The red thread

by Lazydaily

matt and Read red strings. For TTS

8. Chapter 8

The next day had the potential to be peaceful if you could bring yourself to allow it. The night before you'd fallen asleep there on the hard floor, Matt's hand tangled loosely with yours. You'd woken up in his bed alone, sleepy and content. You blew out a sigh, soaking in the softness of the silk sheets and the comforting scent that lingered even in Matt's absence. He must have moved you at some point, maybe in the middle of the night or this morning when he woke up. He was out in the living area now, moving around, the noise of shifting plates and glasses giving you a clue as to his activities. He'd know you were awake soon, if he hadn't picked up on it already.

You needed to get up. First, though, you needed to compartmentalize the previous night, and you were grateful he was giving you some space to do so.

Last night had been… a lot for you, and the ache in your chest still hadn't fully faded. It almost itched, a bone-deep tugging centered right over your heart. The sensation left you with an impulse to claw at your chest until you dug down far enough to rip out the source. Even here in Matt's bed as you buried your face in the pillow and drew in a heavy breath, that feeling was still there. Fortunately as your body adjusted to the sensation, it seemed to lessen by degrees until you were finally able to turn your attention towards its cause.

This ache in your chest was no doubt brought about by the events that had occurred last night, and the implications of the paralyzing fear you'd felt. Deep down, you knew what it meant. The full awareness of that meaning was simply biding its time, lurking below the unlit water of your consciousness. It was waiting for you to take notice and the second you did, it would swallow you whole.

Fuck that.

You had a little over three weeks left before you ran. You'd ignored your emotions for far longer in the past, months and years trickling by without so much as a second of introspection. Three weeks? That was child's play to you. Last night had changed nothing, and all you had to do was deny, delay, and reach for the excuses that had always come so easily to you. You'd had plenty of practice. You could force yourself to believe that the emotion you'd felt last night was the result of stress. Of course you'd been emotional; anyone would have been. You'd almost been blown up, and then had a gun pointed at you.

'Matt almost dying was a big part, too,' whispered a traitorous voice inside you. 'Just admit it.'

You scowled, rolling over to face the half-open bedroom door.

You liked Matt, and the thought of him dying had… upset you a great deal. There; you'd admitted it. So what? Liking someone wasn't unusual. You'd met plenty of affable, charming people over the years. As for not wanting him to die, well, not wanting a good person to die didn't mean you had anything special. It just meant you hadn't lost all sense of morality, and that you'd retained an element of humanity. That was a good thing. It meant when you finally had the money to escape to your tiny island hut, you'd be able to make friends with the locals.

You were allowed to like people. You'd planned for it, because sometimes friendships were inevitable. It was one reason you had your plan, one reason you ran. And wasn't it possible that you could even have… a friendship with someone, since the Man in the White Coat was still five cities behind you? That had to give you some breathing room. Breathing room for holding someone's hand while you slept and maybe letting them call you sweetheart once or twice under stress just because they were maybe friends with you, too. This was fine. All you had to do was shove your feelings into your little mental box and lock it away until you were gone. You'd act… normal.

You nodded to yourself in satisfaction. Perfect. Now, time to get up, before Matt comes looking.

You rolled out of Matt's bed, settling your bare feet on the floor and wincing at the ache that ricocheted up your spine as you straightened. Sounds were still distorted in one ear, muffled and thick, but it was to be expected. That seemed to be the worst of it, fortunately; you'd been very, very lucky. You gave yourself additional time to compose yourself by heading into the bathroom to wash your face and prepare for the day. The normalcy of the action was vital, letting you fall into a familiar pattern you could focus on. You'd need that concentration because as much as you'd have loved a day off, you were fairly certain that wasn't what lay in store for you. You needed to keep busy. Matt would most likely feel the same, though perhaps for different reasons.

You hadn't even fully made it into the living area before Matt confirmed your suspicions.

"I had some thoughts on where to start," he said as you made your way towards the table. He'd already set out a mug for you, steam lazily drifting upwards from the coffee inside, and a plate of breakfast had been placed beside it. He'd timed it perfectly and you eyed the food with barely disguised hunger. You hadn't had a chance to eat dinner last night and you were starving. "About that money man of Fisk's. I've been thinking about it since I got up."

"You think before coffee? Blasphemer. Pretty sure that's a sin." You dropped into your seat, crossing one leg to wait as he placed his own plate and mug. He gave a soft laugh, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

"Funnily enough, Father Lantom never mentioned that one. Maybe I missed too many sermons." He sank down into his own chair with a grimace of pain that twisted his mouth tight.

You inspected him out of the corner of your eye. He was clean, dressed for the day in his usual slacks, button-up, and tie. He also must have applied some of that salve he'd shared with you, or spent time on that weird healing meditation thing he'd mentioned once. You'd expected him to look more like a bloodied raccoon who'd gone ten rounds, and less, 'guy who got into a mild scuffle on the street.' Even so, you could still see bruising around his nose and a hint of purple peeking above his shirt collar. You didn't even want to think about what color he'd turned under the rest of the fabric. "I'm hoping today's an easy day for you if we're going to get into this already," you said with a hmm, taking a sip of your coffee and directing your eyes back down his body to illustrate. "You're in your lawyer clothes so no vigilante-ing today, I assume."

"In fairness, there's not a whole lot to do today work-wise thanks to the cleanup from the… the bombings, but there are places I can still get into as a lawyer. As for the rest, I thought about it," he admitted, spearing his eggs with unerring accuracy even as he kept his focus on you. He wasn't wearing his shades, open and relaxed with you, so it was easy to read the touch of frustration that crossed his expressive face. He drummed his fingers on the table. "The problem is I wouldn't know where to go. All I've got is a name, so far. I need more to find him."

"You're looking to do this old school then," you mused. In your line of work, when a thread couldn't be found, there were always additional clues that could lead you to a target. Hell, Maya didn't have your talents and her find rate was almost as good as yours. You had full faith in Matt that he could find what he was looking for. "Probably the smart play right now if you want to keep him from rabbiting before you get a hold of him. Guys like this always have an office somewhere, too, if just to look respectable."

He nodded as you took a bite of toast. "And we had it right last night. If I'm going to send Fisk to prison, I need something big enough that people can't ignore it. This could be my way to get it."

