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Rooms on Fire (Matt Graver x f!reader)

Summary: He was irritated by the idea that no one would go anywhere because you were good at what you did, and one of the things you did was to get on his nerves.

Word count: 9.4k (and to think that there was a time when 5k was my maximum)

Warnings: Violence, guns, blood, talks about narco trafficking, stabs, wounds, death, bad words, alcohol coconsumption, slight mention of alcoholism, enemies-to-lovers and protected p in v sex.

Author’s Note: What can I say? I knew the moment I watched the film this would happen.

I didn't put it as 'one-shot' because when I do that, I almost always write more than one part, so leave it as is. I also didn't find a very solid fandom for this character, which is already common in my criteria; if you like Josh Brolin's characters, there you go.

I don't know how I feel about the action scenes I wrote here, but I tried!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

******

The question wasn't whether you liked Graver, no; it was very easy to not like him, enough so that it wasn't even a question. Maybe the right question was who liked the guy, which was already more ambiguous: they liked him to do the job, but they wouldn't necessarily invite him to their children's birthdays.

They also liked what you did, and although you were a little more malleable, this similarity to Graver made every encounter a joke. Yes, you could be easy going, and yes, you were more likely to become a 'peer' in the middle of it all, but maybe that was why Matt Graver was good at what he did: he brought out the worst in anyone.

“If you don't like it here, you can leave. Your lazy ass is better suited behind a desk.”

And you knew that you weren't lazy, just as you knew that you could even change careers to get as far away from him as possible, but you were also aware that what he called laziness, you understood as a challenge. Your little smile every time the team agreed with an idea of yours (which he almost always either disagreed with or pointed out some flaw), the verbal retaliation full of venom that came soon after, your little nicknames…

He was irritated by the idea that no one would go anywhere because you were good at what you did, and one of the things you did was to get on his nerves.

******

“I was fucking your mother.”

Everyone in the room was quiet, a little lost between laughing or waiting for Matt to react to decide how to proceed. He looked at you for a while with narrowed eyes as you sat down, seeing how indifferent you were to the immodest and even immature way in which you responded to him. After a while, when you noticed that no one said anything at all, you pretended to be confused.

“What? She liked it, don't worry.”

“I hope you did the job right, since you’re late,” He said, which made no one laugh because it wasn't funny at all. Bad day, you thought, smirking at the prospect of being able to attack him more easily. “As I was saying…”

You didn't like him, that was a fact, but you weren't stupid in assuming that he wasn't competent at what he did either. During all the planning and strategy meetings, Matt was a methodical guy, sure of what he said, aware of any consequences that the missions could bring. If he wasn't such an asshole, you might even find him attractive (which, curiously enough, he seemed to recognize), and you would spend some idle time lost between paying attention to what was being said and noticing the way his mouth could say things that weren't pure atrocities.

It was a shame, indeed, but you didn't mourn because of it.

*******

You had a ritual when you were in the South: there was a taco place near where you stayed, so at least one night you would go there for dinner. It wasn't very responsible considering what you did, but it wasn't like you had a particular concern for your privacy working for those you worked for.

The other guys went to a bar, so you took advantage of the ride and stayed there, sitting at a table near the exit while you waited for your food to arrive. Despite the banality, you took the opportunity to watch the evening news on the restaurant's TV and, sometimes, watched the city's activity through the window while going over the plan in your head.

Matt walked in casually with calm steps, not hesitating for a second to go straight towards you and sit down. You knew it was him even if you were paying attention to the TV on the other side of the room, but you wouldn't feel like talking about it just to ignore him.

“Mexican?” He asked after a while.

“It wouldn't be French, right?” Your chill tone made him grin falsely on your peripheral.

“I thought you would be with everyone else.”

“Is that why you're here?”

He really had that stupid look on his face when you lowered your eyes to look at him, pretending to be unaware when he knew exactly why you were being incisive with the question. Matt, however, didn't say anything for a while, just shrugged and crossed his arms over the table.

“Own, don’t tell me you felt lonely,” You teased him with a forcedly cute voice, pouting your lips and tilting your head to the side. “Poor thing.”

Your tacos arrived before he could respond: three, completely well filled and with that smell of homemade sauce that you loved. You thanked the waitress and ordered another soda, but hearing Graver order something for himself also made you lose your polite smile for half a second.

“I don't want people here to think you're my friend.”

“And I’m not?”

It wasn't always, but sometimes that happened: you'd share some words, then you'd sit quietly and stare at each other, waiting for the other person to do something about it. He stuck to it, you noticed, to the small moments in which you gave him some kind of attention, even if just to avoid giving him a hard time. You were sure he was one of those annoying preschool boys who thought girls were disgusting until he reached puberty and had sex in the backseat with the silliest ones.

But sometimes, again, you went into that spiral of thinking he was a man you would give a chance to if you didn't know his ideas and his personality. Given time and an excuse, you actually noticed him, and it was sad to think that incompatibility was hindering any chance of him being a potential bed partner.

It was a difficult and lonely life, you justified it. If you really wanted the context to be so different, you wouldn't even look at a guy like Matt Graver twice.

“It’ll rain tomorrow,” You were the first one to break, nodding to the TV before grabbing one of your tacos.

“Yeah,” He answered while eyeing the device from over his shoulder. “Lots of mud.”

