Fic: Blindsided (3/3), Heroes, NC-17, slash. See Header.
Title: Blindsided (3/3)
Fandom: Heroes
Rating/Pairing: NC-17 (slash), Matt/Mohinder, first time, implied Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: ~9,180
Summary/Spoilers: Unintentional voyeurism, miscommunication, and smut, with a strong emphasis on morning routines, and the M3 family (refers to S2, when Matt and Mohinder were raising Molly).
A/N: Special thanks to speakersxblown for the amazingly supportive beta work.
Part 1, Part 2
***
“Matt?” Mohinder’s voice through the door. Matt didn’t answer, had no words ready. He knew that anything he’d start to say would come out backwards and sideways. Conversational dyslexia, compared with Mohinder, whose conversations were all insight and philosophy and layered meanings.
Matthew Parkman. His mental tone was firm and clear. I know you can hear this. I’m practically shouting in my own head… And you can’t ignore it this way or refuse to believe me or take it the wrong way if I think it. Because you’ll know it’s true. A pause, as if he expected an answer.
I think I deserve to be heard out, you know.
Matt paced his room, feeling caged. He heard Mohinder’s quiet footsteps receding down the hall, and the door to the other man’s bedroom close with its customary creak. He almost bolted, when he heard Mohinder’s thoughts calling out again.
You know, I’m not an imbecile. There’s only one time during which I allow myself to think that name. And it’s not all that volitional, really.
Psychotics can be charming when they want to be. They can become someone so believable that even you, a mind-reader, would have a hard time recognizing the deception. They convince themselves first, and it works, because the split from reality is so profound… Mohinder trailed off, his thoughts branching in several directions. Musing on the scientific nature of insanity, all the studies that he’d read about or participated in during school…
“You’re lecturing,” Matt said to the empty room around him.
…But in the end, nothing ever happened between us. I know he wanted it, and god help me, so did I. I wanted so badly… Memory-flashes of sitting in a diner, Zane/Sylar’s eyes bright with interest and something like wonder as Mohinder reminisced about his childhood in India. Leaning in to one another over a map, cautious, too-aware glances at each other that met and held for a moment before breaking apart as they continued planning the route. But he was always more focused on the goal, not the journey. I didn’t see it at the time, and I certainly didn’t know why.
Regret, heavy and profound, colored Mohinder’s mental voice. I almost killed him when I found out. I hurt him, and I-
Another cutoff. A reluctance.
- I enjoyed it. A long moment where both digested this admission.
I had been profoundly betrayed, by the man who killed my father. He would have killed me. Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t always forget the person he pretended to be. Mohinder’s thoughts faded, and Matt felt lost without the lifeline of Mohinder’s narrative. He remembered Janice, and the animated, admiring girl she’d been when he’d first met her. And the bitter, disappointed woman she’d become, looking elsewhere for everything she no longer saw in him.
You know, I anticipated some loss of privacy. Mohinder’s thoughts intruded again, wry now instead of self-recriminating. I invited an inquisitive preteen girl and a mind-reader into my home. I just didn’t expect such a spectacular violation of my thoughts.
A hesitation, again.
Here’s the part where I’d like you to pay particular attention.
Mohinder’s mental voice was firm, ruthless in its demand. If there is only one circumstance where I think about Zane, the facade Sylar used to get closer to me, then you must have listened, during those infrequent moments of weakness.
How many times, Matthew?
“Oh, god,” Matt muttered miserably, thinking, That’s it. I am so boned. He had ruined things with one moment of indulged curiosity.
His powers were making him homeless again. Molly would have another upheaval in her life, and he wouldn’t be here to help her with her nightmares, or see her sing in the talent show, or watch her grow up. The kicker is, Matt thought miserably, I really want to know who she’s going to be. She’s going to be so beautiful, and bright, and amazing, and I wanted to say to myself ‘I helped her become that,’ even though I wouldn’t really be able to believe it.
Matt ground one palm into his temple, willing it all away, his power, his stupidity, his inevitable ability to ruin everything.
But Mohinder wasn’t done with him.
How long did it take before you started to wonder who Zane was? Started to worry?
“Twice,” Matt admitted aloud, though there was no way for Mohinder to hear his response. He found himself standing by the window, shoulders slumped in defeat as Mohinder’s thoughts cut him apart, dissected him.
