Live Free or Die Hard Fanfic -- "Partners"
Title: Partners
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Pairing: John McClane/Matt Farrell, established relationship
Rating: R
Word Count: 5427
Partners
by Severina
“You got the witness statement on the Peterson thing, McClane?”
John waves his hand at the stack of files piled haphazardly on the edge of his desk, ignores Lambert as he rummages through them and lays waste to whatever minimal order John had managed to achieve. He narrows his eyes and scowls at the small print on his own paperwork, resists the urge to rub at his eyes and massages the back of his neck instead. He glances up at the overhead lighting, but the fluorescents are burning just as brightly as they ever did.
“Hey, we’re heading over for beers at McGrory’s in fifteen,” Kowalski calls over to Lambert. “Joe, you in?”
“Sure.”
“McClane?”
John blinks away Matt’s voice in his head lecturing him about the hazards of limited spectrum light, and squints across the room. “S’gonna rain,” he warns lightly.
“I got an umbrella,” Kowalski says. “Besides, in case you didn’t notice, I ain’t exactly made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I‘m not gonna melt.”
“You look like sweeeeet cotton candy to me, baby.”
“Fuck off, Gianetti. I‘m old enough to be your mother.”
“The way I feel about you,” Gianetti says, making a playful lunge at Connie’s ass, “isn’t at all innocent.”
Joe looks up from where he’s shuffled back to his desk, head already buried in the file. “Forecast didn’t say anything about rain.”
John shrugs, turns the motion into a stretch that he feels in every pop in his spine. He knows it doesn’t matter what the forecast said. His scars don’t lie. He forces himself to look away from Gianetti, still leering at Connie behind her back, and can‘t help but wonder how much of the rookie‘s outrageous flirting is for show. Or how little.
“So what’d ya say, John?”
John leans back in his chair as he flips his file closed with a sigh. “You know I don’t do that shit any more, Connie.”
He doesn’t miss the look that Connie exchanges with Lambert. “The thing is, John, they serve this new concoction in bars these days,” Connie says. “It’s called ‘soda’. You might wanna give it a try some time.”
Joe flicks at the blinds, peers up at the sky. “No rain clouds,” he says. “Nice night out there. You should come.”
“Pass,” John says. “I got plans.”
Joe’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Ohhh. Hot date?”
John’s pretty sure Matt said something about pasta, and the premiere of a new television show that he’s been bouncing eagerly about for days. That means John will be able to parlay his own willingness to watch Matt’s show into persuading Matt to join him in front of the big screen for the last half of the Knicks game. And that means Matt waving his arms at the screen and talking to the players, until John has no choice but to tackle him into the sofa cushions and bury his tongue in his mouth to shut him up. He’s also been looking forward to Matt’s new show for days.
“Got plans with Matt,” he hedges.
Joe makes a face. “Matt?”
“You remember,” Gianetti says. “The kid. Last summer, that fire sale shit.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Lambert says. He leans a hip on his desk, folds his arms at his chest. “You still got that hacker punk living with you, McClane?”
“Yeah,” John says slowly, “I still got that hacker punk living with me.”
“Give him a call, get him to meet us there,” Gianetti suggests.
Joe grunts. “Who said you were invited?”
“Sure, the more the merrier,” Connie says.
“Wait,” Joe says. “Is that kid even old enough to drink?”
“It don’t matter, ’cause they serve soda, remember?”
“Pass,” John says firmly.
“Fine,” Connie says airily. “You don’t wanna associate with us anymore, even though it’s been months since we‘ve seen you anywhere but behind that desk, that’s just fine. We’re not hurt, are we Joe?”
Joe shrugs. “I’m not.”
“Good to know,” John says. He gets up and tugs on his leather jacket, considers putting the Peterson files back into some semblance of order before sighing and shoving them en masse into his bottom drawer. “Last thing I’d want is to upset the delicate equilibrium of the office. It’d keep me up nights.”
“Ooh, big words, John,” Joe mocks. “I’m impressed.”
John shoots him the finger, turns the motions into a wave as he heads for the exit.
“Anyway,” Gianetti calls as he’s on his way out the door, “we’ll see you at the barbeque.”
John hesitates on the threshold and winces.
“Oh, that’s right,” Joe says cheerily. “You got no choice with that one, Scalvino already said he wants everybody there on Sunday and playing nice. Hey! You should bring the kid. My daughter’s gonna be there, maybe they’ll hit it off.”
“You just called the kid a hacker punk,” Gianetti says. “You want your daughter dating a hacker punk?”
“Hacker punks probably make a shit ton of cash,” Joe says. “She could do worse. Besides, who else is she gonna meet at this thing? I sure as hell don’t want my daughter dating a cop.”
John shakes his head as he pulls the inner door shut, gratefully muting the voices of Gianetti and Lambert as they continue to debate the merits of cops versus hacker. He stops at the bottom of the stairs to turn up his collar before stepping out into the noise of the city. Ten steps from the door and he’s forgotten about the offer of drinks at McGrory’s; twenty steps and Gianetti’s very likely real crush on Kowalski is a distant memory. Thirty steps and he can feel the weight of Being John McClane slough off his skin, his history left behind in a crowded bullpen.
By the time he reaches his car the raindrops have started to fall, and he’s decided that there’ll be plenty of time before Matt’s show for other extracurricular activities. He takes a deep breath -- vehicle exhaust and smog and garbage and onions from the hot dog vendor on the corner -- and smiles.
* * *
John tosses his keys toward the oak table in the foyer, shrugs out of his jacket and shakes it free of water before easing off his holster and draping it and the coat over one of the pegs on the wall. The house is redolent with the pungent smell of onions and garlic, and since he wasn’t there to supervise he’s pretty sure the kid will have loaded the sauce with cayenne as well. He’ll be up half the damn night… and so will Matt, of course, bouncing between three different computers like he does every other night and keeping up a running commentary on whatever strikes his fancy at the moment. John is fairly certain that Matt plans these dinners based around their ability to force him into Matt’s office when he should be asleep. He spends these late nights alternately sprawled on the futon or roaming the room, stopping to lean against the back of Matt’s chair and watch his fingers fly over the keyboard, running his fingers through Matt’s hair and waiting for the moment when Matt begins to droop so he can lead him back to bed where he belongs.
“You fall asleep out there?” Matt yells from the kitchen.
John blinks out of his reverie, leans down to pull off his shoes. Tonight, he won’t have to think about spending half the night perched on the uncomfortable futon in the office, trying not to wince at the burning in his chest and feeling like an old fucking man because of a little spicy food. Tonight, he doesn’t plan to eat the pasta that Matt probably spent the last hour preparing. He has other plans for the kid.
