Debt to Repay
You woke up before your alarm had its chance to wake you. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and you creaked your eyes open to greet low, calm darkness, fluttered through with billboard light - and the heat of Matt’s sleeping form, flush against your side.
The two of you hadn’t moved from your earlier position. Though you’d sunken further into the cushioning of Matt’s couch - sunken and relaxed further against each other, further into the warm embrace of company - you hadn’t shifted so much as a few inches in the night. Even your hands remained wound together, fingers in their own small embrace.
Tired muscles creaked and flexed weakly in your slow, sleepy movements. You drew out your phone to see that it was 6:13am and turned off your morning alarm - seeing as you were already awake. A stifled yawn held your throat taut as you worked quarter-inch by quarter-inch to move your head out from under Matt’s. Despite your best attempts at a snail’s pace, anti-waking effort, he moved and lifted his head lightly off of yours. You glanced up to see his sleepy eyes flutter open, his free hand floating up to rub against them. Matt’s torso stretched, straining lightly in waking, and he yawned silently before tipping his head and open eyes toward you.
Oops.
“Sorry,” you whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Matt shook his head. “No, no, you didn’t. Don’t worry.”
His morning voice was soft and crackling, rasped in a promise of sunlight with the haze of sleep still veiling its stronger tones. It warmed you as his words rumbled from his chest, the sound equivalent to a deep orange shade of sun before the sun itself had even met the morning sky. A slow melty feeling waved through your waking bones as he kept on.
“Did you sleep okay?”
“I did,” you murmured. The crackle of your morning voice reigned over each syllable you uttered, and a yawn caught within your words. “Only complaint is that there never seems to be enough sleep.”
Matt chuckled. You felt it reverberate in his chest from where you were still leaning against him, felt the sensation of his laugh vibrate into you.
“And you?” you asked, your voice rasping as it fought upward toward daylight. “How did you sleep?”
His thumb gave a light drag over yours, drawing your attention to where your hands lay clasped atop his thigh.
“Better than usual.”
Your lips shot into a smile you couldn’t fight. Though your teasing retorts typically carried a little more power, this one was rendered into a relative whisper - still tasting like energy but lessened by Matt’s warming tone and the drag of his thumb across your skin. “Oh, really?”
Matt shifted slightly beside you, and you shifted with him, your body’s weight still partially held up by his torso, his shoulder. His voice was in the same whispery tone as yours, though it rumbled with an added layer of grit, twirling warmly toward your ears as he tilted his head toward you from above. “Surprised me, too. People don’t usually sleep better on a couch than in their bed.”
You pursed your lips, lifting your head to face Matt. His eyes sparkled, lips sharing in the expression, a faint smile playing on them as he blinked in slow comfort. A twirl of that same comfort rose within you - and usually, you would have stamped it down, but it was too early in the morning for repression and denial, even for you.
“It’s a nice couch, though,” you smiled, each word dripping in glitter. You glanced down at the couch, pressing your free hand against it, feeling the leather cushioning sink plush and soft against your touch. “Can’t imagine your mattress could be much better.”
Matt only tilted his head slightly. His unfocused gaze settled somewhere on you as he smiled back.
“You don’t think I have the most comfortable mattress possible? I do have heightened senses, you know. Sort of need the best of the best.”
The sparkle in his eyes was pure gold and diamonds, like sunlight reflected in precious gems. You shifted again in your seat, moving your weight off of Matt but leaving your hand clasped in his, and shrugged.
“I just don’t know how it could be more comfortable than this couch.”
Matt shrugged back. “I promise you, if anyone knows comfort, it’s me.”
You smirked, your brow jokingly furrowing at Matt. “And yet, a couch was more comfortable than your bed? Sounds like you’re lying to yourself about that mattress if you slept so much better out here.”
Matt’s whisper still sounded strong with how close he was to you, your legs pressed together as he smiled through parted lips in your direction.
“Maybe it’s not the couch that made the difference.”
His words sent warmth spiraling through you from your core into your chest, and you smiled, the feeling of it still too strong to stifle. He tipped his head at you and gave you the same golden look, dragging that thumb back and forth along your skin like nothing else mattered - not the pull of sleep, the pull of work, the oncoming drag of the day ahead.
