i do love and respect the idea of the world at large being stunned at finding out how long ilya and shane have been together, but i truly think that under NO circumstances would shane ever choose to offer ANY personal details about himself or their relationship willingly.
which combined with ilya loving just making things up and saying them (as seen in the "yes, the rumors are true-" scene) offers the very funny idea that ilya actively tries to offer as much privacy as possible by just throwing out stories about them at random so there IS no central story for people to hound shane about.
assorted backstories a la "ilya just started talking and found out with everyone else where he was going with this":
they got snowed in at all stars one year (b-but wasn't that year in florida?) and decided there was nothing better to do
it started as a bit and neither is willing to give up first
they paired off to combine forces like nato
they paired off to limit how many kids they could have in the future to make sure hockey stayed fair
ilya lost a bet six years ago
shane lost a bet three years ago
ilya got tired of remembering phone numbers for his hookups and shane's is easy
ilya got tired of having to look things up in english and french when talking to other people and decide to marry someone who speaks two languages to save time
shane is gifted enough (wink wink wink) that other people are cowards and only ilya was brave enough to rise to the challenge (this one gets him in trouble on the phone later but it also gets him laid that night at home and also confuses the online speculation about who tops and bottoms, so net positive tbh)
yuna hollander is the best manager in the business and a political marriage was the best way to secure her services longterm
with the end result that all shane has to do is shrug and "my husband has already told our story a thousand times by this point. no point in repeating it and boring people." in interviews to get out of people trying to dig into things he doesn't want to tell them.
The room was a cold concrete basement that had no windows, and a few dim overhead lights that cast most of the space in unsettling shadows. All along three of the walls were large cages, and each one had girls inside. The faint light highlighted the terrified faces that were staring wide eyed at the shocked ones looking back at them. The girls were huddled together towards the back corners of the cages, where they couldn’t be grabbed from someone reaching in. They were all trembling in fear, some were in tears, and some were hiding their faces in another’s arm, like hiding under a blanket from monsters.
Santos quickly lowered his rifle, making the sign of the cross with his fingers.
“Santa María, Madre de Dios.”
Y/N was the first one to step forward, lifting her hands in a sign of surrender, her voice the gentlest Matt had ever heard it.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s alright. We’re not here to hurt you.”
She took another cautious step forward, keeping her hands raised, trying not to scare them any further. She slowly pointed to herself before gesturing behind her.
“My name is Y/N, these are my friends. We’re here to help.”
One of the little girls in the cage closest to them started to cry, her bottom lip trembling as thick tears streamed down her dirty cheeks. She clutched a stuffed bunny in her small arms, the once pristine white fur browned and caked with dirt, the seams ripped in certain spots, fluffy innards bursting out of the holes. One of the eyes was missing, and there was an unmistakable maroon stain on the left foot. The grimey tattered toy reflected the nightmare it had endured along with its companion.
“I want my mommy.”
“I know you. I’m gonna help you find her, I promise.”
He could smell the saltwater cresting at the corners of Y/N’s eyes, hear the emotion that was stuck in her throat, and it gutted him in an unexpected way. This was a brand new side of her he hadn’t witnessed, didn’t even think existed, and he didn’t know what to do with it. For a moment he felt paralyzed by the horrific scene they’d stumbled upon, and further stunned by this unprecedented display of genuine feeling from her.
Owens was also staring at her, and while there was a flicker of surprise in his unrelenting gaze, it was streaked in broader strokes of something else Matt couldn’t pick up on right now. His senses were completely overwhelmed with the thunderbolts of petrified heartbeats, the damp scent of sweat and tears lingering thick in the air, and the lack of heat in the small bodies from the uncomfortably chilly temperature in the room that prickled their bare skin. Hunger roared in their cavernous bellies, and the metallic tang of blood was noticeable from their chapped lips that were cracked from dehydration.
Matt stepped closer to Owens, keeping his voice low as he spoke.
“They’re freezing, and they haven’t been given any food or water in at least 2 days.”
Owens clenched his jaw and nodded, abandoning his rifle against the wall.
“Get the cages unlocked. I’ll call the other teams down, arrange for transport.”
Matt, Santos, and Y/N immediately began to crack the locks, gently coaxing the girls out of the cages while Owens stepped out of the room to call the rest of the teams down, informing them of the situation. Blankets were brought down and wrapped snugly around the girls to warm them up as they were escorted out of the room and taken back up above ground where a transport van was waiting. There were twenty one of them in total, ranging from five to twelve years old.
When the room was finally empty, Owens turned to look at her, and his face was hardened both with the revolting discovery they’d made and anger at being misled on his own mission.
“How the fuck did you know they were down here?”
“We knew they were holding them somewhere-”
“No, fuck that, you knew they were down here. How?”
When she didn’t respond, Matt clenched his jaw, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. It all seemed to click into place. Why something had been off with her tonight, why she’d been acting strange. She’d known what they were about to walk into. And she didn’t warn any of them.
“You knew before we even stepped foot inside.”
She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, letting out a shaky exhale.
“I didn’t know for certain-”
“But you had an idea of what we were going to find and you didn’t say anything.”
It almost pissed him off more that she wasn’t trying to justify herself than if she’d argued like she normally did. Matt wasn’t going to let her avoid this conversation. He stalked closer towards her, his tone becoming even more accusatory.
“You told Fury ‘we were right’. Right about what?”
“I can’t-”
“Bullshit. I don’t want to hear anything about fucking clearance right now. Right about what?”
Owens stepped closer, crossing his arms over his chest as he stood next to Matt.
“You said ‘it’s him’. Who’s ‘him’? Constantin?”
Even Santos stepped closer, eyeing her in disappointment. She had the answers, and they wanted them.
Her mouth opened and shut, conflict tying her tongue, and her veins were pulsing beneath her skin with the blood fervently pumping through them at an anxious speed. The scent of cortisol radiating from her was stronger than her usual scent, drowning out the spiced vanilla and jasmine completely. Her words were always chosen so cautiously, but there was an unspoken understanding in that room that none of them were going to accept a cryptic answer.
Something like resignation seemed to settle over her, as if she’d acquiesced a fate that had long been sealed. Straightening her posture, that familiar mask of composure slipped back into place to stare down the barrel of her own confession, though the illusion had already been fractured.
“We suspected the Krasnaya Pravaya Ruka was a front.”
Perplexity swirled in Owens’ blue eyes along with opaque annoyance, and his tone was dripping with ridicule at her obvious statement.
“Yeah, trafficking drugs to cover trafficking people. We’ve known that for months.”
Letting out a subtle deep exhale through her nose, she shook her head.
“No, I mean the entire organization itself. It’s not…they’re not a new group. They’re a rebranded one.”
Frustration and impatience were mounting among the three men, and it was Matt’s turn to voice his.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She glanced between the three of them, but her eyes lingered on Matt. He could feel those fractures starting to branch, spreading like wild roots deep into the cracks of that unshakable foundation she’d tried to maintain. Whatever she was about to say, it was going to change everything.
“It’s a covert Black Widow operation.”
Matt wasn’t well versed in what the Black Widow organization actually was. The extent of his knowledge was that it was a group of female spies who carried out assassinations and various types of destruction all over the world, and that Natasha Romanoff had been the most prolific one before switching sides to become an Avenger.
There was a connection hanging heavy from that revelation that Matt couldn’t place, but based on the way Owens and Santos both instantly went rigid, he knew it wasn’t a good one.
“It’s the same pattern. They collect the girls, hold them for two weeks, and then take them to the Red Room.”
Owens took a step forward and started shaking his head, waving his hand dismissively.
“No, no, that’s not possible. Romanoff got rid of the Red Room-”
“She got rid of that one. You think there was only one?”
The serrated edge to her voice and the venom that dripped from her bared teeth caught them all off guard, and Owens immediately took a step back. Her outburst seemed to surprise even her, and she forced herself to unclench her balled fists and try to regain some form of composure as she let out a heavy breath.
“That…that was the main one, yes, but there were others. They couldn’t fit all the girls they took under one roof, and they spaced them out to prevent detection, but they were everywhere.”
Matt noticed that she started blankly ahead, like she had earlier when looking into the studio room, seemingly trapped in the rerun of some memory. He wondered if it was the same one. The further she became immersed in it, her demeanor started to change, that meticulous self control fading into the same vacancy that was in her eyes. It was like the invisible weight of it settled on her shoulders, making them sink along with her descent into her past. Her voice was quieter when she spoke, like she was afraid to wake up something dark that was lingering within that reminiscence.
“The most promising girls were sent to the original one. It was a more…advanced program.”
The hairs on the back of Matt’s neck shot up despite the sweat trapped beneath the heat of his suit, as if jolted by a lightning strike, and an ominous feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Something was terribly wrong. He wanted to reach for her, but he couldn’t move. He was stuck in place by some unforeseen force emanating from the rawness clawing at her throat. It made his chest constrict, and he struggled to voice the question he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the answer to.
“How do you know that?”
That tide of emotion was rising in her eyes once again, and she could just barely lift her head to look at him. The hesitance wasn’t forged from shame that her veneer had shattered completely to pieces, or that the game of charades was over. It was unbridled guilt and loathing that he recognized all too well before confessing sins.
Not workplace harassment or an unrequited crush, but a secret third thing
aka what if Shane and Ilya never got outed, or 5 times the centaurs tried to shut down Ilya’s flirting and one time a centaur let it happen, part i of ii
Harris is typing an email to Gen with one hand while polishing off a cake pop in the other when a knock comes from the door. “Come in,” he calls as, from the couch, Troy and Chiron raise their heads to see.
“Hi.” Shane Hollander pokes his head in. “Is this a good time?” he asks, his voice stiff.
“Yeah, of course!” Harris says brightly as he pushes his chair back from his computer. “I’m Harris Drover, the Cens’ social media manager.”
“Shane Hollander,” he says as he holds out a hand.
Harris gives a firm shake.
“Enough of this,” a voice says before Shane is roughly shoved out of the way. “Is Chiron here?”
“Over here, Ilya,” Troy says dryly as he reaches over to pat Chiron’s head.
Ilya makes a beeline for Chiron, falling to his knees in front of the couch so he can bury his face in Chiron’s fur.
Huh. Harris didn’t think Ilya would be the one to show Shane around, knowing their history, but Ilya is the team captain, and welcoming new players technically fell under his purview.
“Anyway,” Harris says, turning his full attention back to Shane, “it’s great to have you! Welcome to the Cens.”
“It’s great to be here,” Shane says sincerely.
“Like I said, I’m the social media manager, so I run and create content for our Instagram, TikTok, Facebook, and Twitter. All I ask is that you follow us on all platforms and tag us on relevant posts.”
Shane chews his lip. “I don’t post much.”
“I don’t either,” Troy cuts in before Harris can reply. “That’s fine.”
“Actually, it’s not –” Harris starts.
Ilya cuts him off. “Is fine. I post enough for both of you,” he declares as he cajoles Chiron off the couch to give him belly rubs on the floor.
Harris sighs. “That is not how social media works.”
Troy rolls his eyes. Shane’s gaze drops to the carpet between his feet. Ilya is busy with the dog.
“But, I can come up with a strategy for you, Shane,” Harris says reassuringly. “I did the same with Troy last year, so it’s not a problem.”
“Thank you,” Shane says.
“So,” Harris claps his hands together. “First thing is a super easy Q&A. I do this with all new players. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes. Are you down?”
“Sure,” Shane says, sounding like he’d rather suffer a career-ending injury – or three.
“Do not worry, Hollander. Harris is the nicest social media manager around. He even makes Barrett look good.”
“Hey!” Troy flips him off.
“I’m fine on social media,” Shane argues. “Just because I don’t post multiple times a day, unlike some people –”
Illya interrupts, “You mean just because Yuna is too busy to post every day on your accounts.”
Shane glares at him, and Harris trades a concerned look with Troy, who just shrugs.
Don’t get him wrong, Harris was beyond thrilled to hear Shane was traded to the Centaurs. Not only is he their best chance at a Cup, but Harris was born and raised in Ottawa. Shane Hollander is a legend around here. Sometimes, when Harris was coming on his third hospital visit in as many months, he dreamed of what it would be like to play with Shane Hollander. They were close to the same age, after all, and Harris wasn’t a bad skater before his parents pulled him because of his heart.
