Think of the Devil

Fifteen

When they arrived at Clinton Church, Jane was expecting there to be an early morning sermon-- even if it was a Saturday. Shuffling in, she pulled her jacket tighter around her and tried to wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes. She didn't want any regular patrons disturbed by her nighttime attire. Matt simply laughed at her, quickly guiding her by the elbow through the empty pews and towards the back.

As they came around a corner and stepped into a hallway, they passed a portrait of Jesus. She kept going, barely giving the painting a passing glance. When her arm slipped from Matt's grip, that's when she paused. He'd stopped behind her, lingering in front of the Holy Son. He whispered a short prayer and signed a cross over his chest before he continued, leading her down some stairs and into the basement.

The space was mostly empty, looking to be a storage area with a makeshift dwelling in its corner. Based on Matt's memories, she figured it was where he'd been staying. She took a brief look around, eyeing the stone casket and statues before noting his few possessions. Compared to the apartment that they'd just left, it was a stark difference in comfort.

"Sorry it isn't as impressive," he joked. "I've certainly downsized."

"No, it's great," she ribbed. "It's gray, and cold... Perfect for someone who likes to torture himself."

He laughed a bit as he shrugged off his hoodie, throwing it to a pile near his bed and leaving his upper half bare. Her eyes widened a bit as she watched him go through a bag with clothes in it. She couldn't help but stare at him, at the contusions and scars but also the muscles. She certainly hadn't had the time to appreciate those the night before, especially not in the dark.

Matt straightened up, his hands full with a few articles of clothing. His head ticked to the side as he seemed to observe her. She swallowed hard, remembering just how many things he could sense in another person's body.

"You're staring," he teased.

She opened her mouth, hoping for a witty comeback, but nothing came. He threw the clothes he'd grabbed onto the bed in the corner before grabbing the waistband of his sweats, his hands pausing just below his navel. Her eyes widened again and she spun around, facing the stairs they'd come from. "And you're getting dressed!" she blurted, beginning to blush.

He laughed again, a dark sound from deep in his chest. "In fairness, you changed in front of me last night." (Took me by surprise too.) "I didn't realize I'd scandalize you."

"I'm not scandalized," she argued. "I just... have eyes that work. You only have an idea of what I look like undressed. A rough picture. I get to have the whole picture. It's more impolite for me, I think."

"Impolite? You think?" He continued to chuckle. "How is seeing me naked more impolite than me imagining you naked?"

They both froze for a moment. Jane knew what he meant, that he had to put an image together based on his combined senses; it was more like imagining a picture than actually having one. It still stirred something within her, the same stirring she felt when she saw him without his shirt. And judging by his awkward silence, and the quickest of peeks into his thoughts, she knew he was feeling that dilemma too.

She cleared her throat, relying on her sarcasm to brush off the situation. "I'm gonna' tell Father Lantom that you aren't a good little altar boy anymore."

This earned her another full laugh, breaking the small moment of tension. "I think he knows that already. Trust me, he's heard worse." She listened to him shuffle around for another minute before he said, "Alright, I'm decent."

"Nobody has ever accused you of being that," she teased again, turning back. He stood before her in dark pants and a tight long-sleeve black shirt. She recognized the outfit as the one he'd wear when he went out at night. Her brows knit together in confusion. "It's the middle of the day. You're going to go Daredevil-ing?"