“Perfect timing,” Matt says without looking around when he pads softly into the kitchen. “Penne’s almost ready.”
John stops midway into the room, watches as Matt dips his head to the wooden spoon to taste the sauce. He makes an exaggeratedly lip-smacking sound of contentment before looking up to grin at John, and the welcoming smile falters just slightly when John says nothing. He cocks his head, opens his mouth to say something, but John takes the moment of hesitation as an invitation, stalks across the room and into his space, crowds him back against the counter and attacks his mouth. Matt lets out a little yelp of surprise, arms pin-wheeling for balance, and John is vaguely aware of the splatter of red sauce on the overhead cupboards before he applies himself thoroughly to the job at hand; namely, making Matthew Farrell forget his own name.
When John pulls back Matt’s lips are swollen and his face is flushed, and the evidence of his enjoyment at John’s unconventional greeting is pressed firmly against John’s thigh. The kid lets out a shaky laugh.
“What, no ‘hi honey, I’m home?’” Matt teases. “No, ‘how was your day, dear?’”
John smiles against his neck, swears the kid actually smells like circuit boards and energy drinks. “How about ‘get naked so I can fuck the shit out of you?’”
“Wow, romantic,” Matt says. “You must have been beating the ladies off with a stick before I came around.”
John raises a brow. “You’re still talking?”
“You don’t seem to be stopping me.”
John doesn’t need to be told twice, plants his hands on either side of the counter to take his weight and presses closer. But now he takes his time, licking Matt’s lips open slowly, waiting for Matt to sigh into the kiss before he takes it any further. Less than a minute later he hears the clatter of the wooden spoon hitting the floor as Matt’s hands scramble for his ass and the kid struggles to pull him even closer, hips thrusting forward to urge him on. This time when he pulls away Matt whimpers and tries to follow with his mouth, and John can’t resist. “Nothing to say now, hack boy?”
When Matt huffs out a breath his bangs flutter and John has to curl his fingers into the countertop to resist the urge to brush them away from his face, and when Matt pouts and look at him from beneath long lashes John sucks in a breath and feels the chipped edges dig into his palms.
“Please,” Matt says.
And John is done, or undone, he’s never sure which. He covers Matt’s body with his own and begins a fresh assault on Matt‘s mouth, is vaguely aware of Matt tugging at the button on his jeans and easing his zipper down but only perceives that the kid has succeeded in freeing his dick when the hard length of it slides against the warm, soft skin of Matt’s thigh.
Somehow Matt has already skimmed out of his own jeans -- kid can slither like a snake when he wants to, for which John is eternally grateful -- and pushed the tube of lube into his hand, and John wastes no time in spinning the kid toward the counter with one hand and popping the cap with the other, smoothing the gel onto his fingers before crooking one and pressing it inside. When Matt shivers and squirms John leans forward to press a kiss to the nape of his neck, uses his other hand to push Matt’s T-shirt up his back to reveal the long smooth line of spine.
“Good?”
“Mmmmm,” Matt mumbles. He shifts to widen his stance, and John takes his cue, adds another finger.
“Oh!” Matt says, voice just this side of breathless. John figures he needs to work a little harder, kid is still way too coherent. “I spoke to Lucy,” Matt continues. “Friday night’s good for dinner.”
John’s fingers still. “Please tell me you’re not talking about my daughter while my fingers are up your ass.”
“No. I just… I was…” Matt looks awkwardly over his shoulder, blinks rapidly. “I wanted to mention it while I was thinking about it, so I didn’t forget.”
He shivers when John huffs a breath against his shoulder. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about my daughter while my fingers are up your ass.”
“No, I.. what? No! Jesus, no. I just… You know what? I’m ready, McClane, just fuck me!”
John shakes his head. “Now who’s the romantic?” he mutters, but he slicks his cock and slides carefully inside Matt’s tight heat, pauses when he’s fully sheathed and waits for Matt to adjust before beginning a slow steady rhythm. He drops his hands to Matt’s hips, adjusts the angle of Matt’s body and the depth of his thrusts and is rewarded by a shaky gasp when he hits the right spot. Matt tosses his head and John watches, fascinated, at the beads of sweat that curl the hair at the nape of his neck, at the perspiration that coats his body as the friction between them builds. He can’t resist, leans forward to lick at the salty sheen, and when Matt shudders beneath him he wonders why he’d ever want to resist. He snaps his hips when Matt pushes back against him, only partially registering the litany of god and fuck yes and john that spills from Matt’s never-quiet mouth.
Even though they’ve had this… this relationship for a while now, this part of it is new enough to John that he still marvels at the feel of hard lines against his body instead of rounded softness. He looses his grip on Matt’s hip to run a hand down Matt’s arm, braced against the countertop, and grunts appreciatively at the lines of wiry muscle thrumming beneath Matt‘s skin, taut and tense. He lets his hand drift to Matt’s chest, smoothes a palm over his pecs before tweaking a nipple and grins against Matt’s back at his gasp of surprised pleasure. His grip tightens, arm wrapping around Matt’s thin chest and pulling him back onto his body, thrusts deeply and still wonders how he ever managed to have Matt living in his home, sharing his meals and his life, for so many goddamned months before finally giving in and taking this, this mind and this body, this amazing fucking gift.
“John,” Matt gasps out, one arm still propping himself up against the counter, the other clasped tightly onto John’s bicep, doing his best to hold himself steady against the increasingly erratic thrusts of John’s hips. “I can‘t… you’ve got to…”
John relaxes his grip, lets Matt droop onto the countertop as he slides a hand down Matt’s stomach to wrap a firm hand around Matt’s dick. It only takes a few strokes and Matt is groaning, going rigid and silent as he comes against the scarred cupboards. His ass clenches around John’s dick and John closes his eyes, tries to hold his rhythm, tries to make this last just a little while longer, but when Matt presses John’s hand to his mouth and nips at the ball of his thumb, it’s over. He mouths silent words against Matt’s shoulder blade and thinks that Matt can hear them anyway.
When he opens his eyes Matt is grinning at him wildly over his shoulder. “The McClane version of ‘hi honey, I’m home’,” he says. “I’m a fan.”
John grunts, slides carefully from between Matt’s legs and runs a hand over his jaw when he takes in the state of the room. He didn’t plan to eat the food, true, but he didn’t plan this, either. The kitchen is a disaster area. Somehow they’d managed to spill the saucepan, and Matt’s deftly prepared sauce is now dripping into the crack between the stove and the counter. He lifts the other pot, stares in at the burnt crisps of something that used to be noodles. “Penne’s ruined,” he says.
“Shit,” Matt says. He swipes a hand through his unruly hair, looks genuinely bereaved. “That sauce was amazing. It was worthy of Carluccio! I can‘t believe you‘re not going to be able to taste it!”
