Work Text:
Saturday night was a shitty drink at another dive bar, another run-down casino. They let him smoke in the corner for a beer and a tip, and the girl who came by tonight was a blonde with perfumed wrists and a pretty good tongue. He spent the night filling up his pockets, and catching the dealer with a sharp wink, like he knew better than to insult him by doing too well. 5K, and he hit the street again, feeling satisfied.
It was hot as hell out still in the desert, hardly anything to write home about, and Matt shrugged off his vest before he found his car by the alleyway, parked outside of a streetlight, because a ride this hot would have gotten stolen anywhere else. The heat made it smell like death itself was hanging in the air, filling up his nostrils with the putrid scent of iron and burning metal.
Something glinted when he turned the corner, black and shiny, huddled beside the red hood of his Camaro. Matt almost took out a gun.
"Don't shoot." The voice was gruff.
"What the fuck?"
He couldn't see too clearly, and slung down the goggles he had around his face to his neck. Not too close, because everybody carried a knife and he wasn't goddamn special, but close enough to see someone leaning against his car, half-sliding off like they were about to collapse.
Matt cleared his throat, his hand moving to his pistol in his back pocket. "Who are you?"
"Doesn't matter. Get in the car."
"I'm not getting into my damn car if you're not leaving."
The man shifted, and that's when he saw it clearly, in the glimpse of the orange lights on the street. He was skinny, probably around Matt's height, and clutching his shoulder as he tried to hoist himself up against the wall. Matt's eyes were adjusting in the dark, and he saw darker smears across the brick, haphazard in the shape of dragging fingers.
That was when he noticed the heavy smell in the air was blood.
"Who are you?" Matt repeated.
"Get in the car."
Well, this was going to be a game of Marco Polo if they didn't stop. It was far too dark for Matt to tell if any of this was real or a set-up, and he couldn't see much of the man's face or anything of his figure other than how thin his arms were. If this was a way of stealing his Camaro, then shit, the thugs were getting awful creative.
But Matt was cautious, not cruel. The smell of blood was heavy, and he heard the man's breathing increase in the quiet of the night, humid and sticky. Either he was going to get into the car, or watch the man bleed to death in the dark.
Matt unlocked his car and threw the car door open on the passenger's side, tossing his vest in the backseat. The man didn't wait to climb in, dragging himself into the seat, and Matt grimaced at the smell of the blood getting inside the goddamn car and wondered if he'd lost his fucking sanity.
He'd kicked back on the road before there was enough light on the street for him to glance over at the man. He wasn't as thin as he'd thought, in the alleyway; his arms were wiry, but he looked like he'd had a good fight. He wasn't looking over at him, curled up against the window, and his face was covered by dirty, shoulder-length blond hair soaked at the tips with blood.
"The hospital?" Matt asked, pressing on the gas pedal. He didn't know whose blood it was.
"No."
"What?"
"No, don't drive me to the damn hospital. Drive me to your place."
Matt reeled. "My place? I'm not bringing you to my apartment, I don't even know you."
"I can't go to the hospital."
"Why the fuck not?"
"You think I get stabbed for fun?" the man paused, and finally looked at him. "I'm not going to the fucking hospital, so drive me to your apartment."
"Holy shit. I don't fucking know you, I'm not going to--"
There was a click of something beside his ear, and Matt didn't have to look to know what it was. The barrel pressed against his temple firmly, just hard enough to get the message, and he felt his blood run cold. He cursed under his breath.
"Take me to your apartment, or I blow your fucking brains out."
Despite himself, Matt glanced over. Everything about his face was sharp--his gaze, his nose, the curl of a scowl on his lips. He was glaring at him with ferocious intensity, his gun pressed against his head, a goddamn rosary dangling from the barrel and clicking against the metal like a fucked up pendulum. And he held it with his bad arm. His other hand, gloved, clutched at his shoulder still.
He did not waver.
"Jesus Christ," Matt said, swerving over to the next lane back to his apartment, his tires screeching. "I should have left you to fucking die on the street."
Out of the corner of his eye, the man's finger tightened over the trigger, and Matt didn't say another word on the drive back.
-
The drive was shortly over ten minutes, but neither of them said a word. The man lowered the gun after he was sure the message was clear, and it was, ringing loudly in the car and hanging heavily like the scent.
It was going to be a bitch to wash out--if he could wash it out.
Matt did not question him. Some Saturday night this was turning out to be, being held at gunpoint and forced to drive back to his own apartment. He didn't know what the fuck was awaiting him there; maybe he was going to get killed anyway. If he had stayed behind and let that blond chick take him back to her place, this might not even have happened.
They were in the parking lot, and Matt killed the engine, thankful to get out of the car.
