Can you keep it? (Matt Graver x f!reader) - part 2
Part 1 | Part 3
Summary: A sneak peek of your life.
Word count: 7.657.
Warnings: Bad language, mentions of trauma, conversations about dysfunctional families, people smoking, a sliiight stretch on the age gap situation, more talks about parental abandonment, crime commiting (a story was told), discussions about mental healthy institutions, Christmas party with family (as it can be triggering to some people) and mentions of actions movies from the 80s/90s because I have the cinematographic memory of a 40-year-old dude about it because of my father.
+18 work.
Author’s Note: I know I said it would be two parts only but I yap a lot, so there will be three.
Also... shirtless!Matt... 😏
Part 2 of 3
No pressure tags: @queennymeria @tia-greyblueviolet @doughmonkey @royal-abbotts @daisyhams (if anyone wants to be tagged, please tell me!)
****
“Wouldn't it be better to ask her?”
“Yes, but I… I don't know, she might distance herself if I don't know how to react.”
He looked at you for a beat, then snorted.
“I raised you way too well.”
It was early, very early, but your father maintained the tradition in the best possible way. On the anniversary of your grandmother's death, you two would go with your mother and sister to the grave, have breakfast (cappuccinos and baguettes), and then return home. It was normal for the two of you to end up wandering around the neighborhood, almost always in Boba's company, and it seemed like the right moment to talk about it.
Your parents had you when they were already in their 40s. They only had your sister, whom they had in a not so planned and organized way around their mid-30s, so when the 'miracle' happened, he retired from his job as a detective and used his savings to start his own business. This never stopped him from maintaining security habits, nor from incorrigibly fulfilling his promise to take your mother out of her housekeeping work so she could take care of you – this earned you the title of 'protected one', and your mother swore that your father did everything for you.
You two really had a stronger connection – you looked too much alike. So the request, however strange, seemed understandable to him.
“... Other than that, everything alright?” He asked after a long beat of silence, you two walking in layers and layers of clothes to protect yourselves from the cold.
“Mm-hm,” You answered absently.
“Did anything unusual happen at the party?”
You knew that tone, and that question, so you glanced in his direction with a guarded expression, only to find him eyeing the path as he let himself be guided by Boba eagerness to explore.
Your father's opinions about the Gravers were never a secret, but he always believed in being welcoming towards Lee, even if wary of your closeness to the rest of the family. He trusted your judgment quite a bit; he was happy when you balanced the game and didn't let yourself be dazzled by their luxurious lifestyle. Still, he was a father; therefore, cautious. He made you recognize your own privilege in having parents who, despite being less financially fortunate, gave you what Lee probably never would have had. And he preferred that you continue to think that way.
You hesitated, then shrugged as you averted your gaze to the sidewalk.
“... You know. The usual.”
“That doesn’t sound that comforting for a father.”
“Well, nobody invited me for a threesome. Or offered me hard drugs.”
He side-eyed you with a glare, and you couldn’t help but smile.
“Seriously, it was normal. Except for the whole Lee situation and…”
You hesitated automatically, your brow furrowed with the spontaneity of what had crossed your mind. The craziness of Gen's entire conversation with Lee made you completely forget what had happened with her uncle—maybe the marijuana messed with your memory a bit.
“And…?”
What exactly would you say? That her uncle hit on you – that you two shared a joint (which he was quite against)?
“... Her uncle showed up. I hadn't met him before, so it was kind of weird.”
“How weird?”
“I don't know, just weird. Like parachuting into a party where you don't know anyone.”
“Mm,” He nodded. “And this uncle has a name?”
“Matt Graver.”
“Gen’s side?”
“Sean’s side. He’s the youngest.”
“Ah. Maybe he works for the government too.”
“Maybe…? I can’t tell. Although he’s…” Out of touch? Easy with his words? Easy in the eyes? “... Outspoken. Perhaps with a sense of honesty that others lack.”
“This gives him a certain immunity to what could be a problem with the family.”
“Probably.”
You two paused just before reaching the house, your sister waving to you from afar with a trash bag in her hands, announcing that lunch was almost ready. You waved back with a brief smile before you both turned to face each other.
“About that–”
“I’m not gonna tell her,” He reassured. “She wants to invite Alicia for Christmas.”
“This may change depending on what you find.”
Your father considered you for a moment, lips pressed in a thin line — then, ever so softly, patted you on the shoulder and smiled sheepishly.
“Yeah… You really listen to what I’ve taught you so far.”
****
Lee was sitting in your armchair this time, her hands supporting her head while she kept her elbows resting on her knees. You stood quietly in the middle of the room, your arms crossed as you faced her.
She had been like that for about five minutes.
“I stayed at Suki's house these past few days,” Suki meaning one of her colleagues from work. “I lost my apartment keys after the party. They fell down the drain in the fountain that night.”
“You could’ve come here.”
She sighed, then raised her face to look back at you.
“... I needed a more secluded place. My parents would know I was here and… Well, Suki is Buddhist. The absence of alcohol in her house is almost as impressive as it is absurd.”
You glanced at your small bar set up in the corner of the room, one of the first things you managed to establish when you moved in, and realized that your approach would do more harm than good. Fair enough. And that gave you even more insight into how you didn't want to be a bigger influence on her drinking.
She was sighing again, this time leaning back in the cushions and shaking her head.
“Did Leonard try to contact you?”
“Can’t say, I lost my phone too,” That made you raise your eyebrows. “But he contacted Suki. I asked her not to tell him a thing.”
“Mm,” You nodded. “If you’re okay–”
“I don't know if I am,” The interruption came so softly you barely stopped talking if she didn’t keep going. “Do you think I should seek help? Like, professional?”
Yes, was your most steady and fast answer — honest, real, necessary. And maybe you had been beating around the bush for way too long, thinking you were helping by cleaning the wounds when you could’ve been preventing it from happening.
Before you could answer, she said something that made you stop dead in your tracks.
“I was talking to my uncle about this.”
You blinked a few times.
“Your… Which one?”
“Matt.”
The opening and closing of your mouth made you absently look like an idiot, but… wow. How that–
“I didn't imagine you would, you know, consult him,” You tried, not managing your shock or your barely there reticence.
“Yeah, me neither. But he found me the other day, said father wanted to know where I was. It sounded like bullshit, because my dad would only need a snap of his fingers to, you know, sort it out. I think he was just worried.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes. I know how it sounds.”
“No, I mean—” You scratched your forehead in agitation, then frowned in confusion. “Haven’t you stopped hearing from him for years?”
“I was feeling awful. I woke up the next morning and just drove off... I hadn't taken my phone, wallet, or clothes. I just went. And I didn't want to talk to anyone, but he showed up and... You know, he's kind of intrusive,” Wouldn’t you know about that. “But that was good. He listened to me, gave me some advice. He said I shouldn't beat myself up over something that wasn't in my control and that the only thing I could do was get better away from them. Like I did in the Caribbean.”
Or like he did with himself, probably.
“... That seems like good advice.”
“It's kind of like something out of a self-help book, but it works. He has a way of speaking… like a Prince song interpreting a Nicholas Sparks book.”
You didn't think much about him, nor about what happened in the garden, mainly because it was expected coming... from them. But Lee was right about some things, and you were sure she never spoke of a family member like that. A Prince song interpreting a Nicholas Sparks book was, besides being creative, as palpable as reality itself. Matt had everything to be an Old Hollywood heartthrob, but he molded himself as a carefree rogue with beautiful hair and a mouth full of sarcasm.
And a lot of quick remarks.
Of course he would know what to say.
Your lack of reaction, stemming from your clear contemplation of what she said, made you silent long enough for her to look at you with an expectation that gradually dissolved into apprehension. She must have thought she'd said something wrong, and that you were about to reprimand her—her hands went to her trouser legs, agitated and dragging, her palms on her thighs, and her mouth ready to apologize.
“Did he say something to you?” She asked instead, which was kind of a way to manage her guilt.
You blinked a few times.
“... Who?”
“My uncle. Father said he saw you two talking and smoking together when I passed out, out in the orchard. If he said anything stupid or offensive to you, please tell me because–”
“No! No, he–” You cleared your throat. “I didn't react that way because of that, no. I was just surprised by your initiative… And I think it dawned on me that I never really encouraged you to seek help. I'm relieved to know that your uncle is so level-headed. He's a good influence.”
She stared at you for a while as if she were chewing on your answer in disbelief. Lee could be oblivious about many things, but she was clever.
“Darling, I’m serious. You don’t need to hide it from me if he was a jerk.”
“I’m 100% serious. Really,” You smiled openly at her. “Do you have any idea of where to start?”
“... Not much,” She shook her head at the change of subject, the trick to turn the conversation back to her working like magic. As she lowered her head again in consideration, you cleared your throat to step away from the topic as well. “He said he knew some people, but I don’t know. Isn’t it all weird?”
“Do you think he was instructed by your father?”
“Don’t you?”
You shrugged.
“I mean, he’s… from what I heard that night, I don’t think he’s that easily ordered by other people. He was wearing flip-flops when he answered the door that night. We can agree that's not the kind of thing someone who values your parents' opinions would do.”
Lee scoffed bitterly, eyebrows raising in frustration as she slouched back on the cushions again. She was agitated.
You considered her for another moment, as she quietly stared at your ceiling.
Looking from there, she had the same eyes as her uncle. They were darker, but kinder, even more painful, and without that shrewdness of time or the sagacity of familial freedom that she lacked. You always thought she looked a lot like her father, at least in her features, and perhaps it made sense that she looked so much like Matt since the siblings themselves looked quite alike.
Your mind drifted back to that distant, anticipatory scene of their interaction: the strong arms, the serious, firm face, the almost perfect fall of his hair. Lee had that panoramic, Hollywood-esque beauty, and you could imagine Leonard being charmed by the version of the Gravers, free from their constraints, from their time in the Caribbean. You almost understood him. Almost. Because you could have felt the same way about that picturesque, sarcastic man with whom you shared a joint, the one who had flirted with you in the improbability of something actually happening.
And so he was offering to look for her, to offer the right path and not the easiest one, or the most despised one, and that was… cool. Really cool.
“What are you gonna do for Christmas?”
****
Your mother had a copy of The Merchant of Venice that always remained invariably leaning against the bedside table in the living room. It rarely moved. If you pulled out the page where the reading had been paused for a month, you would find it in the same place, but not because she hadn't read it before, and perhaps she had just stopped at her favorite part. She wanted to be an actress—she had moved to LA in her youth, been to a few places, then things just didn't work out. You couldn't tell if there was any lingering resentment, but your sister said there was, from her early childhood years. Even so, your mother seemed to have found her place in the life destiny had reserved for her, embracing the role of a welcoming and family-oriented person who enjoyed being around people and who smiled even amidst the chaos of a family gathering like Christmas.
You had confessed to her, right after a vulgar comment about your third consecutive year wearing the Jesus Christ 'Birthday Boy' sweater, that you hoped things would cool down regarding the speculation about James; that it would come, but not be so intense and suffocating. She smiled. Then, calmly, she pulled out a bottle of expensive wine that she always indulged in buying on special occasions and said that, that afternoon, Lee's out-of-place presence, smelling of wealth, would attract more attention than 'that little brat James'.
Then you remembered that this was another thing you needed to worry about. Your father hadn't given any news or information—each day without answers made you a little tense, then you tried to relax and then became tense again. You were already starting to think that Lee had noticed your change in behavior, always analytical, asking if you were okay, and you knew that the excuse of being tired wouldn't hold water for long.
Sergio was again talking about that biopic that would surely win the Oscar for Best Actor. He was wearing a vest, dress shoes, and a beret, as usual, and sipping what he called his elixir, which was nothing more than apple cider mixed with a paltry dose of whiskey—the worst taste you'd ever experienced in your life. A stupid poet, some would say, who took himself too seriously and who never forgave you for saying that Hollywood loved making movies about gullible guys and then rewarding the actors who masterfully portrayed the jerk's story for being just as idiotic.
It was easy to escape him that year. You had at least a couple more aunts and some cousins, and as your mother predicted, the mention of Lee put any chance of speculation about James down the drain.
There was a small argument in the kitchen about a list of things that still needed to be bought at the grocery shop, following a series of disagreements about a lack of organization. You were one of the few adults with a car nearby – in the living room the children were playing video games, and in the corners the cousins were narrowing down, some chronically unemployed (as was the case with Sergio) and others affected by the debt crisis with health insurance plans and student loans.
You just waited for Sergio to find your cousin Harry to start another argument about Marlon Brando's traits or… whatever the fuck it meant. You slipped between the little ones, then slid out the door after grabbing your coat, only to be met with the frigid air of that time of year.
You sat in the rocking chair on the front porch; pulled out your box of Pall Mall and lit the first cigarette of the day.
Lee had the bright, hopeful eyes of a child meeting a mall Santa when you offered her an invitation to Christmas with your family. It wasn't something new, much less unprecedented, but while you never felt automatically invited to her family's events due to intimidation, she was afraid of not knowing how to handle it when it came to your relatives. Because, yeah. Sergio was an asshole — you had a bunch of cousins in the same path. And the kids could be tiresome. But it was the dynamics of a normal family… Your cousins weren't jerks because they bragged about yachts and parties in St. Barth, and the kids only behaved in their childlike nature, far from Lara's frigid, psychopathic mood.
You wondered what this year would be like for her. Well, given the explosive and dramatic events that culminated in an imminent mess in the fragile stability she was clinging to, you expected her natural reticence to be at its peak, paralyzing her and perhaps making her rethink how to behave, how to act, how to approach others. You assured her that you hadn't mentioned what happened to anyone—you lied, as much as was acceptable, so that she wouldn't feel worse.
Smoke trickled from your mouth and nostrils. You watched it calmly, silently, legs crossed as you warmed yourself in your thermal pants under your jeans, gazing at the silent, empty street, waiting for her arrival.
Maybe he was pretending. You know, Matt. Maybe he was testing you, and maybe there was some ulterior motive in that outlandish advice (by the standards of that… people). He might have been distant because he was a blackmailer—he might have come back with that objective. With Lee being the weakest link, how much could he get out of Sean and Gen having so much access to the youngest's vulnerability? And that flirtation. Something didn't seem right.
“Your mother already told you to do this away from the children,” Your father’s voice startled you. He walked over to where you were at and placed a foot to stop the chair from moving; your eye roll only made him glare in your direction, but it was just for the scene. He himself was pulling out a pack of Chesterfields from his own pocket. “Escaping that grocery list?”
“You're not necessarily here because you suddenly decided to smoke one.”
“... Fair,” He let the chair go, making you wobble back a little before stabilizing with a hand on the small table beside you.
While he lit his, you smoked yours for a while longer. It wasn't long before the smoke from both cigarettes began to fill the air.
“I was taking a look at what you asked for.”
Blunt.
Out of nowhere.
You snapped your head to him with raised eyebrows. Then, as you saw him looking nowhere with a nonchalant stance, you looked around to make sure no one was listening.
“... Is it–”
“There's not much to see,” He turned to you in time to see you adjusting yourself, as if bracing for an impact. “Destruction of public property.”
