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John gets home after midnight with his head aching and a taste on his tongue for the whiskey in his kitchen cabinet. The person sitting on his stoop steps has his head down, and for a moment John tightens up and starts to grope for his gun, but then it passes and he recognizes it as the kid. Farrell.
John sighs and scuffs his shoe deliberately on the pavement, making the kid look up. The kid smiles and hooks his hands into the handles of the plastic bags on either side of them, holding them up at shoulder level. The smell of Chinese—beef, garlic, chilis—wafts to him like a drift of ladies' perfume and his stomach clenches up tight. Belatedly, he remembers he skipped dinner. He'd been too busy getting torn a new asshole—again—by Holly.
…do this to me is bad enough but to drag Lucy into it? Jesus, John, when and where does it stop? When I'm dead? When the kids are?
"I thought you looked like a Mongolian beef man." The bruises have faded from the kid's face, but John imagines he can still see their shadows, faintly mauve against the pale skin. He waves the other bag and glass clinks faintly within. "I brought beer too."
John's mouth twists. "How'd you find me?"
The kid struggles up and John sees how he's still favoring his leg. Probably aches like a bitch too. John's shoulder sure does. "Hello, hacker." Kid makes a face. "Though technically, and if anyone asks, I haven't been near a computer in the last thirty days."
"Well, they won't hear it from me." Truthfully, John could give less than a rat's ass and the kid did save Lucy's life. And the kid might be Lucy's…boyfriend or not-boyfriend or whatever the fuck she's calling it these days. She refuses to talk about it and he guesses she could do worse. A lot worse. And John knows where he lives, too, in case any knee breaking is ever in order. "What are you doing here?"
The kid holds up the take-out again. "I thought maybe you were tired of eating alone."
* * *
The next time he sees the kid—Farrell—is when the sling comes off his shoulder. He's got a couple more weeks of rehab before he can officially touch his gun again, but he's been doing some practice on the sly, gearing up for the inevitable uphill battle to get himself back out on the street. Because John thinks he might actually lay down and die if they think they're sticking him with this chicken shit desk duty for too long.
He's coming down the station steps and there Farrell is again, looking nervous and hangdog. Situation normal, far as John can tell.
"Pizza?" The kid suggests.
John considers. He didn't even get to use his witty opening line. On the other hand… "I could go for a slice," he concedes.
"So what's up with you and Lucy?" he asks, against his better judgment and once they've sat down to their pie. Kid's got red sauce across his cheek and John suppresses the impulse to wipe it away like Farrell's one of his kids. Hell, he hasn't even done that with the kids in more than a decade. "She giving you a hard time? That why you're hanging out with her old man? Trying to earn some brownie points?"
Farrell wipes his own cheek with his thumb and looks sheepish. "Ah…yeah. Me and Lucy…that didn't work out so great."
John snatches a handful of Farrell's shirt. "You didn't try nothing with my baby girl, did you, Comp USA?"
Farrell's eyes get so wide that John's hard put not to laugh. It's a good feeling and then he feels a little guilty for getting off on intimidating the kid. Well. Unless he got handsy with Lucy. That's a different story.
"No!" Farrell sounds strangled. "No, nothing like that! God, I wouldn't… No."
John holds up his hands, grease dripping down his fingers and into his palm. "Okay, okay. Don't get your panties all in a bunch. Just one of those questions a dad's gotta ask."
Farrell looks shaken as he chomps on his slice. Finally, he says, "I just… After. I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore, you know? I go home and I can't sleep…" He trails off, looking into space.
John knows that look. He's worn it a few times himself, especially after Hans fucking Gruber changed his whole perception of what kind of man he is and what he's willing to do. "Yeah." It seems inadequate, like he should say more, be more empathetic, like Holly's always ragging on him for, but most of his soft bits have been rubbed off over time and yeah is pretty much as empathetic as it gets.
He wipes his fingers on a handful of the chintzy paper napkins and claps Farrell on the back. "It gets easier," he lies.
John's good with lies. John always knows where he stands, with a good lie.
Farrell grimaces, looking unconvinced. Then: "It's Matthew, by the way. Or…or Matt."
John shrugs. "Yeah, okay. Matthew."
* * *
The third time, he goes to Farrell's place.
"I suppose I have you to thank for the sudden, miraculous recovery of my IRA?" John waves the sheaf of pages, the vein in his forehead pulsing dully.
Matthew gets that weird constipated look he gets when he's embarrassed. He closes the door and a second later, there's the rasp of the chain disengaging. Kid never fucking learns. The door opens again and Matthew steps aside. "Come in."
"I need you to undo this." John tosses his IRA statement onto Matthew's coffee table carelessly. He doesn't know why he brought them all the way here. Clearly the kid didn't need them to hack whatever the fuck he wanted, do whatever he wanted. This is why John hates computers. Well, and they give him a headache. "Now."
