LFoDH - Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before (McClane/Farrell, R)
There's this 4th of July Ficathon happening over at hard4brains and this is melded from a lot of prompts, so, uh, yeah.
Live Free or Die Hard
John McClane/Matt Farrell
Rated R (inadvertent drug usage, head shaving and masturbation, oh my!)
Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before
An evil genius, a twenty-something hacker and a fifty year-old cop walk into a fire sale, but only the hacker and the cop come out. It's a true story, with lots of blood and gore and helicopters being blown up with cars. It's even got a reluctant princess and G-men.
After the fire sale, the hacker and the cop are sitting in the hospital, because getting shot is kind of rough, and they have a conversation like this one:
"Kid, you're all messed up, so you're staying with me."
"I'm staying with you? Like at your house?"
"No, I was gonna keep you in the garage with the power tools. Why? You got a reservation at The Plaza instead?"
"Um, no, no reservation at the Plaza. I would cancel it if I did though, but are you sure, man? I mean, like, I'm all screwed up and you're all - well, you - "
"Kid?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"Thanks, McClane. Really feeling the love there."
So, the hacker -- who we'll call Matt -- and the cop -- who we'll call John -- set up house together, but it's not really setting up house, because that's sort of domestic and Donna Reed, and two guys living together do not Martha Stewart make. They do, however, make a lot of tips for the delivery guy from the Chinese food place six blocks away and a lot of business for the bodega on the corner. John's idea of haute cuisine is frozen pizza and Matt thinks Red Bull is better than champagne. He likes to leave his half-empty cans all over the place. Like really all over the place.
This can only end in tears or an unfortunate household accident.
"McClane."
"Yeah, kid?"
"MCCLANE!"
"I heard you the first time, kid, what the hell are you yelling about? I haven't even looked at your computer today."
"Why the hell is my bed wet and covered in Red Bull cans?"
"I told you not to leave those cans all over the place."
"So you put them in my bed? Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Hey, I almost slipped on one and killed myself. I figured they'd be safer there."
"I - I -- you're an asshole, McClane. Seriously."
"I may be an asshole, but that's my bed, and unless you're gonna pay my disability when I slip on another of your cans and throw out my back, you better get with the program and throw your shit out, kid."
"I hate it when you call me 'kid'."
"Yeah, well, we've all got problems… kid."
"Asshole."
"I try."
Red Bull cans aside, Matt and John living together sort of works. Matt gets someone to watch hockey games with and impress with his stupidly-oversized, Feebles-subsidized entertainment system, and John gets someone to help him shave his head when it starts doing that patchy growth thing.
"Kid, you don't need shaving cream, just use hot water."
"Shut up and sit down, old man. Don't question my technique."
"You got technique? Since when?"
"Since the internet was invented."
"You kids and your toys. You want me to sit on the toilet?"
"You can put the seat down if you're concerned about catching my cooties."
"Have you heard my knees when I get up in the morning? Cooties are the least of my worries - and why are you putting a hot towel on my head?"
"It helps to soften the skin."
"What the hell internets are you reading?"
"It's the internet, Mr. President. There's only one."
"Everybody's a fucking comedian. What the hell is the shaving cream for?"
"Are you going to let me do this or what?"
"I'll let you do it, I just don't see what all the fuss is about - and that cream is cold."
"McClane?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"Oh, you want me to shut up? Let me tell you something, kid --"
"Safety razor uncapped. Stop moving, John."
"Farrell. Matt."
"Seriously, stop moving now."
"Bossy little shit, aren't -- hey, that feels kind of nice."
"I rest my case."
The thing about John and Matt being domestic is that they don't call it, well, anything, because naming things just makes you think about them really hard. For example, many many many moons before Detective John McClane was Detective John McClane he was just John McClane, freshman at the State University of New York. And like every good freshman, John liked to experiment. With drugs. With beer. With girls. With people who weren't girls. It didn't make him gay, it just made him him.
And so, thirty-odd years later, John being John, well, he knows that thinking too hard about living with Matt Farrell will only lead to badness. Yes, lots of badness. The badness doesn't quite seem so bad when Matt passes out on the sofa in his boxers though. Then the badness just seems like some long-lost Gruber brother fucking with John's head again.