Public property was serious business. Like, things that were considered that were just important. What would lead Lee, of all people, to deliberately vandalize a… damn.
“What was it?”
“An administrative office.”
“His?”
“Mm-hm,” That made you flinch. “From what I've read, it seems she threw a few things around, but she didn't knock over tables or, I don't know, defecate on the armchair.”
“Huh.”
“Unusual?”
“Unlikely,” You leaned back on the chair, a contemplative tone.
It could be worse – drugs, robbery. Given the statistics of that family, it was nothing. Well, nothing justified her being sent to juvenile detention, especially with a father in that position.
“From what I understand, it seemed like something Sean might’ve covered up. He must know a bunch of judges, especially the one who took the case…”
“... But…?”
“I took the liberty of checking a few things. I had trouble remembering that woman's name, but you were right about the weight of that last name,” He then pulled out his phone from his back pocket, scrolled through it for a few seconds before turning the screen to you.
You saw Gen first: long marsala dress, hair pulled back. It looked like a very chic event, like at a tennis club or something. It was a screenshot of an official post from the office of a judge named Timothy Carpenter, who was embracing her with a certain level of intimacy. He was robust, fat, and rosy-cheeked, with a prominent mustache. Just give him a white hat and he would be any wealthy South Texas man with a totally dubious family tree.
Well.
“I know this will sound hypocritical of me, but explicit punitiveness never seemed to me the kind of thing you'd see in a family like that,” He said as he retrieved the device.
“They threw a teenage girl into a violent place like that because of a rebellious outburst… I can see her brother doing way worse and there isn’t a single ounce of trauma behind those eyes,” You argued with an affronted, offended voice.
He took that in stride and shrugged.
“The fact that Sean did nothing is even worse. He must have been complicit out of pure whim and extreme caution regarding his own career,” Before you could ask, he added: “He was prominent in the state's public defender's office at the time. An extramarital affair would get a footnote in the newspaper… Having a daughter throwing a tantrum probably tied his hands on the matter as it could cover it.”
You considered that for a moment – imagined how Lee dealt with all of that shit. Fuck, for less you would’ve been a statistic. What kind of people did that? And, hell, you may not know Lee back then, but she wouldn’t do that shit for nothing. With parents like that, you could only wonder what justified that outburst.
“Damn,” You muttered, the nicotine now being more than a necessity.
“Yes. And I like the girl, but be careful. Whatever you know or see… just pretend you don't,” As if you weren’t doing that already, but you knew he meant well, and he would feel better if you only agreed.
You two fell in a tight, tense silence. As the cigarettes were running down, you could feel your mind going to places and all the types of incoherent conditions Lee was put under came to view. It wasn't like you expected her not to be punished, but… were those the terms? Was this how it always was with her? Threat after threat, severe punishment after severe punishment? There was no way she couldn't help but fall for a guy who was saying the right things – Leonard only used the chance with her. What if–
“What about the uncle?” You asked suddenly, half of your face hidden behind your hand holding the cig.
“CIA,” He said, side eyeing you as if in warning.
It was to be expected, even… understandable, but it made you even more apprehensive. He may have threatened her; said it would be better to check herself into a mental institution to disappear from the spotlight, the 'less aggressive' option in the version where she would be in one. Was Sean involved? Was all this part of some kind of intervention?
“I don't like seeing you thinking like that,” Your father argued as you lost yourself in thought.
“No, I…” You blinked a few times, then shook your head. “I think that makes sense. I don't know, from what I've seen. Should I be worried?”
“I'm no expert, but I doubt he cares about that kind of crap. With a salary like that and the kind of work he does, family drama doesn't seem to appeal to him.”
“What kind of work?”
There was a moment of suspense. It was long, a bit too drawn out, and it only happened with your father when he wanted you to work hard to find the answer yourself. He was always teaching you to extract things from people without asking, to read a room, to interpret signs. You didn't want to assume Matt was a spy or something like that, but as the silence stretched on, a part of you knew that even if it wasn't something so far removed from mundane reality—because your father certainly wouldn't have the means to know that kind of information—you knew it was something at least somewhat hostile. This reminded you of the unique and almost historic time your father came home telling you about a drug bust where the suspect was a former agent. He served in Afghanistan and other conflict zones, mostly orchestrating secondary plans that nobody actually had access to, for things that–
The loud roar of a motorcycle snapped you out of your trance. Your mouth snapped shut, and you and your father glanced quickly in the direction of the noise. You finally found a Harley Davidson crossing the serene asphalt, disrupting a discreet and veiled order of neighborhood regulations, corrupting the irritatingly correct image of the landscape, and you watched it stop right in front of the house, a man driving and a woman on the back.
You squinted, already confused, and saw the man lift his visor while turning his face in your direction.
You could never forget that look.
****
Your mother disguised her surprise with a playful comment about how Lee seemed to have been adventuring since she returned, to which Lee responded with a shy smile and a somewhat vague reply about an unforeseen event. She would explain later, you knew, and only didn't have the chance because your mother quickly moved on to the next subject: how beautiful she looked, how her hair seemed more moisturized, how she hadn't needed to bring those gifts for her and your father.
And, in fact, nothing was a lie.
You found some of the children at the front door, drawn by the likely stratospheric leap your mother had made upon hearing the announcement of Lee's arrival. They seemed curious, speculative, and you could see Uncle Angus peering over the teenagers. When you turned back, your father was still nursing the same cigarette, and one of his hands discreetly reached for yours, where you had forgotten to dispose of the butt of yours in your mother's presence. With the touch, you quickly discarded it on the ground and stepped on it—when you looked up, Matt was watching the scene intently.
He had barely spoken. With all attention focused on Lee and the conversation dominated by your mother, you only saw him greet your father with a polite nod.
You two exchanged glances before you caught your mother saying something about the cold.
“Why don't you come in?”
And you saw that she was looking at Lee and then at Matt, which made you unconsciously clench your fists. He probably noticed that too, because when you dared a glance in his direction, he was sliding his eyes off your hands to open a polite smile to her.
“I would hate to be a bother.”
Nah, we made food for a whole army! I insist.
“Nah, we made food for a whole army! I insist.”
It couldn’t be more predictable.
Your expression remained neutral, bordering on breaking, and you had to restrain yourself with a long, deep breath. It was clear the ball would be in your court: you were Lee's friend, you had to strengthen the bridge between them and your family. You would surely be scolded for not having done everything possible and impossible to—
“Well, it would be nice to have one more mouth to eat all that lasagna.”
You were far from being the type to believe in instant connections and scientific body language, but you knew Matt understood your undertone with that comment. He knew that, if he wanted, he could insist he had somewhere else to go, anywhere, even if that wasn't the case, and spare you the discomfort.
But he had no obligation to your well-being or what you thought of him.
So he said yes.
****
Your father glanced at you twice between the two of them arriving and their meeting with some group of interested relatives. You counted. And finally, restless, you sat in the corner of the sofa while the children pestered your ears, to finally pick up that book to leaf through it and have something to occupy your hands with.
There was no comfort in looking around and seeing Matt standing next to your father at the makeshift drinks cart. There was no peace in finding Lee in the kitchen, receiving compliments on the gift she chose for your parents, even though she seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be, speaking explicitly to those people. You thought maybe it would be better if they talked about James – that they turned lunch into an endless commentary about how good his pudding was or about his badminton skills.
How out of place could they possibly seem in that small, cramped suburban house, with its tiny kitchen and cheap drinks? How speechless could Lee be watching your uncle being nearly kicked out of the quiet activities near the living room, playing cards with your grandmother, just to go buy the things they needed, amidst much complaining and shouting? You spent a full hour thinking about it, trying to find small refuges amidst the distractions present in the environment. You thought about Sean, and how he spoke of that humble childhood, and how Matt should convey that sense of belonging but failed to do so. The kind of life he certainly led, the things he experienced… What kind of person was he?
It was between finishing an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants for forty minutes and a question in the background about where your uncle was, with you about to be massacred by your grandma at cards, when your sister stopped right in front of you. She had a glass of wine in one hand, her youngest in the other, and…
You had to peek at your teacup to make sure you hadn't drunk something you shouldn't have. Well, at what point between being plagued by thoughts from all sides and a sensory overload that prevented you from seeing Jasmine leaving the room and–
“She knocked the bowl of sauce over herself.”
The girl blended into shades of red and what looked like traces of basil. She was quiet, somewhat frightened of a likely scolding, and you looked at her for a while before raising your gaze to her mother again, who was still talking.
“Huh?” You asked.
“Give me a hand and clean her up, please. I have to run to remake the sauce and George has to go get uncle because–”
“Okay,” You raised a hand and squeezed your eyes close for a moment. “Come on, little one.”
You had a tiny hand locked in yours and a bath to keep you busy. Away from the noise and chaos. Ideal. Perfect.
Necessary.
****
“Are you sad because you can't talk to your friend, auntie?”
You were being too quiet for her liking, perhaps. Jas was your favorite; usually your interactions were more... lively and fun than you silently drying her hair. You blinked a few times to compose yourself, which made you realize that the hairdryer was sitting in a random corner of the room instead of on her head. In the mirror, she was calmly ready to destroy one of your mother’s lipsticks – you placed it back in place, then patted her almost dry hair.
“... I’m not sad,” You smiled a little. “Auntie is just distracted.”
“Papa said that your friend has a looooot of money…”
“Did he,” You muttered, eyes set on the small and sparse strands of hair.
“Is she like Santa?”
“Is it because she brought presents for grandma and grandpa?” She nodded at that, which made you huff. “That's not it. Last year they gave her a gift, so she's returning the favor.”
“Can I ask her for roller skates?”
“Have you given her a gift yet?”
“No. But I never gave you any, and you give me… Mama said she is an auntie too.”
You stopped dead in your tracks. “... Did she tell you to ask her for things?”
“No.”
“Ah,” You resumed your movements, now laying the hair dryer on the vanity and turning her towards you in your lap. “Don't ask, you hear? She may have a lot of money, but it's not polite to ask people for things like that. Unless it's your mother or your father. Or me.”
“It seems like an efficient way to raise a child these days.”
The jump you made almost knocked you and Jas off the small chair, were it not for your serpentine speed despite your unconscious lethargy. He was standing in the half-open doorway with a calm expression and a slight smile, which in itself was already intrusive enough until you looked at his t-shirt and saw… Well.
“Auntie, it's red like mine!” Jas pointed over at him, and Matt smiled more openly.
“I saw you like that and I was jealous… What do you think? Does it suit me?”
You were sure they didn't talk to Lara like that, for example, but maybe it was because Jasmine was younger, or because she was easily won over, but her reaction almost gave him a sense of humanity that you hadn't really associated with since you found out what you knew – say, nothing but two hours tops. Then she laughed, and he did too, to join her, which gave you the impression that he had a way with children, one that wasn’t mechanical or weird.
“We had an accident downstairs. Aunt… Isis, I guess?”
“Ah,” You nodded, doing a motion to put Jasmine on the floor. “She has some stability issues. It's a shame, it must’ve been the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc she brought from Chile.”
“That explains the commotion,” He offered teasingly before adding: “Your mother said I should come here so you could lend me a clean t-shirt. Probably your father's.”
Of course she would.
You considered that for a moment longer than necessary, then made a gesture for him to come in. As you expected, he stood still and comfortably in the middle of your parents bedroom as you walked Jasmine out of the room, watching her go with a crazy desire for her to stumble over or to dirt herself some more so as to not let you alone with him. Nothing to hurt a lot, just to make you walk over to her.
There she went. The girl barely knew how to wipe her own bottom, but she knew how to go down stairs like nobody else.
You hesitated a little in the hallway, just to be sure, just to gather a little more courage, then you moved back into the room and–
And…
You were a sensory being, a colleague once said. Your memories had tastes, smells, sometimes textures. Fireplaces reminded you of the feel of the old leather sofa that James's family had tucked away in a cabin near Yosemite Park; the color yellow reminded you of the first bra you ever got; the United States flag at Sean and Gen's house reminded you of Patriot Games, and Harrison Ford brought back the taste of cotton candy from the summer your mother said she met him during an audition. You still remembered, you know, the awkward sex on that old couch, or the first time you realized you'd have to beg for an Indiana Jones poster in your room, or when your father got weirded out with the prospect of another woman in his house obsessed with the guy. Matt shirtless gave you the taste of cotton candy again. Of popcorn, then of hot dogs, with the feeling of the sun burning the top of your head and the sound of the carousel in the distance. It made you feel like it was scandalous, as it had been before, and as it probably would be just from being there, door closed, alone with him.
You weren't 18, 19 anymore, but you knew you wouldn't have Lee's drunk and worried speech when she heard you talk about Mr. Lavertta, about your rides in his car (because you didn't have one in college, so it was really cool), about the way he treated you so well when you did 'things' together, about the first orgasm you had during sex, about that ‘date’ in an amusement park where he fingered you somewhere behind the bumper cars – and because you thought of her immediately, you had it in you to blink, to clear your throat, and to almost remind you he could’ve wait for you to hand him the shirt.
He turned as he heard the door close and didn't react. You had taken too long, longer than usual, to pretend you weren't caught between the trance of what had gone through your head and the feeling of what you were still trying to process.
All that, and they didn’t even serve the bread yet.
“... I think he has one of the same color. You can…” You gestured to the general direction of the floor as you passed by him. “Leave it there on the ground.”
“You gonna wash it?”
“Of course,” You opened the closet, heat rising on your cheeks.
“It's not necessary.”
“Do you think my mother would let that go?” You pulled the shirt out of a small pile of clean ones, ready to do as you planned: hand it to him, leave the room to give him some privacy.
For that to work you both should be willing to do so.
He was standing nearby – not necessarily close, but… around. The light from the window came from behind you, imposing, striking, and illuminated his chest, as well as a small silver chain that adorned his neck. His muscles were hypertrophied, but not extremely defined. He was strong, with traces of manual labor that required physicality, perhaps, and masculine hands, which he displayed by unconsciously scratching his left chest. Wine had splashed onto his neck, so some drops were now dissolving down the center of his ribcage. At the base of his abdomen, on his right side, a scar. It wasn't ugly, nor grotesque, but round, shallow in that light, like a bullet hole. A bullet hole…
“Wasn't your little boyfriend like that?” You snapped your eyes up to him, that mischief stuck in his features. As you frowned in defensiveness, he added: “Your father told me about him. James, right?”
“I doubt my father would say such a thing. He doesn’t know you.”
“Touché. I wanted to test if you were still in your right mind or if that drool was because you'd switched off,” He pointed at your mouth, so you bluntly touched it to see if you were actually drooling. Matt huffed. “Was that because of that habit of yours?”
“What?”
“The breakup. Not everyone is open-minded.”
You shouldn’t engage – should hand him the shirt, leave the room. You didn’t owe him an answer, nor your time, and certainly not your attention. But how he knew all that was a fucking shock to you.
“Lee wouldn't tell you that either.”
He shook his head. “I have Wi-Fi and access to social media. I mean, badminton? It already surprises me that he had access to a pussy, let alone–”
“Can you not–” You rushed to stop him, gripping the shirt before shoving it against his chest. “Jesus Christ, put on that shirt and get out of my sight, please.”
