worse than this, way worse actually. I can at least think straight now. I'm going to take your advice and lie down. Could you wake me before Connor and Murphy get here?"

"Aye, lass, told 'em t'take a roundabout way here an' not get here b'fore midnight, so ye've got time."

I down three tablets with just enough soda to swallow them. I cap my drink and set the bottle down on the tiny desk as Noah drops into the chair by the window. As he reaches over and switches off the little table lamp, I drop onto the bed like a sack of rocks. Despite the extra bits of sleep I've managed to salvage, my eyelids immediately drop, and the last thing I'm aware of is the orange glow of Noah lighting up a cigar.

…

A lighter flicks to life, and with it the darkened room springs to life in sudden, blinding clarity. McGinty's is empty, save myself and Rocco, who is standing whole and undamaged behind the bar. He lights the cigarette between his lips, tossing his Bic carelessly onto the countertop and taking a deep drag.

The bar is brighter than I've ever seen it, the glasses and bottles cleaner than Doc's arthritic hands could possibly make them, and even the floor gleams without the layers of dirt and grime that have been packed into it by the boots of Southie's working class.

But I'm not here to do a health inspection of the place, am I?

Rocco stands across the bar from me, and I drink in his pristine state with a mixture of awe, longing, and just a little bit of fear. I miss him already, and he looks so alive and so put together. But this is my dream, and we all know those never turn out well.

"You knew this was coming."

Rocco looks at me with something like reproach, and I have to wonder for a moment what he's talking about. His death? Me leaving the twins? He and I sitting in a pristine version of our second home, like it's no big deal that one of us is dead and the other asleep?

This whole fucked up situation in general?

"That doesn't mean I have to be happy about it," I say, reaching for one of the glasses on the counter in front of me. Rocco pours from the bottle that I swear wasn't in his hand a moment ago, filling his own glass as well as mine.

"Well, no shit, hun, but ya don't gotta act so surprised, either. Of all of us, you had the most warning."

He's not wrong. Roc salutes me with his glass before draining the whole thing in one gulp. I'm slower with my own drink, sliding the tumbler across the counter and back, focusing more than necessary on the swishing, ringing sound the glass makes against the wood.

"But...why-"

"Swear to Christ, if you ask me why one more time, you have to pay off my tab at McGinty's again."

"...I don't think I even have enough for that in the envelope the boys gave me."

"There's that smile. Listen, hun, ya can't cry too hard for me. It was a better way out than most of the guys I know. At least I stood for something, made a difference before I went." His eyes are impossible to read behind his shades, but his smile is genuine and earnest, and despite myself, I want to believe him.

"Is...is that enough for you, though?"

He sighs, turning his glass over and placing it on the counter before swiping mine and consuming the contents before I can react. He flips my tumbler over, stacking it with his own, and leaning over in front of me until his elbows are resting on the countertop. He slides his aviator glasses down to the end of his nose and stares hard at me until I'm forced to look him right in the eyes.

"Mom's got folks to take care of her, and that old house was getting to be too much for her to keep up by herself. She'll get insurance money for it, and she's got plenty of photos of me in her wallet. Connor and Murph have their dad, and you made it through in one piece, whether you think you did or not. I got a whole bar full of guys who are gonna drink themselves stupid in my honor. Honestly, a man can't ask for much more than that. And hun, you're not as alone right now as you think you are. You're gonna be fine. You know they won't be at this hero kick forever. Just wait it out."

"But-"

"No buts. Now, shut up and gimme a hug already. I gotta go."

To my surprise, my normally clumsy friend springs easily onto the bar, sliding over and letting himself gracefully to floor. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me off my stool and holding me in the air easily up as my toes dangle a couple of inches off the ground.

"...I miss you."

"Aw, it's only been a day. Ya can't miss me that bad."

"Screw you, I can miss you as much as I want."

"You can," he says, lowering me back to my feet. He stands back, holding my shoulders at arm's length so he can study my face. "But that don't mean it's the right thing to do. Miss me for a bit, then just be sad because you know you'll never hear any jokes as good as mine again."

"I love you, Roc. You knew...you know that, right?" I need him to know this. I need to know that he knows this. His easy grin is more than answer enough.

"Yeah, hun. I always knew it, even before you said it. Love ya, too. Now wake up, already, or you'll miss your boys."

…...

"Lass, Connor an' Murphy'll be here in a few minutes."

It takes every bit of willpower I have not to tell Noah to fuck off as he wakes me, but I just manage.