John talks to himself. Like a lot. It started when Holly first went out to L.A. to work for Nakatomi, and John suddenly had the house all to himself. It was really quiet without the kids blaring Sesame Street in the living room and Holly bitching at him because he'd come home late again, and was that blood on his clothes, and why the hell had she married a cop anyway. Yada yada yada…
Over the years John's talking to himself has just become habit. He talks to himself about his knee problems and his shoulder problems and the weather. John talks to himself when he's in crisis situations and he can't count on anybody but that old bald guy with the bad attitude that he sees in the bathroom mirror. John also talks to himself about the bills, the crap on TV, the pointlessness of early retirement and why the Yankees even bother.
Most of the time John just babbles about whatever comes to mind; he tries to keep the stuff about Matt for when he knows Matt'll be in D.C. meeting with the Fibbies.
"No, John, of course I didn't drink the last of the milk and put the cartoon back in the fridge empty, and then go off to D.C. for three days and leave you screwed over. No, I'd never do that. It must be that other hacker you have living in your guest room."
"Yeah, McClane, of course I'm totally hot for a fifty year-old flatfoot who looks at Viagra commercials and thinks about asking his doctor for a prescription."
"It's okay, John, I know you really only let me stay here because you want my scrawny ass. It's totally okay when you jerk off in the shower with my -"
There are some things John can't even say aloud when he's fucking around, but he has no problem cursing the hell out of Matt when he said he'd take care of the laundry before he left and he didn't, and now John's stomping around his bedroom in a towel because he doesn't have any clean underwear.
"I swear to god, kid, when you get home I'm going to hang you out the window by your feet and shake some sense onto your scrawny little --"
"My scrawny little what, McClane?"
John doesn't drop his towel when Matt's voice calls from right outside his door, but it's close. Matt's home early apparently.
Ah, well, going 'commando' is supposed to be better for you anyway.
John thinks of Matt as 'the kid' for a reason, because if Matt's not 'the kid' and instead he's just 'Matt' with the floppy hair and the big dark eyes and the hands that are way bigger than they should be for someone's Matt size and he's living in John's house and sleeping on John's sheets, then somebody might get the wrong idea.
Or somebody else might get the wrong idea, since according to Lucy, she and Holly are all for a winter wedding in Vermont.
What happens when you mix a fifty-something cop, a day off and pot? Yeah, John's just figuring out the punch line to this one himself, since he's not really sure how this has all gone down.
John remembers very clearly the part where he tried to sleep in this morning, totally failed, went for a walk, came home and had a sandwich, a beer and some of these brownies that were on a plate in the kitchen for breakfast. That's one of those great things about not being married, nobody to tell John how to eat. Hell, compared to Matt, John eats like one of those crazy PETA-vegans that throw red paint on everybody.
And everything was really great in John's world, he sat down on the sofa to watch the game with another beer and then everything went a little off. John's hearing hasn't been this good since he was a kid and he's pretty sure that A-Rod didn't really just squeeze Jeter's ass that hard. John's not panicking. There're no guns, no terrorists and it's not Christmas, so there's totally no reason for him to panic. In fact, John is feeling no pain whatsoever.
The twinge in his knee? Gone. The ache in his shoulder blades? Disappeared. That heat in his groin though? Yeah, that's a new one. He should take care of it. In fact, he should take care of it in Matt's room.
John has no idea how he decided that jerking off over Matt's bed was a good idea, but right now he's thinking it's the best one he ever had. The room smells like Matt's deodorant and the sheets smell like Matt's soap. In fact, John can imagine Matt below him right now, all splayed out on his back with his arms just there and his legs sprawled open like that, and then there's that smirk and those heavily lidded dark eyes. If John focuses really hard, he can even feel of Matt's hand covering his own. Who knew that hackers had calluses in so many places?
In his head, Matt's looking at John like he's even better than that fancy new laptop Matt brought home last week, which is pretty impressive, because John's pretty sure that Matt's jerked off over that laptop, too.
When John comes it's better than it's been in a long time. He'd forgotten about how good sex can be when you're high. He'd also forgotten how slow weed makes things. It takes him at least three hours to clean himself up. Or that could just be the weed talking. Still, he's really not expecting it when he opens up Matt's nightstand to get a tissue and finds a balled-up pair of his briefs.
Well, that explains something or other.
At least he knows where to find his underwear next time.
John's just leaving Matt's room when he hears the front door opening, and suddenly, John can't stop laughing. Oh fucking Christ was that close. John sort of collapses against the door frame and that's where Matt finds him, just hanging out. "McClane, you okay?'
"I'm good, kid - Matt." John corrects himself when Matt gives him the evil eye.
Matt stares at John for several seconds. There's no way he can know. He hasn't even been in his room yet.
"What's going on?" Matt says, dropping his computer bag at their feet.