Before you could step back, he slapped a palm over your hand and covered it, pressing to keep you in place.
“You made your father research me,” He said as softly as he could. “You were lucky that I only went looking for information about your ex. And that I was only curious enough to assess my options.”
“Options to what?” When he didn’t answer and just licked his lips as his eyes wandered your face, you raised your eyebrows. “... Do you spend your time researching the past of every woman you want to sleep with?”
“Don’t you?”
“I have much more adult reasons than late-adolescent horniness,” You pulled your hand away from him, eyes set straight on his face.
“And what would those be? Because honestly, darling, you're not building a good case if you keep looking at me like that.”
“If you can't tell the difference between a woman's gaze being cornered by a shirtless stranger and anything else, Mr. Graver, then I understand why you need to compile a dossier on a woman to know what satisfies her.”
He wasn't irritated, angry, offended, or displeased. Whatever it was, Matt seemed to be holding back a smile, unsurprised, as if he'd been prepared for that kind of negative response. He then took two steps back – literally.
“Are you scared?” Was his next question, and you averted your gaze to the bed as you placed both hands in your hips to hide the slight tremble of them. “... Daddy told you what I do for a living?”
“Stop it.”
“Okay, I'm just curious,” He raised his hands in surrender, then calmly tucked the clean shirt over his head and dressed it properly. “And I understand your concern. I don't have the best references, but I'm not a risk. From what I've seen, you're not either.”
You glanced in his direction with reticence, and then you saw just a hint of frustration in his face for the lack of an answer on your part. Matt waited, brows raised, just for you to keep quiet and make him sigh.
“I have a daughter, okay? A teenager. And I did everything I could to keep her away from that crap because I saw what it did to Alicia, including friendships that might try to take advantage of her.”
That made you defiantly react: “It seems we share the same opinion.”
“... Of course,” He conceded. “I didn't mean to ruin your Christmas, but we can all agree that your mother doesn't give in so easily.”
“Mm.”
“Just don't be tense. I know Alicia told you what I advised her to do, and I know I might raise suspicions, but first and foremost, she's my niece. Unlike her jerk of a brother, I feel sorry for the girl.”
“... Mm.”
“Just… relax. Like we did that night.”
He made it sound like you two were best friends, but you decided not to fight back. By the looks of it, Matt seemed to know everything.
At the second silent treatment from you, he made a gesture with his head and turned around to leave the room. You watched him go for a beat before spilling out:
“Is it dry cleaning only?”
****
You also knew how to be suspicious, so that's how you remained: suspicious. The fact that Lee had barely managed to get five minutes of free time for a conversation with you, given how absurd the whole situation was, didn't help; the fact that the table was crowded, and that nobody stopped talking, and that if you turned around you'd find Matt on the other side like an antenna picking up all your signals, only made you more hesitant.
The food was good. The drinks were even better. You made sure Lee would only receive water, juice, or soda, and that your parents would keep an eye on her as well.
You saw Matt push two beer bottles away from her halfway there. That didn't make you feel any better.
Thanks to your relatives, the after-lunch period was lively, and like a child, Lee would just follow along with every 'fun' antics they came up with. From video games to cards, to charades, when it wasn't her, it was you running from one corner to another. And Matt was always there, watching you from the sidelines while you imitated Jean Claude Van Damm in Bloodsport (needless to say, it was Sergio's idea) or your George Bush impersonation escaping from those flying shoes when the word was 'agility' (that was your idea). He walked from one corner to another, calmly observing as if he were exploring your details, as if your father, observant as he was, couldn't notice it. It was hard to believe that this act of concern for Lee was genuine; that the fact that he had a teenage daughter changed your perception of what he might be doing.
Scared? He asked, as if he didn’t know the answer to that – as if you weren’t well aware of how away from their reality you actually were, how humiliated that made you feel and how self conscious. So he left with Lee, who was floating with excitement at the experience with your family, promising to call you, and that she wanted to settle the details of her departure more calmly, perhaps on the 29th.
You hugged her goodbye. Behind her, he sat on the motorcycle and watched again, his face clear and subtle, and you let yourself be looked at back with the same lightness.
“We're going to have to talk about a few things,” You murmured against her ear even if you knew he read your mouth.
“We will, I promise,” She said as he scoffed.
Everyone waved back to the sound of the Harley Davidson speeding to the end of the street, the two disappearing from your field of vision, but only one truly left, without a trace of their presence. Perhaps that was his secret, the one that reminded you of the same taste of cotton candy: he didn’t let himself be forgotten.
God, you knew for a fact you wouldn’t forget those abs.
“Ooh, no!” Your mother squeezed beside you. “He forgot his shirt!”
And as she handed it to you – as you looked it over – there was that feeling deep inside that you shouldn’t want to be the one sending it back to him. That, hell, you wanted to see Matt again.
Can you keep it? (Matt Graver x f!reader) - part 1
(i just love this gif so much... ugh)
Summary: Graver's family was... quite a thing. And Matt was quite a catch.
Word count: 8.031.
Warnings: Bad language, generational trauma, conversations about dysfunctional families, wealthy people in general, marijuana use (depending on your state, this can be an important warning sign), a brief mention of age gap, irresponsible alcohol use, parental abandonment, cheating, and, as Beyoncé would say, 'He Monica Lewinsky'd all on my gown' (reference).
+18 work.
Author’s Note: And in the multiverse of Matt Graver, we now put him as a estranged brother from a wealthy family. I've been keeping this idea inside my brain and my Google Docs for soooo long. I hope it's good. I made the mistake of writing a two-piece for another character and got anxious to post everything at the same time - now I'm posting this one to control myself haha
Part 1 of 2
No pressure tags: @queennymeria @tia-greyblueviolet @doughmonkey @royal-abbotts (if anyone wants to be tagged, please tell me!)
****
You didn't know who he was in years of friendship with Lee. Well, you did hear the name mentioned once or twice, on rare occasions when she shared childhood stories, but the details were scarce, which made you think it had to do with the complicated relationship she had with her parents. So, naturally, you never pressed to know everything.
She was well-off financially. She wasn't on a scholarship like you at college, at least, and her parents had the chance to actually save the money since she was, what, planned? At the beginning of your friendship with her, you thought her parents wanted to teach her a lesson by making her a) stay in a dorm and b) stay in a dorm with you. But Lee was a nice girl, subjected to a lot of academic stress to achieve a professional succession that you would later discover had to do with a well-positioned family within the government. Of course, she never verbalized these things at the beginning. It was her father, with an American flag pin, and a spare car with two security guards parked in front of the building, and the dorm counselor along with the college’s vice-dean, and an NDA paperwork that you had to sign along with your parents.
It almost sounded like the script for First Daughter, and you laughed as you recalled it with your high school friends.
They were just taking one extra precaution. Despite his more bureaucratic role, Lee's father was an influential man who valued certain professional standards that resonated in his personal life. Fair enough. And she never spoke ill of him, in fact, nor did she complain, but sometimes you felt the pressure stemming from the influence of an older brother who had 'made it'.
You stopped laughing about it then — she became a friend.
She studied economics; you, business.
One helped with the bills, the other with people. Few parties. Music was quiet during exam periods. Going to debate club events, to the team's soccer games, having lunch together, then Thanksgiving with your family and Christmas with hers. You could still remember the enormous lecture your mother gave you about how to behave, scolding you for the state of your clothes, lending a pair of stockings to hide the scratches on your leg from every time you tripped on Lee's Japanese bed, and the strange feeling of suffocation from being in such a large house, where no one there seemed to actually experience the feeling of sleeping crammed together with cousins in a childhood bedroom that smelled of children's sweaty feet, candy, and Cheetos.
It was that night that you heard more about him. Her father, Sean, took an almost plastic liking to you when you told him about the time you used to take baths with a mug of water heated on the stove after some months without electricity in your neighbourhood. He was the type to value the sacrifice, the idea of a whole community going through serious problems with basic sanitation passing all the way over his head with the prospect of a ‘simple life’ with ‘less to worry about’. You could hate him for that. There you discovered that he himself came from a considerably humble family (poor) and heard some stories related to the lack of money in an analog childhood. There, you were given the aspect of a Matt who was a fearless little hero, a slender little boy who loved the movie The Goonies and never let anyone else be the Terminator when they played with other kids.
He showed you a photo after pulling you into the hallway leading to some almost underground rooms, away from the other people. There he was. A little bit like him, but not much you could quite catch — how much a kid could change in so many years?
There, you discovered that Sean had a sinister glint in his gaze, which didn't fade when he spoke of relatively positive memories; that he liked to touch, more specifically the back, as if he wanted to hold the person and keep them there in that conversation or cause some kind of spontaneous discomfort, and that this had more to do with the other stories he would tell about how he was 15 years older than his wife. There, too, you only knew that Matt was that, that childlike figure, and not an adult man, an uncle who was good at barbecuing or who had the best jokes, which made you deduce (silently) that he wasn't a present figure, and that Sean was clinging to the memory of the kid he once was, never addressing recent stories, and barely making a point of complimenting aspects of the adult version of his brother.
Honestly, you didn’t read much into it. Either about Matt or his invasive stance. Sean wouldn’t be a first, although you could argue that the lack of ethical limits towards his daughter’s friend was against what he seemed to want to teach his kids. Well, you too had a relative or two you barely talked about. They were dead, but maybe whatever the hell was wrong with Sean could resonate on Matt, and being sure that one was already too much, you got that it was better to stay that way.
You made a mental note to never question his stance on Monica Lewinsky.
You wouldn't know how to tell Lee about her father's situation, you know. But she knew, which made you feel sorry for her. Weeks later, when you politely declined an invitation to spend New Year's at their summer house, she apologized, even if she didn't say exactly why, and since then her father has never been anything but cordial with you.
Perhaps it was for these and other reasons that the subject of Matt had become so detached from your relationship with her.
Until Thanksgiving.
You were in a... very specific place emotionally. It had been two years since you'd visited the Graver's house for such a purpose, which had little to do with your lack of interest. You'd made some life adjustments since starting a relationship that ultimately didn't last. While you were still in it, Christmas and Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, Chinese New Year—everything was strictly divided between your family and your ex's. And, well, you'd tried a few times, but there was something about the mention of the Gravers that triggered an instant rejection, most likely for personal reasons. Enjoying showing off to others seemed pointless when those others were a family of good reputation and wealth.
It was your first year of celebrations after the breakup. You still had some moving boxes scattered around the apartment, along with a dog as your only post-breakup requirement. Lee was happy with your acceptance: she had spent a long time in the Caribbean with a social project for regional economic strengthening, and she was still tanned when she visited you to make the invitation.
“It's been so long since you've been home… Mother insists you've been hiding the whole time,” She offered with a light, soft tease as she sat on your couch.
“I'll apologize to her for that. Things had been a mess.”
“I'm sorry about what happened with James.”
“Oh no, don’t be. It’s okay. Things weren't going well, so… I mean, it is what it is. I've cried all I needed to cry. Besides, I'm left with good things. Boba there is a gift,” You gestured to the dog a few feet away from you two. “And I've been allowing myself to experience new things.”
“Oh?”
Lee had a very particular way of getting embarrassed about things. She was quite shy, almost an outlier compared to her parents and brother, but she knew how to handle herself. Despite this, she still maintained a very marked personal block regarding sex, flirting, and all things seduction, in short. That was just how she was. You rarely heard about anyone, and on only one occasion did the mention of a relationship come up, which was short-lived, as was how sad she had been about the situation. You encouraged her; you tried. You two still went to lingerie stores together and talked about it, but she seemed out of place, so whenever you had news about your personal life, which wasn't exactly extraordinary or remarkable either, she would pay attention, then blush, laugh, and say you were a little crazy.
You tested how she would feel when you told her you met an older guy.
“How old?”
“Not much. It's not like his children were my age, but if he wanted to, he could.”
“... Oh,” She paused, and you watched her face doing a 360° as she processed that. You watched in silence, eyeing her over your cup of coffee. “And is he… good looking?”
“It seemed like it from my point of view. You know, with me on top,” That was you teasing, of course, but her reaction was still priceless, even if predicted. “I thought you might want to know.”
“So it’s not serious?”
“I don't think so. And I don't want it to be. But he's kind and very respectful, so I guess it’s just nice. He’s also rich.”
“Work?”
“Mm-hm. A friend of a client.”
Lee considered you for a beat. “... Sounds nice, indeed.”
But then she seemed a touch more bothered than usual. In fact, she just seemed bothered, not just embarrassed. You apologized when you noticed her furrowed brow, pursed lips, and the way she lightly looked away, a somewhat dejected expression on her face.
It turned out that Thanksgiving at her family's that year was going to be interesting, and she was happy that you were going ahead with it, but a little worried about whether it would be a good time to bring a date with you to the party. She was relieved that it wasn't anything serious, and you almost thought that, well, her father had been arrested for corruption or her brother had been revealed as the leader of a money laundering scheme (because that's the kind of thing rich people got involved in), but it was a little more down-to-earth than you expected.
“Long story short, mother found out that father is having an affair with an employee. Younger, I guess she works at the White House–”
“Like Monica Lewinsky?” You didn’t know why that was your first reaction, but Lee just nodded along, and you contemplated that with a small ‘oh’.
“In any case, the atmosphere over there isn't the most pleasant. And there’s my uncle too…”
“Who?”
“My uncle. You know, Matt. We talked about him in passing.”
You narrowed your eyes at that, took it in consideration as you retrieved any recalling of that name…
“Can’t say I remember. But is he, like, a weirdo?” You sipped on your coffee.
“No. Not that I know for sure, at least. He'll be there too, which is rare, and maybe that's the least of my worries considering everything, but I wanted to let you know. I honestly don't know how this is going to be.”
In a gesture of partnership and even compassion, you stood up to sit next to her and put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a comforting half-hug.
“Don't worry about it. At most, we can sneak off to the nearest bar and get drunk. Besides, I've known your family for a long time, I'm sure I'm ready to face this. What's the worst that could happen?”
****
You no longer needed your mother lecturing you about holes in your shirt or the state of your legs. Although you were still incorrigibly clumsy, you were the one choosing your own clothes, and dealing with a little makeup to cover up your stumbles or falls or interior design adventures with ladders and stools. It was cold. You had chosen a coat, but you were wearing a dress with tights and boots. Ever since you met the Gravers, you felt it never seemed appropriate to enter the house in jeans or sneakers or flats, for example, so you avoided it out of habit. It wasn't a castle, but the place was secluded, almost too difficult to reach. It had a gate, a long gravel path, and a parking area with a fountain right in the middle. The house itself did look like a mansion, but the kind only someone remaining from a high social ladder could have; it was rich, but domestic. Given the number of guests, which weren't many but made it a quite large crowd, you found about 10 or 15 cars parked, and you assumed that although the party was taking place somewhere in the backyard, you would have to cross the house to reach it.
You rang the doorbell.
The music continued, as did the laughter and conversation. Before you could assume you might have been mistaken, the door flung open, and you looked up expecting to see something familiar, but found only… the hallway.
Huh, you frowned. Where were–
“Oh! Hey, Lara.”