"How the hell can you be so fucking...conscious at this time of night?" I growl into the pillow. Maybe a nap wasn't such a good idea. At least the Tylenol kicked in while I was asleep; the sharpness of my various aches and pains have dulled down to tolerable, almost ignorable levels. The blanket and pillow aren't enough to muffle the sound of Noah's laugh, and I'm glad he didn't take my bitching personally. I hear shuffling sounds from outside of my blanket cave, and then cool plastic is thrust under the blanket, unerringly into my hand.

"Drink up, lass; ye don't want dese idjits t'be more alert dan you, do ye?"

I hate it when I'm pissed at someone and they have to go and be right.

And nice.

So, apparently the problem isn't that I'm not a morning person; I'm clearly not good at waking up in general.

After downing my room temperature soda and one of those pastries you can only find at gas stations, I am at least fifty percent less zombie-like. According to Noah, I can even form coherent, semi-complete sentences, although I have the feeling he's being generous. At least my mood has improved.

"Ye want me t'stay?" he asks abruptly. He's sitting placidly in his chair by the window his fingers linked comfortably across his stomach while I stare blankly at the carpet between my feet.

"Huh?" I respond. Okay, maybe thirty percent less zombie-like.

"When Connor an' Murph get here, do ye want me t'stay wit' ye, lass?" He's so patient; this has to be at least the fourth time he's had to repeat something to me since I woke up, and he hasn't snapped yet. Maybe I'm just that entertaining when I first wake up.

"Sorry," I yawn, stretching and making an effort to shake the sleep from my brain. "I want you to, I really do, but...I think, at least at first, I need to talk to just them. We have to get this whole mess straightened out, and there's a lot of...stuff...that needs to be said. But when we get to the part where a plan actually has to be made, then yeah. Could you come back then?"

He purses his lips a moment and nods, his brow wrinkling as he considers. "Can go sit in dat little coffee shop across t'street. Ye c'n send one o'th'boys when yer ready fer me t'come back?"

Before I can answer, there's a hesitant double tap at the door. Noah and I both tense at the pause, his hand instantly resting on his gun. He's got the weapon half-drawn when two soft kicks thud at the bottom of the door. I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding as Noah stands and crosses the room. Even after receiving the signal he devised, though, he's still careful enough to stand to the side of the door as he undoes the locks.

Connor and Murphy slip quickly into the room, dropping a couple of bags by the other bed, but I'm engulfed in a swarm of nerves, and it doesn't occur to me to wonder what they might have brought with them. They glance around the room, eyes narrowed as they getting their bearings and making sure I'm in sight. Connor's shoulders visibly relax the moment he spots me, but Murphy tenses, visibly shaking, and his eyes dart away from mine.

Noah glances meaningfully at me as he brushes past the twins. "I'll be across th'street if ye need me," he says, his voice brusque as he moves through the open door.

"Aye, Da," Connor answers, too busy watching me to look at his father. Frowning, Noah smacks the back of his son's head smartly. Connor curses roundly, flinching away from his father, but Murphy doesn't react at all, staring at the corner like he's waiting for it to attack.

"Weren't talkin' to you, ye daft fool. Latch th'damn locks an' fix dis mess th't'ree o'ye turned yerselves into b'fore ye fuck it up any worse."

I mean, he's not wrong…

As Connor slides the last lock into place, I feel the combined weight of both his and Murphy's gaze fall on me once more, but I don't see it. The second Noah leaves, I turn on my heel and retreat as far from the two of them as I physically could in the small space, hugging my arms as tightly to myself as I can without absorbing them into my body. My wrist twinges in protest, but I couldn't loosen my grip on myself right now even if I tried. The longer we stand here, the more my courage and resolve drain away, leaving me cold, quivering, and clueless.

I don't know how to start the conversation, but something tells me that I need to speak first. I never came to a firm conclusion about what I want to happen here. I know the safe, smart thing for me to do is go along with whatever plan they and Smecker have devised. I need to leave Boston; it's better for me, better for everyone. I just... I should've planned more, figured out what I want to tell them and what they should know before I go. I should have figured out what I wanted to ask them, and I should have…

I should have…

"I should have just let you go the first time you tried to leave me,back in December" I finally say. There's movement behind me, and I can only imagine what reaction my words have caused. But the movement stops before anyone reaches me, and I refuse to turn around. I don't want to see what they're thinking or feeling yet, not if I want to finish.

"We didn't try t-"

"Not technically, but you sure as hell didn't try to stay, either," I say, cutting Connor dead. "Things got bad, and you two disappeared. I know this situation isn't the same. Logically, I know my leaving is necessary. I know getting me out of town is the best course of action for everyone involved. But it feels like you two are kicking me to the curb again because things have gotten too tough to handle. I understand that I'm a hindrance, I swear I really do get it, but...but…"

Goddammit, I will NOT cry right now.