“Mm.”

A silence followed, with only the sound of your chewing while eating the tacos, the other customers' conversations and the TV filling the space between you. When you weren't looking at your tacos, you were staring at something in the news, then sipping your soda while going back to watching the street. Every now and then you felt his legs invading your space under the table, which made you shift uncomfortably on the bench.

“I've been talking with Forsing,” Matt was right after a mouthful when he mentioned Steve, cleaning the sides of his mouth with a napkin.

“Do I really want to know what you talk about with Steve?”

“You would be surprised.”

“Ugh, please,” Your scoff made him raise his eyebrows. “Considering you're here, I'm sure it's important. Spit it out, maybe you'll impress me.”

He left the napkin next to his own plate and leaned over the table, just to make himself heard in a reasonable tone of voice.

“Lead the extraction team tomorrow.”

You looked at him stupidly, your glass halfway to your mouth as you waited for him to say it was a joke. Well, it didn't seem like it. Matt was neutral, staring back at you as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if the idea didn't eat at him inside.

“Did he agree to this?”

“Yes.”

“Did you agree to this?”

“This matters?”

“Well, yeah,” You placed the cup on the table again, not suppressing a smile from appearing. “He must’ve given you a blowjob to convince you of that.”

“I sell myself for more than that.”

“Oh?”

“Competence, for example. It wouldn't be the first time you'd led an extraction team.”

“Careful, Graver, that almost sounds like a compliment. I don’t like this. Are you suffering from terminal cancer or paying some kind of bet?”

He laughed without humor, but didn't say anything again, just fished out some chips that were on his plate and calmly chewed them. It was enough time for you to absorb what he had said, for you to lose the shine of the joke and reality to sink in.

“... Fuck, you’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Okay, erm…” You cleared your throat, as if that would help you collect your thoughts more efficiently. “It won't be a problem.”

“I didn't imagine it would be.”

“No?”

“Not at all,” And he took another bite of his sandwich, his chewing so loud that it sounded aggressive. “When you bring the guy back without a scratch, I'll believe it can stay like this.”

“So now it's a bet.”

“I just don't understand the appeal people seem to have for you. Your boss always recommends you, your colleagues praise you, even fucking Steve likes you,” That got you to raise your eyebrows in good humor, then a smile as you went back to biting your taco. “Let's face it, you're not that special. And having to entrust this mission to you is stupid.”

“Do you want me to deny it?”

“I don't want you to do anything other than your job.”

“That doesn't justify why you're here.”

“I wanted to test whether the appeal really exists.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don't worry about it.”

If you said it didn't hurt, it would be true, because really, you wouldn't even bat your eyelashes at any shit Graver said. Yes, you had to work harder than everyone else to get where you are and yes, being a woman didn't make it easier, but he just seemed to not like you regardless of your gender. Maybe the fact that you were a woman only intensified the fact that he should treat you differently and just couldn't because you wouldn't let him.

You looked back at the TV and pretended not to see him getting up to leave without paying the bill, saying goodbye or finishing his own dinner.

*******

The car was absolutely silent. Your left leg was soaking the backseat in blood, and even though you were in pain, you tried not to make any noise during the ride. You were rambling, sometimes you almost blacked out and other times you closed your eyelids just for a few moments before opening them again in fright; when that happened, it was Graver slamming the car to the brakes to keep you awake.

All in all, the mission was a success, but that was the secret of things done in secret: they should stay that way. It was only in a moment, after the target was in the car on his way to the AIC, that one of the almost dead guys still managed to stab you in the leg before you could scatter his brains on the floor.

“I’ve already been vaccinated for tetanus,” That's what you said when you returned limping and in pain to the meeting point, but no one thought that was funny either.

Whoever had to get into the car got in, and Matt did so indifferently until he saw you in the rearview mirror and, when he turned around, he accessed the wound on your leg with his eyes.

“He was the one who had to come back in one piece, right? You didn't say anything about me.”

The cut was deep and you really didn't want to bleed to death in the middle of the El Paso desert, but before you could demand Matt drive a little faster, you caught his eyes in the rearview mirror and stopped yourself with a grunt of pain just to not give him that satisfaction. Furthermore, he could be going slow on purpose just to punish you for your recklessness.

He also didn't say anything when he stopped in front of the base, nor when the others suggested taking you to the infirmary immediately and you said you could handle it on your own. Usually no one questioned it, except Matt, and him giving up the advantage of making fun of you made you uncomfortable.

“Is your plan to let me dwindle right here?” You asked sharply as soon as you got out of the car and saw him stop right in front of you.

“I would have much less work if you had just died back there,” And before you could respond, he put his arm around your back, then behind your knees, and picked you up to enter the building.

“The fuck are you doing?!”

“I'd dig a shallow grave, put you in there, and take all your identification, right? I wouldn't send you back to your family in a black bag because I know nobody cares about you there,” He continued mumbling to himself as he walked down the hallway and you tried, unsuccessfully, to free yourself from his grip.

At that point, if you succeeded, you would probably stay there on the ground anyway because he a) would throw you like a potato sack and b) would prohibit anyone from getting close to you, so you just forced your weight against him as much as you could just to make things difficult.

“I didn't ask for your fucking help.”

