Murphy is waiting for her outside of the bar. When she steps out into the cool air, she inhales, and instead of the whiff of wet streets and cold, she smells cigarettes, and Murphy's shampoo. "You showered," she muses. "How thoughtful."
Murphy shrugs and puts his free arm over Wren's shoulders. "You eaten?"
She shakes her head, and her stomach growls to confirm. "I'm starving," she admits. She was so keyed up from Nate's presence that she didn't even grab something quick on her last break, and opted instead for smoking like a chimney with one of the kitchen guys.
He smiles and steers her up the block. "I want a feckin' cheeseburger."
"Oh god, yes," Wren replies with a frantic nod.
"Lord's name," Murphy mumbles into her hair as he quickly presses a kiss to her head.
He pulls away, and Wren thinks that she didn't mind so much. When his arm slides off of her shoulders, she catches the tips of his fingers with hers and holds them there, not looking at him, not wanting to make it more than it is. But Murphy smiles regardless. After all, it's a start.
They take up a back booth at Hamburger Mary's, and take turns flipping through the tiny table juke box menu as they wait for their orders. They both get cheeseburgers, hers with mushrooms because Murphy hates mushrooms and she likes to gross him out, and they opt for onion rings and cold bottles of Bud.
When she's done eating and waits for her coconut milkshake, she stretches her legs out as far as she can, her feet coming to rest in Murphy's lap. He sucks the last of his beer back and burps, much to Wren's chagrin.
"What were you like in high school?" she asks out of nowhere, and Murphy cocks his head at her curiosity.
"Uh…" he pauses, and gives a small, nervous chuckle.
"Was that the wrong thing to ask?" Wren says with a small smile.
"No," Murphy shakes his head. "No, it's just…I didn't expect you to ask me that." He thinks for a moment and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I was short. We both were, Connor and I. At least, in freshman year. That summer, I grew like a weed. Poor Conn was still barely taller than you and I topped out. I was scrawny, I had a bad hair cut, and," he pauses here and touches the corner of his mouth where there's a mole, "I was a little self conscious of this." He smirks, shrugs those impossibly broad shoulders. "I started playin' baseball in me second year, aye? Started fillin' out, wearin' me hair shorter…an', accordin' ta Conn, girls started noticin' me. Maybe it was because I was a pitcher. Or maybe it was because I was a MacManus. Either way, I was oblivious to it. Conn had enough girls fer the both of us." Murphy smirks fondly and nods in Wren's direction. "What about you?"
Should she tell him really? Or go with the story that she has so carefully constructed, repeated so many times that she almost believes it? "I…got okay grades." That was the truth. "Short, skinny…no tits to speak of…" This is also true, and at the admission, Murphy leers and winks.
"I like yer tits just fine," he points out.
"You should have seen me in grade nine. I was a carpenter's dream: flat as a board, never been nailed."
Murphy barks his laughter and Wren can't help but feel a little warm at the sparkle in his eyes. "Did ya play sports?" he asks.
"Not unless you count cutting class. I didn't like the whole team thing. Was always better on my own, I guess."
Murphy tilts his head, dares to reach across the table and brush his fingers over the back of Wren's hand. "And now?"
She turns her hand over and curls her fingers over his for a moment before pulling back. "I still don't like large groups of people. I like it one on one."
"For someone who likes solitude, ya sure picked a strange profession."
"I also like money," Wren quips. "And it's not like I'm one of them. I'm standing back, watching."
She stops as her milkshake appears in front of her, a tall, frosted glass, the whole concoction topped with whipped cream, toasted coconut, and a cherry on top, and the stainless steel mixer on the side. Murphy has never wanted to be a milkshake so bad in his life, and he watches her devour it. Her lips purse around the straw, her tongue snakes out to lick whipped cream from the long spoon, and she twirls the cherry between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. Ten seconds later, she produces the stem, sitting regally on her tongue, tied into a neat knot.
Murphy swallows thickly and throws down a stack of bills, sure that he's over-tipping, but at that moment, he doesn't care. It's been a long day and he hasn't been with Wren for two or three days now.
"Jayzus, Mary, n'Joseph," Murphy purrs into Wren's hair as his orgasm winds down. He feels her shake below him, hears the small giggle and he growls, smacking one ass cheek soundly before pulling free of her body. Her giggles stop; she sighs and flops down on her mattress, her face buried in a pillow.
"Does that deserve a 'Lord's name'?" Wren's muffled reply comes.
He collapses on the pillows next to her, staring up at her ceiling and searching blindly for his cigarettes on the side table. "No," he answers shortly before lighting a cigarette. "Only when ya take tha Lord's name in vain," he clarifies.
"So screaming it – or in your case, groaning it – while you're balls deep in a woman you're not married to is okay?"
"I was praisin' em' all, lass." His free hand slides down her shoulder, her spine, and rests on her ass, squeezing fondly. "Did I ever tell ya you have an amazing ass?"
"Hmmm," was Wren's only reply.
Murphy turns onto his stomach and pillows his head in one hand while he smokes with the other. "Ya do," he says gently, his eyes growing soft as his gaze lingers up and down the curve of her spine. "Ya have an amazin' everythin'."
Wren snorts and cracks one eye open, pushing her hair from that eye and regarding Murphy with half a smile. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she murmurs.
He smiles, ruffling his hair with his hand. "Only the pretty ones I meet on Christmas Eve," he replies.
His eyes soften more, and whether it is from sleep or something else, something more… emotional, Wren doesn't know. She's not sure if she wants to, and so she forces herself from the mattress and grabs Murphy's discarded T shirt, and tugs it over her head. "I'm getting a beer," she says, fluffing her hair out of the collar of the shirt. "You want one?"