But Shane’s history with Ilya worried Harris. They said they were friends now. They ran a charity and did some public appearances together. But they’d been enemies and rivals for almost eight years. Pitted against each other for wins, for points, for pretty much everything.
Could the team dynamics survive? They had such a good run last year, with Ilya wearing the big C.
Harris says none of this as he busies himself setting up the camera and finding the microphones while Shane and Ilya bicker in the background – somehow they’ve moved on to arguing about the best type of socks, which what – until Troy stretches.
Chiron jumps out of Ilya’s arms. “What?” he says, alarmed, as Chiron trots away, tongue lolling happily. “Where is he going?”
Troy jangles Chiron’s leash and Chiron’s tail starts wagging at the speed of a blackhawk helicopter. “On a walk?” he says, amused. “Like he does at this time every day?”
“He can’t stay?”
Harris replies, “He’ll get antsy and ruin the content.” He clips the microphone to Shane’s shirt. To Ilya, he says, “You’re welcome to join them, if you want.”
Ilya casts one longing look at Chiron’s furry butt as Troy and the dog disappear out the door. “No, I will stay here. Be good company for Shane.”
“Make fun of my answers, more like,” Shane mutters darkly under his breath.
Innocently, Ilya says, “I am a very good multi-tasker.”
“Don’t,” Harris warns Ilya, silently pleading with him to be good for once. He only has one chance to make a first impression on Shane Hollander, after all.
Ilya just throws him a shark-like grin and mimes zipping his lips shut, which Harris doesn’t buy for a second.
They get through nearly all the hockey questions easily (favorite player as a kid, favorite career memory, favorite position to play) but things start to derail at the last one: “Who is your favorite current hockey player?”
Shane tenses. “Sorry, can you please repeat the question?”
“No problem,” Harris says easily, but out of the corner of his eye he watches Ilya jerk to attention Chiron whenever he spots a squirrel. Harris clears his throat. “Ready?” At Shane’s nod, he asks again, “Who is your favorite current player?”
“Uh, Hayden Pike.”
Ilya scoffs loudly out of frame, and Harris can feel his happy go lucky zen drain like grains of sand slipping from his fingers. “Liar,” Ilya accuses.
“Hayden’s a great player!” Shane protests.
“Fifteenth best Voyageurs player.”
“He’s my best friend.”
“Okay friend,” Ilya corrects. “Bad hockey player.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “JJ, then.”
“Still liar,” Ilya sing songs.
Shane goes fiery red. “Fuck off.”
“Ilya,” Harris says, and he really should get more used to taking a firmer stance on things he doesn’t like. It just goes against Harris’s everything. He continues, “Just because you said Shane is your favorite current player does not mean Shane owes you the same.”
Internally, Harris winces. Honestly, it feels like disciplining a child – a child who is the top scorer in the NHL, weighs nearly 240 pounds, and stands at 6’3. Ilya probably won’t kill him for this. Ilya likes him, right?
Shane’s mouth falls open. “You said that?” he breathes.
Ilya shrugs like he did not wax poetic for a full 20 seconds that Harris had to cut down to two. “I may have.”
Harris pulls out his personal phone to play it for Shane. “I posted it last year, but it’s still on the Centaurs’ Insta–”
“No need for that!” Ilya interrupts hurriedly. “Ask Hollander the question again. He will give real answer.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane says, but he’s smiling and looking far more relaxed than two minutes ago, to Harris’s surprise. He will definitely be using this take, if just to catch that smile on camera.
“Okay, Shane,” Harris says, now smiling himself. “Who is your favorite current player?”
“Scott Hunter.”
Ilya makes a noise like Shane just shot him. “No!”
Shane snickers. “I’m kidding. While I greatly admire Scott for all he’s contributed to hockey, my favorite player is Ilya Rozanov.” His gaze flicks to Ilya and then back to the phone camera. “Rozanov pushes everyone on the ice to be better, whether they’re playing with him or against him. It’s one of the best things about joining the Centaurs and what I’m looking forward to most this season.”
Cut.
Trust Shane Hollander to end on a perfect media-ready answer that hypes future games.
“Is that usable?” Shane asks nervously.
“It’s perfect,” Harris says, dumbfounded.
“I knew you loved me and not Scott Hunter, bah,” Ilya says as he violently yanks Shane closer and presses an offensively loud kiss to the side of his head.
“What the fuck? Get off me,” Shane grunts as he shoves Ilya, cackling like a hyena, away.
Harris clears his throat. “Ilya, please at least wait until the season opener to harass our new players. Ready for the next set of questions, Shane?”
“Uh, yeah, go for it,” Shane says with a warning look at Ilya.
“Are you a dog person or a cat person?”
Shane’s forehead scrunches as he thinks. “I used to think I was more of a cat person–”
“What the fuck, Hollander?”
“But,” Shane continues like Ilya did not interrupt at all, “One of my best friends recently got a dog, and I think I might actually be a dog person.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ilya says smugly. “Every person is an Anya person.”
“Oh my god,” Shane turns to him, “do you have to have an opinion on everything?”
Ilya cocks his head. “Is like you have never met me before.”
Shane makes an incomprehensible growling noise, which Harris will certainly cut later. “Anyway,” he says loudly, “Shane, do you have any hobbies?”
Shane goes completely blank. 404 error, not processing. After an excruciatingly long silence, he asks, “Hockey doesn’t count?”
“Um, no.”
“So boring, Hollander.”
Shane groans. “I don’t know. I read books–”
Ilya cuts in, “Hockey books.”
“I work out?”
“To stay fit for hockey,” Ilya points out.
“I do yoga!” Shane says triumphantly with a challenging look at Ilya, who holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat.
Harris does not facepalm in front of his hockey idol, but it’s a close damn call. A quarter of this will be usable–if he’s lucky. “Okay,” he says as Shane all but sticks his tongue out at Ilya and taunts, “na na, na-na, nah.” Harris checks the camera to see if it’s still recording. “What is your favorite ice cream flavor?”
“Your mom always has cookie and cream in the freezer,” Ilya chimes in.
“How do you–” is all Harris can get out before Shane says, exasperated, “That’s her favorite, dumbass.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. “How am I supposed to know this?”
“You know I don’t eat ice cream.”
“Your diet is stupid,” Ilya says.
“Your face is stupid.”
Ilya smirks. “Oh so many people disagree with you, Hollander–”
“Not if they knew you only have seven real teeth left.”
“Is way more than seven!”
“Like what, ten?” Shane taunts.
“Guys,” Harris says loudly before they can, what, get in a slap fight? He doesn’t think Ilya and Shane will escalate to actually punching each other out over ice cream, but he’s seen how heated they can get in the rink. He just didn’t think it would also translate to inconsequential social media interviews.
“Sorry, Harris,” Ilya apologizes.
“Sorry,” Shane says a split second later.
Harris sighs. He inhales a deep breath and forces a smile on his face. Fake it until it becomes real. That was his motto in the hospital, and that is his motto with the Centaurs. “Next question: since you’re on a diet, Shane, what is your favorite cheat food?”
Shane’s brow furrows. “I don’t cheat.”
For once, nothing from Ilya. He nods in agreement, his face serious.
Harris follows up, “Wow, that’s incredible! So what’s your favorite food that’s in your diet?”
“I don’t know,” Shane hedges over a telltale jangling from outside the office. “I really like salmon?”
Oh, shi–
“No way!” Troy says as he and Chiron come in. “I love salmon. It’s my favorite too. Hot, cold, you can’t go wrong.”
Harris throws up his hands. “Yeah, sure, let’s just make this a group Q&A. Why not.”
“Really, Barrett?” Ilya groans as he waves at Chiron, who immediately jumps on him, licking him chin to forehead. “Are you secretly boring too?”
“What do you have against salmon?” Troy demands as, next to him, Shane grins at the backup.
Ilya’s eyes gleam. “Where do I fucking start?”
Harris gives up. He can finish Shane’s Q&A tomorrow.
Evan Dykstra
“New season, new playlist!” Evan crows as he presses play. “Let’s fucking go!”
At the first twang over the gym speakers, half the weight room groans. The other half sprints for the cardio machines, jamming earbuds in their ears.
“Way to start us off strong, Dykstra,” Bood says sarcastically to an encouraging round of jeers before he climbs on the farthest stationary bike from the speakers.
“Fuck off, you haters,” Evan says loudly as stretches out his perpetually tight hamstrings next to Rozy. “This album is great.”
“I think my ears are bleeding,” Pointy moans from the bench press where Bergy is spotting him.
“Who is this?” Hollander asks from the rowing machine, positioned closest to the mats. He looks intrigued.
Evan beams. Suck it Rozy, Shane Hollander is the best hockey player in the league. Who cares if his backhand is weak, and if he is short. Rozy is completely batshit. Hollander’s backhand is still loads better than Evan’s, and he’s an inch taller than Evan, anyway. Plus, he’s Shane Hollander.
The name Ilya Rozanov also used to carry that scary, intimidating weight, but Evan quickly lost almost all fear of his captain the time Rozy got emotional over Barrett’s plate of salmon. Rozy was drunk, they’d just lost their fourth game in a row, and he was fighting with his then-girlfriend, Jane. Apparently salmon was her go-to restaurant order, and that was just the last straw for Ilya Rozanov, Russian hardass and notoriously asshole.
Hard to be afraid of a guy who was nearly sobbing over a plate of smelly, cooked fish. It wasn’t even good salmon too, definitely frozen and not fresh caught.
Privately, Evan had thought Jane must’ve been a total freak in the sheets to get Rozanov’s attention before the salmon incident. After the salmon incident, though, Evan seriously reevaluated his mental picture of her. Nobody who goes wild about salmon also goes wild in the bedroom.
Caitlin just groaned when Evan tried to gossip about the team with her (like she is always asking for!), and told him he was an idiot. But that just goes to show he knows nothing about women, and Caitlin is a goddess for agreeing to marry him.
“You know nothing about music,” Rozy says derisively. “Stick to hockey. Work on that backhand. Leave beats to rest of us. Not including Dykstra.” He turns to Evan. “You also need to work on your backhand.”
“You, shut it,” Evan says to his captain. “Hollander, do you like country music?”
Before Hollander can respond, Rozy says, “No, he does not!”
“I was asking Hollander,” Evan says, glaring.
“Kind of?” Hollander says, nose wrinkling. “I don’t really listen to music. Mostly podcasts, if I’m training by myself.”
“So boring!”
Hollander ignores the interruption. “But, this song – the last song,” he amends as the playlist moves on, “had a tempo that matched my pace perfectly.” He smiles over at Evan. “Do you have any other songs like that one?”
Evan’s jaw falls open in horror. “That’s why you liked it?” he says, trying and mostly failing to keep the offense out of his voice.
Rozy lets out a vindicated, “Ha!”
Hollander frowns.
“Wait,” Rozy says into the relative silence. His joking smile drops off his face, replaced by pure concentration. “This singer, is he singing about his male lover?”
Hollander’s frown deepens.
Evan cocks his head, listening to the very male voice sing, “I miss the way he used to wake me up, always making me feel loved,” trying to place it.
“Yeah,” Evan says, grinning proudly as he recognizes the song. “Caitlin loves country music, but she doesn’t like what some of the popular guys say about women, so I keep them off. And I figured Troy wouldn’t want to listen to homophobes either – similar boat, you know – so I swapped them for a few gay artists! They’ve got good stuff too.”
Hollander’s face goes slack with surprise.
Oh shit. Didn’t Hollander come out a few months ago? Evan hurries to add to Rozy, “Listen, you’ll like the next line – quiet!”
“Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t miss you at all. I miss the dog.”
Rozy breaks out into delighted peals of laughter. “I am loving this song.”
Even Hollander smiles, and Evan exhales in relief. A bit too much relief, which is why he doesn’t think before he says, “If Troy and Harris ever break up, this has to be on their break up playlist.” Evan is a firm believer in a playlist for every occasion.
“What the fuck?” Troy pops his earbuds out as he slams his hand down on the treadmill console. “If who breaks up?” he demands.
Evan flushes. “Nothing.”
“Dykstra is implying that if you and Harris broke up, you would miss Chiron more than Harris,” Rozy helpfully fills in because he is a shit stirrer.
“Uh, no,” Troy says seriously. “If Harris and I split, which is a pretty fucking big if, I would definitely miss Harris more. Chiron is great, but he’s a dog.”
Rozy gasps like the world’s supply of vodka dried up all at once. “You are lying!” he cries.