This silenced him at the same time it quickened his steps. As soon as the two of you reached the infirmary, he threw you onto one of the gurneys without batting an eye for your injured leg. And then, before you could really feel the pain, Matt leaned over to be face to face with you.

“Shut the fuck up. Just shut the fuck up, got it?”

The agitation left his eyes dark, almost filled with unjustifiable anger. He looked at you with heavy breathing, the smell of the mission still permeating his clothes while the sweat remained intact on his sun-tanned skin. You were confused between feeling pain and facing him, as if your brain had an urgency to know an answer.

That wasn't an order, but you'd blame yourself later for not saying anything and making it seem like one. You pushed him instead, which put an end to the conversation. In a moment, Matt walked out of there with severe steps, slamming the door behind him.

“... That’s… a way to keep yourself conscious,” The doctor said as he approached, which made you glare at him impatiently.

“Give me morphine and get it over with.”

*******

He was right: you didn't have family back in the States. Your father was an alcoholic for years, your mother abandoned the family when you were little, and your sister never kept in touch. When your father died, you already had your enlistment card, and after years of no contact with anyone else, your emergency numbers were always empty spaces on your file.

This has always justified people's behavior towards you. Your superiors put you on the front line of things, your colleagues gave you dirty looks when you threw yourself in front of bullets and you acquired a record of scars due to recklessness. That's how things were. Graver felt comfortable acting that way because you didn't bring any baggage other than yourself and nobody quite knew who you were.

Still, the only thing that bothered you was the idea of not taking that moment off your head.

*******

Some might say you were a little too concerned with control, a little too organized.

It wasn't a lie – not entirely.

It has always been such a chaotic life, with so many responsibilities, that you adapted to things being done well so that unforeseen events would not take you off the path. You had a financial organization, you had time to eat and, more than that, you didn't drink alcohol. Or at least you avoided it, especially on missions, essentially if you were alone.

Everyone was reorganizing. Although things didn't happen as slowly as in work officially commissioned by the Army, you had made good strides, but not enough; this left the team stagnant. You heard that the Deltas returned to the States, that the DEA was a little impatient with the lack of progress, and Graver was… tired. Not visibly, but no one was made of iron.

“You know you can come back if you want,” Dallas, your boss, had said once when he paid a visit, to which you waved him off.

“It's either that or Colombia. I want to finish here first.”

The idea of going for drinks came from the people who were still there and, deep down, you weren't so against it, despite your hesitation in going. You were a little tired too, bored with the city, but that was better than a night in your hotel room alone. So you went, with a ride and wearing your usual worn-out jeans, sitting at one of the tables in the corner while the action was happening a few steps away from you.

Matt was standing next to the counter, curiously enough with boots that probably itched his feet because he hated them so much, and considering your almost furtive position, you had the luxury of noticing.

“A beer, please,” You asked the waitress who was passing by unconsciously.

He shouldn't relax so much, but all that… chaos suited him well, as if every step was already known and he never worried about anything. You hated that about him, in general, the way he acted like 'everything was fine' when it wasn't so much; that night, as he sipped his own beer and you sipped yours, the thought of his comfort comforted you. If at any point during all of this he was stiff-shouldered and very sullen, it meant that no one would get anything done without a little added stress.

Well, maybe. Maybe it would comfort you. On the day of the stabbing, Matt was incredibly irritated with you, almost growling, swearing in your direction. And since that day, even with your glances, you never had him on your mind for more than a day. You didn't think about the details you had access to about his face, the color of his eyes, the width of his shoulders and neck, specifically, the vein pulsing while he told you to shut up.

Matt was older – more experienced. You knew what that meant to you and the consequences of your shitty life in this type of choice. It was always you deciding, following the rules, taking care of those who should take care of you; there was never an order that didn't come from you or a superior, and the fact that you were good was in your ability to follow a given command. Your doubts, questions and suggestions were always based on contexts that allowed you to provide clarifying answers.

It wasn't that you thought Matt had the ability to take care of you, so to speak, but what attracted you (and you took a sip as you finished this) was the fact that he could and would shut you up; at best, he could do the same to your mind.

*******

Because you don't drink much, by the fourth beer you were already excited. Not singing or dancing, but without your jacket and folding napkins at the table. For two hours, while drinking, you talked a little about this or that with others, laughed, talked loudly over the music and even risked dancing a little.

When you decided to stop with a fifth half-empty beer in your hand, you were blinking slowly as you stared at a replay of a football game on TV. Then, when the noise prevented you from paying attention, you went outside and, through the glass window, watched the same game from afar.

“What's your thing with TV?”

He kept a respectable distance despite getting a little closer. You sighed with a roll of your shoulders, head lolling to the side as you kept your eyes fixed on the green lawn and the little men in blue and red uniforms.

“I never watched much when I was a kid, I guess.”

“That's why you ask too much, you're not so alienated.”

This made you smile a little, almost in a drowsy state, but you didn't respond, you just continued watching. Matt was by your side, you knew, maybe watching the game too (you didn't know if he liked football or was too American for that) or taking some air; everything was silent, except for the creaking of the wooden fence where you were leaning and the customers inside.

“Mm?”

You turned your face to him slowly and saw him looking at you with a frown, almost smiling.

“I asked how much you drank of it,” He gestured to the bottle dangling between your fingers, to which you just grimaced.

