#I am big time committing the End Of Season Cliffhanger That Doesnt Matter Yet crime of tv shows

[averagejoesolomon]

We made it, friends. Welcome to the final installment of Full Circle: 1986. It has been an absolute delight sharing this one with you. It is a downright gift to finally be able to commit this all to paper, after having been in my head for probably close to a decade now. This will probably be the last Full Circle chapter until ~November/December. I know this is longer than usual, but I've finally finished an original manuscript, and I'm going to take an honest shot at publishing it this fall. I so appreciate your patience while I follow that dream. I'll be back as soon as I can with more of Full Circle. There may be some surprises in the meantime (ahem—Listen Series 10-year anniversary), but as always, I can't wait to share what comes next. Those of you doing some math may have already realized we have a very familiar face coming in 1988 👀🍼 Until then, please enjoy. If you're new here, you can read all of Full Circle on Ao3.

Chapter Fourteen

“You’ve got to be goddamn kidding me.”

Joe Solomon can find a way to hide in just about every environment on earth. Anywhere he goes, he’s the figure at the back of the bar, the shadow at the end of the street, the ghost sitting in a blind spot security swears they don’t have. His face is never caught on camera. His name is never on any lists. If there’s darkness around, you can bet Joe’s managed to sink into it. Maybe it’s his New York roots, or old foster kid habits, or Blackthorne training he can’t quite shake, but one thing’s for sure—if Joe don’t want to be found, there’s not a soul on earth who can find him.

But something about the gray-speckled walls of Langley’s third floor draws him out, as though this place was designed to expose all the secrets it collects, starting with men like him. Of course, the hollering doesn’t help either. “Look at yourself.”

Matt turns just in time to see Joe barrel scowl-first down the hall. “Joe,” Matt says, smile wide and welcoming. “Nice to see you up and walking again.”

“Don’t start,” he barks. “You made me stay home, meanwhile you looked like this?”

Joe’s still got a slight limp to his gait, but that’s not much compared to the laundry list of fresh injuries Matt’s working with. He’s officially lost all leverage in this argument. “To be fair,” he says, trying his luck anyway, “I’ve only looked like this for the last 48 hours.”

Joe closes the distance between them, but his voice still stays at that same outraged level. “What the hell happened to you?”

This particular question can’t be answered in the lobby of Director Smith’s main office, which is almost certainly monitored by folks outside of their extremely limited task force—if not bugged by less friendly players. With one look, Matt’s able to tap into their shared shorthand and convey caution. “Details later.”

Joe catches the hint, even if he doesn’t look happy about it. He scans Matt up and down in that even, no-nonsense sort of way Joe scans everything. His voice drops to Matt’s level when he grumbles, “You just get to have all the fun, I guess.”

“If it helps,” Matt says, “I don’t remember most of it.”

“Jesus,” Joe sympathizes. “Would you at least sit down, already? It hurts just looking at you.”

The two of them usually share the same stick-straight posture, a habit leftover from their Army days that proves impossible to break. Joe’s wearing it now, softened over the years, but still there. The subtle draw of his shoulders. The top-to-bottom stacking of his spine. When Matt tries to mimic it, he comes up against the strain in his ribs and curls right back up. He hasn’t been able to pull himself upright since his third helicopter across the Alps, and Joe’s presence ain’t gonna change that, even if Joe’s always made him feel just a little bit invincible. “If I sit down,” says Matt, “I’m not gonna be able to stand back up.”

Joe’s jaw grinds. “I told you I’d get on a flight—”

Matt says, nice and easy, “And I told you I had it handled.”

“You’re never going solo on one of these things again.”

“I didn’t go solo. I had Rachel, and Rachel had a whole team.”

This ain’t much of a comfort in Joe’s book, and it shows. This is the same look Joe gives him anytime Rachel gets mentioned—and as it so happens, it’s also the same look Rachel gives him anytime Joe gets mentioned. Matt’s got no clue how the two most observant people he knows can be this blind to their own similarities. 