Your smile wasn't enough—it never was. And Lara was a girl almost as headstrong as she was deliberately unsettling, always with that cold stare, her hair impeccably styled, almost oblivious to the fact that she wasn't a child except for her ice cream-smeared mouth and childish clothes. She was blonde, small-footed, and very thin, but that was all genetics.
“Hi,” She said, the popsicle dangerously melting and soiling her fingers, some getting on her impeccable shoes.
You two stared at each other for a while. Her hand was on the doorknob, her eyes looking up as she gazed back at you, and you held back a smile for a moment until the silence started to feel a little awkward.
“Have you–” You looked around. “I am–”
“AUNT LEE!”
“Jeez!” You hissed, body jumping.
“YOUR FRIEND IS HERE!”
Then she trotted back down the hall, the door still open as you watched the sugar droplets smear the spotless floorboards while she disappeared inside the house.
You hesitated. You knew that, on more than one occasion, Lee's mother had said that you could make herself welcome, but that kind of nonsense only made you more insecure and even a little too self-conscious, so you didn't. For a moment, you stood there, both feet firmly planted on the doormat as you leaned forward just slightly to try and hear the sound of someone approaching.
Eventually you heard it. After, what, a solid two minutes, your hand was already reaching for your bag to try and call Lee and announce your presence. You were staring at your open bag, rummaging inside, and then the footsteps started getting closer.
Weird. Why weren't you hearing the click-click-click of a heel, but rather—
The first thing you saw was the pair of flip-flops—it was the first thing that came into your field of vision. You instantly stopped moving as soon as you saw them, frowned even more in bewilderment, and wondered if a pair of Havaianas was even allowed in that place. And on men's feet.
Men’s feet?
He was wearing jeans (without a belt) and a dark blue t-shirt. He had a large, dark wristwatch, but his fingernails were trimmed, and you could see what looked like a tattoo on the inside of his left arm, which was also holding a bottle of Heineken while his right arm was outstretched to hold the door open, further limiting your field of vision.
Unshaven, but with a neat haircut. Dark, intense eyes, accompanied by a firm expression that looked back at you without a hint of curiosity. Familiar, in fact, as if it could only come from another Graver.
“... Can I help you?” He asked.
You blinked a few times, then raised your eyebrows.
“I’m Lee’s friend.”
“That I know. Are you invited?” He said as he swiped his eyes over you invasively, as if accessing your attire — as if he wasn’t the one wearing flip-flops.
“... I am,” You insisted with a polite smile as he landed his gaze on your face again. “And you must be?”
“Matt. Lee’s uncle.”
Matt? Matt… Matt…
Oh.
Oh.
You really should stop drinking.
“Come in. She's upstairs tidying up, she'll be down soon.”
Perhaps even showing his driver's license wouldn't be as convincing in confirming his identity as that comment. Only someone who didn't know Lee well would say she was tidying up, not 'collecting herself,' because everyone knew what she did when she kept to herself during social events.
You thanked him, and he made a small space for you to enter. Calmly, he closed the door with a low click, then locked it, and you heard him slide to maintain a brief distance while you set your things down on a small bench to take off your coat by yourself. You thought that as soon as you turned around he would have gone wherever he needed to go, but when you turned around, purse in one hand and gift bag in the other, he was still there, staring at you, trying (and succeeding) to intimidate you.
Once again, another episode of silent stares — and you, again, couldn’t work yourself out of it.
He was finally looking back at you, curiously. At least that meant there was some reaction, which, even if suffocating, was more warm, less averse to the calculating superiority you saw in Lara, and instead receptive, like someone who just wanted to get a closer look at a face they didn't yet know. You didn't know what he looked like, if that behavior had anything to do with some kind of inspection, so you remained cautious, holding your purse tighter than a gift bag, hoping he wasn't some kind of police officer because… well.
It didn't last long. Lee quickly came running down the stairs, hurrying, as if she was desperate to get you away from him. You only noticed this when she looked at him with a certain reticence as she slowed her pace in your presence; then, she thanked him politely, which he simply accepted, and then left for who knows where. You watched him leave with carefree steps, his slippers dragging across the floor as he talked to someone in some corner of the house about the candy stains decorating the floor.
Before you knew it, Lee was anxiously rummaging through your bag.
“Lee–”
“Did you bring it?”
“Calm down,” You stressed, stopping her movements with a careful touch and making her look up at you. She was sweating a little, probably from exertion, and her eyes looked somewhat desperate. “You don't wanna use it and have the smell sticking out for the whole party.”
She considered you for a bit, then absently nodded along with a sigh.
“Why not… I brought a gift for your mother. Let's put this away and find something to drink.”
It was complicated, but perhaps more disconcerting than incomprehensible. And it was a rather unhealthy habit of hers, just like alcohol, and it had reached a more balanced level with the season in the Caribbean. You wouldn't say this, even if you were dying inside to do so, but Lee was always better off away from her family, as evidenced by all the purely truthful and honest times she said that college was the best time of her life. You imagined it was an aunt, or a cousin. Marriage, profits, family… it was a fact that all the anxieties she harbored within herself would surface at the first biting comment or judgmental glance.
Someone passed by you as you reached the kitchen, which was clearly renovated and completely different from what you remembered. It was a woman in uniform, holding a mop with a damp cloth on the end, and you almost stumbled to offer her a 'good evening' before being nearly pulled away to keep walking. She looked at you with a bit of surprise, as if she hadn't been expecting it, but you didn't see or hear if she responded.
Lee reached the kitchen and nearly threw herself against the sink as you set your things down on the table, a worried look of yours accompanying her deep breaths.
“What happened?”
“... It's a bit worse than I imagined.”
“About your dad?”
“No,” She shook her head. “I mean, kind of.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, a frown on your face. “Is she here?”
“Who?”
“Monica Lewinski?”
“Wha–No. No, she’s… no. Maybe it would be better if she was.”
“Damn.”
She ran her hand over her face, thought for a moment, and you realized she was hiding something from you—something that better explained that worried expression in your apartment, something that went a little beyond a grumpy uncle or a side-chick.
“... Remember Leonard?”
“Your partner?”
“Mm-hm,” She held herself against the sink, pursed lips as she recounted the better use of her words. “... We kinda… When we were on the trip…”
“You fucked?” The way you spit that out made her eyes widened, then she tilted her head to the side to see if anyone was listening. You had your back to the entrance, so there was no way to know, so you turned around and found no one.
“... Yes. But, like, don’t say it out loud.”
You smiled, then whispered. “You fucked.”
“It's not funny,” She exasperatedly said. “It turns out he's married, and I didn't know that.”
You raised your eyebrows in surprise, then opened and closed your mouth at the assertion.
“Am I going to assume you figured that out tonight?”
“Yes.”
“But–” You stopped yourself for a moment, thought for half a second. “If he's your business partner, how come you didn't know that?”
“He said they were taking a break!” She hissed.
“No one takes a break in a marriage!” You hissed back.
“Well, they did!”
“Girl…” That made you raise your hands in surrender, then close your eyes for a moment to shake your head. When you opened again, you looked at the face of someone who knew that was bullshit. “If he didn't insinuate anything, I don't think you need to worry. I mean, it was just a one-night stand, wasn't it?”
And that was the face of someone who didn’t have a one-night stand.
“My God, Lee!”
“I know! I know, it just… happened. And now he's here, and they have children… children! Three of them!” She raised three fingers up in the air.
You were opening and closing your mouth again, but this time you walked over to her and carefully placed two hands on her arms as she buried her face in her hands.
“Okay, here's what we're going to do: you're going to stay cool, without making it obvious. Avoid talking to him too much. If you're talking to someone about work and he's there, be cordial, not scared. Save the moral hangover for tomorrow morning, and be firm in not doing something stupid.”
“Such as?”
“Drunk confession.”
She nodded along, face lightly coming to view again as you gave her a reassurance nod.
Lee smiled, but a quick glance over her shoulder was enough for her to suddenly straighten her posture, clear her throat, and lose that loser-like grin for a more neutral one. You turned your head and saw Matt standing there in the doorway, the woman with the mop following him. They both seemed somewhat indifferent to what you were talking about, but you weren't so sure he was completely obnoxious about what you'd discussed.
You stepped aside and allowed Lee to move closer to the woman (whose name was Ellen) so that they could decide what to do with the bottle of whiskey you brought. You wrapped your arms around yourself protectively and looked down at the ground.
“Did you see that wooden counter she got?” Lee offered a change of subject (and atmosphere), to which you snap your head up and let out a small ‘nice’ as you walked over to where she was pointed at.
You two stood there for a while, pretending, then left again. Matt was leaning against the counter, two elbows resting on the marble and the same beer bottle in his hand. He was looking specifically at you when you turned to grab your bag, and continued doing so until you disappeared into Lee's room, where you hid your secret away from the commotion of what would be a very busy night.
****
Leonard was really ugly, the kind that wasn't worth the effort. He looked at you a few times during the night as if you knew what was going on, and each time you had a nearly grimacing look ready, or a middle finger, or a mouthed 'fuck off'. You didn't do any of those things, but you did a good job of stopping Lee from sticking her foot in her own mouth.
She was downing whatever drink she had on hand. Again, you tried to moderate her. Gen, the mother, greeted you with the delicacy of someone floating through space, completely ignoring Lee's attempts to get something stronger, to the point where you were the one asking one of the waiters at that extravagant and almost pointless party to go around to Lee to give her water or snacks. Sean held back that frigid smile as if whatever the moral or ethical destitution of his family was, was indifferent to his puffed-up chest and those pointless conversations involving you about business. You would pass by the same people—uncles, cousins, and colleagues—who would take a while to recognize you, but then shake your hand and say they didn't know what you did for a living, even though that information was common knowledge given how often it was repeated.
In those moments, between trying to have dinner, drink, and take care of Lee being grateful, you saw Matt here and there. He had joined the party a little after you, in an impressive outfit change from jeans to dress pants, a short-sleeved shirt, and a pair of boots. All very casual, but less so than the flip-flops. He spoke little, and when he did, he seemed to be a good entertainer. People were constantly smiling in his presence, or laughing, or engaging, until he stopped at your conversation circle about the 'third world economies' market, which you knew you were only in because you had been mistaken for the type of work Lee did; therefore, you didn't understand much.
He approached from behind, one hand quickly placing on your back to join the conversation. You made a spontaneous gesture of flexing your back in response, like a tic, and it was so quick that no one noticed. He then slipped it out and tucked it inside his pants pockets.
“Wasn't it you who was teaching some kind of… course, in the southern part of our continent?” Aunt Celia asked as she sipped on a drink.
“That would be your nephew,” You said. “I work with local businesses in the South of the country.”
“Consulting?”
“Yes. Our company offers legal and strategic support for small entrepreneurs with minimum incomes.”
“So it's like philanthropic work?” Matt had a genuine curious tone in his voice, but his face didn’t match his intention — if curiosity was it to begin with.
Celia seemed more… condescendent. Just like the others around you all.
“That depends a bit on the point of view. Which is also valid.”
“Yes… you're right. I'm sure you wouldn't buy that pair of boots by handing out lunch boxes to the poor and doing people's income tax.”
The fact that he didn't laugh at Celia's comment made you even more uncomfortable than you should’ve been, because it confirmed that she was making fun of you. You laughed it off — said she was probably right, then drowned the rest of your drink to avoid any quirk remark to come out of your mouth. It was easy to disperse after that.
And, well, it could get a little worse. Paul, her brother, whispered in your ear, warning you that Lee was hanging from the fountain in front of the house, that someone needed to go get her, and that person was you. He didn't ask; at best, he informed you, and at worst, he ordered you. You took a moment to look around and recall exactly when you lost sight of her and at what point in the night she went from minimally controlled to swimming in the cold water of a fountain.
Because that's exactly how you found her. On the way, like on a Hansel and Gretel trail, you saw some beer bottles and kept looking upwards until you found her floating, alone in the cold and the night, easily ignored.
“How did this happen?” You asked as you approached, to which Paul only shrugged as he leaned over slightly against the concrete to look at her with disdain.
“I don't know, I think she stole a hobbit's stock or something,” The joke didn’t land the way it was supposed to as he saw you glaring at him. He groaned, then rolled his eyes. “She doesn't want to leave. You can... see what needs to be done. If you need anything–”
“I need a towel.”
Lee was as cold as a stone, shivering when you managed to convince her to bundle up inside. Drunk, barely lucid. She walked with her legs wide apart to feel the ground, almost crawling on all fours while you searched for her shoes on the floor. You hugged her from the side to support her, pausing on the doormat as soon as you saw Ellen run to the girl with another towel for her hair.
“She needs a hot bath and something to eat,” You offered, even though you were sure she knew it already. “I can–”
“Ugh, by God, Alicia! Can’t you stand five minutes without embarrassing yourself?”
Sean entered the room with a firm expression, firm steps, and a scolding on the tip of his tongue. Behind him came Gen, with her usual calm expression, nursing a glass of wine as she circled her angry husband and took Lee in her own arms — the glass being poorly handed to Ellen.
“We can leave the fight for tomorrow, we have guests to entertain. I'll give her a bath and then serve her dinner,” She said calmly as a statement, slipping Lee out of your arms and making you stand there, half wet, staring at them both walking away in silence.
Ellen shared a glance with Sean and left.
You blinked a few times, then cleared your throat at the sight of Sean sliding his eyes from her to you. Averting your gaze wasn’t an option — still, you did so unconsciously, her shoes still hanging on your fingers.
“I should–”
“Dry yourself,” He corrected. “I am really sorry about that.”
“Not because of that. Lee is my friend, I…” You stopped yourself, then shrugged and smiled softly. “It's the least I could do.”
Saying that Sean had blocked his touches and advances didn't mean you could breathe a sigh of relief at those intense looks he gave you. And it was no different there, with you soaked from neck to waist, the fabric of your dress clinging slightly to your skin and exposing part of the design of your underwear. You realized this when you saw him staring at you from head to toe, then cleared your throat again and took a small step to the side.
“I will–”
“Of course!” He nodded along. “Thanks again.”
“Okay. Excuse me, Mr. Graver.”
You couldn't have gone upstairs any faster looking for a bathroom.
****
It wasn't that you wanted to hear. Well, you did want to, but it wasn't intentional.
You had just endured the torturous and almost humiliating minutes of drying your dress and yourself with a bathroom hairdryer. Your clothes were still damp, and you'd also had to take off your pantyhose. You were leaving. You were still able to drive, it was late, and you had work early the next day… These excuses should have been enough. Maybe that was the only time you could thank your ex for not wanting to participate in this.
You had a bunch of pantyhose in one hand, a pair of boots in the other, and bare feet. From afar, you could still hear the commotion of the guests and the lively music—you peeked out the window of the long hallway of rooms, only to find the yellow light of the hall, and in the distance, near a rather discreet tree, Paul exhaling smoke from his mouth as he stood too close to another guy you had no idea who he was.
You stared at the scene for a while as if waiting for something; nothing happened, so you walked back down the hallway until you found Lee's room to say goodbye and get your things.
So, it wasn’t intentional.
The door was slightly ajar, and Gen wasn't exactly speaking quietly. Through the crack, you could see Lee already lying down, with a sandwich forgotten on the bedside table and her eyes closed as she listened to her mother talk.
