Taxi Driver
“Would you like something to drink?”
The half-hearted offer sounded cheerfully nonchalant, despite your racing thoughts and thundering pulse. The man - well, the invading enemy, more accurately - smiled politely, his glassy eyes barely masking the discontent he felt in your modest living room.
“No, thank you, ma’am.” Wesley gestured to the couch and the armchair across from it. “Mind if we sit?”
“Please,” you offered. Wesley glanced at your couch with a pause too long to be considered comfortable. After this beat, he sat down, and the slow and measured movement of the motion gave you enough time to catch a slight wrinkle around his nose. His subtle disgust faded to formal courtesy the second he met your eyes again.
What? Too good for a polyester couch?
You personally found the couch to be perfect. It had been an affordable purchase, and its sturdy fabric was excellent at staving off stains thanks to its deep chestnut color. It complemented the burgundy-tinged hue of your walls and the warm beige of your shag carpet - one of your favorite splurges - and was a near-exact match to the large brown leather armchairs you adored. The couch also contrasted pleasantly with the various royal blue, purple, and gold accent pieces you’d used to decorate the space - picture frames and art pieces, an empty vase, a few soft blankets and pillows, the works.
Plus, that couch was ridiculously comfortable.
And yet, despite all of your beloved couch’s outstanding qualities, Mister Armani here turned his nose up at it.
Figures.
You sat in an armchair, settling into the lightly worn leather without sacrificing your posture or resolve. If the apartment was your kingdom, the chair was your throne. This man would have to understand that your rulership should not be taken lightly.
Then again, if he’s bothered by my inexpensive couch, he’s not gonna give a shit whether I deserve respect or not.
Wesley seemed to share in your consideration of posture and presentation. He sat back against the couch cushions, eliminating rigidity in his posture while conserving sharp lines and shapely formations of each limb and extremity. Wesley’s hands lay clasped between his slightly-parted legs, any hint of tension impossible to notice. You knew it was an act; you’d seen and done it before, practicing careful precision in how you came across many times over. He was like a robot - metallic and heartless, about as much of a soul in his body as there was light in his eyes.
Which would be none.
Wesley cleared his throat. “So, Miss O’Malley-“
“Please,” you interjected, your heart beating through your chest and up your throat. Your voice didn’t betray you, staying smooth and steadily calm. “Call me Selena.”
“Certainly,” he accepted. “Selena - as I mentioned, I work on behalf of a range of businesses in the neighborhood. Recently, some of my clients have faced some… struggles, regarding their business. I’m conducting some research on different facets of our ever-interconnected community so that I can better serve these clients of mine.”
You nodded, waves of electric fear spiking through your bloodstream with every glimpse into Wesley’s emotionless eyes. “I see. I have to ask - how does this concern me?”
Wesley laughed, the thing hollow and cruelly false. “I see you’re a woman who likes to cut to the chase.”
Your eyes narrowed, blood fuming beneath the skin of your face. “Depends on the context.”
“I only mean that you’re efficient,” Wesley insisted in a calm drawl. “I won’t waste your time. I’d simply like to get some information from you, if you don’t mind.”
You settled the stirring in your stomach, felt gravity pull you desperately to the ground as you flew off into the danger of such a discussion with such a villainous man.
“Might I ask your name, then?”
His eyes somehow grew colder as his smile flourished under false warmth, liquid cyanide disguised as a cool drink on a hot day. “My name is irrelevant to our discussion.”
“It’s relevant to my end of it.”
Wesley took a measured breath, his gaze on you sharpening so much that you swore you could feel his eyes tracing bloodthirsty scrapes into your skin. “Well, given your occupation, I can understand that perspective.”
Your brow furrowed.
“I mean,” he continued, that cheshire-cat grin eating away at your resolve. “you are a federal employee, are you not?”
Spikes of warning shot up into your chest, screaming at you to fight or to run instead of freezing where you were in that poor excuse for a throne - however homey and comfortable it may be. Wesley, on the other hand, was reclining in subtle comfort on your affordable couch, no longer bothered by its price tag, a smug look passing briefly over the carefully structured defensive strategy that was his face.
You eyed him with self-made suspicion, working overtime to eliminate any fear from your expression. “I doubt my career has anything to do with your business research.”
“On the contrary, Selena,” Wesley leaned forward, resting elbows on knees, his fingers still intertwined. “It’s quite relevant.” He smiled, a slight sneer jumping at you from over the coffee table. “To my end of it, at least.”
Dickhead.
Your brain was scattered, searching through itself for a counter-move.
Of course he knows my fucking job. Probably not specifics, but this is James Wesley we’re talking about. If he knows my damn address, he knows where I fucking work.
Okay.
Just breathe.
Focus.
“Well,” you cooed, acceptance and defiance both evident in your voice, “If you know my position, you understand why I can’t speak with you without a name. Basic self-preservation.”
Wesley nodded. “Very well. You can call me James.”
What?
He could have just given a fake name - but he didn’t.
That’s either quite unprofessional for his practice or remarkably bold.