No doubt Joe’s got plenty to say when it comes to Rachel Cameron and her team, but he bites his tongue because good guys don’t bad-talk ladies when they’re not around to defend themselves. Instead, he keeps his frustrations broad. “It never should’ve gotten this close.”

“We’ve made some powerful enemies,” Matt says with a shrug. The movement aches, but no more than sitting, or standing, or breathing already does. “They were bound to get a couple hits on us one of these days.”

Joe gives him another surveying glance. “This is more than a couple.”

“It’s worse than it looks.”

“And they didn’t get hits on us. They got hits on you.”

Of all his hiding spots, Joe’s favorite is his own guilt. He retreats into it every chance he gets. Lingers in its shadow, sometimes for days at a time. Guilt is the thing that keeps Joe up at night and when he does finally fall asleep, guilt is the thing that brings him back to his feet, wandering down empty hotel halls well into the witching hour. Joe keeps a running list of sins in his head at all times, some small part of him always repenting for the orders he’s followed, the lies he’s told, the lives he’s taken, and a moment of weakness one Christmas Eve night when his own secrets finally became too heavy to hold all on his own. 

It’s constant, and Joe’s an old pro at finding new things to take the blame for. He’s doing it right now. Guilt that he wasn’t there to take his own beating. Guilt that Matt was.

This is all a load of hooey, according to Matt. A bunch of shame and remorse put there by the Circle of Cavan, because shame and remorse is exactly what turns Circle recruits into Circle agents. He’s said as much to Joe, but it’s never received well—doesn’t seem to help, anyway, so Matt focuses on something that will. “It’s worse than it looks,” he says again, and he meets Joe’s eyes this time. Lets the words settle how they need to for Joe to really believe it.  “Honest.”

Joe squints, assessing Matt with that sharp and attentive look he has. “Chrissake,” he finally sighs. “You lie to Soviet dignitaries with that mouth? Honestly Morgan, you’ve got a godawful tell.”

“Alright, so I’m gonna head down to the docs when we’re done here,” Matt admits. “But Joe, look at me. I’m fine. And if I’m not fine, then I’ll be fine.” Joe looks like he wants to protest and takes in a breath to do exactly that. But Matt’s in no shape for a fight right now, so he interrupts this one before it can even start. “Did you get to my safety deposit box while I was gone?”

This is a lot like asking if Joe got around to sleeping or eating while he was gone, which might be why Joe rolls his eyes. “You asked me to go,” he says, “so I went.”

“And?” Matt prompts.

Joe spots the change in subject, but Matt must look pitiful enough to let it slide. “Nothing,” he says. “No sign of a break-in—passport right where it was supposed to be.”

Matt’s heart drops into his battered gut, landing among the dread that’s been churning there for days. It takes every ounce of training he’s got to keep his face neutral, composed, when he lets out a matter-of-fact, “Huh.”

“Huh?” Joe presses. “What, huh?”

“One of my passports was in Moscow. Saw it with my own two eyes.” 

The lobby is empty around them, lined with unoccupied seats and filled with unread magazines. There’s no one to hide from. There’s not a sound to be heard. Not even the plant in the corner is alive, faded plastic leaves feeding off the fluorescents above. Even so, neither one of them risks a scene for fear that someone, somewhere is watching.

Joe’s words are quiet. Barely there. “If it wasn’t from your deposit box…”

“Someone at Langley is selling the passports they have on file,” Matt says. “And if we track them down…”

They don’t dare finish the thought aloud. They don’t have to. This has always been the endgame. The sole objective Director Smith gave them years ago, back when Joe still had an allegiance to the Circle and Matt didn’t know the name Ioseph Cavan. Find the moles, protect the agency, and save Joe’s reputation in the process. All these years, they’ve been tracking Circle agents from the outside in, working with any informant they could to get back to a source at Langley. This may be their one and only shot at an internal investigation.

But Matt’s ribs twinge against his breath, and the timing reeks of a trap. After all these years of looking, they finally reach a breakthrough on this op days after he takes a beating designed to intimidate. Maybe it’s working, because Matt’s not so sure they should follow this one.  “Conversation for another time,” he hints. “We’ll talk when we get back to the apartment.”