You were one step away from making yourself present when:
“You want me to send you back to reform school, don't you? Like the child you still insist on being,” She said. “Your friend smells like cooking oil and mothballs, and yet she's more decent than you.”
Mothballs.
Mothballs?
Before feeling insulted, you raised your arm and discreetly sniffed yourself to make sure. Then after a split second of personal offense, you got yourself wrapped with the ‘back to reform school’ and that made you flinch in surprise. Since when did she–
“... Mom–”
“It's a fact. Nothing even remotely stressful can happen in your life and you were already drowning your sorrows in alcohol… We invested tons of money so you could go to the Caribbean and play at philanthropy with your friends, then you come back and you're the same as always.”
They had a thing with philanthropy, didn’t they?
“One more of those and you'll be in rehab.”
“No.”
“Yeees, very much,” Gen stressed as you heard her moving this way or that around the room. “Now do all of us a favor and stay here. Sleep, watch porn, whatever. I’m already having to hold everything together with your father's fantasies, I will not stand you being a mess too.”
Sometimes you'd overhear, you know, the arguments. Gen was a bit strict, maybe even more so than Sean, and she expected her daughter to be at least like her: blasé, elegant, and above anything that could be destructive to a reputation. Lee felt too much, and that was a problem, so you knew that kind of comment or attitude was both normal and unique. You couldn't remember when you'd witnessed or heard Paul having the same kind of 'conversation,' even though he had a personal life full of bizarre secrets and a questionable reputation as a lawyer.
That was the first time in years you'd caught a glimpse of what she thought of you in a negative way. And it hurt a little, hearing what you'd only imagined they thought of you.
You took a tiny step back and looked away from the door. You would buy yourself time, regain your composure, and pretend you hadn't heard any of that conversation. Maybe you could go back and walk again as if you had just arrived.
As soon as you turned your body to do it, you paused: there he was again.
And this time it didn't seem so intentional either. He could have gone upstairs to check on Lee, offer some help, or use the bathroom—he'd been drinking beer for hours already. Again, though, it seemed like he knew something you didn't; that he'd overheard the conversation just like you, and was eager to see you embarrassed by it. He maintained a neutral expression there, at the foot of the stairs, and you two stared at each other while you processed your emotions for something as cold as his.
Gen opened the door.
“Did you dry yourself just fine?” She asked with a smile plastered all over her face.
You nodded rapidly, working on a smile of your own.
“I came to get my things, actually.”
“Oh no, are you leaving already?” And before you could answer: “Please, stay. We’re gonna serve the turkey. I would hate for you to leave without trying it first.”
You could say no – if you insisted, it would be for the best.
But then you looked over her shoulder to where Lee was already on the first stages of sleeping, and the reminder of that conversation made you go just a little out of your hand to prove a point.
“Looks like something I can’t deny.”
And, differently from what happened with Celia, you could catch a glimpse of approval from someone you weren’t even wanting to impress.
****
Matt was standing by a white wooden pillar, relaxed while engaging in a discreet conversation with Sean. He wasn't drinking anymore, nor was Sean, and the two seemed to be exchanging pleasantries like any brothers. You let yourself stare, largely because it was an intriguing scene. They looked as much alike as they could in those childhood photos: prominent, well-defined chins, striking eyes, straight hair that fell over their foreheads. Unlike the childish and immature features of those photos, they both now shared large, strong hands, broad shoulders, and defined arms. Sean was a little less athletic, most likely due to his job, and Matt was a charming counterpoint to what Sean would have looked like if he had gone to the gym more often. They were middle-aged, with graying hair and grown children; they were handsome, graceful, Kennedy-esque.
But where you saw familiarity and domesticity in Sean, you perceived traces of exhaustion and freedom in Matt. It wasn't something within your control: you'd known Lee for years, and this was the first time you'd met him. If someone told you he lived in a trailer park, you would believe them.
That night seemed like a good chance to get new info about that family — none of them candid enough.
As the party spread, you sat near an orchard where you could watch the activity; in this case, watch Matt. You held your bag in your hands, frustrated. You were sure you'd brought the right cigarettes, that you'd leave some with Lee, but you bet Gen had found them while putting her to bed and confiscated them. She'd use them later, for sure. And all you wanted was a drag.
You looked away from Matt when you saw him starting to turn his face to look back at you. Fed up with that familiar weirdness, you were already counting the minutes until you could leave, however quietly, and go back home eager to spend Christmas with a minimally pleasant family for a change.
Smell of cooking oil? Was that because your parents owned a fried chicken restaurant? What a load of crap. What would she say next, that you were a hick for not hanging out at the Ivy League dean's house that you struggled to get into? Or would she sit with Celia and laugh at the fact that you thought 'third world' was an archaic and racist term? And that thing with reform school? The hell would she send Lee to a reform school to begin with? Poor girl was struggling to get herself with two feet on the ground and a head on her neck since you knew her, how could she–
“You have a lot of guts to enter this house with all that pot.”
First you looked at him, a little startled and taken by surprise; then you turned your head to where he was with Sean, and saw that there was no one there anymore, which wasn't very reassuring. Matt had both hands in his pockets, looking at you with a friendly little smile and his head tilted to the side.
You were done enough to throw some caution to the wind.
“It wasn't for me.”
“It certainly wasn't meant for Genevieve either, but here we are,” He rolled his shoulders. “You should be more cautious.”
“I’m not a drug dealer.”
“So you're being a fool. You'd make a fortune just in that family.”
You made a face at 'that family,' as if he wasn't part of it. Then you shrugged, crossed your arms, and looked away at the scenery around you.
A silence settled between you two for a moment.
“Here.”
As if by magic, he pulled one hand from his pockets, revealing a single, carefully rolled cigarette that you recognized. What the–
“I stole it. You know, while you were controlling Alicia from having a tantrum because of the guy she's sleeping with.”
But wasn't there a single normal person in that fucking family? Nobody who, I don't know, sold Bibles or was an accountant, whatever? Everyone there was sneaky, provocative, annoying… a thief? And why did it seem to fit them so well? Fit him so well? A mysterious, charming man, with nothing but a name and a childhood memory for you to recall to — someone you didn’t know, handing you that joint as if it was nothing.
Was that a test?
“... Are you a cop?”
He snorted, then retrieved the joint you didn’t grab and tucked it between his lips.
“No, I’m not,” He said. “Light?”
You looked both ways to make sure, hearing him giggle as he did so, then took your lighter out of your bag and were about to hand it to you when you saw him abruptly lean closer so you could light it.
He was even more intimidating up close. He smelled good, with dark irises that gleamed as you illuminated his face with the fire. You watched the silk burn, then looked up at him and found him gazing at you with a certain appreciation. As he leaned back, you were again losing that war.
“Damn, that's expensive,” A small puff of air made that familiar smell flow in the air. He had the joint between his fingers after that first drag, staring at it for a beat before passing it over.
You were already there, right?
Your fingers brushed as you took hold of the thing.
With a gentle, slow drag, you let the smoke in and out with your eyes closed. Yeah, you could understand Lee's desperation. You weren't getting half the heat she was and you were already losing it—you were out of practice with the situation.
“So, what's your deal? Are you just friends with Alicia or…?” He asked as you handed it back.
“I’m her friend,” You said. “What would that or stand for?”
“Side chick. They seem to have been collecting some. Maybe Paul?”
Again, you could actually feel offended, but you doubted anyone gave a fuck to explain who you were to him in the first place, let alone your relation to the family. You didn’t know shit about him, and your impressions weren’t the best ones.
You could see where it was coming from — as far as you’re concerned, he only saw him whispering in your ear and disappearing inside the house with you by his side.
“Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't stand a chance.”
“Because you have boobs?”
Humph! What a prick.
He puffed more smoke in the air as he said so, nonchalantly throwing a shade to someone who wasn’t even there. Given that, you were sure he would do it in front of the guy if necessary.
“It depends on the point of view.”
“Seems like your safe answer.”
“This is how I survive in this environment. You guys aren't particularly easy.”
Matt passed the joint back and didn’t say a thing for a moment, as you smoked some. You glanced at him and, with the cigarette held between your fingers, looked towards the house. The lights were on, the atmosphere buzzing with that automatic post-party peace, and you noticed someone watching you both through the upstairs window.
Sean.
“Did he make a pass on you?” You slid your eyes from the window to him as he asked. Fuck, he had eyes everywhere? “Lemme guess: you were 19? 20? Some lame childhood story to feel innocent enough…”
“What’s your deal?”
“I've just never seen you around here before.”
“Excuse my honesty, Mr. Graver, but it's not like you're around often enough.”
He smiled openly, then placed his hands inside his pockets again as if rejecting the joint for once and all.
“That's right. I'm just thinking out loud, wondering if I've seen you somewhere before,” He indulged. “I doubt that's the case, anyway. I would remember if I'd seen you before.”
You snorted innocently at that, then offered the joint again. When he just shook his head, you used the bench you were sitting on to cool the tip.
“I got the impression that you have a habit of hiding the mistresses of the family and thought you had forgotten about one.”
“I don’t but I could certainly make a profit out of this, right?” He paused. “You're really good at this business stuff, huh?”
You shouldn't laugh at that—you shouldn't even have been so insolent as to insinuate such a thing, to use such a tone. But where Sean and the others exuded authoritarianism, Matt seemed so… carefree. Despite the typical family antics, that is, he had a more down-to-earth approach than his brother's extravagant money.
“Seriously, I know his tricks. He usually catches the eye of a lot of young women out there,” You hummed at that. “It's clear that you weren't very impressed.”
“I studied business at an expensive place. Most of the people there were, what, heirs who needed a degree to make their resumes look good before inheriting the family business, or startup people. I was raised to have my feet firmly on the ground.”
“Without ambition, then.”
“Without a lot of ambition. You heard Celia, I can treat myself to expensive boots once in a while.”
“This just shows that you have good taste, perhaps. And a nice pair of legs.”
You opened and closed your mouth at the assertion. Was he… Were you…?
You scoffed a small, shy laugh, then shook your head as you averted your gaze to the trees one more time. When you turned back at him, he was chill as he could be — it was like he could take a no if you gave it to him.
That made you slip out of your conscience for only a moment.
You two stared at each other, the cold breeze giving enough signs of you needing to go and the buzz of the weed starting to hit properly. The small smile plastered on his face, alongside his easy going stance, made you prevent the urge to bite your lip in consideration and give him the wrong impression, if you were to give him one.
“I’m not a mistress, Mr. Graver.”
He frowned playfully at that. “And I’m not Mr. Graver.”
You sucked your teeth — you wouldn’t engage on that too. With a sigh, you got up, joint still laying on that bench, and you adjusted the skirt of your dress as he openly watched you with hooded eyes.
“I'm going now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Graver.”
“You too. Miss.”
But he didn’t offer a hand for you to shake. The same way it was tucked in his pocket it stayed, so you just nodded and passed by him on the way out of the backyard.
You didn't dare look back, much less entertain that idea. True to your initial instincts, you left secretly and stealthily, and returned home before another Graver decided to get cheeky with you.
When you got home—when you stayed up until 3 or 4 in the morning, half-asleep and half-awake on the couch—you would remember that maybe Lee was right. Maybe, in her anxiety and resentment, you should have been warned about what was coming.
warnings: rating is m- a little spicy but nothing explicit - but it's obvious what's going on; mostly just heavy making out that leads to other things~; brief nudity; allusions to oral; afab reader; she/her pronouns used; no use of y/n
word count: 1.6k
summary: matt takes you to meet his family for dinner over the holidays, and the two of you are quick to go home for dessert
a/n: baby's first sicario fic~ i remember seeing this movie years ago during my jon era and now here i am in my josh era writing this fic! if you take the time to read this i hope you enjoy it!
You can’t take him anywhere. You really can’t. Because if anyone is going to cause some trouble, it’s going to be Matt Graver. It’s not your fault that he’s so charming. That’s why you have a ring on your finger. That’s why for the last 15 minutes he’s been making eyes at you from across the table.
You’re trying to be on your best behavior. It’s your first time going home to meet his family for the holidays. The nature of his job has often kept him busy, and finally there’s a chance to spend time with them.
You’ve been anxious about the whole thing. What if they don’t like you or what if you make a bad impression or any number of things. Yet, you’re surprised pleasantly how happy everyone is that their boy is home, and that he’s brought his fiancée home. It feels like a movie, and it warms you that you’re so welcomed by them.
Matt’s young nieces clung to you right away, and you’re currently sitting between the two of them at the meal. They’re chattering away, while their uncle’s gaze is fixed on you. It’s not fair how good he looks, shoving a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. He smirks around the bite and makes a bit of a show sliding the fork from his lips. You roll your eyes at him, but he sees the smile you’re trying to hide.
There’s something you love about watching him move around the space comfortably. Mingling with his family that you’re coming to know. Watching him tease his nieces, kiss his mother, and talk shop with his brother-in-law.
His job is dangerous, and his family is a well-kept secret. There’s an extra tug at your heartstrings to see how much they love him.
And here you are a part of it too.
When you get up to take your plate to the sink, Matt is close behind. You’re rinsing the plate under the faucet when you feel his front against your back, and his breath hot on the back of your neck.
“Wanna tell me what you’ve been thinking about?” Matt whispers in your ear.
“Not here,” you whisper turning around to face him. There’s a shy smile on your lips, and you know there’s no sense in hiding from him.
He sees all.
The rest of the night, he’s more and more deliberate in his teasing.
He always puts his hand on your lower back, but he presses a little harder than normal. Making you all too aware of his presence.
When it’s time to play some games, he sits himself next to you on the couch. Warmth radiates off him, along with his faint cologne. His thick thigh presses to yours.
He’s no stranger to PDA, but that doesn’t always mean you are. He only pushes the boundaries a little – only to make you smile. You’re endeared that he’s proud to show you off in front of his family and you love his boyish flirting.
“How about now?” he asks when you’re climbing into his car and he’s turning the key.
“We can’t in here…” your heart flutters, and a thrill makes your stomach jump. You know that what you have in mind is something he will love.
“No?” he juts out his chin a little in pretend thought. You can faintly see his jaw tick while he smacks his gum.
The drive home isn’t long, but it’s long enough that you’re getting a little restless from anticipation. You make light chitchat about the events of the night. The games and funny stories and favorites from the meal.
Despite the light conversation, the sexual tension in the car is thick.
Matt’s hand tightening on the wheel and his husky voice have your insides churning.
He’s in a good mood too, which makes you smile to yourself. He knows he’s about to get some.
Smug bastard.
Once home he all but yanks you inside the front door. The moment it closes behind you, he pins you up against it.
“Tell me,” He whispers on your lips. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I want- “
“Attagirl come on,” his hands are digging into your hips. His fingertips slip under your jacket and sweater to dig further into your skin. Wriggling in his grasp is futile, his iron grip has you right where he wants you.
If this were a cartoon, you’d have hearts swirling around your head – because there’s nowhere you’d rather be either.
“Matt,” you sigh out his name. He’s teasing you, and you love and hate him for it. His knee slots between your legs, and your body jolts.
“Tell me.” His knee presses harder at your core. Your knees are buckling.
