Highlander fanfic: "After Letting Go" (feat. Matthew McCormick and Cory Raines)
Title: After Letting Go
Summary: The aftermath of the episode "Manhunt" for Matthew, and a concerned old friend...
Special Agent Matthew McCormick quietly worked away, filling out forms and typing up his report on the computer terminal he'd been assigned for the purpose. He had a laptop, and he could connect it to the FBI secure network, but why bother when he was in the resident field office anyway? There was a lot of paperwork generated by the fatal shootout with a famous sports star who had the beginnings of a promising political career, it turned out.
And every agent involved was being especially careful with their reports -- as, no doubt, were the members of the SWAT team who had assisted -- because it was much harder to declare this sort of thing a justified shoot when the body had gone missing from the morgue.
Matthew had made sure to be angry and appalled over that disappearance. He'd had some sharp words for the Special Agent in Charge, too. Coffee break chatter speculated that an obsessed fan had taken the body last he'd heard. Teams of agents were searching for it as quietly as possible, trying not to alert the media, and every agent living locally had been ordered to submit to a search of their property. Ought to liven the place up a bit.
Matthew, of course, had invited them to go over his latest hotel room and his company-issue sedan with his more exquisitely polite sarcasm. They wouldn't find Carl Robinson there -- or anywhere unless they decided to look for a living man traveling under a different name. Not likely, considering how many bullet holes he'd had in him when he was declared dead at the scene.
They also wouldn't find his sword or his emergency new identity papers. Matthew was nobody's fool.
He was rereading his report with an eye to tweaking it for the benefit of the therapist he had a mandatory appointment with when his cell phone rang. He frowned at the display, not recognizing the number.
"Hello?"
"How's the forty-second state?" asked a voice almost as familiar to him as his own. Cory. Matthew's eyebrows raised even as his shoulders relaxed slightly. (A counter-intuitive reaction, given how much trouble Cory tended to trail in his wake, but it was always nice to have proof-of-life.)
"Warmer than expected."
"I saw the bust in the news." Ah. "Are you okay?"
With a start, Matthew recognized that the cheerfulness was masking concern, and had been for so long that he'd stopped noticing it. He'd been holding onto his anger at Carl for decades, without entirely realizing what it was doing to his family.
He stifled his first instinct to reassure Cory, because he couldn't very well explain what had actually happened while sitting in the middle of an FBI office, and he didn't want Cory to think he could find peace in revenge... no matter how long he'd been trying to convince himself of it. With a blink at the words on his computer screen, he chose his tactic.
"I'm fine," he said unconvincingly, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Actually, I'm tired." He leaned aback in his chair, letting his shoulders slump a little more for the sake of anyone watching. It wasn't hard; as much as forgiving Carl -- forgiving, a little, himself -- had felt like a weight lifting off of his shoulders, he really could use a good sleep and a few decent meals.
"Look, Matt -- I know that what you've been doing is, is necessary, but I can't help but notice the wear it puts on you. Body and soul." The concern was much more obvious in Cory's voice now, and Matthew let it warm him.
"To be honest, I'm thinking of asking for a few days off." He scrolled up to the top of his report and started tweaking it, fixing typos and subtly encoding the message 'this man needs a break for his mental health' -- without going into 'this man is about to snap'. He hoped.
"Oh?" Cory had audibly perked up. "And do what?"
"As little as possible." Matthew breathed a laugh. "You remember that fishing hole...?"
"You mean the one where the fish were so kind as to refrain from disturbing a good nap?"
"That's the one."
"You know, I'm not convinced there were any fish in that ol' fishing hole," Cory mused.
Matthew chuckled. "I don't mind."
"I bet I could find a spot like that around here."
"Oh? Where are you, anyway?"
"Bogalusa."
"Heading to St. Louis? Or the Big Easy?" Matthew asked knowingly.
"Shreveport," Cory replied with patently false innocence "But I don't plan to be there long, if you'd like company at some little fishing hole...?"
"I'll make you a deal: I'll put in for a little vacation time, and if I get it, I'll email you."
"Deal. Uh, condition: not Texas."
"...I'll remember that." To ask about, he meant, making a mental note to check for any outstanding warrants on his old friend.
"I know you will." Cory sounded amused and aggrieved in equal measures. "I should probably let you go, though."
"Lots of paperwork still to be done," Matthew agreed. "But if you're concerned about wear and tear on my soul, keep me in your prayers tonight."
"Oh, Matthew," Cory said with a laugh. "I always do."
*
About a month later, Matthew woke from a long, refreshing nap in a hammock, blinked up at the sun-dappled leaves above, and decided to seek out company. A short amble in the warm afternoon air brought him to the end of a small wooden pier where Cory was sitting. Judging by his damp hair, he'd taken a swim while Matthew was resting.
Matthew sat down beside him, careful not to jostle his fishing rod, though he did dangle his feet in the pleasantly cool water of their little hollow. Cory pulled up a mesh bag from the water and extracted from it a bottle of beer, which he opened and handed to Matthew, who nodded his thanks and took a slow sip. They sat in companionable silence for a while.
Then Matthew asked, "Just what happened in Houston?" and Cory grinned and settled back on his elbows in preparation for some quality storytelling.
