Chapter 4: Message Received

Murphy knew Connor had gone to give Branna her papers. Murphy didn't think he could stand looking her in the face again so he left him to go alone. He knew the address, Connor left it on a piece of paper by the door first thing that morning, probably because he knew Murphy would find a way to go over there eventually. He always did know just what Murphy would do in the end.

Walking down the busy street, he pulled his coat up around his face, wouldn't do to have too many people recognize him. After he and Connor'd been released from Hoag, well lets just say they were more than just famous now. They were close to fucking celebrities.

He turned a corner and saw the entry to her building. Fourth floor, that was what the paper said. It looked like a dump of a place. Reaching for the door, he found it locked. There wasn't a buzzer. Never were on places like this. He and Con had had a place similar to this, before they'd been called to fulfill God's will. With a sigh, he turned to see if there was another way to get in.

That was when he saw the alley. He looked to see if anyone had been following him, mostly out of habit, and turned to investigate. Looking up, he saw the stairs to the fire escape. With a grunt, he jumped to grab the ladder. It came down easily enough under his weight. Grasping it with both sides, he began to climb.

He hoped he had the right side of the building. Standing on the balconette of the fourth floor, he peered through the small window of the door that led into the loft. He couldn't see anyone, that didn't mean someone wasn't there. Giving the handle a try, he found it swung open easily.

The loft was simply a wide open space and it was obviously a woman's. She'd placed a screen artfully in front of the loo, there were pictures hung in attempt to make the place a little more liveable, and for fucks sake, there were bloody curtains over the shower. Which by the sound of it, was exactly where she was now.

He looked around, picking up the occasional knickknack, inspecting it while he tried to avert his eyes from the evidently naked woman on the other side of the screen. She was humming a tune, oblivious to the world. He saw a punching bag strapped to the wall by the couch, apparently, tying her up that night had been a fantastic idea.

"… tis you, tis you must go, and I must bide," she sang.

He raised his eyebrows at recognition of the song, he turned to the curtain and blurted,

"Fucking 'Danny Boy'?"

The singing abruptly stopped. He stood rigid. Fuck, this was going to go worse than he'd originally imagined.

"That better not be Murphy MacManus standing in me living room spying on me like a pervert." he heard her voice call out.

He could hear the razor sharp edge in the tone of her voice. Stretching his neck, he replied,

"And if it was?"

He heard her mumble a few curses, something to the effect of fuck, damn and Jesus all rolled into one. He had to fix this. This was not how he'd thought it out in his head.

"Not sure God's up to fucking today," he said.

"Oh may the beasts devour yer fucking soul," she retorted, her figure outlined in the curtain as she pulled it aside to look at him. Flipping her hand at him she said,

"Ye mind? I'd like to make meself decent if ye be here to fight with me."

"Fine with me," he muttered turning his head.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her gingerly reach for a towel on the floor. She quickly wrapped it around her, concealing anything he might have once been driven mad by. Not quick enough that he couldn't see the tattoo of a cross on her shoulder blade that trailed down into pin pricks of black that he couldn't make out from this distance. The sight of her nearly naked made his heart race. That was definitely not how he had it planned out. All he wanted were answers. Pure and honest answers. Not to chub up because he was peeking.

"Oi, ye can look now, even though I saw ye peeking. Still a cheeky fucker are we Murph?" she said with a smirk.

Turning to face her, he saw that she was now dressed in a pair of dark, fitted jeans, complete with a purple t-shirt that came down in a V, hinting at what he knew from personal experience were a lovely set of breasts.

"It ain't nothin' I haven't seen before love." he mocked gently.

Sighing, she motioned to the couch.

"Ye might as well take a seat. Yer here for a reason Murphy. Don't tell me that ye were in the neighbourhood."

* * * *

Branna eyed him suspiciously. Had Connor said anything to him about their little conversation earlier? As she watched him stride over to the couch, she was going to err on the side of probably not. He looked terrified. Uncertainty splashed across his face.

Picking up her towel from where she'd laid it on the small coffee table, she began to wring out her hair. It was almost too long now, nearly reaching her elbows. She sat in the chair opposite the couch. Minutes passed and no one spoke. It seemed like every time it looked like he was about to say something, he couldn't get it out.

"Just spit it out for chrissakes! There's too much past between us for this god awful silence." she finally said.

Running her fingers through her wet hair she sighed. Had he always been this difficult to talk too? She couldn't remember. Time had worn away most of those memories. Her words seemed to take effect because he rubbed a hand over his face and looked directly at her. An expression of pain seemed to flash across his face as he asked the first question.

"Why did ye leave without saying goodbye?"

