Passenger
“Let’s get you home.”
Home.
Yes.
I can manage getting home.
After you each put your masks back on, one of Matt’s arms curled tightly around your waist for support as the two of you walked toward your exit. Your right arm, strung across Matt’s shoulders, was gripped in his other hand, and his help in carrying your weight was much appreciated by your overworked and injured body.
Whether it was appreciated by your ego, though, was another question entirely.
The warmth of that moment between you and Matt lingered, but it faded slightly in your stalk back to that ladder. You would insist on walking faster, and Matt would insist on being more careful with your leg - all while you chastised him for his hypocrisy, knowing he must have gotten his own beating tonight. He did tell you he was caught in one of the blasts before taking on the other Ranskahov brother, and gave you a brief review of what had gone down - from a near-arrest and slim escape, to a poor cop caught in a crossfire they didn't understand, to Vladimir's near change of heart and his subsequent death. Your lips pressed together at that revelation - two brothers, finally brought to their demise at the hands of the very evil they devoted themselves to.
Perhaps now, at least, they'll find peace.
”So… that’s everything that happened?” you asked Matt. He paused - lips parting with a twitch as if looking for the right words - before he nodded.
”Yep. Yeah.”
You frowned. “That was about the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”
He sighed. “We’ll talk about it once you’re not bleeding out, okay?”
You snorted. “Whatever.”
To be honest with yourself, you didn’t entirely mind saving detail-heavy discussion for another time. In any case, though, you were not about to just let Matt's suffering go. Hobbling past stained walls of yellow, through that maroon tunnel, under the shine and intermittent sputtering of stark emergency lights - you insisted at every chance you could that his exhaustion and potential injuries mattered, too.
You also worked to insist that you were far from in need of Matt's help. After all, you'd sped here on your motorcycle to rescue him.
If anyone had been able to hear your light bickering, they would be equally parts amused and deeply concerned.
“You need to be careful-“
“You’re one to talk, Matt. If you can walk off being blown up, I can handle walking with a little slice under my hip.”
"A 'little slice' that is dripping blood down your leg. Not to mention the bruising on your back. Come on."
”Okay, be real, bruises are not stopping me from being able to walk on my own-“
”No, but when you slip and fall on your own blood trail from that ‘little slice,’ you’re bound to end up with a lot more of them.”
"Hey. For all we know, you could have internal bleeding or broken ribs or something, which is markedly worse. I swear, Matt, I'm fine."
"Would you please be serious right now?"
"You be serious. I am fine."
At the base of the ladder, the two of you… disagreed on who should go up first. Matt wanted you to so that he could ensure you wouldn’t fall. You, however, pointed out that if you went up first, no one would be there to help your poor injured self out of the manhole.
If you can't beat them, join them - momentarily. To get your way.
After a few brief grumbles, Matt agreed to ascend the ladder first.
”You’re being unreasonable-“
”Seriously, Matt? You’re injured, too.”
”I’m barely injured. And I’m not the one bleeding and coughing up ashes.”
”Right. Sure. So, you should be the one to go up first, anyway - since weak little me will evidently need more help climbing my way out of here.”
A pause. A barely audible grunt. Then:
”You know what? Fine.”
Ha.
As Matt began his climb, you looked both ways down the tunnel, your eyes tracing its gravelly cement floor as it faded into darkness at one end and a sharp curve to the left at the other. Memories of striding through these tunnels as a bright-eyed, hopeful you from years ago, branching off into a new life for yourself - a life where you could undoubtedly be the good guy for a change - those memories coursed through you now. You smiled to yourself as you placed slow hands on the railing, leaving that pleasant reminiscence of hope and future beneath you in the underground.
Now, at the top of that ladder, your head peeked up through grimy darkness into cool night air to see Matt standing in front of you, his boots inches from your eyes. You tipped your head up to view him fully, eyes tracking across the shadows formed down his body by the low blue-toned light of the night. Matt’s shoulders seemed broader from this angle, his strength intimidating, menacing - until his shadowed lips quirked up, hands extending toward you. Light unfurled in your chest - mingling with the still-present stubborn flame of the moments before - as you grabbed one hand, then the other, and felt your weight become feathery light as he lifted you up, the ache beneath your hip little more than an afterthought.
Your toes landed on the ridged edge of the manhole, bumping into the toes of his boots - and, with your weight unsteady, you tipped forward. Matt’s hands flew to your waist as yours flew to his shoulders, your breath hitching as your body pressed, unintentionally, against his.
