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The café is crowded and noisy. How did he let his so-called friends talk him into coming here?
Murphy stands at the door, his eyes traveling over the exposed beams and the rough brick walls. The counter takes up a whole wall. A blackboard hung behind the barista announces in bold, colorful chalk letters that "the difference between a good day and a bad day is your attitude. (and coffee)." He curls his lip in distaste, buries his hands in his pockets, and saunters over.
There is a sitting area to the left: small round tables with industrial chairs and comfy-looking, worn couches and armchairs by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the street. Along the wall to the counter's right are small, more private four-seater tables, with faux-leather chairs and dark tables on rusty-looking iron legs.
The barista - a freckly teen in a dark brown apron and ponytail- smiles amiably at him. Murphy orders a cinnamon late with whipped cream only because it's the most expensive thing on the menu, and Bellamy said he would pay for it.
The only reason Murphy is here in the first place is because of Bellamy. That man can't stay out of other people's business and, ever since he found "true love," he's become its loudest advocate. Of course, every time Bellamy comes up with some stupid plot, the entire band has to get involved.
Murphy picks the table at the farthest, darkest corner, and plops on the squeaky seat, his back to the wall. From here, he can watch every other patron and has a good view from the door with its little obnoxious wooden sign.
Murphy isn't a fan of people watching. He isn't a fan of people at all. People always try to fuck him over.
He can count on the fingers of one hand everyone he trusts, which are Bellamy Blake and his childhood friend, Raven Reyes. He met Blake when he enlisted at age eighteen after the "Jaha-incident," also known as the "leave-it-alone-or-I'll-kick-your-ass" topic. Bellamy saved his life, took a bullet for him. After they returned, he refused to let Murphy disappear and dragged him into the fold, introducing him to his friends.
Raven and he grew up together in a foster home. They aren't friends, more like siblings. She is a mechanic, the smartest person he knows and, somehow, also a part of Bellamy's friend group - the world is small like that.
And thus, since Bellamy's friends are all meddling people, he's now sitting in a stylish cafe, sipping an overpriced beverage, and waiting for his blind date to arrive.
Murphy has decided he'll hate the girl. Mainly to prove to everyone that he doesn't need a partner.
A young woman walks through the door, walking slowly, purposefully, to the counter. The barista hands her a steamy mug, and the woman looks around. She comes closer.
Murphy watches her approach unblinkingly because he knows people find it unsettling when he does.
She has slanted eyes, golden skin, thick dark hair that falls across her back in waves. She's dressed in worn jeans, combat boots, a long-sleeved shirt, and an honest-to-god underbust corset.
She holds her mug in her left hand, the right at her side wrapped in a thick, formless glove.
She's slim and petite and everything he finds beautiful in a woman. Stupid friends and their stupid knowing him.
"You're John Murphy," it isn't a question, but she waits until he nods to take a seat. She offers her left hand, turned to the side so that he can shake it with his right.
"You must be Emori," he shakes it: her skin is calloused and covered in small white-ish and purple-ish scars. The nail in her pinky is jagged as if it broke recently, and she hasn't taken the time to file it.
Her smile is blinding, showing off white teeth and creasing the corner of her eyes. It makes her look fierce and painfully alive.
She rests her hand beside her cup - green ceramic full of dark, foamy chocolate, the scent curling in the air between them, caressing her round cheeks as it raises towards the cracked plaster of the ceiling.
"So," she clears her throat, dark eyes fixing on the uplifting message scribbled on the wall behind him - A single sunbeam can drive away many shadows- before resting again on his face, "you are friends with Raven?"
"We grew up together."
"That's what she said," she covers the silence by taking a drink from her cup.
Murphy watches her. Despite himself, he's curious to know what else Raven said. And why is a woman like her going on blind dates with the likes of him? "She said you're a soldier?"
"Not anymore."
"Good."
He feels his hackles rise, his voice harsh when he asks: "Why?"
"It's difficult enough meeting people. Don't need the few friends I make going off to die abroad." She offers a cheeky, self-deprecating smile, and Murphy finds himself chuckling.
"I'm sure you've tons of friends," he says because she is beautiful and, if she's friends with Raven, that means she must be smart, too.
Her snort is rough and sudden, like Murphy's taken her by surprise. "Yeah, I'm sure you do, too."
"Nah. I'm too much of an asshole."
"I could be an asshole, too."
"Is that why you're spending your Saturday afternoon on a blind date?"
"Raven's friend thinks you and I would make a cute pair. I had nothing better to do."
Raven's friends are usually Bellamy's friends, too.
"Which one of Raven's friends?"
"The blond with the paint-splattered clothes." He shakes his head, of course, Bellamy's girlfriend is involved, too.
"That would be Clarke."
