Work Text:
Matt hadn’t changed clothes since it happened. He’d taken his vest off and replaced it with another, fearful that the plating had been damaged in the brief skirmish, but the rest of his outfit had been glued to his body since he’d walked out of Pred’s house after drawing the chalk outline and doing his best to try and clean up the blood.
He’d taken lives before, he had more blood on his hands than most of the force if his past was taken into account, but there was something different about this one. Something that made him stare at the dashboard of the scout and wonder if the outcome could have been any different. His foot tapped against the gas pedal, the other against the floor of the car, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel and stayed that way until his hands started to hurt, then he relaxed until it faded to a bitter sting, and repeated the process. There was dried blood under his nails, in the faint wrinkles on his knuckles, splotches of blood on his arms that hadn’t gone away despite his attempts at scrubbing them clean in the bathroom.
His CGM was beeping at him and he knew that he should’ve gone home a while ago to sort it out, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He couldn’t bring himself to get out of the scout and go into the building where people were more than likely going to be celebrating the death of the man that he’d killed, he couldn’t bring himself to put on the brave face and go to the locker room to change and put his things away and put headphones on so he’d have a valid reason behind ignoring everyone who wanted to talk to the chief. He didn’t feel like the chief of police. He was supposed to be good at what he did, he was supposed to be able to deescalate situations and prevent bodies from piling up in the morgue, but he’d filled another hole in the wall and added a new headstone to the cemetery with the pressing of a trigger.
The fact that he would’ve been stabbed had he not pulled the trigger was null in his mind. He’d been stabbed before– by the fucking embodiment of Death itself, in one instance, he could’ve handled being stabbed again. But then somebody else would have shot him because his panic alarm would have gone off the second he hit the floor, and Richard would’ve been called because everyone was too nosy for their own good and Matt could seldom sneeze some days without Richard finding out from someone or other. Still, he wouldn’t have been the one to kill him. He wouldn’t have more blood on his hands. He wouldn’t be sitting in his car, staring at the dust that was gathering on the dashboard and the flickering engine light behind the steering wheel, torturing himself with a thousand and one what-if’s that he’d never truly know the answer to.
The reactions to the news hadn’t helped. He liked to think of himself as someone who could take a joke regardless of the situation, but he hated the fact that one person had checked in with him whilst the rest of his department had been joking and announcing that they didn’t care. He understood not liking the guy, he was guilty of it himself in the past and he was beyond guilty of wishing death on people he didn’t like, but he would’ve preferred it if they kept their mouths shut, or asking how the fuck he was holding up after he killed someone he considered to be a friend. Was it wrong for him to want that? He knew that he’d answer that he was fine, he’d be fine when some time passed, but he wanted someone other than his husband to ask, and he wanted them to mean it.
There was a part of him that wanted to try and call Tessa until she woke up, to take her up on the offer to get high in a park even though he knew that it would upset Richard. He just wanted to forget for a while, and falling back into an age-old tradition with his oldest friend seemed like the perfect way to do it. There was another part, though, that called to him from a part of his mind that he’d closed off a while ago. He’d told himself that he was sober, that he would stay sober this time because he couldn’t go back to secretly drinking himself half to death and using the excuse of work to sleep it off before he went home to Richard. All he wanted to do was drive to the liquor store and buy as much as his cash would allow before driving up to the boat and knocking himself out cold. He’d told himself that he’d stay sober after he got shouted at by his father-in-law for only partially admitting to his bad habit. He told himself that he’d stay clean but… He’d killed someone. There had to be some wiggle room in that promise for something like that, right? The blood was still on his clothes. The body was still in the morgue, the chest cavity full of shells from a bullet that he’d fired. He killed someone. He was allowed a drink for that. Charlie wasn’t around to shout at him about ruining his life.
What was there left to ruin, anyway? He was going to be charged with corruption and banned from ever holding a badge again and he had nothing outside of Richard if he didn’t have his job. He had his stupid side job as a newscaster, but that wouldn’t make enough to get them by. He’d sit alone in the house, waiting for Richard to get home from work, probably getting calls from Pred about anything and everything that bothered him.
Maybe he’d call Beric and they could catch up by the boat like they used to do. It’d be cold and they’d probably need a blanket and a coat because the ocean always brought a chill that stuck to him like glue, but the alcohol would warm him through enough to stave off a cold.
With those thoughts in mind, Matt managed to unclasp his hands from around the steering wheel. He turned the scout off and hesitated before he took them out of the ignition, but he shoved the keys into his pocket and got out regardless. He’d get changed, get into his car, drive to the liquor store and call Beric on the way, and then he’d either go home and pretend to be fine, or he’d go to the boat and force himself to forget.