"My offer to help still stands," you said, lightly nudging his leg with your own under the table. It was only practical to provide what aid you could. If Fisk was as dangerous as he seemed, then helping Matt remove him from the field of play could only be good for you. At the very least Fisk might be spooked enough to go to ground, too busy to be interested in whatever new city you'd fucked off to. You had enough people trailing you, thank you very much. You didn't need more. "You get me something I can track him with and I'll run him down for you. Won't even charge you for it."

His lip quirked. "That's very magnanimous of you."

You raised your coffee mug to him. "What can I say? I'm fucking charitable that way."

And then goodbye New York, and hello Seattle.

You ignored how miserable that thought made you.

-x-

While you'd have loved to escort Matt around town that week to the various records' offices he intended on visiting, you had fallout of your own to deal with. There were still people missing after the explosions that had rocked Hell's Kitchen. Friends and relatives of the missing were beating down your door to hire you using whatever funds they could scrounge up. If you were lucky, you were sent to trace a red thread—usually, one linked to a target tucked away and unconscious in a hospital ward somewhere. Too many threads though were a sullen, plum-tinted blue as the color flickered from bold scarlet to a deep, mournful indigo.

Those were the jobs you hated most: corpse retrieval.

In times like these, it would have been best to set aside time to decompress and unwind. Spending a few hours with Matt—or even Foggy and Karen—was the obvious answer, but it seemed like everyone was working the same late nights you were. It almost made you bitter not having that escape. You only had a few weeks left here and every second counted. You'd only seen Matt once or twice across the rooftops in the past week, the two of you stopping just long enough for some brief conversation before you were both pulled away by your respective tasks.

If he was aware of what you were planning, he hadn't said anything about it to you. You'd pulled your go bag out from under the floorboards a few times, digging through it to ensure you hadn't forgotten something important. You had to imagine the scent of the duffel bag's contents—the cash, the dye, the forged documents-was something he'd pick up on your hands if given the opportunity. Part of you was hoping he'd say something, give you a reason not to run. Instead, he gave you space, and so you kept preparing for your escape even as you headed to work each morning and did your best to behave as if nothing had changed.

"You got a visitor," Daniel said. You'd only just arrived. It was a little before nine, and you hadn't expected anyone to be there other than Daniel and Maya. He raised his brows meaningfully, bobbing his head to indicate your office. "The big client. Was hangin' around when I got here, said he'd wait in your office."

Your mouth went dry, and it was only practice that kept your face relaxed and unconcerned. It was bad enough you were involved and marginally aware of the shit Mr. Winter and his enigmatic 'employer' were up to. There was no way you'd allow this to blow back onto Daniel and Maya. You schooled your face, affecting an appropriately puzzled frown. "Is he? I didn't have a meeting scheduled."

"Nothin' on your calendar at least. You also got that appointment with Mrs. Guerrera at 9:30, but he said it wouldn't take that long. Either way, wouldn't keep him waiting. You know how rich guys are."

You couldn't help the shiver that ran down your spine as you headed down the hallway towards your office. Had he found out about what you'd seen inside the burning building? The cops had sworn they would keep the events to themselves but they could have been lying, or maybe they'd given you away by mistake. Someone else could have seen you leaving the building and recognized you. You could have been caught on a camera; had you even looked for any on the neighboring buildings that night? There were too many options, too many loose ends you hadn't bothered to hunt down. What if he was here to—

Calm down. He wouldn't kill me in my office. Too public.

You forced your shoulders to relax, straightening your cuffs and tugging at your blazer until it sat just right before you quickly swiped your sweating palms across your pants. You would be composed and confident. The office was too open and subject to the listening ears in the adjacent offices. If they'd wanted to kill you, you'd have been shot on the street or in your own apartment. Not here; that was too messy. That Mr. Winter was in your office now most likely meant he was here just to talk.

"Mr. Winter," you greeted, entering your office and throwing the man a polite smile where he sat calmly in front of your desk. He rose and extended a hand, which you shook smoothly before you strode around to your side of the desk. "What can I do for you today?"

"Ms. Hind. I apologize for the lack of warning. However, my employer thought it best to… run over a few things, especially as we look ahead towards the future of our business arrangement."

'The future.' That's not vague at all.

At least there was a future, for now. He didn't look overly concerned or grim, instead folding his hands and giving you a friendly smile: the picture of a pleasant businessman. You didn't buy it for a second. You knew there were fangs hidden behind the wholesome image he was presenting you. Whether those fangs were here for you remained to be seen.

"You know I'm always open to discussing our partnership." You nodded seriously as you settled into your own leather chair. The wide desk between you was a psychological buffer you were happy to make use of. It changed the dynamic of the room, shifting some of the energy in your favor, though less than usual. Despite the fact that you were the one behind the desk and in a position of power, there was no mistaking who was really in control here. It wasn't your intent to change things that drastically; there was no point in trying. Instead, the visual would hopefully serve as a reminder of the professional nature of this discussion. Something told you that would go a long way with Mr. Winter.

"I assume by now you're aware that we've made contact with your previous employer in Los Angeles." He presented the comment innocently, but his eyes were calculated as they regarded you and awaited your reaction.

It took everything in you not to curl your fingers against the arms of your chair. The relaxed, easy-going delivery of his statement—a statement that could upend your entire life in New York—simply helped highlight the reality that you were dangerously out of your depth here with him. He didn't have a care in the world when it came to confronting you with your past. There was no hiding that he'd made contact with your friend because he didn't need to hide it. He'd know it was in your best interest to keep this from going public.

Why play this card now?

Use your brain. Think.

They could have remained vague about what they knew, left you on edge and paranoid at what they might have on you. What purpose did it serve to tell you? Based on the way Matt had been so thoroughly trapped, it was a safe assumption that what you were doing for them was only a small part of something larger. Were they looking to trap you, too? To scare you so much you became desperate and willing to take on a hunt you might otherwise refuse?

You needed more information. Until you could figure out which way this was going to swing, there was no point in lying when you both knew the truth. Your silence had already given you away.

"I am aware, yes." You dipped your head in acknowledgment. The time for feigned geniality was over so you dropped the mask you usually wore. If they knew this much, the act wouldn't cut it. You'd focus on remaining professional and respectful now. He seemed pleased instead of disappointed, a flash of satisfaction quirking his lips before the expression was gone. So, he'd wanted to strip that part of you away; he was looking to have a conversation with you—not Jane Hind. Interesting. "I have to give you credit for tracking that far back. Most don't."

He didn't take the bait you'd posed with your unspoken question. "Our discussion with him was… informative. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that in the past, your business arrangements looked very different. Certainly different than our current arrangement."