John has no idea who Carluccio is, but he nods anyway. “I’ll buy you Thai,” he says by way of apology.
“Hmmm,” Matt murmurs. He turns his back on the mess. “It was worth it.”
John is the one who insists on doing the dishes immediately after dinner, wiping down tables and cleaning away leftover crumbs. His fingers twitch now to clean up the mess before the mice enjoy the smorgasbord, but his hesitation puts the tiniest sliver of doubt into Matt’s eyes so he tugs the kid against him instead, revels in the feel of Matt’s sweat-slick body against his and feels the first faint stirrings of renewed interest. “Definitely worth it,” he says.
And he’ll also be able to get a full eight hours sleep tonight, he remembers. Win-win all around.
* * *
John gets held up dealing with bureaucratic bullshit, so by the time he makes it home on Friday he‘s grumpy and muttering under his breath. Making out with Matt like a horny teenager in the steamy kitchen does wonders for his mood, and he’s actually looking forward to the evening by the time the food timer goes off and they have to reluctantly pull apart. They’re doling the food onto serving dishes when the bell rings, and John leaves Matt to finish as he answers the door.
“Dad,” Lucy says after he hugs her, her eyes flashing be nice or I’ll cut off your balls in that way that only he (and probably Matt) can read. “This is Mike.”
His daughter’s suitor is wearing a baseball cap -- a Red Sox cap at that -- and John does his best not to scowl even as he drops two points off the boy’s scorecard. But the kid, Mike, removes the cap at the door and drops it on a peg with his jacket, and the hair revealed underneath is short and neat and not at all hippie-like. He shakes John’s hand and his grip is firm but not so firm as to appear to be showing off, and he calls John “sir“, always a nice touch. So John begrudgingly gives the two points back and starts the boy off from scratch as he leads them into the dining room.
Mike holds Lucy’s chair and waits for her to be seated before taking his own place at the table (2 points) but he also keeps his hand close to hers all through dinner, reaching out to unobtrusively run his finger over her thumb or to make sure their arms brush together when he reaches for the vegetables, and that’s about a negative one hundred point deficit that he’s never going to climb out from under. John shovels food into his mouth while Matt and Lucy keep up a running dialogue on everything from video games to French fashion, and he manages to grunt in the right places and smile wanly when Mike makes a joke about fashion week that Matt and Lucy find hilarious.
“The food is delicious,” Lucy says midway through the meal. Her eyes sparkle with the outright lie, but Matt beams, and John has to admit it‘s good to see her looking so happy, so relaxed. He decides that he might reluctantly remove some of Mike’s points if the boy is responsible for that look in his daughter’s eye. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Matt did the cooking.”
“Hey,” John protests. “You used to love my cooking.”
“Right,” Lucy scoffs. She turns to her boyfriend and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s version of home cooking was frozen pizza and spaghetti-o’s,” she says, waving her fork for emphasis.
“Still is,” Matt puts in.
John tosses a piece of carrot in Matt’s direction. He realizes that it’s possible that he might have been staring -- okay, glowering -- at Mike for most of the meal, and so far the boy’s done nothing to earn his wrath. He takes a breath, decides to hold off on Hovering Cop Dad for the moment, and flails momentarily for something to talk about that Lucy will consider being nice. He likes his balls where they are. “So,” he finally asks, “how did you two meet?”
Lucy and Mike exchange a glance.
“Well,” Mike says.
“I was waiting for the bus,” Lucy says after a moment, “and it was pouring rain. And of course like a doofus I’d left my umbrella in my humanities class, so I was drenched. I was huddled under this overhang by the news stand--”
“And I drove by and saw this large drowned rat, but when I looked closely I discovered it was actually a girl,” Mike says with a grin. “So--”
“Wait a minute,” John says slowly. “Wait a goddamned fucking minute. Are you telling me that you got into a car with a stranger? Is that what you’re fucking telling me, Lucy?”
“Yes, Dad, because I have swiss cheese for brains. Jesus, I wouldn’t get into a car with just anybody.” She pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, grins like a Cheshire cat. “Mike’s a cop.”
John feels his own mouth drop open, closes it with a snap. Beside him, he feels more than sees Matt twitch in his chair, and files that away for later perusal. “A cop,” he says dully.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a cop.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the silence that follows, Matt leans forward. “So,” he says. “We’ve established that Mike’s a cop. I’m in math-based security, specializing in randomized algorithms. In case anyone is interested.” He looks around the table. “No? Not really? Okay then.”
Lucy shoots Matt a look before turning her attention back to John. “Mike works out of Queens, so you probably won’t ever see him. But isn’t it nice that you have something in common?”
John lifts a forkful of meat to his mouth, chews slowly. “Nice,” he says.
“And you’ll see him this Sunday at the barbeque,” Lucy says brightly. John swears she’s enjoying his discomfiture. “I’m hoping to get there after class, but I’m not sure I’ll make it. But you’ll be able to spend some time with Mike even if I’m not there. Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah,” John says, his voice as dry as Matt’s meat loaf. “Just great.”
* * *
“You knew.”
“What?“ Matt says. The kid gives him his best innocent look, and John is honest enough to admit that the puppy-dog expression has caused him to back off on more than one occasion. But not this time. Not when his little girl is concerned.
“What, my ass,” he barks out. “You knew Lucy was dating a cop. You knew and you didn’t tell me, motherfucker. I don‘t want my daughter marrying a cop. Jesus.”
“Okay, first,” Matt says, voice muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head, “I’d like to point out that I’ve never fucked a mother. And dude, who‘s saying anything about marriage? It’s been three months, they’re still at the fucking like wild rabbits stage.”
John’s not sure what Matt sees on his face when his head emerges from the shirt -- he’s too busy trying not to have a fucking heart attack, thank you very much -- but it’s enough to make Matt’s eyes go wide. “Whoa,” the kid says, “okay, too soon for jokes. Got it.”
John gets it too. He knows how fast it happens, when love hits you over the head with a fucking two by four and you just know. It happened with Holly on the third date, some horror movie at the Majestic where he’d expected to mine the usual clichés, arm over the shoulder, reassurances when she huddled into his embrace when the killer started hacking up bodies. Instead she’d kept up a dry commentary throughout the entire film on the stupidity of the heroine, and he’d known then and there that he wasn’t letting her go. It happened with Matt just as fast, right about the time that Matt refused to let him go alone to Woodlawn, letting him know that by not betting on him he absolutely was betting on him. John still remembers the way his chest got tight and for several long seconds it felt like he couldn’t breathe, and that time it wasn’t a two by four but a fucking sledgehammer to the temple, and he knew. It just took him a couple more months to admit it.