“Enough to stop.”

“Wise decision,” Gently, Matt took the bottle from you and placed it in the corner, which you watched with confusion. “... What?”

“Why are you here?”

“You're gone and your things are still inside.”

“You don't have to be my babysitter, you know?”

“I promised Dallas I'd try to get you back in one piece.”

“That's a pretty stupid thing to do.”

“I know better now.”

Your body staggered a little, just a little, and when you unconsciously put your arm against his to steady yourself, Matt stared at your movement with amusement until he raised his eyes to meet yours. You must have looked dazed, not very noticeable to your surroundings, because he stared at you for so long that you wished you were less drunk to understand what his gaze meant.

“Do you think they'll miss me if I ask you to take me out for a burrito?”

“No one misses you that much,” He bit back. “And who said I want to do that?”

“You don’t?”

The two of you stared at each other for a few more moments while he considered.

“... You'll owe me one.”

“You owe me, idiot. You made me pay for your dinner the other day and I didn't even invite you.”

“Good heavens, you can't even pretend you’re not you when you drink.”

Interestingly, or out of a hint of condescension, Matt grabbed your things from the bar and gave you a ride to the burrito place, which was a little further away than the taco place. On the way, you stayed quiet as you stared at the city through the window, and he drove in silence without even turning on the radio.

He had a Bronco that night, and you thought you'd see it disappear as soon as the two of you arrived at the restaurant, but Matt asked what you wanted and went inside to get it, coming back with enough bags for more than just for you and offering to you guys ate in the parking lot because they were closing.

You sat on the curb, him next to you.

“I've never seen you drunk before,” Because he couldn’t help himself, Matt asked after you almost finished your own burrito.

“I don’t like to drink.”

“Why?”

With a knowing look, you looked at him and he raised his hands in surrender, pretending to back away. You rolled your eyes and went back to your burrito, staring at the meat inside as if the question had made you think. One should not speak or not, but analyze whether the decision to remain silent would have any weight. Suddenly you wanted to say why; you wanted him to have a piece of a life that, perhaps, he knew what it was.

It would be a chance for control, wouldn't it? You being the one to say and not a family background printed on a file?

“My father was an alcoholic,” You almost murmured the answer, but you couldn’t dare to eye him even if you knew he was watching you. “He died of cirrhosis. They say that alcoholism is hereditary, so I decided to take precautions.”

Matt didn't say anything, which you hoped would stay that way.

“When was it?”

“What?”

“When you decided to stop drinking. Or avert it, whatever.”

“This will say more about my life than I want to share,” With a shoulder roll, you bit the burrito again to put an end on the topic. He accepted, and you two finished in total silence.

You didn't drink as a precaution, yes, but also because you were emotional, almost nostalgic. There was an internal aversion to being human like others; no, you didn't want to share stories of high school sweethearts with your sister, or your mom teaching you how to use a tampon or your dad being a dance partner in your marriage. You decided you didn't want any of that, so you also didn't want to get drunk and whine about a life you didn't have.

“How's the leg?” The question took you a little by surprise, but it wasn't unwelcome.

It was strange, however, just like that moment when it seemed like you didn't have the energy to face each other. You would even say it was pleasant, even when the two of you started to sit side by side in the open trunk of the car.

“... Better,” You moved the once injured leg one way and another. “The stitches got a little inflamed, but I'm fine.”

“And your boyfriend didn't complain about the new scar?”

“Since when do you think I have a boyfriend?”

“I don't think so. I’m poking your personal life right now.”

He was smiling as you looked at him indignantly, then scoffed as you shook your head at his boldness, as if it still could shock you.

“Well, I don't have one and even if I did, it wouldn't be with someone who’s bothered by my scars.”

“Back in the States the guys can be pretty annoying.”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Being one of the annoying guys, yeah. There was a time when I didn't bang the chubby or the hairier ones.”

“And when was that? Yesterday?”

“Walked right into that one…” He groaned in defeat, which made you let out a spontaneous laugh. “But no, that was a while ago. The experience made me less demanding.”

“I can look at it as you using any type of person as long as they are available. That's not very… virtuous.”

“That wouldn't be a surprise to you, would it? I'm already an asshole, you can’t expect more.”

Which was true: the admission only reinforced what he really appeared to be. A facilitator, but also a lover of things that came to him alone. No challenges or elaborate conquests, just a hot hole for the night.

“Unless you expected,” He suggested with a question in his tone when you didn’t answer him right away.

“No, Matt, I didn't expect it. I never expect anything from you.”

“So you didn't expect me to bring you here and pay for your dinner?”

You weren’t sure what to say in response, but you tried anyway.

“... I thought you were going to tell me to fuck off and that you weren't going to pay attention because I was drunk. Then you'd tell everyone I'm pathetic when I drink and that would be your joke for a couple of weeks.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You didn’t.”

“And does this change anything about what you expect from me?”

“You don’t care about it.”

“I always care what a beautiful woman thinks of me. It's what defines how the night will end.”

He wasn't serious, was he? Because you were incredulous about it, looking at him with an expression of shock as he continued there, calm as if none of it was absurd in the slightest. There was a difference between having thoughts about the subject and externalizing it as an intrusive thought. Well, it would make sense if he acted like it was an intrusive thought, but all Matt did was say it and, as much as you expected, without feeling any shame.

