"He's got two cracked ribs, sixteen stitches to his head here," Dr. O'Banion paused and pointed to the area behind her right ear, "and a crushed orbital. Right now he's on a lot of morphine, for the pain, so he may go in and out. You can see him, but he needs his rest."

I watched Murphy tense as the doctor rattled off Connor's injuries. He twisted his jacket in his hands. "Ya said 'orbital,' doc. Whas that?"

"The eye socket. It's hard to damage unless there's a direct hit. From what I've gathered from Mr. O'Reilly, your brother took a pint glass there, followed by a fist. He's lucky that's all the damage there was. He could have lost the eye."

Murphy rubbed his face, processing the information. "Aye. Thanks, Doctor."

"We'll be operating the day after tomorrow. The swelling needs to go down." She paused here. "I understand it's his birthday today. Yours, too?" Murphy nodded, and the doctor continued. "Happy birthday to you then. Mind what I told you – let him get some rest, okay?" Dr. O'Banion gave Murphy an empathetic smile and closed Connor's chart before moving down the hall to another patient.

I approached him slowly, touching his shoulder, and my breath caught when he flinched. I didn't let up, however, and rolled my palm down his spine, and then around his side to catch his hand and turn him towards me. "He'll be okay, Murphy," I said. "Do you want me to go in with you?"

Murphy pulled his hand free as he shook his head. "No," he answered flatly. "I'll go on me own." He stared at the door to Connor's room, but didn't move at first.

Seconds later, I heard his breath catch on a sob, and I watched him rub furiously at his eyes, his fingers coming away wet, his cheeks stained with the remnants of his tears. "I shoulda been there," he croaked.

A knot of doubt, and of fear, formed in my gut. I didn't know if he was suddenly regretting what had transpired between us that evening. If we hadn't dallied, if we hadn't been selfish and spent the night with each other, and instead made it to the pub, would things have been different? Maybe Murphy could have talked Connor into backing off. Or would it be Murphy lying in that hospital bed injured and hopped up on pain killers? I shook the feeling off. Now was not the time to regret. There was nothing we could do about what had been done.

"Hey," I started, taking a step towards him. "There was no way of knowing what would happen." I hesitated before touching him again, not wanting to feel him flinch a second time. I leaned my head against his back and breathed, slowing bringing my arms around his body and pulling him against me, holding him. At first, he didn't do anything, and I didn't know if I'd made another unwanted gesture. But his body softened eventually, and he sagged back into me, holding my hands to his heart with one of his own, bending his head to kiss the backs of my fingers.

"Thank ya," he whispered. He took a deep breath and pulled away reluctantly, turning to look at me over his shoulder as he touched the doorknob. "Will ya wait here?"

"I'm not going anywhere, Murphy."

He nodded again, and slipped into Connor's room.

I wasn't going anywhere. But I had a niggling of fear that Murphy was.

The room was dim, save for the small lamp still lit on the side table. Connor was in the shadows, though the white of his bandages stood out in the darkness. A machine beeped in the corner. Murphy hadn't spent a lot of time in hospitals, but he'd watched enough TV to know that was probably the sound of Connor's pulse. The blankets were pulled up tight around his brother, and Murphy frowned, moving forward and pulling them loose. Connor hated a tightly made bed, and usually ended up kicking the sheets off.

"Hope yer here ta read me a bedtime story, Murph."

Murphy looked up, grinning at his brother's ability to be humorous, despite the shape he was in. "Not fuckin' likely," Murphy answered, sinking into the chair next to the bed. Now that he was closer, he could see the bruising on the side of Connor's face, and make out the blood soaking through the bandages where he'd been stitched up on his head. The eye was the worst, though, swollen shut, bruised purple and black, and tinged with blood. Murphy looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. "Ya look like shite."

"Me head's ringin' somethin' fierce, too," Connor smiled. "But the drugs are cracker, aye?"

Murphy nodded, not sure what to say next. He had a million questions – who had done it, how many were there, did he get any good shots in? "Does Ma know?"

Connor shrugged, closing his good eye. "Don't know. Probably not. Eighteen, now, Murph. They don't call yer Ma anymore."

"Aye," Murphy said thickly. "Happy Birthday, then, Connor."

