"We hide our emotions under the surface and try to pretend.
But it feels like there's oceans between you and me, once again."
It struck Molly, as she was pushing thick slices of bread into the toaster, how little she really new about Jim. In the short time she'd known him, they had exchanged few words on his life before he established himself as a criminal for hire. He had seemed to know more about her than she did herself, so they had left the subject untouched.
"You're Irish," Molly blurted. Jim looked up from his own toast, smothered in black currant jam.
"What else is new?"
Molly mentally scolded herself and turned her back to him, jamming the lever of the toaster down with frustrated force. "Easy there," Jim laughed through a mouthful of toast.
"Well," Molly huffed, turning to face him again. "I just thought that…" She tripped over her words. "I don't know anything about you."
"Is that so."
"Yes," Molly insisted. "I don't know anything about your childhood, your family, anything before we met."
Jim slowly placed his toast onto his plate. She watched his eyes change. A door closed behind them, hastily shutting her from what lie beyond. His jaw muscles twitched.
"You don't need to know," he said finally. His anger was cold, rather than his usual hot fury. There was obvious pain in his voice masked by an effort to feign control.
"I do-"
"Friendly warning," he interrupted, his voice suddenly deeper, "Don't ask me again."
Molly inhaled sharply to reply, but was caught off guard by a flurry of motion; Poppy barreled into the room and threw herself against Molly's legs. A laugh escaped Jim as Molly stumbled backwards. She glared at him. I am not done with you.
"Morning, Poppy." Molly patted the tangled mess of dark brown hair. "Breakfast?"
"Yes, please," Poppy cooed. She chanced a peek at Jim, seated at the table. He winked and Poppy giggled. The dark circles under his eyes had faded somewhat, and the color was beginning to return to his face. Molly wondered absently about his blood pressure, but she could not shake the thought that there was something hiding beneath what met the eye.
"Let me help." Jim leaned over her shoulder and watched her stir a pot of soup.
"No, not until you talk to me."
"I am, I'm talking right now." He reached for a chunk of sausage amongst the vegetables, but Molly slapped his hand away.
"You know what I mean, Jim."
"You're wasting your breath. Are those turnips?"
"Get out of my kitchen!"
Jim threw his hands up in frustration.
"Turnips are rubbish!" He shouted spitefully. Molly watched him storm from the kitchen and felt her lips purse. Just keep at it, there's only so much he can take.
"What's your name?"
"James."
"No, your whole name."
"James Moriarty."
"You don't have a middle name?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I suppose my parents thought my name was already perfect." Jim nudged Poppy with his elbow. She shrugged, accepting it without comment. She let him touch her, Molly thought, surprised. He really was making progress.
"You talk funny."
"I know," Jim sighed forlornly. "The curse of the Irish."
Poppy spooned a chunk of potato into her mouth. "Irish," she mumbled as she chewed. "Ireland." She intoned the word with curious delight. "Is that where your mum and dad live?"
Jim's mouth twitched. There was a long moment of weighted silence. Molly felt the static with discomfort, but Poppy was blissfully unaware. Jim nodded and croaked, "Yeah, that's where they live."
For a moment, Molly watched him flex and unflex his fists. She reached for his arm, but stopped when Poppy spoke again.
"Should I call you Dad?"
Jim's mouth fell open in a perfect 'o'.
"I…" he swallowed. He quickly regained his composure. A smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he restrained it and looked at Poppy seriously. "Only if you want to."
"Alright," Poppy said happily. She jumped to her feet and skipped to her room, already moving on to more important matters.
"That was unexpected."
"You know," Molly said, folding her arms tightly across her chest, "She's going to keep asking you questions."
"So what."
"What will you say?"
"Does it matter?" He screwed up his face and leaned back in his chair. He fell into silent contemplation.
"Jim," Molly prodded. "When will you stop pretending?"
"I'm a good actor, why stop now?"
"This isn't a joke," Molly stated firmly.
"Please," he sneered. "Everything's a joke."
Molly let her hurt bleed through. "Why can't you tell me? What have I done to make you not trust me?"
"Fine," Jim said shortly. His smile was disarming, and Molly was taken aback. There was no humor, but neither was their anger. Molly only saw pain. "If you want to talk about it, we'll talk about it."
"So, Dublin." Molly cast her eyes away from Jim's. He didn't speak until she looked up again.
"Yeah." Jim paced around the room, stopping in front of the window, drifting to the chair, then back again. There was a minute of silence, Jim's eyes clouded in thought, and Molly prodded, "Tell me about your parents."