The exchange could have been so much more flirty, especially given the track record of your banter. You could have told Matt to prove it about the comfort of his mattress, or he could have said that he’ll just have to show you sometime how comfortable his bed really is. It would have been so easy, just to flirt and flirt and keep yourselves in that haze of nothing but attraction, nothing but fire and ice and smoky heat until the distance was closed and those never-ending sparks finally caught.
It was the morning, though, and everything was soft. You felt soft against Matt, and he felt soft against you, and in the face of your torture and new understandings, softness and gentleness and tenderness were what you both needed - not fire and anger and skin against skin simply for the sake of it.
Speaking of skin, your eyes caught on the skin at the end of Matt’s eyebrow. It was hard to make out in the low light, but you could see a thick, smeared line streaking down beside his eyelid - what must have been blood in a sad remnant of the night before and all its haunting space in your mutual memory, new and cold and dark. You frowned.
“Matt, your face,” you pointed out, shifting to face him fully. Your hand unclasped from his as you turned, and you caught a flash of what seemed to be something like protest cross briefly over his eyes. This was quickly assuaged, though, as your other hand instinctively flew up to Matt’s brow, which relaxed again under your touch. In the dark, your fingertips gingerly traced the edges of dried blood, noting the line of the cut which had spawned such an alarming streak of red. Matt simply shifted his body to face you fully, draping one arm over the back of the couch and mirroring his chest to yours, body pliant and peaceful as you examined him.
It was difficult to tell whether his willing stillness was a sleepy thing or due to some other mix of different, mostly-unspoken feelings. You hesitated, though, and lifted your fingers off his skin with a tug at your lip.
“Sorry. I just- Sorry.”
Your hand floated in the air briefly before drifting back into your lap. That raw, cutting sensation of regret began to reach its own awakening within you, the roar of it bellowing low and slow at the core of your chest.
Too much.
Already been so much.
You didn’t need to touch him again - especially without him asking.
Again.
Matt sighed. That draped arm lifted slightly, and you felt warm fingertips creep up the side of your shoulder, tracing a swirling pattern into your clothed skin.
“I think we’re past that,” he hummed through a reassuring curve of his lips. “Don’t you?”
Though the tracing of his fingertips drew up comfort within you, a part of you remained still, your attention warping beneath the weight of that beast in your chest.
“Past what?”
Matt raised his eyebrows with a knowing, coaxing look, his head tipping toward you, voice gentle but sure.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I wanted to,” you pushed, light fire swirling in your ribcage. “I shouldn’t have just- I mean, you were bleeding, I just wanted to-“
“It’s okay,” Matt murmured. His tracing fingertips drew up further, and your breath hitched as they lightly graced the side of your neck, slow and searching. “I never mind you touching me. It’s okay.”
You bit your lip. Matt’s hand stilled against the side of your neck, his fingers having stretched up to taste the edge of your hairline at the back of your scalp, thumb stilled against the corner of your jaw. Your nod was slow, unsure, but cradled in his warmth.
“Okay.”
Matt’s eyes crinkled slightly in the shadows. His smile was a welcome light, but in the shifts it drew over his skin, all that injury and strife was all the more apparent. From streaking red to the early shades of purple and blue bruising - your face fell at the pain he’d undoubtedly suffered.
Made all the worse than usual by Stick.
A ghost of my past.
And his, too, I guess…
But still.
“Look,” you started. “About last night. I just- with Stick, I just wanted to say sorry about that, too.”
Matt frowned. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
A new frown crossed over your face. “Everything? I mean, he killed a kid.” Your eyes flashed with regret, with the memory of that speeding car ride, fast enough to reach your enemies but not fast enough to save their fearful hostage, young and alone in the dark. “I should have been able to stop him. And everything he said about me, I just- I don’t even know where to begin.”
The shake of Matt’s head was fervent, his whisper of your name just as much so. “You have nothing to be sorry for. None of that was your fault. I knew him, too, you know.”
“But none of it was your fault.”
