Doo doo dee DOOO! It's WONDER-BETA, R Amythest! ::waves::
::sighs:: I think I confused you guys a bit with the hair thing . . . most
thought it was Lucius's, some Louise's, and I think -someone- mentioned the
horse. The (not so) compelling answer, later this chapter.
I can never bring myself to regularly space out chapters. I took forever to get
out that last short chapter, and this uber-ly long one only took . . . ::counts
fingers:: Actually, though, I'm writing this chapter listening to "I'll be home
for Christmas." Now, I'm getting in a Christmas-y mood a few months in advance
and am probably going to work on a mistletoe one-shot once I finish.
REVIEWS!!! YESSS! I love you all. And . . . and . . . and that's it . . . sniff.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Matthew didn't see that coming apparently, because my sloppy attack actually
grazed him. Either that or I'd gotten better, but I doubted that.
My mind, although angered, went strangely into a clinically observant kind of
state. I had learned to fight from Matthew -- not that he'd actualy MEANT to
teach me, I'm sure, but the time I'd spent with him was constantly peppered with
fights. That I lost. I had a lot of experience fighting him, but those facts had
never helped me before.
Within a second, Matthew had taken a hold of my wrists and had me pinned to the
wall.
Why, w-why? My mind screamed at me. Why the HELL hadn't I seen it BEFORE? Oh,
now THAT'S right, because I was too busy trying to find his pant size than
keeping him under suspicion . . .
No, I'd only just figured that out as well . . . but the point was, now that he
was r-revealed as the S-SCUM he was I couldn't possibly still be attracted to
him . . . could I?
Or . . . maybe, hope beyond hopes, I was wrong?
Think, think . . . I took in a deep breath. "Was it you?"
His eyes were shadowed by his bangs. Silence . . . speaks louder then words.
DAMN it . . .. I can't say I didn't k-know it, t-though . . .
Matthew had claimed inexperience with horses, and turned out to be a master (of
sorts) of the creatures. He had also known what color and gender the stolen
horse was when he couldn't have possibly known -- I had met with the clients,
not he, he couldn't have possibly known that.
Legault's mention of 'playing along' -- he, as Matthew's friend, had been
covering up for Matthew.
That ammonia smell, in his kitchen -- it was bleach, to dye the horse and
disguise it until it could be sold, wasn't it? Wasn't it?
And the final hint -- That long coarse hair on Matthew's hat weren't from a lady
friend (and for some reason at this my heart clenched), as he had just now told
me, they were from the horse's tail. And they were that coarse blond . . .
bleached.
But I didn't tell HIM all this. HE didn't have the right to know. I panted
heavily, glaring up at him.
"You figured it out in only half a day . . ." Matthew looked at me in a sort of
. . . wistful expression. What the hell?! His voice was odd, too, as he went on
to add, "That's a record."
I wasn't sure how to reply to this -- since I had no idea what the heck he was
talking about -- so I was VERY mature (not) and shot back with a defiant, "So?!"
Matthew did nothing but cock an eyebrow.
. . . Dammit, HOW could I be thinking of how sexy he was when he had me up
against a st-stupid WALL in his APARTMENT . . . well, actually, pretty easily .
. . ARGH, I was doing it a-again! Damn hormones! Growling, I -- ineffectively --
glared at Matthew some more.
Matthew shook his head and let out a soft chuckle.
Chuckling? Wait, somewhat relaxed? An opening? Yes, an opening! I bolted into
motion, tilting my shoulder and ramming it into his collarbone. Matthew gave,
slightly, and I whirled to stuff my elbow into his stomach --
And my head cracked into the wall.
Hard.
For a second, my vision was completely black, save for a few odd flashings of
light that seemed imbedded in the back of my eyelids. I felt my body distantly
as it half collapsed, half slumped over towards the ground. Strong arms caught
me before I hit the hardwood flooring.
I blearily blinked my eyes shut and then open again as a voice from above me
asked urgently, "Guy? GUY! Are you alright?"
Think . . . think think think . . . that's right, I'm Guy . . . and . . . OW! Ow
ow ow ow . . . n-no, I'm NOT alright! I'm in serious pain! I was actually
beginning to register that I had almost, quite literally, knocked myself out,
and that I probably had a concussion . . . or skull fracture . . . or something
painful involving my aching head . . .