“Sorry,” you breathed, fumbling as you slid sideways and out of Matt’s grasp. He chuckled at your awkward movements, but kept a guiding hand outstretched along your back in case you lost your footing again.
“All good.”
With a shake of your head, your steps regained their confidence, despite a slight limp, and he let you walk alone.
Finally.
It was a win for your ego, sure - but that space around your waist where Matt had been holding you so tightly felt just a bit colder without his touch. That sensation of loss was quickly overcome, though, by the subtle, heated buzz of the tension between the two of you. It rippled over your skin in waves, unrelenting and feverish, staking an unquenchable claim on the free space in your mind.
Fighting to shake that warm feeling, you walked over to your motorcycle. You ran your fingers across the seat and stepped around the bike to grab your helmet. Matt’s careful footsteps weren’t far behind.
“Thanks, Matt,” you offered, turning to him where he stood on the other side of the motorcycle. “Get home safe, okay?”
He snorted. “You’re not serious.”
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
“There’s no way you’re taking that thing home on your own.”
You scoffed at his insistence. “Well, thank you for your help, but I think I’m good from here.”
“I said ‘let’s get you home,’ not ‘let’s get you to your motorcycle.’”
Lifting your helmet, one of your brows arched slightly, and you could see the line of Matt’s brow furrowing beneath his mask. “I can assure you, Matt, I’m more than capable of-“
Matt’s grab of the other side of your helmet stopped you mid-sentence.
“You’re also more than capable of crashing and injuring yourself further.”
You shifted your jaw, eyes narrowing at his gloved grip, before darting to where his eyes lay beneath the mask. “Let go.”
He released his hand with a shift of his own jaw. “Sorry. But you’re not risking anything else tonight. I’m driving.”
“Are you insane?” You hissed. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s only one helmet.”
He shrugged. “I drive better without a helmet, anyway. Makes it easier on my senses.”
You grit your teeth, the man’s lack of concern for his own safety irking you. “This is absolutely not happening.”
“It is.”
“It is not.”
Before you could stop him, Matt reached over to the handlebars and lifted a leg over your bike, settling into the seat. The way he straddled it so smoothly, so simply - well.
That opened up a lot of images in your head that you really didn’t need right now.
Matt tilted his head up to you, that mask-clad face now beneath yours - though his attitude made it seem as if he thought he was eons above you.
“It is.”
A thick breath sloughed its way through your chest.
Stubborn motherfucker.
You stood silent in front of him for a minute, tapping your fingers across the front of your helmet. He sighed.
“Look,” Matt started. “Your smoke inhalation doesn’t seem too bad, but still. I can’t have you fainting mid-ride and ending up torn to shreds on the pavement. Shockingly, it's highly unlikely that you have a concussion, but that doesn't mean you should be hopping on a motorcycle right now. Plus,” he reached down, brushing a finger toward the sensitive cut in your leg. He didn’t touch it, but the movement was enough to make you step back in a grimace. After a beat, he smirked, leaning a half-inch forward. “That leg doesn’t need any more use tonight, as you are evidently aware.”
Your chest rose with another breath, and you stepped back toward him, regaining your earlier stance. “And what happens when the cops see you riding a motorcycle with nothing but a mask covering your eyes?”
“Too many of them are caught up at the warehouse, or,” he paused, tilting his head - and grimaced. “Or helping drag people out of rubble to notice my lack of a helmet. Or my mask.”
You shuddered. Still, you stood your ground, though it was growing shaky. Both metaphorically, what with your weakening argument, and literally, with spurts of fatigue-induced dizziness zapping at your head.
"But- but you were injured, too. I can't let you drive," you insisted. “Not only could someone see you, potentially blowing our cover - but it’s just not safe.”
Matt sighed, his voice softening. “What part of what we do is safe?”
You shifted your jaw, your sharp eyes on him relaxing.
Good point, I guess.
Your fingers tapped nervously along the front of your helmet, a steady thrum of beats chorusing four-by-four. Softly, Matt reached up a hand and placed it over your twiddling fingers, his warmth bleeding through not only his layer of glove but yours. Your movements slowed and stopped beneath his touch, and you drew a shallow breath. He ran his tongue over his lower lip and tipped his head up to you, whispering your name as if in a desperate plea.