Either way, it’s concerning.
You eyed him, the suspicion in your eyes nearly impossible to mask. “Thank you, James.”
“Of course. Now, moving forward - are you familiar with an enterprise by the name of Alias Investigations?”
Shit.
“I… believe I am, yes.”
Jessica’s fierce eyes and the curl of her snarling lips shone harshly in your mind’s eye. This morning, she’d parted ways with you in fear for her safety, and now?
Now you were witnessing that very threat first hand - sitting right where you sat when Jessica told you she no longer wanted any part of this.
An anxious buzz prickled needles down your body from your toes and fingertips, driving your hands and feet towards a numb, cold prison of unease, and you hoped - you desperately hoped - that Jessica was okay.
“To make a long story short, one of the companies I represent has reason to believe that this enterprise was intruding on their private business meetings.” Wesley’s words nearly went through one ear and out the other.
All you could think of was Jessica.
But, for her sake, you pushed yourself to listen.
“We took it upon ourselves to meet with a representative of Alias Investigations, and - well, this lovely young woman was forthright enough to offer us a list of their current clientele,” Wesley hummed, the sound so false you thought your ears might call him on his bullshit. “And, among the multitude of names, was yours.”
You moved your head in a slow nod, keeping your eyes trained on his, working to show no signs of shock or confusion or fear.
“Forthright?” Meaning she gave up the names with no pressure, no concern? Bullshit.
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
“Yes. I did some minor business with Alias Investigations.”
“Recently, you did, yes.”
“Yes. Recently.”
“So, Selena,” Wesley continued, his smile looking less like a smile and more like a snarl, “I’m meeting with those on said clientele list for the peace of mind of my employer.”
You nodded once more, crafting intrigue into your expression. “To figure out who did it?”
“It’s simply for peace of mind, I can assure you. And, should any issues arise,” Wesley paused, the glass of his eyes seeming to form into shards directed right at your very soul, “my employer and I will handle them as we see fit.”
The federal agent in you shone her pearly whites at Wesley, making no effort to hide that they were fangs at their core. “Within legal parameters, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” he assured, leaning back to cross one leg over the other. A flash of white-hot understanding passed over your eyes.
Protective body language. Right after a mention of legality. Huh.
Says a lot, doesn’t it?
Your lips curved slightly as you unfolded a lie so well-practiced, you almost believed it to be true yourself.
“I can assure you, James, my arrangement with Alias was quick and simple. When dealing with matters of a more, say, neighborhood level,” you explained, talking with your hands as if any of your statements were accurate, “federal agents sometimes enlist the help of additional local investigators, just to verify sources and information. The locals know all, we sometimes say.”
The steady timbre of your voice couldn’t quell your racing heartbeat, but still. As long as Wesley wasn’t secretly another Man in Black, you knew the lie would hold. The execution was too good for it not to.
Wesley seemed satisfied with your explanation, but something flickered in his brow. “It’s my understanding, Selena, that you’ve lived in New York since - well, high school, at least. Why would a local such as yourself need this sort of assistance?”
This motherfucker. At this point, what doesn’t he know?
“New York’s a big place, James,” you laughed, the sound of it so natural that no one could know it was painfully rehearsed. “And I didn’t grow up in Hell’s Kitchen, anyway. Besides, when protecting national interests is your concern - you can never be too careful.”
Wesley nodded, a slow upward curve forming on his lips. “I share the same sentiment - concerning my employer, specifically.”
You nodded with a sardonic, sneeringly-pleasant smile. “Then we understand each other.”
Wesley eyed you for a slow moment that felt like an eternity. His glasses softened the angular grit of his expression - took him from a snake to, more or less, a human being.
“Well,” he drawled softly, menacingly polite from his piercing eyes to his clasped hands, “I won’t keep you.”
You nodded curtly and got to your feet as Wesley got to his. He extended his hand over your coffee table, and you grasped it, not so firmly that you’d push him the wrong way, but sure to press your fingers into his skin enough for him to feel the pressure.
“All the best to you and your employer.”
He laughed. “Thank you. And, if I end up needing anything else-“
You interrupted him, desperate for this piece to come from your lips instead of the controlling power of his. “You know where to find me.”
After one more beat of Wesley’s infuriating, snarling glare driving through your skull, he stepped around your coffee table towards the door. You followed him, opening it, desperate for this slithering risk of a man to slip right out your door and never return.
As Wesley stepped past the divide, he turned back, a slight narrowing of his eyes offset by that sullenly vile smile.
“Please give Miss Jones my best. She's got a lot to... consider these days, from what I could tell.”
Oh God.
Something broke in your carefully formed expression.
Miss Jones.
Jessica.
Whether Wesley noticed the shift of fear on your face or not, he only offered a sharpened version of his snakelike smile, spun on his leather-bound heel, and strolled off down your floor’s hallway. In a slow robotic movement, you let go of the doorknob and let your arm fall to the side of your body. You felt your hand twist against the fabric of your blazer, dragging thick cotton in and out between your fingertips. The door shut on its own with a soft thud, finally drawing a sharp line of protection between you and James - well, about as much protection as a door can realistically offer.