"Why?" Matthew looks genuinely confused, folding down onto his ratty couch. "All I did was fix what Gabriel screwed up. The money's yours, you earned it. It should have been fixed a long time ago."
"Okay, but that's not for you to do. Your ass just got a pass because you happened to 'fix' your mistakes by saving the country. You think you're going to be so lucky if they catch you second time around?"
Matthew scoffs. "They're not going to catch me."
"That's not the goddamn point!" John kicks the table and one of Matthew's fruity figurines—a different one than last time—falls over. John's moderately gratified to see a couple small hand weights in among the rest of the mess. "Don't argue with me about it, just fucking undo it!"
"Jeez, all right!" Matthew scowls ferociously. "You want to end up broke and unable to pay for the massive medical care you're so clearly going to need in your old age and end up in some pissy smelling state home with a giant nurse named Bertha with hairy moles coming out of her face then by all means feel free!"
They stare at each other.
Matthew breaks first, but John's only a millisecond behind him, busting out in deep belly-laughs that almost hurt to push out. Another couple seconds and John has to sit down, lightheaded and crying. "Hairy moles?" John wipes his eyes. "Hairy moles?"
Matthew flaps his hands helplessly, curling up and rolling sideways into John. "I don't know! It was the first thing I thought of."
John sprawls wide, eyes streaming and aching from neck to knees with how hard he's been laughing while Matthew curls, giggling against his side. Crazy kid. "Fuck," he breathes, laughs finally fading into hiccups and shaky sighs, "I'm starving. Let's get some food."
Matthew sits up immediately and starts rummaging through the rainbow coalition of menus scattered across the table. His tee-shirt rides up, showing a knobbled line of vertebra and a bit of new muscle. Kid looks like he's gotten some sun too. Maybe John's rubbing off on him. God, that's a scary thought. "There's a great Mexican place down the street," Matthew says, squinting at a closely printed page of red on purple. "And they deliver."
"Nah, Mexican gives me heartburn. I'd almost rather jump out of a plane."
And that does it; John looks at the kid and Matthew looks back and they're off again.
Matt tips his head back at John, eyeing him upside down from his vantage point on the floor. "What are you even talking about?" He squints thoughtfully, then eels over onto his stomach and slithers closer to John and the couch. John remembers all too well when he used to be that flexible. Still, he can totally humiliate the kid on a piddling 2K run. Though…Matt has been getting better. John's going to have to start stepping up his game. "And hand me the crab rangoons, will you?"
John hands over the waxed container. "I'm just saying… You're a young guy. Lucy seemed to think you're not too atrocious…what are you doing spending all your time hanging around with some old dude that yells at you a lot and got you shot once almost a year ago?"
He doesn't like saying it. Especially not like that. He doesn't think of himself that way. Not really. He likes even less that he's bothered so much by it. But he's been trying to figure Matt out for close to a year now and he doesn't feel any closer to it than he did back then. It's been nice to have the company—especially with him and Lucy on the outs again and Jack all the way out in California and not taking his calls and fuck, don't even get him started on Holly—but at the same time, he feels an obscure guilt. There's a whole world out there and John McClane's corner of it usually involves people that want to kill him and the folks closest to him. There are other, better—safer—places for Matt to play.
It's just a matter of time. It always is.
Matt's squint turns to a frown. He inches his way from the floor up the side of the couch to blink owlishly at John, side pressed against John's calf. "Are you saying…? Wait. I don't know what you're saying. Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"No," John says slowly, less sure of his ground now. Also, Matt's face is very close to his face and he's having trouble focusing.
"John…" Matt trails off uncertainly, licking his lips. Then John must have blinked or something or even slipped or something because suddenly Matt's mouth is against his. And it can't really be an accident, because Matt is kissing him. More than that, John is letting himself be kissed.
It's a weird feeling. In a lot of ways. It's been a while first of all. He tries to think of how long and then gives it up as a bad job. A while. And it's strange to be on the end of the kissed rather than the kisser.
But it's more than that.
Starting with how he's not jerking back. This is nothing that's occurred to him before; not about him and Matt, not about him and anybody—especially any guy. It's been a long time since he's thought about his body like that. Or that he's even had reason to. Did he mention it's been a while? He feels stupid for not having seen this coming. He's a detective.
John pulls away. Not in rejection so much as he needs the space to breathe, his heart banging so crazily against his ribs that he worries for a second it's a heart attack. It's not like he hasn't been overdue for one for years.