"Well, you see --"
.
Summary: The aftermath of the episode "Manhunt" for Matthew, and a concerned old friend...
Special Agent Matthew McCormick quietly worked away, filling out forms and typing up his report on the computer terminal he'd been assigned for the purpose. He had a laptop, and he could connect it to the FBI secure network, but why bother when he was in the resident field office anyway? There was a lot of paperwork generated by the fatal shootout with a famous sports star who had the beginnings of a promising political career, it turned out.
And every agent involved was being especially careful with their reports -- as, no doubt, were the members of the SWAT team who had assisted -- because it was much harder to declare this sort of thing a justified shoot when the body had gone missing from the morgue.
Matthew had made sure to be angry and appalled over that disappearance. He'd had some sharp words for the Special Agent in Charge, too. Coffee break chatter speculated that an obsessed fan had taken the body last he'd heard. Teams of agents were searching for it as quietly as possible, trying not to alert the media, and every agent living locally had been ordered to submit to a search of their property. Ought to liven the place up a bit.
Matthew, of course, had invited them to go over his latest hotel room and his company-issue sedan with his more exquisitely polite sarcasm. They wouldn't find Carl Robinson there -- or anywhere unless they decided to look for a living man traveling under a different name. Not likely, considering how many bullet holes he'd had in him when he was declared dead at the scene.
They also wouldn't find his sword or his emergency new identity papers. Matthew was nobody's fool.
He was rereading his report with an eye to tweaking it for the benefit of the therapist he had a mandatory appointment with when his cell phone rang. He frowned at the display, not recognizing the number.
"Hello?"
"How's the forty-second state?" asked a voice almost as familiar to him as his own. Cory. Matthew's eyebrows raised even as his shoulders relaxed slightly. (A counter-intuitive reaction, given how much trouble Cory tended to trail in his wake, but it was always nice to have proof-of-life.)
"Warmer than expected."
"I saw the bust in the news." Ah. "Are you okay?"
With a start, Matthew recognized that the cheerfulness was masking concern, and had been for so long that he'd stopped noticing it. He'd been holding onto his anger at Carl for decades, without entirely realizing what it was doing to his family.
He stifled his first instinct to reassure Cory, because he couldn't very well explain what had actually happened while sitting in the middle of an FBI office, and he didn't want Cory to think he could find peace in revenge... no matter how long he'd been trying to convince himself of it. With a blink at the words on his computer screen, he chose his tactic.
"I'm fine," he said unconvincingly, then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Actually, I'm tired." He leaned aback in his chair, letting his shoulders slump a little more for the sake of anyone watching. It wasn't hard; as much as forgiving Carl -- forgiving, a little, himself -- had felt like a weight lifting off of his shoulders, he really could use a good sleep and a few decent meals.
"Look, Matt -- I know that what you've been doing is, is necessary, but I can't help but notice the wear it puts on you. Body and soul." The concern was much more obvious in Cory's voice now, and Matthew let it warm him.
"To be honest, I'm thinking of asking for a few days off." He scrolled up to the top of his report and started tweaking it, fixing typos and subtly encoding the message 'this man needs a break for his mental health' -- without going into 'this man is about to snap'. He hoped.
"Oh?" Cory had audibly perked up. "And do what?"
"As little as possible." Matthew breathed a laugh. "You remember that fishing hole...?"
"You mean the one where the fish were so kind as to refrain from disturbing a good nap?"
"That's the one."
"You know, I'm not convinced there were any fish in that ol' fishing hole," Cory mused.
Matthew chuckled. "I don't mind."
"I bet I could find a spot like that around here."
"Oh? Where are you, anyway?"
"Bogalusa."
"Heading to St. Louis? Or the Big Easy?" Matthew asked knowingly.
"Shreveport," Cory replied with patently false innocence "But I don't plan to be there long, if you'd like company at some little fishing hole...?"
"I'll make you a deal: I'll put in for a little vacation time, and if I get it, I'll email you."
"Deal. Uh, condition: not Texas."
"...I'll remember that." To ask about, he meant, making a mental note to check for any outstanding warrants on his old friend.
"I know you will." Cory sounded amused and aggrieved in equal measures. "I should probably let you go, though."
"Lots of paperwork still to be done," Matthew agreed. "But if you're concerned about wear and tear on my soul, keep me in your prayers tonight."
"Oh, Matthew," Cory said with a laugh. "I always do."
*
About a month later, Matthew woke from a long, refreshing nap in a hammock, blinked up at the sun-dappled leaves above, and decided to seek out company. A short amble in the warm afternoon air brought him to the end of a small wooden pier where Cory was sitting. Judging by his damp hair, he'd taken a swim while Matthew was resting.
Matthew sat down beside him, careful not to jostle his fishing rod, though he did dangle his feet in the pleasantly cool water of their little hollow. Cory pulled up a mesh bag from the water and extracted from it a bottle of beer, which he opened and handed to Matthew, who nodded his thanks and took a slow sip. They sat in companionable silence for a while.
Then Matthew asked, "Just what happened in Houston?" and Cory grinned and settled back on his elbows in preparation for some quality storytelling.
"Well, you see --"
.