"Murphy, what was I s'posed to do? The last thing ye said to me was that ye didn't even know me. I was scared, in shock, covered in a dead man's blood with the man I loved staring at me like I was fuckin' mad woman. Would ye have rather I'd shown up at yer house with tea and said 'Hey love, I know ye just saw me last night after a bloodbath, but I thought I'd swing by today and see if ye were up to a stroll in the countryside?' Not fucking likely. All I knew at that moment was that ye were gone, I was as good as dead and all me hard work in tracking down Fitzpatrick was in the bin." she said exasperatedly.

"What did ye expect?" he replied sharply. "I had just witnessed my fiancée curled up against a dead body, knife in hand telling me she was riding for the Republic and on a suicide mission to kill one of their top men in the arms department?"

Branna straightened.

"Ye had no fucking clue Murphy. Ye didn't understand how important getting Fitzpatrick had become to me. I couldn't make ye understand."

"Ye keep sayin' that to me, that I didn't understand. Well newsflash, I understood ye a lot better than ye thought. Look at what me and me brother do fer a fucking living!" he raised his voice and leaned forward waving his arm out to emphasize his point.

Fire in her eyes, Branna leaned in too. Leaned in close enough so she could've read the lines in his face had she wanted to.

"Well, had ye maybe told me about yer little thing here in Boston I may have relaxed, instead of freaked about having ye see me in such a mess. God! I never wanted ye to know what I was doing. I never wanted to bring ye into it. Fuck, I was trying to protect ye!" she was shouting at him. He didn't even flinch.

She felt her adrenaline rising, he was a rock. Tension built in the air around them. She could feel it swirling its ugly head between them. All she could see were his eyes, those pale blue eyes that could see right through her, into her very essence it felt like. She could stare into those eyes for hours. God it was so easy to lose herself in him. Even after all this time, her body wanted nothing more than to fall into those arms of his. But that was over. She exhaled sharply.

"Protect me?" He laughed sarcastically leaning back in his seat. "Well thanks for taking me into consideration whilst making yer little one man army plans darlin', but I can protect meself."

The tone of his voice made her blood rage. How dare he come here, after the way he treated her, break into her home for that matter, and demand she answer his questions.

"Who the fuck d'ye think ye are? Barging in here, asking me to explain meself! Far as I saw, the last time we spoke, we were done talking."

He stood up.

"Are we?" He was breathing hard. His hands clenched into fists. "Cause I think there be a lot more to say here than just 'I didn't understand'!" he screamed.

Branna stood now; she stalked around the table and planted her fists on her hips. She stepped right up into his face. She shrieked into his face,

"Don't! Don't do it! Don't be making this more than what it is Murphy! Ye came here fer answers, that's all. I don't -" he'd closed the gap, grabbing her arms and crushing her lips with kiss.

* * * *

What the fuck was he doing? Get a hold of yerself Murph, he told himself. But she was so close, inches away. His heart beating faster than a drum, he felt her stiff as a board against him. His hands held her wrists firm; he could feel she was fighting the urge to push him away. Fuck! What was he doing? Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gathering everything he had, he released her.

Within seconds she was opening her mouth,

"Who the fuck told ye it'd be ok to do that!" she cried.

"I'm sorry, Branna, look I-" he started apologizing, but she wouldn't let him.

She grabbed his shirt and pulled him in; kissing him as hard as he'd kissed her. He leaned back in shock. What was happening? She leaned with him. Instinct called his hands and they flew up to cup her face and neck as her arms snaked around under his to wrap herself around him. As he moved his lips in sync with hers he couldn't help but feel as if he wanted to crawl into her. The way her body felt under his hands, his hand gripping the back of her head as they stood there. Fuck he'd missed this. When she kissed him, it was like stepping into a broiler. The flames smouldered around them, enveloping them; it felt like his soul was on fire.

What the fuck was happening? For weeks, all he hoped was that he would never have to see Branna Ferguson again. Yet here he was, holding her to him as his lips ravaged her face and neck. God she smelled so good. She smelled like home. Wait, he told himself, this is fucking insane! This can't happen; this isn't what ye came here for.

He ripped himself away from her. She was panting, her lips red from his kisses and her lovely hair, still wet, hanging in tangles around her shoulders.

"Fuck, what are we doing Branna?" he asked.

Before she could answer, a large envelope was slid under her door with force. They could hear heavy footsteps in the hall making a hasty exit down the stairs. Branna ran to the door, picked up the envelope and opened it. Her hands shook as she pulled out the pieces of paper.

"What is it Branna? Ye gonna read yer fucking mail instead of talk to me about what just happened?" Murphy asked again with irritation.

She didn't answer him. His anger boiled to the surface.

"Just fucking typical! Ye always were good at ignoring the matter at hand."