I force my arms to my sides and straighten my spine, turning slowly and steeling myself against whatever expressions the twins are wearing. Murphy has lowered himself to sit on the end of the bed closest to the door and farthest from me, his back bowed and his face hidden by clenched hands. He couldn't look more like he did back at the motel if he were mocking himself. Connor stands closer, one of his hands half lifted in entreaty, his mouth open on words I'm not ready to let him say yet.

"I'm not going to argue with you, and I won't fight your plan," I say before he can speak. He lowers his hand and stays silent as I continue. "But you need to know that in my heart and in my head, I knew this was coming. I fooled myself thinking we could last, that I actually had a chance at keeping you, that I could be happy. And I-"

But despite Noah's encouragement, despite the truth behind my words, despite the stiffness I've forced into my backbone, I have a moment where I can't continue. My voice cracks on the last word, and I stop as my eyes begin to sting. I won't cry, I won't cry, goddammit, I won't-

"Lass, we don't wantcha-"

"It doesn't matter what any of us wants, Connor!" I burst out. Every ounce of fury I have for him, for Murphy, for God, for everything in the known universe, chooses that moment to rear its head. I lash out, shoving him hard with my clenched fists, and he stumbles back a step, his eyes wide with shock. I've never hit him, never either of them before. Hell, except for the assholes in the alley behind McGinty's, I've never really hit anyone before, not in any way that matters. A burst of pain in my wrist lets me know this isn't the wisest action I could have taken at the moment, but I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon.

"It doesn't matter what anybody wants! Nothing matters now except that you have your mission and I have no one! Just like I'm supposed to!" Another shove, and Connor staggers backwards again, making no effort to block my blows. I know I'm not actually damaging him, but God, do I want to right now.

"Yes, I am so fucking selfish that I can make this whole thing about myself; yes, I am so self-centered that when the possibility of you and Murphy making the world a better place presents itself, all I can think of is how is this going to affect me!"

Connor finally holds his hands up, but I knock them both to the side and take another angry swipe at him. He dodges my clumsy jab, but he overcorrects and trips over Murphy, who is staring at the two of us, wide-eyed and shocked silent. Connor lands on his ass at Murphy's feet, his hands raised in front of his face and his mouth open, gaping up at me.

"And yes," I say, my volume rising in conjunction with my temper, "I am so pissed at the both of you right now, whether or not I have any right to be. And I want to hate both of you, I want to beat both of you bloody! I want to pound sense into both of your stupid, thick, Irish skulls until you understand why this...this...this fucking escapade of yours is so pointless and disastrous, but I know you won't listen because the pair of you are dead set on getting yourselves killed, just like Rocco!"

I stop just short of Connor and Murphy, my rage at its peak, my fingernails cutting into my palms to keep me from trying to take another swing at Connor. In the aftermath of my fit, a muffled quiet settles over the room, broken only by the sounds of the storm outside that has started up once again.

I fight to get my temper, my breathing, my traitorous thoughts under control. My jaw aches as I clench it harder, holding back the epithets I long to throw at both of them, insults that I would never be able to to take back, unforgivable words that even in my bitterness I just can't bring myself to say...although I am so close I can feel their acrid burn in the back of my throat.

"I understand," I say at last, "that this is the end for us. But you need to understand that I am not now, nor will I ever, be okay with why. This mission of yours may make the world a better place. It may save lives. It may even be worth it for everyone else in the end. But for me, it's the death of everything I love."

The two of them glance at each other, but this time their silent communication fails them, and they have no response to my declaration. I'm not surprised; what could they possibly reply that would fix anything that's gone wrong? Now that the words are finally out, the rage trickles out of me, slowly at first, and then in a sudden rush that leaves me dizzy with exhaustion. I drop to the end of the vacant bed, not caring if I miss or manage to stay upright.

The three of us stay like that, Murphy and I on our respective beds and Connor on the floor, listening to the wind lash the rain against the windows. I look away from them, numbness creeping through my veins, and I count the seconds between the lightning strikes and the thunder. Unwilling to lose myself to panic again, I let the throbbing in my injured wrist pull my focus from the storm. Instead of seconds between lightning and thunder, I count the heartbeats pounding in my ears, breathing deliberately as my pulse slows and the ache calms with it.

After a while, the mattress beside me dips and a hesitant hand reaches out, pausing outstretched over mine. I glance down to see Veritas hovering above my knee, steady but for a faint tremor. I frown, closing my eyes as another crash of thunder vibrates the thin walls of the room.

Then I turn my hand palm-up, holding my fingers wide in acceptance of his silent invitation.