Disclaimer: As may be inferred from the presence of one Murphy Brown, this is a work of fiction and does not purport to be a factual representation of Rachel Maddow's life. Murphy, meanwhile, was created by Diane English.
Notes: Began 03/04/09; finished 05/12/09; posted 05/12/09. Written for 
bessemerprocess' prompt (Rachel is out, but Murphy may never be) as part of 
lgbtfest. Summary quote by Milan Kundera.
Feedback: Rachel@fangirl.nu or comment on livejournal.
"It doesn't bother me," Murphy told her, "when you drink." But it bothers Rachel, so she let her liquor run out and took up a new hobby. Her muddler is useless now, but she's too sentimental to part with it, so it makes a whimsical addition to her office in 30 Rock.
It still feels weird to have an office in 30 Rock.
Rachel is somewhere in New Jersey, watching with disdain as the cafe car attendant gives someone's martini two pitiful shakes. It's Friday, and Friday means taking the express train to Washington. Rachel has some half-formed hope that Murphy will move after Avery graduates from high school, but she also suspects that Murphy won't give up FYI before Lesley Stahl leaves 60 Minutes.
Rachel tries to concentrate on her newspaper, but there's movement flickering at the edge of her vision: the man on the stool beside her keeps glancing over. Even with her TV face washed off, she's been recognized. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, she likes to tell Murphy that she's been made. At Rachel's detective impression, Murphy will frown and smile all at once, as if after three years she still can't decide if Rachel's dorkiness is charming. Rachel retreats to the quiet car before her neighbor can decide on a conversational gambit; she is grateful for her success, but greedy for her privacy.
It's half past two when they pull into Union Station. Rachel streams off the train with the rumpled suits, a familiar flare of energy speeding her toward the yellow light of the parking garage.
Murphy grins and pops the locks as Rachel trots over. Before the door can shut, Murphy's pulled her across the gear shift, into a kiss. "I missed you," they murmur.
Murphy brushes her thumbs against the dark smudges beneath Rachel's glasses. "You look tired."
"You look great."
Murphy rolls her eyes. "Buckle up, Casanova." She looks over her shoulder and begins to back out. "Let's get you home."
They met at an industry mixer. It was just after Rachel had joined Tucker, and no one was paying much attention to the tall figure in Buddy Holly glasses standing against the wall. Rachel was contemplating a mediocre cocktail and wondering if she could leave yet when she looked up into sharp blue eyes.
Murphy did not introduce herself. "Rachel Maddow," she said.
Rachel blinked; Murphy was justified in her presumption, because even though Rachel didn't have a TV, she still knew Murphy's face. "Yes?" Rachel asked tentatively, actively suppressing the urge to check for some other Rachel Maddow standing behind her.
"Isn't it past your bedtime?"
"Excuse me?"
"I know I'm tired, and you sign off before I get up."
"I took a nap," Rachel replied, and then blanched at her inanity. The radio show's five a.m. timeslot was getting to her after all. Or perhaps it was the scrutiny of those eyes.
"We should talk sometime," Murphy said, "outside all this." She waved dismissively at the room full of increasingly drunk anchors and pundits.
"Okay?" Rachel agreed, and wrote her number on the back of one of Murphy's cards.
Sometime turned out to be the following weekend, when Murphy had tickets for a concert at the Kennedy Center. Afterwards, Rachel lurched into a spiel about being on her way; Murphy rolled her eyes and invited Rachel home, carefully unconcerned as she explained that her son was visiting his father.
Somewhere in between discovering that Murphy had a mural of the Industrial Revolution on her kitchen ceiling and that she caterwauled Motown in the shower, Rachel realized she'd be spending a lot more time in Washington.
Saturday means waking up contorted into the sliver of bed that Murphy, still ill-used to sharing, has left her. Rachel brushes her knuckles along Murphy's ribs until her eyes slit open. They seem to challenge Rachel to prove that she's woken Murphy up for a good reason.
After making love, they doze, satiated and indolent, until Murphy gets up to make brunch. Rachel whines at the loss and burrows beneath the covers, but soon she's drawn downstairs by the promise of real maple syrup. She and Avery sit shoulder-to-shoulder, their hair identically mussed, and wolf down pancakes in sleepy synchronicity.
Avery takes the car, with Murphy's grudging approval, to a friend's house; she and Rachel take the Metro to the Mall. Murphy asked her, once, why she still carries on like a tourist, but, more than once, Rachel's caught her looking down the Reflecting Pool with wonder.