Matt’s eyes flashed, something blue and glassy skating through his gaze. His brows drew together in a quick twitch, then relaxed back, and he sighed.
“Exactly. None of it was anyone’s fault but his.”
You eyed Matt for a moment, observing how the window light streaked over the shapes and shadows of his face.
None of it.
A glance toward the window showed you a sky that no longer had quite the navy shade of the night before - and though it was still quite dark, it had grown just a touch lighter. Turning your head back to Matt, you gave a twinge of a smile.
“I should probably get back before the sun comes up.”
He nodded, dragging his hand down to your shoulder with a few quick taps before draping his arm back along the back of the couch. A flicker of nerves floated unruly and electric within you.
“But, Matt, we have so much to talk about-“
“I know,” Matt assured. “And we will.”
You tipped your head to the side, feeling sympathy imbue itself within your gaze. Matt mirrored your action, his lips still smiling, though his eyes were interlaced with something more painful than what he was trying to offer you. Cracks and divots splintered through your chest.
“I’m so sorry, Matt,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry he hurt you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Matt’s lips curved out in a sad half smile, his slow blink caught on pulling ropes of the past. “It is what it is.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“But it is,” Matt continued. “Now we just have to figure out how to move forward.”
You pressed your lips together. The sad curve of Matt’s lips was simple and bright, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy your wish for him to be okay.
And he made it pretty clear that he doesn’t mind my presence…
Or my touch.
With another tug at your lip and a sad tip of your head, you leaned forward. Wrapping your arms around Matt’s shoulders, your chest pressed into his as your hug enveloped him entirely, your cheek brushing against his unshaven stubble. He felt warm against you, just as warm as the night before, as warm as the morning before morning had arrived.
Surprised by your impromptu embrace, Matt froze for a moment - but he wound his arms around you after less than a breath, weakened strength and tired muscles circling your waist.
Good, you thought to yourself, though a part of you felt shaky at this heated buzz, this electric shift between you.
And, with a whisper as light as the incoming dawn, you tilted your head, your lips close enough to brush his ear.
“Together,” you offered softly, something in you still unsure - though a new, stronger part of you, full of knowing, belief, and honesty, sent sparks of truth into your words. “We’ll figure it out together.”
You felt Matt’s chest rise and fall against yours, his sigh low and heavy. His hands, wound around to your back by his arms, stretched and pressed against you, dragging you closer into him. Though his arms had initially felt weak, they felt stronger, tight in an aching hold on you that seemed to want no part in letting you go.
One of your hands wound up and into the back of Matt’s hair. It felt soft and fluffy against your skin, only mildly mussed from the night before. You rubbed your fingertips slowly against his scalp and felt another deep breath course through his body, limp and pliant beneath you. Finally pulling your head back, you looked to him - who, in pure peace, born of exhaustion and comfort and hazy morning glow, pressed his forehead against yours.
Matt didn’t say anything, only blinked softly. As he let his eyes flutter closed for a beat, you did the same, feeling your mutual warmth slide from skin through skin and back again.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” you promised.
Matt nodded as you parted your skin from his. “Okay.” And, as you pulled back further, his hands falling from your body as yours fell from his, he murmured your name.
Already on your feet, you turned back to face Matt. “Yeah?”
A pause fell over him, expression crossed with some unsure shade of rosy blush, a flitter of gold in his brown eyes. Then, his head shook, and he smiled.
“Hope you have an okay day. We’ll talk about things later. And… try not to worry, as much as you can.”
You smiled back. Some of you thought this was Matt's version of thanks - a thank-you for staying - but you wouldn’t tease him or push him to say anything more. Your gaze flitted back to that bracelet, so sweet and colorful and reminiscent of a different phase in Matt’s life: one with more brightness and love, closer to peace and joy.
You ached to know more about that chapter of Matt’s past.
And…
I will.
“You, too, Matt,” you smiled. “You, too.”
The door shutting behind you was careful and quiet. You stalked off fast and silent down the hall, sure in your acceptance of the night - but also ready and willing to welcome the day.
Especially since you hadn’t had to welcome it alone.