Troy rolls his eyes and pops his earbuds back in.
“Who is this now?” Hollander asks as the song changes to one of Caitlin’s favorites.
All three of them turn to stare at him. Troy takes his earbuds back out. “Really, Shane?” he asks after a beat.
Hollander flushes.
“For the record, I don’t like country music,” Troy says slowly, “But even I can recognize Taylor Swift.”
“Oh! I have heard of her,” Hollander says, but he sounds unsure.
“Oh-kay,” Evan says slowly, “this calls for an intervention. I’m making you a playlist.”
“No, not another playlist!” Bergy groans as Pointy helps him up from the bench. “Have some mercy, Dykstra.”
“Fuck off! It’s not for you!” Evan calls to their backs as they take off towards the free weights.
Hollander tells him, “That’s really not necessary.”
“It is!” Evan says eagerly. “I’ll put more Chris Housman on there. Adam Mac too. Maybe some Sturgill Simpson, Luke Combs, and, of course, Cowboy Carter.” He grins. “How about old school country, like George Strait or Tim McGraw? And you can’t go wrong with Dolly, obviously.”
Hollander, looking overwhelmed, glances at Rozy, who just grimaces. “He’ll listen to whatever you put on this disaster playlist, Dykstra. He is too nice and too Canadian to not play one time, at least.”
“Hell yeah,” Evan says with a wide grin. It might be a pity listen, but he’ll take it! They’re good songs, dammit.
“Hollander, spot me,” Rozy demands as he pops up from the mats like a spring.
“You forgot to say please,” Hollander snarks, but he still slows on the rowing machine.
Rozy rolls his eyes. “Hollander, spot me, please, so big weight does not fall on my face and bench the best hockey player in the league.”
“As if,” Hollander says as he climbs to his feet, “I know what you lift. It would just break your nose, probably.” He reaches for his water bottle and takes a long pull.
“Aw, you’d miss my pretty face.”
“Like I’d miss a migraine,” Hollander shoots back. “And you’re not the best hockey player in the league. Don’t fool yourself.”
“I am top point scorer,” Rozy points out.
Hollander’s eyes narrow as they move to the bench press. “I have more career goals.”
“I have a harder shot,” Rozy says without missing a beat.
“I have better aim.”
“I have more breakaways.”
Smirking, Hollander loads on the 50lb weights on either side. “I’m faster, and I’m a better stick handler than –”
“Liar,” Rozy cuts him off. “I taught you stick handling, do you not remember?”
Hollander flounders, his mouth opening and closing. “You did not.”
“Mm hm,” Rozy hums as he sits on the bench and wriggles under the bar. “Advanced stick handling class. After that CCM photoshoot, da.”
Hollander blushes fiercely. “You –!”
Rozy just laughs.
“Weird, right?” Bood says out of nowhere.
Evan jumps. He hadn’t even noticed Bood approaching on the mats.
“It’s like they literally cannot turn the rivalry off, even though they’re friends now,” Bood continues.
“Rozy certainly can’t,” Evan agrees.
“And from what I’ve seen of him, Holly will never let him have the last word,” Bood says with a chuckle.
Rozy’s raised voice reaches them, chirping something about Hollander’s mother.
“Hey,” Bood calls. “Do I need to split you two up? I’m not afraid to play the A card.”
Rozy lifts his head from the bench. “I’m your captain,” he says indignantly.
Bood just flicks his gaze up to Hollander for confirmation, who shakes his head. “We’re fine, thanks.”
“If you say so,” Bood says doubtfully. “Keep it civil, guys. We haven’t even played our first game yet.” He takes off for the other end of the mat where there’s enough room to stretch out fully.
“Civil?” Rozy repeats. “I am always civil!”
Hollander bursts out laughing. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am always civil with my team,” Rozy amends. “On the ice, though, that is another thing.”
Hollander nods once. “I’ll accept that.”
“So glad I have your acceptance now, Hollander,” Rozy says sarcastically as he sits up. “Is your turn.”
Hollander shoots him a dirty look as he slides under the bar.
“I can make it lighter if you need,” Rozy says innocently.
“Shut up,” Hollander hisses as his arms strain with his first rep. “I can lift it.”
“Eh, if the great Shane Hollander says so–”
“Fuck off,” Shane pants as he pushes the bar up again.
“If you do seven reps,” Rozy says solemnly. “I will tell no one. Will be our secret.”
“Gonna do nine,” Hollander forces out. “One more than you.”
Rozy shakes his head sadly. “So competitive. What is that stupid English saying? There is no ‘I’ in team?”
“Stop talking.”
“Make me,” Rozy says, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.
“I can think of one way,” Shane grunts, his voice strained with the effort to keep the bar over his head.
“In front of the whole team?” Rozy says loudly with a theatrical gasp. “I did not think you had it in you, Hollander! What would Yuna say?”
Hollander’s grip on the weight falters, and Evan lunges over just in time to help Rozy catch the bar before it drops the rest of the way. “Jesus,” Evan says as he lowers it on the floor behind the bench, “Roz, I love you, man, but you can’t distract a guy with innuendos when you’re supposed to be spotting him. That’s how you’re gonna get punched one of these days.”
Entirely unrepentant, Rozy shrugs. “Have been punched many times before. Never made any difference.”
Hollander sits up. “That’s what I was talking about. To get you to shut you up,” he says, red-faced, “Not whatever you were thinking.”
“Sure, you were saying this,” Rozy says with a leer.
“I was!”
Evan glances between the two of them. “Okay, I’m gonna head to the treadmill. Don’t kill each other.”
“No promises,” Hollander says darkly.
Rozy grins and pulls Hollander into a one-armed hug. “We love each other. Do not worry.”
Hollander flinches, but he doesn’t throw off Rozy’s sweaty arm or deny it. He rolls his eyes instead.
Evan shrugs. Good enough.
Two days later, Evan sends a link to Shane Hollander’s new contact in his phone.
Evan Dykstra 3:14
https://open.spotify.com
/playlist/2sCNN6LC4
VRySNh2aBJqQD
All songs are 72
beats per minute
Hope you like!
Had to branch out of
country music to find
enough songs but I
promise theyre all
good!
Shane Hollander 3:14
Oh wow
Thank you so much!
This is so nice of you.
Evan Dykstra 3:16
No problem man
So glad to have you
with the Cens!
Dont let Rozy get
under your skin
None of us take him
seriously anymore
Evan’s phone vibrates with a new message less than a minute later.
Shane Hollander 3:16
Don’t sweat it.
I never do!
Ilya Rozanov 3:16
Hollander just told me
what you said
Evan Dykstra 3:17
What the fuck
Ilya Rozanov 3:17
Hope you and rest of team
like bag skates 😈
Evan stares down at his phone, baffled. Apparently he can add Rozy and Hollander’s friendship to the list of things he doesn’t understand, along with women, country music haters, and that one kid who bit Susie at daycare last week.
Evan Dykstra 3:17
What the fuck??
Holmberg (and LaPointe and Young)
Bergy tugs Young and Pointy closer. “I love you guys,” he says loudly as he throws his arms around them. First he gets drafted on Ilya Rozanov’s team, then he gets to play with the best rookies in the league? How did Bergy ever get so lucky?
Young laughs. “Jesus, Bergy, how the fuck are you such a lightweight? You’re almost as big as Bood.”
They all glance over to Bood, where he’s at a larger table with Cap, Hollzy, Hazy, and Barrett. Cap is regaling them with some over the top story, if his larger than life gestures are anything to go by.
Bergy makes a face. “We’re on a five game streak, and tomorrow we’re heading to 80 degree weather,” he argues. “Why aren’t you celebrating?”
Young shrugs bashfully. “I might have plans with a girl later,” he says.
Bergy grins. “That’s right, you haven’t gotten any all season. Better not risk whiskey dick, and fuck it all up.”
Young scowls and punches Bergy, hard, in the arm.
“Hell yeah!” Pointy shoots a pair of finger guns. “Get it!”
“Shh!” Bergy flaps his hands in Pointy’s face. “Don’t be so loud. Or you know who will come.”
Pointy frowns. “Voldemort?”
“The fuck?” Bergy grimaces. “Not fucking Voldemort, you moron. Cap.”
“What about Cap?” Pointy asks.
Bergy groans. “He thinks he’s some sort of sex god ’cause he fucked around so much with the Bears.”
Pointy just looks lost, and not entirely due to his two and a half glasses of cider.
Bergy heaves a massive sigh. “Back in LA, Cap caught me looking twice at a girl,” he says, “and next thing I know, he’s busting out, like, a whole roll of condoms right there in the bar and talking about safe sex and consent and the importance of reciprocation.” He takes a long pull from his beer, nearly draining it.
“Funniest shit I have ever seen,” Young says with a grin as he steals the last dregs of Bergy’s glass. “So, one of the, like, ten thousand condoms catches her eye, and next thing we know, she’s walking over.”
“And I think, holy shit, this is really happening,” Bergy adds, “’cause she’s like a total smokeshow. And, sure I’m hot too, but Ottawa hot, so that means, like, nothing in Los Angeles.”
“Anyway,” Young picks up the story, “she comes up to us, and Cap grins, claps Bergy on the back, tells him to be safe, and leaves. And get this, the girl follows him.”
Pointy nearly snorts his next sip of cider through his nose.
Bergy continues, “But I don’t think he fucked her since he got the next round for the whole team. Unless part of his game is coming in under five minutes.”
“Unlikely,” Young scoffs, “if you actually listened to everything he was telling you to do.”
Bergy nods. “He did the same to Haas back after our first game against New York, so it must be a thing for him.”
Pointy flags down their server for another round. “He really takes this mentoring thing seriously.”
“Too seriously,” Bergy agrees.
“But,” Pointy says, with a small frown, “if he’s all about consent and shit, why is he always up on Hollzy?”
Young opens his mouth and closes it again. Bergy’s brow furrows.
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Pointy says, lowering his voice, “since he’s Cap, and I figure Shane fucking Hollander could flatten him if he wanted to. But – you’ve seen it, right?”
Young bites his lip. Bergy slowly shakes his head in denial even though he has seen Hollzy and Cap interacting in the locker room a few times in a way that made his gut squirm.
It’s just – Hollzy reminds him so much of his little sister. Amy is way into lacrosse, not ice hockey, but she has the same intensity, that same head for lacrosse stats of all her favorite players and past tournaments. Highest lacrosse IQ in the province, Dad says proudly.
Amy also hates to be touched by anybody but family members and sometimes needs to be reminded to make contact for important conversations.
Amy got diagnosed when she was seven, and Bergy’s whole family got an autism crash course over the course of the next year. He only consciously registered that he’d been treating Hollzy the same way he treats Amy when, after their first win, Bergy went in for a light pat on Hollzy’s back when everyone else got a giant bear hug.
What can he say, Bergy has always been a very touchy-feely dude.
“I’ve seen it,” Bergy says quietly as he takes an enormous gulp of his new beer. “Must be different with girls, with Cap,” he says because it makes sense even though it’s not right.
Cap is also a touchy-feely dude. On their last epic winning streak last season, before Hollzy joined up, Cap kissed them all on the cheek after winning their final game against Boston. Cap always slings his arms around their shoulders, getting in close. They all smelled it when Cap quit smoking at the start of the season.
Pointy glances over. “D’you think it’s part of their… rivalry?”
Bergy’s booze-filled brain can’t follow that leap. “What?”
“Like, we all know Cap likes to mess with other teams,” Pointy says, lowering his voice. “D’you think he’s still messing with Hollzy? Like, he doesn’t see him as a real Centaur since Cap was here first?”
Young asks doubtfully, “What, you think Cap is pulling ‘this rink isn’t big enough for the both of us’?” He snorts. “That’s not very captainly of him.”
“I don’t know!” Pointy cries.
“Whatever it is,” Bergy says, “I don’t like it.”
Pointy just tosses back about half his beer.
Young grabs it after and chugs the rest of it. “Should we say something?”
Pointy grumbles, “Do you want to accuse our captain of harassment, and – what the fuck is it,” he snaps his fingers, searching for the term, “workplace bullying?”
Young narrows his eyes. “That’s not a thing.”
“Yeah, it is,” Pointy retorts. “My mom works in HR. This shit is real.”
“Cap?” Young says, his brow furrowing like he’s doing advanced university calculus, “A bully?”