"That's true," you admitted, resisting the urge to fidget as you set your chin on your hand and watched him warily. Your first contract in Los Angeles had been far less meticulously planned than your current contracts, in part because you'd been sixteen and the contract had been designed as a demonstration of what a good contract might be, but also because you'd been desperate and vulnerable enough to take the first offered hand. Your standards had been… a lot lower back then. "Those previous arrangements were also more of a danger to both myself and my clients should the police come knocking. You can see why I made some changes."

"And yet one could argue that with the right resources, such a danger would be minimal."

Ah, and there it is. According to Matt, this was the same sort of offer the Russian Mob had been presented with, though yours was more carefully disguised. Previously there would have been too much risk in making such a proposal to you: you were a relative unknown, and your allegiances were murky. Your documents made clear you were only willing to straddle the line between legal and illegal instead of stepping over it. You occupied a grey zone in which your neutrality was contractually obligated only so long as you remained in the dark about your clients' motives. Now that they knew your history in Los Angeles, they were aware that you couldn't take a chance on going to the police; not when Mr. Winter and his employer could reveal you just as easily you might be able to reveal something criminal about them. They'd become acquainted with what you'd allowed in the past, and what you'd taken part in.

Despite what Matt may have assumed about you, your resistance to participation in any criminal activities was a relatively recent development. You'd only made the decision a few years ago, and you'd hoped to continue along that path now. What was being proposed sounded like the standard, 'take part in criminal activities, keep your mouth shut, gain reward' offer, but you couldn't quite be sure when there was so much coded language. You were certain you were reading it correctly, though. You couldn't outright reject the proposal, not when Matt had been so thorough in his warning, but you weren't going to accept it out of hand either. Not anymore.

"I've worked with people with resources in the past," you said vaguely, following his lead and allowing what you were actually saying to linger under the surface. If he were anywhere as competent as you thought, he'd read you just fine. "Trouble still came knocking. It always does."

He nodded amicably. "I can see how you might be distrustful. And while your previous employer is respectable in his own right, certain parties in New York would be willing to promise you access to more than what was available even during your time in Los Angeles."

"More?" You arched one brow, reluctantly intrigued despite yourself.

"More resources. More opportunities. More freedom. Though primarily what you'd be most interested in, I believe, is more protection." He emphasized the last word meaningfully, drawing it out and gesturing outwards from your window towards the city. There was no mistaking what his implication was: 'You ran in Los Angeles, but you wouldn't have to here.'

You leaned back in your chair, your eyes widening. There were plenty of people—eager, wealthy clients usually—who'd promised you the moon, but very few were powerful enough that they had a chance of actually following through when it came to the cold reality. If Matt was right, and Fisk really did have access to… to the money that would buy politicians, judges, and cops… was it possible he'd be able to keep the Man in the White Coat at bay?

"That's an impressive claim, if you know what I think you know." You gnawed the inside of your cheek. God, the impulse was there to say yes and snatch the offer up before it could be retracted, just so you could see if this was the one time someone might pull it off. There was a time when you'd probably have accepted it immediately, but those days were behind you. You couldn't do it, even if a small part of you shouted that you were a fool to turn down an opportunity of this magnitude.

"There's no need to accept this now," he said smoothly, holding up a placating hand. "I've been instructed to inform you this is a standing offer, with no pressure or timeline. Our current arrangement is acceptable. You might consider this… a gift, one you may accept from us at any time in the future. I think you'll find, as time goes by, that we're more than capable of handling any issues that might arise."

So they were planning something, though they must have known you couldn't talk about that realization with anyone either. It was hard enough resisting the urge to stay in New York, but this was a temptation just as fraught with danger, a path you might never be able to escape once you started down it. And for them it was nothing but a waiting game: you might have rejected the offer for now, but things would change. All they had to do was allow the days to pass until eventually, inevitably, the Man in the White Coat came knocking. And then, well… it was clear where they were placing their bets when it came to your desperation.

"I'm grateful for the offer," you managed, dropping your eyes from his sharp gaze. You needed to look like you were mulling it over, so it wasn't a difficult lie since a tiny part of you really was considering it. "I'll… keep it in mind."

"Excellent. As for the second matter to discuss—"

Oh, thank god. Yes please, let's hit an easier topic.

"—I wanted to check in on your condition," he continued, frowning at you. "Our driver informed us you might have been injured in the unfortunate incident caused by, what are they calling him now? The 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen?'"

I am cursed. I am literally cursed.

He'd mentioned the driver, and not the cops. You had a feeling if he knew that you'd been inside that building, he'd have brought it up. Then again, maybe he was waiting to see if you revealed that little tidbit yourself. This was the discussion you'd originally feared and you kept your face nonchalant even when he mentioned Matt's new title. You'd learned your own tells over the years. You could walk this tightrope if you were careful. Your palms were growing slick against the arms of your chair though, so you shifted them to your lap before they could give away the adrenaline racing through your veins. "I'm uninjured other than a few scrapes and bumps. Thank you for the concern."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, rising and straightening his cuffs. You stood as well and adjusted your coat sleeves, using the movement to discreetly dry your palms. He always shook hands at the end of your meetings and you didn't need to advertise just how uneasy you were. "I have to ask, Ms. Hind… did you receive our gift basket? I was told it was delivered."

So that really was a warning. Huh.

"I did, and I'm grateful for it. It was very thoughtful."

"And… the note?"

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, clearing your throat. Why the hell were you embarrassed? No matter how obvious it seemed now, there was no reason for you to have suspected what the note was actually telling you at the time. You figured the truth wouldn't hurt in this case. "I, uh, fully intended to follow the suggestions, and honestly, had I not needed some crackers to eat with the cheese I probably would have been at home in bed when everything… happened."

It may have been your rattled nerves, but for some reason the momentary bafflement contained in his startled blink struck you as funny—as if in all his scheming over what items to include in the basket and how to phrase the deliberately suggestive note, he'd never stopped to consider that something as mundane as a lack of crackers might be the deciding factor in what kept you home and safe. It was just such a normal mistake to make, and 'normal' was not a word you would have thought you'd ever ascribe to Mr. Winter.

He may have been a dangerous criminal, but you couldn't resist the corner of your mouth turning up as you stifled your grin. He noticed your reaction and for the first time you could remember in all your meetings, he actually laughed. Oh, it didn't sound like a typical laugh; he wasn't the type to do something so gauche as open his mouth wide to laugh or, dare you say, giggle. Instead, it was a short exhalation, combined with amused hmm that rippled its way up and down the tonal scale.