Connor's eye cracked open again, and he grinned broadly. "Happy Birthday, Murphy." He stared a little longer, his smile growing wider. "So?"

Murphy blinked, confused. "What?"

"Jaysuz, Mary, n'Joseph, Murph, ya were three hours late as it were – tell me ya were in bed wit' Márín tha whole time?"

"I'm sorry," Murphy blurted out. "I shoulda been there, backin' fer ya…"

Connor cut his brother off before he could say anymore. "Leave off, ya fuckin' wanker. Christ, couldn't ask fer more fer me eighteenth birthday, aye? Between the two o'us, we got drunk, got into a fight, an got laid. I'd say we did bloody proper, brudder."

Instead of easing Murphy's heart, Connor's words merely made it clench harder. Connor was always doing that – masking his feelings with humor. Murphy supposed he should be grateful; Connor didn't seem worse for the wear, but Murphy knew better. He could see through Connor's façade as easily as Connor could see through Murphy's. The bright blue in Connor's good eye was laced with fear, and Murphy had a sinking feeling that Connor had been trounced properly, and by more than one person. Tears made that good eye sparkle in the minimal light, and Connor quickly looked away, swiping at the moisture that threatened to fall.

Murphy suddenly stood, launching himself at Connor, throwing his arms around his brother and holding on for dear life. "Christ, Connor, don't ever fuckin' do that again. Not without me, aye?"

Connor grunted as Murphy squeezed his injured ribs, but he endured the pain and sighed into his brother's embrace. He'd never admit it to Murphy, but he'd been scared. The entire time the fists were flying, and voices rang out, cheering for more blood, Connor had been terrified that he'd never see Murphy again, or worse: that Murphy would show up, and take a beating as well. According to Liam Connor had fought like a wolf then, with no thought to anyone else but his own well-being. In the end, Connor hadn't been the only one brought to the hospital, and as the crowd waited for the red and whites to appear, Connor had been approached by a bare-knuckle promoter named Robert Lanigan who'd slipped him a business card, told him to get his eye checked out, and then give him a call.

"You can be my manager," Connor murmured, sinking back into the pillows.

"Huh?" Murphy pulled back, looking into Connor's face. He frowned, then, noticing that his twin had drifted off as a result of the morphine.

With a sigh, Murphy sat back into his chair and pulled it closer to the bed. Taking Connor's bruised hand in his own, Murphy watched as his twin slept.

I called Colin on instinct. As I waited for him to pick up – if he picked up; it was after midnight – I tried to figure out what to say to him. I didn't have long to formulate a story as he picked up on the fifth ring.

"Márín? Tell me that's you, girl." He sounded desperate, frazzled, and for a moment I paused, frowning at the obvious worry I'd caused him.

"It's me. I'm fine, Colin. I'm sorry for disappearing on you."

He heaved a sigh of relief. "Good." There was a stretch of silence then, shattered only when he cleared his throat and began talking once more. "Look, Márín…I think you should know…I mean, Annabelle MacManus has been calling me day and night. I think you know why."

I bit my lip and nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "Aye, I know. I'm sorry, Colin, I wasn't trying to deceive ya, or Annabelle. It's just that…"

"Are the boys all right?"

I stopped mid-sentence as Colin leapt ahead with his question. "Ah…no, actually, Col. That's why I'm callin'."

"What's happened?"

I filled him in as best I could, glossing over details that he didn't need to fully know, until I got up to my arrival at the hospital. Here I paused to take a deep breath. "It's Connor, Colin. He's been beaten up, and badly. He needs surgery on his eye."

"You know I need to tell Annabelle this."

"I understand," I muttered, wincing at the thought of their mother hearing the news.

"And really, you should be the one to tell her."

"Give me her number and I'll call her," I blurted out.

"It's not really necessary." There was another pause, and then a muffled sound. I heard voices murmuring, and then seconds later, I bit my tongue as Annabelle's acidic tone burned me down the line.

"Where are me boys? What's happened?"

The breath I didn't realize I'd been holding came sailing out, and I sagged against the wall next to the pay phone I was using. I braced myself and gave her the same story I'd given Colin.