“No way,” Bergy says with a forceful shake of his head. “That’s just Hockey. We had, like, four guys on my junior team who messed with other players like that. It’s just how it is.”
“No, it’s not,” Pointy says. He jerks his head back towards the other table. “Barrett was telling me, the Cens are different. Toronto was like that, and Hazy backed him up. Barrett says he knows the difference, and apparently the Cens are better.” He shrugs.
“Are we?” Young says in an undertone. “If Cap is, um, bullying Hollzy in front of everyone?”
Pointy rakes a desperate hand through his hair. “What are we gonna do?”
“Nothing?” Young proposes. Judging from his immediate grimace, he doesn’t like that idea any more than Pointy or Bergy.
“Kids!” Cap’s voice booms over them, and Bergy jumps, along with Pointy and Young.
“Cap?” Bergy twists around in his seat to see Cap looming over them with Hollzy behind him. “We are leaving,” he announces. “Do you all have rides back home?” At their mumbled assents, Cap straightens his shoulders. “Because I do not care if you drive tipsy. Is way more fun that way, and more cool –”
“Oh my god, Rozanov,” Hollzy mutters, rolling his eyes. “What is wrong with you?”
“But Hollander is not cool,” Cap says loudly over Hollzy’s aside, “and he cares very deeply if you drink and drive. So do not do this, da?” He glares at each of them in turn. “You do not want to disappoint Shane Hollander.” He tugs Hollzy closer and squishes his cheeks between his hands, making Hollzy scowl and wriggle back, but Cap doesn’t let him have an inch. “Look at this face. You do not want to see this face when you are hungover and skating like shit.”
In a squashed and muffled voice, Hollzy forces out, “I think they get the point.”
Bergy exchanges a frantic look with Pointy and Young before turning back to Cap, nodding quickly, “No pissing off Hollzy. Got it.”
Thank god, Cap lets Hollzy go after that.
“You’re such an asshole,” Hollzy mutters, rubbing his now-red cheeks.
After a long pause, Young mutters, “We’ll call Ubers.”
“Good boys.” Cap claps Young and Bergy on the shoulder, the two closest to him. “Enjoy rest of the night. Don’t do anything I would not do,” he says with a laugh.
“That’s really not saying much,” Hollzy says disapprovingly.
Cap says, “They are young and stupid. You do not know this because you have always been boring, but it is very fun to be young and stupid.”
Hollzy groans, “You make us sound so old, Jesus.”
“Come.” Cap throws an arm around Hollzy’s shoulders, ignoring Hollzy’s automatic twitch at the skin-to-skin contact “I think Barrett has finished blowing Harris in the washroom. We can leave now.”
Hollzy turns maroon. “Why do you always say things like this?” he hisses. “They’re just settling the bill, for fuck’s sake.”
Cap cackles. “To see your little face!” Before Hollzy can reply, he quickly ushers him towards the exit where Barrett and Harris are already waiting.
“Okay, we have to do something,” Bergy says. “We all saw that, right?”
Young sighs. Pointy nods.
Bergy glances around, just to see who else might’ve seen, and his gaze lands on Bood, sitting alone at the table, texting someone on his phone. Probably his wife, Cassie.
“Bood!” Bergy says.
Bood’s head jerks up, Bergy blurts, “fuck!” before quickly turning back to Young and Pointy. He really didn’t mean to be that loud.
“What?” Young asks, suspicious.
“We tell Bood,” Bergy says as Bood gets up and starts heading for their table. “He has the A. He’ll know what to do.”
We (rightfully) make fun of shane for putting on a suit before their first hookup but we should also be making fun of ilya for wearing a fashionable denim jacket. They were staying in the same hotel. he put that jacket on just to down the hall and up the elevator. he only wore it because he thought shane would think it looked cool (he did) and that shane would love a sexy little striptease (he did). Embarrassing!
Owens was in the middle of directing his men on which sides of the building to take when he caught a glimpse of something red out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he noticed a man walking behind Y/N, wearing a devil suit that anyone in New York would’ve recognized. Daredevil. He immediately straightened up, and his men parted for him like the Red Sea as he began to march over towards them.
“What the hell is he doing here? This isn’t the goddamn circus.”
“But you’re here.”
The edges of Matt’s lips twitched as he fought to contain his smirk. He really did find her attitude entertaining when he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of it. She seemed to know exactly which buttons to press with Owens, granted he didn’t seem like someone that anyone would have a hard time pissing off. As soon as Owens opened his mouth to fire back, she abruptly cut him off in that frustratingly calm voice of hers.
“You’re welcome to call Fury if you don’t agree with his decisions.”
Owens’ mouth snapped shut instantly, and he glanced between her and Matt in pure irritation. He placed his hands on his hips and let out a dry scoff.
“What, you’re telling me Fury is the one who brought a vigilante on board?”
“He is. And this vigilante is the one who found the files in Tarasov’s office. He’s the reason we even know this is one of their properties.”
“I don’t care what James Bond shit you two did. Me and my men don’t have time to babysit. He doesn’t even have a gun, Y/L/N. Those…nunchucks or whatever the hell they are, they aren’t gonna cut it in there.”
“They’re batons.”
Owens looked at Matt in annoyance when he interjected, giving him an unimpressed look before letting out a humorless laugh.
“That’s even worse.”
“Owens, he can fight better than your entire squad blindfolded.”
Matt heard the tiny glint of humor in her tone, the subtle joke layered in her words that only the two of them could comprehend.
“Oh you’ve got to be fucking with me now. You really think-”
She took a step forward, maintaining direct eye contact with Owens as she tilted her head to the side.
“Do any of your men have heightened senses?”
Owens’ dark blonde brows knit towards the center of his forehead at her question.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Can they do weird shit, like hear conversations three blocks away, or smell sweat and cheap cologne from two floors above?
Looking between the pair in pure puzzlement, Owens dropped his hands from his hips, the defensiveness in his body language dissipating, slowly being replaced with unsteadiness.
“Uh…no-”
“Then stay the fuck out of his way.”
Owens bristled as she brushed past him without another word, and his expression shifted to pure vexation as he turned to focus his heated glare at Matt. Pursing his lips lightly in an innocent way, Matt lazily lifted his gloved hands in a placating gesture, attempting to keep his amusement out of his tone.
“I’ve found it’s easier just to do what she says.”
Letting out a scoff, Owens took a step closer, looking Matt up and down once again in disapproval.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be some badass. Guess even the Devil is afraid of something.”
“And I guess Sam Wilson was busy tonight, Captain.”
Matt reveled in the way Owens suddenly stiffened, the low blow clearly hitting its intended target. Owens’ back was now ramrod straight, as if someone had grasped the top of his spine between two fingers and yanked upwards, his shoulders now stiff and squared. Matt cocked his head to the side, gesturing loosely with his chin towards the shield in the other man’s left hand.
“Nice shield. Bit small.”
He could hear the blood pumping violently in Owens’ veins, his blood pressure rising rapidly, anger metastasizing throughout his entire body, causing his internal temperature to spike and spread over his skin like wild fire. Matt didn’t bother to hide his smirk this time as he walked past Owens, calling over his shoulder casually.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure titanium alloy is a good substitute for Vibranium.”
Owens’ fury was temporarily interrupted by Matt’s comment, replaced with absolute confusion. He lifted the shield in his left hand, swiftly glancing between it and Matt’s retreating figure.
“How the hell-”
“You know your blood pressure is pretty high. You should get that checked out.”
Now it was her turn to try and hide her mirth. She cleared her throat, putting minimal effort into preventing the edges of her lips from betraying the enjoyment she felt seeing Owens’ dumbfounded expression that was streaked with annoyance.
“You joining us or what, G.I. Joe?”
»»——— ———««
The building was outside of the main part of the city in a nice area, hidden in plain sight. On the outside, it looked like a generic dance studio, something people wouldn’t look twice at. It was still “under construction”, the perfect cover for large vans coming and going at all hours, and loud noise to disguise whatever sinister was happening inside. The “construction company” was another front, just a series of shell companies that they’d been able to connect back to the Carbones.
According to a text sent to Tarasov’s burner, there was an important shipment coming into the docks tonight, which meant his men’s attention was focused there. There had only been two men guarding the site, and they’d been taken out quickly. Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., they’d tapped into the security cameras inside the building and the surrounding area, looping the feed to give the tactical team cover to enter without raising alarm.
The tactical team was split into five groups, one taking each side of the building, and one on the roof. Matt was with Y/N, Owens, and his first lieutenant, Santos. They entered through the back, Owens and Santos in the lead with their rifles drawn, the flashlights attached to the top illuminating the darkness ahead. It was eerily silent apart from their careful footsteps and breathing.
“It’s pretty fucked up, their cover being a dance studio.”
Santos shone his light through the glass wall inside one of the studio rooms, moving it like a spotlight across the neat rows of blonde wood. Lingering sawdust danced through the luminescence like phantoms, disappearing as the light did.
“These people traffic humans, I doubt they have a sense of morality.”
Matt paused when he noticed her lingering by the window, sensing her eyes roaming over the space, and he fell back, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear him.
“You alright?”
With that question, she was pulled back from wherever she’d gone in her head, turning away from the glass.
“Fine.”
His hand shot out to grab her arm gently, preventing her from leaving. His gloved thumb slowly brushed over her arm through the sleeve of her tactical suit, meant to be a soothing gesture.
“Bring back memories?”
“Not pleasant ones.”
Matt tilted his head to the side as her arm slipped from his grasp and she began walking again. Something was…off with her tonight, but he couldn’t figure out what. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but he’d become so in tune with her that it was like a thin splinter that had only pierced your clothes, barely grazing the skin. Faint, but there. She still had that mask in place, that carefully crafted composure she always wore, but he could detect a tiny crack just below the surface, and whatever was trapped beneath seemed like it was slowly starting to spill over.
The building was set up like a garden maze, an innocent labyrinth until you had to navigate it in the dark. When they reached the center, Matt paused outside of a door, gathering the attention of the others.
“This must be the main office.”
Owens and Santos shared a skeptical look, but she was already moving towards the door.
“Empty?”
“Yeah, but locked.”
“I got it.”
Santos handed his rifle to Owens, stepping forward to kneel in front of the door. Y/N aimed the beam of her flash light on the door knob as he pulled two small tools from one of the pouches on his belt, slipping them into the keyhole with effortless precision. Matt cocked his head to the side, listening to the metal edges finding the puzzle pieces inside.
“They teach you lock picking in S.H.I.E.L.D. training?”
“Nah, but they do in the Bronx.”
Santos turned to look up at him over his shoulder, a grin splitting his lips. A smirk twitched at the edge of Matt’s mouth.
“You really from Hell’s Kitchen? Or is that just like, for the Devil theme?”
“Born and raised. Tilt the right one a little to the left.”
Santos glanced up at Matt again, looking him up and down in perplexed curiosity. Angling the right tool slightly to the left, the telltale sound of the lock shifting filled the silence. His dark brows raised, and he gave Matt another once over before looking up at her with barely contained amusement.
“Weird shit?”
A faint smirk tugged at the edge of her lips and she nodded.
“Weird shit.”
Owens rolled his eyes and held Santos’ rifle out towards him.
“Alright, we’re not here to socialize. We got a job to do.”
Reaching out to grasp the door knob, Matt twisted it slowly so it didn’t make a sound, pushing his gloved fingers lightly against the wood for it to swing open. He gestured with his hand as he gave Owens a smirk.
“After you.”
Owens clenched his jaw, shooting Matt a scowl while adjusting his grip on his rifle.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“Of course. I’d hate for my fingerprints to get all over everything through these gloves.”
Santos let a snort slip, quickly trying to cover it with a cough as he brought his fist to his mouth to hide his smile. Owens snapped his head towards his partner, narrowing his eyes in what looked like betrayal.
“What would be cool is getting the job done without blowing our goddamn cover. Focus.”
The office was the one room in the building that was fully finished. It still smelled like fresh paint, the furniture had barely been touched, and none of the decor had a spec of dust on it. Owens went straight to the desk, pulling out drawers, grabbing stacks of papers and files. There was no placard on the desk, so they had no idea whose it was supposed to be, even though there was a silent understanding it would’ve been a fake alias anyway.
While Owens sorted through the drawers on the left, she took the ones on the right. It was all contracts, permits, and design concepts. None of it was useful. It was all documents that were most likely copies from a public electronic record database, carefully staged along with the rest of the office to make the place look legit.