Staring blindly at the fire escape outside, he let his head droop until his forehead was pressed against the cool glass. I wonder, Mohinder continued on inexorably, when you got jealous.
If I’m wrong, you’ll want to leave right about now.
If you go, I won’t hold it against you. Just make sure the front door shuts loudly enough so that I can hear it, so that I know not to continue. And we won’t speak of this; I won’t even let myself remember thinking this, ever again. We’ll let everything return to what it was, and we’ll raise Molly, and we can go our separate ways when she doesn’t need us anymore. A quiet pause.
I’m going to give you a little time to decide.
And then Mohinder’s thoughts relaxed from the deliberate clarity that he’d been projecting for the last half-hour, into a quiet, repetitive and flowing stream of Hindi. A mantra. Matt straightened, apprehensive, suddenly released from the hypnotic spell that had snared him. He should probably go.
Mohinder had said that nothing would be lost if he left now, that things would go back to their usual semblance of normalcy. The slate could be wiped clean of his trespasses, and he would no longer see that look of recrimination in the other man’s eyes.
Yet the same impulse that had him listening to Mohinder’s most private moments held him rooted now, and instead of leaving, he sat down on his bed. Mohinder had something planned, and the only way Matt would ever find out was by staying. Curiosity helped him as a cop. It often led him into some very dangerous territory,
But most of the time? It was worth it. So he fought his impulse to flee, and deliberately relaxed, sitting up against the headboard and tipping his head against the wall that separated their rooms, as if it would help his ‘hearing.’
He sat, and waited, relaxing a little to the quiet, calming mantra coming from the other man’s mind.
You haven’t left. Mohinder thought clearly, but this was mental communication, and Matt could hear oh thank god, I wasn’t wrong running in stereo beside the main message. Then I don’t think you would take it amiss if I asked you to indulge me while I try something.
And then, clear as a photograph, Matt could see what Mohinder saw, and his mouth went dry. Mohinder was standing in front of his dresser, looking into the mirror above it, meeting his own gaze as if he were staring at Matt. Overlapping the familiar sight were Mohinder’s own perceptions of himself: too skinny, too angular, never as put-together as I’d like to be, but I never have the time…
Matt ignored this, and focused on what he was ‘seeing.’ Mohinder was wearing his terrible plum-and-olive paisley dress shirt, untucked and partially unbuttoned over a white wife-beater. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and a muscle clenched briefly in his jaw.
Then one hand rose, and unfastened the last few buttons on his shirt. You’ve been watching. I thought I’d give you a better view.
Matt’s jaw dropped when the first shirt hit the floor. He shifted a little to ease the sudden tightness in his slacks, wanting to pretend he wasn’t as affected by this as he was.
You can still leave, same terms as before, Mohinder offered faintly, but Matt could tell that he didn’t mean it, really. The mirror-image paused, lifting its chin, then reached for the hem of his undershirt. A brief blackness as it obscured his vision, and then a whole expanse of skin was exposed.
Before, he’d been caught up in the man’s thoughts, his mind, but now Matt had a chance to realize that all those were contained in a slim, dark, definitely male body. There were no familiar curving surfaces, no pale, luminescent skin that blushed under awareness of his gaze. Just long, slim planes that sloped downward inexorably, cut off by the waist of Mohinder’s worn, faded jeans, riding low on his hips. A faint shading of dark hair over his chest, tapering to a thin dark line that bisected his abdomen.
With this view came flashes of other imagery, laid over like ghost-images. A figure, behind Mohinder, hands resting lightly on his waist. A man with dark hair mouthing the column of his neck from behind, scraping lightly with his teeth, and the reflection in the mirror blurred as Mohinder’s eyes slipped shut for a moment. He kept broadcasting what he was imagining, the feeling of hands pulling him backwards a step until both bodies were pressed together, a hand tangling in his hair to tip his head for better access to his throat.
When Mohinder opened his eyes again, it took a second for the view to focus, but when it did, Matt saw the phantom-partner look up and into the mirror.
It wasn’t Sylar, although it could have been, at first. It’s me, Matt realized before the other figure flickered out.
Oh, god. He groaned through clenched teeth and gripped himself through his own pants, suddenly unbearably hard, and his connection to the other man slipped.
When he was sure he could watch again without shooting of like some teenager, he concentrated again.
