Hard To Explain | Cillian Murphy Fanfic

"How far away are you?"

"Almost halfway home. Why?"

"Mmm...you might want to turn around and come straight back."

"Is everything okay?"

"Ah, well– listen, we'll talk when you get here. Yeah?"

"Okay. Not your best performance, though," I joked before Cillian hung up.

Enveloped by the silence of my car, all the blood drained from my face. What could've possibly happened in the last 15 minutes that was so pressing he wanted me to come back?

I death-gripped the steering wheel, assuring myself that whatever the matter was, it couldn't have been that major, otherwise he would've told me over the phone. But then again, maybe it was so major that he had concerns about relaying information at the risk of our conversation being wiretapped. Wait, do they still wiretap people's phones? Is that even a thing? Ugh. Fuck it. Who cares. I'd find out what was going on soon enough.

I wasn't too happy about this unexpected detour, however. It was late, and I had been eager for a quiet car ride with nothing except the pitter patter of rain on my windshield attending to my thoughts. Especially after I'd left Cillian's without either of us initiating a discussion about what happens next, if anything at all. And it's not like we avoided the subject in an awkward – or even emotionally distant – sense. Both of us were too preoccupied. I had an interview to transcribe and write, he had a role to prepare for. "Us" could wait.

Admittedly, though, plucking myself off that couch, away from the warmth of his body, away from his scent, had made me feel like complete dog shit. Hopefully "us" wouldn't have to wait very long.

I parked across from his house and turned my car off. With a deep breath, I removed the key from the ignition and mentally prepared myself to step outside, into the rain.

Damn. It was coming down hard. And I didn't have a hood. Or an umbrella.

I should wait until it dies down.

No. His house was literally across the street. What I needed to do was grow up and stop stalling.

Pulling my jacket over my head, I pushed the car door open and ran towards his house. Without ringing or knocking, I turned the door knob and showed myself in, having thankfully managed not to get very soaked.

I entered to find Cillian pacing through the hallway. His one arm was crossed over his chest, while his other hand balled in a fist under his chin. He was chewing on his thumb nail. His shoulders looked tense. It was a "we're fucked" pose if I'd ever seen one.

Blue eyes darting to mine, he stopped like a deer in the headlights.

"Tell me what's going on before I have a heart attack."

"I will," he replied nonchalantly, clearing his throat. He nodded towards the kitchen, "Let's sit down."

I followed his lead with baited breath, now firmly scared.

Instead of actually sitting, he anchored his hands on the granite island counter and stared down at it. He chewed on his lip for a moment before turning his head slightly, letting out a sigh he seemed to have been holding in. "Somebody took photos of us earlier," he said quietly. "Like, a good load of photos."

Weirdly enough, my whole body relaxed. Probably because this wasn't our first rodeo. Although, this time, the situation was a little more complicated.

Either way, I couldn't help but laugh, "Am I having deja vu?"

"Fuckin' tell me about it."

Neither of us spoke for a drawn out beat. This wasn't as bad as I anticipated, but based on his unsettling mix of somberness and aloofness, he had to be scratching the surface of something larger.