"Hurts. Ow . . . " I heard my voice mutter vaguely into sandalwood and mint
scented clothes. I opened my eyes dimly once more. A hand firmly grasped my chin
and lifted it, to see a blurry face looking at mine . . .
. . . Matthew . . .?
At that thought, my mind slammed into the present time. Matthew! T-that . . .
that bastard! T-That low . . . insensitive . . . swindling . . . goddamned
s-sexy bastard! No, w-wait . . . dammit. Not sexy, concentrate on Matthew N-NOT
being sexy! The waves of pain that followed those pathetic thoughts -- thinking
HURT -- served more then one purpose: it cleared my head and sharpened my anger.
It didn't do anything for my eloquence.
"Y-You . . . you!" I sputtered, glaring at him with all the animosity I could
muster. Matthew just frowned -- or at least, I think he did. It was hard to
tell, since my eyes refused to focus properly. He was kinda fuzzy around the
edges . . . in any case, I don't think the glare was too helpful.
Matthew sighed, a motion I felt with strange clarity since Matthew was still
holding me up . . . yummm . . . NO! C-can't think l-like that now! I shivered,
and then began to struggle.
The knock I'd gotten on my head disagreed with that plan vehemently. Any
movement at all sent it reeling in pain and -- my stomach flipped -- nausea.
Dammit . . . it was a concussion, wasn't it . . .
Matthew pinned both my hands to the wall with one hand -- I HATE having thin
wrists -- and began to run his hand over my hair. I flinched away from his touch
at first -- yeah, I was having trust issues with him at the moment -- but before
I could shout at him for it, I realized he was just checking my injury.
His free hand probed delicately around the area where I'd hit it. I almost let
out a noise, but forced my reaction down to a hiss of an indrawn breath.
His touch grew softer and even more tentative. "That," he muttered, "feels nasty
. . . no blood, good . . . you didn't break the skin, luckily . . ."
I shuddered . . . Last time -- yes, there HAD been a last time, and no, it
wasn't funny -- the doctor had wanted to cut my hair so he could bandage it up
"properly." MY HAIR. You don't just CUT hair this frigging LONG, it's SACRILIGE!
I, to put it politely, had 'strongly protested.' Matthew had needed to intervene
on my behalf . . .
I growled. H-He was trying to get my mind off . . . on different things, wasn't
he?! "W-Why would you c-care?" I rapped out in a part snarl, part wail, as I
tested his hold on my wrists.
Matthew bolstered his grip with his other hand. Damn, I liked his other hand in
my hair . . . I re-evaluated my position. My hands were pinned above my head by
Matthew's hands, against his bedroom wall, faces barely a few inches away, and
he could probably feel my angry panting breath on his face. The traitorous part
of my mind wondered if it still smelled like coffee, and was also trying to
remember if Matthew really liked coffee all that much.
Matthew was grinning, I just know it.
I might have enjoyed this position, had it occurred BEFORE I found out that
Matthew was a scummy, backstabbing horse thief. I saw Matthew's eyes dilate
slighty before he closed them for a moment, as if in thought. "Ok, look, Guy, if
you'll just let me explain . . . "
"Why the hell would I do that?" I snapped, my head aching at the angry toss I
gave it. What? I'd gotten a sentence out without stuttering? "You already
c-confessed! I'm a w-witness!" Pity it hadn't lasted long.
And his response to that was to once more grab my wrists in one hand, and as if
I weighed absolutely nothing at all, pick me up.
The traitorous side of my mind was having a field day at this. What with, you
know, the actually being that close to his muscles and all. The rest of my mind
wasn't sure whether to be outraged or to just join the party on the traitorous
half's side. Damn my duplicity.
My -- eventual -- attempt at struggling was punctuated by three things -- pain,
cursing, and utter futility. "Y-You cheating . . . miserable little . . . " I
wriggled in his tight grip. Okay, okay, so maybe he wasn't so little . . .
"P-Put me down and f-fight fair!"
"Guy," Matthew said cheerfully. "Your eyes aren't even focusing right. I would
hardly call it a fair fight." Was he . . . grinning? ARGH!
I growled, knowing he was right and trying to hate him for it. I failed
miserably, and finally began to relax. After all, I had to conserve strength for
when I could actually see him as something beyond a blurry mass of . . .
something.