Mohinder was on the bed now, legs sprawled apart, eyes closing more often but his mind was filling in the rest: Matt, over him and pressing down with his hips, thrusting slowly, mouthing his jaw and his breath ghosting over Mohinder’s collarbone. Unbuttoning his jeans, slipping past the layers of cloth and stroking Mohinder with a firm, sure hand.
In the mirror, Mohinder was doing all this himself, and Matt couldn’t tell which was hotter, the sight of the other man so willingly, wantonly exposed, or the imagined scene. He echoed the motions, freeing his dick from the too-tight confines of his khakis and matching Mohinder’s rhythm.
Matt whispering broken, obscene endearments between panting kisses, pressing his forehead against Mohinder’s shoulder as they worked to strip off the last layers of clothing. Mohinder swiped his thumb over the head of his cock, gathering the moisture that welled there, and slipped it into his mouth.
Matt had never, ever thought that the idea of sucking a guy off would turn him on until Mohinder imagined it for him, the clear impression of salt and musk and fullness flooding Matt’s mind.
He gave up on focus, thrusting into his hand as snippets of Mohinder’s fragmenting thoughts brushed past him, flooded over him.
… Matt’s voice, rough and hoarse, murmuring reassurance as he slowly pushed forward and in, a hand stroking along Mohinder’s thigh as it wrapped around his hips….
… Mohinder’s awareness of his own harsh panting as he drove himself closer to the edge…
… the feeling of fullness and stretching and undulating motion within him, and intent, dark eyes watching his every reaction…
…Matt, make some noise. Let me know… Mohinder thought, fighting for enough control to make his thoughts clear, let me know you’re with me.
Matt groaned in response, letting his head fall back to the wall with a dull thump, and apparently that was enough, because Mohinder’s mind dissolved into pure sensation, and then light. There was nothing to do but follow, and Matt came with a loud gasp, blacking out a moment later from sheer sensory overload.
***
He woke, groggily, clenching his eyes shut against the unwelcome need to get up.
Coffee. Brush teeth. Pee. Shower, shave, change. Breakfast. Janice must have already made coffee; he could smell its aroma in the air.
Wait. Not Janice.
…Mohinder?
The night before came back to him in a rush. Matt’s eyes snapped open to see the other man standing in the doorway of his bedroom, two mugs in hand.
“Morning,” Mohinder said quietly, a small, unguarded smile on his face. He looked smug.
Matt felt a quick, embarrassed grin flit across his face and he looked away.
He found himself staring somewhere in the vicinity of Mohinder’s knees, clad in an awful set of pajama bottoms, all thin, vertical stripes in shades of maroon, orange, and brown. His feet were bare, crossed at the ankle as he slouched casually in the doorframe. Somehow he could make pj’s and a rumpled, long-sleeved t-shirt look effortlessly elegant, and Matt’s face burned hotly as he realized he was half-hard beneath the blankets.
You look remarkably well shagged, considering I didn’t even lay a hand on you last night, Mohinder’s thoughts said, a deliberate communication.
“Um,” he ventured, brilliantly. It was far too early in the morning for him to even attempt some kind of dialogue about what had happened. Was happening. Mohinder came in, and wordlessly handed him the coffee.
“Thanks.”
Matt took a sip, and nearly spilled it as the mattress sagged beneath Mohinder’s weight.
“So,” Mohinder began, watching him intently. Matt shifted uneasily under the other man’s gaze, suddenly unaccustomed to Mohinder’s actual physical presence. “After last night, I’m pretty sure you know what I want. When you’re ready, tell me what it is that you want.” And Mohinder was taking the mug away gently, and slowly leaning in.
Caught by an irresistible pull, Matt leaned in, too, and they were kissing, a slow deep kiss that mingled coffee and creamy, spiced chai. It was awkward at first, and Matt froze up a little when he felt stubble scraping across the edges of his mouth, but it was even hotter than Mohinder’s fantasies had conjured. It was real.
And then it was over, and Mohinder pulled away, returning Matt’s coffee to the hand he’d used to tentatively trace Mohinder’s jaw.
“When you’re ready.” Mohinder stood, smiling a quicksilver grin before leaving the room entirely. From the hall, he added off-handedly, “Oh, and we don’t have to pick Molly up until noon.”