This Saturday, Rachel chooses the Botanic Garden. The conservatory air fogs the glass that protects it from the February chill, and Rachel sighs happily as they stroll through the greenery, sharing anecdotes about their weeks.
"...but by lunch I'd sent that one back to HR, too."
"Two secretaries in three hours? You're a mean old lady."
"And proud."
Murphy hesitates on the catwalk suspended above the rainforest. Rachel, engrossed in the novel view of the canopy, doesn't notice until she says, "I went to the doctor yesterday."
Vertigo, thick and fast. "Oh?" Rachel asks, almost managing to sound casual.
"Routine checkup. I should hear back about the mammogram on Monday. Anyway." And the length of Murphy's stride increases.
"Hey." She catches Murphy's wrist, squeezes her hand. Murphy exhales, ducks her head gratefully, and somehow they end up outside still holding hands.
A man admiring the cast-iron sea nymphs supporting the Bartholdi Fountain glances up as they approach; Murphy stiffens as his eyes sharpen in recognition. She drops Rachel's hand, smiles her tight, fake smile, and says, "I'm starving. Let's find a food cart."
Rachel was profiled in Curve when she was 21. Sometimes she wonders how that kid with the blue buzz cut and black motorcycle jacket who called herself a big dyke ended up in people's living rooms every weeknight at nine. The fact that she has longer hair, a gray suit, and says lesbian now probably helps.
It was Rachel's second weekend in Washington when she said, "So, you date women," and promptly wanted to die, because someone who talked for a living should have come up with a better segue.
They were in Rachel's hotel room; school had started and, Murphy had explained, she didn't want to bother Avery until she had something to bother him with. Murphy, who was redoing her makeup, winked in the mirror. "When properly motivated."
Rachel, who was still lying in bed, admitted, "I was surprised."
Murphy shrugged. "It's been a while, I guess. If we could not contemplate how you were in short pants then..."
Rachel thought about telling Murphy that she had helped to found the Washington chapter of the Lesbian Avengers. Instead, she said, "I can try to be discreet, but I don't really fit in the closet."
"While I do?" Murphy scowled and put on her glasses. At the time, Rachel didn't know that they obscured rather than sharpened her at that distance. "Contrary to the editorial policy of The National Enquirer, America doesn't have the right to know everything about me, Dr. Maddow."
But America is going to know at least one more thing, and soon, because someone is going to realize that the country's first openly gay host of a primetime news program doesn't keep turning up at Murphy Brown's side to trade bons mots.
Sunday means waking up with Murphy's hand sneaking up her side. Just when Rachel realizes she's actually awake, the hand stops and Murphy suggests that Rachel run out for croissants and an extra copy of The Post.
"A mean, mean old lady," Rachel mutters as she struggles into her sweatpants and complies.
Once she's returned from the corner bakery, they debate both the news and the way it's reported, and race to complete the crossword. Avery shuffles downstairs around noon; Rachel wordlessly hands over the chocolate croissant she's saved for him.
Avery's a good kid, so he plays Monopoly with them after lunch. He and Rachel team up to cheerfully bankrupt Murphy, and then he leaves to see a movie with some friends, or possibly, based on how his cologne nearly chokes Rachel when he tells her goodbye, a girl.
That leaves them alone again, and a mock debate over the ethics of turning a woman's only son against her somehow becomes Rachel kissing down Murphy's throat and pressing her palm against the scar on Murphy's breast and determinedly not-thinking about the mammogram results.
After they shower, there's nothing to do but pack and drive to Union Station. Rachel's eyebrows rise when Murphy changes lanes for the garage; usually, she drops Rachel off at the curb. Soon they're standing wistfully on the platform, Rachel fiddling with the strap of her duffel and Murphy with the belt on her coat.
"Avery didn't want me to tell you this," Murphy confesses, "not until he heard back, but he applied to a summer program at NYU. We'll be on hiatus then, so..."
A grin blossoms on Rachel's face. "Summer in the city?"
"I'll need a place to stay."
Rachel hooks a finger on the belt of Murphy's trench. "I think I can help with that."
A disembodied voice announces the imminent departure of the express train to Boston, calling at Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York.
Murphy sighs and steps back. "Call when you get in."
"Yes, dear. Well." Rachel adjusts the duffel's place on her shoulder. "I love you. I'll see you Friday."
Murphy flushes, but her gaze doesn't dart to the other commuters. "I love you, too. Now scram."
Laughing, Rachel boards the train and waves goodbye through the glass door. The train shudders into motion, and somewhere in her subconsciousness, a timer restarts.