I guess Matthew was waiting for this, because once I relaxed my muscles and
began to sink into him -- y-yes, I was enjoying it! -- Matthew took a deep,
shuddering breath and put me down. My head swam at the sudden weight shift as I
was placed back on my feet. I, unfortunately, couldn't use this to my advantage
since he pinned me to the wall in the same move.
I found myself meeting a very blurry -- I tried to focus on him, but he was
slipping in and out of clarity -- set of Matthew's eyes. "Guy," he ground out,
"You're hurt, I'm not fighting you when you're like this. Now, can you please
promise me you won't do anything stupid if I let you go?"
I, once more, glared. My eyes still refused to focus though, so I tried to keep
them trained on one spot to hide the dilating. It didn't work.
Matthew inhaled slowly, a movement that brought his chest brushing against mine
for a brief moment. Before I could bite it back, a low, keening sort of sound
escaped my lips.
We both froze, and my eyes chose that moment to function properly. I got a very
close look at the strangled, flushed expression Matthew was sddenly wearing. He
blinked at me intensely before shaking his head to clear it.
Oh . . . oh god, I did NOT just moan.
Matthew leaned in closely and I bit my tongue -- literally, yeah, and it hurt --
to prevent another slip-up. Screw up . . . whatever . . .
Matthew muttered lowly, " . . .Sorry." Evil, evil, evl grin.
I was about to either ask what for or to tell him he should be when the closet
door shut near my nose.
With me, in the closet.
WHAT?! I yelped, and beat my fists on the door "M-MATTHEW!" I tried the doorknob
frantically . . . locked . . . damn . . . I slipped my hand to my hip to pull
out my pocketknife.
I clenched my eyes shut and began to swear as I realized. My knife! Why hadn't I
gone for it before? Could . . . could I even bring myself to pull steel on
Matthew?
I handled my knife carefully in the dark and tapped it against the lock
delicately. I never did let Matthew teach me how to pick those things . . . I
settled for taking out my anger on Matthew's door. With my knife. The grinding
sound my blade was making in his wood did quite a bit for my morale, actually.
Matthew made a small noise outside the door. " . . . Guy, what are you doing?"
"N-None of your business!" Actually, it was his business, since it was his door
I was mauling and all that jazz, but like I was going to waste my breath telling
him that. He could figure that out himself.
I heard my captor sigh, sounding defeated. " . . . I'm going to make a phone
call."
I didn't deign to give him a response, but increased my efforts at mauling his
closet door.
It took a few more minutes of industrially carving random symbols into the wood
for me to realize that it was pointless, and that spite would get me nowhere.
I'd learned that lesson from Matthew too, but it did have a bit of merit . . . I
sheathed my knife, and with careful attention to my head, slumped down into a
sitting position.
And I sulked. I had REASON to, dammit. I was sitting on the hardwood floor of
Matthew's closet, with a splitting headache and an upset stomach. I hadn't eaten
anything but coffee that day either, so I was hungry. And that closet was pretty
hot, and stuffy. . .
This is the worst day of my life. The worst ever.
Not to mention, of course, I'm STILL weirdly infatuated with the one man whom
I'd normally be happy to see shoved off a ravine with the goddamn llamas . . .
lemmings . . . whatever.
I could hear Matthew if I concentrated really hard. . . "Hello, operator," his
smooth voice filtered through the thin door, "I'd like to speak with . . ."
AGH! He had m-me locked in his c-closet and h-he was making a ph-phone call!!
Er, well . . . no, I wasn't shocked, since he'd told me he would . . . but, but
. . . it was an i-insult, I say!!
Ugh . . . probably calling Legault, to arrange an 'accident' for me or something
. . . I could see it in the reports now . . . "Sacaen Detective Accidentally
Kills Self To Death. Accidentally." They wouldn't even have to do much. They
just had to whap at my head some more, since it was about to split open anyway.
It hurt to think . . . I fell into a sort of half stupor, struggling not to fall
asleep.
Concussion victims generally had a tendency not to wake up if they fell asleep.
I knew this because, last time I'd gotten a bump on the head, Matthew had --
illegally! -- BROKEN INTO my old apartment to make sure I was aware of that
little fact. At one AM. On THURSDAY. (Actually, it being a Thursday was
completely unimportant, but still!)
Matthew's door being pounded on snapped me out of my half doze. Mainly because
it caused my head to throb severely; forcing me to stifle a creative curse.