Your easiest course of action was to just shower and change at work. The back entrance of the usual central office proved easy to get into - especially since you kept a copy of your keycard in your sheath - and you entered with no fanfare, no problems. A stashed emergency outfit waited for you in the women’s locker room, and your shower was hot and calming, steaming the night before off of your skin.
Work proved to be easier today, though you had to stay late to finish up some paperwork. The rest of the team had pretty much narrowed down Gio Velluchi as the orchestrator of Marcus’ murder, to no surprise.
A reveal from Ray, though, caught you off guard.
It was… worrisome.
To say the least.
“He was pretty defensive in that first interrogation,” Ray explained as he walked with you toward one of the last meetings of the day. “Went on about this man in a mask jumping around on the docks. Apparently, two of Gio’s guys had been checking out his inventory down by the Hudson - you know, that section that’s all his, pretty much - and they were ambushed in the middle of the shipping containers by this man in black.”
A frigid blow shot through your chest. You kept yourself steady, though, focusing on your steps and hoping that Ray didn’t notice the way your jaw had clenched and how your eyes had flashed wide.
“A man in black, huh?”
“Yeah. I assume they’re talking about the guy who’s been all over the place recently. Did some digging - he’s been around for longer than since the bombings. People have been calling him ‘the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen’ in some crime circles.”
You nodded. “Right. That guy.” Your stomach twisted, and you asked the crucial next question on your mind. “Did Gio mention whether there was anyone else? Or was it just this man in black?”
Ray shook his head as the two of you turned a hallway corner. “Nope. Just the two guys and this Devil guy knocking them out, according to Gio. Cops ended up there that night, too. No sighting of the masked man, but they brought Gio’s guys in. Couldn’t get anything solid on them, so they let them go.” You nodded, and Ray continued.
“Funnily enough, there was a gun found at the scene. Cops initially didn’t know where it could be linked, as it couldn’t be matched with either of the guys who’d been there that night - but with Gio’s mention of this so-called inventory check being authorized by him, we’ve been able to find a tentative link between the weapon and Marcus’ murder. Bullet type matches Marcus’ autopsy report, and it looks like the gun belonged to one of the family’s other goons. I’m guessing Gio was probably trying to get rid of it that night instead of ‘checking on their inventory’ like he’d said.”
You bit at the inside of your cheek. Without question, this must have been that fateful night a while back, where you and Matt fought those two men at the docks in rain and mud and moonlight. The flurry of your brief altercation stood out coarse and cold in your head, the police sirens in the distance still ringing at the back of your mind - and the memory of you and Matt, soaked in rain and each other, as you clung to one another in the dark.
And that gun - that gun was doubtlessly the one that had fallen from your gloved hands into a pothole full of mud.
Who knew it had once carried the bullet that rested within Marcus Velluchi’s head as his body sank into the depths of the Hudson?
It struck you somewhat funny that Gio didn’t mention any involvement of a woman in blue. That funny feeling, though, was quickly replaced with a cold, proud burn in your chest.
Too scared to even say my name, huh?
Figures.
Guess the reputation really does speak for itself.
“It’s strange, though,” Ray kept on. “No clue who would have called the cops. Call came from a public payphone. Might have been this masked man, but he doesn’t seem like the type to request police assistance.”
You shook your head with a shrug. “I wouldn’t worry about the guy. I mean, some random criminal causing a commotion on the docks is the least of our worries.”
“He doesn’t seem like a criminal, Sel,” Ray shook his head. “I mean, sure, a bit criminal - but he looks more like the vigilante type. Any other reports have been pretty benevolent, to say the least. Saving people from getting mugged, stopping store robberies - other than the bombing rumor, the guy doesn’t seem like he’s out to cause crime for the sake of crime.”
You pursed your lips. “Probably don’t really need to worry ourselves with it, then.”
“I don’t know. I think I’ll still keep an eye on the guy where he comes up, just to be sure.”
Great.
That’s so great.
Thank you so much for that, Ray.
You stiffened your jaw into a metallic smile.
“Well, keep me posted on what you find.”
“You got it.”
