Chapter Text
Matthew had always been keenly aware of his inadequacies; of his fearfulness, his sullenness, his inability to look people in the eyes when they spoke to him. He would feel a curl of self-loathing in his stomach when these things were brought up - when Jonathan would reprimand him, gently, for staring silently at his hands when he was meant to be opening up, or when Ross would laugh in confusion as he pulled away from a friendly slap on the back. He’d shake away the tears that always seemed to be prickling at the corners of his eyes, reminding himself that he should be better about these things by now, that a man in his thirties should be confident, shouldn’t flinch away from the people he knows won’t hurt him. But still, it’s hard.
The tablets helped; he’d been prescribed antidepressants a few years ago, and his months-long slumps, when he’d lay motionless in bed with the curtains drawn and leave only to go to work, had lessened to weeks or days. He thought he cried less, too, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d only ever allowed himself to cry when he was alone, and the times he’d broken his rule and broken down in front of Jonathan had filled him with a shame so sharp that he’d had to dig the side of his utility knife into the rough skin of his palm to make himself feel better. He’d been afraid, then, that Jonathan would notice the bandage and know what had happened, but he never had, which Matthew was endlessly grateful for.
Tonight, he’s out on a case. He was supposed to be at a bar in town, celebrating the grant that Jonathan had secured for the Woodyard, drinking and laughing with dozens of vague acquaintances and total strangers. It was the sort of thing that Jonathan loved, that Jonathan wanted him there for, and he knew that, despite his profuse apologies, Jonathan was upset with him for not showing. He really had needed to work, but he still felt guilty at the relief he felt being here instead of there, at the way the anxiety that had gnawed at his stomach all day disappeared with a single phone call.
“Matthew,” Jen says, a twinge of impatience in her voice. “Did you hear anything I just said?
He looks up, embarrassed. “Sorry, sorry.”
“I just asked -“ her phone begins to ring, My Life by Billy Joel, and she sighs. “One sec.”
He looks out the window of the car. It’s dark already, one of those evenings where the clouds are so thick that they block out the moon, when the only light comes from the windows of houses and the occasional streetlamp. Jen is talking to her son - telling him to stop bothering his sister, that there’s money for takeaway under the mousepad at her desk. She tells him she loves him, and Matthew imagines, for a moment, his own mother telling him these things. It makes him feel pathetic, and he steels himself a little, taking his mind back to the case. He’s good at this, careful and methodical and respected. He dislikes so much about himself, but not this.
“Anyway,” Jen says seconds later, pushing her phone back into her pocket. “I was asking if you knew the guy. When you were a kid, I mean.”
The man they are going to talk with, the man they think is involved in the burglary they’re investigating, had been in the Brethren once. He was a few years older than Matthew, and his family had left - just up and left, not a word - when Matthew was 12 or 13. He hadn’t been very nice back then. But it’s been a long time; Matthew doubts he remembers.
“Yeah,” he says. “A little bit. His family didn’t stay for long.”
“I wonder why he came back?” she says, pushing open the car door. “Seems a bit random.”
“Yeah. Wanted some quiet, maybe.” They walk up the front path and knock on the man’s door.
Matthew wouldn’t recognize him if he didn’t know his name. He’s tall, now, and large, with a patchy beard and big, calloused hands that make Matthew feel sick with nerves. He can feel the man’s eyes on him across the scuffed kitchen table, the sneer of contempt on his lips. He reminds himself that he’s the detective and the man is the suspect - that he doesn’t need to feel frightened, that he doesn’t need to feel ashamed.
“Warren,” he says, his voice coming out quieter than he meant it to. He clears his throat. “We just have a few questions for you regarding a burglary in town. You’ve come up on some CCTV -“
“I remember you,” the man says, voice rough. “Matthew Venn, right? You playing detective now?”
“I-“ his voice quivers a little. He looks over at Jen, who looks a bit uneasy, then back at the man. “Yes. I’m in the force.”
“I didn’t know they let faggots in,” the man says, and Matthew freezes, heart thumping, tears threatening to betray him and well up in his eyes. He’s embarrassed, suddenly, at his own silence, and forces himself to look at the man, to compose himself and measure his voice to sound perfectly calm, perfectly professional.
“This isn’t about me. We’re here to talk about-“
“Don’t speak to him like that,” Jen says, voice angry. “He’s a detective on this case. You don’t speak to him like that.”
“It’s fine, DS Rafferty.”
“Do you remember,” the man says, “when your mom found that fag magazine you hid, with all the shirtless men. And she took it to Brother Dennis, and he whipped you right there in front of everyone. You squealed like a pig.” He laughs, eyes trained directly on Matthew, but Matthew can’t meet them, can’t look up from his hands.
“We’re taking you in,” Jen says hurriedly, standing. “We’ll question you at the station. Come on. Now!” The man stands, smiling cruelly, and Matthew tries to collect himself, to be strong, to be emotionless. He wishes he was at home, alone, where he could cry. Or with Jonathan, who would take care of him, who would rub his shoulders and run a hand through his hair and tell him that it was ok, that he loved him. He sets his face into something passive and expressionless.
“You should drive, Rafferty,” he says quietly. “I’m not feeling very well.”
Later, after all the paperwork is finished and signed and placed neatly in its file, Matthew allows Jen to make him a cup of tea. She pushes it into his hands, warm and grounding, and sits down beside him.
“Matthew -“
“It’s fine, Jen. Really.” Even as he says it, he knows it isn’t convincing. He can hear the slight tremor in his voice, feel his lip quivering, just a bit, just enough to give away his distress.
“It was cruel. It’s okay to be upset - you should be upset.” She places a hand on his shoulder, gentle. “Was it- was it true? Did they do that to you?”
He can’t look at her. It’s humiliating, sitting here like this, being asked about these things. He hates how soft her voice is, how kind she’s trying to be, how inconceivable the facts of his childhood are to her. It’s exposing, and he doesn’t like to feel exposed. Especially not here, where he’s supposed to be strong, intelligent, the best version of himself.
“I don’t feel well,” he says. “Really. I’m just going to run to the toilets.”
He rushes away, setting his half-empty mug on his desk as he passes. As soon as he locks the door, he presses himself to his knees over the toilet, vomiting. It’s disgusting, and he prays that Jen can’t hear it - that she goes home to be with her children, to help them with their homework and put them to bed. He can feel himself starting to cry, and he tries, desperately, to stop himself, but the tears are already running down his face and he’s struggling to compose himself. He knows he’ll hate himself for it later, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Jonathan, listening to it ring through until he hears his husband’s voice on the other end.
“Matthew?”
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound as normal as possible. “Are you still out?”
“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. I just - I’m feeling a little off. Do you think you could pick me up? On your way home, you don’t have to leave now if you’re still -“
“I was about to leave. Are you at the station?”
“Yeah,” Matthew says.
He waits in the toilet until he hears a car pull up. He can’t bear to return to his conversation with Jen, so he darts out, giving her a little wave, praying she forgets about the whole thing.
“Wait, Matthew-“ she shouts, turning to follow him out.
“Please, Jen.” He looks at her pleadingly. “I don’t want this to be a thing. It’s fine, really. I promise.”
“Alright, alright,” she says, and he feels minutely better. “But take care of yourself. Let him take care of you.” She looks in the direction of Jonathan’s car. Matthew nods.
“Have a good night, Jen.”