Apparently I didn't stifle it very well, because I heard Matthew whistle in
appreciation at my word choice.
Nooo, no no no, Guy. You AREN'T supposed to feel warm fuzzies because Matthew
appreciates something of yours! And that's really pathetic when it's your foul
language that's in question!
I began to haul myself into a standing position. There was NO way I'd meet my
inevitable doom -- or whatever or whoever I was about to meet -- while sitting
on the floor. I did like to think I had some dignity. Even though the
aforementioned dignity caused my head to hurt unspeakably.
I reached for the edge of the doorframe -- lit by a rim of light in the dark
closet -- to steady myself.
The door opened, and the unexpected light, along with the blood rushing from my
head, caused me to miss the side of the door frame and fall out into the outer
room. Damn, I HATE being injured . . . it fogs the senses . . . s'all Matthew's
fault . . . grrr . . . bastard . . .
Once again (damn him!) Matthew caught me, and this time I was conscious enough
-- and not blinded as much by temper -- to notice how gentle he was about it. As
my eyes adjusted, I blinked at Matthew in confusion before remembering that A)
while he might be gentle, it meant NOTHING, B) he wasn't trustworthy, and thusly
C) I really should be preparing for a sucker-punch, or whatever he'd throw at
me.
I jerked out of his arms -- That annoying corner of my mind complained loudly at
this. I hushed it. -- as quickly as my concussion would let me, scowling at him.
" . . . he does not trust you."
I froze. Oh, flux it. I did NOT just hear that. I did NOT recognize that voice
to be who I thought it was. I turned, very slowly. The slow part was more due to
my aching head then for any dramatics, really, but it was still a nice effect.
Oh, shit. Rath was standing to the right of Matthew, his arms loosely crossed,
his demeanor normal and stoic.
" . . . Er . . . C-Commissioner?" I blinked. "N-No, impossible . . ."
It wasn't . . .. I-It w-wasn't r-really . . . "I'm delusional, from the
c-concussion . . ." I swallowed, knowing I was about to babble out something
incredibly stupid if I continued.
" . . . concussion?" Rath -- RATH!!! He was there, in the flesh, standing there!
-- blinked disapprovingly at Matthew.
Matthew shrugged. "I wasn't me, he hit his head on the wall."
WHAT? Well, it was true, but . . . but . . ..
"I-It was H-HIS fault!" I seethed . . . and then I felt my eyes widen as I
remembered. My hands waved spastically through the air as I began to babble
myself into a hole. "Commissioner! He did it! It w-was him, it was Matthew, he
stole the horse and--"
Matthew coughed lightly. "Actually, no I didn't." Rath nodded agreement, slowly.
I scowled. Had Matthew already told his side of the story? "No, I'm telling the
truth! He admitted it!" I protested. "I swear!"
Rath's eyebrow's furrowed slightly. " . . . Let Mr. Ostia explain."
I frowned, but reluctantly nodded obeisance. Matthew shook his head. "Finally .
. . listen, Guy, I didn't steal the horse. In fact? That horse was never
stolen."
Er . . . " . . . What?"
"The good Commissioner Rath here," Matthew spoke slowly, looking me in the eyes,
"hires me to test his detectives, from time to time . . ." Test? Hired? With a
pause, he chuckled wryly. "If I'm not mistaken, you've broken a record. No one
else has ever solved my case so fast . . ."
Tests . . . Matthew hadn't done . . . Matthew was hired -- HIRED! -- to test me.
I looked at him, then at Rath for affirmation. He nodded silently.
Of course. Matthew . . . he'd never have been that sloppy, even if he was a
horse-thief. He's a detective by trade, he'd know what signs to look for, and
what signs to hide. And why would Matthew steal a horse? That alone should have
tipped me off to the whole thing . . . I blame it on the concussion.
I tried to shake my head. "B-But . . ." My mind was scrambled, you need to
remember, but I'm sure I looked as bewildered as I felt. "Wil said the Cornwells
were important, and . . ."
Rath visibly perked at the mention of Wil. Curious, that.
"The secretary?" Matthew looked at the ceiling warily. "The Cornwells work with
us on these, in return for some help we gave them a few years back. He would
know that, I guess."
I blinked. Matthew's eyes flickered, and my fading consciousness didn't protest
as he put his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. "I knew I would be
working with you, Guy. But I didn't go any easier -- or harder -- on you because
of it."