The man followed him up the dingy, shitty elevator, and Matt could still smell the lingering scent of blood, and he was going to fucking kill himself if he had to smell it any longer. His apartment was going to smell, too, and he'd have to trash whatever furniture he had that this fucker was going to touch, and God, he really should not have even gone out today.
When he unlocked the door, he was half-expecting someone to just shoot him right then and there, blowing him way back into the hallway. It wasn't like people weren't out to get him. Maybe it was all those years of embezzlement that finally caught up to him.
His apartment was the same as ever. He turned on the light, and the man pushed past him, immediately heading for the kitchen.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Matt demanded, following him. "You trying to raid my pantry?"
"I'm trying to find a first aid kit."
The fluorescent light of the kitchen turned on beside him, and Matt stared. The man in front of him was pale, like all the blood had been drawn out of his face, and it set in a second later that if he didn't attend to him now, he was going to have to not just deal with the smell of blood but a fun, new corpse, too.
Matt pushed past him, elbowing him out of the way and digging out a first aid kit underneath the sink. He hadn't used it in ages, but he was sure it had something; gauze, alcohol, something. The man nodded, leaning against his counter and immediately unzipping his leather vest. Matt glanced at him warily, noting that he was actually wearing tight, full leather with lace-up pants, and he kept his gun stowed right where his dick should be, and fuck, this man was goddamn insane.
The leather vest dropped to the floor, forgotten. Matt tried not to notice the scars that littered the man's body--harsh, pink and white bumps on his skin in the shape of bullets and elongated ones that were clearly from knives.
"Show me your wound."
The man pulled off his glove with his teeth and spat it on the floor, too, revealing his injury. Matt drew him a breath; it was deep, gaping, and still bleeding.
"It might need stitches," Matt said hollowly.
"You a doctor?"
"No, I'm a fucking hacker." Matt looked up at the man irritatedly, before digging around in the house for a needle and thread. An ex-girlfriend liked to sew. "I've never needed to suture any wounds."
"Pity, then."
"Shut the fuck up."
The man tsked loudly, and Matt really wasn't sure how he was still able to be patronizing at a time like this. He returned with what he needed and hastily disinfected everything with hydrogen peroxide, wasting no time in piercing the skin of the stranger in front of him. He held in a grin when the man inhaled sharply when he punctured the wound.
"What's your name?" he asked conversationally, even though he was stitching someone's stab injury after they had pulled a gun out on them in his car and that was hardly a pleasant situation.
"Mello."
Matt almost laughed. "Mello?"
"Yeah," Mello replied, unfazed.
Mello didn't bother to ask him what his name was back, and Matt hadn't felt the need to offer it. He pulled the thread through the last of the injury and cut it, tying a tight knot and throwing the pin somewhere in the first aid kit.
"What is yours?" Mello asked belatedly.
"Matt."
The next step was the gauze. The kit had been years old, but Matt figured it'd be fine anyway, wrapping it around Mello's shoulder and wondering again what the fuck he was doing. He was sure Mello wasn't his real name because no sound parent would name their child that, but he didn't pursue it any further, finishing his bandaging neatly and immediately turning around to find a cigarette.
It was almost automatic. He hadn't realized he'd been craving one until he had one at his lips and was fumbling for his Zippo in his pocket.
"Matt," Mello said, by the doorway, already far too familiar with him.
Matt didn't respond right away, lighting the cigarette and exhaling the smoke. The taste came like a wave. "Yeah, what?"
"I wanted you to tell you something."
"What is it now?" Matt looked up at him, tossing his pack back onto the couch. The man--he was leaning against the doorframe with ease, almost as if he hadn't been near collapsing mere minutes ago, his arms crossed at his chest. There were bruises blooming across his face and on his arms, the color of rust. Mello hadn't bothered to wear his vest, leaving it on the kitchen floor, so he was standing there topless in his tight lace-up leather pants with a cross buckle, and Matt felt like he walked head-first into a gay porno.
Mello didn't say anything for a bit, but he jerked his chin towards Matt's collar. Matt's gaze followed, and he found, beyond his understanding, a small audio bug that had been planted there sometime before the end of the night.
He immediately took it off and burned it with the Zippo lighter without hesitating. It wasn't as if this hadn't happened before several times--and he should learn to be more guarded, but somehow, he just never felt the searing need to. It couldn't have been Mello, or else he wouldn't have told him.
The fucking blonde at the casino. He felt his pride vaguely wounded.
"Thanks."
"You used to that sort of thing, huh?" Mello smirked.
"Yeah, guess I am." Matt paused, snuffing out his cigarette. He smiled back. "But that makes the two of us."