John smiles broadly. "Did you know there are pot brownies in the fridge?"
"Yes, I know there are -- dude, did you not see the sign?" Matt looks completely appalled.
"There was a sign?"
Matt rubs his face. "Yes, there was a -- are you okay? Can old folks handle stuff like that?"
Being stoned kind of delays reflexes, so John doesn't even realize he's got Matt by the shirt until Matt's pretty much plastered against him. Matt's a lot more solid than he looks. He's also very warm. "I'm not old, you know," John says, spelling it out carefully for both of them.
Matt's eyes go wide. "I know. Believe me, I know."
John licks his lips and watches Matt's eyes get even bigger. "Just checking."
Matt looks down at where John's got him by the scruff and then back up at John, but there's something new on his face. "Anything else I should know?" Matt's so close that John can see where he rushed shaving this morning.
John lets go of Matt's shirt and pats him on the chest. "Yeah, the next time you want to steal my underwear, at least get me some new ones, 'kay?"
All the color drains right out of Matt's face. "Dude. That. That's not what you think it is."
John just raises an eyebrow. "It's not? That's too bad."
"Too. Bad?" Matt parrots slowly.
"Yeah," John says with a shrug before slipping away from the door. "Too bad."
John's halfway down the stairs before Matt finally calls after him. "What do you mean 'too bad'?!"
John stops and turns back on his heel. Matt's standing at the top of the stairs, white-knuckling the banister. "Just that it was too bad that I missed the show."
Matt face goes through this series of expressions and John cocks his head to the side curiously. "There, uh, might be another show later on. If you're interested," Matt says hesitantly.
"Oh, I'm interested. I'm definitely interested."
Matt nods slowly. "Oh, okay. Um, you sure it's not the pot talking?"
John rolls his eyes. "No, it's not the pot talking."
"Okay. Yeah, okay." Matt nods again, this time much faster. "Definitely okay."
John chuckles. "I'm gonna go have another brownie now."
Matt gestures behind him. "I'm gonna go take a shower, but, uh, save some for me?"
"Maybe."
Matt scowls. "Just 'maybe'?"
"Can't have everything, kid."
"I hate you sometimes, you know that, right?"
John raises an eyebrow. "Is today one of those days?"
Matt licks his lips. "Not really, no."
John smirks. "Yeah, didn't think so."
-end-
Live Free or Die Hard
John McClane/Matt Farrell
Rated R (inadvertent drug usage, head shaving and masturbation, oh my!)
Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before
An evil genius, a twenty-something hacker and a fifty year-old cop walk into a fire sale, but only the hacker and the cop come out. It's a true story, with lots of blood and gore and helicopters being blown up with cars. It's even got a reluctant princess and G-men.
After the fire sale, the hacker and the cop are sitting in the hospital, because getting shot is kind of rough, and they have a conversation like this one:
"Kid, you're all messed up, so you're staying with me."
"I'm staying with you? Like at your house?"
"No, I was gonna keep you in the garage with the power tools. Why? You got a reservation at The Plaza instead?"
"Um, no, no reservation at the Plaza. I would cancel it if I did though, but are you sure, man? I mean, like, I'm all screwed up and you're all - well, you - "
"Kid?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"Thanks, McClane. Really feeling the love there."
So, the hacker -- who we'll call Matt -- and the cop -- who we'll call John -- set up house together, but it's not really setting up house, because that's sort of domestic and Donna Reed, and two guys living together do not Martha Stewart make. They do, however, make a lot of tips for the delivery guy from the Chinese food place six blocks away and a lot of business for the bodega on the corner. John's idea of haute cuisine is frozen pizza and Matt thinks Red Bull is better than champagne. He likes to leave his half-empty cans all over the place. Like really all over the place.
This can only end in tears or an unfortunate household accident.
"McClane."
"Yeah, kid?"
"MCCLANE!"
"I heard you the first time, kid, what the hell are you yelling about? I haven't even looked at your computer today."
"Why the hell is my bed wet and covered in Red Bull cans?"
"I told you not to leave those cans all over the place."
"So you put them in my bed? Dude, what the fuck?!"
"Hey, I almost slipped on one and killed myself. I figured they'd be safer there."
"I - I -- you're an asshole, McClane. Seriously."
"I may be an asshole, but that's my bed, and unless you're gonna pay my disability when I slip on another of your cans and throw out my back, you better get with the program and throw your shit out, kid."
"I hate it when you call me 'kid'."
"Yeah, well, we've all got problems… kid."
"Asshole."