I looked down. Matthew had actually been hired . . . to TEST me, of all things .
. . It hurt a lot more then it should have, to know that Matthew had been paid
to do . . . everything . . . even more then the fact that the commissioner had
felt the need to test my skills. I wasn't that bad, really . . ..
My adrenaline began to slowly seep out of my system -- I don' know how it had
kept running in the closet -- and I shook my head slowly, hoping the pain would
wake me back up. I didn't.
"Oh . . ." I muttered . . .. That was so . . . damn . . . anticlimactic. It felt
odd, solving a case and not being able to shove someone into a jail cell
directly after. . .
The last drop of aggression plopped from my system, and I sagged against the
wall. Whatever pain-numbing hormones my body had given me were long worn off,
and at the answering throb my head gave me, I merely clutched at my bangs and
muttered, "Ow."
I heard Rath move behind me. " . . . You need to rest."
I winced, but carefully straightened, trying to force the illusion of awareness
into my voice. " . . . No . . . No, I'm . . ." Well, saying I was fine would be
a lie . . . "I'm still able to work." Barely. "We can go back to the office."
Rath nodded understandingly and began to leave. I almost followed. Almost.
"Commissioner, give me a minute, I'll be right there," I said quietly, giving
Matthew a sidelong glance. Matthew's eyebrows furrowed together before he tilted
his head cockily.
"Can't bear to leave me, hm?" he said in an equally quiet voice, adding a small
chuckle. I rolled my eyes to cover he fact that . . . well . . . that statement
just might be true. I heard the door clicking shut behind me as Rath left to
wait outside.
I blinked at Matthew, and he stared back. I found myself unexplainably (yeah,
right) blushing, and I looked to the floor. "Uh . . . Sorry . . ."
I heard Matthew's clothes rustle as he shifted closer. "For what? I did my job .
. . you did yours."
I looked up at him pointedly. "I did ruin your door."
"Oh." Matthew gave the door in question a passing glance before a wry smirk
quirked up his lips. "Well, you can just owe me a few . . . favors, for that."
I wrinkled my nose. It'd taken me over a year to work off the last few favors
I'd owed Matthew . . . but I didn't seem to mind it as much this time. He held
out his hand to shake on it, and what with me being extremely stupid, I took it.
And barely stifled a gasp.
The contact sent thrills up my arm, his skin rubbing mine slightly as my hand
slid into his. I felt him squeeze my palm, the pressure completely killing any
sense I might have had left -- and I looked up into his eyes.
My breath caught . . . Matthew was smiling at me. Smiling. It was a slow, sad
sort of smile, as if he'd given up something, but it was a smile. Matthew was
actually smiling at me, not grinning his cocky know-it-all grin.
We both let go at the same time.
And then I realized that not once, not ONCE had I ever seen Matthew use his
infuriating, fiendish, horribly lust-inspiring grin on anyone but . . . well . .
. me. My chest clenched, and I turned away. Forcing my brain to work, but it
seemed to run suddenly on autopilot, as if I were a distant observer of my own
body.
"Good-bye, Matthew."
"Good . . . luck, Guy."
The commissioner was waiting outside Matthew's apartment door. I leaned heavily
on Rath's shoulder -- which is harder to do then it sounds, the commissioner is
TALL -- as we left, trying to hide my exhaustion as much as possible . . . don't
think it worked too well.
Strange thing, though . . . I felt something in my chest contract, as though I'd
left something behind in that apartment. Something unexplainably important, that
I'd be better off going back to get . . . but I was too tired to go back . . .
Well . . . Whatever I'd left . . .
Matthew could have it.
I didn't look back.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Angst-ish . . . I hope. That's my attempt at angst, if you couldn't tell. The
mystery is solved, but the fic is not yet complete! Next chapter is the last one
. . . I'm already tearing up, this fic is my baby . . . I'm rather attached.
Hmph. So sue me.
. . . On second thought, don't. Sue me, I mean. Don't sue me.
(And the reason that Guy isn't going to the hospital, or even going home? Back
then, there was this serious bout of 'macho-ism' going around, where all men
were stupid and egotistic and went to work even when deathly sick. Men can be
such idiots, no offense to my guy readers.)
( . . . Do I HAVE any guy readers? . . . Hm.)
