"I really want to refuse, but I also don't want to smell like sweat and industrial air freshener anymore, either."

"Well, lass," Connor says, struggling to pull his shirt off without elbowing either me or Murphy in the face, "Don't see as ye've got many other choices, if dat's th'case. Ye c'n only wipe down from th'sink so many times."

"Yeah, but...but...Connor, the bottom of the bathtub is orange. Orange." I emphasize, as he doesn't seem to be grasping the severity of the situation. "I got athlete's foot at camp one summer from not wearing flip flops in the shower, and I know for a fact that thing was sprayed down with bleach once a day. I don't know if this thing has been cleaned in the last decade, much less disinfected."

Murphy grins at me from where he's perched on the tiny windowsill. He's shirtless, his jeans hanging open as he unlaces his boots and drops them to the floor of the minuscule, communal bathroom at the end of the hallway that Noah mentioned last night. Noah was entirely right; we should not be in here and should have done everything we could to avoid it, but...

Dammit, I just want to feel clean. And, for some reason, Connor and Murphy both felt the need to join me when I announced my intentions. They both hesitated in the doorway before stepping in, and I didn't realize why until they were able to fold themselves into awkward enough positions to allow me entrance. You'd think one or two of us would have had the initiative to return to the room and wait for the others to finish showering, but honestly, I think if I left the bathroom, I'd lose the nerve to actually use the shower in all its fungal glory.

"Ye can't tell me yer more afraid o'dis t'ing dan ye were th'shower in our place," Murphy asks, affecting incredulity. "Dis here is a proper tub'n'shower an' all. Even has a curtain!"

I shoot him a nasty glare, resigning myself to the inevitable. I manage to strip down in the non-existent space and reach out a tentative hand to turn the water on. The knob is slick and vaguely greasy, and my stomach turns a little.

"I knew what exactly went on with your shower," I say, cringing.

"I'm sure tis much th'same here," Connor assures me robustly, then glances at the tub again and seems to change his mind. "Well, okay, so people come in here wit' th'same intentions, leastways."

"People wanted to OD in your shower, too?" I ask, shuddering as the green tint of the bathtub floor darkens slightly with the introduction of a water source. "Somebody give up your washcloth for the good of the many. I can stand on moss, but I'm not showering on mold."

"And all of us are wiping down our feet with rubbing alcohol when we get back to the room," I add, crouching down next to the tub to spread out the proffered washcloth..

Despite the boys' expectations, there really is only enough room under the water spray for one of us at a time. They gallantly offer for me to shower first, so I wash off as quickly as my thoroughness will allow. Connor steps under the spray next, and Murphy watches from his perch on the windowsill as I futilely attempt to detangle my hair without a comb in front of the mirror. Knowing I'm going to have to look eventually, I shove down my insecurities and raise my eyes up to my reflection.

The circles under my eyes are bruise-like in their intensity, which goes nicely with the cut that I cleaned carefully in the shower. I examine the wound with a critical eye; it doesn't hurt any more than it did yesterday, and the pinkness isn't spreading, so I've managed to avoid infection so far. The rest of my cuts and scrapes are much the same, and I take the opportunity to let them breathe for a few minutes.

The bite mark on my neck, while also not appearing infected, is another level of ugly altogether. The teeth marks are shallow but distinctive, and yellow and brown bruising radiates out from them, stark testimony to the force behind Murphy's bite.

Connor's face appears next to mine in the mirror as I'm examining the bite. His gaze flicks to my neck, then the reflection of the shower where Murphy is currently washing his hair. They must have switched places when I was checking myself over. He meets my eyes in the mirror, and I shake my head slightly, warning him off any sort of commentary. His lips thin, his jaw tightening for a moment, and he sucks in a deep breath through his nose like he's getting ready to argue. He opens his mouth, then seems to change tack mid-thought.

"How's yer wrist?"