Emori sips her coffee; when she sets the mug down, she has a foam-mustache. It shouldn't be endearing, but it somehow is. "Yes. What about you? Do you go on a lot of blind dates?"
"No. As I said, I am an asshole. People don't try to pin their friends on me."
"Aw, man. And here I thought Raven appreciated me."
"Nope," he smiles, popping the P for maximum cheekiness, "she probably wants to send you packing back to where you came from."
"Bummer." Emori dabs at her lip with the corner of a paper napkin. "Guess I'll just have to put up with you for a while and then give Raven a piece of my mind."
"You should totally do that. How long is this while we're talking about?"
She hums, her brown eyes skipping off to the side of his head. "I don't know. I guess I'll have to finish my latte. I wouldn't want you to feel bad."
"I'll feel bad if I haven't scared you off before you finish it."
Emori perks up at that. "Is that a challenge?"
Murphy narrows his eyes at her. "You want me to scare you off?"
"I'd love to see you try."
Murphy finds himself grinning. He settles back into his chair, making himself comfortable and sips his late. "You've asked for it."
He tries being rude, but she just laughs and keeps coaxing smiles and startling truths out of him. She's brass and funny and intelligent. She's also willing to offer personal stories of her own in exchange for his, which isn't entirely a first for Murphy, but people tend to disengage when they start to glimpse how fucked up his life is. Not Emori, though. She takes it in, doesn't push when she notices the subject is touchy and doesn't try to give him life-advice. They click their mugs in a toast to how awful and disgusting people are – present company excluded. And he means it.
He genuinely likes Emori, which means he will put his foot in his mouth, and she'll take offense and leave. Murphy is a fucking expert in ruining beautiful things.
"So, what's the deal with the glove?" he asks without thinking and automatically wishes to take the words back. Emori shudders; looks down at her gloved hand. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"No. It's-" she isn't looking at him, and Murphy feels like a dick but can't think of anything to say to make it better. "I guess better now than when-" she shakes her head. Closes her eyes and pulls the glove off. Her hand lies on the table: pale and deformed and, actually, pretty cool. Not beautiful. It's ugly as hell, but still.
He stares at it, and then his hand goes over the table, and he finds himself running the pads of his fingers lightly over the back of hers. She jumps nearly a foot in the air, and Murphy jerks his hand back so quickly he topples his now empty cup. The sound of china on the table echoes loudly. The tension in the air feels like a punch about to land.
"Sorry," he says out of reflex. For a second, he feels his shoulders tensing, trying to curl up, his eyes fixed on a stain on the wooden table, whole body vibrating with a need to flee. But he forces himself to stay, to push his shoulders down and raise his head up to look at her. "Sorry. Not cool, touching other people without asking. Sorry."
Emori doesn't answer. She can't meet his eyes as she wraps her right hand back up.
"You can go if you want," she growls, her eyes fixed on a spot on the tabletop next to the sugar. Murphy has to fight the urge to pull his legs against his chest.
Fair is fair.
"So, is the hand the deal-breaker?"
Emori frowns, he shrugs. "For me, it's usually my orientation." He grimaces at that. "Sends people running for the hills." He forces a smirk on his face, but it feels like a grimace. "For what's worth, I think your hand looks pretty badass."
"Liar."
"Not this time."
They lapse into silence.
EMori plays with the edge of her glove, while Murphy stares past her at the empty cafe. They've been talking for so long it's dark outside, the barista is mopping up the floor. There are only a few students furiously typing at their laptops or engrossed in their books. A couple sitting by the huge windows is furiously making out.
"Now I am curious," Emori says after a moment, and he feels his mouth run dry. He likes this girl, really doesn't want her doing a disappearing act on him. Or worse, doing an Ontari and trying to cure him.
His voice is so soft he isn't sure she hears him, but he forces himself to look her in the face as he says it. Emori hums.
"So is sex completely off the table?" she asks after a moment. "Or can it be negotiated in the future?"
Murphy's jaw hits the floor. He may be in love already. "I…"
She furrows her nose. "Or we could wait and see where this goes? I may not like you long enough for it to be an issue."
"Come now. You find me endearing." He teases her, and he feels something between shifting, clacking into place like the right pieces of a puzzle. This may be the quickest friendship he ever made.
Emori is worth the risk.
Not many people are.
"So. It's getting late." The girl smiles at him, and Murphy feels a spike of fear, his mind supplying him with an unhelpful 'told you so' because that's usually the last he hears from people he's interested in. Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Emori continues. "Want to grab something fancy to eat?" she produces a credit card custom decorated with a monkey holding a wrench. "Raven's paying."
Murphy isn't sure he's smiled so much or so brightly since he was eight years old. As he steps out of the cafe with Emori standing close by his side, he's pretty sure he'll continue smiling until the day he dies.