#buckle the HECK up

[averagejoesolomon]

And we're back, baybee. I am hard pressed to remember a time I was this excited to upload a chapter. I hope you have so much fun. 1982 is going to be so, so much fun.

If you're new here—welcome! I know this says chapter one, but this is not the beginning of the story. Full Circle starts in 1978, and you can read the whole thing on Ao3.

Chapter One

“Is that a pistol in your pocket?”

Abby grins at him, the city still hot on her tail until she closes the door to their room, turning the first lock, then latching the second. “Maybe I’m just happy to see you, hot stuff,” she says, a strut to her step. “Picked it off one of the plainclothes standing watch at the shipyard gates—you’re welcome, by the way. That’s one less guy you’ll have shooting at you down there.”

“Don’t plan to have them shoot at me,” Matt says, stepping in from the balcony. He slides the door shut behind him, leaving behind a sea-stained evening breeze and a damn near perfect vantage point. “Don’t plan to get close.”

With each step, Abby unhooks and untucks another strap, peeling away at her own personal arsenal. “No one plans to have a gang of arms dealers shoot at them,” she says, with a handful of knives. “Or did you learn nothing in Tokyo?”

She smells like saltwater and street food as she passes, which might be why Matt’s slow to react when she ruffles her free hand through his hair. “Whoa,” he says, instinctively straightening his cowlick. “Easy, with the hair!”

Her weapons fall to the bed with a bounce, and she’s three pistols deep before she grants him a glance over her shoulder. “You know, I saw a barber shop down there,” she says, as velcro shreds open from around her chest. “And when in Rome…”

Her shirt hangs looser when she finally peels off her standard issue vest. She doesn’t waste a moment before chucking it in his direction. He catches it, easy, and tucks it away. “We’re not in Rome,” he reminds her. “We’re in Naples—and this is how all the cool people are wearing their hair.”

She grins, as though Matt’s just stumbled over a carefully placed trip wire. “Well then why are you wearing it?”

Rachel’s already taking inventory of Abby’s stockpile, her voice slipping into that comfortable, clear command. “Focus up, you two. If everything goes according to plan, he’s not going to get anywhere near the shipyards,” she says. “Or any of Romano’s goons. Matthew—run the plan by me again.”

“We’ve been through it at least a dozen—”

“Run it by me again, please.”

The way she says it makes it sound like a request, but he knows in his bones that it is anything but. He glances over at Abby, who glances right back, and then he surrenders with a sigh. “Romano has a seven-o’clock dinner reservation at Il Piatto del Raccolto. Thanks to our friends at Langley, so do I. When the opportunity presents itself, I’ll bug his briefcase, which will follow him all the way to the ports, and then we wait for him to incriminate himself. When he inevitably does, the bug will broadcast to our friends at Interpol who, handily, have a team on standby. Then, when we’ve sufficiently saved the day, the three of us will walk away with some delectable italian cannolis.”

Rachel cuts him a forbidding glance.

“Alright, so we skip the dessert.”

“Thank you.” She’s laid their small armory in line atop the floral comforter, careful eyes scanning every inch. They’ve run enough missions together for Matt to know that she’s got stats flashing through her head—the range of this one, the precision of that one. Finally, she lands on the sniper and reaches for it. “Abagail, you’ll be our eyes in the sky. Take this and hit the balcony.”

“Gimme a minute,” says Abby, pulling her hair up onto the side of her head with a bright, red scrunchie. “A girl can only do so much recon before she needs a bathroom break.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Matt needs time to get down there before the reservation—”

“Do you want me to pee now, or do you want me to pee when I’ve got a sniper in my hand?”

Rachel has to think about it, because Rachel thinks about everything. “Fine,” she says. “Make it quick.”

“Would you take a chill pill?” Abby grumbles, and she’s already circling back toward the bathroom before Rachel can give her another order.