He seemed to deflate, grow smaller and smaller, then drew from some hidden reserve of strength. When was the last time he thought about them? Molly wondered.
"My mum's name was Marian," he began. He turned his back to her and stared at the window. "She came from money, a rich Catholic family from Dublin. She married down, I suppose."
"Your dad?"
"Cormac Moriarty. He worked in Dublin. I don't know how they met. Doesn't really matter. He wasn't posh, so mum's parents cut her off." He paused. "She was good. He… he wasn't. He was…" He faced Molly again and sneered. "Let's just say that he was an old fashioned Irish bastard."
"Ok," Molly said quietly. "Did he…" She couldn't bring herself to finish.
"Did he hit me?" His voice was edged with venom. "All the time. Had to teach me the ways of the world." He forced a laugh, but it was hollow and fell flat.
Suddenly, a flood of memories overwhelmed Jim's thoughts. He saw his father, muscular and strong jawed, throwing back glass after glass of whiskey while his mother frowned with disapproval. He saw his sister, so young and innocent, cowering beneath their father's glare.
"Janine," he whispered.
"Janine?"
"My sister." Jim's chest felt raw and empty, like a cannon had been shot through him. "She's younger than me." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She was at John's wedding."
"What?" Molly frowned with confusion, then her mouth dropped open. "She was a bridesmaid! That was your sister?" Jim nodded. Molly thought back to the wedding. She could see the resemblance. They had the same round, deep eyes, dark hair, and even the same Irish brogue. Why didn't I see this before?
"Haven't seen her in a while," Jim was saying. He closed his eyes and pictured her, so small. She was fragile, but fierce. "Baby Janine…"
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Jim rubbed his arms self-consciously. "She handled things much better than I did."
"What do you mean?" Molly felt the tension in the air heighten. Jim was holding back. "Jim, what happened?"
"I…" he mumbled. His hands began to tremble, and he sat down next to Molly. His knee brushed against hers. "He hit her," he said quietly. "He hit Janine. He usually just hit me, but one day he got more pissed than usual, and Janine was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Molly placed her hand on his shoulder. Her blood began to run cold. This wasn't what she had anticipated.
"I couldn't let him do that to her, she was just a kid." His voice was wavering with anger. The pressure he had built up inside him was beginning to release, and he was having trouble controlling it. He spoke faster, angrier. "He knocked her down, gave her a bloody nose. I'd just gotten home, from God knows where. I pushed him away. He knocked me back into the kitchen, so I grabbed the first thing I found." He reached forward, reliving the moment. Molly glimpsed tears in his eyes. "It was a kitchen knife. I stabbed him right in the back." His hand fell, his voice harldy more than a hoarse whisper. "So he couldn't hurt us anymore." He nodded to himself. A tear slipped down his cheek and he wiped it away angrily.
"You killed him?" Molly could barely speak. She imagined Jim as a child, blood on his hands, standing over the body of his father.
"Yeah," he said simply. "He deserved it." He looked at her, his face twisted with anger, and said, "I don't regret it, Molly. You know what I'm like. I only wish I hadn't gotten my hands dirty." His eyes fell to the floor. Molly believed him. He didn't regret it, and she didn't expect him to.
"What about you're mum?"
"She helped us hide the body. All she had to do was tell people he'd run off. In the end it was easy." He scoffed. "It was easy."
"Jim…" Molly didn't know what to say.
"A few years later," Jim went on, "I went to school, where I met Carl fucking Powers," he spat. "Then I went to London. I hadn't seen her or Janine in years. When I came home, she was…."
'What's going on?'
'I'm sorry, Jim.'
"There was a fire."
'Where is she? Janine, where's mum? TELL ME!'
Jim's throat closed on his words. He had screamed until his voice was gone that day, wouldn't let Janine touch him.
"I'd made sure no one could contact me, so I hadn't heard…. I didn't know…."
"She died," Molly whispered. She instantly regretted saying it, but Jim nodded, unaffected. "I'm so sorry."
Before Jim could say more, Molly's arms were around him. She pulled him close and he grabbed her. He rested his forehead on her shoulder and his hand grasped at the back of her shirt. There. I said it, he thought. His tears fell onto Molly's shirt. "Thank you," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For making me tell you."
"No, its ok."
He inhaled shakily. "I'm just a man, after all."
"No, you're not," Molly whispered. "If you were just a man, we wouldn't be together, would we?"