The signs are clear as fucking day. His baby girl has taken her own shot to the head.
“I didn’t tell you,” Matt says, “because I knew you’d react like this.”
“Like what?” John grits out.
“Like a crazy overprotective nut job who’s got his daughter married off the first time he meets the guy? Like that, McClane.”
“Fuck you,” John snaps. “I saw the way she looks at him, and I want something better for Lucy than being a cop’s wife. You don’t know what it’s fucking like, all right? Never knowing when you kiss him good-bye in the morning if that‘s gonna be the last time you see him… worrying all the goddamn time.” When Matt simply looks at him, John makes a face. “It’s different.”
“Why, ‘cause I’m a guy?” Matt tosses his shirt in the general direction of the laundry hamper in the corner, shakes his head. “That’s bullshit.”
“Matt--”
“No way, John. You forget that I’ve seen firsthand what you go through. I saw you thrown out of a third story window. I saw you dangling down an elevator shaft. For fucks sake, McClane, you--”
“I swear to god if you say ‘killed a helicopter with a car’--” John starts.
“You fired a bullet into your own body to stop a bad guy!”
He remembers coming up with the idea, feigning passing out in the hope that Gabriel would move the gun away from his temple. When Gabriel had done just that and pushed the gun into the fresh bullet hole in his shoulder instead, the idea had come to him in a flash of inspiration. He still can‘t believe he pulled it off. “Jesus, Matt, you gotta stop saying that shit. That was almost a year ago.”
“So that makes it better? All right, fine, McClane, you want something more recent? I can give you something more recent. Last month, when you went in on that drug bust in Queens--”
“I was just acting as back-up for--”
“Or hey, how about four months ago, that anthrax scare at the university? Or two months before that, when you stormed the bank like a fucking paratrooper during that stand-off. How’s that, McClane? Those recent enough for you? Because I can go on.” Matt waves his arms wildly. “I got a whole list taking up space up here.”
John slumps onto the bed, briefly closes his eyes. He doesn’t think about those things. He just does them, because he has to. Because he can’t not do those things. With Holly, that meant a silent house and dinners in the trashcan and her back to him when he finally crawled into bed in the middle of the night. With Matt, it’s a light burning in the office at 3am and lines of numbers shooting across the computer screen and Matt tasting like sickly-sweet syrup when they kiss. So he just… never thought about it.
“I bet you do,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,“ Matt blurts out. “Shit, John, you are who you are, that’s half the reason I fell in love with you to begin with! I’m just saying…” Matt takes a breath, presses his lips together and deliberately dials it down. John appreciates the effort. “I’m just saying that I knew what I was getting into, and I’m still here. And just…” he shrugs, “give Lucy some credit. She’s your daughter. If anybody knows the hazards, it’s her.”
“Okay,” John says slowly. He still doesn’t like it, but he’ll deal with it. He opens his arms, waits until Matt crawls into his lap. “Paratroopers use parachutes, by the way.”
“Bite me,” Matt says.
John does, nipping lightly at the tender flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder, smiles against Matt’s skin when he shivers at the scrape of teeth. Then he pulls back.
“Shit. Am I overprotective?” John scowls, considering. Watching out for Lucy on campus and making sure no creeps were hitting on her, that’s just a father’s normal concern for his daughter, isn’t it? And pushing Matt behind him when that fucker in the liquor store started going ballistic? Well, he’s a cop, he’s better equipped to deal with cracked out motherfuckers waving around pocket knives. John sighs. “I know I’m protective, but am I over protective?”
“Absolutely,” Matt says. “But don’t worry. It’s hot, in an overbearing caveman Neanderthal kind of way.”
John feels his lips twitch despite his best efforts. “Thanks,” he says dryly.
“You‘re welcome,” Matt grins. “So you’ll go the barbeque.”
“I’ll go to the barbeque.”
“And you’ll play nice with Mike.”
John scowls. The kid wants fucking miracles. “I won’t rip his balls off and shove them down his throat when I see him touching my daughter. That’s all I can promise.”
“It’s a start.”
He‘s got a reputation at these events as a loner, John knows, the guy who growls at the cops who‘ve been around the block a few times when they needle him to join in the festivities and ignores the rookies who give him a wide berth, watching him with a combination of awe and fear. He thinks it might be nice just to be able to relax for a change. Maybe it’s time to let people in.
“You know,” he says, running a hand up and down the smooth expanse of Matt’s warm back, “I’d be more likely to keep that promise if there was someone else there.”
“There’s going to be a lot of people there. It’s a barbeque. Cops from all the boroughs and their families…” Matt stops, and John wonders how the kid ever managed to fool anybody with a face that transparent. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmmm.”
John lifts a brow. “So?”
“So what?”
John sighs. Sometimes he really wants to smack the kid. “Will you go with me to the barbeque?” he recites.
“Hmm. I don’t know.”
John looks up in surprise.
“Will you be my partner in the three-legged race?”
“It’s not that kind of barbeque,” John explains. “There might be face-painting for the kids, couple of clowns.” He shrugs. “It’s mostly an exercise in public relations and morale. The local news morons will show up to tape thirty seconds of a bunch of uniforms standing around. The commissioner’ll give ’em a nice sound bite. Then we eat burgers and gossip like old women.”
“Sounds exciting,” Matt deadpans. He leans back, stilling John’s roving hand, to look into his eyes. “Well, if there was a three-legged race, would you be my partner?”
There‘s something else going on here, and it doesn‘t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. He doesn’t hesitate. John has always jumped in with both feet.
“I‘m your partner,” he promises.
“Then it’s a date.”
When Matt smiles his entire face lights up, and it makes John’s stomach clench, makes him willing to do whatever he has to do to keep it there. He flips Matt’s easily onto his back, climbs up his body and drags his palm roughly up Matt’s chest while his other hand dips into Matt‘s jeans, and smiles himself when Matt closes his eyes and arches into the touch.
“Hey,” he says, “remind me at the barbeque to talk to Gianetti.”
Matt’s eyes flutter open. He licks his lips, and John has to concentrate to remember what it was he just asked. “Gianetti?” Matt says.
“Yeah. I need to tell him to stop being a pussy.”
“Pussy. Right,” Matt says. He raises himself on his elbow and wrinkles his nose. “Okay, wow. That’s one word I never thought I’d utter in this bedroom.”
John laughs, nips at the shell of Matt’s ear. “Let’s see what I can do to get that image out of your head.”
“You’re a prince among men, McClane,” Matt says, and then John nuzzles into his neck, licks and sucks a trail down Matt’s chest, shucks his jeans aside and replaces the light stroke of his hand with the warm wet suction of his mouth. He realizes, not for the first time, that there isn’t a goddamned thing he wouldn’t do for the kid.