As she shuts the door behind her, it leaves Matt and Rachel in a familiar sense of shared focus. Rachel idly slides and snaps pieces of the sniper into place and Matt joins her without a second thought. On the opposite edge of the bed, he reaches for one of the pistols and checks it for bullets.

Her eyes don’t leave her busy hands as she says, “So when are you going to tell her you’re in love with her?”

He doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t stutter. Rachel tosses a clip in his direction and he catches it without looking, then slides it into place. “One day I’ll get shot in a firefight—nonfatal, but heroic nonetheless—and she’ll realize she can’t live without me. Figure that’ll be my moment.”

Rachel snaps her cartridges into place and chambers a fresh round with a dense click. Safety still on, she leans the sniper up against the nightstand and moves onto her next. Matt’s already tossing an empty handgun her way and she snatches it straight from the air. “That’s your plan?” she says. “Wait until you get shot?”

“It ain’t my best.”

“Well I should hope not.” She unloads the handle and checks the magazine. There must be enough bullets, because she snaps it right back into place. “We’re coming on two years of this now and the best you can come up with is taking a bullet?”

“Just to the shoulder or something.”

“Christ, Nebraska.”

Click, snap. “Well what do you suggest?”

“You’re in Italy. Ask the girl to dinner.”

“Getting shot sounds easier,” he says, and he cocks his gun. “And besides—I’ve already got dinner plans.”

“Tonight,” Rachel confirms. “But what about tomorrow? Or the night after that?”

“I’m getting there.”

Zip, click. “Well get there faster. I don’t know how much longer I can watch you swoon at her without barfing everywhere.”

“Real nice.”

“And whatever you do,” she says, with one final snap of her clip, ”get a haircut before you do it.”

“Okay—my hair ain’t that bad.”

She glances up at him from the tops of her eyes. A lot of people make the mistake of thinking that Rachel’s the quiet one between the sisters, but that just ain’t true. If a person looks hard enough, they’ll learn real quick that Rachel’s far louder, even if she doesn’t say nearly as much.

Matt opens his mouth for further protest, but a toilet flushes behind him and Abby makes a spectacular return. “Alright, dweebs, let’s get this show on the road,” she says, taking her pick from the pile. Then, to Matt, “Are you armed?”

He shrugs. “Oh, you know. Just with”—he pulls his arms up into a flex—”these guns.”

It doesn’t get the laugh he hopes for. It doesn’t even get a smile. Abby just stares at him. Blinks. “You should really take a pistol with you.”

He lets his arms fall. “Yeah, alright,” he drones. “Although, a civilian ain’t likely to have a gun in this situation. It’s gonna be hard to explain away if Romano sees it.”

“Then it’s a good thing he won’t see it,” Rachel cuts in, and she slides a semi-automatic his way. A smile still lingers on her lips and Matt uses it to patch up what’s left of his pride. “Remember, I’m your backup on the ground. If anything goes wrong—”

“You’ll be the first I call in,” he says, tucking the pistol into his holster.

Satisfied and armed to the teeth, Rachel nods and starts toward the door. In Matt’s experience, it’s usually best to follow and so he does without thinking. He follows her through the hallway and down the elevator. He follows her past the great, round reception desk and beyond the wood-panelled lobby, right through the revolving door.

He can’t tell which is a better sight to behold—the city from above, or the city from the streets. From his spot on the balcony, Naples had been red rooftops a hundred times over, a beautiful speckled vision beside the sea. It had been sparkling windows giving way to a sunset and ships sailing across serene waters. Back home, the States look like they were built, piece by manufactured piece, but from his spot in the sky, Matt had decided that the European cities seemed to be grown. Harvested. As though God himself laid the seeds and entire civilizations had since sprouted and vined throughout the centuries.

But down here, it’s clear that the city is rooted in its cobblestone and crumbling archways. It is grounded by bold paints and meticulous brickwork. Overflowing clotheslines fade without effort into brightly colored flags, all of which hang above bundles of long, red peppers out to dry. A picturesque city comes to life in between its narrow alleyways and sprawling potted greenery, if one only takes the time to look.