“Damn, that’s one creepy ass ballerina.”
Her head immediately snapped up towards Santos' voice, her hand stilling over a stack of paperwork. Caught off guard by her sudden reaction, Owens glanced at her in puzzlement before shifting his gaze to see what had grabbed her attention.
On the far left wall was a very large painting that was nearly the height of the wall itself. The rectangular canvas was outlined with a thick gold trim that had an ornate pattern. It was a renaissance style painting, with a muted color palette. The painting was of a studio with a ballerina standing with her back to the viewer, in a black leotard and chiffon wrap skirt, a dark red intricately woven braid cascading down her back. Her left hand was on the barre, and her right arm was raised above her head, curved like a waxing crescent. She was balancing on the tip of her left pointe shoe, and her right leg was bent, her other foot pressed against the inside of her left thigh.
The unsettling feature was that she had no face. In the reflection of the mirror she was facing, where her face should’ve been was a streaky blur, as if the artist had swiped their hand over it before the paint dried, erasing her identity. On the far right side of the painting, a mysterious figure sat in the shadows. There were just enough highlights and a little definition to make out the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair, watching, but it was like he disappeared behind the trim framing the canvas, his identity also concealed.
Matt could hear the change in her breathing when her eyes landed on the painting, the extra effort it took for her to maintain a calm and silent pattern. There had been that strange moment of her staring into the studio, and now the sight of this ballerina painting had deepened that crack he’d detected earlier. Something in his gut told him it was connected to something deeper, but before he could ask her what was wrong, he suddenly noticed the dull buzzing of electricity coming from behind the painting. They hadn’t turned on any lights in the building, and it wasn’t coming from any of their flashlights.
Taking a step closer, he leaned his head in towards the wall, focusing intently. He could also hear a faint draft. She quickly stood up straight from where she’d been leaning over the desk as she watched him, and he heard the increase in her heart’s rhythm. She knew he’d found something.
“What is it?”
“Something’s back here.”
Matt reached his left hand out towards the right side of the frame, slowly gliding his gloved fingers along the bottom edge of it until he found what he was looking for. Applying pressure to the almost imperceptible groove that was barely half an inch wide, there was a sharp click, and he pulled the frame slowly away from the wall to reveal a door.
As soon as he did, he heard the shaky hitch in her breath, and that tiny crack suddenly fractured deep down into her foundation. He didn’t expect what began to flood like poison in her bloodstream.
Fear.
Owens and Santos were clearly just as unprepared for her reaction. All three men seemed to realize concurrently in that moment that she knew something they didn’t, and whatever it was, it was bad enough to scare her. The tension thickened the air, and they all felt the pinprick of unease at the backs of their necks.
She swallowed thickly, still staring at the door as she spoke in an uncharacteristically unsteady voice.
“Can you tell what’s behind it?”
Matt turned to face her fully, alarm bells going off in his head at her rapidly deteriorating facade.
“A tunnel, about as wide as the door. It goes underground. Y/N, what’s going on?”
Letting out a subtle shaky exhale through her nose, she lifted her faintly trembling hand to the comm in her ear.
“Fury. We were right.”
Matt could hear Fury’s voice through her comms, asking if she was certain.
“There’s a red door behind a painting of a ballerina. It’s him.”
A moment of silence passed before he heard Fury tell her to proceed with caution, and that he’d be on the ground in ten minutes.
Owens tossed the paperwork he’d been looking through onto the desk and looked at her intently.
“Who’s ‘him’? Constantin?”
When she didn’t say anything, Owens rounded the desk quickly, coming to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the door to break her out of her terrified trance.
“Y/L/N, don’t you dare leave me in the goddamn dark right now. You better tell me what the hell-”
“They’re down there.”
“Who? The women?
Matt stepped closer when he heard the unmistakable certainty in her heartbeat.
“How do you know that?”
She wouldn’t look at him. Her breathing was heavier, and she was clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides, anxiety thrumming in her pulse.
“We’re running out of time. Santos, get that door open.”
Her hesitation to tell the truth was evident in her delayed response, and Matt had an abrupt revelation. Whatever they were about to find, she and Fury already knew about, and they’d kept Owens and the others in the dark.
They’d kept him in the dark.
All that progress he felt like they’d made vanished all at once, and that familiar distrust and frustration contaminated his ever changing feelings towards her. Matt grit his teeth, yanking the two pieces of his billy club out of the holder on his thigh, slamming them together with a twist to connect them.
His anger was palpable, and she took a quick step towards him, keeping her voice low.
“I’ll explain later-”
“Unfuckingbelieable.”
The tunnel seemed to go on forever before they reached a large freight elevator. The cables whirred as they were lowered down, at least a hundred feet, and the metal frame creaked and groaned during its descent. At the bottom, there was another tunnel they had to walk down, and the closer they got towards the end of it, Matt knew she was right about the women. He could smell the lingering scents of them that had been dragged through here, and the nauseating cologne of the men that had herded them. There were still faint traces of blood and tears that made his stomach twist.
None of them said a word. The silence was as thick and heavy as the damp stifling air. He wanted to pull her aside and demand answers, but he couldn’t do it with Owens and Santos there, and they were running out of time. They needed to get the women out before Tarasov’s men returned from the docks.
“There.”
Santos pointed as a door finally started coming into view at the end of the tunnel. They all picked up their pace, and Owens alerted his men on his comms to be on standby. When they got within a few feet of the door, Matt abruptly froze in his tracks, the dirt crunching under his boots from the sudden falter in his steps. The sound he heard on the other side of that door nearly knocked the wind right out of his lungs. His jaw dropped in shock, and his shaky voice betrayed his dread.
“Oh my God.”
They all immediately stopped and turned to look at him. Santos was the first to recognize the look of horror on his face.
“What? Is it the women?”
Matt shook his head quickly, his breathing growing heavier as his mind tried to process what his ears were picking up. It sounded like the fluttering of several trapped hummingbirds, but it wasn’t wings he was hearing. It was heartbeats. Young heartbeats.
AHHHHH! Omg amazing chapter! Now we are getting somewhere 😮💨 I can totally understand that Matt is pissed but I hope once everything is revealed and she can explain everything that he will understand.
Owens was in the middle of directing his men on which sides of the building to take when he caught a glimpse of something red out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he noticed a man walking behind Y/N, wearing a devil suit that anyone in New York would’ve recognized. Daredevil. He immediately straightened up, and his men parted for him like the Red Sea as he began to march over towards them.
“What the hell is he doing here? This isn’t the goddamn circus.”
“But you’re here.”
The edges of Matt’s lips twitched as he fought to contain his smirk. He really did find her attitude entertaining when he wasn’t the one on the receiving end of it. She seemed to know exactly which buttons to press with Owens, granted he didn’t seem like someone that anyone would have a hard time pissing off. As soon as Owens opened his mouth to fire back, she abruptly cut him off in that frustratingly calm voice of hers.
“You’re welcome to call Fury if you don’t agree with his decisions.”
Owens’ mouth snapped shut instantly, and he glanced between her and Matt in pure irritation. He placed his hands on his hips and let out a dry scoff.
“What, you’re telling me Fury is the one who brought a vigilante on board?”
“He is. And this vigilante is the one who found the files in Tarasov’s office. He’s the reason we even know this is one of their properties.”
“I don’t care what James Bond shit you two did. Me and my men don’t have time to babysit. He doesn’t even have a gun, Y/L/N. Those…nunchucks or whatever the hell they are, they aren’t gonna cut it in there.”
“They’re batons.”
Owens looked at Matt in annoyance when he interjected, giving him an unimpressed look before letting out a humorless laugh.
“That’s even worse.”
“Owens, he can fight better than your entire squad blindfolded.”
Matt heard the tiny glint of humor in her tone, the subtle joke layered in her words that only the two of them could comprehend.
“Oh you’ve got to be fucking with me now. You really think-”
She took a step forward, maintaining direct eye contact with Owens as she tilted her head to the side.
“Do any of your men have heightened senses?”
Owens’ dark blonde brows knit towards the center of his forehead at her question.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Can they do weird shit, like hear conversations three blocks away, or smell sweat and cheap cologne from two floors above?
Looking between the pair in pure puzzlement, Owens dropped his hands from his hips, the defensiveness in his body language dissipating, slowly being replaced with unsteadiness.
“Uh…no-”
“Then stay the fuck out of his way.”
Owens bristled as she brushed past him without another word, and his expression shifted to pure vexation as he turned to focus his heated glare at Matt. Pursing his lips lightly in an innocent way, Matt lazily lifted his gloved hands in a placating gesture, attempting to keep his amusement out of his tone.
“I’ve found it’s easier just to do what she says.”
Letting out a scoff, Owens took a step closer, looking Matt up and down once again in disapproval.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be some badass. Guess even the Devil is afraid of something.”
“And I guess Sam Wilson was busy tonight, Captain.”
Matt reveled in the way Owens suddenly stiffened, the low blow clearly hitting its intended target. Owens’ back was now ramrod straight, as if someone had grasped the top of his spine between two fingers and yanked upwards, his shoulders now stiff and squared. Matt cocked his head to the side, gesturing loosely with his chin towards the shield in the other man’s left hand.
“Nice shield. Bit small.”
He could hear the blood pumping violently in Owens’ veins, his blood pressure rising rapidly, anger metastasizing throughout his entire body, causing his internal temperature to spike and spread over his skin like wild fire. Matt didn’t bother to hide his smirk this time as he walked past Owens, calling over his shoulder casually.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure titanium alloy is a good substitute for Vibranium.”
Owens’ fury was temporarily interrupted by Matt’s comment, replaced with absolute confusion. He lifted the shield in his left hand, swiftly glancing between it and Matt’s retreating figure.
“How the hell-”
“You know your blood pressure is pretty high. You should get that checked out.”
Now it was her turn to try and hide her mirth. She cleared her throat, putting minimal effort into preventing the edges of her lips from betraying the enjoyment she felt seeing Owens’ dumbfounded expression that was streaked with annoyance.
“You joining us or what, G.I. Joe?”
»»——— ———««
The building was outside of the main part of the city in a nice area, hidden in plain sight. On the outside, it looked like a generic dance studio, something people wouldn’t look twice at. It was still “under construction”, the perfect cover for large vans coming and going at all hours, and loud noise to disguise whatever sinister was happening inside. The “construction company” was another front, just a series of shell companies that they’d been able to connect back to the Carbones.
According to a text sent to Tarasov’s burner, there was an important shipment coming into the docks tonight, which meant his men’s attention was focused there. There had only been two men guarding the site, and they’d been taken out quickly. Back at S.H.I.E.L.D., they’d tapped into the security cameras inside the building and the surrounding area, looping the feed to give the tactical team cover to enter without raising alarm.
The tactical team was split into five groups, one taking each side of the building, and one on the roof. Matt was with Y/N, Owens, and his first lieutenant, Santos. They entered through the back, Owens and Santos in the lead with their rifles drawn, the flashlights attached to the top illuminating the darkness ahead. It was eerily silent apart from their careful footsteps and breathing.
“It’s pretty fucked up, their cover being a dance studio.”
Santos shone his light through the glass wall inside one of the studio rooms, moving it like a spotlight across the neat rows of blonde wood. Lingering sawdust danced through the luminescence like phantoms, disappearing as the light did.
“These people traffic humans, I doubt they have a sense of morality.”
Matt paused when he noticed her lingering by the window, sensing her eyes roaming over the space, and he fell back, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear him.
“You alright?”
With that question, she was pulled back from wherever she’d gone in her head, turning away from the glass.
“Fine.”
His hand shot out to grab her arm gently, preventing her from leaving. His gloved thumb slowly brushed over her arm through the sleeve of her tactical suit, meant to be a soothing gesture.
“Bring back memories?”
“Not pleasant ones.”
Matt tilted his head to the side as her arm slipped from his grasp and she began walking again. Something was…off with her tonight, but he couldn’t figure out what. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable, but he’d become so in tune with her that it was like a thin splinter that had only pierced your clothes, barely grazing the skin. Faint, but there. She still had that mask in place, that carefully crafted composure she always wore, but he could detect a tiny crack just below the surface, and whatever was trapped beneath seemed like it was slowly starting to spill over.
The building was set up like a garden maze, an innocent labyrinth until you had to navigate it in the dark. When they reached the center, Matt paused outside of a door, gathering the attention of the others.
“This must be the main office.”