The reminder that he was human, just like you, capable of mistakes and miscalculations, was something you'd sorely needed. Because if he was human, well… you could do this.

He held his hand out to shake yours and his smile seemed a little more genuine than it had been at the start of your meeting. "I'll make a note of that should I send any further baskets containing that assortment."

-x-

You peered down from your position on the roof, leaning against the parapet. From where you were situated atop the multi-story office building, you had a clear line of sight towards the parking garage two blocks down. Though the sun had gone down, the cement beneath you was still warm, the heat radiating up through your boots as you shifted, narrowing your eyes. The thin blue thread you held, as best you could tell, led directly towards the garage.

"Are you sure?"

You huffed, closing one eye because sometimes it felt like it helped, and shifted your head back and forth to confirm the thread's trail again. You had it pulled taut, and the angle seemed right, a razor-straight line towards what was hopefully the target. "I mean, it's not like I can grab another thread to find out, D."

You and Matt had originally traced one Leland Owlsley to a ritzy, upscale office building. Or at least, that was where he conducted his legal activities on paper. Your gut told you he didn't spend much time there, because there were relatively few threads trailing out the gleaming windows that lined two walls of his corner office. You'd have thought a money guy would be a bit more materialistic, but if he was keeping a hoard of treasured gems and trophies, he wasn't storing those items at that particular location. You weren't even sure what the thread leading from his office connected to up there, but it was small enough that it had taken you roughly forty minutes digging through threads in an alley before you'd snagged one of the connecting lines, all as Matt stood guard. It had taken you and Matt even longer to follow the thread to Owlsley himself where he was lurking like a weirdo in this parking garage.

Even now, you couldn't risk closing your third eye. If you did, you'd lose the thread, and then you'd have to backtrack to the office to start all over again. A cab would have made things easier, quicker, but Matt had insisted it was safer to stay on the streets, and that was fair. You didn't need any record of your movements tonight, caught via taxi cam or the notice of a curious driver. Matt also needed to stay roofside, considering how many people were looking for the Devil after the bombings.

At least it was after nightfall now and the threads stood out more boldly against the gloom. Threads always glowed, of course, and Hell's Kitchen was never truly dark, but even the slight reduction in illumination made it easier to see them over long distances. That was important since Matt wasn't allowing you any closer than two blocks.

"I'm going to go down there and see what I can get from him," Matt told you, setting his gloved hand against your back between your shoulder blades. He'd followed your instructions to the letter tonight, never so much as edging into your peripheral vision. It had been one of your conditions before you'd started: you cannot come into my line of sight, Matt. I mean it. "Can you—"

"Keep hold of the thread?" You resisted the urge to rub at your eyes. There was a headache building back there somewhere, and it was going to be a nightmare if you were at this much longer. This continuous kind of focus was difficult to maintain at times, and you'd been under an inordinate amount of stress lately. Some nights your third eye just… hurt the longer you kept it open. But this needed to be done, and if Owlsley got away before Matt could nab him, you needed to be able to track him to his new location. It was the only option you had if Matt was going to get what he needed tonight. "Got it. I can't look that way since you're going down there but I'll turn myself around and hold onto it. Just, you know, don't sneak up on me or anything."

"I promise." He dragged his hand soothingly down your spine and then he was gone, no doubt disappearing off into the dark like the ninja he was. He needed to get down there before Owlsley got away.

You gave him to the count of ten before shutting your physical eyes. You did a half turn away from the parking garage, the soles of your boots scraping across the ground, before you lowered yourself to a seated position. You stretched, spine popping as you groaned, and leaned back against the wall. Then you toyed with the blue thread wrapped around your finger as you took in the threads around you.

By closing your physical eyes, you'd removed all the typical surrounding visual stimuli: buildings, the ground, the sky. Yet the threads around you remained startlingly visible, richly incandescent against the blackness behind your closed eyelids. If you did it just right, it was possible to navigate based on the threads alone, using the way they vanished into buildings and objects as a way to avoid the obstacles around you. Then again, it wasn't something you could do all that often, in part because it seemed to drain you faster than using your actual eyes to navigate.

You grimaced at another throb of sharp pain somewhere in your skull. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to relieve it. You were gonna take a break for a few weeks when you finally left New York. Give your talent a chance to rest. You'd been using it more and more lately, first at work and now with Matt in your spare time. It was a muscle like any other, you assumed, but surely it could use a day off every now and then.

You were abruptly jerked from your thoughts when someone kicked your boot, prodding at you. You snapped your eyes open, catching the shadow of a figure off to your left. You tried to scramble to your feet, but another casual kick knocked your legs out from under you and dropped you back on your ass again.

"So this is the infamous Hound of Los Angeles, huh? Can't say I'm impressed."

Standing above you was an old man, tinted shades hiding the eyes of a hardened, lined face. He looked as sharp as razor wire, with hands more scarred than any you'd seen, though they clutched his cane in an easy grip. He had a look of distant disgruntlement as if he'd assigned you a childishly easy test and you'd failed ten seconds in, on top of setting the paper on fire. His well-placed aim should have been more shocking, considering he appeared to be blind. Instead, you ended up catching on what you could see with your third eye.

By all appearances, he had no threads. None. Nada. Zip. And yet that was an impossibility. Everyone had at least one thread, whether it was a connection to an item or their mother or, hell, a dog that had smelled them on a walk and decided they seemed like a great person worthy of love. You should have seen green or blue at the very least—the sullen, grassy green of a one-way connection; or a mild, sky-blue fondness for an old car. Instead of threads though, this man had… a grey cloudiness around him that burned your vision if you looked at it too long. Shifting inside it was a color you had no words for: a rippling, opalescent edging that devoured the light from all the threads nearby and sent your gaze spiraling away from him on sheer instinct.

You didn't know how but somehow he'd shielded himself from you, a blank void in your vision that made no fucking sense.

He snorted at your baffled expression. "Let me guess. You're confused. " His tone was mocking, and it raised your hackles in a flash. "Christ, all that time in Project Beagle taught you nothing. Look at you, you got no fucking idea what you're doing."

It was the name that finally brought you to your feet with a snarl. Those two words were something you'd spent your life running from, and they had you instantly alert and ready for a fight. "You think—"

"And," he cut you off, "you still got this thing half-closed, dumbass." His hand darted up, and he flicked one contemptuous, calloused finger against your forehead. It stung, but then abruptly—

Everything.