And what about Jessica’s protection?
You raced into your bedroom, dialing Jessica’s number as quickly as you could. In your rush, you realized that you’d left your entire suit - mask, gloves, everything - strewn over the floor of your room after your adventure with Matt.
One wrong look from Jessica or Wesley, and this could have been all over. Smart move.
That didn’t matter now, though. Sitting on the edge of your bed, your blood pounded through your body faster than light as you waited desperately for Jessica to answer your call.
Pick up.
Pick up.
Pick up.
God, Jessica, if you don’t pick up, I’m heading down there myself-
“Hey.”
You gasped, relief crashing down on you like a three-story wave at the sound of her voice. “Jessica, I-“
“Don’t. I’m fine.”
“I-“ you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say, what to ask. “That man- Wesley-“
“He stopped by? Of course he did,” she laughed bitterly, the sound a dark crackle through your phone. “Paid me a visit, too, which I’m sure is the reason you’re calling.”
“Jessica, I- are you okay?”
“I told you. I’m fine.”
You knew Jessica was too aggressively independent for any statement like that to be convincing. You were often the same way - if anyone could see through a Jessica Jones “I’m fine,” it would be you. “Are you sure? If there’s anything I can do-“
Jessica hissed your name through the phone, interrupting you with a sound so cold, you swore you could feel the icy bite of it against your skin. “The best thing you can do is lose my fucking number.”
“Jessica-“
With a beep from the other end of the call, it was over.
She hung up.
You sat there, the phone still to your ear, listening to the silent thrum of your breath, your heartbeat slowing, a wave of despondent acceptance washing through your bones. Lowering the phone to your lap, you let your head fall back and closed your eyes in a silent moment of grief for every moment that had ever happened before this one.
Maybe I should just call in sick.
You didn't call in sick.
It wasn't your style.
That said, your style could sometimes be described as simply working yourself half to death to avoid dealing with your emotions - but this wasn't an example of that.
You did, however, call to advise that you were dealing with a family emergency and would be very, very late, if you could make it in at all. Luckily, Tammy was the one to answer your call; she tended to be the more understanding one out of her and Janelle.
The elevator gave a soft ding as it reached your division's floor. You strolled out of it, bag in hand, passing some of your coworkers who, done with their work for the day, were headed home. You turned the corner towards the grand line of cubicles and grinned.
"Well, good morning to you," Ray laughed, walking towards you from his cubicle. Today, he wore a red tie and a tweed blazer that almost matched the beige shade of yours. The edges of the skin around his nose seemed just a bit raw, and his eyes were just a bit watery.
"Feeling better, I presume?" you teased. Ray sniffled, and you noticed a whisper of congestion thickening his voice.
"Good enough to come in, but Seema fought me on it every step of the way."
You smiled with a sigh. "Maybe you should have listened to her for one more day."
"Maybe Selena's right," bellowed a guttural, commanding voice from behind you. "Don't want you sicking up the office, Nadeem."
Murph.
You stilled. Ray gave you the quickest of looks before turning his attention to Murph with a well-plastered and carefully constructed smile - bright enough to be friendly but not so bright that Murph would assume they were friends. Turning to face the guy, you gave the same expression, though yours was even more carefully reserved.
"Very funny," Ray laughed, the sound of it hollow and mechanical.
"Hey, Murph," you offered, working to relax the clench that had taken hold of your jaw, your fingers tapping nervously against the leather handle of your bag.
Murph wasn't even that close to you, and yet it was still too much.
His unkempt, scruffy fuzz of a beard was an odd match with his tailored blue suit. Although he looked professional, the slimy, half-open curve of his mouth shaped a smile too grotesque to be workplace-appropriate. It wasn't a judgment of his appearance - it was the wolfish, hungry energy his expression projected, that foul desire inside of him that sent your heart thumping out of your chest. Murph's eyes, glassy as they were, reminded you now of James Wesley; his unforgiving and predatory stare focused only on what he wanted.
What he believed he was owed.
"You shoulda seen this girl last night," Murph crowed, his eyes on Ray. "Stoic as hell. No Velluchi rat was gonna get past her."
"I don't doubt that, Murph," Ray affirmed from behind you. You kept your eyes trained on Murph's, held your wary gaze steady and your false smile firm as the empty pools of his eyes trailed down to meet yours.
"Glad to see you, Selena," Murph crooned, stepping forward to walk past you.
You clenched your jaw, hoping for basic decency, expecting the worst.
Please.
Please just keep your damn hands to yourself.
You felt the air around you shift and turned your head to see that Ray had taken a sharp step forward. He stood between you and Murph, staring him down, the hand that Murph may have used to grope you now effectively blocked by Ray's body.
A wave of relief flooded through you.
Murph's gaze shot to Ray, a flash of red cutting through his icy eyes.
"Whatcha doin' there, Ray?"
Ray's expression was stone, stoic, fierce, with no hint of a smile near his eyes nor his lips, his body angled towards Murph, blocking him from you as best he could. His voice was clear, concise - simple and yet saying so much.
