Damaged goods.

AN: Set after episode 3.4 "Confession". A very emotional episode, since someone close to me has been in Matt's shoes. This story is for this person as much as it is for you. Still, I can't help but put in some trinket of romance…Matt does deserve it, right?

Disclaimer: Though I wish I could have given Matt a real big hug, I'm very much aware he's a character in a TV show I do not own. Such a shame, really…oh well…on with it…

Damaged goods. He said it in jest. You know he did, but it still stung. How could he be so full of self-doubt? How could this beautiful wonderful friend of yours ever think he was anything but perfect? How could he not see that the man behind the cracks of a difficult childhood, is someone who deserves to be noted, respected and indeed loved? That he already is loved? Very much so.

And how ironic that, right after your rape, he was telling you exactly the same thing. He made you believe it then. You hope you can make him believe it now.

He was there when you needed him. Which means that now, you should be there for him. Not just as a payback, it's no debt you need to repay, but mostly because you want to do anything, everything you can to make sure he'll be okay. More than okay.

You want him to be happy. And you just hope you can be of any kind of service in the achievement of that goal.

So now you're on your way to a small parish church you've never seen before, to take over from Ronnie, who has texted you that he needs to get back to the precinct for some leftover paperwork. He was reluctant to disturb his partner's solitude, but didn't want him to find himself abandoned when he would come out.

You're only too happy to change places with the older DS, though you're grateful for the fact that these two men have found such good mates in each other.

When you pull up outside the small building, Ronnie is waiting for you. No sign of Matt, so you figure he must still be inside. When you approach Ronnie, he quickly fills you in on his small but significant conversation with his young friend. Your heart breaks anew for the man you care so deeply for, but you promise DS Brooks you won't mention anything to Matt when he reappears. The man is entitled to his privacy and you won't break the trust of his mate either.

You just hope he'll be equally open and honest with you.

As Ronnie leaves, you shiver and look around for a comfortable place to sit down. But it's chilly outside and no matter how much you care for Matt, you don't want to freeze yourself. Instead, you decide to go inside, just stay near the door. If you walk silently, Matt won't have to know he's no longer alone.

Well, that action proves to be a bit too much to ask. You should have known better than to think you could walk into a stone paved church wearing high heels and do so silently as well as elegantly. The harder you try to dampen your sound, the more you're convinced you're waking up all the ghosts of Christmases past in the process.

Matt's hunched over figure is sitting silently and motionless in the front row bench, hands folded in prayer, yet wringing them nervously, as if not quite sure he should be feeling whatever he's feeling at this particular place and time. Like he's the sinner instead of a victim by proxy. The occasional heave of his shoulders tells you he's crying too and again you feel the twist in your own stomach at seeing him in this much pain.

Though he must have heard you coming in (hell, all of London heard you), he doesn't look up or turn. Hesitantly, you come closer, unwilling to crowd him, yet incapable of fighting the need to be near him. You take a seat right behind him, leaving it up to him to ignore or acknowledge you presence.

At first, he seems to go with the first option. He slightly stiffens, but otherwise he gives no sign he's ready to be confronted with anyone else's existence. Not even yours. You're not exactly insulted, only sad that you can't seem to close the mental distance as easily as you just did the physical part.

But there's nowhere else you need to be and for him, you can sit here all day and all night until he's ready to share the burden, to have you help him lift it off his shoulders, where it should never have landed in the first place.

Silence once again occupies the space, as thick as a third person. It stifles you. You wish you could pray, or do anything else that might give you some sense that indeed you're in a place where so many people find solace, redemption, forgiveness and a way to move on.

Instead, you feel cold, helpless and angry with the world for making such a mess of such a wonderful human being. This stupid, fallible world who should be more grateful to be graced by the mere existence of a man as sweet and compassionate as the one in front of you.

God forgive you for coming in here with so much resentment in your soul.

When you shiver from sheer discomfort, Matt finally stirs. As if that one particular move wakes him up from the haze in his mind. He ungracefully wipes his nose with a crumpled up paper handkerchief and turns to face you, trying to smile.

It's his sorry attempt at smiling that makes you simultaneously want to kiss him and run as fast as you can in case he sees you're more emotionally involved than perhaps he's comfortable with.

"Are you alright?" He asks you in a whisper.

Now he has you smiling too. "Shouldn't that be my question?"

He shrugs. "I'll be okay. Maybe not immediately, but soon. I have good friends who seem quite…" he gives another shrug and an attempted smile that gets closer to his normal one.

"…insistent in their support. Who's next in line to babysit me? I hope it's not George. The man has no sense of humour."

You bite your lips to shreds to prevent any comment from slipping out. Instead, an involuntary gasp leaves your throat when Matt reaches over to liberate your lower lip from the mauling of your teeth. Though he's in no way shy (rather the opposite with some women), he's never been the first to breech the professional barrier between the two of you, always keeping a respectful, professional distance. Other than holding hands before the trial, or a comforting hand placed on arm or shoulder, yours has so far not been a very tactile relationship.