Blazed.

White.

After that, things got a little fuzzy.

You weren't when you hit the ground, or how long you sprawled there, gazing out past the walls and buildings to marvel at the brilliant display of light you could now see.

You'd thought… you'd thought you'd known your colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue. It was a system you'd memorized well, and a system that hadn't changed since the first moment you'd managed to open that part of yourself. Those colors were as familiar to you as the back of your hand, and you could identify a thread's color by touch alone. Now, though, there were more colors.

There was white, pure and warm and clean; black, sullen and seething; rich royal purples, earth browns, and charred strands of grey. You had… no idea what these new shades meant. You blinked absently, focusing on some of the threads running by your head. Even the old colors showed a change. Within each thread, you saw now, was a current: a rippling little stream, one that sometimes carried additional colors that speared their way through the heart of the thread as a whole. You could see how the threads changed color now, how they progressed from one shade to the next. Threads were composed of tinier threads—orange within yellow, red within orange, an inexorable march towards true connection.

You dragged your finger over an orange thread and snatches of emotion came to you more clearly than they ever had before, whispers of affection that threatened to pull you under. It felt like the thread actually wanted to draw you in. Could you really get sucked in like that? Tugged under like you'd been caught in a riptide, stretched thin until you could slither inside the thread itself?

Oh god, am I high? What is this?

That thought sent your mind drifting outwards, coasting along with your senses in search of something to ground you.

"—at did you do to her?!"

"Nothin'! Just opened that puny little eye of hers a little further. You should be thanking me—"

"She's bleeding out of her nose and ears!"

"'S not permanent, kid. If anything it'll help her. Never seen an eye as weak as that one—"

Matt?

Were you really bleeding? You dragged your cheek against the concrete below you and wrinkled your nose. Ok, the ground under your head was kind of… a little warmer and wetter than it should be. God, you hadn't bled from the nose at seeing threads since you were a kid. That was unexpected. At least it didn't seem like the fountain it had been back then; this was just a trickle. There wasn't even a puddle in front of you.

"—an you hear me?"

A gloved hand brushed your shoulder, and another carefully stroked your hair back away from your face before starting to tilt your face upwards. The light around you began to change, something so, so bright just beyond your sight.

Matt?

"Nope," you croaked, suddenly scrambling out of his hold as awareness crept back in. You swung your head away from Matt despite the way it made your head throb like someone had just clubbed you with a goddamn bat, and you cast your eyes out into the distance where it was safe. "Can't look, can't-can't look, nope, nope, won't."

God, you wanted to hurl now that you were moving and you shuddered on your hands and knees, everything out of balance as a sea of threads shifted and wobbled around you in a sickening, spinning merry-go-round of asshole-induced fuckery.

Fuck, how do I turn this off? The normal switch wasn't working even as you slapped it in your brain repeatedly. Off, off, off, lights off please.

"See? She's fine!"

"Her heart's racing a million miles a minute, Stick."

"If she can't even handle a little tap, then you two are in way more fuckin' trouble than I thought, kid."

You ground your teeth together, lifting up a hand to grind it against your forehead with a hiss. If that obnoxious old man had hit you there to turn it on, then maybe you could turn it off the same way because you needed this to stop. At the very least, having your hand there seemed to block out some of the light that had become mind-numbingly brilliant, leaking in around the edges of your protective hand.

"Christ, you gotta pick stronger allies."

"That's enough! I'm taking her home, and then you're going to—"

"I'm fine," you mumbled, pressing at your forehead so hard you were surprised you didn't break the skin as you finally, finally managed to shut your third eye and the world went dark. Really dark, actually. The sudden absence of all that light almost made your actual eyes water. You touched the skin just below your nose, fingers coming back stained with what looked like tar. You presumed it was meant to be red, and your eyes hadn't quite readjusted yet. Everything looked so muted without those threads. You really hoped your ability had a dimmer switch and this wasn't a permanent change. "Turned it off, I'm fine. We can-can calm down now."

"You're not fine," Matt growled, tone furious as he helped guide you to your feet. You'd probably be fucking pissed later too, but right now you kind of just wanted to go sleep for… a week, maybe, or a month. Your brain was chugging along at a snail's pace, like you'd been up for three days straight with no sleep and had found time to run a 5k in between. "You're bleeding and you can't stop shaking. I'm taking you home and then you," he directed that towards the old man standing smugly off to one side, "you're going to meet me back at my apartment. First the parking garage and now this?"

"Yeah yeah." You got the feeling the old man was rolling his eyes, and he held up his hands sarcastically like you'd turned a gun on him. "Big bad Stick, doing what needs to be done. You take your little girlfriend home. When you're ready to talk about something that actually matters, you come find me at your place."

The old man turned and let his cane skitter and tap its way off as Matt pulled you around to face him. He removed his gloves and took your face in his hands, tipping your head back to get a good sense of you. His jaw clenched as he carefully wiped some of the blood off your chin with his thumb before he slid his fingers further up towards your temples, focusing. You blinked tired eyes up at him. This was probably more about reassuring him than you.

"'M ok, Matt."

"You're bleeding," he repeated, more quietly now without an audience. His hands slid back down, letting a few fingers pass over your throat. To check your breathing, maybe; you weren't sure what he was looking for, but you let him do it without protesting, keeping your head tilted back where he'd directed you.

"Normal," you started, swallowing copper and holding in a cough. Some of the blood in your nose must have leaked down the back of your throat and upon realizing it, Matt swore and tipped your head gently forward so it drained out instead. It was kind of embarrassing just letting the blood drip from you onto the concrete like this but the firm hold Matt had on you told you there would be no arguments. "Used to, ugh, to… nosebleed during thread experiments. As a… a kid."

His inhale was sharp somewhere above your head, stirring your hair as he murmured darkly, "You never told me that." You were glad you couldn't see his face, because his tone told you there was something he was feeling you didn't want to think too much about. He'd filed that one away for later, you thought.

You nodded slightly, letting your forehead drop to rest against the solid warmth of his chest as the bleeding finally slowed to a stop. He settled one hand against the back of your neck, skimming a thumb over the aching knots hiding in the tendons. "Long time ago. Last time I-hnngh—" You swallowed as he did it again, dug his thumb in with a precise pressure that managed to unravel the knot he'd found. You shuddered and leaned into him further, trying not to slur as his chest rose and fell in a brief chuckle. "When I try something new. Happens then."