He’s perfectly okay with that.
.
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Pairing: John McClane/Matt Farrell, established relationship
Rating: R
Word Count: 5427
Partners
by Severina
“You got the witness statement on the Peterson thing, McClane?”
John waves his hand at the stack of files piled haphazardly on the edge of his desk, ignores Lambert as he rummages through them and lays waste to whatever minimal order John had managed to achieve. He narrows his eyes and scowls at the small print on his own paperwork, resists the urge to rub at his eyes and massages the back of his neck instead. He glances up at the overhead lighting, but the fluorescents are burning just as brightly as they ever did.
“Hey, we’re heading over for beers at McGrory’s in fifteen,” Kowalski calls over to Lambert. “Joe, you in?”
“Sure.”
“McClane?”
John blinks away Matt’s voice in his head lecturing him about the hazards of limited spectrum light, and squints across the room. “S’gonna rain,” he warns lightly.
“I got an umbrella,” Kowalski says. “Besides, in case you didn’t notice, I ain’t exactly made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I‘m not gonna melt.”
“You look like sweeeeet cotton candy to me, baby.”
“Fuck off, Gianetti. I‘m old enough to be your mother.”
“The way I feel about you,” Gianetti says, making a playful lunge at Connie’s ass, “isn’t at all innocent.”
Joe looks up from where he’s shuffled back to his desk, head already buried in the file. “Forecast didn’t say anything about rain.”
John shrugs, turns the motion into a stretch that he feels in every pop in his spine. He knows it doesn’t matter what the forecast said. His scars don’t lie. He forces himself to look away from Gianetti, still leering at Connie behind her back, and can‘t help but wonder how much of the rookie‘s outrageous flirting is for show. Or how little.
“So what’d ya say, John?”
John leans back in his chair as he flips his file closed with a sigh. “You know I don’t do that shit any more, Connie.”
He doesn’t miss the look that Connie exchanges with Lambert. “The thing is, John, they serve this new concoction in bars these days,” Connie says. “It’s called ‘soda’. You might wanna give it a try some time.”
Joe flicks at the blinds, peers up at the sky. “No rain clouds,” he says. “Nice night out there. You should come.”
“Pass,” John says. “I got plans.”
Joe’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Ohhh. Hot date?”
John’s pretty sure Matt said something about pasta, and the premiere of a new television show that he’s been bouncing eagerly about for days. That means John will be able to parlay his own willingness to watch Matt’s show into persuading Matt to join him in front of the big screen for the last half of the Knicks game. And that means Matt waving his arms at the screen and talking to the players, until John has no choice but to tackle him into the sofa cushions and bury his tongue in his mouth to shut him up. He’s also been looking forward to Matt’s new show for days.
“Got plans with Matt,” he hedges.
Joe makes a face. “Matt?”
“You remember,” Gianetti says. “The kid. Last summer, that fire sale shit.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Lambert says. He leans a hip on his desk, folds his arms at his chest. “You still got that hacker punk living with you, McClane?”
“Yeah,” John says slowly, “I still got that hacker punk living with me.”
“Give him a call, get him to meet us there,” Gianetti suggests.
Joe grunts. “Who said you were invited?”
“Sure, the more the merrier,” Connie says.
“Wait,” Joe says. “Is that kid even old enough to drink?”
“It don’t matter, ’cause they serve soda, remember?”
“Pass,” John says firmly.
“Fine,” Connie says airily. “You don’t wanna associate with us anymore, even though it’s been months since we‘ve seen you anywhere but behind that desk, that’s just fine. We’re not hurt, are we Joe?”
Joe shrugs. “I’m not.”
“Good to know,” John says. He gets up and tugs on his leather jacket, considers putting the Peterson files back into some semblance of order before sighing and shoving them en masse into his bottom drawer. “Last thing I’d want is to upset the delicate equilibrium of the office. It’d keep me up nights.”
“Ooh, big words, John,” Joe mocks. “I’m impressed.”
John shoots him the finger, turns the motions into a wave as he heads for the exit.
“Anyway,” Gianetti calls as he’s on his way out the door, “we’ll see you at the barbeque.”
John hesitates on the threshold and winces.
“Oh, that’s right,” Joe says cheerily. “You got no choice with that one, Scalvino already said he wants everybody there on Sunday and playing nice. Hey! You should bring the kid. My daughter’s gonna be there, maybe they’ll hit it off.”
“You just called the kid a hacker punk,” Gianetti says. “You want your daughter dating a hacker punk?”
“Hacker punks probably make a shit ton of cash,” Joe says. “She could do worse. Besides, who else is she gonna meet at this thing? I sure as hell don’t want my daughter dating a cop.”
John shakes his head as he pulls the inner door shut, gratefully muting the voices of Gianetti and Lambert as they continue to debate the merits of cops versus hacker. He stops at the bottom of the stairs to turn up his collar before stepping out into the noise of the city. Ten steps from the door and he’s forgotten about the offer of drinks at McGrory’s; twenty steps and Gianetti’s very likely real crush on Kowalski is a distant memory. Thirty steps and he can feel the weight of Being John McClane slough off his skin, his history left behind in a crowded bullpen.
By the time he reaches his car the raindrops have started to fall, and he’s decided that there’ll be plenty of time before Matt’s show for other extracurricular activities. He takes a deep breath -- vehicle exhaust and smog and garbage and onions from the hot dog vendor on the corner -- and smiles.
* * *
John tosses his keys toward the oak table in the foyer, shrugs out of his jacket and shakes it free of water before easing off his holster and draping it and the coat over one of the pegs on the wall. The house is redolent with the pungent smell of onions and garlic, and since he wasn’t there to supervise he’s pretty sure the kid will have loaded the sauce with cayenne as well. He’ll be up half the damn night… and so will Matt, of course, bouncing between three different computers like he does every other night and keeping up a running commentary on whatever strikes his fancy at the moment. John is fairly certain that Matt plans these dinners based around their ability to force him into Matt’s office when he should be asleep. He spends these late nights alternately sprawled on the futon or roaming the room, stopping to lean against the back of Matt’s chair and watch his fingers fly over the keyboard, running his fingers through Matt’s hair and waiting for the moment when Matt begins to droop so he can lead him back to bed where he belongs.
“You fall asleep out there?” Matt yells from the kitchen.
John blinks out of his reverie, leans down to pull off his shoes. Tonight, he won’t have to think about spending half the night perched on the uncomfortable futon in the office, trying not to wince at the burning in his chest and feeling like an old fucking man because of a little spicy food. Tonight, he doesn’t plan to eat the pasta that Matt probably spent the last hour preparing. He has other plans for the kid.