"Just stepping through," Ray hummed, a fiery whisper with cold implications.
Murph glanced at you, then at Ray, before he stepped around the two of you and back towards his cubicle - but not without a near-silent huff. Ray turned slightly as Murph walked off, the crane of his neck sharply focused. His arms and posture remained opposed to Murph as the sick bastard went, working to keep you protected without even thinking about it. Your pulse had slowed, your quick breaths deepened, and although you could defend yourself if you had to, it was reassuring to know you had people around you who would be on your side. Ray turned to face you, apology written everywhere on his face, from his subtle frown to the concern filling his dark brown eyes.
"I am so sorry I left you with him last night."
"No, no," you began, shaking your head and hands. "You were sick."
"Did he do anything?"
You hesitated. "No."
"Selena. Tell me the truth."
"I-" you faltered. You wanted to say, I am telling the truth, but you weren't. Not really. Murph might not have grabbed you, groped you, or pushed yourself onto you - but even though the man let you be for most of the mission, he still ended it with a carnivorous stab of grinning threat through your chest.
Next time, save the stripping just for me.
And, who can forget the cherry on top:
Sel.
Just remembering the words churned your stomach, your coffee-bagel breakfast threatening to soar out of you and all over Ray's clothes.
"He- he just said some things, Ray. He always does."
Ray narrowed his eyes, his voice lowering even more than it already had. "What sort of things?"
"It doesn't matter. Just offhand comments, like always. I'm fine."
Ray frowned at you, his dark scowl further enhanced by a flicker in his jaw. "If he lays a hand on you-"
"Ray," you assured, promise and petition in your voice as you placed a hand on Ray's arm. "I'm really okay."
He eyed you briefly, drawing a deep breath into his chest. "Fine. But the moment he touches you is the moment he loses every grubby finger on those unwashed fucking hands."
You laughed, and though it was tinged with lingering fear, the laugh itself was genuine. "Good to know."
The rest of your short day in the office was both scattered and simple; you and Ray worked together, with you catching him up on what he'd missed and him helping you further examine some details on the Velluchi case.
You touched on using his clearance, and he assured you that he'd figure something out - but it would have to wait a bit longer. That, you didn't mind so much. You were just glad to have him back.
Unlocking your apartment door, you all but fell inside with a heaving sigh. It was late and dark and unseasonably cold, and stepping out of your heels gave your aching feet an incredibly freeing sense of warm relief. You'd left the heat on in your apartment, and although you'd normally be cursing yourself for letting that slip with the already-bleak look of your bank account, you were too tired to care.
Barefoot and dragging your bag and your posture like they were near-impossible weights, you padded into the living room, a million memories of this room and all its experiences - good and bad - swirling through your head.
Jessica cutting you off, maybe for good.
The taste of the coffee Matt sent you, warm and delicious and sparked with care.
James fucking Wesley flexing his power and intimidation, tainting your beloved couch with a venom most snakes couldn't handle.
And, fleetingly - Matt's hands on your leg, on your face, fingertips gentle and soft as he worked to help you heal.
The mix of emotions was cut short as you glanced to your window - and nearly jumped, nearly shouted, your bag hitting the floor like you'd hit the floor with Matt in that storage container.
Clumsily, fearfully, inevitably, as adrenaline coursed its familiar might through your veins, your heart sputtering into high gear, muscles twitching at the ready should you need to run - or fight.
Just outside the window was a statuesque mass of black, and your immediate thought was that Wesley hadn't been as satisfied with your earlier discussion as you thought, and tonight you'd be fighting for your life right in front of that godforsaken couch.
As your heart and mind settled and your eyes regained focus, you caught the intricate twist of black fabric at the back of the man's head, remembered the shape, curves, and lines of his growingly familiar body, and breathed.
It's Matt.
It's just Matt.
You flew over to the window and unlocked it, pulling it open.
"What are you doing here?" You huffed - not impatient, just curious. He didn't turn around.
"I-" Matt began, his normally-sure voice faltering. "I didn't mean to scare you. I need a favor."
"It's okay." You furrowed your brow. "Why don't you come inside and-"
"No," he stated, shaking his head. "We haven't- you're not wearing your mask."
"I mean, we talked about everything this morning, Matt. I-"
"It's a line we haven't crossed, and now isn't the time." Something in Matt's voice was crackly, breaking under some weight you didn't know about. His last word was soft, pleading, and imbued with a hint of desperation, of need. "Please."
You hadn't really thought about such a line. In a way, it seemed almost sweet - the unspoken intimacy of being both Selena and the Nightingale, and Matt and the Man in Black, in the same fleeting moments, in one another's presence. It was a line you hadn't considered - and, now that you thought about it, he was right; it was a line you hadn't crossed.
An arbitrary line, an arguably unnecessary line, but a line just the same.
But the guy can't even see me, plus he can sense me not wearing the mask, anyway - makes no sense.
Whatever. Bigger things to think about.