Matt would later swear that he had never, ever left his bed as quickly as he did that morning.
Fandom: Heroes
Rating/Pairing: NC-17 (slash), Matt/Mohinder, first time, implied Mohinder/Sylar
Word Count: ~9,180
Summary/Spoilers: Unintentional voyeurism, miscommunication, and smut, with a strong emphasis on morning routines, and the M3 family (refers to S2, when Matt and Mohinder were raising Molly).
A/N: Special thanks to speakersxblown for the amazingly supportive beta work.
Part 1, Part 2
***
“Matt?” Mohinder’s voice through the door. Matt didn’t answer, had no words ready. He knew that anything he’d start to say would come out backwards and sideways. Conversational dyslexia, compared with Mohinder, whose conversations were all insight and philosophy and layered meanings.
Matthew Parkman. His mental tone was firm and clear. I know you can hear this. I’m practically shouting in my own head… And you can’t ignore it this way or refuse to believe me or take it the wrong way if I think it. Because you’ll know it’s true. A pause, as if he expected an answer.
I think I deserve to be heard out, you know.
Matt paced his room, feeling caged. He heard Mohinder’s quiet footsteps receding down the hall, and the door to the other man’s bedroom close with its customary creak. He almost bolted, when he heard Mohinder’s thoughts calling out again.
You know, I’m not an imbecile. There’s only one time during which I allow myself to think that name. And it’s not all that volitional, really.
Psychotics can be charming when they want to be. They can become someone so believable that even you, a mind-reader, would have a hard time recognizing the deception. They convince themselves first, and it works, because the split from reality is so profound… Mohinder trailed off, his thoughts branching in several directions. Musing on the scientific nature of insanity, all the studies that he’d read about or participated in during school…
“You’re lecturing,” Matt said to the empty room around him.
…But in the end, nothing ever happened between us. I know he wanted it, and god help me, so did I. I wanted so badly… Memory-flashes of sitting in a diner, Zane/Sylar’s eyes bright with interest and something like wonder as Mohinder reminisced about his childhood in India. Leaning in to one another over a map, cautious, too-aware glances at each other that met and held for a moment before breaking apart as they continued planning the route. But he was always more focused on the goal, not the journey. I didn’t see it at the time, and I certainly didn’t know why.
Regret, heavy and profound, colored Mohinder’s mental voice. I almost killed him when I found out. I hurt him, and I-
Another cutoff. A reluctance.
- I enjoyed it. A long moment where both digested this admission.
I had been profoundly betrayed, by the man who killed my father. He would have killed me. Yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t always forget the person he pretended to be. Mohinder’s thoughts faded, and Matt felt lost without the lifeline of Mohinder’s narrative. He remembered Janice, and the animated, admiring girl she’d been when he’d first met her. And the bitter, disappointed woman she’d become, looking elsewhere for everything she no longer saw in him.
You know, I anticipated some loss of privacy. Mohinder’s thoughts intruded again, wry now instead of self-recriminating. I invited an inquisitive preteen girl and a mind-reader into my home. I just didn’t expect such a spectacular violation of my thoughts.
A hesitation, again.
Here’s the part where I’d like you to pay particular attention.
Mohinder’s mental voice was firm, ruthless in its demand. If there is only one circumstance where I think about Zane, the facade Sylar used to get closer to me, then you must have listened, during those infrequent moments of weakness.
How many times, Matthew?
“Oh, god,” Matt muttered miserably, thinking, That’s it. I am so boned. He had ruined things with one moment of indulged curiosity.
His powers were making him homeless again. Molly would have another upheaval in her life, and he wouldn’t be here to help her with her nightmares, or see her sing in the talent show, or watch her grow up. The kicker is, Matt thought miserably, I really want to know who she’s going to be. She’s going to be so beautiful, and bright, and amazing, and I wanted to say to myself ‘I helped her become that,’ even though I wouldn’t really be able to believe it.
Matt ground one palm into his temple, willing it all away, his power, his stupidity, his inevitable ability to ruin everything.
But Mohinder wasn’t done with him.
How long did it take before you started to wonder who Zane was? Started to worry?
“Twice,” Matt admitted aloud, though there was no way for Mohinder to hear his response. He found himself standing by the window, shoulders slumped in defeat as Mohinder’s thoughts cut him apart, dissected him.
