Hard To Explain | Cillian Murphy Fanfic

Four

After arriving at the pub, Cillian headed to the bar and ordered us each a pint. Honoring his habit of remaining as incognito as possible in public, I sought out the most discreet booth available and sat down.

He was taking longer than expected at the bar. I popped my head up from the booth and scanned the room. I noticed he was still posted up, stuck in conversation with the bartender. I waited another few minutes and he eventually trekked over with two beers, settling into the seat across from me.

"The god awful thing about this damn haircut," Cillian said, pointing at himself, "is that everybody knows who I fucking am."

Wanting to respond, Actually, the god awful thing about that damn haircut is that it makes everyone around you incessantly horny, I instead asked, "What prompted that?"

He downed the Beamish and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Bartender. He wanted to chat me up about the fuckin' show."

I couldn't fathom how annoying it must've been for him to get stopped by random people all the time. People who felt entitled to his time and privacy. I panic when I run into people I know at the supermarket, so being bombarded by total strangers who expect something from you sounded like a nightmare.

"I grabbed the most lowkey table I could find," I said. "Let's just chill and have a good time, get to know each other a little better." A genuine smile formed on his face and his shoulders loosened up at my proposition.

We'd barely transitioned from small talk into more personal topics when two sheepish uni students appeared next to our table, each double fisting stouts. Without exchanging words or even eye contact, Cillian and I knew what was coming.

"Hi, uh, you're...Cillian Murphy, right?" one of the guys interrupted, his eyes darting between Cillian and the floor.

He exhaled almost imperceptibly, careful to hide his annoyance. "I am."

"We, um, got these pints for you and the lovely lady," the other one mumbled. "Big fans. You're like, an absolute legend." He placed the drinks in front of us and his friend concurred, "Yeah, straight up ledge. Any chance we can snag....uh...a photo with Mr. Thomas Shelby?"

It's remarkable I didn't physically cringe out of my skin like a molting lizard. I was so uncomfortable. Much more so than my company, who was sadly used to these interactions.

"Sorry lads," he apologized, dismissing them. "I'm off duty right now, but thanks for the pints and the kind words. Appreciate it."

The two guys' faces dropped, but they thanked him for his time. After they disappeared back into the crowded pub, I sunk into my seat and took a therapeutic sip of Beamish. He raised his eyebrows and rested his elbow on the table, his hand stroking his chin like nothing had happened.

"So where were we?"

Although we attempted to resume our conversation, every few minutes, the next group of over-indulgent fans would approach our table. His face developed a look of anguish that grew with each encounter. They all went through the same motions: nervously singing his praises, making corny Peaky Blinders references, asking for photos, getting rejected, and presenting him with a pint. Not even an hour had passed and he'd received enough beer to serve the national rugby team.

Having already forced myself to choke down wine tonight, I tapped out after two drinks. But Cillian prevailed. Between getting bombarded by fans, wrapping a rigorous filming schedule, and, whether he cared to admit it or not, grieving the reality of his divorce, the man deserved a sloppy night. Plus, if he was gonna plaster himself into oblivion around anyone, I was the safest and least judgemental person for the job.

Aaaaaand he got absolutely sozzled. I cut him off before things got too messy and before he could effectively embarrass himself in front of the company of strangers. Luckily, he kept his ramblings between us for the most part, but once he started jabbering about his ex, I made the decision to escort him outside.

We walked towards a nearby park, which I hoped would give us privacy and help him metabolize the alcohol faster.

"Listen, that Nadia...." he garbled. "She...of course she's gettin' fucking married to that feckin' prick. "She's a real catch, that woman, I'll tell ya. Shame we didn't work out."

I wish our night hadn't been ruined by so many beer-drinking Tommy Shelby enthusiasts, because a drunken tirade is not how I wanted to receive my introductory course on his ex.

"Yeah, sounds like a great woman. Anyway–" My effort to change the subject was cut off by Cillian, who was now slumped on a bench.

"Oh Nadia, that Nadia," he said wistfully. Then his tone shifted to a more resentful one. "Not like I want her back. I fuckin' moved the fuck on. I got my own life now."

"Why'd you break up?" I implored. Because why not at this point.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Hmmmm. She got sick of my crap. Was 'too good' for me, I guess," he jeered, attempting to make air quotes with his fingers. "But– but, such a beautiful son we have. Beautiful son with no fucking direction in his life. Real waster, he is. A shame. A real shame. My fault, probably."

"Shame" was our word of the night, I guess. Tired of having sat all evening and unwilling to dive deeper into divorce talk, I stood up and lit a cigarette, facing him in front of the bench.

"Can I have– may I have one? Please Y/N?" he practically whined, extending a limp arm and frantically waving his hand at me. 

This was getting embarrassing.

"No," I said. "I don't want blood on my hands when you start chain smoking again."

Puckering his bottom lip, he frowned like a child amidst a tantrum. "Fine, I can get one, a fag – you don't say that in America because it means something else – from Liam's room later. It's my fuckin' house, it is. And I know he's got 'em."

"C'mon. Stand up," I said abruptly. "We're getting you home. You're too far gone."

"Who are?" he asked, holding out his palm for me to help him up. I grabbed his hand with mine, the brief contact igniting my fingertips in a rush of cold flames. Then, out of nowhere, he planted a deep, unprompted kiss on my cheek.

"Cillian!" I exclaimed, restraining a giggle. I nearly shat myself. "Do not do that."

"Oh fuck was I not supposed to?" There was grave concern in his voice, as though he had committed an unforgivable act. It's not that I objected to him kissing me by any means, believe me. I just didn't want it to lead to anything he might regret once sober.

"You're allowed to, just right not now," I explained, keeping our hands locked together. To help him balance, of course. "Let's drive back."

He hastily searched for the key ring in his pocket and we made our way towards the Audi. I prayed that we wouldn't somehow get in a car crash on our way back from the pub. Financially, I couldn't afford that shit.