Baring all this in mind, his initiative leaves you startled and you suddenly wish the two of you were not in a church as well as in the middle of his emotional hurricane. Somewhere more private, more intimate perhaps…

"Don't worry, love. I do appreciate it, even if I can't express it that well right now. And I'm glad you're here."

How in God's name are you supposed to answer him now, especially with the imprint of his thumb still palpable on your soft flesh, with his clear blue gaze boring into yours.

When the silence gets too unbearable again, albeit for a totally different reason, he stands and pulls his coat a little closer, as if suddenly aware of his senses again. Then he reaches out to you and without thinking, you take his offered hand.

"Let's get out of here. I need to get something to eat. And some pleasant company wouldn't go amiss either? You in for some dinner?"

At any other moment, you would blush madly, thinking he was (finally!) coming on to you. Not today. Today he can request anything from you and get it, no questions asked and no innuendo allowed. Food, company, whatever else the evening brings...

Much to your pleasant surprise, he doesn't let go of your hand. Flinching at the cool air, he even, apparently without thinking, stuffs your entwined hands in his pocket to keep them warm. Well, you've proceeded from being warm to boiling over in the few seconds his instinctive action took.

Damn this man...

Adapting his normally long stride to your smaller one, you leisurely walk over to the car, but he directs you away from it. You look at him questioningly.

"If you don't mind, I'd rather walk. I know a pub that has some nice food, not too far from here. Is that okay with you?"

He gives you a look that melts whatever is left of your backbone. So yes, you're perfectly okay with eating pub food. You'd eat mouldy bread in the torture chambers in the Tower of London for him; all he has to do is ask.

Well, he doesn't, all the better for you, but he does wait for your nod of confirmation (your vocal chords have gone missing somewhere during the afternoon) before guiding you to an old-fashioned, yet cosy pub a little further down the road. The atmosphere is relaxed and warm, though you still shiver when Matt has to let go of your hand in order to shrug himself out of his coat. He chivalrously helps you get rid of yours (you try to block out any mental images of Matt undressing you any further) and helps you in your seat.

When a young waitress shows up, you both order a beer (pint for him; smaller glass for you; you still have to drive) and a grilled chicken sandwich with chips. For today, you swallow away the little stab of pain in the gut as you watch the interaction between the pretty young girl and your friend. Flirting is as natural as breathing to DS Matt Devlin and mostly he's not even aware of it.

Only when it's a smart weapon to use during an investigation, does he deliberately pile on the charm. Results are imminent. No exceptions.

You actually resent that side of Matt Devlin. Both because it's so fake it makes you nauseous and because it's so damn effective you can't say for sure you'd be immune yourself.

Scratch that...you're damn sure you wouldn't be.

The girl leaves to get your order and Matt turns back to you. His hand covering yours startles you yet again.

"Did it piss you off, love?"

"What?"

Oh brilliant...junior Crown prosecutor, best litigator in your class, passed the bar in one go, and now you're tongue tied. And not tied to his either...yeah, real brilliant.

"The coaster. I sure hope it doesn't represent any poor bugger I know."

Only than do you realize you've torn a paper coaster to shreds. Yet again, bloody brilliant. Your insane jealousy of a mere teenager reduces you to a vandal, taking out your frustration on an innocent object.

Thank God your food and drinks arrive at that moment, saving you from having to explain, yet not saving you from 'flirting with the servant; the sequel'. No raving reviews are to be expected from you.

Now that the sandwich is put in front of you, your stomach grumbles as if to remind you it's been neglected by its owner for the better part of the day. You eat with a gusto, swatting Matt's hand away as he tried to steal your chips.

"Hey, eat your own!"

"Yours look better!"

"Bullocks! Eat your own, you've gotten more than I do anyway!"

"I did not!"

Oh yes he did. He's gotten at least twice your portion of chips, and a bigger chunk of chicken too. You'd feel discriminated against if only you wouldn't have done exactly the same thing. Still, there's a point you need to make...

"Did too."

"Not!"

"Too!"

Brilliant...

The two of you play and banter some more and suddenly it hits you in the face: Matt is perfectly at ease. There's no strain in his shoulders, no nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth, no sign of any discomfort whatsoever...

Here, now, it this very moment, he needs this. This sense of normalcy. This easy banter, the light hearted jokes. More than any required psych evaluation could ever accomplish, you are doing for him now. Just by sitting here, treating him exactly like you've always done, you're putting things back in perspective.

His life has value. He's someone's son and brother. He's someone's saviour, someone's best mate. Someone's true love, though that part he might not yet be aware of.

But that might change. Someday.

It doesn't have to be tonight. Tonight, you lovingly restore some damaged goods to their original lustre, even if in your point of view, it was never lost.

Tonight, you will be his friend, his companion.

Bloody brilliant indeed!

THE END

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