“Perfect timing,” Matt says without looking around when he pads softly into the kitchen. “Penne’s almost ready.”
John stops midway into the room, watches as Matt dips his head to the wooden spoon to taste the sauce. He makes an exaggeratedly lip-smacking sound of contentment before looking up to grin at John, and the welcoming smile falters just slightly when John says nothing. He cocks his head, opens his mouth to say something, but John takes the moment of hesitation as an invitation, stalks across the room and into his space, crowds him back against the counter and attacks his mouth. Matt lets out a little yelp of surprise, arms pin-wheeling for balance, and John is vaguely aware of the splatter of red sauce on the overhead cupboards before he applies himself thoroughly to the job at hand; namely, making Matthew Farrell forget his own name.
When John pulls back Matt’s lips are swollen and his face is flushed, and the evidence of his enjoyment at John’s unconventional greeting is pressed firmly against John’s thigh. The kid lets out a shaky laugh.
“What, no ‘hi honey, I’m home?’” Matt teases. “No, ‘how was your day, dear?’”
John smiles against his neck, swears the kid actually smells like circuit boards and energy drinks. “How about ‘get naked so I can fuck the shit out of you?’”
“Wow, romantic,” Matt says. “You must have been beating the ladies off with a stick before I came around.”
John raises a brow. “You’re still talking?”
“You don’t seem to be stopping me.”
John doesn’t need to be told twice, plants his hands on either side of the counter to take his weight and presses closer. But now he takes his time, licking Matt’s lips open slowly, waiting for Matt to sigh into the kiss before he takes it any further. Less than a minute later he hears the clatter of the wooden spoon hitting the floor as Matt’s hands scramble for his ass and the kid struggles to pull him even closer, hips thrusting forward to urge him on. This time when he pulls away Matt whimpers and tries to follow with his mouth, and John can’t resist. “Nothing to say now, hack boy?”
When Matt huffs out a breath his bangs flutter and John has to curl his fingers into the countertop to resist the urge to brush them away from his face, and when Matt pouts and look at him from beneath long lashes John sucks in a breath and feels the chipped edges dig into his palms.
“Please,” Matt says.
And John is done, or undone, he’s never sure which. He covers Matt’s body with his own and begins a fresh assault on Matt‘s mouth, is vaguely aware of Matt tugging at the button on his jeans and easing his zipper down but only perceives that the kid has succeeded in freeing his dick when the hard length of it slides against the warm, soft skin of Matt’s thigh.
Somehow Matt has already skimmed out of his own jeans -- kid can slither like a snake when he wants to, for which John is eternally grateful -- and pushed the tube of lube into his hand, and John wastes no time in spinning the kid toward the counter with one hand and popping the cap with the other, smoothing the gel onto his fingers before crooking one and pressing it inside. When Matt shivers and squirms John leans forward to press a kiss to the nape of his neck, uses his other hand to push Matt’s T-shirt up his back to reveal the long smooth line of spine.
“Good?”
“Mmmmm,” Matt mumbles. He shifts to widen his stance, and John takes his cue, adds another finger.
“Oh!” Matt says, voice just this side of breathless. John figures he needs to work a little harder, kid is still way too coherent. “I spoke to Lucy,” Matt continues. “Friday night’s good for dinner.”
John’s fingers still. “Please tell me you’re not talking about my daughter while my fingers are up your ass.”
“No. I just… I was…” Matt looks awkwardly over his shoulder, blinks rapidly. “I wanted to mention it while I was thinking about it, so I didn’t forget.”
He shivers when John huffs a breath against his shoulder. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about my daughter while my fingers are up your ass.”
“No, I.. what? No! Jesus, no. I just… You know what? I’m ready, McClane, just fuck me!”
John shakes his head. “Now who’s the romantic?” he mutters, but he slicks his cock and slides carefully inside Matt’s tight heat, pauses when he’s fully sheathed and waits for Matt to adjust before beginning a slow steady rhythm. He drops his hands to Matt’s hips, adjusts the angle of Matt’s body and the depth of his thrusts and is rewarded by a shaky gasp when he hits the right spot. Matt tosses his head and John watches, fascinated, at the beads of sweat that curl the hair at the nape of his neck, at the perspiration that coats his body as the friction between them builds. He can’t resist, leans forward to lick at the salty sheen, and when Matt shudders beneath him he wonders why he’d ever want to resist. He snaps his hips when Matt pushes back against him, only partially registering the litany of god and fuck yes and john that spills from Matt’s never-quiet mouth.
Even though they’ve had this… this relationship for a while now, this part of it is new enough to John that he still marvels at the feel of hard lines against his body instead of rounded softness. He looses his grip on Matt’s hip to run a hand down Matt’s arm, braced against the countertop, and grunts appreciatively at the lines of wiry muscle thrumming beneath Matt‘s skin, taut and tense. He lets his hand drift to Matt’s chest, smoothes a palm over his pecs before tweaking a nipple and grins against Matt’s back at his gasp of surprised pleasure. His grip tightens, arm wrapping around Matt’s thin chest and pulling him back onto his body, thrusts deeply and still wonders how he ever managed to have Matt living in his home, sharing his meals and his life, for so many goddamned months before finally giving in and taking this, this mind and this body, this amazing fucking gift.
“John,” Matt gasps out, one arm still propping himself up against the counter, the other clasped tightly onto John’s bicep, doing his best to hold himself steady against the increasingly erratic thrusts of John’s hips. “I can‘t… you’ve got to…”
John relaxes his grip, lets Matt droop onto the countertop as he slides a hand down Matt’s stomach to wrap a firm hand around Matt’s dick. It only takes a few strokes and Matt is groaning, going rigid and silent as he comes against the scarred cupboards. His ass clenches around John’s dick and John closes his eyes, tries to hold his rhythm, tries to make this last just a little while longer, but when Matt presses John’s hand to his mouth and nips at the ball of his thumb, it’s over. He mouths silent words against Matt’s shoulder blade and thinks that Matt can hear them anyway.
When he opens his eyes Matt is grinning at him wildly over his shoulder. “The McClane version of ‘hi honey, I’m home’,” he says. “I’m a fan.”
John grunts, slides carefully from between Matt’s legs and runs a hand over his jaw when he takes in the state of the room. He didn’t plan to eat the food, true, but he didn’t plan this, either. The kitchen is a disaster area. Somehow they’d managed to spill the saucepan, and Matt’s deftly prepared sauce is now dripping into the crack between the stove and the counter. He lifts the other pot, stares in at the burnt crisps of something that used to be noodles. “Penne’s ruined,” he says.
