A/N: Here it is, black and white and angsty all over. Well, maybe not all over. But plenty of lies, deceit, guns, booze, sex, more guns, Irish, Italian, Russian, some more lies, deaths, more sex, more booze, etc. A slow burn of a story, building through from before the events of BDS, through the film, and the following weeks until the boys hop ship to Ireland. I own everything you DO NOT recognize and beg forgiveness for any flaws that may have been prevented by a Beta. I don't believe in Betas, I just believe in me. Some reference to actual bars in Boston and surrounding area, but geographics may be altered. I've only been to Boston once and while I drove past Copely Plaza, I didn't take any pictures.
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Tuesdays at Grayson's are always slow. They are even slower than Mondays. On Mondays, there is at least hockey. Tuesdays are dull; not even the bar special (Mexican imports for four dollars) can lure the customers in. Sure, they aren't completely empty: Wren recognizes at least three guys that are connected to the Russian mob sitting at one end of the lounge. They're currently being eyeballed by a group of wiseguys that are no doubt on Yakavetta's payroll. She really hopes that, given the public and centrality of the place, they keep to their ends of the bar and not start any shit.
Between pouring beers and whiskey, and the occasional rum and coke, Wren rearranges the beer cooler and inspects mugs, removing chipped and etched pieces and hauling new, shiny glassware from the back to the front. She's lugging back half a tray of rocks glasses when she hears her name ring through the bar. She nearly drops the tray when she recognizes her youngest brother breeze into the lounge.
She stares, frozen on the spot, as Nate Abernathy makes his way around tables and plunks himself at her bar, a mile-wide grin plastered on his face. She hasn't seen him for a very long time, had wanted to distance herself from Nate and his questionable habits and acquaintances. He spends half his time gambling, and the other half hustling to pay off debts. Wren sighs. She had hoped that she had left it all behind in Chicago, but looking into her brother's wild gray eyes, she guesses that he had brought enough trouble for the both of them, and dumped it on her front door.
"What are you doing here?" Wren asks flatly, setting the tray down a little too hard. The glasses clink together.
"Is that any way to greet your baby brother after not seeing him for two years?" Nate grins and taps the Budweiser handle in front of him. "Make it a pint, would ya?" He turns around in his stool, sizing up the bar. He whistles lowly and turns back to his sister. "Nice place. How long have you been here?"
"Obviously long enough for you to track me down," Wren growls, throwing open the cooler and pulling out a frosted glass. She pours her brother a pint with too much head and drops it on the coaster in front of him. "Five twenty-five."
Nate's fingers pause as he curls them around the glass, and he raises a pale blond eyebrow at his sister. "Put it on a tab," he answers, raising the glass.
Wren's hand flashes out, palm down, and covers the mouth of the glass. "I'm not fucking stupid, Nate. Cash only." Her gaze grows steely.
Nate's own stare matches hers, but after a moment, he chuckles, shrugs, and with his free hand reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a wad of folded bills. He throws it on the bar, pries Wren's fingers from his glass, and drinks deep.
Wren stares at the stack of cash and then eyes her brother carefully. "Jesus, Nate, who'd you kill?"
Nate swallows his beer, chuckling. "I made a fat stack on last week's Blackhawk game. Thought I'd come and pay my big sister a visit, see how Beantown was treating her."
Wren fiddles with the taps for a moment. "I thought that after your last loss you would lay low with the gambling."
"And I did," Nate says with a shrug. He takes another swig of beer. "But I ran into Pete Wilson last month. He knows a guy who knows his stuff. Got lucky once…"
"And you decided to press that luck as far as you could," Wren finishes.
Nate grins. "Hasn't run out yet."
Wren scowls. "But it always does." Her attention is grabbed by one of Yakavetta's men waving to her and while she is relieved to leave the company of her brother for the moment (before she reaches across the bar and punches some sense into him), she takes her time getting to the table of Italians.