Owens and Santos shared a skeptical look, but she was already moving towards the door.
“Empty?”
“Yeah, but locked.”
“I got it.”
Santos handed his rifle to Owens, stepping forward to kneel in front of the door. Y/N aimed the beam of her flash light on the door knob as he pulled two small tools from one of the pouches on his belt, slipping them into the keyhole with effortless precision. Matt cocked his head to the side, listening to the metal edges finding the puzzle pieces inside.
“They teach you lock picking in S.H.I.E.L.D. training?”
“Nah, but they do in the Bronx.”
Santos turned to look up at him over his shoulder, a grin splitting his lips. A smirk twitched at the edge of Matt’s mouth.
“You really from Hell’s Kitchen? Or is that just like, for the Devil theme?”
“Born and raised. Tilt the right one a little to the left.”
Santos glanced up at Matt again, looking him up and down in perplexed curiosity. Angling the right tool slightly to the left, the telltale sound of the lock shifting filled the silence. His dark brows raised, and he gave Matt another once over before looking up at her with barely contained amusement.
“Weird shit?”
A faint smirk tugged at the edge of her lips and she nodded.
“Weird shit.”
Owens rolled his eyes and held Santos’ rifle out towards him.
“Alright, we’re not here to socialize. We got a job to do.”
Reaching out to grasp the door knob, Matt twisted it slowly so it didn’t make a sound, pushing his gloved fingers lightly against the wood for it to swing open. He gestured with his hand as he gave Owens a smirk.
“After you.”
Owens clenched his jaw, shooting Matt a scowl while adjusting his grip on his rifle.
“Don’t touch anything.”
“Of course. I’d hate for my fingerprints to get all over everything through these gloves.”
Santos let a snort slip, quickly trying to cover it with a cough as he brought his fist to his mouth to hide his smile. Owens snapped his head towards his partner, narrowing his eyes in what looked like betrayal.
“What would be cool is getting the job done without blowing our goddamn cover. Focus.”
The office was the one room in the building that was fully finished. It still smelled like fresh paint, the furniture had barely been touched, and none of the decor had a spec of dust on it. Owens went straight to the desk, pulling out drawers, grabbing stacks of papers and files. There was no placard on the desk, so they had no idea whose it was supposed to be, even though there was a silent understanding it would’ve been a fake alias anyway.
While Owens sorted through the drawers on the left, she took the ones on the right. It was all contracts, permits, and design concepts. None of it was useful. It was all documents that were most likely copies from a public electronic record database, carefully staged along with the rest of the office to make the place look legit.
“Damn, that’s one creepy ass ballerina.”
Her head immediately snapped up towards Santos' voice, her hand stilling over a stack of paperwork. Caught off guard by her sudden reaction, Owens glanced at her in puzzlement before shifting his gaze to see what had grabbed her attention.
On the far left wall was a very large painting that was nearly the height of the wall itself. The rectangular canvas was outlined with a thick gold trim that had an ornate pattern. It was a renaissance style painting, with a muted color palette. The painting was of a studio with a ballerina standing with her back to the viewer, in a black leotard and chiffon wrap skirt, a dark red intricately woven braid cascading down her back. Her left hand was on the barre, and her right arm was raised above her head, curved like a waxing crescent. She was balancing on the tip of her left pointe shoe, and her right leg was bent, her other foot pressed against the inside of her left thigh.
The unsettling feature was that she had no face. In the reflection of the mirror she was facing, where her face should’ve been was a streaky blur, as if the artist had swiped their hand over it before the paint dried, erasing her identity. On the far right side of the painting, a mysterious figure sat in the shadows. There were just enough highlights and a little definition to make out the silhouette of a man sitting in a chair, watching, but it was like he disappeared behind the trim framing the canvas, his identity also concealed.
Matt could hear the change in her breathing when her eyes landed on the painting, the extra effort it took for her to maintain a calm and silent pattern. There had been that strange moment of her staring into the studio, and now the sight of this ballerina painting had deepened that crack he’d detected earlier. Something in his gut told him it was connected to something deeper, but before he could ask her what was wrong, he suddenly noticed the dull buzzing of electricity coming from behind the painting. They hadn’t turned on any lights in the building, and it wasn’t coming from any of their flashlights.
Taking a step closer, he leaned his head in towards the wall, focusing intently. He could also hear a faint draft. She quickly stood up straight from where she’d been leaning over the desk as she watched him, and he heard the increase in her heart’s rhythm. She knew he’d found something.
“What is it?”
“Something’s back here.”
Matt reached his left hand out towards the right side of the frame, slowly gliding his gloved fingers along the bottom edge of it until he found what he was looking for. Applying pressure to the almost imperceptible groove that was barely half an inch wide, there was a sharp click, and he pulled the frame slowly away from the wall to reveal a door.
As soon as he did, he heard the shaky hitch in her breath, and that tiny crack suddenly fractured deep down into her foundation. He didn’t expect what began to flood like poison in her bloodstream.
Fear.
Owens and Santos were clearly just as unprepared for her reaction. All three men seemed to realize concurrently in that moment that she knew something they didn’t, and whatever it was, it was bad enough to scare her. The tension thickened the air, and they all felt the pinprick of unease at the backs of their necks.
She swallowed thickly, still staring at the door as she spoke in an uncharacteristically unsteady voice.
“Can you tell what’s behind it?”
Matt turned to face her fully, alarm bells going off in his head at her rapidly deteriorating facade.
“A tunnel, about as wide as the door. It goes underground. Y/N, what’s going on?”
Letting out a subtle shaky exhale through her nose, she lifted her faintly trembling hand to the comm in her ear.
“Fury. We were right.”
Matt could hear Fury’s voice through her comms, asking if she was certain.
“There’s a red door behind a painting of a ballerina. It’s him.”
A moment of silence passed before he heard Fury tell her to proceed with caution, and that he’d be on the ground in ten minutes.
Owens tossed the paperwork he’d been looking through onto the desk and looked at her intently.
“Who’s ‘him’? Constantin?”
When she didn’t say anything, Owens rounded the desk quickly, coming to stand in front of her, blocking her view of the door to break her out of her terrified trance.
“Y/L/N, don’t you dare leave me in the goddamn dark right now. You better tell me what the hell-”
“They’re down there.”
“Who? The women?
Matt stepped closer when he heard the unmistakable certainty in her heartbeat.
“How do you know that?”
She wouldn’t look at him. Her breathing was heavier, and she was clenching and unclenching her fists at her sides, anxiety thrumming in her pulse.
“We’re running out of time. Santos, get that door open.”
Her hesitation to tell the truth was evident in her delayed response, and Matt had an abrupt revelation. Whatever they were about to find, she and Fury already knew about, and they’d kept Owens and the others in the dark.
They’d kept him in the dark.
All that progress he felt like they’d made vanished all at once, and that familiar distrust and frustration contaminated his ever changing feelings towards her. Matt grit his teeth, yanking the two pieces of his billy club out of the holder on his thigh, slamming them together with a twist to connect them.
His anger was palpable, and she took a quick step towards him, keeping her voice low.
“I’ll explain later-”
“Unfuckingbelieable.”
The tunnel seemed to go on forever before they reached a large freight elevator. The cables whirred as they were lowered down, at least a hundred feet, and the metal frame creaked and groaned during its descent. At the bottom, there was another tunnel they had to walk down, and the closer they got towards the end of it, Matt knew she was right about the women. He could smell the lingering scents of them that had been dragged through here, and the nauseating cologne of the men that had herded them. There were still faint traces of blood and tears that made his stomach twist.
None of them said a word. The silence was as thick and heavy as the damp stifling air. He wanted to pull her aside and demand answers, but he couldn’t do it with Owens and Santos there, and they were running out of time. They needed to get the women out before Tarasov’s men returned from the docks.
“There.”
Santos pointed as a door finally started coming into view at the end of the tunnel. They all picked up their pace, and Owens alerted his men on his comms to be on standby. When they got within a few feet of the door, Matt abruptly froze in his tracks, the dirt crunching under his boots from the sudden falter in his steps. The sound he heard on the other side of that door nearly knocked the wind right out of his lungs. His jaw dropped in shock, and his shaky voice betrayed his dread.
“Oh my God.”
They all immediately stopped and turned to look at him. Santos was the first to recognize the look of horror on his face.
“What? Is it the women?”
Matt shook his head quickly, his breathing growing heavier as his mind tried to process what his ears were picking up. It sounded like the fluttering of several trapped hummingbirds, but it wasn’t wings he was hearing. It was heartbeats. Young heartbeats.
AHHHHH! Omg amazing chapter! Now we are getting somewhere 😮💨 I can totally understand that Matt is pissed but I hope once everything is revealed and she can explain everything that he will understand.
summary: after facing a hidden truth he'd been denying, matt's ready to be honest with her, and himself.
warnings: swearing, angst, explicit sexual content (minors dni)
word count: 4k
a/n: ever since born again dropped, i've been yearning to write a matty shower scene, so yeah this is purely self indulgent and no I won't be apologizing. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!
Matt knew he had to talk to her. He’d been putting it off for three days now. He knew he had to address what happened between them if he wanted any kind of shot at her not telling Fury to kick him off the case. It had only taken one night of him trying to go back to getting leads on his own to come face to face with the glaring reminder that he was in over his head. Matt couldn’t do this alone.
He’d swallowed his pride and admitted that to Foggy, but now it was time to confess that to her.
He also knew that he owed her an explanation on why he’d disappeared without a word, and why he’d been radio silent since. Over the past three days, he’d been forced to confront feelings that he’d been shoving down and ignoring since the day he met her, either consciously or subconsciously. He was still wrestling with what the true answer was.
It was a little past eight when he showed up at her apartment, and he’d been rehearsing in his head what he was going to say on the walk over. He knew she was inside. He stood on the fire escape outside her living room window for a moment, focusing all of his senses on her. She was lounging on the couch in a relaxed position, her back against the arm on the right side, her legs stretched out but crossed at the ankle, right over left. Her eyes were focused on the tv as she lifted a chilled spoon to her mouth. Her left hand that was holding a frosted pint was several degrees colder than the rest of her body, despite the napkin wrapped around the bottom. She’d just taken the ice cream out of the freezer.
He inhaled deeply, and he could almost taste the flavor on his own tongue. Smooth heavy cream…egg yolks…cane sugar…rich cocoa butter based dark chocolate chips…pure peppermint extract. Mint chocolate chip. He wasn’t sure what he found more amusing; the fact that she was doing something so mundane and normal, or her choice in ice cream flavors. She’d definitely splurged on the pint. That wasn’t the cheap stuff.
Matt had expected the window to be locked after how he’d slipped in the other night, and slipped out, but to his surprise it wasn’t. She didn’t seem like the type to let something like that escape her mind, she wasn’t forgetful about anything. A tiny piece of him held onto hope that she’d left it unlocked intentionally, that it was a sign she hadn’t fully shut him out, literally and metaphorically speaking.
His fingers brushed against the bottom of the window frame as he went to pull it up, silently slipping inside and closing the window behind him just as quietly. He went to take a step forward, but when she suddenly spoke he instantly froze.
“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”
For a second he thought she was talking to him, that she’d heard him sneaking inside. But then he heard the score from the movie she was watching and realized she was quoting a line from it. His brows furrowed in confusion for a moment before he placed it, and then his amusement mounted even further. Cocking his head to the side, the smirk on his lips was mirrored in his tone as he recited the next line.
“You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.”
Immediately she sat up and whipped her head around, the spoon in her hand suspended in the air halfway to her lips. At the sight of him, it was like a switch had been flipped, and whatever good mood she’d been in soured instantaneously. She stabbed the spoon back into the pint before reaching for the remote to pause the film.
“The Princess Bride is certainly the last movie I’d ever expect to find you watching.”
“Surprised you know it.”
“It’s one of Foggy's favorite movies.”
He’d expected her to respond with something snarky, but instead he was met with silence that left him feeling a little unsettled. Her refusal to participate in their usual verbal sparring was jarring. The relaxation that had been emanating from her, the closest thing to peace he’d ever recognized in her presence, had seemingly frosted over. He felt the bitter chill of her avoidance as she got up from the couch and walked right past him into the kitchen.
Matt stood there for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh, defeat settling in his bones. He gave her a moment while he took in the space he’d been just a few nights ago in a completely different setting. There was virtually no evidence of the wreck they’d made of her apartment in the midst of their surrender to their shared fervent desire, only the memory that still thrummed in his pulse when he let it replay in his head.