"Oh- okay. Okay. Just give me a second."
He let out a long sigh, dipped his head, and you were momentarily relieved at this slight release of tension you saw in him - thought it didn't last long.
"Please hurry."
You ran back into your room and changed as fast as you possibly could.
Bright side of leaving your stuff all over the floor - it's easy to access when needed.
Leaving your hair down, you tied your mask around your face and ran back out to Matt.
"Okay," you breathed, your brow furrowing with concern. "What's up?"
You stood at the window, and Matt finally turned, facing you. His jaw wouldn't stop flickering with tension, clenching and unclenching so much you couldn't tell if it was on purpose or some sort of nervous twitch. His lips twisted and pursed, shifting with worry and lined with every wrinkle of his racing mind.
"Someone's in trouble. A friend of mine. I- I need you to help me get to her." He paused, reconsidering his words with a frown. "If you can."
You nodded, finally understanding his worry. You'd felt it before, for others in your life - for Jessica, and other people you cared about. And, above all, you knew time was of the essence. "Yeah, whatever you need-"
"I need your motorcycle."
You frowned. "I-"
"Before you ask, I can ride."
"Not what I was gonna say, but - okay. I mean- wow." You paused, your eyes narrowed in interest. “How’d you learn to ride?”
A laugh escaped him, but the lightness was gone as soon as it had appeared. "Took a chance on it once. I should be back before midnight, but it could be longer. If there's any damage, I'll take care of it."
This was what you were afraid of. As much as you wanted to help Matt, him taking your beloved motorcycle into the dead of the crime-ridden night of Hell's Kitchen was not going to happen.
Not without you.
Your voice was sharp, decisive, set. "Absolutely not."
Matt's lips parted in a scowl. "Selena, she's in serious danger-"
"I'll drive you."
He paused, dumbstruck. "No, no, you don't have to. "
"I'm going to." You glanced toward your bedroom, catching sight of your black hoodie and helmet through the crack of the open door. Looking back to Matt, you placed your hands on the top of the window. "I'll be at the bottom of the fire escape in five."
Matt wrinkled his nose in protest. "Selena-"
You interrupted him for the hundredth time by slamming the window shut. He tipped his head back in exasperation through the glass, and his mild irritation almost made you laugh.
Almost.
Racing into your room, you threw on your hoodie and boots and tied your hair back at a speed nearly unimaginable for most at this hour. The familiar weight of your helmet felt welcome in your hand, and you paused for a split second to embrace it before grabbing your spare for Matt. With everything in order, you sprinted out your door and - since the elevator was still heartbreakingly, devastatingly broken - down the stairs.
You hit the garage level and felt like your lungs were about to burst. Every breath was a desperate heave as you ran. Turning one corner, and then another, you finally reached your parking spot and took a breath of victory.
The bike shone beneath the stark garage lighting, ever-present scents of concrete and exhaust filling your nose as the sleek black metal of the motorcycle gleamed at you.
Beautiful. She's beautiful.
Any thought of your bike possibly being traced to your identity wasn't even on your list of considerations - although you did finally have a reason to be grateful for the lack of security cameras in your parking garage.
You'd be out and back like nothing ever happened.
And, bottom line - Matt needed you.
Allies, after all.
You pulled your helmet on and mounted the bike, straddling the seat like you'd done a million times before and holding Matt's helmet between your legs.
A thought crossed your mind - the realization that Matt would have to straddle the bike in the same way, except he'd be behind you.
Right behind you.
Every part of him would be pressed against you, held tight and still by his arms around your waist - his chest, hips, legs, everything would be meshed to the back of your flesh, save for mere layers of cloth and hesitation, all too easy to remove.
You shifted your jaw, shook your head, and willed that sensitive heat budding between your legs to shut the fuck up.
No. Taking it slow. And absolutely not the time.
Your engine roared, and you drove toward the garage door, hitting the button clipped to the bike that allowed you to open it from a distance. The white and lightly stained metal monstrosity choked and sputtered before rolling, on rusty hinges, up towards the ceiling. As soon as enough of an opening formed between the door and the ground, you careened through it, cold wind snapping through you with a biting rush.
You turned the corner and sped down the alley leading to your fire escape - and there Matt was, standing in the shadows.
With a swerve, a cloud of water droplets and dust flew in Matt's direction as your back wheel ground over the rough, damp pavement, the bike skidding to a stop. Matt stepped toward you, and you tossed him the helmet that had been perched precariously between your legs. He caught it with no effort.
And thank goodness for that. So fucking hard to ride with something between the legs.
You almost groaned at the irony of your inner monologue.
Nope. Not gonna entertain that pun.
Not. At. All.
Matt reached your bike, towering over you where you sat, your hands still clutching the handlebars. You kept your eyes trained ahead of you, watching scattered cars and their headlights zoom down distant streets through the darkened tint of your helmet.
"I don't want to make you go with me," Matt insisted. "You're safe here. I don't want to be the reason why that changes tonight."
You shook your head. "Put the helmet on."