Matt's eyes are closed and his forehead rocks against John's as his head swivels gently. His hair brushes over John's scalp like feathers. His fingers are on John's face, swooping down his neck, across his collar bones. Matt breathes, "John. John…please…"
He's made…well, not a living so much as a habit, of winning by being the most stubborn, willful motherfucker out there and allowing nothing to stand between him and his end goal. It hasn't, however, made him a lot of friends. He likes Matt. It was a shock to the old system, but he likes having Matt as his friend. He likes having a friend again.
At the same time, John is keenly aware that his mouth is wet and it feels somehow soft. It feels…awake in a way it didn't a moment ago. Alive. All the feelings/arguments go through his head in an instant: don't really mean it too old washed up too young don't know what you want not really gay just confused... but blooming up like a stubborn weed in the middle of it all is a simple, I want.
It's been a while since he's been conscious of wanting anything, either.
Just…a while, okay?
His hand is shaking when he reaches up to tangle in Matt's hair. He doesn't know this game. He doesn't know the rules. On the other hand, when has that ever stopped him? Matt murmurs again, "John, John, John…"
He doesn't sound angry, or irritated, or dangerous or…homicidal, all things John has come to associate with the sound of his name. He just sounds like this silly fucking kid. Farrell. Matthew.
Matt.
John takes a breath, tilts his head and kisses Matt back.
"See… Here's the thing," John says, when Matt stops with the kissing and starts with the really important work of getting John's pants open and his cock out. "I still really like girls. Women. You know."
"What's not to like?" Straddled across John's thighs, Matt doesn't look up, grinding his hips against John's. It's good and it's not that John's forgotten how much he likes it so much as he's neglected to remember. "Sweet, plump little breasts, warm and soft in your hands, filling up your palms like they were made just for you…"
He frees John from the waistband of his shorts, muttering, "Jesus, of course you fucking wear tighty-whities…" He kisses John again, frantic, hurried, like he's worried John's going to change his mind. It's a pretty legit fear; John's debating that very thing. The kid's clearly crazy and pretty soon, he's going to realize what a monumental mistake this is. Of course, if that's true, all John has to do is hold back and let him come to that conclusion on his own. And then they can gloss over Matt's inevitable embarrassment and…
Well, John's not sure what then, but they'll get past it. Or something.
Matt unzips himself while John's distracted with his mouth, brings the two of them together, flesh sliding against flesh. "That place where their thigh becomes their ass and the skin's so damn soft…"
John groans into Matt's mouth. He doesn't know whether it's more the image that Matt's painting or what Matt's doing to him, his hips pushing him up more firmly into that soft, barely callused grip. His hands are bunched in Matt's slacks on either side of his hips. He feels like he should be more hands-on about this—John McClane's not so good at taking the back seat—but he doesn't know what he's doing and it seems like Matt's got the situation well in hand, as it were and it's kind of nice to not have to worry about the logistics and think too far ahead.
"…how wet they get and the way it smells, all sweet and salty, running down their thighs… God, I love their thighs." Matt whimpers a little into the kiss that time, his tongue flicking across the roof of John's mouth, tangling together with his tongue and then fleeting away before John can get a handle on the conflicting sensations. "Fuck, man, I love girls."
This close, John can see the darkness hidden behind the gentleness of Matt's eyes. He didn't put it there, but he feels some guilt about it anyway. Maybe just because he knows this is how it all started, that same something, the something of being the last man or the only man calling to each other from Matt to him. It occurs to him then, clear as anything: John. You know this is a guy, right?
Matt's hand pumps over their joined cocks again and John thinks back, Yeah. Kinda got a handle on that one, thanks.
Except he doesn't have a handle on it. He doesn't have a handle on anything.
"I just…" Matt's eyes close and his voice wavers as the stroke gets faster, firmer. John fucks up into him and Matt fucks down, a clash that could be horrible and is instead wonderful, better than wonderful. It's been too fucking long since anyone but John's hand has been on him and suddenly he wants to come more than he's wanted anything since maybe his crazy hormonal teens. Feels like it, anyway. "I just like this—wanted this—too."
One of John's hands unclenches to splay across Matt's back, pull him forward and more onto John as he comes, growling through his teeth and making a mess of both of them. It's good. His adrenaline's pumping, his blood's moving and no one's even trying to kill him.
Matt makes another quiet, wavering sound, rutting hard against John's belly and clinging hard to his shoulder until he comes, licking into John's mouth and moaning softly, like it hurts. John holds him through it, the hand on his back soothing Matt down.
When it's over, when Matt's done, he tips sideways, sprawling across John's couch with his legs still draped across John's lap. John just tips his head back and pants.
"See, the thing is," he says again, when he's got it together enough that he thinks it won't sound like he's dying, "I'm kind of fucked up."
Matt lifts his head from the cushion and gives John his are you kidding me? grin. "Yeah, I know," he says. "That's kind of what I like about you."