“Shit,” Matt says. He swipes a hand through his unruly hair, looks genuinely bereaved. “That sauce was amazing. It was worthy of Carluccio! I can‘t believe you‘re not going to be able to taste it!”
John has no idea who Carluccio is, but he nods anyway. “I’ll buy you Thai,” he says by way of apology.
“Hmmm,” Matt murmurs. He turns his back on the mess. “It was worth it.”
John is the one who insists on doing the dishes immediately after dinner, wiping down tables and cleaning away leftover crumbs. His fingers twitch now to clean up the mess before the mice enjoy the smorgasbord, but his hesitation puts the tiniest sliver of doubt into Matt’s eyes so he tugs the kid against him instead, revels in the feel of Matt’s sweat-slick body against his and feels the first faint stirrings of renewed interest. “Definitely worth it,” he says.
And he’ll also be able to get a full eight hours sleep tonight, he remembers. Win-win all around.
* * *
John gets held up dealing with bureaucratic bullshit, so by the time he makes it home on Friday he‘s grumpy and muttering under his breath. Making out with Matt like a horny teenager in the steamy kitchen does wonders for his mood, and he’s actually looking forward to the evening by the time the food timer goes off and they have to reluctantly pull apart. They’re doling the food onto serving dishes when the bell rings, and John leaves Matt to finish as he answers the door.
“Dad,” Lucy says after he hugs her, her eyes flashing be nice or I’ll cut off your balls in that way that only he (and probably Matt) can read. “This is Mike.”
His daughter’s suitor is wearing a baseball cap -- a Red Sox cap at that -- and John does his best not to scowl even as he drops two points off the boy’s scorecard. But the kid, Mike, removes the cap at the door and drops it on a peg with his jacket, and the hair revealed underneath is short and neat and not at all hippie-like. He shakes John’s hand and his grip is firm but not so firm as to appear to be showing off, and he calls John “sir“, always a nice touch. So John begrudgingly gives the two points back and starts the boy off from scratch as he leads them into the dining room.
Mike holds Lucy’s chair and waits for her to be seated before taking his own place at the table (2 points) but he also keeps his hand close to hers all through dinner, reaching out to unobtrusively run his finger over her thumb or to make sure their arms brush together when he reaches for the vegetables, and that’s about a negative one hundred point deficit that he’s never going to climb out from under. John shovels food into his mouth while Matt and Lucy keep up a running dialogue on everything from video games to French fashion, and he manages to grunt in the right places and smile wanly when Mike makes a joke about fashion week that Matt and Lucy find hilarious.
“The food is delicious,” Lucy says midway through the meal. Her eyes sparkle with the outright lie, but Matt beams, and John has to admit it‘s good to see her looking so happy, so relaxed. He decides that he might reluctantly remove some of Mike’s points if the boy is responsible for that look in his daughter’s eye. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that Matt did the cooking.”
“Hey,” John protests. “You used to love my cooking.”
“Right,” Lucy scoffs. She turns to her boyfriend and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s version of home cooking was frozen pizza and spaghetti-o’s,” she says, waving her fork for emphasis.
“Still is,” Matt puts in.
John tosses a piece of carrot in Matt’s direction. He realizes that it’s possible that he might have been staring -- okay, glowering -- at Mike for most of the meal, and so far the boy’s done nothing to earn his wrath. He takes a breath, decides to hold off on Hovering Cop Dad for the moment, and flails momentarily for something to talk about that Lucy will consider being nice. He likes his balls where they are. “So,” he finally asks, “how did you two meet?”
Lucy and Mike exchange a glance.
“Well,” Mike says.
“I was waiting for the bus,” Lucy says after a moment, “and it was pouring rain. And of course like a doofus I’d left my umbrella in my humanities class, so I was drenched. I was huddled under this overhang by the news stand--”
“And I drove by and saw this large drowned rat, but when I looked closely I discovered it was actually a girl,” Mike says with a grin. “So--”
“Wait a minute,” John says slowly. “Wait a goddamned fucking minute. Are you telling me that you got into a car with a stranger? Is that what you’re fucking telling me, Lucy?”
“Yes, Dad, because I have swiss cheese for brains. Jesus, I wouldn’t get into a car with just anybody.” She pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, grins like a Cheshire cat. “Mike’s a cop.”
John feels his own mouth drop open, closes it with a snap. Beside him, he feels more than sees Matt twitch in his chair, and files that away for later perusal. “A cop,” he says dully.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a cop.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the silence that follows, Matt leans forward. “So,” he says. “We’ve established that Mike’s a cop. I’m in math-based security, specializing in randomized algorithms. In case anyone is interested.” He looks around the table. “No? Not really? Okay then.”
Lucy shoots Matt a look before turning her attention back to John. “Mike works out of Queens, so you probably won’t ever see him. But isn’t it nice that you have something in common?”
John lifts a forkful of meat to his mouth, chews slowly. “Nice,” he says.
“And you’ll see him this Sunday at the barbeque,” Lucy says brightly. John swears she’s enjoying his discomfiture. “I’m hoping to get there after class, but I’m not sure I’ll make it. But you’ll be able to spend some time with Mike even if I’m not there. Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah,” John says, his voice as dry as Matt’s meat loaf. “Just great.”
* * *
“You knew.”
“What?“ Matt says. The kid gives him his best innocent look, and John is honest enough to admit that the puppy-dog expression has caused him to back off on more than one occasion. But not this time. Not when his little girl is concerned.
“What, my ass,” he barks out. “You knew Lucy was dating a cop. You knew and you didn’t tell me, motherfucker. I don‘t want my daughter marrying a cop. Jesus.”
“Okay, first,” Matt says, voice muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head, “I’d like to point out that I’ve never fucked a mother. And dude, who‘s saying anything about marriage? It’s been three months, they’re still at the fucking like wild rabbits stage.”
John’s not sure what Matt sees on his face when his head emerges from the shirt -- he’s too busy trying not to have a fucking heart attack, thank you very much -- but it’s enough to make Matt’s eyes go wide. “Whoa,” the kid says, “okay, too soon for jokes. Got it.”
John gets it too. He knows how fast it happens, when love hits you over the head with a fucking two by four and you just know. It happened with Holly on the third date, some horror movie at the Majestic where he’d expected to mine the usual clichés, arm over the shoulder, reassurances when she huddled into his embrace when the killer started hacking up bodies. Instead she’d kept up a dry commentary throughout the entire film on the stupidity of the heroine, and he’d known then and there that he wasn’t letting her go. It happened with Matt just as fast, right about the time that Matt refused to let him go alone to Woodlawn, letting him know that by not betting on him he absolutely was betting on him. John still remembers the way his chest got tight and for several long seconds it felt like he couldn’t breathe, and that time it wasn’t a two by four but a fucking sledgehammer to the temple, and he knew. It just took him a couple more months to admit it.