“Fuck…” You laughed it off with disbelief.

“I never denied that you’re attractive.”

“No, but you made it seem like we had a moment here.”

“We didn’t?”

“While we ate cold burritos on the sidewalk? No, I don't think so. I didn't have a lobotomy, I’m just drunk,” Which was a bit false, actually. If you tried a little harder, you'd know it was a tiny moment, one he could recognize.

Matt moved next to you, almost as if he was bothered by the way you weren't looking at him at all, and stopped in front of you where he had a positional advantage; you would need to lift your face to look at it. When he did, he squinted his eyes and turned his face here and there, as if he were silently accessing you. Your legs were a little open, so he just had to take a step forward to be between them, which made you put your hand on his chest on impulse to stop him.

He was hot. Like, not hot in the sense of… Okay, hot in that sense too, but his body in general was… hot. Lukewarm. And his heart beat calmly, without worry, and the fabric of the shirt he wore was rough. If you moved your fingers up a little further, they would touch the skin of his chest that met his neck, very close to his Adam's apple, which looked tempting when you saw it up close (without the distraction of your pain).

“No,” You said when he obediently stopped.

“I won't try to convince you otherwise.”

“Good.”

“But I know you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” He was insistent, using the proximity to eye you above his nose. “I know your mother left and your sister is a bitch who disappeared. I know you don't have anyone up there. I also know that you've never had a firm hand in this fucking life to give you a decent order and tell you what to do, I know that's what you want.”

This was making you more horny than angry, which left you confused and, consequently, speechless.

“I know you ride horses in Chicago and didn't make a career in the Army because you think you like money and freedom, but really you need someone to tell you to shut the fuck up.”

Horny. Definitely horny.

“What I don't understand is why I'm the one who does all this to you and you still don't like me. Any guesses on the matter?”

You didn't answer – of course not. Your face was serious, firm, irritated; if you opened your mouth, you would deliver a type of feeling that you dare not express.

“In my opinion, you’re nothing more than a little girl who’s a slut for some attention. You want me but you insist on denying it because it's impossible for you to want someone you hate so much, right?”

Then you dared to speak, eyeing him dead in the eye with fury and a specific kind of… proximity.

“I don't know, what’s it been like for you?” With that you pushed him with your hand still touching his chest, taking the distance to get up and move away before you could do something stupid, just like the battlefields you were always on.

Matt grabbed your arm before you could take any more steps, placing you against the side of the Bronco roughly and huffing in your face.

“You're an immature bastard, you know that? All this, this… your need to spit truths in my face and for what? If you really wanted to, you would’ve done something about it by now or told me to fuck off, like you always did.”

You broke away from his touch abruptly, fixing another angry look on his face and pointing a finger right at him.

“Yeah, I don't like you, because you're a cowardly son of a bitch who doesn't honor his own pants. Want to take advantage of this? Go for it! Look in the mirror knowing that, yeah, I might want you, but you manage to ruin any chance of me even considering being that person because you’re here pretending.”

Silence. He was huffing, you were huffing, and suddenly the anger was almost dissipating into what you were suppressing with the venomous words coming out of your mouth. You looked away and ran your hand over your mouth, shaking your head in disbelief.

“... This just shows how hypocritical you are,” Matt managed to spill back at you, to which you just shrugged.

“Put it like that, Graver, I know I’m not a good person and I’m not scared of that reality. You're also not the type who should care about this in this shitty context we're in.”

“I don't care about resolving my differences with you, I care about the work being done.”

“Well, the work continues to be done with or without me. Either you're fooling yourself or you want to find some weakness in me to feel better with yourself, which I don't doubt since you're nothing more than a pathetic guy full of ego and a small dick.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“And you never did anything to change my perception of either of those things. Don't start now.”

Despite your tiredness and the buzzing in your head from the alcohol still circulating through your veins, you picked up your things from the front seat of the car and walked out of the parking lot with minimally resistant steps. The burrito had given you more sobriety, it would have to be enough for the blocks you would walk to get to your hotel.

In the background, just as you put on your jacket and hugged yourself against the cold night breeze, you heard the Bronco start and pass you quickly.

Good, you thought. At least I can do my digestion correctly before going to bed.

*******

You threw up in a trash can on the way to the hotel. When you arrived, you took a long shower and, despite the comfort of the bed, you slept feeling like shit.

*******

“Since when do you smoke?”

“Mm?” You lifted your head at once, seeing Dallas point to the cigarette stuck between your lips with an amused smile. You blinked a few times, then took it out of your mouth and threw it on the floor. “I bought a pack on the way. Force of habit.”

“Remembering the times in Afghanistan?”

“Remembering high school times.”

“I always thought you’re really precocious.”

“Can we continue or are we disrupting the tea party?”

Yes, there was one way of working with Matt and another when it was with Dallas; in that context, one side seemed uncomfortable with the merger and, interestingly, it wasn't you.

It was the CIA who included Dallas in the story and, for a moment, it was clear that the decision somewhat questioned Matt's ability to lead the mission. You two had entered a dark zone of behavior, so when everything started to take a new turn, you didn't say a word to Matt that wasn't work. There was no provocation or jokes, just rigid phrases and shaking of heads that amused Dallas.