It’s an impossible decision. He turns to Rachel for her thoughts, but she’s gone. Of course she’s gone. She’s just that good.

So he once again follows her lead and decides that it’s his turn to vanish now. Italy won’t miss him, just the same as it doesn’t miss her. He starts off toward the fruit stands, letting the foreign chatter fill him, and then Matt does what he does best—he blends in.

It ain’t hard. It’s never hard, but it’s made especially easy by the busy streets and the evening hour. Bikes zoom past him while locals barter and tourists swoon. Horns echo against the distance. History brims at the edge of each step. It’s strange, the way he feels most like himself in times when he’s trying to be anything but.

He spots a couple walking their dog and asks to pet it in a smooth Italian. He admires a street musician and tosses a few coins into her case. A grey-haired vendor tries to overcharge him for a mandarin, but Matt talks him down and walks away with two. It’s no cannoli, but they’ll satisfy his sweet tooth well enough. He snacks on them as he walks, leaving the peels behind in planters as he passes.

A crowd gathers in one of the many city squares, lending their ears to a public prayer Matt doesn’t know. He slips by with ease, most of them distracted by their devotion. Some mutter along in the original Latin, while others simply lay their eyes closed. Even Matt bows his head—the result of habit—as he glides easily from one side to the other.

The congregation seems to part specially for him, and he only bumps shoulders once. The gentleman mumbles a quick “Scusi,” and the two carry on toward different paths. Matt hadn’t even seen him.

Matt hadn’t even seen him.

He stops in his tracks, which proves to be a mistake. If there is any one way to call attention to himself, it is by standing, struck, amongst strangers. Eyes fall to him, but Matt can’t help himself, because something ain’t right. He’s got hairs standing up at the back of his neck, so he checks his pockets. Sure enough, he’s been relieved of his wallet.

He throws his head toward the heavens, sighs, then turns on his heel. Rachel is gonna give him an earful after this. Abby will never let him live it down.

There’s not much to be gained by getting his wallet back—the ID is fake. So are the cards. The money is real, but it’s Langley’s, not his. More than anything, he chases after his pride, because he ain’t looking to be the spy who lost to a pickpocket.

The man doesn’t move quick, but he does move smart. He knows how to cover himself in a crowd, pivoting and dodging with every step. It’s impressive at first, and grows more annoying as Matt’s dinner reservation grows closer and closer. He has to sacrifice some stealth to do it, but among all of these worshipers, Matt finally catches up with the sinner.

He reaches out a hand and starts speaking up a storm of Italian, but the man speaks back in clear English. “Morgan?”

Just like that, they’re both stopped at the center of the crowd. The pickpocket turns into Matt’s grip and recognition kicks him like a horse to the chest. “Zeke?”

He remembers too late that, of course, his name isn’t Zeke. Not really. And anyway, the man standing before him ain’t the Zeke he came to know in Basic. This man is thinner, and paler, and entirely too weak. This man is out of breath, covered in sweat, and he’s pressing his hand at his side. Matt doesn’t need an intelligence background to see that something about him is awfully and terribly wrong.

But he doesn’t get to say so before he’s proven right. With a sharp, quiet cry, a dear and distant friend is suddenly in his arms once more, hunched over a pain too hard to bear alone. “Oh,” says Matt, catching him. “Okay, yeah.”

“Morgan,” he huffs, glancing up through a squint. “You—gah!”

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “I hear you. I’ll get you out of—”

“You have hair now.”

The observation is enough to totally disorient him. It’s hard to think of a less immediate concern than the state of Matt’s hair in this particular moment. “Yeah.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Okay?”

“Last time I saw you,”—his words are fading, his eyes are fading, he’s fading—“you didn’t have hair.”

And with that, Joe Solomon falls limp into Matthew Morgan’s unprepared embrace.