I let him see my gratefulness in the mirror as I answer, "Much better than yesterday. I'd really rather not go to the hospital, if at all possible. If everything is as bad as you and Smecker think, then we should probably avoid hospitals, anyway. Wouldn't they have people watching places like that for you guys, figuring you might go there, what with how hurt you are?"

"Ain't dat hurt," Murphy says, sliding the curtain open.

"No, I quip, as I turn to face him, "you've only been shot, and-"

His face is slightly less puffy than last night, but the bruises spreading over his pale skin are even uglier than my neck wound. I can't quite hide my grimace, so I turn away again before I can really hurt Murphy's feelings.

"I'm going to head back and start cleaning and covering injuries," I declare in a voice that's only a little too loud. "Open invitation to anyone who needs help. And feet disinfecting for all."

Noah is waiting inside the room, and I'm glad I thought to take clean clothes with me instead of braving the otherwise deserted hallway back in a towel. Before I can begin to panic at what his unexpected presence might mean, he holds out a pacifying hand as he rises from the bed.

"Just gonna run some errands and set up a meeting with Smecker. Pick up some fresh food while I'm out. Th'three of ye should spend some time t'gether an' maybe try t'get a little more sleep."

His expression is stern and final, like he expects me to argue with him, but I have no desire to communicate with Smecker at all right now (or ever, really). I've never really enjoyed running errands anyway, so I'm happy to have even this much more time with my boys before-

"Thank you," I say abruptly, cutting off my line of thought before it can progress any further. I smile to soften my words, hoping I didn't come off as snappy. "I really appreciate you thinking of us. And thank you for telling the boys to get my stuff. I don't know if that break in at my old apartment was Yakavetta's people or just a weird coincidence, but I think you and the guys are right about none of us going back there again."

"Gotta confess somethin', lass," Noah says, his face a stoic mask. "T'were Yakavetta's people what broke inta yer old apartment. Once I connected you all wit' Rocco, I tracked you an' th'boys same as I did yer friend. Weren't hard. Found out ye'd moved recently, and I needed t'do somethin' dat would get th' boys away from ye an' also throw Yakavetta in a different direction. He was ready t'send guns after everyone Rocco ever knew. Too many women involved fer me t'be okay wit' lettin' dem animals loose on Roc's friends an' family, so I figured havin' his thugs bust up some strangers apartment while dey were out fer th'day would keep 'em away from th'ones who mattered an' let th'mob boys blow off a little steam."

"I...have no idea what to do with that information," I finally say, startled into honesty. A million questions run through my head, but none of them seem important or complete enough without having to ask a hundred more afterwards. I finally settle for, "I'm definitely not going back to my apartment, I guess. They might have found the right one by now. You don't think they'll go back and hurt anyone else, do you?"

I have a horrible thought of the people currently living in my old place, bloodied and broken like Rocco, but Noah shakes his head. "Not terribly likely. Dey'll have snooped around enough t'know ye ain't dere anymore, an' since I didn't tell 'em much about ye, dey don't know ye have direct connection t'Rocco. Not enough info for dem t'risk goin' after ye wit'out knowin' exactly where an' who ye are an' what ye might know, not wit' th'cops crawlin' all over Yakavetta's operations right now. I never told 'em ye were wit' Rocco's two friends, ye see. Didn't seem as important at th'time, an' I'm glad now dat I didn't. Ye still shouldn't go back, though, in case they show up."

The worried tone in his voice is enough to make me agree immediately instead of arguing; I mean, this is a man who slits throats and guns down mobsters while smoking a cigar, and he's worried about what will happen if I go home? That's enough reason for me.

Noah opens the door and steps out into the hall just as Connor and Murphy return from the bathroom, and he stalks off down the corridor, leaving me to explain our brief, bizarre little round of exposition. Both of them stare at me blankly for a long moment before Murphy finally speaks.

"Told ye so."