When she still didn't give up a reply, he felt like a caged gorilla. Stalking towards her, he shoved the kitchen chairs out of his way.

"Answer me!" he raged.

His screams seemed to rouse her from the letter. She looked up at him, a look of panic crossed her face, and she threw the papers on the floor. She flew to the door, ripping her gun from the holster hooked on the wall, and took off into the hallway.

* * * *

Branna looked down the street to her left. There was no one. Her bare feet were cool against the warming pavement as she took off running. She'd tucked the Browning into the back of her pants. As she ran she scanned for any sign of who might have left the letter.

Who the fuck could possibly know? She panicked. In the envelope were pictures and a note. The pictures were of the night she'd been in the standoff with Murphy at the shipyard. One image, the one of her pointing the High Power in his face was close range. Close enough that she could make out the scar on her eyebrow with ease. The note had read, "Making friends are we Branna? Not for long. He knows you're here." It couldn't possibly be. No where, in all her long search did anything turn up that would have led him here. He couldn't, he just couldn't.

She rounded another corner and slowed down. Catching her breath she leaned over, resting her hands on her knees. The mysterious deliveryman no where to be found, Branna turned her thoughts to what had just transpired a few blocks over.

He'd fucking kissed her! The bastard had fucking kissed her. At first, she'd been insulted. That he thought he could just lay his hands on her like that. After he'd let her go, she'd seen the panic cross his face, he hadn't meant to do it. But god! It had felt amazing, like it always had, back when they weren't standing on opposite sides of the fence.

Then, to her utter amazement, she'd kissed him back.

That had been something. It was like he was the drug and she the addict. She hadn't wanted to let the past infiltrate the present, but when she saw him standing there, fists clenched, tension riddling his frame. His eyes flicking through the multitude of emotions as he tried to apologize. She could feel the tug, the gentle pull that whispered "maybe…". It was like trying to escape the song of a siren.

Branna had always known that there was something secretly toxic about their love. When they'd first began their courtship, all those many years ago, she could see the dark shadows in his eyes. It had been that darkness that had drawn her in the first place, as if she could take comfort in knowing that she wasn't the only one who seemed to have secrets. He'd known she had secrets, but it hadn't mattered. He never asked, and she never felt the need to explain. Her soul understood his in a way she couldn't explain, like they'd had this inconceivable connection that couldn't be brought to words. As it had turned out, their souls had more in common than they'd originally planned.

"Branna!" she heard from behind her.

She stood up, gulping a deep breath of air as she turned around to see Murphy running up the sidewalk in her direction. Closing her eyes she let out an small groan. What the fuck were they going to do now? Could she pretend that it never happened? That she hadn't liked the feeling of his hands on her? Even revelled in it to its fullest extent?

He closed the distance in a few short strides and it was then that she saw he had papers in his hand. Fuck, he'd looked at the photos. Why wouldn't he? Branna cursed, she'd only thrown them down right in front of him and taken off like a crazy woman.

"I couldna' find him. He disappeared." she said breathlessly.

"What is goin' on with ye woman? One minute yer tellin' me ye be done with all this shit, next thing I see ye got secret messages being passed under yer door with pictures of ye, and me fer that matter!" he exclaimed in hushed tones on the busy street. "Who knows yer here?" he added.

Branna looked straight into his face and sighed. He wasn't going to like this. Even less when she told him he had to keep his nose out of it. This wasn't a job for the Saints of South Boston.

"I think it might be Colin. No, I know it has to be Colin. Though how he figured it out I have no bloody idea."

He straightened. The look of fury in his eyes changed into concern.

"Ye sure 'bout that? Ye thinkin' that rat faced bastard could be in Boston?" he asked.

She could see the wheels turning in his head. He was already thinking of ways to track Fitzpatrick down and murder him. She watched as he paced back and forth, running a hand through his fine brown hair. He looked so distraught. If it had been another time and place, if she didn't have the possibility of Colin Fitzpatrick hunting her down, she might have laughed even. He'd always been as readable as a child's books. It was another one of those reasons she'd felt drawn to him, as if his inability to hide what he felt or thought countered her own inability to express in words her own emotions.

"No Murphy. Ye can't. This has nothin' ta do with ye. Let me handle me business. Ye go back to yer brother, and back to whatever godforsaken job ye may have on yer plate. I don't need ye meddling in things ye can't even begin to comprehend!" She grabbed his arm, turning him to face her.

* * * *

He stopped abruptly and looked at her. She looked like a child, barefooted, hands on her hips, huffing and puffing about the big bad fucking wolf. Had he heard her right? She didn't want him meddling in her business? Did she not realize that having those photographs automatically made it his business?

"Come with me ye stubborn wench," he grunted as he grabbed her arm.

"This," he held up the pictures, "This makes it me business."