You tightened your grip around your rifle and, again, didn't respond when Matt swore on the other end of the radio. After a few moments of stillness, while you watched the movement below from where you were placed in the forest, you heard the click of the radio being turned off next to you and Dallas moving a little in his sniper position.

That made you sigh.

“What?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“C’mon, I’m your boss but I’m also your friend.”

“Yes, and look at which title you chose to say first.”

“Has the limit been reached?”

That was another thing he had told you when the differences became noticeable: set your limit for me. He had more people on duty, you didn't have to worry, and you relied on it because you trusted him. That wasn't the case, you were sure of that. It was a disagreement, indeed, but not a… complete discontent.

“No,” You murmured your answer, eyes back on track with the team from afar. “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Gimme a heads up if necessary, eh?”

Your nod was all the confirmation he needed before the small buzz of the radio being turned back on reached your left ear.

That conversation, at least, seemed over, but you knew that the condition of that specific event was bothering you more than your issues with Matt. Dallas had managed to trace the offline communication that that specific group had, and if everything went as planned, that time of night was perfect for the attack. Until then, no surprises. The forest was dense, with few access roads, so it was easy to intercept land transport… but there was a risk, one that you drummed into your head as a real concern.

It wasn't an area you were familiar with; if it was the desert, where there was little to hide other than underground, basically, rainforests were problematic. Cold, dark to the extreme, full of natural traps that the other side knew like the back of their hand. You thought about suggesting that Alejandro be in Dallas' place (and maybe that had crossed Graver's mind too), at least for the advantage of territorial recognition, but he wasn't there and there was a risk that you would be too exposed.

You entered the house through the back. The situation wasn't as intense on that side, and you'd be able to inspect any trail left by Matt's team; by the time you arrived, they should have already been finishing what they started. There were bodies in the hallways, rooms and furniture. The house was huge, but the smell of blood was already starting to fill your nostrils when you arrived in the living room.

“Matt, I'm already at the house. All set?”

“No, not exactly,” In the background, you could hear gunshots much louder than the noises coming through the walls, so you didn't even hesitate to run up the stairs until you found them.

There was the element of luck, sometimes you played, even though you knew it was just the result of your own memory exercises. Through idle time and a good dose of commitment, you memorized a good part of the house plan, so despite the impulse, your mind was creating a strategic path for where Matt could be and how to approach it. You killed three in a 'secret' side corridor until you managed to go around the shooting room, seeing through the crack in the door the heads of the enemies and, further ahead, Matt hiding with the other boys to escape the shots.

Your heart was racing and by a slip you almost got ahead of yourself again. That time, there were people on the front lines, you remembered, and the casualties would be more than just you or something superficial; there was Matt, the others, maybe even Dallas.

It was strange, but you had lost count of how many times you ended up tasting your own blood without meaning to. It wasn't like a cut in the kitchen that you stopped by putting your finger on your tongue; it was unconscious, splashed in your face and occupying your senses. The shot hit your shoulder and threw you back against the wall. Sometimes it was disorienting, which was the case, but you had dropped a good number and you could give in to waiting for the pain to overcome you before acting again.

Try to act again, in this case. Before you could move your body forward and follow where Graver's men were going, a hand pushed you against the wall again.

“Matt, what the fuck?!”

“Dallas, tell her to stay here.”

One of his hands was right over the wound to stop the bleeding, and Matt wasn't looking anywhere but at your confused face. Your breathing was a little labored, you felt tied with the weight of him there, and you even put yours on top of his hand to avert him.

You didn't make it, though. For the first time in years, you froze and hesitated. It was as if he, in the middle of everything happening, was also the first to put your feet on the ground and remind you what was actually happening.

“Dallas, fuck, tell her to stay here!”

“Don’t you move.”

Your boss's voice made you blink a few times, as if waking you up from a trance; Matt immediately pulled away and ran away, perhaps to where the others were also going, perhaps elsewhere. You took a deep breath before pulling a balled-up bandage from inside one of the pockets of your tactical vest and pushing it against the wound tightly.

On the other hand, everything remained a mess. You regained your breath and strength as you observed everything, suddenly having a full vision of what you were supposed to do, what the job actually was.

“Dallas,” Your voice was rough but heard. “There are a lot more people than expected. The extraction point may be compromised.”

“You’re right. We manage here, but you'll have to find a plan B. Shoulder?”

“My…” You took a deep breath, staggering a little around the space with his eyes attentive to everything, trying to come up with something urgent. “I'm fine, damn it. Forget it, just… There’s a vehicle on the west side. It's further away, but I can get there in time with the team.”

“Traceable.”

“I make a point of blowing it up when we're at a safe distance.”

“I thought you wanted to put an end to the house.”

“I know how much you like the drama, Dallas. See you on the other side.”

“You got it.”

*******

Matt didn’t seem mad when you showed up at his bedroom door. It was late at night, a whole day after the operation in the woods, and it was a stroke of luck to see him still awake, but your heart was racing as if it were another one of your impulses. There was always that impression that, with him, everything was a battle.

“Can I come in?” Your question was low, almost secretive.

He watched you suspiciously before arching an eyebrow.

“Did you bring dinner?”

“It's 2 am.”