"What?! You fucking well did not!" He laughs, ducking away from me as I swat at him, and he gently catches my wrist before I can any more harm to myself. He is still far too amused at my outrage for my tastes, but I allow myself to be led over to the bed, and I more or less peacefully suffer through having my wounds treated.

I make good on my threat of disinfecting everyone's feet, and then the three of us are left sitting on the bed, silent and smelling of antiseptic, and I don't know what to do with myself.

"Ye alright dere?" Connor asks tentatively. My resolve slips, and I shake my head, frowning as my throat begins to tighten. Is this it? Is this the last day I'll ever get to be with them, stuck in this dilapidated hotel, battered and mourning for my lost friend? Is this what I'm going to remember years from now when I look back on our life together, this-

"Gonna go shave," Connor announces suddenly. When did he even stand up? He brushes a kiss across my cheek, catching my eyes as he crouches in front of me. He touches a gentle finger to my chin, making sure he has my full attention.

"Gonna give ye a bit o'time wit' Murphy. Expect ye t'be ready an' waitin' fer me when I get back, aye? Got a lot t'talk about, an' we ain't got much time, so t'ink over all th'different ways ye want t'tell me ye love me, lass, an' all th'things yer gonna miss. I expect a complete listing of all me best qualities, an' none of dis 'never gonna see each other again,' bullshit. We ain't got time fer dat kinda talk. I love ye."

He and Murphy stare hard at each other for a minute, then Connor's finger comes up warningly, stabbing in Murphy's direction. He glares at his brother for a moment, waiting, until Murphy finally nods his assent to whatever Connor is silently telling him. Then he's out the door, and I'm left staring at Murphy in confusion.

"Didn't want ye t'see 'im cry," Murphy deadpans.

"Or he was telling you not to make me cry," I offer, my voice dripping with sweet innocence. Murphy eyes me sharply before deflating a little and nodding.

"Aye, he was warnin' me, fair enough. Did a bang up job takin' care o'ye already." He runs a soft touch around the outer edges of my freshly reapplied bandages, his lips thinning unhappily. "T'night, if ye cry, it ain't gonna be my fault."

"Oh, hell, Murph," I say. I shove him back on the bed, sliding across his lap until I'm straddling him. I plant my hands my hands on his lower belly, startling a low "oof" from him. "We all know I'm gonna cry tonight. Probably why your dad left in the first place. Who wants to hang around that mess besides you and your masochistic brother?"

My legs sting like hell in this position, but I've decided not to care for at least a little while. Murphy's fingers are restless, running up the sides of my thighs as they trace the seams of my jeans before counting their way up each of my ribs. He can't meet my eyes, though, and after several minutes of uncomfortable silence, I finally reach down and tilt his unwilling chin up.

"Speak."

His eyes are dark and uncertain, and his fingers continue their exploration up the sides of my arms, but he still doesn't say a word.

"Murphy, we're not going to get too many more chances to say what we want to say. You're starting to worry me a little. Talk to me? Please?"

His voice is thick and low, and he has to clear his throat a couple of times before I can hear him.

"T'ing is, lass...I can't think of a 'ting t'say t'ye dat I haven't already. Don't have t'convince ye of nothin'. Ye know I love ye, ye know I'm gonna miss t'hell outta ye, ye know...Grace, ye know. Don't see as how I c'n add anythin' new t'dat. Ain't dat I don't wanna talk, it's only dat I can't t'ink of any new ways t'say it dat could live up t'just bein' wit' ye right now an' feelin' ye, knowin' yer alive an' as safe as we'll be able t'make ye."

After that speech, I find that I, too, can't think of a single new thing to say.

So, in the same vein of logic that has dominated this phase of our lives, since we don't have all the time in the world anymore, we pretend that we do. We take the time to revisit all our favorite spots on each other's bodies, enjoying all the little ways each of us can get the other to react.