"I try."
Red Bull cans aside, Matt and John living together sort of works. Matt gets someone to watch hockey games with and impress with his stupidly-oversized, Feebles-subsidized entertainment system, and John gets someone to help him shave his head when it starts doing that patchy growth thing.
"Kid, you don't need shaving cream, just use hot water."
"Shut up and sit down, old man. Don't question my technique."
"You got technique? Since when?"
"Since the internet was invented."
"You kids and your toys. You want me to sit on the toilet?"
"You can put the seat down if you're concerned about catching my cooties."
"Have you heard my knees when I get up in the morning? Cooties are the least of my worries - and why are you putting a hot towel on my head?"
"It helps to soften the skin."
"What the hell internets are you reading?"
"It's the internet, Mr. President. There's only one."
"Everybody's a fucking comedian. What the hell is the shaving cream for?"
"Are you going to let me do this or what?"
"I'll let you do it, I just don't see what all the fuss is about - and that cream is cold."
"McClane?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up."
"Oh, you want me to shut up? Let me tell you something, kid --"
"Safety razor uncapped. Stop moving, John."
"Farrell. Matt."
"Seriously, stop moving now."
"Bossy little shit, aren't -- hey, that feels kind of nice."
"I rest my case."
The thing about John and Matt being domestic is that they don't call it, well, anything, because naming things just makes you think about them really hard. For example, many many many moons before Detective John McClane was Detective John McClane he was just John McClane, freshman at the State University of New York. And like every good freshman, John liked to experiment. With drugs. With beer. With girls. With people who weren't girls. It didn't make him gay, it just made him him.
And so, thirty-odd years later, John being John, well, he knows that thinking too hard about living with Matt Farrell will only lead to badness. Yes, lots of badness. The badness doesn't quite seem so bad when Matt passes out on the sofa in his boxers though. Then the badness just seems like some long-lost Gruber brother fucking with John's head again.
John talks to himself. Like a lot. It started when Holly first went out to L.A. to work for Nakatomi, and John suddenly had the house all to himself. It was really quiet without the kids blaring Sesame Street in the living room and Holly bitching at him because he'd come home late again, and was that blood on his clothes, and why the hell had she married a cop anyway. Yada yada yada…
Over the years John's talking to himself has just become habit. He talks to himself about his knee problems and his shoulder problems and the weather. John talks to himself when he's in crisis situations and he can't count on anybody but that old bald guy with the bad attitude that he sees in the bathroom mirror. John also talks to himself about the bills, the crap on TV, the pointlessness of early retirement and why the Yankees even bother.
Most of the time John just babbles about whatever comes to mind; he tries to keep the stuff about Matt for when he knows Matt'll be in D.C. meeting with the Fibbies.
"No, John, of course I didn't drink the last of the milk and put the cartoon back in the fridge empty, and then go off to D.C. for three days and leave you screwed over. No, I'd never do that. It must be that other hacker you have living in your guest room."
"Yeah, McClane, of course I'm totally hot for a fifty year-old flatfoot who looks at Viagra commercials and thinks about asking his doctor for a prescription."
"It's okay, John, I know you really only let me stay here because you want my scrawny ass. It's totally okay when you jerk off in the shower with my -"
There are some things John can't even say aloud when he's fucking around, but he has no problem cursing the hell out of Matt when he said he'd take care of the laundry before he left and he didn't, and now John's stomping around his bedroom in a towel because he doesn't have any clean underwear.
"I swear to god, kid, when you get home I'm going to hang you out the window by your feet and shake some sense onto your scrawny little --"
"My scrawny little what, McClane?"
John doesn't drop his towel when Matt's voice calls from right outside his door, but it's close. Matt's home early apparently.
Ah, well, going 'commando' is supposed to be better for you anyway.
John thinks of Matt as 'the kid' for a reason, because if Matt's not 'the kid' and instead he's just 'Matt' with the floppy hair and the big dark eyes and the hands that are way bigger than they should be for someone's Matt size and he's living in John's house and sleeping on John's sheets, then somebody might get the wrong idea.
Or somebody else might get the wrong idea, since according to Lucy, she and Holly are all for a winter wedding in Vermont.
What happens when you mix a fifty-something cop, a day off and pot? Yeah, John's just figuring out the punch line to this one himself, since he's not really sure how this has all gone down.
John remembers very clearly the part where he tried to sleep in this morning, totally failed, went for a walk, came home and had a sandwich, a beer and some of these brownies that were on a plate in the kitchen for breakfast. That's one of those great things about not being married, nobody to tell John how to eat. Hell, compared to Matt, John eats like one of those crazy PETA-vegans that throw red paint on everybody.