You ate dinner at work late into the evening. It was a microwave meal, thick slices of so-called “chicken” complete with stuffing, potatoes, carrots, and a gravy that was more gelatinous than flavourful. It did the job, though, especially when your paperwork kept you at your desk until just past 8.
The cab ride home was also less than eventful, with your suit and sheath stuffed in an extra purse at your side. You spent the drive gazing out the window, your mind more than caught on the events of the past few days - and, in particular, those of the past twenty-four hours.
Okay, so Cruz may have recognized my eyes. Who’s to say he had any recollection, though, of who I actually am?
And Stick…
Stick can go fuck himself.
All I really needed was a confirmation and a chance to speak my mind, and I got it. So he can go right to hell, now that I’m done with him.
Your nose twitched, that boy’s scream echoing sharply in your mind. A burn drew up in your throat, and you pushed it down. The taxi driver ahead of you had no reason to see you upset. It wasn’t professional, wasn’t necessary.
And Matt.
Matt’s connection to all of this was nothing short of shocking.
He knew Stick - and no, he didn’t know the details of what you’d been through, not really. It would have been your preference to keep him out of the loop for as long as you could, but Stick had a funny habit of not giving a shit about what other people might need, a la his no-holds-barred reveal of your past that felt more like character assassination than anything else.
Still, on a selfish, needy level, some hidden section of your soul almost felt relief. There was nothing you could do now about Matt knowing more of your past - that much was unavoidable. This connection between you and Stick and Matt, though, meant that there were parts of your life that you wouldn’t have to explain so extensively to Matt.
He would get it already.
He knows what Stick is like.
He understands.
This was a strange feeling for you. It twisted with your brain as your elevator carried you up to your apartment - that feeling of someone being able to even somewhat understand you. You didn’t feel it often - you couldn’t possibly - and so it was alien, almost in some cruel reminder of how alone you’d learned to be.
But, you pondered, walking to your door, key in hand, if I don’t have a choice, maybe this is a good thing.
Maybe it’s not an unnecessary risk but - something like an… unavoidable gift.
As long as Ray doesn’t fucking bring him in.
Shaking your head to yourself, you twisted the key to unlock your door and frowned when it didn’t open.
Did I forget to lock it yesterday?
Trying the key again, you placed your hand on the knob, twisted, and pushed - and the door moved with your pressure, swinging open in tandem with your slow push forward.
As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you blinked once, twice, three times.
What…
The fuck?
Your brows drew together as your lungs fluttered, and you quickly stepped into your apartment and shut the door behind you, your back pressed against it as your eyes widened.
Oh my God.
A dry swallow did nothing to calm your rising nerves or settle the harried breaths splitting your lungs with feverish speed. In the darkness, it was hard to make out the details before you - but what wasn’t hard to notice was that your place had been entirely… completely…
Trashed.
The cushions of your polyester couch had been tossed to the floor, one of your large armchairs totally flipped, your coffee table tipped to the side in the same manner. Blankets and pillows were strewn over the furniture and the floor, and your corner lamp lay shattered in porcelain and glass pieces on the ground. Your TV lay broken on the floor as if it had been thrown, the xBox along with it, surrounded by a smattering of once-shelved books.
And those drawings and paintings of yours that Matt had once noticed were either on the floor or still on the wall at strange and unnatural angles. One of them - a sketch drawing hanging crookedly over your couch - had its glass front entirely shattered, sharp shards scattered across your living room space in various sizes.
Tears pricked at your eyes, and your hand flew up to clamp down a sob before it escaped you, clenching your jaw.
No.
Focus.
They could still be here.
A handgun, for emergencies only, sat ready in your bag, and you drew it out swiftly, keeping the purse on your shoulder. You cocked the gun and held your arms at rapt attention, a few stray tears leaking coldly over your skin as you stepped further into your place - a place that no longer could be considered safe enough to be home.
You found the kitchen free of intruders, though it was equally trashed, full of broken dishes and tipped chairs, cabinets and drawers open at various angles. Your bathroom and bedroom were also free of uninvited guests, though the sight of your bedroom drew up another round of hot tears to well at the base of your eyes.