Murphy spends an inordinate amount of time running his fingers through my hair, continually brushing over the spot where my skull meets my neck that makes me shiver. I, in turn, kiss every inch of his face as he suppresses a grin, and I silently bless him for his patience. He suffers through this treatment a full four minutes longer than I would have thought possible before declaring my time up and that it is now his "turn."

And so it goes for a long, peaceful, uninterrupted time. We trade back and forth, each of us getting a few minutes to do whatever we want to or with the other or to do for silly things we would never think of before now. Murphy unselfconsciously asks me to "do dat nail scratchy t'ing on me back dat makes me jump so," while I request that he braid my hair again, and so on the list goes.

Gentle touches gradually transform to desperate clutches ,and softly spoken requests become breathy sighs and eventually choked, gasping pleas. Afterwards, we lie together, most of the sheets and blankets tossed from the bed, sweat drying stickily between us, Murphy's heartbeat slightly irregular under my ear as it returns to a less excited rhythm.

"If I remember nothing else about you for the rest of my life, I can be happy if I can just remember this," I whisper into his shoulder. His arms tighten. He doesn't reply aloud, but like he said earlier, he doesn't need to. He's already said everything he can say. He slips from the bed, handing me my clothes before searching out his own.

"If I stay any longer, yer bound t'fall asleep, an' den I'd never hear t'end of it from Con. Gonna go get him now, lest ye need a minute? Yer not hurtin', are ye?"

I wave off his concern as I pull my top over my head. "Honestly, I feel better than I have in a while. And you're right, you're way too easy to fall asleep next to. Bad habit I've picked up over the last couple of years."

He kisses the tip of my nose, then slips out the door. I'm surprised at how calm he is, how calm we both are. I think that's the most peaceful time I've ever spent with Murphy, but I'm too content to question it. At this point, I'll definitely take what I can get.

Today is not done with the surprises, though. Connor, who I've only ever seen lose control a handful of times, if that, is not in the room for five minutes before his weak front of bravado crumbles to ash.

"I...I can't. I just fuckin' can't. I can't say it, can't think, I can't fuckin' do dis, lass."

I reach out to him, hesitant to cradle him the way I do Murphy sometimes. I touch his shoulder, and he turns bloodshot eyes to me.

"It took me two months t'even talk to ye th'first time. Took me two years t'build a life wit' ye. An' now I gotta unmake all dat in two hours? How t'fuck am I s'posed t'fit t'rest of our lives inta two hours?"

"Come here."

And for the first time, he comes to me quietly, almost shyly, his ego and confidence left behind, and clings to me like a lost little boy. I curl into the corner of the bed, my back pressed against the wall, tucking his head into my neck and stroking his hair while he digs fingerprints into my sides.

"You can't, Connor, but I understand. You can't fit it all in, so don't kill yourself trying to say everything. You...you've said everything, I think. I don't think you could find any new ways to say it today that matter more than us just being together." I know I'm stealing shamelessly from Murphy (and not doing the best job at it, either) but I have a feeling that this will be one of those rare conversations the boys never share.

"I was s'posed t'come in here an' sweep ye off yer feet, make ye remember why ye fell fer me in th'first place. Wasn't s'posed t'make ye rock me like a nursin' babe."

There's a hint of anger in his tone, but I ignore it in favor of running my fingers over his hairline just behind his ears, tracing the tendons of his neck as

I search out the sensitive places I know are there. He shudders against me as I scratch gently up the back of his neck, and then he tilts up to kiss my chin.

"Wanna tell a million ways. Say it in every language I know an' all th'ones I don't. Need ye t' know it, t'believe it, an' t'damn sure never ferget it. Dat way…"

He trails off, but I am slowly learning patience during this ordeal we've lived through these last couple of weeks, so I wait.

"Wanna tell ye all dose ways just in case I never get t'tell ye again. Dat way ye won't have missed anythin'."

"Connor, you and Murphy are everything I wanted in my life. You gave me a family, and I never thought I would have one. I never thought I deserved one. You guys...God, there were so many times I wanted to absolutely strangle both of you, and even that made me happy, way deep down where I would never consciously admit it."

