Chapter Text
Matthew once again made his way down to the motel's business center. While he could have used the phone in his room, he didn't want the number he'd be calling to appear on the room records. Probably no one would notice and there wouldn't be any issues, but he'd be sloppy to leave that loose end.
The phone picked up right before the first ring finished, the connection almost swallowing a breathless, "Hello."
"Did I call at a bad time?" Matthew asked.
He hadn't activated the computer this time. It was already on, the hum of its fan a persistent and unavoidable noise in the tiny room. Matthew watched the cascading shapes of the screen saver bounce across the screen in anticipation of what kind of response he'd receive.
"That depends why you're calling," Sam answered, her voice carefully controlled.
"We're wrapping up our part in the case here," he said, "and I wanted to give you an update."
"On the case?"
Her tone didn't perk up, and Matthew could sense her steeling herself for what he was going to say.
"No."
She didn't respond immediately; the shapes changed color and kept bouncing, new lines writing over the old.
Matthew heard the static of water running at her end, and then the clang of the oven door opening and closing. "I just got in. I'm making dinner. Oh, where is … there it is."
Matthew could easily visualize her, still slightly flustered from the commute home and rushing around her kitchen with her glasses perched on top of her head. She wouldn't have taken the time yet to change out of her work clothes and into the sweatpants and fuzzy socks she favored when she was in for the night.
"What are you making?" he asked.
"I dunno. It was in the freezer." Paper rattled, then Sam sighed. "Looks like it's beef stroganoff. Not exactly what I was in the mood for."
"Well–" Matthew couldn't not take this opening. "We're flying back tomorrow. Barring any weather-related surprises, we should be back in DC tomorrow night. Why don't you come over the next night for some real food? I'm cooking."
Sam was still flustered enough that she didn't immediately understand what he was saying, and he could imagine her debating whether to make an excuse to turn down the invitation. He didn't blame her; if it hadn't been her, Matthew wouldn't have issued a social invitation. Everyone needed their down time after putting in the hours at work.
"Wait. You're flying in? All three of you?"
"All three of us," Matthew confirmed.
"Does this mean that your 'complications' are all resolved?"
"As well as they can be for now."
"Yes!"
Matthew grinned, unable to not absorb and share in her excitement. While it was too soon to judge whether he had made the right decision overall, this moment, at least, felt like validation.
"That's part of why I want you to come over." Matthew drew a breath and twisted the phone cord around his fingers. In telling Sam what had happened, he was confirming its realness, and that was harder to deal with than he'd expected. "Talbot knows."
"Knows?" Her voice cracked with the surprise. "Like, everything?"
Although Sam couldn't see it, Matthew shook his head. "Not everything. We barely had any time to talk at all, between Diana—Assistant Special Agent in Charge Chase—" He emphasized the complete title, as a reminder to both him and Sam about what her role in his life was now, "—being onsite with us and the case itself. When we finally did, I tried to keep the explanation as simple as I could."
He'd also been working off different bases. For Sam, he'd tried to demonstrate his healing, and then had been forced to flat out tell her the truth. Talbot had seen him die. The latter tended to be much more convincing to the uninitiated, albeit far less pleasant for him. Sam had also been his daughter, with whom he'd had a lifetime of relationship to lean his explanations on. Talbot had only what she'd been able to glean in the last few weeks.
But now he had to be extra careful, he thought, because with everyone getting different edits of his history, keeping track of who knew what could become very complicated.
"Oh, wow. How did she take it?"
Leaning against the solid bulk of the desk, he continued winding and unwinding the cord around his fingers. The tactile sensations helped him focus his thoughts, he'd found, and because he was on an unsecured phone, he felt the need to word his responses carefully.
"We got there in the end. I hope. But now you and I need to have a talk, because her being in the loop affects you too. So, how about that dinner?"
"Day after tomorrow, you said? Will seven o'clock work? I'm in. I want to hear the whole story."
"I thought I'd be seeing you again, Mateo," Father Tomas stated. He ushered Matthew into his office and pointed him at same thick leather chair Matthew had sat in on every previous visit.
"Did you?" Matthew asked. He hesitated in the doorway, flummoxed by this greeting. He'd expected to need to cancel his appointments with the Father by phone, citing an urgent need to relocate. He'd so convinced himself that he wouldn't be seeing the counselor again that he'd almost forgotten to attend this session. "You had more confidence in my return than I did, it seems."
Tomas had on jeans with his sweater today, as if he hadn't dressed that morning with the intention of conducting church business. They were clean and free of holes or tears, yet they still seemed more casual than Matthew had previously seen him.
Tomas settled into his own chair and used his good arm to cross his bad one over his stomach. His ever-present notebook sat propped on the arm of the chair, which was wide enough to be sufficient support. "I assume your conversation with your partner must have gone well. Why don't you tell me about it?"