“Your mouth,” you manage to mewl out. You grab his head weaving your fingers into his thick hair.
All of your senses are on fire. It’s all too much and not enough. You grab at his shirt and fist it in your grasp, tugging at him.
“Gonna need specifics,” the tip of his tongue licks at your bottom lip. Your head is spinning, you’ve wanted him all night. Having him all at once is dizzying.
He closes the gap between your lips, and his mouth is on yours. His tongue (and his gum) slide into your mouth. “Hold onto that for me,” he purrs against your lips.
Then his blazing trail of kisses begins.
Your jawline is first. The scrape of his stubble on your cold skin burns in the best way. His body is pressing harder into yours, and you’re pulling harder on his shirt.
That little spot under your ear is next. You writhe from how it tickles and he chuckles playfully. You’re his favorite toy and he’s been waiting all night to play.
The shell of your ear is after that. He’s slow, lips tracing along sensitive skin. You’re a writhing frantic mess, and his control drives you wild. He knows all the buttons to push.
There might have been a time when you wondered if he was as affected by this as you are. But you can feel him against your thigh, and his breathing is picking up. And his attention is fully on you, if he wasn’t into this – then he wouldn’t be so zeroed in.
He stops kissing to whisper a “here?” in your ear asking if that’s where you want him. You’re starting to fold, and he’s still got you trapped against the front door.
Your neck is his next destination, and now he’s pulling your jacket off to better get at your skin. His nose skims the line of the V neck sweater you’re wearing. While he mouths at your exposed skin, his hands are tugging on the hem of the sweater to take it off you.
You hiss at the shock of cold, or maybe it’s him manhandling you.
With your sweater in his hand, he reaches up to cradle your head in his other hand. His big thumb rubs your warming cheeks. You’re trembling, part from the cool air by the front door, but mostly from him.
He kisses you again, and you see his eyes noticing your goosebumps.
He jerks his head in the direction of your shared bedroom, and he grabs your hand to lead the way.
“Now where was I?” he asks once in the bedroom. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Here?” he muses aloud while his mouth presses kisses to your sternum. His fingers trace along the edges of your bra and you’re trembling again.
“This is a likely spot,” he says nosing at your bra. “You like me here. Always make these cute little noises.”
You’re certain that he can feel your heartbeat picking up, and you imagine his is too. And as much as you want him here, that’s not what you had in mind. He’d stay there all night if you let him, and normally you might.
But you need him, and you don’t feel like waiting anymore.
“No,” you bite your lip playfully when he looks up at you.
“No?” he kneads at you over your bra, and a moan threatens to escape your lips.
His smile is downright devilish.
“I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know you do,” he grins dropping to his knees. He starts to nudge you back onto the bed while he tugs at your jeans.
“Matt wait,” you put your hand on his chest. It delights you to feel his heartbeat IS fast under your touch. “You lay down.”
He raises his eyebrows and starts to unzip your jeans.
“You mean to tell me that my sweet little fiancée was thinking about sitting on my face at a holiday dinner?”
“Just lay down before I change my mind,” you roll your eyes at him, fighting off the heat rising in your cheeks. You love the banter you have with him. There’s no denying it, and he knows it. You’re both so crazy about each other.
“Yes ma’am,” he bites at your lip.
Maybe this was a mistake, because when he happily flops on the bed – he’s propped himself up against the headboard. His hands behind his head, his shirt open. He’s waiting for you to finish getting undressed.
No matter how much you love him, you still get a little shy in moments. He makes you feel safe, and sexy. But when his eyes are on you like that? It sends a thrill down to your toes and makes you a little stupid.
He’s smiling at you, and you decide that his grin is worth it.
Doesn’t stop you from playfully throwing your jeans at him though.
Like two giddy teens, you scamper over to him and he’s ready to grab you and guide you.
With practiced trust, he helps you maneuver so you’re comfortable. You think he says something about dessert, but you don’t hear him over the arousal pumping through your body.
You’re a little shaky lowering down, and his hands are gently holding you.
You know when you look a character in the eyes and you're sure that he wouldn't be able to maintain a stable relationship even if his life depended on it?
I'll bet you a dime that "divorced" was the first line of character description in the Sicario script they gave Josh Brolin.
Word count: 927
Warnings: 18+ content, barely there fluffly. Female reader.
****
- It was hard because before you got married, you two knew how to be friends. Given the life Matt led, he would never admit it, but he missed the part where you filled that role;
- I think a divorced!Matt would be a needy Matt, and maybe a bit of a cynical Matt (which, let's be honest, would be a trait in the third line of the character description, because the second one would be 'probably had an STD at some point of his life');
- He hadn't heard you complain in the last few months of your marriage and would be the type to be relieved about it until he was greeted with divorce papers as soon as he got back from a mission;
- He wouldn't find you drunk, or whining, much less starting a fight, and that was one of the flaws he noticed in you: your unwillingness to confront. That's when he realized you were too quiet for him;
- When he told you so, you simply raised your eyebrows and asked if any of the whores he cheated on you with could give him some adrenaline, that he should find that in them;
- Not good as spouses, but relatively smooth as friends;
- Even after the divorce, he would sometimes show up;
- Ex-husband!Matt would ask if he could watch the game on your TV (and make a face when he noticed you didn’t stop recording the main ones so he could see them when he returned);
- Ex-husband!Matt would still give your neighbour a hard time, or a look, or a tease, or a warning gaze with a cold smile;
- “He's dying to fuck you,” he would say when you complained about it, to which would make you roll your eyes;
- “And since when is that any of your business?”;
- Still, he stuck around, and you never actually told him to leave;
- On quieter nights, he would lie on your lap on the sofa, and the two of you would watch British Bake Off;
- Ex-husband!Matt who would always hide a smile when you murmured a ‘oh, so that’s how you do that dough’;
- Oh, right. Ex-husband!Matt who would definitely hit on you and receive a slap or a push or a ‘fuck off’;
- Ex-husband!Matt eventually succeeding on a chance to get inside your pants, actually, while you two got drunk after a hard day of yours;
- King of messy, sloppy sex;
- Fan of making a mess out of the whole thing because he didn’t know how to do otherwise;
- Huge fan of reacting to your glares the next morning with teasing grins, hooded eyes and a stolen kiss on his way out;
- He was always a master at deciphering you, and in one of those moments he knew that you were forcing yourself to get to know someone else;
- Always waiting for the pin to drop, for you to slam the door on his face, to say you moved on, but never hearing it from you;
- Well, he wouldn’t be one to deny. No problem in being the other guy;
- After a few months, he was ready to park in front of your house when he saw another car, followed by the shadow of an unknown man at your window;
- He assumed, so he went back to his without a blink and concluded that you made the decision for both of you;
- He didn’t have anyone, nor did he do any of the things he used to do with you when he was hanging around your living room;
- When you called later, Matt almost thought about not answering but it was stronger than him;
- At the first ‘hey’, he knew he died for a chance to hear your voice again, from your complaints to your snarky remarks about anything;
- He closed his eyes at your admission, somewhat hurt by your somber tone;
- “He’s a nice guy”;
- Matt would ask if you were really trying to make that work and you would say that maybe, followed by a you can say what you mean;
- He thought about saying what he shouldn’t, but landed on a fair and safe ground, doing as much as offering a quiet question of how serious that was;
- You would sigh, then say it was just a casual thing, that you were honestly trying to not fall back into the idea that Matt was the only one still stuck inside your head;
- “Then don’t try it. You know I’m here”;
- “That’s the thing, Matt, I don’t. I never did. And I can’t keep on this as if my life shouldn’t have keep going after you left”;
- It didn't last long;
- You wouldn't cry in his arms or hold any grudges, but you would call and ask if he'd like a drink;
- You would show up in an amazing dress with a low neckline, and he wouldn't be able to resist looking, or touching when you let him;
- It would be more intense, rough sex, and he would bite your neck like a teenager and you would scratch his back;
- Then he would tire you out and get tired himself. He would lie in bed and wait for you to send him away, but then you pulled the covers over both of you and told him to shut up before his victorious little smile turned into a taunt;
- Ex-husband!Matt that wouldn't try to fix that relationship again, because he knew he couldn't, but he would let it become routine, and from routine, a small habit;
That's that third part that I promised you all. Safe to remind that, at this point, it is somewhat essential for you to read part 1 and part 2 for a better understanding of this piece.
Summary: It was the time and place for jumping to the next level.
Word count: 7.843
Warnings: Bad language, discussions of manipulation and abuse of authority, alcohol consumption, unprotected sex, oral sex, sexism, probably the worst way to write about bureaucratic procedures, mentions of drug abuse, hints of SA and some kind of toxic behaviour. +18 work.
THIS PIECE HAS SENSITIVE TOPICS THAT CAN TRIGGER PART OF THE AUDIENCE. I, AS THE AUTHOR, DO NOT RECOMMEND READING THIS STORY TO PEOPLE WHO ARE SENSITIVE TO MENTIONS OF SA, AND I DO NOT USE THIS STORY AS A SPRINGBOARD OR INCENTIVE FOR CRIMINAL PRACTICES.
Author’s Note: I'm having a bit of imposter syndrome with this part, but trust me, I spent about two months thinking about how I would continue it, and I think I might find this to be a good piece of work. Again, I strongly ask that you refrain from interacting with the material if any issues, even briefly mentioned, are sensitive to you. It's not my intention to cause any discomfort.
With this in mind, I like to always remember that this is a work of FICTION, with no relation to reality (except for being based on a story created for the cinema), and the characters in Sicario are not my own.
Oh, Maria, so everything is dark and bad here? No. But I can say that this isn't exactly the lightest chapter in the story.
I want to quickly take this opportunity to thank @queennymeria, @tia-greyblueviolet and @doughmonkey for keeping up with these stories from the Sicario fandom and hyping me up to write them. I hope, along everyone else, that you like it too!
****
Matt thought you were a junkie. You know, one of those reckless, carnage-craving soldiers — the type who died young.
Despite your arrogant inclinations, you had your head exactly where it belonged, and perhaps that had irritated him more at first, because it meant Dallas wasn't just putting you there to fill some space. Maybe it was arrogance on his part too, an inflated ego: who were you to talk to him like that?
You made quite the first impression. He didn't know it at the time, but seeing you emerge from the forest covered in blood, dragging a robust, lifeless body by the legs, would have been more than enough to intrigue him. Again the question arose: who were you to talk to him like that, complaining about losing one of your canine teeth in a hand-to-hand fight and cursing him out for not sending reinforcements like you'd said? Not suggested, nor asked — said, like a demand.
“Where did you find this woman?”
And Dallas had laughed at him at the time, mentioned Julian, but he seemed so taken aback by your stance that the info only made sense to him years later, when he sat by one side of an helicopter as he watched you and Baker exchange debriefings about the op. Below you all, the scene, which usually left you unfazed, but that time it was all you could look at, eyes lost as Julian kept talking.
Before they landed, his blood still hot and his ears ringing, Matt saw Julian place a hand on your forearm as he spoke. You clenched your fists almost immediately, turned your face abruptly to follow the movement, and then relaxed, shoulders slumped, discreetly pulling your arm away from the touch.
Your gaze crossed his as you turned to stare back at the landscape.
Matt could be sure that wasn’t the person he knew.
It was something Julian had said; a remark he'd been making since he arrived. Maybe you hadn't noticed or just didn't care, but Matt had noticed the way he interacted with you, just as he watched the two of you exchange a few words. He knew him (whether to the same extent as you or not) and knew he'd eventually say something about it — that they were both hovering over you.
“Is she still on the pill?”
Everyone had already left; as usual, both Matt and Julian had remained in the conference room with a couple of glasses of whiskey (which Graver didn't necessarily like), and he was nursing that drink with a bland expression.
“… Pill?” He asked as Julian freezed a teasing grin on his face.
“So you don't know.”
“Afraid not.”
“Well,” Baker adjusted himself on his seat. “Back then she used to have some trouble with substances. News to me you didn’t come across this, Dallas gave me quite an overview about you two.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best to hear it from you, since you know her so well.”
And honestly, Matt wasn't falling for Julian's, or anyone else's, bullshit, but perhaps this was the final proof of how much he had shaped you—enough to be expert at irritating him. Matt considered saying it would take one to recognize one, that his tone was steeped in arrogance for someone with such a chaotic past, but from the flow of the conversation itself, Julian wanted to gain another advantage over him, and deep down, Graver might have liked to know everything less intensely when someone felt threatened by him. It could give such a good taste.
He scoffed, took a long, smooth gulp on his bourbon.
“Muscle relaxants were her thing. Nothing that showed up that well on urine tests, strategic to blend in with everyone else's habits… Smart, I'd say. She didn't seem to be into that now, which is good.”
“You don't sound so excited about this.”
“And you're not very worried.”
Matt smiled, then crackled a laugh. Right. That was where they were going.
But he wanted to press.
“You can ask, you know,” He indulged. Julian feigned ignorance.
“Ask what?”
“We’re fucking.”
Something flashed through Baker's eyes at that: anger, perhaps, or just intrigue. He probably thought it was as surprising to him as it was to Matt to understand your involvement with the other, but where Matt displayed almost genuine curiosity, Julian seemed provoked or insulted. Look, they were both good work partners, but there was a reason each of them was where they were, and professional companionship only got them so far in their life prospects.
In this aspect, Matt clearly didn't approve of him. From the look they shared, he was certain Julian shared the same sentiment.
“… Tell me your secret,” He offered, making Matt snort in amusement.
“You should do so, you’re there first.”
“Yeah, but it was easier for me. She didn't bite as much.”
“You always liked the quiet ones.”
“So you can already imagine my disappointment.”
“Because she talks?”
“No,” He sighed. “Because I imagine she's gotten stiff enough that her knees won't buckle to shut her up.”
Your name.
Your date of birth.
Your credentials.
Your father’s name: deceased.
Your mother’s name: deceased.
Current residence: Chicago, Illinois.
Op experience.
Countries of operation.
Medical history.
You had measles as a child. No vaccinations until you were 10. A clinical picture of kidney failure at 14 due to excessive medication use. No psychiatric condition, but psychological support. During your Army medical evaluations, you underwent a series of standard exams. By the time you enlisted, your health had improved significantly, and, very dutifully, there were no issues related to misbehavior beyond work-related injuries.
Matt made a face — it wasn’t what he was looking for.
Between the ages of 22 and 24, with all the medical evaluations finding traces of cyclobenzaprine* in your system. Muscle relaxants. Traces of alcohol and-
Wait.
It was like a sixth sense; an automatic conclusion from years of experience and a handful of private knowledge regarding Julian Baker. For the first time in years (many years), Matt felt a sickening, almost terrifying feeling in his stomach, and he wondered deeply, before any concrete conclusions, that this was happening to anything about you. He turned away from the computer screen, removed his glasses, and closed his eyes for a moment, isolated in a dark room, inconsequential to the person sleeping in the bed a few feet away. He unconsciously went to your last memory, as if seeking a clue—as if you would give him one.