She didn't say anything the entire time I spoke, even when I paused. The silence was agonizing; I didn't know what she was thinking, and I fully expected her to tear into me with rage only a mother can possess. When I'd finished, I offered a soft, "I'm sorry," but it sounded lame even to me. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

She sniffed once, and her voice came back, cracking with what I guessed was bottled emotion. "Aye. That's the way these things work, lass. I'll be there first thing in th'mornin'." The line went dead after that, and I hung up the phone, defeated, deflated, all elation about my night with Murphy vanishing quicker than it had come.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. It was the law of the universe, and I'd been too caught up in my own little bubble with Murphy to remember that. I took a seat on the hard chair in the lounge outside of intensive care, and waited.

Weeks went by quickly after that. Murphy and Connor's mother had arrived the morning after I'd spoken to her from the hospital, and she'd kept a sizeable distance from me, physically and otherwise, for several days after that. Every night she returned to the hotel she was staying in, despite multiple offers from Liam and Jenny that she stay in the extra guest bedroom. I suppose the thought of sleeping across the hall from your son and his lover, who was twice his age, just didn't sit right with her. She never came out and said it; she'd said her piece on the matter months before when she'd been to dinner at Colin's. Every now and then she'd glance my way with a mixture of sadness and understanding in her clear green eyes, but she never said more than two words to me at a time.

It was stressful for Murphy, too, and for good reason. While he'd never had the best relationship with his mother, he still loved her fiercely, and to have her disapprove of his choice in partner made him more defensive than normal. He pleaded with her to give me a chance, and she retorted that it wasn't her job to do so, that he'd made his choice, and he was a man now, and old enough to make his own decisions. She was as stubborn as he was, but never raised her voice or became condescending. She knew that pushing Murphy would only drive him further away, and so she stood back and let him figure things out. He stayed in Dublin to watch over Connor, and took a job at one of the markets, driving the delivery truck for those that ordered by telephone.

Connor healed up rather nicely, with minimal scarring save one that wove through his eyebrow, and another on his chin. When he was discharged, the first thing he did was go back down to Bruxelle's, order up a pint of Guinness and a plate of lamb stew. "Hospital food is the devil's work," he'd declared, sucking the gravy from his fingertips. Beside him Murphy chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Instead of retiring to Jenny and Liam's house after lunch, he'd dragged Murphy down to Saint Ambrose's, and they didn't show up at Jenny's until close to dinner. Something had changed in Murphy; I could see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his eyes narrowed. There seemed to be a stream between us that was widening daily, and I didn't know how to cross to his side, only that I was desperate to, and to hold onto him before he was swept away.

"Bout ye?"

Murphy glanced up from his book as Márín entered the bedroom they'd been sharing since the end of May. It was almost July now, and Connor had moved back to the village and into Annabelle's house again. Murphy felt his twin's absence like a lost limb – he could still feel Connor's presence, but he just wasn't there anymore.

"Whaddya mean?"

Márín sank to the mattress beside him and pulled the book from his hands, laying it gently to one side. "Ya miss Connor, don't ya?"

"Aye," Murphy answered without hesitation. He'd never lied to Márín; there was no need to start now.

Márín nodded with his answer and looked down at the bedspread, picking a loose thread there. "Ya want to go back home?"

Her question was so soft, he barely heard it, like if she said it too loudly he'd give her an answer she didn't want to hear. He reached for her hand and held it, waiting until she looked at him. When she did, he smiled sadly. "Can't go back home. S'not really home, anymore. Not for me, anyway. Connor gets that. We've been…" He paused and searched for the right words. "We've been thinkin' of leavin'."

"Leavin," Márín echoed flatly. "Leavin' Dublin?"

Murphy shrugged with a small nod. "Aye, Dublin, Irealand…maybe the Kingdom all t'gether."

"Oh." Márín looked away and became very interested with the digital numbers on the clock at the bedside.

"S'not written in stone, aye? But we've always talked about leavin', Connor an' I. You said it yerself, that we should travel, be worldly." He shrugged again. "I mean, where the hell am I gonna find a place t'speak all dis Russian if I never leave tha country?"

He tried to make light of situation, but the more he spoke, the more Márín's shoulders sagged, so he clapped his mouth shut and watched her for a spell. "Look," he began moments later, "s'not happenin' t'day, or t'morrow, or next week. M'not leavin' ya."

"Yet," Márín finished softly. Her eyes finally found his again. "Yer not leavin' me yet." She looked at him long and hard, daring him to contradict her.