And Joe doesn’t miss a trick. “There’s more?”

When it comes to the Circle, there’s always more. No one knows that better than Joe Solomon. “There’s no such thing as coincidence, right?” 

Joe nods. “Right.”

“Let’s just say,” Matt cautions, “I don’t think it’s a coincidence I was there.”

Matt keeps this theory vague on purpose, trusting Joe to decode the rest.  There’s a glint in his eyes as he runs the numbers and plays out every hypothetical. Joe may not have been in Moscow, but that doesn’t mean he can’t piece together what happened. “Jesus,” he spits, realization playing out in his features. “You think Rachel set you up?”

Well. That sure ain’t the conclusion Matt expected him to make. “What? No. God, no,” Matt sputters. They don’t have time to walk back the math on this particular miscalculation, so Matt cuts to the chase before Joe can go any further down that path. “But Joe, listen. I think Catherine might have.”

This has Joe running a whole new set of numbers through his head, pulling the corners of his mouth into a hard, stoic frown. “No,” he says, definite. “Not a chance. You’re sure it wasn’t Rachel—?”

“Morning, Joe.”

With timing too perfect to be accidental, Rachel chooses this moment to round the corner and join their conversation. She has a cup of vending machine coffee in each hand, steam still rising from the slim notches in each plastic cap. As she sips from one, she holds the other out to Matt, and he’s been awake for too many consecutive hours to decline. It ain’t Joe’s coffee, but it’ll do.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” she says, and Matt has to hand it to her—she’s got this way of making something perfectly pleasant sound like utter devastation. “I heard you’ve been indisposed as of late.”

Joe’s answering glance is aimed directly at Matt, a scathing pout from someone who ain't above using his highly specialized skill set on a girl, just as long as his best friend gives him permission first.

Matt replies with his own warning look and a placating, “Play nice.” To keep the game fair, he turns to Rachel too. “Both of you.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Joe asks.

Matt throws a thumb in her direction. “Talk to Rachel, when you’re talking to Rachel.”

“Alright.” His eyes flash to her. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Rachel takes another sip of her coffee, entirely unruffled. “A pleasure, as always, Joe.”

Joe crosses his arms over his chest. Settles into a wider stance. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not at my friendliest,” he says. “It’s just that I gave Matt to you in pretty good shape, and you didn’t exactly return him in pristine condition.”

“All things considered, I’d say he’s in pretty excellent condition, actually.” She’s the cool and collected counter to Joe’s stinging emotion. “Despite your best efforts to put him in the ground.”

Joe huffs, a bull seeing red. “Excuse me?”

Matt physically steps between the two of them. “Alright,” he says. “A little civility, please. I’ll remind you both that there are plenty of things I need your help with, but getting myself into trouble ain’t one of them. If you wanna be mad at someone, you can be mad at me.”

They both look ready to follow through on that offer, so Matt holds out his hands in either direction. Before they can speak he says, “But you can’t be mad at me yet—I’m injured, remember? So, so very injured.”

Joe rolls his eyes and spits out a, “Chrissake,” at the same time Rachel says, “Oh honestly, Matthew.” The two of them seem to find some tentative common ground in their shared annoyance, temporarily refraining from any further bickering. That’s fine. Matt can be a common enemy for now. Maybe it’ll remind them that what they’ve actually got is a common friend. There may be hope for them yet.

He lowers his hands slowly, trying not to disturb the peace. “Rachel’s here on orders from the Director,” he explains, “on account of how she’s recently learned some new information.”

Joe deciphers this in a matter of seconds. “You told her?”

“What I could,” Matt confirms. “It was the only way to get her out of Moscow.”

For all his grumbling, Joe knows the same thing every spy knows—that Moscow is a desperate place in a desperate time, always calling for desperate measures. He won’t begrudge any decisions made within the city’s borders, because he knows firsthand how Moscow can wring a fella out and force him to find alliances in the damnedest places. 