The night at the bar. The dim lighting, your sudden absence from the table you hadn't even moved before, your eyes lost in the slightest drink. He'd never admit it to anyone, maybe not even you, but you were so attractive and beautiful; pleasant, relaxed. And you were, despite everything, collected, diligent, organized… You weren't an alcoholic, clearly, nor an addict, as Julian led him to believe (no, suspect).
Your file contained a younger version of you, one Matt would never have been interested in, regardless of age or appearance. He stared at that almost innocent yet lifeless face, trying to understand what was so powerless about you that would make you give in and allow Julian to talk about you that way.
He thought about the muscle relaxant again, then did the math in his head like pages of a book being turned little by little to reveal a secret: he leaned abruptly into the computer and clicked eagerly to reach your deployment regions and connect them with the evaluation dates. If he was right-
Haiti, 94. Baker had drunk too much, and at the time he was still a user. Amphetamines. MDMA, speed — whatever was available. And no one really talked about it, especially since Julian was a crazy dog back then, and these things happened more often than not, so it was a matter of containment rather than a thing. With a promotion on the doorstep, he confessed (again, he was drunk) that he had found some good substitutes, that he met a guy who talked about mixing two fingers of good whiskey with three generous tablets of muscle relaxant to get 'a buzz'. It was reported in the evaluations as routine use of medication for physical treatment.
Matt remembered Julian's face exactly as he spoke those words; the look of evil, the glint of near madness that hovered over his face. Then he replayed that conversation in his own head, with the justification that sounded so similar to yours that it could only be a photocopy of experiences.
He did one last thing. He went into two or three confidential files, knowing he might get a lot of questions about the search, but he simply couldn't help it.
And he wasn't witty, nor was he a blind optimist, but for a moment Matt almost wanted to believe that this was all just pointless paranoia, and that he could work on accepting the fact that he was caring a little more about what your life had been like.
Then he reached a common ground — and that would leave no doubts.
South Sudan.
Dallas knew the difference between intuition and instinct well, and that distinction was quite clear when he paid attention to you.
You were instinctive: you thought and reacted impulsively, but always with purpose, exceptionally capable of the social tact to push someone to their limit. You were careful, you had the technique as well as the gift—instinct, after all. The perks of a hard life. He considered himself more intuitive. Well, he could be more pragmatic, but he liked to know what people were feeling or thinking, because he was a person who felt and thought a lot, so many of the decisions he made, even if with a realistic bias, also came from values like trust and 'good vibes.'
When Julian made the proposal, he laughed, then said he had to be crazy. Baker insisted. It would be a fair percentage, to help the business take off; he would provide the contacts, Dallas the team. And it was, intuitively, a somewhat opportune moment for the offer: you had just returned from the last op, and the results had been good. He had a window of opportunity to show that the work was going well, and that the test Dallas had imposed in that first conversation seemed to be consistent.
Dallas said he'd make a few more, if he didn't mind; the company was an important part of his life, and he wasn't crazy enough to trust a guy with Julian's reputation so much.
That was two weeks after you returned. A month after the trip, he was with you in one of Chicago's downtown parks in the early morning hours, chatting. You looked better than when you'd arrived, more alive. He would have considered that normal, but judging by the relaxed way you appeared, Dallas had the impression that reliving the experience with Julian had drained you more. He wasn't stupid: he knew Baker was too blunt. And if he'd thrown Graver into the mix, you'd probably been on edge for longer than you should’ve been, your mother's death included.
So he took a more subtle approach.
“I was thinking about Jamaica.”
“Not Venezuela?” You asked, a small frown on your face.
“Very bureaucratic. And very CIA. As far as I know, not even Matt is involved.”
“Huh.”
You two stopped by the bridge, the water below you two quite calm. It was a hot summer day, one that constantly made you shield your eyes from the Sun even with sunglasses on. You leaned over the red grid and stood against the rays, and he stood in front, the heat and the light straight on his face.
That was probably why it was so hard to see quite clearly what your reaction would be.
“Julian has a solid team to go there. It could be a good idea.”
“For whom?”
He couldn't tell if you were being purposefully harsh or genuinely speculative, but knowing you, it was probably a bit of both. You were giving him an out, whether because you thought it was bold of him to suggest such a thing or simply because you wanted to know more. He was in Chicago, for God's sake, and he wanted a private chat with you — it was only fair.
“I thought you two worked well together.”
You sighed, then smiled tightly at his answer. “… The contingency was clearly more familiar and solid. I'm reluctant to be the only one on your team with him.”
“That wouldn't be the case.”
“Oh? What’s that supposed to mean? Am I getting, like, Chase or-”
Realization hit you as you spoke, and before he could respond, you stopped. Your brow furrowed, your lips pursed, and all Dallas could do was wait, because saying anything would certainly shut you down. He was curious, watching your reaction and processing time. It was clear you understood what needed to be understood.
That seemed to be a problem.
You got another smile — a grin, full of some level of disapproval.
“I think I'm asking the wrong questions.”
“None of it,” It was his turn to smile. “I’m still considering the details of the deal.”
“Deal? You’re, what, selling him part of the company?”
That sounded like the right question to you, from the way your tone became borderline harsh and incredulous. Yeah, well, good. It was expected. You were never one to accept changes like that.
“How much?”
“40%.”
“Fuck,” You took off your sunglasses, eyes closed as you pinched your nose.
“I’ll technically still be the majority partner. That 10% from Garrett doesn't count.”
“It's just a little weird, you know, that you give such a small slice to your own brother and such a large one to him. But I'm sure you have a good reason. One you’re gonna give me now?”
“Experience,” He shrugged.
“Dallas-”
“Garrett is as stupid as a rock can be.”
“It’s still 40%.”
“Do you think that's a lot?”
“Well, yes. I would understand this conversation if we were talking about, what, 15 or 20?”
“That was the initial offer, but he has more resources, honey. And those resources come at a high price, worth the percentage. I wouldn't have another opportunity and would probably lose important contracts if he offered them to others or took them on alone.”
“You know where his money comes from.”
“I do.”
“Right then.”
But it didn't seem quite right, really, because you simply didn't show it. As if out of character, you were impassive, holding back a feeling you would have otherwise made immediately explicit. Dallas found it strange, but he didn't want to consider that it was simply because you didn't like Julian; if that were the case, the reasons were flimsy, or few, and you weren't like that.
“… You told me everything went well in the last op,” He argued again.
“I'm not saying it wasn't. This has nothing to do with my personal opinion; I just want you to test your options. You've been in this business for years, Dallas; it doesn't seem right to me that you're limiting yourself to an opportunity with someone like Julian.”
“You know if that's your excuse, I'm going to be inclined to think you're the difficult person here, right?”
That made you react — you flinched at his audacity. He didn’t think it was, tho. From all the times he used blunt honesty to open up about how he read your behaviour towards people you didn’t like, and as far as it was disconcerting and nonsensical, he was starting to think it had more to do with your personal perceptions of the whole thing. He knew you and Matt had an affair on the side; Julian had made it clear that you two had been involved in the past. As far as he was sure that you were one of his best assets and important professionals, he knew what could be best for the company financially. The fact that that was your actual approach made him feel disappointed — it was your crap decisions winning over something important.
You considered him for a long moment, then raised your eyebrows and put your sunglasses back on.
“That’s fair, I’m being difficult.”
“Listen-”
“No, no, it’s okay. You’re sharing what you feel like you want to and I accept it. After all, you’re the boss. If I’m not mistaken, you came here to get insights of Julian considering him as a professional.”
“Well… yes.”
“So I assure you, he's better than anyone I've met in the business. He's strong, competent, just the right amount of cool, and thoughtful. Good leadership.”
“But?”
“No 'buts'. He is.”
You then shifted from foot to foot.
“So since we're having this conversation, I think you could do me a favor.”
You weren't a fan of climates like Washington. Rain, humidity, people… it wasn't really your thing, but Chicago didn't seem to be either, and you always adapted relatively well to it all. You barely wore coats; you barely had any. With so much time spent traveling from one place to another, often in incredibly hot or just cool places, with not much time at home, you were limited to a few pieces that, on your body, felt uncomfortable in and of themselves.
The Uber driver who took you from the airport to the building was considerably kind and knew how to drive well in the rain. He had a Commanders keychain on his rearview mirror and was of a certain age, maybe early 60s, and didn't say much despite helping you with your bags and wishing you a pleasant stay.
The apartment, unlike your house, was still very bare, and would remain so for a while. It was more of a studio, really, and the bedroom was on a mezzanine. Large windows, a small balcony, and no neighbors on your floor. The bathroom was more modern in structure, but the decor harked back to a 1970s feel with pastel blue walls. You'd have room for a closet, an extra bedroom downstairs. Fair enough.
After the almost rigorous inspection, you decided to go step by step: you took your things out of your suitcases, put them in their proper temporary places and watched, while deciding what to eat for dinner in a lazy investigation on your phone, the rain cease until it stopped so that the sun began to set. You'd eat fried rice with meat, then sleep for a night. You'd have long, unusual days, and you'd consider different negotiation proposals — maybe you'd make an itinerary to visit the city if you had time. You'd learn how to act like a normal person in a normal place.
But then a thought crossed your mind: one that stressed you out, that made you massage your neck and put a stubborn cigarette in your mouth, that you would hesitate to light every now and then, until you decided to go to the balcony and forget it between your fingers while you toyed with the possibility of making that inevitable call.
He couldn't answer, nor be in town. You were sure you wouldn't call again if that were the case.
You closed your eyes for a moment, rested your phone on your forehead, and shook your head. Okay, it had to be done. You didn't have many options.
And that certainly wasn’t the worst thing you ever had to go through.
He could consider a few possibilities, but having you on the other end of the line was bizarre. You didn't say much, and you certainly wouldn't give too many details: with a cracked calm, you asked if he was in town and if the two of you could meet up.
“Town? What town?”
“Washington.”
No snarky remarks, no provocation. You were serious. He frowned at that, looked between the person sitting beside him and the movie playing on the TV, until deciding to take it somewhere more private.
“What do you mean, Washington? What are you doing here?”
“Work stuff. I may need your assistance.”
“Very elaborate word for someone with such a poor vocabulary.”
“‘Elaborate’ already seems like a difficult word for you to say, so I guess we're even,” You bit back on stride, which at least meant you were in your full mental faculties. “Can you meet me tomorrow at 11 at the InterContinental? 801 Wharf-”
“I know where it is.”
“Then I'll pay for a drink.”
And before he could ask any more questions, you were no longer on the other end. Matt stared at the phone for a while, until he saw his companion looking at him speculatively from her spot on the couch.
Something in him told him he should say no, that he just shouldn't show up there, but when was the last time Matt had actually followed his instincts properly when it came to you?
He wondered why you'd choose that place over so many others, but perhaps there was a natural expectation of surprise in you that was underestimated, since, theoretically, you hadn't been to every possible place in Washington. It was a safe option, however, and perhaps a little too elegant for the two of you.
Despite offering to buy him a drink, when he arrived, Matt saw you nursing a tall glass of water with ice cubes and lemon slices. When approached by one of the waiters, he said he'd like a Diet Coke and that he'd be sitting at the same table as you, near the window where you seemed to be staring.
He approached calmly — you turned your head at the sight of him, eyes swiping his form with an indifferent glint.
“God, tell me you didn't come in flip-flops.”
Matt grinned. “I made an effort.”
“And it seems I should be very grateful for that,” You went from him to the waiter serving the soda, then a confused ‘thanks’ fell out of your mouth as Matt sat down in front of you. “If you were only going to drink that, I would’ve taken you to a bodega.”
“I feel like you're trying to impress me. Stop that.”
It was supposed to be a provocation, but the fact that you only scoffed and didn't respond made him frown for a moment. You, being silent? Now that was a broken expectation.
“What are you doing in Washington? Vacation?” He pressed after a sip of his soda.
“I wouldn't use my few days off to come here, of all places,” You arched an eyebrow. “It's just a bureaucratic issue. Nothing too serious.”
“It's kind of hard to believe that, considering I'm here.”
You stared at him for a while, sucked your teeth, and conceded, in a rare way, before letting out a long sigh that made your chest rise and fall abruptly.
“… I don't intend to take up much of your time.”
“Okay.”
“I just need you to do me a favor.”
“Yikes,” He took hold of his cup, ready to take another sip.
“I want you to give me a letter of recommendation.”
Matt stopped dead in his tracks, cup halfway to his mouth as he expected the pin to drop. You remained serious, unmoving — he was kinda hoping that it would be a joke, but as for you, it seemed to be a day full of small surprises.
“I beg your pardon?” He placed the soda back on the table, you acting like he didn’t have the right to fucking ask.
“Dallas got me a moment with Dave Jennings, but I need—”
“A moment with who?”
It was inconceivable; impossible, rather. The only reason you would have to speak to Jennings in person had to be…
No.
What?
No.
You looked away to the window again while his head formulated that intention with the minimum of rationality and criteria.
“That’s a joke, right?”
You didn’t answer. He called out your name, to which you also didn’t respond, and Matt had a moment to lean back on the chair with a shocked expression and a headshake.
“That’s bullshit.”
“It’s not,” You murmured.
“It is.”
“No, I-” You two shared a glare — you were so dying inside. “It's not certain that it will be like that.”
“Jennings wouldn't give you five minutes of his time unless there was some certainty,” He argued. “The fuck are you doing?”
“I'm breaking ties with Dallas.”
“What happened?”
“He made a business decision that could interfere with my professional integrity.”
“No fancy words, dear. Not with me.”
You were sighing again, defeated, and that was so off-putting that he almost looked around in search of cameras because of course it was a prank.
“… Julian bought 40% of the company.”
Professionals like you had a certain kind of autonomy that didn't limit your opportunities for growth, nor your chances of taking a concrete stance on what displeased you. Well, you were good at what you did, but you weren't the only one, and in certain contexts, you weren't even the most qualified. He knew when you recognized this, in the way you became quieter or changed the order of your provocations for some stupid detail just for the heck of it. Dallas gave you plenty of leeway, even, but because he knew you had a certain adaptability even when you weren't so useful.
Julian was the kind of guy who drained that out of you. With him, you were mechanical, uncreative, and uninterested.
But there, apparently, Julian was getting a big hand for you. Having him as your boss would mean more occasions like that last op, from the awkward touches to your complete subservience, and that didn't seem like the kind of thing you wanted for yourself. Not with him being the measure for that.
“After just one job together?”
That bothered you, to the point of your face almost retorting in discontent. You probably asked yourself the same thing.
“I don't know the details, I just know it happened. They probably had this interest all along and I didn't… realize it in time, maybe,” You said. “It was a sign for me not to stay there, who knows. To look at other horizons.”
“Do you think the CIA is that much better?”
“If I make a mistake with you guys, I'd spend months stuck in a desk and not—”
He then remembered the awkward touches, South Sudan, and the conversation with that bad whiskey. He remembered what he'd discovered, how uncomfortable it had made him, and how he'd thought Dallas must’ve known something, which was why he'd been more protective of you.
“Not what?” Matt pressed.
“… Julian can be ruthless. I've worked hard enough in my life to have some choice, and if I stayed with Dallas or any other company… Even if I stayed alone, he'd eventually run into me again, and he'd still have the upper hand.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Yes.”
“And it bothers you way too much,” He concluded, but again you decided not to say something about it. “… Or damages you.”