He couldn't say she was wrong. Ever since Connor had been beaten, Murphy's priorities had changed. Connor's life had been in danger, real, bone-breaking danger, and he didn't blame Connor for high-tailing it back to the village. More than once Robert Lanigan had found his way onto the recovery ward, sniffing out Connor and his fists, letting him know that there was a spot on his roster, for his brother, too, and Murphy didn't like the way Connor's eyes had lit up at the prospect. The first night Connor had been out of the hospital, when they'd gone to St Ambrose's, they'd been approached again, this time with more muscle, and a lot more directness. He hadn't told Márín about it, and after Connor had left, the unwanted attention had seemed to die down. Lately, however, he'd seen Lanigan's boys lurking near the market, and once or twice outside of Footnotes, where Márín had gone back part time.

"Dere's people here, Márín, people that are trouble, tryin' ta do their best ta rope Connor an' I into it."

She looked at him again, more closely this time, and Murphy saw the confusion in her eyes. "Trouble, Murphy?" She shook her head. "I don't understand…"

"I don't either. Not well, anyway. But they mean business, these lads, an' their business is bare knuckling. They want Connor t'fight fer them. Underground racket, as it were."

"Isn't that illegal?"

Murphy shrugged and nodded once. "Aye, all things considered. Doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Half the men fightin' are probably officers of tha law, anyway. They want Connor. And he's keen t'fight. But they want me, too, and I've told them 'no' enough times that I think they may find alternate ways of persuadin' me." He looked pointedly at her.

"What are ya sayin?"

"You're not safe."

Márín laughed lightly. "Murphy," she said, shaking her head. "Don't be so dramatic."

His fingers tightened their hold on hers. "I wish I was, girl."

"I don't think you understand, Mr. MacManus. Brady Malone was me best fighter, an' yer brudder took him out. Gave quite a show doin' it."

Murphy bristled at Robert Lanigan's words, but he said nothing, and continued to load his truck with the day's deliveries.

"Every night me boy is out, I lose a substantial amount of money."

Murphy slammed a crate onto the platform of the truck and turned to Lanigan. "So try one o'the other guys that was there. Didn't you know? It was three ta one."

"Aye, an' yer brudder took em' all on. He fought like a wolf, boyo, all alone, with no regard. And he's fast, too. I could make a stack of cash with him on me roster. So, tell me where he is."

"I don't know," Murphy lied, turning back to his work.

"Don't cock this up anymore than it is, MacManus. From what I've heard, tha two o'ya are attached at tha hip. Or is it not so as of late? Tell me, who's the little blonde that works at tha bookstore? Seems a bit old' fer ya – or is that what you were goin' fer? Someone ta teach tha ropes, as it were?"

Murphy whirled then, lunging at Lanigan. Just like that, one of his boys dove in, and shoved Murphy back. "Easy, MacManus," the man had growled.

Murphy shoved him back and turned to Lanigan. "You leave her tha fuck out o'dis. S'got nothin' ta do wit' her."

Lanigan's eyes lit up at Murphy's defense, and he chuckled smoothly. "I'd say she's got somethin' ta do wit' dis. She a good fuck, boyo?"

Murphy lunged again, only to be shoved back by Lanigan's boy. "You say anytin' about her again, an' it's your funeral," he seethed.

"Struck a nerve. Must be love," Lanigan snorted. "Maybe I'll talk to her, see if she can reason wit ya."

"If ya so much as look at her I'll…"

"You'll what?" Lanigan snapped.

Murphy narrowed his eyes and set his jaw tightly. "I'll fuckin' kill ya."

"That so?" Lanigan replied.

Murphy merely stared, his nostrils flaring, his pulse beating rapidly in his veins. Threatening Connor was one thing, his brother could take care of himself. Márín, however, was a different story all together. The thought of any harm coming to her made Murphy sick to his stomach.

"Let's go, Frankie. Give him a day or two to cool off and consider the offer."

"It's been considered, ya fuckin' wank. M'not fightin' fer ya. Neither is Connor. Stop askin'." Murphy's voice rung with bravado, but the churning in his stomach didn't ease off.

"M'not askin', boyo," Lanigan had said darkly as he prepared to leave. "I'm tellin'."