“Just making sure you didn't have a concussion,” But the door was left open when he turned and walked back into the room, so you entered.

It was all a bit… memorable, coming from someone like Matt. Things were messy, as if he were right there, and not as impeccable as yours. On the other hand, his bags were packed, so at least this wasn’t a total surprise.

You didn’t know what to say, nor if you should say anything. Maybe Matt understood intrinsically, absorbed the kind of feeling that was eating you up inside, that intensified in the house. You didn't sleep. Your shoulder hurt more than usual, your body was agitated and your mind was in a whirlwind.

You drove there and didn't know what to ask for, even though you knew what you wanted.

“When is your flight?” He was closer than expected, you noticed as soon as you heard the nearby tone and the curious scent of soap.

“Tomorrow morning. Yours?”

“Also.”

“Mm,” You hummed, averting his gaze while he took just one step closer. You could feel the heat from his body, the fabric of his shirt almost touching you.

“Come back with me on the jet.”

“What?” That made you snap your head back to look at him, just to find Matt watching every move of yours.

“Your flight is earlier than mine. Come back with me.”

“Do you need that much time?” You smirked.

“It's never that simple with you.”

You expected adrenaline, aggressive energy and even retaliation. The two of you had just come back from something that would leave you both on edge, pushing and pulling, demanding; maybe it was what you wanted.

Matt gave you a first kiss that was almost delicate, although a little abrupt. He tested you before, holding the back of your neck calmly and just touching his lips, almost convincing himself that it was a good idea. You exchanged a few wet and long kisses, warming up the sensation little by little, until he moved his mouth down to your jaw and neck, handling your head while he ran one of his hands down the length of your back. Your eyes closed when he reached a specific spot below your ear, where he nibbled before smoothing your ass to elicit a whimper from you.

“Shoulder?” He whispered, hands wandering your whole body while you kept yours on his covered belly.

“Not good,” You moved back a little to gain access to his face again, which he granted with a bit of impatience. “Go easy on me.”

“It seems like you came on purpose to make me be nice to you.”

“I can leave if you want.”

“I didn't say I can't be,” With both hands on the small of your back, Matt ran his palms up your spine, a contact that made you shiver and caught his attention. “No bra?”

“I didn't think you knew how to open one.”

The provocation came with a light push on him, which made him go backwards awkwardly. You did it again, without much effort because he was already going without resistance, and as soon as Matt sat on the edge of his own mattress you unconsciously took both hands to his hair.

That's why you were going slow. It wasn't the injured shoulder, much less an unprecedented overwhelming passion; you and he needed to taste that because you wanted to test each other, do or feel what you always wanted but refused to do. You threaded your fingers through his hair as he placed almost voracious kisses on your stomach, lifting the fabric of your shirt in the process while holding your waist as if you were going to run away, as if you would change your mind.

You could; in fact, he thought about it as soon as you took off your shirt, almost too meticulous about how Matt would see you or what he would think of you. For a few moments, when he was looking at your naked breasts there, in front of him, you almost had the instant reaction to cover yourself, but then he took off his own shirt and you forgot what resentment could arise from that.

He had strong arms, even though he wasn't muscular. His torso, which you could analyze as soon as you straddled him, had signs of Matt's age, which looked even sexier than you could have imagined. You caressed his shoulders, his biceps, until you stopped with both hands on his much-admired neck, where you felt near his jugular and his Adam's apple.

Your admirations, however, were almost silenced when Matt leaned you back just a little and brought his lips to one of your burning nipples, sucking lightly while playing with the other. You took a hand back to his hair, pulling him close while running the tip of your tongue over your sensitive breasts and making you bubble inside, trying to look for friction as you moved your hips against his.

“You’re so responsive…” He murmured as soon as you started to sigh at his ministrations. “Could easily fuck you right now. Pretty sure you’re wet enough.”

“So don't let me wait any longer.”

The smile he gave you when he lifted his head was, to say the least, devilish, and it made your pussy throb.

It would be a long night.

*******

For some reason, he had condoms, which at least saved you from the defeated route to a plan B or STD testing. You thought that, given the context, he would be a lazy partner who would lie around while you did everything else, like not having condoms and saying that if you wanted, you should take it anyway.

Matt locked the door after throwing (not handing, throwing) a box of condoms at your head while you were taking off your boots.

“Are you serious?”

“I like to consider myself a forewarned man.”

Which was a good point, but you didn't give it right away. He walked back to the bed, starting to work on the button on his pants while you analyzed the box.

“Is it that hard to believe?” He teased while trying to take the thing out of your hands, just to be received with a nudge and a frown from you.

“I'm checking to see if they're not expired.”

“You don't trust me to have good condoms, but you're going to come on my dick in a few minutes. Stop being a mood killer and come here.”

With a soft pull, Matt made you fall on top of the bed, purposely mounting you and throwing the box on the mattress. Before you could complain, he threw you on the mattress next to him like he did on the day of your stabbing, leaving you on your back while he stood up to take off (or almost rip) your pants. You couldn't even react, being manhandled like that, and only when he stopped for a few moments, placing both hands on your knees to keep them open enough, that you realized how thirsty he looked, deep breathing, full of adrenaline.

That was so fucking hot.