So rather than holler any more than he already has, he turns to Rachel. Looks at her with a deadly serious intensity. “Then he must have told you that you’ve raised some flags?”

Rachel matches his gaze. “He did.”

“That these are dangerous people?”

“He said that too.”

Joe glaces at Matt, then lands back on Rachel one more time. He looks like he wants to hide, but instead he holds strong. “He told you that if you keep looking for them, they’re going to find you first?”

Guilt for pulling Matt into all this. Guilt for pulling in Rachel by proxy.

Rachel’s chin is in its usual place, high and strong. “I’m not afraid of making a few more enemies.”

“I’m not saying it to scare you,” Joe insists. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth, and because you’re smart enough to walk away while you still can.”

Joe Solomon can hide anywhere in the world, but there are some people not even he can hide from, even if he’s spent most of his adult life trying to do exactly that. His words lack all the signs of their usual squabbles, replaced by a man who has been running for as long as he can remember, and wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

Rachel Cameron is not his worst enemy, but she knows their rivalry well enough to understand this must be important, if Joe’s decided to put it aside for now. She surrenders her own fight, just temporarily, and grants him a nod. “I’ll do what the agency asks of me,” she says. Then, with some consideration.  “What’s best for Matt. And I suppose, by association, that means I’ll do what’s best for you, too.”

Sometimes Matt forgets that Joe is older than Rachel, by just under two years. In damn near every aspect of espionage and beyond, the two are evenly matched. But right then, Joe’s experience weighs down his every feature and makes him look horribly, achingly old. When it comes to understanding the toll the Circle can take on a person’s soul, few people know more than Joe.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, letting his head fall into a shameful shake. “But just know, as soon as you walk in those doors, you aren’t making decisions for yourself. You’re making them for Abby and your dad. For any friends you have back in Baltimore. For any future family you might want to have someday. Because once these people find out you’re onto them, they won't just stop at you.”

The best way to send Rachel into an uneasy spiral is to dig up her sense of helplessness. It’s something Matt’s only just started to learn, but something Joe seems to have known for a while now, given how easily he leverages her own fears against her. There’s some irony to the idea that a manipulation technique Joe learned in the Circle is the only thing keeping Rachel out of it.

She glances at Matt, but it’s quick. Like she can’t quite help herself. It’s gone before Matt can decide what it means, hidden behind another sip of coffee. “Fine,” she says, bored as she wipes the corner of her lip with her thumb. “Anything else?”

Joe starts to answer one way or the other, but he doesn’t get the chance. They’re interrupted by a petite woman in a pencil skirt, emerging from the office at their backs. She peers over horn-rimmed glasses as she says, “The Director will see you now.”

Best not to keep the boss waiting.

Rachel straightens her shoulders and starts to turn, leading the pack. “Ladies first,” she reminds them both, looking distinctly Abby-like as she shoots a carefree smile over her shoulder.

Matt starts to follow, the way he always follows her lead, but Joe hooks a hand around his arm instead, keeping Matt planted in place. He waits until Rachel is out of earshot and then, in the most covert voice Matt’s ever heard from him, asks, “Are you sleeping with Rachel Cameron?”

Spy training or not, Matt feels a flush crawl up his neck, as fresh flashes catch along his breath. Rachel’s cool hand on his hot chest. Rachel’s moan in his mouth. “Am I—?” he sputters. “Am I sleeping with—?”

But Joe’s just got this look on his face. Cover blown. 

So Matt drops the act. They’ve talked about matters of national security with less urgency when he asks, “How did you know?”

Joe points to the coffee cup in Matt’s hand. “You hate vending machine coffee,” he says. “Which I know, because every time you drink it, you bitch and moan about how my coffee is better.”

“Your coffee is better,” Matt contests.

“And yet, you’re drinking hers,” Joe says. “And the only way you’d ever drink that shit is if you were—”

“Yeah.”

“So you are.”

“Yeah.”

“About time.”

This is so wildly off-base from the response Matt expects that he has to do a double-take. Make sure he heard right. “Wait,” he says. “What’s that supposed to—?”