He squeezed lightly. "So like when you're… using a new muscle?"

"Mm," you agreed, resisting the urge to arch up into his hand like a cat even as some of the fuzz clouding your thoughts finally began to clear away. "Didn't know… someone else could mess with that. 'S freaky, want to freak out. Might be too tired. Will keep you updated."

"I didn't know either," Matt said thoughtfully, and he shifted under your forehead as if he'd turned to focus on something else. "I'll talk to him. But you, we need to get you home."

You gestured vaguely back over your shoulder, not looking up. "Money guy?"

"Got away." His irritated huff bounced your head against his chest where you'd faceplanted. "For now. But I can find him again another night."

"Hnng."

He shook his head and got an arm around you, starting to guide you towards the door that would lead down to the street as you blearily tried to wipe the blood from your face. "Once we're far enough away from here, we'll get you a cab so you won't have to walk."

"You can't be seen, D," you objected wearily where you were slumped against him. "Can't be streetside."

"There's an alley we can follow for a few blocks. One way, no cars on it. Trust me."

You sighed, but, well, you were tired, and your brain was fuzzy, and you did trust him, didn't you? "Always do, D. Always do."

-x-

The trip home was a blur, and you were glad you had the weekend to sleep in, because you didn't wake up until the next day at around noon.

You sighed, opening your eyes to the sunshine and—

Fuck!

Threads, threads everywhere, dazzling and flashing and too fucking bright, ow ow ow—

You passed a hand over your forehead, trying to close that sense off, but all it did was make the colors flicker. Another tap had the new colors disappearing, leaving you with only the old. You bared your teeth and hissed as you rapped at your head a few more times like you were flipping through a series of annoying TV channels until you finally managed to close yourself off.

You sagged back against your bed and groaned.

What had that old guy done to you? You may not have had your full mental faculties back yet—that would probably take a few more nights' sleep, if your past experiences with the progression of your abilities was anything to go by—but you were better off than yesterday and could actually contemplate the weirdness of it all. You'd never met someone who could… who could see threads like you. Then again, he'd never indicated that he could see threads. All he'd really done was poke you in the third eye as unerringly as anything you'd ever seen.

The blind part didn't freak you out. Not after knowing Matt. It was the rest of it that bothered you.

He'd been able to target your eye. He could block threads. On top of that, he'd called you… You shuddered involuntarily. Those were two titles you'd done your best to forget over the years, and he'd tagged you on both. Matt's discussion had hopefully been fruitful last night because you had far more questions than answers right now. Not that you could ask Matt how the old man knew those titles. That… discussion wasn't one you were going to bring up with Matt on your own. If he didn't ask, you wouldn't tell.

You'd have to leave a message for Matt before you headed out to run your errands today. Not that you were certain you could get through them. Your rough wake-up hadn't been a good sign, but you were approaching your Run By date at lightning speed and you had things you needed to get squared away that couldn't wait.

Well, this is going to be fun.

Except that it wasn't fun. Not at all.

It started at the grocery store. You were examining the ingredients list on a metallic tea tin, wondering at whether you might take some with you in a few weeks, when a sneeze abruptly sent threads blazing to life like God himself had just pulled another, 'Let there be light!' You yelped at the sudden explosion of brilliance and dropped the tin with a loud crash. Apparently, the lid wasn't closed, either, because a fine cloud of tea leaves shot up into the air around you. The sudden noise, in turn, spooked the elderly woman next to you, who dropped her tin with an equally noisy crash and sent more tea into the air.

"Sorry, I'm so—" and, fuck, you couldn't see the goddamn tin because threads were all over the floor. You reached down, trying to surreptitiously sweep the threads away so you could see the ground. You sneezed again, and most of the threads vanished, leaving only blue. You spotted your tea tin rolling around a few feet away. Aha, there you are, you bastard. Yet another sneeze, however, turned everything back on—am I allergic to this tea?! Come on!—and you lost sight of it again. You were left groping around and clasping at nothing but air. "I, um, I just—"

The elderly woman squinted down at you as she shuffled past. "Whatever you're on," she chortled, hobbling over and pulling her own tin from the sea of threads like some kind of magic trick, "consider sharing next time. Trips are always better with two. Take it from an old hippy." Then she picked up your tin, and plopped it back into your hands before pushing her cart away.

In hindsight, you should have just gone home right then.

Things weren't much better at the post office, where you made the mistake of scratching at your forehead as you moved forward in line. Next thing you knew, mid-step, you discovered that the middle-aged couple in front of you must have had at least fifty close friends, and twice as many acquaintances. You were so distracted by the sudden blaze of light that you faltered in your steps, the momentary slip sending you stumbling into a rack of postcards. You only barely stopped the display from crashing down onto the head of a small child who'd been walking by with his mother. You, however, were left with at least three paper cuts.

Then there was the library. A distracted frown at someone shouting down the street pulled at something in your forehead, which in turn somehow blinked your third eye open. That led to you walking right into the glass window next to the door with such a resounding crash that the librarians came running to check on you.

You called it quits for the day after that; you just needed to get home.

But even that wasn't simple. As you headed for a crosswalk, just two blocks from your apartment, some asshole blared his car horn as he sped by. That, in turn, caused another predictable shift, and the threads were so bright you couldn't see the curb. Naturally, you misjudged it, and unceremoniously face-planted in the street. You weren't sure if the nosebleed was from opening your third eye or if you'd just bashed your nose in.

You had a miserable day, in short. Courtesy of one horrible, rotten old man who'd skyrocketed to the top of your shit list. If he were on fire, you'd chug water just to go piss somewhere else and let him burn.

Maybe you'd drink yourself unconscious tonight instead.

It was a good plan. Even if the alcohol fucked with your third eye, you could tie a blanket around your head and then you could get some peace. And here, tucked away inside your apartment, you were relatively safe from the threads of others. There was no one around, nothing but you and your TV, some takeout and some booze. You flipped through channels until you had something suitably mindless and distracting.

Someone slammed a door down the hall and you growled when your third eye snapped open. You'd gotten a slightly better handle on closing it today, and now the threads dropping through the ceiling and passing through your walls were at least slightly less mind-numbingly bright—a seven instead of a ten on the illumination scale. Even at a seven, though, they were still annoying. You closed your eyes and drew in a few deep breaths. You'd found if you were calm, it was easier to close off that part of you.