Clearing his throat, he finally followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the counter opposite the sink she was standing in front of, crossing his arms over his chest. There was no beating around the bush with her, there never had been. He’d shown enough cowardice the last three days at her expense, it was time to atone.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“And in the silence, you said plenty.”
“I didn’t realize you were a poet.”
Nothing. No reaction. No sharp retort. No subtle smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth or wrinkle of annoyance between her brows. No exasperated roll of her eyes. Not even a falter in her heart’s rhythm or breathing pattern.
It became clear in that moment how badly he’d fucked up. While he’d been selfishly trying to detangle his own complicated feelings, he’d purposely contrived ignorance regarding her own. He told himself it wouldn’t bother her that he’d slipped out without a word, because nothing bothered her. And even as he thought it he knew he was a fucking liar, and the guilt had been gnawing at him down to the marrow.
“Y/N.”
The way he said her name made her tense at the sink, gripping the spoon in her hand more tightly until the metal bit into her palm and nearly bent at the force of her frustration. It had been virtually cleaned from the moment she put it under the warm water a minute ago, but she’d still been scrubbing it as if the action would wash away the tension that had coiled tightly within her like a snake strangling its prey. But that subtle plea in his voice interrupted her carefully practiced indifference, and he’d learned to take advantage of these ephemeral cracks in her defenses.
He took a careful step forward, his arms dropping to his sides, fingers twitching against his callused palms.
“I shouldn’t have-”
Abruptly she shut off the water and tossed the spoon into the empty sink, the clatter of metal against metal making him wince as the sound rattled in his sensitive eardrum.
“If you’re here just to make sure Fury won’t bench you, you’re wasting your time. You’ve proven yourself to be valuable to him. He won’t exile you at anyone’s request, not even yours.”
The thinly veiled bitterness in her tone led him to believe she might have already asked Fury to cut him loose and he'd said no, and that bothered him more than he liked to admit. It should have been a weight off his shoulders that he was still involved with the investigation, but if anything, it just seemed to add more. While trying to compartmentalize everything, the lie he’d sold himself was that his sole purpose for coming to talk to her tonight was to make amends in order to remain on the case, because the truth was harder to confront.
He’d kept her at arms length because he felt something, something he didn’t want to feel because it was too familiar. It made an old scar throb with tenderness, and the memory of who had inflicted it served as a warning to not face the same blade twice. But he couldn’t keep ignoring it, not after the other night.
She reminded him of Elektra. From the moment he met her, he’d felt that almost identical click. Two reluctant pieces with connective jagged edges. She understood him the same way Elektra had, maybe even more. The only difference was she hadn’t sought him out under a ruse for recruitment. She’d been upfront from the beginning while simultaneously remaining coveted, and he’d justified his distrust with the existence of the secrets she kept, but the truth was he couldn’t grant her the faith he’d freely given Elektra. He didn’t want to repeat that mistake.
But after the other night, after what he’d felt when he finally gave into the inexorable magnetism, he had to return the honesty he’d demanded from her. And that scared him.
He let out a deep exhale through his nose when she brushed past him, and he quickly turned on his heel to follow her down the familiar path through the hallway to her bedroom.
“That’s not-look, can we just talk for a second?”
“No.”
As she disappeared into her bathroom and he heard the shower door open, Matt stood in the middle of her bedroom and clenched his jaw, rubbing his hands down his face as he tried to contain his mounting frustration. He’d fucked up, he’d earned this, and he had to deal with it. She was pissed at him, and she had every right to be, but he needed her to talk to him. To hear him out. The sound of the shower being turned on was a not so subtle dismissal, but Matt refused to leave. Not without finally confessing.
There had been annoyance laced within her bitter tone, but evidence of emotion meant she hadn't fully shut down on him. Her guard was up, but he'd learned how to poke holes in it. How to get her attention and get a rise out of her. It was playing dirty, but he knew it would work, and he didn’t have the patience right now for the silent treatment.
He walked towards the bathroom door and blocked the frame, leaning casually against it as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“You’re being difficult.”
Her head snapped in his direction and he could sense her demeanor shifting quickly from aloof to aggravated.
“Excuse me?”
Matt gave a subtle shrug as he maintained his calm countenance.
“I said you’re being difficult.”
Something he’d observed about her was that she hated being called that. She did her best to remain neutral when anyone threw a snide comment or insult her way, but he knew that one specifically hit a raw nerve every single time.
And just like he’d hoped, it conjured a reaction. A dry scoff left her lips as she dropped the towel she’d pulled out of the cabinet onto the counter and stormed over towards him.
“I’m being difficult? You have a lot of fucking nerve to just show up here after three days-”
Matt’s lips stretched into a devilish grin when her composure cracked and her anger was unleashed. Anger was good. He knew how to work with that. He was pissing her off more and more by the second, but pissed off beat indifference.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?”
“There she is.”
She blinked a few times, confusion muddling her vexation at the almost flirty lilt to his tease, and then her lips pursed in annoyance when she realized how he’d played her. Matt held up his hands in mock surrender, looking extremely unapologetic even though he attempted for a pardon.
“I’m sorry, that was cheating. But I can’t talk to you if you’re ignoring me.”
“You ignored me for three days, and you can’t handle it for less than ten minutes?”
“No.”
He could tell that he’d surprised her by the way her expression shifted, and he knew the scales had shifted in his favor. He liked being the one to throw her off, it sent a thrill through him every single time. And he knew what he was about to do, what he was about to avow, would completely crumble the wall between them they’d both contributed to.
Matt uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, which made her take a step back, but he kept advancing until her lower back hit the counter.
“I don’t like when you’re upset with me.”
“Then quit being an asshole.”
She was trying to keep up the unaffected facade, but he could hear her heart starting to beat faster, her lungs pumping more oxygen. The steam that had filled the bathroom had risen her body temperature, but the warmth flushing across her cheeks was from an entirely different source.
“You know I can’t promise that, sweetheart.”
Matt reached out to place his hands on either side of her, caging her in as he leaned down and spoke in a more gentle tone.
“But I am trying to apologize here. You gonna let me?”
The soft breath she let out when he brushed his nose along the underside of her jaw made him grip the countertop tightly. He let his lips ghost along her neck before pressing a gentle kiss beneath her ear.
“I’m sorry.”
He poured as much conviction into those two words as he could, but he didn’t just want to tell her, he wanted to show her. Letting go of the countertop, he grabbed one of her hands and brought it up to his chest, placing it over his heart and holding it there, his thumb stroking her knuckles gently.
“I shouldn’t have slipped out like that. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know…what to feel. I was a coward, and you didn’t deserve that.”
Her lashes fluttered as she closed her eyes, and she let out a breath that wavered before braving the question she’d been recycling in her head but dreading the answer to.
“Do you regret it?”
The softness in her tone made his chest tighten. He was on the cusp of unlocking a new side of her, he could feel it. This is what he’d been wanting. This moment right here, both of them stripped raw, souls laid bare.
“No. Do you?”
“No.”
When he felt her fingers curl in his shirt in a firm grip, Matt reached out to cup her face in his hands, pressing his forehead against hers.
“Forgive me.”
One of Matt's hands slipped down to wrap around her throat as he gently kissed down her neck, nipping at her skin gently, brushing his tongue over her pulse point in an open mouthed kiss that made her shudder. The second the delectable scent of her arousal hit him, Matt pressed himself against her more firmly and let out a desperate groan into her shoulder.
“Please.”
It was unclear whether he was begging for forgiveness or permission to touch her, but when she pulled him down by the collar of his shirt and sought out his lips, he took it as an answer to both. The bathroom floor quickly became decorated with their clothing. Matt had one of his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her firmly to his chest, while the other was tangled in her hair as he walked her backwards towards the shower.
The spray of the hot water soaked them both within seconds, but Matt’s grip on her body never slipped. He reached down to grip the back of her thighs, and her legs automatically wove around his waist when he lifted her and pinned her against the wall. The tile was cold against her back, making her shudder against his lips. He felt her start to roll her hips to grind against him, and his forehead dropped to her shoulder as he let out a groan feeling his aching cock gliding through her slick warmth.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, gripping onto the back of his neck, already panting in his ear. Matt shifted his hips to align himself with hers, and they let out a moan of relief in unison the moment they became connected. When her head fell back against the wall, Matt’s lips sought out her neck again, and began to move his hips slowly. He didn’t want to rush this time.
He grunted when her nails dug into his back, his own fingers digging bluntly into her skin in response. He nuzzled his nose against her neck, kissing along her jaw before finding her lips again, which parted eagerly for his tongue. She matched his rhythm, following him like the tide follows the moon, and when she let out a sensual moan at a particular angle, Matt gripped onto her even tighter and shifted her hips upwards to keep hitting it.
“Right there?”
“Right there.”
Matt pressed his hips more firmly against hers, grinding a little harder against her so his pelvis stimulated her clit in the way that made her eyes flutter with every single thrust. The moans it pulled from her only made him even more desperate to pleasure her.
“Oh my God, Matt…”
“I know…I know.”
He was panting in her ear as he picked up speed, feeling it too at the base of his spine. Their slick skin colliding echoed in the shower, the sharpness of the sound barely dulled by the water. He buried his face in her neck, forcing himself to maintain his current rhythm feeling her start to tighten around him. They clung to each other desperately, and Matt willed himself to hold back until she reached her peak first.
When her back arched and she started to writhe against him, Matt fucked her through it to prolong it as long as he could stand, and then he snapped, his rhythm faltering into pistoning his hips relentlessly, letting out a guttural groan into her shoulder as his hips stuttered with one final sharp thrust.
In the sanctuary of her bed, Matt finally told her the truth. About why he hadn’t trusted her. About why he’d been struggling with how he felt. About who she reminded him of. She listened quietly, patiently, and Matt was surprised by how weightless he felt afterwards. There were a few moments of silence that followed, but they weren’t uncomfortable. A few times, he heard her lips part, heard an intake of breath, but she stayed quiet. He could tell there was something she wanted to say, but maybe didn’t know how. He didn’t push her.
“It’s not personal. Me keeping things from you.”
Matt considered this for a moment, his fingers stroking up and down her spine, like he’d done the morning he’d woken up tangled in these same sheets.
“Then what is it?”
A soft exhale slipped past her lips, and he heard her close her eyes.
“Part of it is my job.”
“And the other part?”
“You’re not the only one with trust issues.”
In the dark Matt smiled, giving her waist a soft squeeze.
“I noticed.”
He felt her roll her eyes, and the smile that reluctantly tugged at the edge of her mouth before disappearing into something more serious.
“There’s just…some things about me that are difficult to explain.”
He could hear the hesitance in her voice, and a hint of anxiety. Something struck him in that moment that he never would’ve considered before, but the evidence was in her voice. She cared what he thought of her. She was nervous that if she divulged her past, something in it would change his opinion. It was a shocking unspoken revelation, but also made something inside him ache.
Her words from the other night about how she’d picked out her dress for him echoed in his head.
I wanted you to like it.
She wanted him to like her. How the hell had he not picked up on that?
He held her a little tighter against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
“My past isn’t sunshine and rainbows either, you know. You’re talking to a guy who puts on a devil costume and, ‘beats the shit out of people’, I believe you called it.”
He thought she’d laugh at that, but she closed her eyes and spoke in a tone that was almost…somber.
“You’re still a good person though.”
Matt’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he tilted his head in her direction.
“And you think you’re not?”
“No.”
The conviction in her voice and the way she said it without hesitance made his heart break. It reminded him of the conversation she’d had with the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent when she’d said she didn’t mind being the bad guy. Self-loathing was something Matt was all too familiar with, but he was starting to realize her perception of herself was even lower than his own. And he felt guilty, because he knew he’d contributed to that in the last few months.
“You care.”
He pressed another soft kiss to her temple as he kept his voice gentle.
“If you weren’t a good person, you wouldn’t care. You wouldn’t be fighting so hard to save those women.”
“Maybe it’s guilt.”
He hadn’t considered the fact that she may feel like she wasn’t doing enough, and that it would result in remorse.
“You’re gonna lecture a Catholic about guilt?”
When she cracked a smile finally, Matt grinned and let out a chuckle. He gave her waist another reassuring squeeze.
“I don’t think anyone could be doing anything more than you already are. We’re gonna figure this out together, I promise.”