Staring blindly at the fire escape outside, he let his head droop until his forehead was pressed against the cool glass. I wonder, Mohinder continued on inexorably, when you got jealous.
If I’m wrong, you’ll want to leave right about now.
If you go, I won’t hold it against you. Just make sure the front door shuts loudly enough so that I can hear it, so that I know not to continue. And we won’t speak of this; I won’t even let myself remember thinking this, ever again. We’ll let everything return to what it was, and we’ll raise Molly, and we can go our separate ways when she doesn’t need us anymore. A quiet pause.
I’m going to give you a little time to decide.
And then Mohinder’s thoughts relaxed from the deliberate clarity that he’d been projecting for the last half-hour, into a quiet, repetitive and flowing stream of Hindi. A mantra. Matt straightened, apprehensive, suddenly released from the hypnotic spell that had snared him. He should probably go.
Mohinder had said that nothing would be lost if he left now, that things would go back to their usual semblance of normalcy. The slate could be wiped clean of his trespasses, and he would no longer see that look of recrimination in the other man’s eyes.
Yet the same impulse that had him listening to Mohinder’s most private moments held him rooted now, and instead of leaving, he sat down on his bed. Mohinder had something planned, and the only way Matt would ever find out was by staying. Curiosity helped him as a cop. It often led him into some very dangerous territory,
But most of the time? It was worth it. So he fought his impulse to flee, and deliberately relaxed, sitting up against the headboard and tipping his head against the wall that separated their rooms, as if it would help his ‘hearing.’
He sat, and waited, relaxing a little to the quiet, calming mantra coming from the other man’s mind.
You haven’t left. Mohinder thought clearly, but this was mental communication, and Matt could hear oh thank god, I wasn’t wrong running in stereo beside the main message. Then I don’t think you would take it amiss if I asked you to indulge me while I try something.
And then, clear as a photograph, Matt could see what Mohinder saw, and his mouth went dry. Mohinder was standing in front of his dresser, looking into the mirror above it, meeting his own gaze as if he were staring at Matt. Overlapping the familiar sight were Mohinder’s own perceptions of himself: too skinny, too angular, never as put-together as I’d like to be, but I never have the time…
Matt ignored this, and focused on what he was ‘seeing.’ Mohinder was wearing his terrible plum-and-olive paisley dress shirt, untucked and partially unbuttoned over a white wife-beater. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and a muscle clenched briefly in his jaw.
Then one hand rose, and unfastened the last few buttons on his shirt. You’ve been watching. I thought I’d give you a better view.
Matt’s jaw dropped when the first shirt hit the floor. He shifted a little to ease the sudden tightness in his slacks, wanting to pretend he wasn’t as affected by this as he was.
You can still leave, same terms as before, Mohinder offered faintly, but Matt could tell that he didn’t mean it, really. The mirror-image paused, lifting its chin, then reached for the hem of his undershirt. A brief blackness as it obscured his vision, and then a whole expanse of skin was exposed.
Before, he’d been caught up in the man’s thoughts, his mind, but now Matt had a chance to realize that all those were contained in a slim, dark, definitely male body. There were no familiar curving surfaces, no pale, luminescent skin that blushed under awareness of his gaze. Just long, slim planes that sloped downward inexorably, cut off by the waist of Mohinder’s worn, faded jeans, riding low on his hips. A faint shading of dark hair over his chest, tapering to a thin dark line that bisected his abdomen.
With this view came flashes of other imagery, laid over like ghost-images. A figure, behind Mohinder, hands resting lightly on his waist. A man with dark hair mouthing the column of his neck from behind, scraping lightly with his teeth, and the reflection in the mirror blurred as Mohinder’s eyes slipped shut for a moment. He kept broadcasting what he was imagining, the feeling of hands pulling him backwards a step until both bodies were pressed together, a hand tangling in his hair to tip his head for better access to his throat.
When Mohinder opened his eyes again, it took a second for the view to focus, but when it did, Matt saw the phantom-partner look up and into the mirror.
It wasn’t Sylar, although it could have been, at first. It’s me, Matt realized before the other figure flickered out.
Oh, god. He groaned through clenched teeth and gripped himself through his own pants, suddenly unbearably hard, and his connection to the other man slipped.
When he was sure he could watch again without shooting of like some teenager, he concentrated again.