Matt leaned his head down in an attempt to get you to look at him - and look at him, you did. His frowning lips twitched with what must have been a harried mix of worry and exasperation, and your heart softened further at the sight of him so broken up.
All the more reason for him not to be riding your motorcycle.
"You can go back inside. I've got this-"
"Do you wanna save your friend or not?"
It wasn't a snap; it was just serious - to the point. Matt pulled his head back with a barely audible grunt, and you sighed.
"You can direct me. Just put the damn helmet on and get on the bike."
He clenched his jaw but - despite his ever-present stubbornness - stepped back and lifted one leg over your motorcycle, moving behind you.
Your breath hitched as he sat down, the fabric of his cargo pants grinding against you. The words you could manage came out closer to a flustered whisper than an actual, audible sentence as you struggled to find your breath.
"You- you're gonna have to put your hands-"
"I know," he breathed, the sound husky, gravelly, his body settling into the seat. You gulped and felt the heat of him partly dissipate as he leaned back to put the helmet on.
But, as he leaned back, his hips pushed forward, and you felt his legs clench towards each other - pressing his inner thighs against the outside of yours, and again, pressing his hips right into you.
God.
This is gonna be a long drive.
With his helmet secure, Matt leaned forward once more, enveloping the entire back of you in his heat. You thought that maybe, just maybe, him leaning forward would release the pressure of his pelvis against your lower half - but nope.
It just made it even more unbearably, undeniably there.
Now, his abdomen was pressed against your lower back, along with his hips and everything between them. Since you leaned slightly forward, his chest didn't touch you - but the second you started driving, and he had to hold tighter, that would change. Even leaning back slightly would knock your shoulder blades against his pecs, the back of your helmet against the front of his - and if you hadn't been wearing helmets, it would be your hair against his lips.
With a hitch of his breath and a hitch of yours, he slipped his hands around and over your hips, the soft touch turning to a firm grip. A hot flush drew itself over your face, through your chest, leaking in achy, throbbing curls through your core and lower. Even with your helmet covering your face, you swore - swore - you could smell vanilla and incense, cinnamon swirls wrapping around your neck, shoving themselves down your throat in a total consumption of your entire being.
Matt dragged his hands closer together, pressing into your abdomen with richly hot pressure that bled through his gloves, your hoodie, and your shirt, right into your skin. You could feel every part of his hands, from his palms to his fingertips, pressing against you - even his wrists and arms dug against your waist. His chest pushed against your back, and finally, he was all against you, all around you, from shoulders to hips to other parts you shouldn't be thinking about.
"Let- Let's go," he huffed, the sound of it gruff and gravelly and thick with all sorts of tensions - some anxious, some fierce with focus on the fight ahead of him, and others?
You didn't want to make any assumptions, but a certain extra pressure against the small of your back was convincing enough for it to be possible that a particular layer of his tension was reserved just for you.
Either he's happy to be so close to me, or- well.
Wow.
You almost wanted to snicker and couldn't resist making a comment.
"You okay back there?" you asked, the innocence in your voice swirling under layers of teasing arrogance.
Matt scoffed, and you could hear a grin forming around it. "I'm all good, thank you."
You nodded and shifted in your seat - just enough so that your back would grind against his front.
Bold. Stupid.
His hands twitched against you, and he tried unsuccessfully to stifle a grunt, clearing his throat.
Worth that reaction, though.
You could feel tension shoot its way down his arms and through his fingers as they stiffened over your core, felt his chest rise into a deep breath as he worked to keep himself as cool as possible.
All good, huh? You sure about that?
"And you?" Matt asked after a brief pause, leaning his head over your shoulder. You heard him drag in a long, indulgent breath, moving his thumbs slowly up and down against your abdomen. The warmth between your thighs multiplied into an uncontrollable, slick sensation of want, primally inescapable and certainly not helped by Matt's next breath: deep, sure, and ending with a dark chuckle that reverberated through his chest and right into you.
"You okay up there, Nightingale?"
Matt was distraught, upset, terrified for his friend and full of fury at those who'd put her in danger - and yet, he was still flirting like his life depended on it.
The arrogance.
Something about it, though - something about that arrogance - made this even more… difficult.
You scoffed back at him, refusing to show a single hint of acceptance that you were far from all good. "Never better."
He laughed and tapped at your sternum. "Heartbeat, Selena."
Fucking him and his fucking ears.
At that, you swallowed down the rising heat inside you - pushing it as far into yourself as you could manage - and revved your engine. Matt pulled his feet up onto the footrests, and you kicked off the safety, placing your own feet on the footrests and roaring out into the street.
You soared down the road, ripping through the wind as it tore through you. The snarling breeze, the ever-present growl of your bike, the honks and revs of other cars as you raced each other beneath streetlights and starlight - it was no less exhilarating than every other time you were on the bike.
This time, though, you had a Devil at your back, wrapped around your body like a choking grip of sweet nothings at your throat.
You were entirely entangled, this meteoric ride built of desperate grasps, clenched jaws - and the sharp, heated grind of cloth against cloth, body against body, with every turn, every slow of the bike, every wild increase in hurtling speed.