“Please.” Matt’s voice was low and light, soft and clear in the alley’s jagged, grimy darkness. “Let’s just go, okay?”
Your nose twitched, upper lip curling, and your eyes fluttered closed.
Passenger.
On my own damn bike.
The guy got practically blown up tonight, and he’s fine riding without a helmet? And this soon after?
But - no convincing him.
Evidently.
“Fine.”
Matt’s lips twitched, hinting at a smile. You ignored it and tugged your helmet on, the tinted visor dimming your view by just a touch.
“Here,” he offered, stretching a hand toward you. “Put your weight on me to get on. I don’t mind.”
You snorted, but grabbed his hand all the same.
From the side of the bike you were on, you had to lift your right leg up and over to get into the leather seat. Gripping Matt’s hand, you sucked in a breath and lifted, finding you really had to lean into him to minimize the sharp dig the movement spawned in your left thigh. Your other hand flew up to his opposite shoulder to find more support as you leaned yourself properly over the bike. There was no way, though, to brace the slide of your body down Matt’s as you took your seat, your right hip grinding down the fabric along his back.
As you sat down, you noticed him still. A few slow breaths drew his back to expand and contract in front of you, and you could just make out a prickling of goosebumps over the back of his neck - though you weren’t sure if they’d come from the cooling night air or… something else. After a beat too long, you unclasped your hand from his and let go of his other shoulder, resting your hands on your thighs.
"Alright," Matt drawled, his words coolly sure, deeply slick. "You know the drill. Arms."
Your nose pricked up as your hands resumed their anxious tapping, this time against your thighs. "I don't need you to tell me how to do this."
Matt snorted. "Then why are your hands still in your lap?"
The attitude of this man.
You shifted your jaw, brows knitting together in defiance.
"What, you want my hands on you that badly?"
The muscles along Matt's neck flickered in strain as he straightened with a huff. You remained still, watching his head crane back toward you, lips curved in a haughty mix of self-assurance and impatience.
"What I don't want is for you to fly off the bike into traffic."
"Please. If anyone should be holding on tight, it's you. At least I have a helmet."
"Yeah. You do," Matt answered curtly. You tilted your head, eyes narrowing.
"You didn't answer my question."
"It was rhetorical. It doesn't need an answer."
"But you do have an answer, don't you?"
Matt turned his head away from you and let it fall back, a silent groan stringing itself from his chest. You found your eyes catching, once more, on the way his broad back expanded and contracted with the depth of his breath.
"You know, it's a wonder you work on your own."
You scoffed at his impatient remark. "And it's a wonder I haven't just shoved you off the bike already. You should be grateful I'm letting you do this, you know."
As much as you'd tried to stave it off, a twinge of tease drew up from your lips with that last statement. Matt turned his head back toward you, his sharply-defined side profile once more on full display, lips curved in a slight, entertained smirk.
"I should be grateful?"
"Of course you should," you kept on, leaning in just enough so that Matt would have felt the warmth of your breath on his exposed neck if you hadn't had your helmet on. You swore you saw a shiver pass through him. "Especially when I know your answer to that question is that yes, you do want my hands on you that badly."
Matt ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, an amused grin only briefly stifled. His voice was low, smoothly rough. "Bold assumption."
At that, you trailed your fingertips down your thighs, tiptoeing them lightly onto Matt's hips, seated snugly against you. Glancing up, you caught him clenching his jaw, though he didn't turn his head away from you. You smiled as you turned your focus toward his back once more, the faint lines of muscle around his shoulder blades rippling in shadow beneath scattered streetlight glare. With a touch as light as you could make it, almost tickling in how it feathered over him, you trailed your fingertips around to his front. Grazing his lower abdomen, you felt the skin jump beneath your subtle touch and, after that brief tease, moved your hands higher. His back expanded once more with another deep breath as if in an effort to stay composed.
Finally, you stretched careful fingers over Matt's torso, wrapping your arms tightly around him as you pressed gloved hands into his sides. And you swore - you swore - you felt a shudder wind through him at your touch. You let your body lean forward, chest pressing into his back, and you tipped your head closer to his, smiling with your own dose of lilting arrogance.
"I'd consider it more of an educated guess."
A beat passed. Matt shifted his jaw and, with a grin, ran his tongue again over the inside of his cheek before letting it drag over his lips. He turned his head back toward the front of the bike and gripped onto the handlebars with a low chuckle.