He felt her unclench her jaw and relax her shoulders, the tension melting as she relaxed into him again. Her fingers absentmindedly toyed with the cross he wore around his neck.
“We got a lead on a location.”
Matt perked up at his, already feeling that restless anticipation starting to seep into his veins.
“Yeah?”
She untangled herself from him for a moment to reach over and grab her phone off the nightstand.
“We tracked down the most recent property sold by Tarasov’s company. It was bought through one of the Yazkua’s shell corps a few days ago. Fury wants to send a team tomorrow night.”
“I’ll clear my schedule.”
As she texted the address to him, the voice assistance on his phone alerted him to the message. His phone was in the pocket of his pants, still lying discarded on the bathroom floor, but he felt her still in bed next to him as the muffled sound from the other room cut through the silence.
Incoming message from Spy 3-PO
He felt her slowly turn her head towards him, and he fought to contain his grin. She narrowed her eyes as she observed the expression she could just make out from the glow of the streetlights through the window. Setting her phone on the nightstand, she turned to face him fully, her tone dry as she arched one of her brows.
“Spy 3-PO?”
Matt shrugged innocently as he finally let his grin split across his lips.
“Seemed fitting.”
“Did it now.”
“You were quite robotic when I met you. Although, now that I think about it, C-3PO shows way more emotion than you do-”
When she reached out and smacked his chest, Matt burst into laughter and grabbed her wrist before she could pull her hand away.
“Ow! Abusing a blind man? Maybe you really are a terrible person.”
“Well look who’s talking, little orphan Annie.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“You have Foggy.”
Matt let out another amused laugh, reaching over to wrap his arm around her waist to flip them over, pinning her beneath him as he settled between her hips.
Foggy’s voice was reduced to a dull murmur along with all the other sensory distractions Matt’s brain was constantly filtering out in the background. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything all morning. The harder he tried to grasp onto his concentration, the more elusive it became, slipping right through his fingers like water. It was like his mind refused to let him neglect and avoid his own act of cowardice.
When he’d woken up tangled up in her bedsheets this morning, tangled up in her, he’d taken a deep breath, storing a piece of her scent in his lungs. Matt allowed himself a brief moment to let his fingertips trace the soft skin of her back, to let the ballad of her heartbeat lull him into a fleeting split second of peace.
And then the discomfort of reality had started to set in.
All morning he’d been trying to persuade himself that last night was just a heat of the moment thing. It was just a moment of weakness that resulted in a loss of control, and overridden his better judgment.
But the truth was he hadn’t lost it. He’d let it go. All of those pent up emotions that had been compounding from his refusal to acknowledge them had finally come to a head, and he’d given in to what he’d been denying. But he couldn’t confess that to himself, and he wasn’t ready to face what that meant for them now. So he’d silently slipped out without a word to avoid her and the consequences that would arise with the sun.
“Matt.”
The sound of his name snapped him out of his convoluted thoughts, and he tilted his head in the direction of Foggy’s voice.
“What?”
“Did you even hear a word I said?”
“Yeah I got it.”
Foggy let out a frustrated exhale past his lips and dropped the files in his hand onto the conference table.
“Matt, we have to be in court in two hours, and we still-”
“I said I got it, Foggy.”
He tried to ignore the feeling of Foggy staring at him, the palpable irritation that was as almost as tangible as the Braille beneath his fingertips. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed before he detected the subtle display of disappointment as Foggy shook his head, grabbing the files and straightening the stack. He was almost to the door of the conference room before he paused, turning to face Matt and pointing the stack of papers at him accusingly.
“You promised me.”
“Foggy-”
“No, Matt, I don’t want to hear it. You promised me that when you were here, you’d be here. That you’d leave all that other shit at the door.”
“And I’m trying.”
Matt inhaled sharply and let out a frustrated sigh, tugging off his sunglasses and tossing them onto the table, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to reign in his own irritation.
“Look, I’m sorry, alright? I really am trying. I just…last night…things have just gotten really complicated with this thing I’ve been dealing with.”
Foggy let out a sigh, walking back over towards the conference table, tossing the files down before sitting next to Matt.
“Talk to me.”
“I don’t wanna drag you into this-”
“Matt, I’m already in it. I have been since the day you walked into our dorm room. How many times are we gonna have this conversation? We may not do what you do, but you, me, and Karen, we’re a team. That goes for everything. So cut the shit and tell me what’s going on.”
Leaning back in his chair, Matt let out a deep exhale through his nose, trying to figure out what exactly to divulge.
“I was…kind of recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D.”
Foggy blinked a few times in complete dumbfoundment, stuttering as he tried to grasp the bombshell Matt had just dropped.
“What do you mean ‘kind of’? Are you…holy shit, are you an Avenger-”
Matt chuckled and shook his head, his lips spreading in amusement despite the storm cloud that had been hanging over his head all morning.
“No, Foggy, I’m not an Avenger. It’s not like that. I was working on something that they were also looking into, so they brought me in to help out. And I’m uh…I’ve been…working with someone.”
Matt rolled his eyes at the pure excitement that shot through Foggy’s bloodstream. He could practically hear his next question, and he held up his hand to cut him off while he tried to hide his smirk.
“It’s not an Avenger.”
Foggy pursed his lips in disappointment, his elation deflating as he slumped back in his chair.
“Well then who is it?”
“Just a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that was already on the case.”
“Alright, so what’s the case?”
The brief moment of levity he’d felt faded as quickly as it had appeared, and his expression darkened into something more somber.
“After Fisk went to prison, things were quiet for a bit…somewhat. The criminal organizations leftover were fighting amongst themselves over who was going to take the throne. But then this new Russian gang, they call themselves the Red Right Hand, they…swooped in out of nowhere, and they took control over everything. I mean they were getting all the others to work together, and I couldn’t figure out how they were doing it. It took me months just to figure out who they were. Most of the dealers on the street didn’t even know who it was they were working for. And I…I thought they’d just restarted the drug trade in the city.”
Foggy stayed quiet, looking at Matt in concern hearing the heaviness in his voice.
“But it was just a cover. It’s not just drugs, Foggy. It’s a human trafficking ring.”
Foggy’s eyes widened in shock, and he leaned forward in his chair again, speaking in a hushed tone even though they were the only ones in the conference room.
“What? Here in the city?”
“I thought it was just the city. But it’s bigger than that, Foggy, it’s…everywhere. New York is just a small piece. This thing it’s…it's international.”
For a moment Foggy was silent, trying to process it all. He wasn't naïve enough to think corruption didn't exist all around them, and that it hadn't been embedded in the very people in this city that were supposed to protect it. He knew it grew in precincts and court houses and high profile political offices like wild ivy, coveting morality and justice with other shades of green that could purchase any greedy soul.
But that awareness didn’t prepare him for the reality of how dark things actually were. That these sinister speculations weren’t just whispered shadows, but had real faces and existed in broad daylight. To think something like this was happening in his own backyard, right under his nose…it softened his disapproval of Matt’s vigilantism.
“Holy shit.”
Matt closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a deep breath along with a confession he hadn’t admitted even to himself.
“I’m in over my head, Fog. I mean Fisk was one thing, but this…I can’t stop this.”
It was as shocking as it was heartbreaking to hear Matt admit defeat like that, to hear it weighing down his words. There was no trace of his usual stubborn commitment to his self imposed crusade, and that bothered Foggy in a way he didn’t expect.
Straightening up in his chair, he leaned forward and placed his hand on Matt’s arm, giving it a squeeze of reassurance, his own voice steady with resolve and determination.
“Matt, S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t have brought you in if they didn’t think you were useful. Maybe you can’t stop this everywhere, but they can. They have resources all over the world, let them take care of that part. You can stop it here. And however Karen and I can help, we will. You just have to let us, alright? Tell us what we can do to help.”
»»——— ———««
Fury was standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows in his office, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the city. When he heard the ding of the elevator and familiar footsteps, he subtly turned his head over his shoulder.
“You wanna tell me how Constantin managed to get away?”
“Ask Murdock.”
Turning around, Fury arched one of his brows inquisitively as he looked over at her.
“I’m asking you.”
“What did you tell him.”
Pursing his lips in visible annoyance at his question being deflected, he grabbed the top of his leather chair and pulled it out to calmly sit down at his desk.
“What did I tell who about what?”
“Don’t bullshit me. Why did you tell him this was personal for me?”
Fury regarded her silently for a moment, noticing the irritation that was slipping through the cracks in her normally composed demeanor. He interlocked his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach as he leaned back.
“He needed something to humanize you. I'm not sure it worked, but it kept him from walking away. I didn't give him the details, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“What I'm worried about is you keeping things from me, Nick.”
“I didn’t keep it from you. I just didn’t tell you.”
“He shouldn’t know things that I don’t-”
He cut off her argument with a stern look, and there was a firmness in his voice that demanded her silence.
“You and I both know that’s going to be virtually impossible at a certain point.”
When she clenched her jaw, he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk.
“The only thing we can really keep from Murdock is on paper. Now, you’ve managed to fool him so far, but those heightened senses of his are not to be taken lightly, and the more we find out, so does he.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then act like it.”
For a moment neither of them said anything, locked in a simmering staring contest, each with their own frustrations towards the other.
“So, you wanna tell me how neither of you noticed Constantin was there?”
“We ran into complications, it’s in my report-”
“I'm not asking about what’s in your report. I'm asking about what’s not in it.”
Her brows furrowed at the subtle accusation and her tone immediately became defensive as she took a step towards his desk.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Fury shrugged casually, leaning back in his chair again as he looked over at her, not bothering to hide the hint of suspicion in his eye.
“I’m just wondering if your focus has been dulled by Murdock's presence.”
She stiffened at the veiled allegation, feeling a flicker of panic, as if he somehow knew what had happened last night. He seemed to study her more closely when her silence passed a moment too long for his liking.
“You’re making mistakes, Agent Y/L/N. You don’t make mistakes. I'm concerned your efforts to appease him are taking your eye off the prize.”
“You’re the one who told me to compromise-”
“Compromise, yes. Not put his approval over the mission.”
She let out a scoff, looking at him in a mixture of incredulity and annoyance.
“Is that what you think this is?”
“You tell me.”
She grit her teeth again so hard there was an ache in her jaw, and she stared at him in barely concealed outrage. He was wrong. She kept repeating that over and over in her head, forcing it to fit into the truth. Straightening up and squaring her shoulders, she didn’t bother to dull the sharpness in her voice.
“It was your idea to bring him in.”
“It was my idea to bring someone in. He was one of several options, I didn’t choose him-”
“Well then maybe he needs another pep talk on cooperation, because this is the second time he’s interfered with a mission, and I’m not taking the fall for his fuckup a third time. Maybe this time you can try telling him your own secrets instead of mine.”
Her hands were balled into tight fists as she spun on her heel to storm off towards the elevators. Fury waited until she was a foot away from the metal doors before speaking.
“He already wanted to walk away after the first night. What do you think is going to happen when he finds out who you are?”
All at once, she froze. That question was one she hadn’t allowed to pass through her thoughts, but one that had haunted them anyway. Her defensive irritation was put out in a split second, the fire behind it doused by his confrontation. She meant to sound firm when she spoke again, but the communication between her brain and her tongue seemed to be blocked and it didn’t get the instruction, coming out layered with a plea instead.
“He doesn’t need to know.”
Fury let out a deep exhale through his nose, staring at her back with a softer expression, his tone a little more gentle with a hint of a premature apology.
“He’s going to find out, Y/N. You know that. Just because we don’t have a solid connection yet doesn’t mean we don’t know what this operation is. You know where this is gonna end, better than anyone. It's the whole reason you wanted it, and why I'm letting you take the lead. When Murdock finds out just how much we’ve been keeping him in the dark, what this really is, and your part in it, are you prepared for how he’s going to react? Because I don’t think there’s going to be any coming back from that.”
From the beginning, she’d anticipated the truth coming out eventually. But she hadn’t anticipated caring how Matt was going to take it. The more time she spent with him, the more afraid she became for him to find out who she really was, and everything she’d done. She’d tried so hard to keep every piece of herself concealed. The parts of herself she hated that were crafted at the hands of someone else, and the parts she’d created with her own to fit whatever identity she needed to take shape in the absence of her own.
But last night she’d let him in. And when she woke up in bed alone this morning, that sinking feeling in her stomach felt like an ominous preview for what was to come once her darkness was brought to light.