“Are you boys coming, or what?”

Rachel pops her head around the doorway and Matt resists the completely unspylike urge to throw both hands over Joe’s mouth. “Yep,” he says. “Be right there.”

She retreats back to the office, and Matt turns back toward Joe. “Not a word.”

Joe holds up both hands in faux innocence. “My lips are sealed,” he says, but he’s biting back a grin, and Matt knows he hasn’t heard the last of this. “Now let’s get this over with. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can watch the Royals game.”

Matt really is having a hard time deciding how to feel about Joe, right this moment. “You taped the Royals game for me?”

Joe shrugs. “‘Course I taped the Royals game for you.”

But Matt forgives easy, and Joe’s easy to forgive anyway. “Joe Solomon,” he says, with a grin of his own. “Did you miss me?”

“Alright,” Joe drones. “Get in there, or I’m gonna tell you the scores.”

Matt does as he’s told, because it’s Joe telling him to do it. Plus, the woman with the glasses is tapping her heel in their direction. Even though Matt regularly squares up against arms dealers and armed guards, he's still not willing to tick off the Langley secretaries.

They file into the familiar beige and black office, ready to give their usual debrief and sort out which details should be committed to paper and which should be left to rot in the wind. This process is routine enough that it’s practically scripted, and Matt feels a certain sense of comfort in the repetition, even with Rachel’s presence. In fact, some part of him is relieved for her to finally see all this. To finally understand a part of his life that’s been kept from her for so long.

But the moment he enters the room, he realizes that Rachel ain’t the office’s only new addition.

Director Smith is tucked behind his desk, just like always, shuffling through a stack of paper that never seems to get any smaller, no matter how many times they visit. Like always, his black jacket hangs on the back of his chair and his tie is loose at the collar. He’s filled out the mustache he started growing a few years back, in an attempt to look more like Tom Selleck. He looks mostly the same as he always has, except where age and stress make him look a little more weary.

The man across from him is unfamiliar—at least, Matt thinks he is. But a second glance triggers some deep down certainty that they’ve met before, somewhere, sometime, when Matt was least expecting him. 

The Director looks up at them all. Smiles. “Ah, welcome home, boys,” he says, in his easy Virginian accent. “And Ms. Cameron. I’ve heard wonderful things.”

“Likewise, sir,” Rachel replies, always the perfect lady.

“How is your sister?” he wonders. “Bored to tears, I suppose.”

“And healing up just fine,” she says. “Which, I keep reminding her, is the important part.”

“Yes, well, as soon as she’s ready to go again, we’ll be happy to have her,” he says. “Send my best to her—and to your father, while you’re at it.”

“Will do, sir.”

The mystery man turns to face them head-on, and Matt gets that feeling again. It’s the eyes that strike him first, dark in a way that makes them look endless. Something about the cut of his jaw, the angle of his nose, the furrow of his brow. It all sends a surge of hot familiarity through Matt’s veins, landing like metal in his mouth.

“I’m eager to hear about your latest findings,” Smith goes on. “But first, I suppose you’ve all noticed we’re not alone.”

It’s the start of an introduction and the mystery man stands to meet it, buttoning the front of his jacket as he goes. His movements strike more familiarity into Matt, resonating at a single frequency in his bones.

“Trusting that you’re all able to keep a secret until the news is made official,” says Smith, with some humor, “I’d like to introduce you to the new Director of Operations for the CIA—Mr. Max Edwards.”

Max Edwards’ dark eyes settle onto Matt, holding a hand out to shake. Matt takes it with a flinch, hand still sore from fighting off memories he can’t remember. “Nice to meet you,” says Max, in low southern drawl just barely above a whisper. “Alexander has told me great things about this task force.”

Max moves on to the next hand, and it’s Joe who has the wherewithal to ask, “New, sir?”

Director Smith stands to join the rest of the room, rounding his desk and leaning against its front. “I’ve been called up the ranks, Mr. Solomon,” he says, arms crossing casually across his chest. “Come autumn, I will be serving as the Deputy Director of the CIA.”