Yeah. It was hot.
"Next left!" Matt called out over the noise. You nodded and pulled off around the corner. He gripped onto you impossibly tighter, his head dipping against your shoulder with the turn. You felt the hard press of his helmet's front against you and couldn't help but want the feeling of his skin, his forehead, his ever-soft-looking lips on your shoulder instead.
As if in response, Matt wound his arms entirely around your waist. Under the guise of a motorcycle ride, it could be excused as simple safety measures.
The way he pulled himself against you, though, pressed his hands into each side of your waist, his arms wrapped with unimaginable power and, really, almost needy desperation around your body, enveloping you in his strength, his heat, his scent-
Well.
That begged to differ.
Safety measures, my ass.
You knew, though, that Matt was worried. Hurting. Scared for his friend, desperate to save her from whatever it was that had her in its clutches.
On a level inside yourself that you hadn't really explored, you felt a slight pang in your chest at the thought that your presence could be more of a healing crutch for Matt than something he'd want… just because. Still, if your company gave Matt some level of comfort in this state of distress, you knew without a doubt that you were glad to be a source of solace for him. If anyone understood what he was going through, even just by a bit - you were as good an option as any. It made you glad that you could help, even if the manner of this help might be superficial.
Your breath stuck in your throat at that thought, catching you off guard. You don't tend to get caught up in these things - not on your bike, not when you're on a mission, and never before with Matt alongside you.
Do I…
Do I want it to just be superficial?
Matt called a few more directions to you as you went, and you hurtled through the streets, around corners, down bends, and through alleyways, where such a shortcut was possible.
You hardly had to think as you drove. Matt warned you of any incoming car, passersby, bike or cat or dog or bird that could get in the way, letting you focus on driving as fast as you could.
Heightened senses, I guess. Probably the best driver out there.
And yet he can't legally drive.
The irony.
"It's that warehouse," Matt exclaimed, nodding his head toward a large warehouse at the end of this otherwise empty street you were just turning onto.
No matter the twists and turns, sharp curves or blasts of wind, the one thing that didn't change was Matt's grip on you.
Tight and unrelenting, soft yet deliriously rough.
You pulled up to this warehouse - which, you surmised, was actually a garage. A few yellow taxicabs were parked in a scattered, disorganized arrangement in and around the surrounding parking spaces. Though the garage itself appeared bland, lacking in decor or branding, the taxis each had one type of decal on their doors or trunks:
The name Veles Taxi in brown, swoopy lettering.
"Take me around to the very back," Matt directed. "Their security's caught up. No one's out there."
You did as he said, pulling the bike around to the back of the building. Weaving through the scattered cabs was relatively easy, and - since no one seemed to be outside - you felt the last twists of worry in your stomach recede just slightly.
Matt's arms stayed wound tightly around you, even as you stopped the bike a few feet from one of the back garages. Squinting, you noticed that this particular door lay just slightly ajar, the end of it hanging above the ground in a nearly unnoticeable and oh-so-close manifestation of almost, but not quite.
The unwinding of Matt's arms from your waist felt almost unnerving. The security of his strength, his unyielding grip - it was almost addictive, for lack of a better word. He pulled off his helmet and handed it to you before pulling his leg around the bike to stand.
"Thank you, Selena," he whispered, something flickering in the half of his expression you could see. "I mean it. Thank you."
You kicked down the bike stand and pulled your own helmet off, hanging it and the spare on the handlebars before getting off to stand in front of Matt. He was afraid, concerned for his friend - but a part of him had regained that steady sureness you often noticed in him when he fought. The mask felt heavy and unnecessary on your face, but, for his sake, you kept it on. Besides - wouldn't you be helping him further?
"Of course. Here, I saw that garage door - the one that's open slightly. Maybe the two of us can lift it enough to slip inside, and from there, we can-"
"Oh, no, no, no," Matt shook his head. "No. It's all me from here."
You almost snorted. Desperate for your help, and now he was refusing it. "You know I'm here to help you. Allies, remember?"
"You did help me, and I'm so grateful for that - you have no idea," he insisted. "But this fight - this is something I need to do on my own." Those last few words carried a certain bitterness, a subtle twinge of merciless cold in how he spat them out, as if they were made of rot and sludge. It nearly made you shudder, and you weren't even the one he was after.
"Matt, are you sure?"
His face curved in a half smile, and he placed a hand on your shoulder. "I'm sure."
Although he'd literally been fully pressed up behind you for that entire bike ride, this touch still made your breath hitch. Matt drifted his thumb against the seam of your shirt and, after what felt like an eternity, moved his hand closer to your collarbone. Goosebumps prickled over your skin as his gloved fingers dragged back against your neck, leather and fabric breathing heated life into your bare skin. Matt's fingertips traced over the base of your hairline, and his thumb trailed softly from the corner of your jaw to the skin beneath your ear and back again. You stood there, stupefied - floating in some warm, breathy, flyaway haze, all mush and pieces beneath his touch.
"Thank you," Matt breathed. "So much."