I still my hand, resting it against Connor's face as he watches me with solemn eyes. "I love you. I can't pretty it up the way you and Murphy can, so...I love you. I can't say it any better."

"Maybe we don't hafta say it any other ways," he finally offers, his eyebrows drawn together. His forehead wrinkles, and I know he's starting to doubt himself. I only recognize the signs because both the expression and the emotion on his face are so foreign that I can't see them as anything else. I draw gentle fingers over his face, smoothing the skin until he relaxes under my touch.

"Let's just not say anything else at all for a while, then," I offer as he closes his eyes. I press my lips to the middle of his forehead and his hands creep up my back, drawing me closer until our bodies are flush. His hands curl over my shoulders, and he presses an almost feverish forehead hard against my chin. The breath he draws in is raw and shaking, and I close my eyes tightly against the sound.

His right hand leaves my shoulder to slip behind my knee, pulling it up and hooking it over his hip. He moves against me, rutting his hips firmly against mine, the sensation both muted and maddening through our layers of denim, but he keeps up the motion, moving his hand around to cup my ass and pull us more insistently together.

I tilt my head to the side, shuffling my body down until my lips can reach the pulse point under the corner of his jaw. My nose brushes the edge of his ear as my face slides against the silky, freshly shaven skin of his jaw. His fingers dig into me anywhere they can reach, squeezing to the point of pain before releasing and finding a new place to torture. I anchor my fingers in his hair, tightening my grip so

I can angle his head just as I like.

My heart pounds a deafening baseline in my ears as I move against him, meeting each thrust, the ache between my legs deepening with every passing second. I nip hard at his earlobe, and his sudden exhalation of shock against my neck is scalding hot. I feel a sharp pulse between us through both of our jeans, and Connor moans, half-miserable, half-delirious.

His fingers fumble between us as I continue my assault on his neck, and I don't make his attempt to remove our clothing easy, but, in the end, he gets us both stripped enough. My shirt and bra are lifted conveniently (if not comfortably) out of the way, and though he gets my jeans off, he doesn't bother removing anything else, simply shoving the remaining clothing down or aside as necessary.

"Lass, do ye...do ye think ye could...keep up dat t'ing yer doing with yer mouth if I go slow enough?"

"Say please."

"Aye, aye, lass, please. Please keep...please…"

We move together deliberately, each mindful of th other's injuries. Connor guides the rocking of my hips, his fingers burning against my thigh as I continue to drink in the taste of his skin. Despite his request, it's not long before he asks me to kiss him, waiting for me to initiate before he responds, his tongue moving only in reaction to mine, more submissive than he's ever been with me, than he's probably ever been in his entire life. Even his guiding hand serves simply to keep me moving when I become distracted elsewhere. He shudders against me, his hips stilling as his back stiffens, and I lay my forehead against his.

"Finish me, Connor," I order, my lips right against his ear, his panting breath dampening my shoulder. "Finish what you started." Then his hand is between us, his fingers working me into oblivion. Carried on the waves of my release, relaxation and exhaustion meet head on and set me adrift, and I hold tight to Connor, trying my hardest to hang on for as long as I can.

I have to stay awake, I think, as Connor's fingers slide from between my thighs to trail over my half-bared hip. I need to savor this, not waste the time we have left with something as petty as unconsciousness.

And in that way that Connor has of reading my mind (and then ignoring it and doing as he pleases anyway), he pulls the blanket over our entwined bodies, murmuring in some language that sounds harsh and guttural at first but gradually soothes what little tension remains in me until I can't resist the pull of sleep any longer.

"Sleep, lass. Will be here when ye wake."

...

Many terrifying hours later, after the remnants of my life have shattered around me one last time, I find myself staring off into the gathering darkness, wishing I'd tried just a little harder to stay awake.