Chapter 1
Vladimir sputtered on the couch, hands shaking as they hovered over the bullet wound– the man was in agony. His eyes were clenched tight, teeth grinding together and creating a 'nails on chalkboard' type scratch, the noise only helping to set Matt further on edge. The sound was unbearably loud in the small space, the wet, rasping quality of Vladimir’s breaths turning Matt's stomach, which was nestled somewhere near his toes.
His mind was a mess, his palms were sweaty, and his mouth had gone dry with a level of panic that he didn’t know existed. “Claire is on her way,” Matt said, but the Russian made no sign of having heard– he continued to writhe, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Matt repeated himself, more for his reassurance, than for the man, for his soulmate, bleeding out on his couch. It seemed like a small eternity before he heard Claire exit the taxi; listened as she clambered up the stairs, finally bringing himself to move just as she raised her hand to knock.
“Claire–” Matt began, but she placed one hand against his chest and shoved. Not hard, but hard enough to make her point.
“No,” she muttered, and Matt could tell she was shifting her weight from foot to foot, “just show me where he is.” He pointed wordlessly towards the living room, and she was beside the injured mobster in a flash, Matt right on her heels. She tugged up Vladimir’s shirt, grumbling obscenities and most likely glaring an additional hole into the side of the man’s head, but proceeded to unzip her bag and get to work, anyway. As soon as he had reached his apartment he’d called her, pleading for her to help. He was surprised at the lack of reluctance before she’d ultimately agreed– she must have heard something desperate and unequivocally terrified in his voice. Matt figured she was here more for him and his well being, than for the want to actually help Vladimir survive the night.“This is bad, Matt,” she stated, as she administered a dose of something that knocked the Russian out cold in a shockingly short amount of time. Matt still remained silent– he knew it was bad. He could heard the stuttering tempo of the man’s heart, could heard each drop of crimson that hit the floor, could smell the amount of blood permeating the air.
“You better not die on me now, you son of a bitch,” Matt thought, with a vehemence he’d only been able to scrounge up twice in his life. He listened to Claire work, retrieved whatever she asked for without question, kept tabs on the man’s heartbeat and breathing– it had stopped once, and that was enough, as far as Matt was concerned. He felt the slightest bit of relief when she began stitching up Vladimir’s side, the skin puckering and pulling due to the burn produced by the flare.
“He should make it, but I can never know for sure, especially with injuries this extensive… They did a number on him,” Claire said, rising to her feet from where she was crouched on the floor. She didn’t sound at all saddened by the fact that Vladimir looked like he’d been run over by an eighteen wheeler with spiked wheels. Matt didn’t fault her for it– she had probably hoped for worse.
“Thank you, Claire. If there’s anything I can do–”
“Make sure he doesn’t die– I didn’t waste all of those supplies and a peaceful night in my own home for him to bite it,” she said, hoisting her bag up onto her shoulder and heading for the door. Matt followed. “Call, if anything happens. And take care of yourself, okay? You scared me tonight.”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how things were going to go, and I didn’t want you to be left wondering–” Matt said, just as Claire leaned in for a bone crushing hug. He hugged her back readily, needing this small comfort before being left alone to deal with the consequences of his decision. “You deserve better,” Claire whispered, before hastily extracting herself from his grip and walking out of the apartment, leaving him ridden with unexplainable guilt, and an unhealthy amount of inner turmoil. Did he really deserve better? He stood by the door until he was sure he’d heard her make it into a taxi, before heading back into the living room. He fell heavily into one of his armchairs, dropping his head to rest against the back. The aches and pains radiating throughout his body grounded him– gave him something to focus on besides the wheezing breaths of the man slumbering to his left.
Matt replayed the events of the evening in his head- the abject possession of his body and obliteration of his logical judgement as he had dragged the Russian out of the tunnels with him, despite the other’s violent protests. “I stay!” Vladimir all but screamed as Matt barricaded the door with the rifle, shoving it through the door’s handle to slow down the procession of gunmen hunting them down. Vladimir had repeated that command over and over and over again, until he was left mumbling incoherently against Matt’s shoulder. Matt had no idea how he’d managed to get them both back to his apartment unscathed and unseen, but he didn’t question it– was too afraid to question it, if he was honest with himself.
“Stubborn bastard,” Matt mumbled to the ceiling, kicking off his boots and pondering how such an immense will to live could be packed into one individual. He’d yet to decide if he was grateful for that or not. He was leaning toward the former, given his newfound circumstances. After a few minutes of rest, he heaved himself out of the chair with a sigh, and trekked to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water was soothing, muting the throb of the bruises that mottled his back and his chest. It was also an excellent source of white noise, though the now steadier thrumming of a heart one room over was still easily discernible. Once dried off and patched up, Matt made to get into bed, but decided against it at the last minute.
In a pair of loose sweatpants and a t-shirt, he shuffled back into the main room and collapsed into a chair, pulling a blanket over himself to ward off the chill. He placed his head in his hand and closed his eyes– determined to only rest them, wanting to stay awake in case Vladimir took a turn for the worse. He didn’t think he could handle any worse at this point. But, though his resolve was firm, Matt didn’t account for the sheer wave of exhaustion that would settle down, deep into his bones as the night dragged on; didn’t account for how the small comfort of another heartbeat in the room would allow him to finally relax; didn’t account for the fact that the man’s even, though shallow, breaths, would lull him into unconsciousness.
He also did not account for Vladimir’s sheer stupidity, or sheer will power, as the other man would later claim. The scene that awaited him come morning gave Matt a very clear idea of what was to come in the following weeks of the Russian’s recovery, and he wasn’t looking for to it at all– soulmate or not.