Mohinder was on the bed now, legs sprawled apart, eyes closing more often but his mind was filling in the rest: Matt, over him and pressing down with his hips, thrusting slowly, mouthing his jaw and his breath ghosting over Mohinder’s collarbone. Unbuttoning his jeans, slipping past the layers of cloth and stroking Mohinder with a firm, sure hand.
In the mirror, Mohinder was doing all this himself, and Matt couldn’t tell which was hotter, the sight of the other man so willingly, wantonly exposed, or the imagined scene. He echoed the motions, freeing his dick from the too-tight confines of his khakis and matching Mohinder’s rhythm.
Matt whispering broken, obscene endearments between panting kisses, pressing his forehead against Mohinder’s shoulder as they worked to strip off the last layers of clothing. Mohinder swiped his thumb over the head of his cock, gathering the moisture that welled there, and slipped it into his mouth.
Matt had never, ever thought that the idea of sucking a guy off would turn him on until Mohinder imagined it for him, the clear impression of salt and musk and fullness flooding Matt’s mind.
He gave up on focus, thrusting into his hand as snippets of Mohinder’s fragmenting thoughts brushed past him, flooded over him.
… Matt’s voice, rough and hoarse, murmuring reassurance as he slowly pushed forward and in, a hand stroking along Mohinder’s thigh as it wrapped around his hips….
… Mohinder’s awareness of his own harsh panting as he drove himself closer to the edge…
… the feeling of fullness and stretching and undulating motion within him, and intent, dark eyes watching his every reaction…
…Matt, make some noise. Let me know… Mohinder thought, fighting for enough control to make his thoughts clear, let me know you’re with me.
Matt groaned in response, letting his head fall back to the wall with a dull thump, and apparently that was enough, because Mohinder’s mind dissolved into pure sensation, and then light. There was nothing to do but follow, and Matt came with a loud gasp, blacking out a moment later from sheer sensory overload.
***
He woke, groggily, clenching his eyes shut against the unwelcome need to get up.
Coffee. Brush teeth. Pee. Shower, shave, change. Breakfast. Janice must have already made coffee; he could smell its aroma in the air.
Wait. Not Janice.
…Mohinder?
The night before came back to him in a rush. Matt’s eyes snapped open to see the other man standing in the doorway of his bedroom, two mugs in hand.
“Morning,” Mohinder said quietly, a small, unguarded smile on his face. He looked smug.
Matt felt a quick, embarrassed grin flit across his face and he looked away.
He found himself staring somewhere in the vicinity of Mohinder’s knees, clad in an awful set of pajama bottoms, all thin, vertical stripes in shades of maroon, orange, and brown. His feet were bare, crossed at the ankle as he slouched casually in the doorframe. Somehow he could make pj’s and a rumpled, long-sleeved t-shirt look effortlessly elegant, and Matt’s face burned hotly as he realized he was half-hard beneath the blankets.
You look remarkably well shagged, considering I didn’t even lay a hand on you last night, Mohinder’s thoughts said, a deliberate communication.
“Um,” he ventured, brilliantly. It was far too early in the morning for him to even attempt some kind of dialogue about what had happened. Was happening. Mohinder came in, and wordlessly handed him the coffee.
“Thanks.”
Matt took a sip, and nearly spilled it as the mattress sagged beneath Mohinder’s weight.
“So,” Mohinder began, watching him intently. Matt shifted uneasily under the other man’s gaze, suddenly unaccustomed to Mohinder’s actual physical presence. “After last night, I’m pretty sure you know what I want. When you’re ready, tell me what it is that you want.” And Mohinder was taking the mug away gently, and slowly leaning in.
Caught by an irresistible pull, Matt leaned in, too, and they were kissing, a slow deep kiss that mingled coffee and creamy, spiced chai. It was awkward at first, and Matt froze up a little when he felt stubble scraping across the edges of his mouth, but it was even hotter than Mohinder’s fantasies had conjured. It was real.
And then it was over, and Mohinder pulled away, returning Matt’s coffee to the hand he’d used to tentatively trace Mohinder’s jaw.
“When you’re ready.” Mohinder stood, smiling a quicksilver grin before leaving the room entirely. From the hall, he added off-handedly, “Oh, and we don’t have to pick Molly up until noon.”
Matt would later swear that he had never, ever left his bed as quickly as he did that morning.