You looked up at him and could feel a glowing mix of wonder and fear and need in your eyes. With the way his lips parted, you knew he felt it, too.
Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him in one fluid motion. Your hands slid up his back, tasting every bend in muscle and bone with your fingertips until you let them finally dig a pleading grip into his shoulders.
Burying your face in his neck, he smelled the way he always seemed to - incense, cinnamon, vanilla - and you dragged in a heady breath of it, willing the scent to fill your lungs and stay put.
Matt stood there for a split second, as if in shock, before returning the embrace with equal measure, his grip on you as strong as it was on the bike - if not stronger. He clung to you, released a long and harried breath, the weight of what he had to do tonight feeling like less of a burden with his arms wrapped around you - with your arms wrapped around him.
"I'll be okay, Selena," he assured you, the words murmured against your hair where his head had dipped, his face resting lightly against your head.
You nodded. "Okay." A pause, and then, one of the most intimate things you'd said to another person in a very, very long time, the whisper of it hauntingly heated:
"I trust you."
It connected back to that moment of darkness, coppery blood, knives and filth and a need for stitches, where he'd asked you to do exactly what you were admitting in this moment, to trust him. Was it an out-of-place statement to make in this context? Maybe, maybe not. Your expression of trust in Matt and his capabilities, though, had only a brief effect on him and you, the moment fading as he moved to finally pull away and get to his mission.
Your heart still stopped for a moment, though, because as he pulled away, you could have sworn you felt a barely-there brush of his lips over your hair.
It was like that other moment you'd shared the night he stitched you up - where you'd discussed your childhoods and your fathers and realized, however slightly, that you weren't quite as alone as you'd each thought.
Not quite something - but certainly not nothing.
After one final tilt of his head and upward quirk of his lips, Matt turned and stalked off toward the garage, a man on a mission - a savior, no less. You watched him grip that open garage door and lift it just enough so he could slip under and inside.
As you stood there, your eyes drifted to the wall beside this garage door, catching on the gray metal of a control panel's door. An idea raced to the front of your mind, and you sucked in a breath.
You ran over to the control panel and - after a few unsuccessful yanks - pulled its door open. Looking inside, you grinned.
Perfect.
It was the same type of panel that your apartment building had. The panel at your building was inside, though, just in the parking garage. There'd been many times, due to snowstorms or animal interference or just faulty wiring, where you'd fiddled around with it in vain attempts to get the power and heat back into your apartment. You'd grown to understand this sort of paneling quite well.
With that understanding, you flipped every light switch in the panel, effectively sending what you hoped would be the entire garage into a world of pitch black, a midnight before true midnight took hold of the city. Though Matt couldn't see with his eyes, you now knew that he had other ways of seeing - and it was safe to assume that his opponents tonight did not. After shutting the panel door and giving a quick look around, you sprinted back to your bike.
Driving off into the night, you smiled to yourself, hoping against hope that even if you weren't helping Matt inside the ring, you could at least give him an advantage. The wind whipped itself around you as you drove, reminiscent of electric speed and the violent softness of hands around your body. Tendrils of breath on your skin were fresh in your mind, as were the brush of lips over your hair, spreading a white-hot blush through you - born of cinnamon, vanilla, and smoke.
Matt had slipped under that garage door and stepped silently and smoothly around corners and corridors, a man on a mission. A woman’s scream jarred him, followed by a shattering of glass, heavy breathing, and the slam of - wood, yes, wood, like a bat - against metal.
Claire. It was Claire’s scream.
Listening closely, he could hear the voice of a man with a faint Russian-sounding accent and caught the tail-end of one of what Matt was sure had been many heartless remarks:
"I will begin breaking you, a piece at a time.”
Matt nearly snarled with fury at this heinously evil man. What level of despicable do you have to be to kidnap a woman and beat her into talking?
Especially when Claire didn’t know a thing, not really.
But now wasn’t the time to worry about that. Not anymore.
Matt’s thoughts ran from him, and he stormed forward, his targets narrowed, each step stronger than the last-
-and then, the lights went out. He heard their soft buzz cease, felt their slight warmth disappear.
Despite the grim nature of the situation, despite the rile of wrath and guilt and fury multiplying through every inch of him, Matt's lips formed a slow, knowing curve.
Selena.
His chest buzzed with a thrum of warm gratitude as he stormed further into the garage towards his prey, more ready than ever to pounce. Everywhere from his head to his chest to other parts of him throbbed as he thought of you.
In truth, he hadn’t been able to get you off his mind, not hardly for a moment since he’d first met you. There was something there, though, with Claire - but although she was wonderful, you were different. You knew both sides of him and, from what he could tell, understood each side - so far, at least. He’d known very few people in his life who shared that understanding.
Matt huffed and shook his head, focusing on the task at hand.
Still, he smiled to himself before diving headfirst into the bloodbath, your scent and sensation at the base of his mind, the motivation at the birth of every prowl, every punch - whether he’d admit it to himself or not.
Claire, he’d save.
And after that?
Well, he might just come for you.