"How creative. Stealing my line."
"Says the one stealing my bike."
At that comment, Matt kicked off the safety and revved the engine, the motorcycle sputtering to life with a hearty roar. He tipped his head back to you again, and you found your brows raising at his need for the last word - but gulped when his right hand drifted back to tap the knee of your good leg.
"Better watch that attitude, sweetheart."
You blinked, part of you wanting to swat at him for his sass. The rest of you, though, hitched into silence, your own sass shoved into a warm and stilling haze by that one well-chosen, thoroughly-sarcastic word, its echo buzzing through you from your head to your legs and everywhere in between.
Sweetheart?
With no warning, Matt gripped back onto the handlebars and pulled fast and furious out of the alley and onto the road. The air snapped at you both in response to your quick cut through it, and lights from streetlights and speeding cars shone glaringly through your helmet to meet your widened eyes. In Matt's quick acceleration, you had no choice but to grip him tighter.
And, as much as you would not be admitting this to him, not with the banter you had going so far - you didn't mind.
Didn't mind at all.
The ride back was fast, zooming, cased in adrenaline, and dripping at the edges with the lightest hint of fear. Matt wasn't exactly a cautious driver. You tried your best to warn him of stoplights and signage, but you weren't always quick enough - and the two of you received a great number of angry honks after speeding through red.
Multiple times.
Though Matt was, admittedly, quite adept at riding the bike and avoiding obstacles - even at high speed - his swerves seemed hungry for danger. He'd turn and curve as fast and as sharply as possible, toeing the line between a successful movement and a slamming drag across the ground. Without thought, you found your hands creeping up his body, found your arms winding tighter.
Sure, you went fast, and there were nights when you'd drive just like this - but holy shit.
One arm stayed tucked around his waist, pulling so tightly into him that you swore his spine was digging into your stomach. The other arm slid higher, a hand stretching up to almost greedily splay over his chest. Somehow, still, in the winding rush of this ride, your thoughts betrayed you.
Even his chest is pure fucking muscle.
Your hand gripped itself against the dip between Matt's pecs, your palm finding its home at the center of his ribcage for a moment. At another sharp turn, the hand rose once more, crossing further across him so that your fingertips dug into his shoulder. You dipped your helmet-clad head, the visor pressing against the curve between his shoulder and neck, adrenaline surging through you as he powered forward.
Matt finally approached the alleyway next to your building and swooped into it. You were about to warn him to slow the fuck down before he slid into an abrupt drag, the back wheel drifting as he finally brought the motorcycle to a stop, jerking you in your seat. A few moments passed, your chest caught in a flutter as you worked to catch your breath. Matt's voice brought you back to the present moment, the sound of it curling into an amused smile.
"We're, uh… we're here."
In the chaotic whirr of Matt's driving, you'd become utterly wrapped around him - more held up by Matt's sturdy, stable body than by the actual bike.
Your eyes widened at his remark, and you quickly uncurled yourself from around his torso. Even your legs, despite the ache of your thigh, had pressed against his. You placed your hands in your lap, leaning back so that your chest would no longer be literally connected with his shoulder blades.
"I… yeah. Of course."
Matt chuckled. "You know, if you wanted to stay like that for a minute, I wouldn't-"
"Shut it."
He laughed again, the sound of it quiet and warm. You watched as Matt lifted himself off the bike and pulled his leg up and over with ease, not even brushing your own leg with the movement. You pulled off your helmet, hung it on one of the handles, and looked to Matt to see his head tilted toward your building, a questioning expression on his lips.
"Security cameras don't work - that's still the case, right?"
You shook your head. "Doubt they'll ever be fixed. Sucks. But it can be helpful."
Matt nodded. "I'll get you up there and take the bike inside. As long as nobody really sees, we're good. I wouldn't normally recommend taking the fire escape for something like this, but seeing as you have an identity to protect here," he grimaced, his head tipping upwards. "Doesn't look like we've got another option."
You tipped your head up at the fire escape. Nighttime clouds floated out from behind the top of your building in a mix of hazy threat and faded peace, and the initial rungs of the fire escape seemed much less of a challenge than that grimy manhole ladder. Some sections were metal stairs, some sections returned to rungs before lifting up into a platform and another set of steps. You sucked in a breath, far past the point of arguing with Matt for any more of this night, no matter how light the banter may be.
Just a few stories.
No big deal.
I can handle a few stories.