New Years Kiss— Accepting
The explosions started just after eleven. The meat of them anyway, a few tentative pops and sprays of firecrackers as early as the setting sun. Here, in the dark, the bright, concussive pop pop pop of celebratory gunfire billowed over Hell's Kitchen. Dick, perched on the fire escape outside his own window, winced in sympathy at the imagined echo of it in a mind far more sensitive than his own.
That was his excuse, the only one he had, anyway.
He didn't have a right to worry, not really, their dynamic could be simmered down to a few frantic hours of pressing bodies on rooftops, a feigned distance at galas, and still, the lawyer had planted a seed of protectiveness in Dick's chest that was now stubbornly in bloom.
Matt's apartment was a silent, dark capsule against the roaring celebration of the city. The unlocked door swung open to emptiness. The worry was immediate. The space felt abandoned, not peacefully empty, but absent in a way that made Dick's breath catch. The professional composure lasted exactly as long as it took to confirm no sign of struggle. His first voicemail was light, teasing.
"Murdock. Made a mad dash for the border? It's tomorrow somewhere."
The silence that followed sunk something heavy in his bones. He couldn't exactly call anyone else, didn't know any of his friends, and against his better judgment, he had decided against planting a tracker on the man. An hour later, perched on the edge of Matt's sofa, his texts lost their casual veneer.
The idiots on 44th are setting off what sounds like industrial grade M-80s. You okay?
Just let me know you're not overwhelmed.
I can find you, if you need. I can come.
The not knowing was the worst, the entire loss of control. Matt had scarcely ever been someone to submit to his whims, the almost obsessive impulses he'd carried with him since childhood, but this, he was certain, was a reasonable thing to be concerned about. Right? The loud, frantic worry slowly bled into a quieter, more tender ache. He'd pictured finding Matt here, maybe tense, maybe in the dark, and offering a wordless presence. The chance to be that solace was gone, and it was just worry, he reasoned, not a sinking disappointed over how badly he had wanted it, its absence feeling like a rejection of something they hadn't even named.
Exhaustion, eventually pulls him under, sloped against the cushions of the couch, the blue glow of a Jeopardy! reruns painting distorted shadows over the wall. It hadn't dawned on him that it was probably less than savory to linger in the living room of his situationship. It was not as though they'd had plans.
He wakes to the darkness, the tv off, feeling like he's being strangled, and it takes his sleep addled brain a moment to realize his legs are only fighting a throw blanket, Matt's hand on his shoulder. He reaches for him in the dark, the soft vermillion glow of the oven light blinking 2:32 back at him. Far past midnight then, his sleep, strangely devoid of night terrors, had carried him from last year into the present. When he drags him to him, the moment feels wrought with relief, running his fingers over his face, his shoulder and down his back, assessing for injuries. He was perfectly fine. He opens his mouth to scold him, snort out a lighthearted but jabbing comment that would make him feel less tense to be caught drifting on his couch, chalking his phone full of messages but all he manages, slurred and half awake is a—
"You better not have kissed someone else." A hand on his jaw, slotting their mouths together in a slow, warm press of his lips, more tender than anything they'd yet to share and without preamble, relief crashing over him again and again.
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