Work Text:
He pulls up slowly to the church, bike kicking up dirt. The engine purrs then stalls as he props one boot on the ground. He reaches up to remove his helmet, burn scars on his shoulders aching at the movement, but hesitates. Here, his presence is unwelcomed, borderline blasphemous.
He keeps the helmet on. Reaching under his leather jacket instead, he tugs at the beads around his neck, revealing a rosary. He lowers his head toward the cross clasped in his hands. Slowly, he begins to mutter, tongue stumbling over long-forgotten prayers.
He remembers Brother Jeremiah carefully teaching him the words, remembers once wanting to carve them into his soul. This church was his home, before he was taken to the Wammy’s House. Before he learned that God was not always on his side.
His plans have to work. He cannot afford to lose, not only for his all-consuming pride, but also for his life. Even if things go wrong, Matt has to make it out alive. He has not prayed in many years, but he prays now, fervently.
It is not God’s existence he doubts, only His favor.