Matt didn't understand that telling you about what he discovered was actually important, or at least relevant. He wanted you to be aware so he could punch Julian in the face and you wouldn't think it was out of the blue; that you wouldn't stop him, or say it wasn't necessary, and would just let him be punished for some bullshit he did, for once in his life. It seemed a little clear, though, that whatever had happened had created a kind of bondage that you couldn't get out of except by distancing yourself, and you weren't the type to do that.
He felt jealous, then. Not because of the emotional manipulation, but just because… you had the strength to reject him while drunk, you were firm in your decision, and then you did what you thought was best, without giving in, always in charge, and Matt liked that. It was the cost of this behavior that made him jealous, the fact that Julian had to tear you apart and make you, what, fall in love with him or something so Matt couldn't appreciate the kind of woman you would be without that extra trauma.
So he didn't say a thing about it, because he knew that if he did, he would have to open up a loophole to explain that he was probably harboring a different kind of compassion for you—one that made him hate that Julian had ever touched you, used you.
“Letter of recommendation, huh?” He arched an eyebrow, taking away that bothered frown from your face. “When was this moment scheduled for?”
“In two days.”
“It won't be necessary then.”
“… No?”
“Think I have a say in the HR department.”
You prevented yourself from smiling, even if a little, and nodded along without further questions — which you should ask, but he wouldn’t be the one to tell you so.
“Thank you.”
He saw the way your gaze dropped from serious to… kinda calm, and he could settle for that. He would certainly tease you about it in the future, but in that moment he could savor what it really was like, and realize that perhaps this was a glimpse of what you were like without the shackles of a cruel past or the defensiveness he put you in.
“Don't thank me yet.”
“And you don't see a problem with being under Graver's exclusive supervision?”
It was a fair question, laced with a bit of malice but also genuine curiosity. You didn't know what Matt had actually said about you, even though nothing from that conversation with Jennings had revealed any kind of negative information about you, and maybe it was just an obvious gauge of your relationship.
“… I think so.”
The conversation at the restaurant had been nothing more than that: a conversation. Once the Julian issue was over, Matt was keen to give you guidance and suggestions on how things worked, even though he was fully aware that you didn't need much to be included. He said so himself, which sounded funny, and then strange, because you shouldn't have thought he was funny. By the time he finished his soda, Matt had said he wouldn't contact you whether it worked out or not, because he had other things to do and it wasn't his problem. He didn't say you owed him one: you both knew you did. You certainly wouldn’t think it was different just because you were asking.
The mention of him at the meeting with Jennings made you think a bit, and that feeling that had been haunting you in the days since the incident stirred again. His reaction to your issue with Julian surprised you. Well, you were expecting a provocation, a lame joke about how the two of you hadn't quite worked things out in bed, and if you were truly crazy, you could have sworn he seemed bothered with the mention.
“Erm… Can I ask you something?” With both feet out of the office, like an impulse spilling out of your mouth.
“Shoot it,” Jennings offered back.
“What did Matt say about me?”
He smiled a little, then leaned back in his chair just like Matt did and crossed his arms.
“That you’re stubborn and obstinate to the point of exhaustion,” He said. “But it's one of the longest-lasting partnerships he's had in years. You’re solid. Qualified.”
“Ah,” You smiled back.
“It would be crazy of me not to consider you for the position. Matt has a serious behavioral problem that few can handle. He likes you for that.”
And that shouldn't have made you feel a little tingle of excitement or a little bit of hidden pride, but that's exactly how you felt when you left the building that day.
“Jennings told me you’re in.”
You were in the bathroom when he called, your legs up in the tub. The call was a little sudden, and maybe even late, when you weren't expecting him to call. Judging by the background noise, he was most likely out of town, and the fact that he took a few moments out of a clearly busy routine to talk to you was a bit unexpected.
“I would say I used the right tricks.”
“Huh. I see that thank you is already gone.”
You smiled. “And I know you won't stop there. Besides, you're going to hold this against me for the rest of my life. You'd certainly make me, what, clean your toilet for two months or walk your dog for six.”
“That would be very simple. Besides, I don't have a dog.”
“You should.”
“An exchange of advice doesn't count.”
“I tried.”
He huffed on the other end, then probably squirmed in a squeaky seat.
“Where are you?”
“Yikes… you’re going for small talk.”
“I’m very good at that.”
“Fuck off,” He snorted.
“I can hang up then. You’re interrupting my bath anyway.”
“Shit, now I'm interested. Are you going to tell me if your nipples are getting goosebumps from my voice?”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Now, now, where are all those things about being good at small talk?”
“What, you expect me to get wet because you did me a favor?”
“It wouldn’t be that bad.”
“We're on solid ground now. I'd hate to find out what you have or do in your life.”
“Trying to ask if I have a girlfriend?”
“Someone your age shouldn’t have a girlfriend, but a wife.”
“Ageism is really your strong point… But I do have someone.”
You'd never talked about it before because, seriously, fuck it. It wasn't important. But it felt like he was trying to test you, because you couldn't let your guard down when it came to Matt, and you considered his answer in contemplative silence before responding.
“… I don't do threesomes.”
“Even if that was the favor I asked of you?”
“We’re getting way off-topic here.”
“Hey, you’re the one talking about taking a bath.”
Why were you smiling at that, biting your lip like a stupid?
Get a fucking grip.
“Listen, I have to go. I don't know if I'll see you in person anytime soon, so… Welcome to the team.”
“Okay.”
“We’re gonna have to work on your gratitude,” He groaned.
“Yeah, you're going to have to take that from me.”
You had at least 20 boxes scattered around your living room. With your new role, many things were still half-finished: you'd spend about 10 hours at work, and then two hours there trying to organize everything. Of your personal emails, they all involved some kind of negotiation. Your house in Chicago, the rest of the move, Spirit's adjustment to the new farm you found on the outskirts of the capital.
In a month of moving, you could curiously say you'd had more contact with Matt than with Dallas. Fortunately, you could say the same about Julian.
It was Saturday, around six in the evening. Arriving home early, you were on a mission to finish packing your boxes of books and knick-knacks when someone knocked on your door.
Now that was another surprise.
“I brought french fries and chicken from that restaurant,” He raised the plastic bags in front of your face, then craned his neck to see the mess behind you. “Can I come in?”
And despite your inclinations, it was quite easy to say yes.
“Do you usually have dinner this early?” You asked as he chewed on his food. The two of you made a small dinner table with a few empty boxes, sitting on the floor and sharing a bottle of red wine.
“No. I don't usually cook when I'm here.”
“Not even your girlfriend?”
Matt looked at you with a glint of mischief in his eyes, but you tried not to let this take the best out of you and kept eating nonchalantly.
“She's not my girlfriend,” He said.
“Wife, then.”
“My ex-wife lives far away from here. She's just someone I know, nothing serious,” He argued calmly. “She's not so serious as to make me a home-cooked dinner when I get back.”
“I see.”
“But your kitchen seems to be working fine. How well do you cook?”
“Will this be your favor?”
“You're too obsessed with this story, man, relax. I haven't even thought about anything yet.”
You rolled your eyes at that, but you two finished the dinner in considerable quietness. By the time you wrapped it all up, you could only put the dishes away before you found him opening a new box.
“Is this your horse?” He asked as you got closer, his eyes set on a small picture frame of you with Spirit.
“Mm-hm.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It's a little. You should’ve seen how much I paid to bring him here.”
“I don't know how I would feel about that.”
“Eh, you get used to it with time,” You took it out of his hand, placing it absently on the TV rack. “Now, since you’re here and I have all of this stuff to work on…”
“You are really abusing me here.”
“There's no point in pretending, I know you came here just for that.”
But you didn’t know why he came, and his small grin to what you said didn’t exactly help, but you could ignore it for the sake of organizing everything. The fact that he didn't complain was also something that worked well in your favor.
After the first time you two had sex, the tensions of being together in the same places were mixed: you'd fight, then meet up and settle your differences in bed. Or most of them. After the last time, given the way you two ended up getting into more dangerous territory, you could imagine that if it were a reunion like this, the tension of fighting would prevail and no one would get into the sexual aspect of things anymore.
Spending two hours with Matt in that apartment was anything but aggressive.
He was careful with your things, and he didn't ask about anything. Occasionally he'd make a joke about one of your books, but he wouldn't say a word when he saw a photo of you or trinkets from your travels. You expected him to do it, to pry into your entire life and incriminate you even in the most ridiculous way, but that wasn't what happened, which made you realize he could be sexier being polite than acting like a jerk.
You held it in even when he was looking at you in a more revealing position, because you wanted to see what he really wanted, if he wanted anything.
So he started by helping you climb up near the mezzanine to hang a Malaysian ornament. You were on a small ladder, he was watching you from below, and you tried to climb down without paying attention to the steps; your foot slipped, and he was there to place both hands firmly on your waist to steady you.
It was kind of on purpose — as he helped you reach the floor, he certainly noticed it too. So, instead of walking away as soon as you had both feet on the ground, he kept his chest almost pressed against your arm and made you turn towards him with a discreet movement of his arm.
“You're not very good at this, you know?” He hummed, eyes swiping your whole face before landing on your lips.
“I'm not good or you're just too slow?”
“I don't want you to think this is my favor.”
That took you aback a little. “… What?”
“I didn't come here expecting you to reward me like this for what I did. Everything I told Jennings would be true whether we fucked or not.”
You didn't know exactly what to say, because it was clear you weren't ready to hear that come out of Matt's mouth. And he was dead serious, staring straight into your eyes.
He was probably going to say something else—it would certainly ruin the moment. Before he could, however, you pulled his face closer with your hand and pressed your lips against his relentlessly. Matt didn't flinch, nor did he act surprised: he opened his mouth and used his tongue to invade your senses as if he couldn't wait.
The two of you started making out right there, under the mezzanine and among the boxes. He led you backward until you stopped against a more solid wall, reaching a space between the kitchen and the stairs leading to your bedroom. Matt pressed you against the wall and moved his hips just a little to brush against you. You hummed against his lips, and as soon as you pulled away for air, he used both arms to roughly lift your legs and wrap them around him. That made you yelp in surprise, so he smiled.
“You kept me waiting a little bit.”
“Oh yeah? Your little friend couldn't help you out?” You teased back, voice murmured.
“Well, apparently you're a fucker who ruined me for other people,” He started to get down to the floor with you along, until finally leaning you against the carpet to hover over you. “And since we're talking about ruining each other, why don't you let me get that asshole out of your life for good?”
You were wearing simple, cheap-looking shorts (you could admit that), so the fact that he'd ripped them right down the middle should’ve surprised you more than it did. Before you could protest, however, he was lowering his face to where your wet panties were in view and giving a long lick from your entrance to your clit through the fabric. You almost felt self-conscious for the that you haven’t shaved in a few days, but before you could, Matt was already pulling the fabric to the side and fucking diving in.
He'd sucked you off a few times before, but here he seemed thirsty, unstoppable. You barely had time to feel any initial sensitivity, any preparation, before he grabbed your hips and pulled you closer to his mouth, his tongue working on your nerve endings, moving from your clit to your entrance, sucking and testing everything that came out of you. You didn't know whether to push his shoulders or bring him closer, your legs moving from side to side as your moans echoed in the space and the slurping noises of his mouth filled your head.
On impulse, you grabbed the strands of his hair, soft to the touch and already messy from the time he was spending down there, and you rolled your hips a little more to get there, there, there…
Screaming seemed like an exaggeration, but that's exactly what you did. And he didn't stop. He kept licking, massaging, lifting himself slightly and looking into your eyes as he continued to focus on your clitoris.
“I need just a little more.”
The second orgasm came shortly after, both hands unsure of what to hold on to as you squirted with enough force to wet his face.
You threw your head back and closed your eyes, your body melting into the floor. He gave a few more small licks to collect your juicy cum between your legs, trailing kisses up your stomach as he hiked up the fabric of your shirt and reached your bare breasts with a suck on each nipple.
“… I-”
“Shh…” He raised his head to peck your lips, then again. “You don’t have to. Not right now.”
“… Huh?”
Matt then took one of your hands to between his legs and made you feel a wet spot where his cock was.
“Fuck, Matt… You gonna make me cum again.”
“Hold still, then. Next one should be on me.”
You were starting to think he liked having you on top so he could have time to soften your breasts. The water was still hot, since you hadn't even gotten in to shower, and he used the fact that your breasts were wet to play with your nipples as you moved slowly up and down his cock.
At one point, with him letting out a low moan, the two of you locked eyes with each other that seemed mesmerizing enough. He always looked so good getting fucked like that. Again, he was smiling, his hands moving down to your thighs, almost letting you do it all yourself.
“You have everything to be mine, you know that?”
“Matt-”
“He never deserved you, never… should see you like this, hot like this, taking it so well,” Matt leaned in, pressing his chest on yours and almost blocking your movements. “Am I the only one who does this to you, mm? Tell me.”
Why was that the hottest fuck he'd ever told you? Why, while he held your chin so you couldn't take your eyes off him, could you cum again right then and there?
“… Mm-hm.”
“What?”
“Yes.”
“That’s right. We’re gonna keep that in mind, yeah?”
“Mm-hm.”
You had already had great experiences with Matt in sex, good orgasms and a lot of satisfaction, but this was something else, another level, the kind that bordered on fetish.
When you came again, when you felt his cum dripping from you, you almost found yourself murmuring encouraging words in return, and suddenly surrendering your pleasure to the person you hated most in your life.
“What did he say?”
You were sleepy, head pressed against his shoulder as he asked. Matt almost thought you just wouldn’t answer, but you blinked your eyes open and stared back at his face with a small frown.
“Who?”
“Dallas.”
“That he was disappointed in me,” You rolled your shoulders. “But I didn't explain everything to him either, so it kind of makes sense.”
“Mm.”
“Julian didn't want to look for me either.”
When he looked at you properly, he realized you were baiting him for what he'd said in the bathtub. Sleepy, yes, but always alert. Smartass.
“If he hadn't dominated you, he would’ve taken you out of the game. You just got ahead of him.”
“Oh, would you look at that? Pussy so good you’re out there making bold insinuations,” You smirked. “First I'm yours, now I'm smart… What's next? That my carpet is soft on your knees?”
“I'll think about it. I have plenty of time to figure it out now.”
“I can't wait to call you shit with official backing. Jennings will love our nicknames.”
“I don't think he'll want to know what I'm going to start calling you,” He placed a kiss on your neck, then another one on your cheek, hand slipping under the cover to reach your thighs. “We better use these opportunities between closed doors.”
“I see you don't like to share.”
Matt didn't answer—in the future, he'd never give in to that. But yeah, he didn't want to share. He didn't need any more proof that he'd wasted too much time giving any other motherfucker the chance to get his hands on you.
It was his turn to set all the rooms on fire with you.
My sister has schizophrenia and my good friend has schizoaffective disorder. It's cool to see someone create an OC like Ladybird :) mad respect
Thank you very much for your kind words anon! It means a lot. I am doing quite a lot of research about schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder, I hope I can portray it in a satisfying way through Ladybird and the narrative of my fic.
big heart to you <3!!!