Clothes lay strewn about the floor, your bedsheets stripped from the mattress, which was off the bed frame entirely. What wasn’t broken was tossed to the floor, and you found yourself extremely grateful that your suit and sheath hadn’t been stowed in your room, waiting to be discovered and torn to shreds - both literally and figuratively, as that would have likely led the Nightingale’s victorious career to an abrupt and violent close.
In a flash of horror, you rushed over to your dresser.
The files.
You tore open one of the dresser’s middle drawers, throwing the remaining clothes out from it before ripping the thing entirely out of the dresser and tossing it to the floor. Seeing that the files you’d taken from work were still taped to the underside of the drawer, you breathed a sigh of relief but wasted no time in un-taping them and rushing from the bedroom.
In your kitchen, a tall pantry cabinet sat nailed to the wall, its paint job making it seem as though it was part of the original build of the apartment. You took out the remaining food items left inside - cereal, bread, some assorted snacks - and pried open the cabinet's back panel. Behind this panel was a smaller cupboard in the wall, which you opened to retrieve your go bag.
For emergencies.
This more than counts as one.
Tossing the bag onto the floor, you repaired the appearance of your pantry cabinet as if nothing had been changed before grabbing your bag again and racing back toward your room. It already contained a change of clothes, some shoes, some snacks, but you quickly tossed in the files as you passed the wreckage of your living room - and your eyes caught on the couch, a new-seeming object in your line of sight stopping you in your tracks.
When you’d stepped inside, you thought it may have been some shredded piece of wall decor, some remnant of fabric, and didn’t think much of it - but looking closer, you saw that this item on your now-cushionless couch was far from some messy piece of wreckage.
It was a crisp white envelope, so neatly folded that it seemed you’d cut your skin on it just by brushing your hand against the sides.
Your brow furrowed, and you placed your bag carefully onto the floor, approaching this envelope with no less caution in your tiptoeing steps than if you were approaching a land mine, a rabid dog, a serial murderer on the loose. It sat pristine atop your wrecked furniture as if it hadn’t ever been touched by human hands.
As if someone who’d trash my place like this could even be considered human.
Gingerly, you reached down with flaring nostrils and a clenched jaw to grasp the envelope. It felt cold at your fingertips, just as unforgivingly sharp as you’d predicted. You flipped the thing around twice to see that it had no address to anyone, no marker of origin. On the surface, it was nothing but a plain white envelope, sealed perfectly, not a single air bubble or wrinkle in the paper.
You tore the thing open from the top to draw out another piece of paper, just as starkly white and neatly folded.
A letter.
Unfolding this letter revealed a message, typed in perfect black ink, not a misspelling or a streak of unkempt color to be found:
Miss O’Malley,
Although I can appreciate and sometimes enjoy a good challenge, my employer does not. As I mentioned in our last conversation, we are handling any issues that may arise in our business as we see fit. So, in the interest of being forthright, it is my recommendation that you continue to focus on your day job.
I trust you understand that there will be consequences if you fail to comply.
Looking forward to your full and unquestioning cooperation.
And, at the bottom of this letter, scrawled in swooping, scattered swirls, was what seemed to be the letter J.
The paper fell from your hands as they flew up to your mouth, stifling a gasp, which was soon followed by a slow, grueling sob.
Of course.
James Wesley.
James fucking Wesley.
For a moment, you didn’t know what to think, what to feel. A million colors and flashes of light and dark whirled across your mind, so vivid it was as if they were truly in your line of vision. You felt your head spin, felt your stomach churn - felt your life tumble irreparably further into darkness.
I should have fucking known this would come back to me.
Why did I stay here after he showed up?
After he hurt Jessica?
How could I have been so fucking stupid?
Another sob racked your body in the dark, and it was all you could do not to fall to your knees, your back hunching, lips pressed against your fingertips as you fought to keep your tears contained. Your eyes sharpened as they remained wide, flitting left and right as you searched your mind and your memory for any possible connection that would explain why this was happening.
Could it be…
Could it be because of Cruz?
Your eyes rolled back, and you swore out loud, running your tongue along the inside of your cheek.