She listens half heartedly as they cracked jokes, and smiles when she was supposed to, but she keeps one eye on Nate. It doesn't take long for another man to enter the bar and join her brother. She finishes taking drink orders and heads back to the bar.
"Hey, sis, I want to introduce ya to someone."
Wren blows a strand hair from her face as she prepares her drink order. "Kinda busy here, Nate." She doesn't bother looking up and instead loads her tray and moves back out to the lounge. When she is finished at the Italian table, she moves across the bar, heading for the Russians. She breezes past Nate and his companion, but is yanked to a halt. She stares down at her brother's hand on her arm and then glares up at him.
"Don't be rude," Nate growls, shoving Wren in front of him to face his companion. "Now, like I said, I want to introduce ya to someone. This here is Tommy Callahan. Tommy, this is my big sis, Wren."
Tommy Callahan nods and shifts his brown eyes over Wren. "When you say big," he begins, the corner of his mouth going up and pulling a dimple in on the way.
"Older," Nate clarifies with a chuckle. "She's tiny, but looks are deceiving."
"Nice ta meet ya," Tommy greets, holding his hand out.
Wren holds up her tray with one hand and her pen with the other. "You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand."
She feels Nate's fingers curl harder into her bicep and he gives her a small, quick shake. He opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by a heavily accented voice.
"Hey! What takes you so long?" One of the Russians calls out.
Wren glances over her shoulder. "Ostýn," she answers. There is a series of surprised grumbles from the table, and one of the men laughs, elbowing the man that has called out to her. She glanced to Nate and Tommy. "If you'll excuse me?" She wrenches her arm from her brother's grasp and heads to the Russian table.
"Where does a girl like you learn Russian?" The biggest of the bunch speaks, a hulking man with a shaved head and a dark beard. His fingers are laden with heavy gold rings, and his leather jacket creaks as he moved.
"A girl like me?" Wren echoes with a sneer. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Boris – or whatever his name is – grins. "You are not Russian," he shrugs.
"And you're not English, but hey, look at you, talking the talk. You guys want another round?"
There is some general ribbing in 'Boris'' direction, but the general census is that they will all have another round of vodka. She clears the empty glasses and plucks the almost overflowing ashtray from the table, and then moves back to the bar.
"You want something to drink?" Wren asks Tommy, as she free pours vodka for the Russians.
"I'll take a beer, if ya please. Keith's is fine."
Wren nods, her attention now torn three ways – to the Italians in the corner, to her brother and his Irish friend, and to the Russians who are eyeing her suspiciously. She puts Tommy's beer down in front of him and gives Nate a pointed look as he pays right away.
"So Tommy knows this bar," Nate begins, drumming his fingertips on the bartop.
"No." Wren shakes her head, not wanting to hear anything about Nate or his buddy, or this bar his buddy knows.
"Oh, come on, Wren. You used to be fun. Remember all the trouble we got into?"
Wren flicks her gaze to Tommy and then leans close to Nate, their noses almost touching. Her eyes narrow. "Think I'd forget that? You're just as big of an idiot as you have always been, Nate. I'm past that point in my life. I'd appreciate if you'd just get up and walk away." The mention of her past has her stomach clenching and all she wants is for Nate to leave, to take Tommy with him, and for the two opposing mobs to pay their tabs and leave, too.
"How's me favourite girl?"
And just like that, her quickly souring mood turns light, and Murphy is pulling up a stool at the far end, having come in from the restaurant side of the place. Wren watches as Tommy stares at Murphy for a moment, and then turns to Nate and speaks in hushed tones. Wren forces a smile in Murphy's direction and makes her way to him.
"I hate Tuesdays," she mumbles, setting a pint of Guinness down in front of Murphy.
Murphy laughs, and takes a deep drink. "I know," he says, because he does know, and he finds it charming. He nods in the direction of Nate and Tommy. "Who's sitting in me spot?"