The threads shimmered and disappeared. You went back to your box of lo mein, feeling a little more confident.

Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap.

"Goddamn it," you coughed, choking on noodles as your third eye fluttered open again. "Fuck, shit—"

"I take it that means you don't want me to come in," Matt said through the window you'd cracked open behind you.

"Fuck," you hissed, darting from your living area into the kitchen so you had a shield between the both of you. With the layout of your apartment, the kitchen was straight ahead from the window he was entering. That would have been bad if there wasn't a conveniently placed counter that ran along the long edge of the kitchen area. You hid behind that counter now, blocking out the sight of Matt even as you frantically tapped at your forehead. "No! No, um, just give me a minute."

Off, off, off—

Now all you were doing was flicking through settings again. Bright, dim, bright, dim, some fucking color I can't describe, only blue, bright, dim—

"You realize I can hear what you're doing, right?"

You gave a strangled laugh. "Oh, I'm embarrassingly aware, but I've had a shit day and that concern ranks low on the list. Trying to turn this thing off, hang on."

The window slid open further and panic surged inside you as you threw your head back. You couldn't tilt your head down to face the floor, not like this, because you might see your own threads spilling out of your chest when everything was this lit up. You also couldn't look too far up because you might see his.

"Breathe," he told you from the other side of your apartment, the wood sill creaking like it always did when he perched on it with a grace and ease that was, quite frankly, ridiculous because who even knew how to do that? "I'm not inside. I'll leave if you… if you want me to."

There was something vulnerable there, a fragile undercurrent running quietly underneath. You could feel it in your bones, in the way his tone wavered at the end before he swallowed it down. That hesitancy changed things. If he needed to talk, then you were going to get a firm grasp on this so you could listen to him without spending the entire discussion in a state of panic.

"I don't want you to leave," you said quickly, before you could change your mind. "Just can't, um, I can't look, so if you could keep out of my vision, that would be perfect."

Except you've trapped yourself in the kitchen and can't come out of it without looking at him, you complete and utter ass.

He was quiet for a moment, and part of you was hoping he'd turn around and leave, because while you had no idea what his senses were showing him exactly, you had no doubt it probably seemed a little unhinged. Then again, maybe he'd seen worse. You heard the sound of the window closing… and then the creak of his footsteps as he deliberately let you track his movement. A moment later, the tv went quiet.

God, whatever Matt's threads were, they must be brighter than any you'd seen before. His very presence in the room was causing a shift in the ambient light patterns along the wall above you, as if he were radiating his very own aurora borealis. You were briefly mystified, eyes darting to follow as the colors flowed and ebbed like the tide, a mingling of the light from his threads and that from other threads that passed through your apartment's ceiling and walls.

Stop looking.

You hastily averted your eyes, dropping your gaze just far enough to stare at the fridge across from you.

His footsteps paused on the other side of the counter behind you, and that itch in your chest had returned. He was close, so very close now. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. He wouldn't… wouldn't break your trust by forcing you to see him. That wasn't who Matt was. Even if he'd wanted to do otherwise, he'd always respected your choices in the past. He'd never taken more than you were willing to give, never abused your trust.

He made a soft, thoughtful sound. "Can you turn about ninety degrees to your right?"

You frowned at the fridge but reluctantly did so, listening to his footsteps as he shifted to follow your back. Now you were facing down towards the end of the small kitchen, with the opening behind you. He made his way towards you, scuffing his boots on the tile, and you instinctively stiffened in wariness. He paused again, and then continued even more slowly until he was right behind you, a burning heat at your back. You weren't sure what he was doing until he settled down behind you, his back brushing yours. He was mirroring you, facing away from you as you were him. Something about it comforted you and you let out a shaky sigh, leaning back against him. The warm strength of him at your back felt good, and you let your aching eyes return to tracking the shifting patterns of light on the wall.

"Your nose bled again earlier," he said softly. "There's a little now."

You reached up to the counter without looking, feeling around for the paper towels you kept there. After a second, his arm came up and he nudged them towards you until you could pull them down. You ripped one off and held it against your nose to catch the dribble of blood. You also went back to trying to close your third eye. Matt's presence was calming, and that seemed to help. Panic was the enemy of learning and control.

"Been having problems with it all day," you mumbled, your voice muffled. "On, off, on, off, like a switch I can't get my fingers on. Don't suppose you noticed an off switch the other night when you were checking my head out."

"You're asking the blind guy? I'm just as liable to hit an on switch as an off switch unless you're hiding braille on you somewhere."

"Very funny." You swatted lightly at his hand where he'd reached around to brush against the sensitive skin below your ear.

"I thought so."

"Well, since we're out of luck on-off switches or braille, how'd that conversation with the old guy go?"

You could feel his rumble of discontent against your back, all that hard, lean muscle passing the tremor on to you where you were pressed against him. "Stick. He's—"

"The fact his name is Stick somehow strikes me as the least weird part of this."

"You have no idea."

"No wonder I didn't phase you. You have some interesting friends, Murdock."

"A friend?" He drew the word out slowly, as if he was testing it out for the first time and wasn't sure it would fit. Then the bitterness crept in. "I guess you could call him that."

That sounded complicated, but without being able to see him, you didn't have much to go on: just his voice and the feel of him at your back. He'd tensed up, that much you could feel: rolling his shoulders as he shifted and sighed.

"He is… was my old mentor."

The past tense correction seemed significant, dragged from him with no small amount of pain. You reached over your shoulder to brush your fingers against him. "You wanna talk about it?"

"I…" The shaky breath he took shuddered through you. "He needed my help. I tried, but he… he killed someone. So we fought, and then he left. Again. That's all."

No, that's not all.

His words may have said one thing, but the unsteadiness in his voice was what gave him away. It rang with the heavy, agonizing weight of a broken history, of pain and low blows and barely healed wounds. Matt just couldn't catch a break; was never given a moment to breathe before the next cut came and sliced deep. He didn't give you a chance to say anything, though, before he quickly moved on, as if he'd said more than he intended to. "He claimed all he did was… was open whatever you had a little wider. He said you'd be grateful."

"Pretty sure he was just trolling me," you muttered, getting a startled laugh from Matt as you checked the wad of paper towels to see if your nose was done dripping blood. It seemed fine so you lobbed the stained, crumpled mess into the bin against the wall. "I couldn't see his threads, Matt."