He didn't give you much time to think about anything, too. Anything you had to say, complain or tease died in your throat as you watched him tear the wrapper off a condom and place it on his dick. You couldn't look at anything other than his concentrated face, firm, with strands of disheveled hair touching his forehead as he pulled you closer to the edge of the mattress. His strong arms were almost stiff, lost between the effort of what you did hours before and his stubbornness in being on top at that moment. It was a necessary persistence, just like your urgency for him to just get over that.

“I said go easy, motherfucker,” You growled in a relapse of conscience, not quite feeling any particular pain but ready to complain if necessary. In that moment, when you finally managed to remember who Matt was, you leaned on your good arm and saw, in fact, how small you thought he was.

His face must have given away his true reaction because you heard him chuckle softly.

“You’re a big girl, you can manage,” But at the same time, he stuck two fingers in his mouth before bringing them to your entrance, where he massaged your clit before inserting them very easily. “Fuuuuck, you’re sucking them in so good, baby… It’ll be easier than you think.”

“So go quickly.”

“Shhh… None of that.”

Fuck, he was enough. You opened your mouth to moan, but nothing came out, nothing but a feeling of him filling you. Matt watched you the whole time, capturing your face contorted with pleasure as he placed inch by inch inside you.

“That's the only way you'll shut up, right?” He leaned over you, sliding his forearms on the mattress and putting his hips flushed against yours. When you didn't respond, he leaned closer to your ear to whisper. “When I'm in the room, you shut the fuck up and take it.”

With the first thrust, you realized that your jokes had no basis at all: it had been a long time for you, perhaps, but Matt had an ideal dick to stuff you up. He had experience in the way he went deeper, testing until he found your point and, when he found it, he didn't lose focus from the objective for a second. He grunted as you finally started to moan and react, grabbing his shoulders while he held your face so you wouldn't look away. The bastard wanted to see and he wanted you to see, he wanted proof of what he could do besides making you look bored, angry and disdainful. You were giving everything away, you couldn't sustain your act of dominance while his darkened eyes looked back at you, nor could you free your fingers from almost penetrating the flesh of his shoulders.

Your body was bubbling with pleasure, from the way his hips moved with long, slow thrusts, to the firmer in a way that made your boobs shake in time with his moves. You didn't know where to put your hands; whether they stood firm, gripping the sheet or whether they held his waist or keep them on his shoulders, begging him to go deeper, begging him to mistreat you just a little.

“... More,” Was all you could let out.

“What?”

“Fuck, Matt, I want it to hurt.”

With your eyes closed, the force of his hips brutally moving against yours increased, until he was able to rest one knee on the mattress and lift one of your legs to increase the intensity. Your moans became stupidly loud in his ear, obediently handing over all your letters to him; your mind went blank, with nothing but an echo saying 'Matt, Matt, Matt' over and over.

When it became unbearable for him, you felt your body being placed on your stomach and being penetrated again, this time on all fours, which made you grip the fabric beneath you tightly to be able to meet his thrusts. You were on the verge of orgasm, able to feel the idea of the relief of cumming, and he pulled you up, placing your back against his chest without stopping the rapid movements inside you. The new angle made you sigh, taking one of your hands to his hair and seeking stability there while he held you by your neck, the other palm going down to your clit.

“Matt, I-”

“Gonna cum?” His voice was a growl against your neck. “Go on, cream on my cock, baby. Gimme all that.”

The wave of pleasure that consumed you only didn't knock you down because Matt was still holding you, even though he himself was shaking from the orgasm that invaded him soon after. To contain a noise with his mouth, he buried his face in your shoulder and pushed into you one last time before staggering a little without letting go of you.

The two of you were there, quiet, catching your breaths in sync without saying a single word.

*******

“Want me to go sleep on the couch?”

“Stop being an idiot. We already fucked, sleeping together is nothing.”

Matt huffed, pressing a kiss on your injured shoulder before making you turn your body and face him. His hair was a mess, but curiously (or not so much) post-sex managed to make him even sexier, with the disheveled strands falling into his eyes as he bit his lip and admired what was exposed of your body.

“Looking for some body hair? Because shaving isn't really a priority when I'm here,” Your comment made him laugh, truly laugh, before looking at your face with amusement.

“I don't think you'd shave just because I asked you to.”

“For the first time I agree with you.”

“Look at it… If that were the condition for you to be less annoying, I would’ve fucked you sooner.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” You tried to hit him with a punch, but because you used your injured arm, it ended up resulting in an ordinary slap accompanied by a low grunt of pain.

He shushed you again, this time bringing his face closer for a kiss. You responded almost immediately, aware that you had barely had the luxury of a little more makeup, and when you opened your mouth, he deepened the kiss, almost climbing on top of you again. Your tongues connected here and there, which made considerable heat build up inside you again.

“No more getting hurt, huh?” Matt cooed, his body sliding down the mattress until he stopped between your open legs, where you saw him wet his lips as he stared at your pussy. “Relax and cum on my face this time.”

*******

Dallas looked at you, then at Matt, but no one said anything. You sat down in an armchair with some discomfort while he got ready to lie down and take a nap.

“I'm pretty sure I missed something.”

“I barely slept a wink tonight, Dallas. Leave the questions for later.”

Your boss looked at you suspiciously, but you shrugged your shoulders and turned your face to the window next to you, where you hid a smile with the palm of your hand.

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