She shakes her head wearily. "No one," she lies, and it is the first of a hundred more to come.
"Oh, aye? Seem pretty interested in ya." He stands from his stool and grabs his beer, intent on finding out who the two men sitting at the taps are.
"It's nothing, Murph," Wren catches his sleeve and pulls. "Just a couple of guys in from out of town. Nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon."
Murphy looks at the two men a little longer. "I don't know who the other fella is, but the one with the dark hair? That's Tommy Callahan."
The admission brings Wren's eyes to his. "And?"
Murphy slides back into his stool, one eye on the pair and the other on Wren. "He's a knuckler for the Irish."
Wren raises an eyebrow. "I don't know if I follow…"
"Russians have soldiers. Italians have wiseguys. Irish have knucklers."
"Oh," is all Wren says. Her brain goes a mile a minute, this new revelation confirming that Nate has indeed found himself eyebrow deep in a new kind of trouble.
Murphy studies Wren for a moment, noticing the downturn of her mouth, the distracted look in her eyes. "Hey," he calls softly, reaching across the bar and touching her chin with his thumb. "Y'alright?"
"Tired," Wren smiles softly. "I'm done here in a few hours but I don't know if I'm up for going to McGinty's."
Murphy nods, understands. "Guess I'll break the news to Connor. Though I'm sure he won't mind spendin' the entire evening alone wit' Pam." He drains his glass and stands. "How much do I owe ya?"
Wren waves him off, rolling her eyes. "Do I ever charge you?"
"Just bein' polite, girl," Murphy grins. "I gotta go. Told Rocco I'd meet up with him for a beer."
Wren shakes her head, gesturing to the bar. "And what's wrong with this place?"
Murphy looks to his right, at the Irish knuckler and then the table of Russians. He then looks to the left, to the Italians, and back to Wren. "It's kinda like a UN conference in here," he says with a grin. "'Sides, I just came here for you. The beer was a bonus. Can I come by later?"
"Yeah. I should be home around six."
"I'll see ya later, then." Murphy winks and shrugs into his coat, and then heads for the door.
Wren does not miss her brother's gaze following Murphy, nor does she miss the curious stare Tommy Callahan shoots her. "Got a thing for the Irish, lass?" he calls out with a bit of a leer.
"Got a thing for meat packers," Wren shot back. "You drinkin' that beer or are you just gonna peel the label and make a mess for me?"
"That your fella?" Nate interrupts, glancing to the window and following Murphy's lean frame as it crosses the street.
"Just a friend," Wren replies tightly.
"Wren," Nate sighs with a shake of his head. "You don't have 'just friends'. What was it you said about them: there was nothing to gain from it?"
"Look," Wren snaps. "You don't get to come in here and begin to tell me about how I operate, all right? As far as I'm concerned, we're related by blood, but you're not my brother. It's been two years, Nate, and I'm finally getting away from all of that bullshit you pulled me into."
"Yeah, you were kicking and screaming the whole time, too," Nate shoots back, heavy on the sarcasm.
"Somebody had to keep an eye on you," Wren replies stiffly.
Nate laughs and leans back on his stool, elbowing Tommy in the process. "She talks like it was a chore or something. Come on, Wren, you loved it – the money, the apartment, the parties…the coke, the alcohol, the meaningless sex…"
"Fuck you, Nate!" Wren hisses, almost climbing over the bar. "Drink your beer and get the fuck out of here."
"Does your 'just friend' know all about your sordid past? Or did you tell him what you tell them all: that you came from a great home life, mom, and dad, and two brothers, and a white picket fence?"
She wills herself not to cry. She's so upset, that's the only thing she can think of doing. She stares into the ice bin instead, and tries not to think of all the ways she can maim her brother with a bottle opener. She doesn't know how he found her, but all she wants to do now is get lost all over again.
So, should I continue?
'Ostyn' - Russian slang for 'chill out' or 'calm down'