The only one who could have possibly really recognized me.
Connected to organized crime in every which way.
The wildcard.
In a burst of rage, you swung your arm to the side, slamming the heel of your hand against the back of your still-upright armchair, the leather slapping roughly under your now reddened skin.
Of fucking course.
Whatever the connection was, whatever the cause - there was no possible way you could sleep in your apartment tonight. Hell, for the foreseeable future, it seemed that even being in the place was a death wish, a plea for torture. Mulling over your options proved mildly disappointing, a painful reminder of your isolation in this shadow half of your life.
Can’t sleep over at work.
Can’t drag Ray into this - or anyone else, really.
Jessica is so out of the question, she might as well be living on another planet.
So that leaves…
Fuck.
You didn’t want to call him. The last thing you wanted to do was to call him - for his sake. Especially when, all of a sudden, he was on Ray’s radar?
The radar of a Level One FBI Agent?
If you hadn’t been worried about keeping Matt safe from whatever this mess was, then sure, it’d be fine to hear his voice and let him talk you down and lose yourself in his desire to help. You simply could not do that - but you couldn’t just not tell him what was going on now, especially since he was more or less completely involved.
And, sure, the moments you’d shared more recently had been... special. They’d been simple, warm, and just low and shining enough for your regretful, fear-of-intimacy feelings to be easier to do away with than usual.
Possibly staying the night, though? That seemed like an insane jump, even if you weren’t terrified of closeness.
In any case, though, you simply had no other options.
Your fingers sped through the dial of Matt’s number as if quicker movements would make it easier to get over with. A part of you hoped Matt wouldn’t pick up, hoped he’d be busy or just let the call go to voicemail - but he picked up after only three rings.
“Hey,” Matt began, his warm tone sending a brief wave of relief through you, however fleeting it may have been. You wanted to start with his name but decided against it.
“Hey. I-“ you started, stopping as a stuttered pause racked your lungs. Your eyes flitted back and forth over the destruction of your living room, from shattered glass to disheveled books to cushions and pillows strewn every which way. “Is it okay if I come over? For a…” you bit your lip, fighting tremors in your lungs to keep your voice steady. “For a little while?”
You could practically feel Matt’s frown, could see the furrow of his brow in your mind’s eye, could see him stop mid-pace in his own recently wrecked living room. “Is everything okay?”
A shallow breath coursed in and out of you. Stepping back into your bedroom, you picked up a sweater and placed it inside your go bag, along with an extra blazer for work.
You couldn’t just tell Matt what had happened. This was a dangerous criminal enterprise you were dealing with, for fuck’s sake. If they could connect the dots on where you lived, where you worked, on who you were - they could easily be listening to your fucking phone conversation. With the technological protections you’d recently developed for yourself on your devices - spurned by your constant fear of Jessica’s phone calls sharing more than necessary - it was unlikely that they’d been able to tap your phone. For all you knew, though, the intruders had placed hidden mics at any possible nook or cranny in your apartment.
Might be hidden cameras, too.
This could not get any fucking worse.
“Yeah, I- it’s just, my place,” your voice cracked, but you pushed through, striding to your bathroom to grab your skincare products, your makeup. “My place is a bit…” you trailed off again, holding the phone between your cheek and your shoulder as you struggled to both carry your things back to your bedroom and figure out how to word this.
“It’s- fuck.“
A wave of despondent rage washed over you. Matt waited as you collected your thoughts, let your eyes shut and open in exhaustion and worry.
“I think I had a… a visitor.”
A visitor.
“One I wasn’t expecting, and- and I don’t know if they’ll be back.”
He should get that.
Especially with how much I struggled to say something as innocent as “some visitor that may or may not return.”
He has to understand.
Matt sucked in a breath on the other side of the line. That sound alone showed that he knew what had happened, and you sighed in relief at the fact that your code was clear to him.
“Oh my God.”
You nodded sharply, vehemently, as you tossed more clothes, your suit, your sheath - everything haphazardly into your go bag, fighting pricks of white-hot needles as they pressed into the backs of your eyes.
“I think I’m gonna have to call in that double the favor.”