Matthew helped himself to a small bottle of water from the miniature fridge Tomas kept next to his desk for exactly that purpose and cracked the lid. His throat had gone dry before Tomas finished the setup, and he could barely swallow by the time the full question landed. Taking a swig, he let the water rest in his mouth for a moment, moistening it, before urging it down his throat.
Talbot knew the truth now, and Matthew had still chosen to stay in his role as her partner. Either of those realities could turn out to be poor ones. There wasn't any way to know how she'd handle knowledge of his Immortality once he started letting her see what it really looked like: the knowledge he had that Matthew McCormick didn't or shouldn't, the risks he could take with confronting a perp, the day-to-day decisions he made to protect his secret.
"She took the information well," Matthew concluded, after providing a brief summary of the trip. "She asked the right questions and … well …" He spun the bottle in his hands, chasing the cool condensation around the plastic exterior. "She insisted on verifying my claims."
Tomas's gaze darted up from the notebook in which he'd been writing. No doubt, he assumed Matthew had killed himself somehow; as types of proof, it did tend to be convincing. "How did she do that?"
"I made a comment about the local Historical Society having relevant newspapers, so she made me go to it and look at them with her."
"What did you think of that approach?"
Matthew considered the question carefully. He'd gone along with the visit mostly because he'd been too wrapped up in his thoughts to refuse. Nor had she accepted his attempts to refuse. But, it had been worth it. Getting to share a piece of his past with Talbot — and getting to hear some of hers — had given them the first honest personal exchange they'd had in their time working together.
"I think I shouldn't have expected anything else," he answered. "And I think I'm going to have to be prepared for her to push back on everything I tell her."
Tomas tapped the end of his pen against his tablet in a rapid staccato, and Matthew felt his attention drawn to the impacts. From this distance, he couldn't read Tomas's notes, though he could clearly see that something had been underlined.
"Talbot is not the first mortal you've ever shared your Immortality with," Tomas stated. He knew about Sam and Judy, and was intelligent enough to recognize that Matthew had approached those explanations from a position of experience. "Is she your first coworker?"
Matthew took another long swig of water and squinted into the depths of his memories, searching. So many people had passed through his life, in so many different relationships. "First in the modern world," he finally said. "I think."
"First co-worker, then. First federal agent. First investigator. How do you feel about bringing someone in your world who isn't going to stand by and let you decide what she learns, and how?"
Matthew stared at Tomas as the weight of that question sank down on him. He'd recognized her curiosity and stubbornness, he'd seen how she tracked down information and deduced new understandings from it. Of course she had all those qualities; they were part and parcel of the job.
How had he not recognized that she would keep acting on those characteristics even when he wasn't there to guide or to explain? Even when she was off the clock? What would happen if (when?) she arrived at one of her off-the-wall conclusions and didn't think to verify it with him?
Had she already done that, and he didn't know?
He blew out a slow breath. "It'll be fine," he said. "She's already stepped up for me once, mere hours after I told her. A lot of the people I've told would have needed longer to come around."
"What did she do?"
Matthew told him, then. About getting shot in the field. About how close Diana had come to also learning his secret. About how Talbot had covered for him. He finished the bottle as he spoke, then crushed the plastic in his hand when he was done, as if to mark the end of the story too. "It was an excellent excuse to use, and I'm impressed she was able to come up with it on the spot like that."
"An excuse?" Tomas wrote something else on his notepad, and then underlined it twice. "Is that what you think it was?"
"Certainly," Matthew answered. "What else would it be? She needed to come up with a plausible explanation, and that one worked. It gave Diana what she needed and protected me from further questions I wouldn't have been able to truthfully answer."
Tomas leaned back in his chair, eying Matthew from the new distance. "I think you and I need to start talking about what PTSD looks like in Immortals."
"We do? But I don't have—"
"Next session." Another underline cut across the page, a scratch of pen on paper that echoed the finality of a blade at the neck. "How does Saturday look?"
Matthew balked, this decree seeming to be our of nowhere. If Tomas thought Matthew was prone to PTSD, why had he not brought it up before?
"Not Wednesday?" That was their usual day, after all.
Tomas shook his head. "I think it's best if we don't wait a full week to speak again. There's a lot we're going to need to cover—and Immortality doesn't mean that time doesn't matter."
While Matthew wasn't eager to spend more days with Tomas, he recognized the seriousness in Tomas's voice: he was genuinely worried. Perhaps humoring Tomas couldn't hurt. At that very least, it would help appease Diana, and perhaps lessen any punishment she issued for his upset in the field.
He pulled out his own notebook, flipped to the relevant page, and glanced at his schedule. Inasmuch as his work gave him weekends off, he appeared to be free. "I'll pencil it in," he said.
They spoke for a few more minutes, wrapping up the session and reinforcing the key points of the day. Finally, Matthew stood, eager to be done. He'd answered so many questions already.
And, now, he owed Talbot a drink.