A/N: The last couple of years have not been very good to me or my mental health for that matter. I've been seeing a therapist for the last year now and I'm finally in a place where I'm starting to feel better. He's been encouraging me to start finding enjoyment in the things I used to do and writing was top of my list.

Chapter 4

After countless rounds of treatment the doctors were fairly confident that I was now cancer-free but I'd still have to go back for follow-up visits just to be certain. In that time I ended up losing my job at the plant because the treatments took too much out of me that I couldn't stand on my feet, the final straw was when my legs gave out on me while I was holding a knife, I nearly impaled myself. Understandably, they couldn't have that kind of risk on their hands. Most of the people that worked at the plant wound up at McGinty's after their shifts and were nice enough to start a fundraiser for me so that I could finish my treatments and keep a roof over my head for a couple of months.

That was nearly eight years ago and I still feel very much indebted to everyone who chipped in a few bucks here and there. Once I was finally better and had some of my strength back Duffy set me up for an interview at the precinct, they were desperate for someone to help in dispatch answering 911 calls. I barely lasted two weeks in that call center before I told my supervisor that I just wasn't cut out for that line of work and apologized profusely for wasting his time. I found myself wandering the streets aimlessly for hours trying to figure out my next move not realizing that I walked straight to McGinty's until Doc's voice pulled me back to reality.

And here I am, a barmaid on another lonely St. Patrick's Day with a bunch of drunks wearing green and "kiss me, I'm Irish" buttons pinned to their shirts. In a dark corner sat one of the priests, Father Kinney I think was his name. Or was it McKinney? I never really bothered learning his name but Doc has taken a shine to him and really appreciates what he's trying to do for the neighborhood – operating a soup kitchen was probably his biggest accomplishment especially since I found myself standing outside the doors on many occasions when I was at my lowest. I could never bring myself to cross the threshold though out of some deep rooted fear that I may burst in flames.

"Still hoping they'd come through that door, huh? Kid, ya gotta know they ain't coming back."

"I know, can't help it though. And besides, what would I even say if they did show up? Things could never go back to what they were." I sighed, leaning over the bar top with my chin in my hand.

"Knowing you, you'd take an empty bottle and smash it over their fucking skulls then drag 'em both out by the ear. And I wouldn't do a damn thing to stop ya either."

"Good to know you've got my back Dolly. Where are the other two? Working another homicide tonight?"

"Brian's got the flu and Greenbean's kissing the Chief's ass for fucking something up as usual."

I could only hum in response before another patron caught my attention, pointing to their empty glass and requesting another refill. Pulling another clean pint glass out I quickly poured a fresh Guinness and walked it over to where he was sitting. As I approached the table the hairs on the back of my neck started to stand on end but I couldn't quite find an explanation as to why. The man before me was older, maybe late forty's with darker hair and eyes colder than stone. He held up a folded bill between two fingers and stuffed it down my shirt. It took everything in me to not empty the contents of the glass I was holding all over him, instead I slammed the beer down on the table, making sure some it sloshed out and onto his pants. I then quickly made my way back to the bar to help Doc as he announced last call.

Finally at two in the morning the last couple of patrons left the bar and we were able to lock the door. I started gathering up all of the glasses, lining them up along the bar so that Doc could empty them down the sink and load them into the trays for me to take back to the kitchen to load into the dishwasher. As I cleared off the last three tables, taking any tips that had been left, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

"Doc, I'll be right back okay? Just gotta pee real quick, I've been holding it for too long again."

He waved a hand at me and kept emptying the glasses I had lined up for him while sputtering out a few "fucks" and "ass" here and there. The older that man got the worse his Tourette's was getting but he insisted that he was fine no matter what I tried to say.

Once I rounded the corner to the bathroom I felt a pair of hands on my hips and lips pressed against my ear. The fight or flight instinct tried to kick in but I couldn't do anything but freeze out of fear of the unknown.

"I know who you are, I know what you meant to them all those years ago. They took my father's life, I wonder what they would do if I took yours."

My heart was pounding in my ears as I recalled all of the news reports about Papa Joe Yakavetta being killed in the middle of a courtroom by the Saints of South Boston. While my mind was still processing this stranger's words he detached himself from me and asked Doc to unlock the door, explaining he was taking a shit and was sorry about scaring his waitress.

"Ya look like ya've seen a ghost lass."

"In a way I did Doc. Let's get these dishes done and go to bed, what do you say, hm? We'll get everything cleaned up tonight and in the morning we'll get everything put away. Jack is supposed to be by sometime around noon with a new shipment of beer just in time for the lunch crowd."

Doc nodded in agreement and by quarter after three we were done cleaning up the St. Patrick's Day mess. I helped the elderly man up the stairs to his apartment and when he was safely inside I shut the door and shuffled across the hallway to my room. It was about five years ago that I moved in to this little room but it was for Doc's safety after he had taken a pretty nasty fall down the stairs one day.

Once I was certain that the door and window to the fire escape were secure I grabbed a change of clothes from the dresser and made a beeline for the shower to not only wash the smell of beer and cigarettes off of me but also the feeling of uneasy from that man downstairs. The hot water against my skin was damn near scalding as I tried in fury to scrub away any traces of his hands and lips. When I thought this task was accomplished I shut the water off, climbing out of the shower and into a room filled with steam and memories of them, the things we'd do in that upstairs bathroom when we thought Doc wasn't around. I quickly shoved those memories back down into the depths of my mind, got dressed and climbed into bed.

Unfortunately, sleeping that night was fitful; tossing and turning, waking up every thirty or forty minutes, my mind constantly replaying the stranger's words in my head until I couldn't take it anymore. I sat up in my bed, my head in my hands as I cried wishing one of them were with me tonight to at least lull me into a false sense of safety. Hell, at this point either one of them pulling me into a hug, petting my hair and telling me everything was going to be okay would make me feel a little better than the anxiety knot that was rapidly growing in the pit of my stomach.

"I miss you so fucking much."

And then finally sleep came, though I still couldn't help but get the creepy sensation that I was being watched.