Chapter Text
"I think," Matthew mused, "it's time to wrap this identity up. Matthew McCormick has had a good run." He shifted, settling more comfortably into the thick leather chair he liked to use, while turning the idea over in his head. Although Immortality required changing identities periodically, Matthew loathed the necessity and tried to stretch each life out as long as he could.
From the matching chair opposite him, Father Tomas Ibarra, his therapist, nodded in contemplation. "Why don't you tell me about your thought process here. You've indicated before that you wanted to stay with the FBI for your full 20 years, if you could. What's happened to move up the clock?"
Matthew's lips tightened into a thin line as he remembered gasping back to life in Talbot's arms. "Isn't it always the same thing? It becomes too hot to stay."
"By 'too hot,' you mean…?"
Not for the first time, Matthew wondered what kind of life Tomas had led. He appeared to be in his mid-40s, though he'd been already taken the cloth when Matthew met him as a younger man, perhaps in his early 20s. If Tomas had spent all the centuries since then within the Church, then even the experiences that were typical for Immortals may not be ones he shared: starting relationships he'd have to leave, structuring careers for success without notoriety, devising ways to exit each identity without raising scrutiny. Could Tomas relate to any of that, he wondered? If not, then how much could he help Matthew? He hadn't directly asked for Tomas's history, though. That kind of trust took time to develop.
Instead, Matthew decided to be more direct with his own story. "My partner has seen more than I can cover up. I died in front of her. Shot by a perp. If she starts asking questions, I'm going to have to tell her the truth about why I'm not still dead."
Tomas regarded him a moment before asking the obvious question: "Would that be so bad?"
Yes, Matthew thought, it was always that bad. Every time. He sighed.
Knowing that the Father needed an answer, he sought for the right words: "You know that moment when a person you liked—who liked you—a person you admired and whom you valued having in your life shuts you out? When every positive feeling they had about you turns to fear, and the only way they can look at you is with hatred?"
Though Tomas was good at maintaining professional distance, that hit a nerve. Perhaps without even realizing he'd done it, he pulled the cuff of his sweater down to cover the back of his burn-scarred hand. The same injury scarred and withered his whole right arm, and puckered the skin on the side of his neck and up along his lower jaw.
He'd noticed Matthew noticing the scars on their first meeting—there was no way not to—and had given only in comment, "At least I didn't die."
Matthew didn't press. He remembered too well how often people were brutally injured or killed in fires in a time before flame-proof clothing and electricity reduced the number of open flames with which people worked. From Tomas's comment, he could deduce that the disfiguring fire had happened during childhood, while the wound that killed him didn't come until decades later, long after the scars healed. Immortality had its advantages, but healing the wounds from one's mortal life wasn't one of them. A scar on Matthew's own forehead had the same permanence, if not the same effect.
The disfigurement went a long ways toward explaining why Tomas had entered the priesthood. More importantly, it explained why he could safely work as a therapist for other Immortals: he didn't play the Game.
"You think your partner—"
"Talbot," Matthew corrected.
Tomas nodded. "Talbot. That's right. How do you think she would react at learning the truth about what you are?"
Matthew shook his head. "I don't … I don't think it's in my best interest to find out. Sam … will come around, at least. She knows me. Has known me for her whole life. She will be able to see the whole picture." He closed his eyes, fighting back the worry that he was going to be wrong, that he'd raised a strong, intelligent daughter in this culture that encouraged female independence. With this freedom, she could easily decide that she had no space in her life for an Immortal father and the baggage that came with that. "But I don't think I can say the same about Talbot."
"If the situation is that dire, then what's keeping you from leaving? We wouldn't be having this conversation if your mind was made up."
"No," Matthew answered. "You're right. I'm not just staying for the pension." As if he'd be able to collect it. "There are … other reasons."
Tomas's eyebrows raised, though his expression otherwise remained passive. "I see." He made a note in the notebook he'd balanced on the arm of his chair, and Matthew wondered, as always, what he was writing down. Was he providing his own conclusion as to what Matthew meant, or merely keeping track of the question for later follow-up? If Matthew were the kind of person who would steal his therapist's notebook to check for himself, what would he learn?
With a shake, Matthew brought his thoughts back to the present issue. "What do you think I should do?" he asked. While Tomas may not have the same experiences, that he'd been alive for more than four centuries still gave him valuable perspective.
“My recommendation, as always, is to pray—if you still have that in you, Mateo." Tomas’s eyes ticked toward the clock on the wall over the door; their appointment was nearly over. "Pray," he repeated, then, tone softening, "and trust your instincts. A decision like this should not be made in haste."