That got a sharp inhale behind you. "None? He-he didn't have any—"

"No, no!" You waved a hand, seeing where that would have led him. You were eager to cut him off before he could spiral. You wanted to draw him out of a bad mood, not send him into one. "Not like he didn't have any threads, but like he had… I don't know. Blocked me from seeing them, somehow. He was all misty around the edges."

Matt sagged against you, letting you hold him up. The movement tasted like relief, and you let the reaction pass without comment. You were going to have to talk to him about the shielding thing later, when he was in a better place mentally.

Except I won't be talking to him about this. Because by the time he might be willing to talk… I'll be gone.

It hit you like a punch in the gut, and you covered the shudder with a cough, rubbing at your nose again as if it was just the dried blood bothering you and not… and not the cruel realization you'd just had. It was a testament to how distracted he was that your reaction slipped by him.

"There was a lot he didn't teach me," Matt said pensively. "It would be just like him to learn, I don't know. How to block something like this."

"Is that even possible?" And god, if that old man could do something like that, did it mean you could, too? Learn to mask a thread so it couldn't be tracked? That would be a game changer, a life-altering talent. If you could block threads, you could stop the Man in the White Coat from tracking you. You could… could stay here.

The sudden welling up of hope was one you crushed back down as quickly as it had appeared. How many times in your life had you thought you'd found a promising lead, only to end up at yet another dead end? They never panned out, nothing but traps in your path designed to slow you down. Even if you could learn, who knew how long that would take? That guy was ancient; for all you knew, it had taken him fifty-plus years to figure it out. And that was all assuming it wasn't just innate talent.

Your head ached. You reached up to rub at your forehead and the threads around you flickered out, dropping you into the comforting darkness again. "For now I'd just be grateful if I could keep this thing turned off," you mumbled. "I'm good now, by the way, but no guarantees, so just…"

"I'll stay behind you."

You dropped your head back against his shoulder with a sigh, letting his slow inhalations lull you into relaxation. It was warm outside but here in your apartment, it was pleasant enough. The tile was cool beneath you, under your hands where you pressed them flat to the floor. Matt, in turn, was a comforting bonfire at your back and under your head, all heat and lean muscle holding you up.

"I'm glad you're still here," he said softly.

"Hmm?"

"I said…" He hesitated. "I was worried that you might… that this might spook you. Stick, and… and what he did. I know you've had to run before. But you're still here."

You closed your eyes, and the knife inside you twisted deeper.

You hated this. You hated this so fucking much because with every step you took, you failed to distance yourself. Now here you both were, twisted up. He was going to be cut deep because of you. And why? Because you were weak. You were weak and pathetic, helpless when it came to Matt and the way you felt around him. It was a ridiculous, childish longing for something you were well aware you couldn't have no matter how much he offered it to you. You'd learned this, over and over and over, and yet here you were again.

You only had a few weeks left. You had to say something. You had to warn him.

I'm going to leave.

I won't be able to see you again.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry—

"I can't promise I'll be here forever." It was all you could manage to force out. Anything further felt too much like baring your soul. But while you couldn't quite bring yourself to say what you wanted, you still did your best to infuse those few words with as much meaning as you could, until each word, each syllable carried something deeper, emotion overflowing at the edges.

He drew in every last drop, accepting what little you could give.

"I know," he whispered sadly, tipping his head to rest it against yours where you'd settled on his shoulder. He'd taken off his mask at some point, and now it was just him, just Matt: soft hair, comforting heat, and faint cinnamon. "But you're here now. Let me… let me have that at least."

And you did. You sat there with him on the floor, just talking, even as the night grew deeper.

You'd let him take as long as he needed.

-x-

Two days later, you found a letter slipped under your door.

It was too tattered, too messy to have been Mr. Winter's doing. The paper this letter was written on was dirty, corners folded without any real care: a far cry from the rich card stock of Mr. Winter's usual correspondences. The writing on this particular letter had been made with a steady hand, but the sizing was slightly jumbled, with no real concern beyond legibility. You glanced over it curiously.

"You probably still think I'm an asshole. But before you throw this out, read the whole fucking thing. It's the least I deserve after helping you out."

You narrowed your eyes. That had to be him, that horrid old man who'd jabbed you in the forehead. Help? He thought he'd helped you? All he'd done was poke a finger in your psychic eye and mock you. You really were tempted to just… chuck it out, or maybe light the whole thing on fire. Curiosity got the better of you.

"You and I both know you're in trouble, and you're planning to get the hell out, which the kid would have noticed if he'd wanted to. Only smart thing you've ever done was cut and run. But you've stalled too long and he's all emotional. You need to break it off. So, here's a fucking gift: Matty blames himself for everything."

"No fucking duh, dude," you muttered. It wasn't like it was a secret; you'd been well aware of Matt's tendency towards self-blame. The fact that it was presented as new information to you had you rolling your eyes. The old man had probably snooped in your apartment too if he knew you were planning to run; you'd have to check your go bag to make sure he hadn't left you any surprises. You read further as you picked at a torn edge along the paper.

"Fortunately for you, that thinking extends to his dear ol' dad dying, and his mom up and running off before that."

Your hands froze, and everything in you stood on end. You wanted to stop reading. You shouldn't… you shouldn't be reading this. And yet you couldn't stop yourself, looking on in horror as a bystander might at a car crash.

"You wanna hit Matty where it hurts? There ya go. You hit him with either of those and it'll hurt. Hit him with both and he'll be down for the count. Tell him they're his fault; tell him you're leavin' before anything like that can happen to you."

Jesus, why? Why would anyone give you this kind of ammunition? Why would anyone Matt called a friend… why would they give you the ability to break him so completely and thoroughly? This was something soul-destroying, what you were being directed to do. There would be no recovering from this, should you target Matt this way, strike him right down in the very center-most part of his being.

"Before you get all fucking weepy, you're doing it for his own good. When you run, you need to cut him off, or he'll never let that feeling go, and we both know it. Just think about it. You've got a few weeks left at least."

The letter ended there.

It was a cold, ruthless calculation and the knowledge he'd forced on you sat sour and heavy inside you. You wanted to retch in disgust, as if you could expel what you'd learned like some sort of toxin, but there was no purging it from your system. In one cruel stroke, he'd given you everything you needed to sever your tie with Matt: a silver bullet that would strike him down so quickly you weren't sure when he'd get up again.

You vowed then, staring down at that horrible letter, that you'd never use that against Matt. Ever. You'd find another way, no matter what you had to do.

Wouldn't you?