“Congratulations,” says Rachel, sincerely.

“That’s great,” Matt mutters, distracted.

Leave it to Joe to ask, “What does that mean for—?”

Director Smith holds up a hand, already well ahead of Joe and not afraid to show it. “We will, of course, have some details to work out. Rest assured we will have time to do so, though I’d prefer not to speak in great detail with Ms. Cameron present.” He turns to Rachel. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Rachel replies. Her gaze meets Joe’s, one final debate between the two of them. She must let him win, because she turns back to Smith and says, “As I understand it, my involvement is better left at need-to-know.”

Matt should be relieved. He should be thankful that something Joe said got through to her. That she isn't pushing for more. That she won’t be the Circle’s next target, and that she won’t have to spend a lifetime in this fight. But he’s just too caught up in the way Max walks. In the way he speaks, and moves, and looks.

Smith nods in her direction. “Unfortunately, I believe that’s a wise decision,” he says. “While your skills would be more than welcome, I’m certain I don’t have to share that the consequences could be quite dire.”

“No sir,” Rachel agrees. “That’s been made clear.”

“Then we will save our discussion for another time,” he concludes.  “Until then, the only thing you three need to know is that I will no longer serve as your primary contact on this case. I simply won’t have the time. But I do still hope to stay involved, which is why I wanted to ensure I had someone I trusted in this position.”

All three of them turn to study Max, the man to be trusted. He stands tall. Confident. Certain that he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

“Mr. Edwards will train at my side in the coming months, learning the ins-and-outs of our objectives here,” says Director Smith. “Boys, you’ll be asked to pursue new leads as they come in—no different than before. Ms. Cameron, we’ll work closely with you on your upcoming reports to ensure we commit the correct details to paper. This is among my top priorities as I transition, and Max has expressed similar dedication.”

This all feels so critical and immediate. Matt wishes he could focus, but his brain is caught on repeat, trying to fill the Max Edwards sized hole in his head.

Max clears his throat. “Everything alright, son?” he asks Matt. “You look shaken.”

The set of his shoulders. The crease in his forehead. “I’m sorry sir, it’s just—” he starts, but he hesitates, worried he’ll sound foolish. The whole room watches him, waiting for an answer he ain’t sure about. “I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met before.”

A small sigh rises and falls in Max’s broad chest, something close to a laugh, although Matt can’t imagine this man ever laughing. Max glances toward Director Smith, who grants a permissive node, and Max holds his hands out, putting himself on full display. “You caught me,” he says, simply.  “You have seen me before. At the Bolshoi Theatre.”

With the Bolshoi as a background, Matt’s brain handily fills in the rest of the memory. A bag of passports in his hands, Townsend’s voice at his back, and a mysterious man looking up at him from the ground floor. That must be it. “You spotted us,” Matt remembers. “In the balcony. Before we ran.”

To Matt’s credit, Max didn’t look at all like himself in Moscow, done up in a disguise that relied on dark facial hair and heavy Russian garb. That must be why Matt couldn’t identify him on sight. “You were not too hard to spot, I’m afraid.”

This sounds like it could be a joke, but Matt’s not sure, so he replies in earnest, just in case. “Yes, well,” he says. “Moscow has a way of bringing out unexpected circumstances.”

“I’d like to hear more, when we have time,” says Max. “Learn how we can do better in the future.”

“Yessir.”

When Max Edwards smiles, a chill runs down Matt’s spine, and it must be left over from Moscow. From that feeling of having eyes on his back, and not trusting a single step he takes. It always takes a few days to shake off the Soviet Union and this is no exception. 

Matt meets Max’s eyes once more, and he's got this strange urge to hide. Slip into a crowd, the way he always does. Let the world dissolve at his back, then come up for air once its safe again.

But Max already found him once, back on a balcony in the the Bolshoi. Who's to say it couldn't happen again? Matt may be a natural Pavement Artist, but Max seems like the type who can see straight through anything. “Gentlemen,” Max says, clasping his hands together. “I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership.”