Murphy grins, still stretched out on his side, liking the way Wren wears his shirt. "Is the Pope Catholic?" he says cheekily.
Wren smirks. "I'll be back."
He hears a phone ringing. Beside him, Wren shifts, then groans, and the mattress fipd as she sits up. Seconds later, he hears her sleep-hoarsened voice answer, and he tries to push himself back to sleep. Her weight leaves the bed moments later as she stands, stalking through the bedroom to the bathroom. When she clicks on the light, he senses it behind closed eyelids, and turns away from it and burrows into the pillow with a groan. He drifts, hovering close to sleep when he hears it.
He's not sure at first; he's known the language well for a long time and in his sleepy state, he thinks she's speaking English because his brain is translating it before he can process it.
"How did you get this number?" Her voice is tight, her accent flawless.
"It's three am. I'm hanging up." He smiles at her curtness. There is a lengthy pause and he hears Wren sigh. Then, "I told you, I'm done with that shit. That's not me anymore."
He feels a little guilty for eavesdropping, which is strange because he's dreaming. "No, he doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that way. Don't call me here again." His heart is in his throat now, his stomach in knots. He is unaware he is holding his breath at this point and he hears her voice harden with her next words. "You're bluffing." There's another pause. "No. I said 'no', Nathaniel." She's practically growling now, and she spouts of a string of curses. "You fucking weasel. I hate you, you know that? If I get out of this alive, I swear, you won't be so lucky." He hears her curse once more and then he hears the water running.
Behind his eyelids, the room goes dark again and she slides into bed behind him, curling against his back, tucking her hands under his arm. He hisses when she touches him; her hands are ice cold and he can feel her shaking against him. He licks his lips, trying to find his voice. "You okay?" he tests gently.
"Mmm," Wren murmurs. "Go back to sleep." Minutes later, she's breathing softly, warm air puffing against his bare shoulder.
It takes him a long time to fall asleep.
He watches her carefully the next morning as she putters around the kitchen, making breakfast. He knows something is off because Wren doesn't do breakfast – she doesn't cook it, and she certainly doesn't eat it. But she's got coffee going as she pours beaten eggs into the pan and the omelette she produces is quality. She sets it in front of Murphy with a grin and then grabs silverware and a mug.
"Whas this?" he murmurs.
She cocks an eyebrow at him. "Uh, it's an omelette." She stares at him as he stares at his plate and then picks up his fork and cuts a piece, and then pops it into her mouth. Chewing as she smiles, she holds the fork out to him. "It's good," she urges.
Murphy's fingers close around hers and the fork and squeeze, and he looks up at her. Something is off. Her voice spouting heated Russian echoes in his ears and he swallows before letting her hand go and taking the fork from her. "Thanks," he says softly. He hates this – not knowing if it was a dream or not. He hopes it was a dream.
She tilts her head. "Hey, what's up?"
Murphy shrugs and looks back at his plate. Pale yellow eggs on red ceramic. He digs out another bite, but he doesn't eat it. "I…didn't sleep well last night. Bad dream, I guess."
Coffee splashes into the mug in front of him, and he watches as she levels off a spoonful of sugar and dumps it in, followed by a deluge of cream. Just the way he likes it. He doesn't even know how she likes hers and here she is pouring his like she's been doing it for years. "Wanna talk about it?" she murmurs, leaning onto the breakfast bar, stirring his coffee.
He watches her hand move, and the spoon hits the sides of the mug rhythmically. Clang-clang, clang-clang, clang-cl…he puts his hand over hers, abruptly cutting the sound off, and he finally looks up at her, staring into those impossibly dark blue eyes.
"Ya spoke Russian," he says slowly, gauging her reaction.
For what it's worth, she doesn't move a muscle, and now he wonders if he really did dream it.
Her eyes study him, wondering if he is still talking about his dream or if he was awake during Nate's call. She licks her lips and pulls her hand out from under his. "In your dream," she says, and he nods. She nods too and fixes him with a curious stare. "How did you know it was Russian?" She's turning the tables and Murphy scrambles for control.
"Hear enough of it around the plant," he explains. "It's Southie," he elaborates. "Ya can't throw a stone without hittin' a Russian."
"Or an Italian," Wren smiles. "Or an Irishman." She pushes off the counter and turns to the stove. "Your eggs are getting cold."
She mixes another batch of eggs and pours them into the pan with a shaking hand. Now they're both wondering and the tension starts to thicken. Murphy digs into his breakfast silently. When Wren is finished her own omelette, she plates it and slides onto the stool next to Murphy.
"D'ya work today?" he asks lightly, reaching for his coffee.
Wren shakes her head, and swallows her mouthful. "I'm meeting a friend," she answers vaguely.
"Ah," Murphy murmurs. "We meetin' later, then? Connor an' Pam want ta have drinks."
"Sure," Wren shrugs. "McGinty's?"
It's Murphy's turn to shrug. "Is there any other place? I mean, besides Grayson's, and I doubt ya want ta go there on yer day off."
She takes a sip of coffee. "You've got that right. Dinner, or…" She finally looks to Murphy who raises an eyebrow.
"Ya tellin' me yer cookin' twice in one day?"
Wren smirks. "Who said I was cooking dinner? Wasn't it you who praised my extensive collection of take out menus?" She smiles as Murphy chuckles. "I'm sure I can find something in a bag or a box that's acceptable."
Murphy sets his mug down, rubbing his palms over his denim clad thighs. Pressing his thumb to his mouth for a second, he raises a dark eyebrow at Wren. "We good?"
Wren nods, turning back to her breakfast. "We're good."