And everything was really great in John's world, he sat down on the sofa to watch the game with another beer and then everything went a little off. John's hearing hasn't been this good since he was a kid and he's pretty sure that A-Rod didn't really just squeeze Jeter's ass that hard. John's not panicking. There're no guns, no terrorists and it's not Christmas, so there's totally no reason for him to panic. In fact, John is feeling no pain whatsoever.
The twinge in his knee? Gone. The ache in his shoulder blades? Disappeared. That heat in his groin though? Yeah, that's a new one. He should take care of it. In fact, he should take care of it in Matt's room.
John has no idea how he decided that jerking off over Matt's bed was a good idea, but right now he's thinking it's the best one he ever had. The room smells like Matt's deodorant and the sheets smell like Matt's soap. In fact, John can imagine Matt below him right now, all splayed out on his back with his arms just there and his legs sprawled open like that, and then there's that smirk and those heavily lidded dark eyes. If John focuses really hard, he can even feel of Matt's hand covering his own. Who knew that hackers had calluses in so many places?
In his head, Matt's looking at John like he's even better than that fancy new laptop Matt brought home last week, which is pretty impressive, because John's pretty sure that Matt's jerked off over that laptop, too.
When John comes it's better than it's been in a long time. He'd forgotten about how good sex can be when you're high. He'd also forgotten how slow weed makes things. It takes him at least three hours to clean himself up. Or that could just be the weed talking. Still, he's really not expecting it when he opens up Matt's nightstand to get a tissue and finds a balled-up pair of his briefs.
Well, that explains something or other.
At least he knows where to find his underwear next time.
John's just leaving Matt's room when he hears the front door opening, and suddenly, John can't stop laughing. Oh fucking Christ was that close. John sort of collapses against the door frame and that's where Matt finds him, just hanging out. "McClane, you okay?'
"I'm good, kid - Matt." John corrects himself when Matt gives him the evil eye.
Matt stares at John for several seconds. There's no way he can know. He hasn't even been in his room yet.
"What's going on?" Matt says, dropping his computer bag at their feet.
John smiles broadly. "Did you know there are pot brownies in the fridge?"
"Yes, I know there are -- dude, did you not see the sign?" Matt looks completely appalled.
"There was a sign?"
Matt rubs his face. "Yes, there was a -- are you okay? Can old folks handle stuff like that?"
Being stoned kind of delays reflexes, so John doesn't even realize he's got Matt by the shirt until Matt's pretty much plastered against him. Matt's a lot more solid than he looks. He's also very warm. "I'm not old, you know," John says, spelling it out carefully for both of them.
Matt's eyes go wide. "I know. Believe me, I know."
John licks his lips and watches Matt's eyes get even bigger. "Just checking."
Matt looks down at where John's got him by the scruff and then back up at John, but there's something new on his face. "Anything else I should know?" Matt's so close that John can see where he rushed shaving this morning.
John lets go of Matt's shirt and pats him on the chest. "Yeah, the next time you want to steal my underwear, at least get me some new ones, 'kay?"
All the color drains right out of Matt's face. "Dude. That. That's not what you think it is."
John just raises an eyebrow. "It's not? That's too bad."
"Too. Bad?" Matt parrots slowly.
"Yeah," John says with a shrug before slipping away from the door. "Too bad."
John's halfway down the stairs before Matt finally calls after him. "What do you mean 'too bad'?!"
John stops and turns back on his heel. Matt's standing at the top of the stairs, white-knuckling the banister. "Just that it was too bad that I missed the show."
Matt face goes through this series of expressions and John cocks his head to the side curiously. "There, uh, might be another show later on. If you're interested," Matt says hesitantly.
"Oh, I'm interested. I'm definitely interested."
Matt nods slowly. "Oh, okay. Um, you sure it's not the pot talking?"
John rolls his eyes. "No, it's not the pot talking."
"Okay. Yeah, okay." Matt nods again, this time much faster. "Definitely okay."
John chuckles. "I'm gonna go have another brownie now."
Matt gestures behind him. "I'm gonna go take a shower, but, uh, save some for me?"
"Maybe."
Matt scowls. "Just 'maybe'?"
"Can't have everything, kid."
"I hate you sometimes, you know that, right?"
John raises an eyebrow. "Is today one of those days?"
Matt licks his lips. "Not really, no."
John smirks. "Yeah, didn't think so."
-end-