The signs are clear as fucking day. His baby girl has taken her own shot to the head.
“I didn’t tell you,” Matt says, “because I knew you’d react like this.”
“Like what?” John grits out.
“Like a crazy overprotective nut job who’s got his daughter married off the first time he meets the guy? Like that, McClane.”
“Fuck you,” John snaps. “I saw the way she looks at him, and I want something better for Lucy than being a cop’s wife. You don’t know what it’s fucking like, all right? Never knowing when you kiss him good-bye in the morning if that‘s gonna be the last time you see him… worrying all the goddamn time.” When Matt simply looks at him, John makes a face. “It’s different.”
“Why, ‘cause I’m a guy?” Matt tosses his shirt in the general direction of the laundry hamper in the corner, shakes his head. “That’s bullshit.”
“Matt--”
“No way, John. You forget that I’ve seen firsthand what you go through. I saw you thrown out of a third story window. I saw you dangling down an elevator shaft. For fucks sake, McClane, you--”
“I swear to god if you say ‘killed a helicopter with a car’--” John starts.
“You fired a bullet into your own body to stop a bad guy!”
He remembers coming up with the idea, feigning passing out in the hope that Gabriel would move the gun away from his temple. When Gabriel had done just that and pushed the gun into the fresh bullet hole in his shoulder instead, the idea had come to him in a flash of inspiration. He still can‘t believe he pulled it off. “Jesus, Matt, you gotta stop saying that shit. That was almost a year ago.”
“So that makes it better? All right, fine, McClane, you want something more recent? I can give you something more recent. Last month, when you went in on that drug bust in Queens--”
“I was just acting as back-up for--”
“Or hey, how about four months ago, that anthrax scare at the university? Or two months before that, when you stormed the bank like a fucking paratrooper during that stand-off. How’s that, McClane? Those recent enough for you? Because I can go on.” Matt waves his arms wildly. “I got a whole list taking up space up here.”
John slumps onto the bed, briefly closes his eyes. He doesn’t think about those things. He just does them, because he has to. Because he can’t not do those things. With Holly, that meant a silent house and dinners in the trashcan and her back to him when he finally crawled into bed in the middle of the night. With Matt, it’s a light burning in the office at 3am and lines of numbers shooting across the computer screen and Matt tasting like sickly-sweet syrup when they kiss. So he just… never thought about it.
“I bet you do,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,“ Matt blurts out. “Shit, John, you are who you are, that’s half the reason I fell in love with you to begin with! I’m just saying…” Matt takes a breath, presses his lips together and deliberately dials it down. John appreciates the effort. “I’m just saying that I knew what I was getting into, and I’m still here. And just…” he shrugs, “give Lucy some credit. She’s your daughter. If anybody knows the hazards, it’s her.”
“Okay,” John says slowly. He still doesn’t like it, but he’ll deal with it. He opens his arms, waits until Matt crawls into his lap. “Paratroopers use parachutes, by the way.”
“Bite me,” Matt says.
John does, nipping lightly at the tender flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder, smiles against Matt’s skin when he shivers at the scrape of teeth. Then he pulls back.
“Shit. Am I overprotective?” John scowls, considering. Watching out for Lucy on campus and making sure no creeps were hitting on her, that’s just a father’s normal concern for his daughter, isn’t it? And pushing Matt behind him when that fucker in the liquor store started going ballistic? Well, he’s a cop, he’s better equipped to deal with cracked out motherfuckers waving around pocket knives. John sighs. “I know I’m protective, but am I over protective?”
“Absolutely,” Matt says. “But don’t worry. It’s hot, in an overbearing caveman Neanderthal kind of way.”
John feels his lips twitch despite his best efforts. “Thanks,” he says dryly.
“You‘re welcome,” Matt grins. “So you’ll go the barbeque.”
“I’ll go to the barbeque.”
“And you’ll play nice with Mike.”
John scowls. The kid wants fucking miracles. “I won’t rip his balls off and shove them down his throat when I see him touching my daughter. That’s all I can promise.”
“It’s a start.”
He‘s got a reputation at these events as a loner, John knows, the guy who growls at the cops who‘ve been around the block a few times when they needle him to join in the festivities and ignores the rookies who give him a wide berth, watching him with a combination of awe and fear. He thinks it might be nice just to be able to relax for a change. Maybe it’s time to let people in.
“You know,” he says, running a hand up and down the smooth expanse of Matt’s warm back, “I’d be more likely to keep that promise if there was someone else there.”
“There’s going to be a lot of people there. It’s a barbeque. Cops from all the boroughs and their families…” Matt stops, and John wonders how the kid ever managed to fool anybody with a face that transparent. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Hmmm.”
John lifts a brow. “So?”
“So what?”
John sighs. Sometimes he really wants to smack the kid. “Will you go with me to the barbeque?” he recites.
“Hmm. I don’t know.”
John looks up in surprise.
“Will you be my partner in the three-legged race?”
“It’s not that kind of barbeque,” John explains. “There might be face-painting for the kids, couple of clowns.” He shrugs. “It’s mostly an exercise in public relations and morale. The local news morons will show up to tape thirty seconds of a bunch of uniforms standing around. The commissioner’ll give ’em a nice sound bite. Then we eat burgers and gossip like old women.”
“Sounds exciting,” Matt deadpans. He leans back, stilling John’s roving hand, to look into his eyes. “Well, if there was a three-legged race, would you be my partner?”
There‘s something else going on here, and it doesn‘t take a rocket scientist to figure it out. He doesn’t hesitate. John has always jumped in with both feet.
“I‘m your partner,” he promises.
“Then it’s a date.”
When Matt smiles his entire face lights up, and it makes John’s stomach clench, makes him willing to do whatever he has to do to keep it there. He flips Matt’s easily onto his back, climbs up his body and drags his palm roughly up Matt’s chest while his other hand dips into Matt‘s jeans, and smiles himself when Matt closes his eyes and arches into the touch.
“Hey,” he says, “remind me at the barbeque to talk to Gianetti.”
Matt’s eyes flutter open. He licks his lips, and John has to concentrate to remember what it was he just asked. “Gianetti?” Matt says.
“Yeah. I need to tell him to stop being a pussy.”
“Pussy. Right,” Matt says. He raises himself on his elbow and wrinkles his nose. “Okay, wow. That’s one word I never thought I’d utter in this bedroom.”
John laughs, nips at the shell of Matt’s ear. “Let’s see what I can do to get that image out of your head.”
“You’re a prince among men, McClane,” Matt says, and then John nuzzles into his neck, licks and sucks a trail down Matt’s chest, shucks his jeans aside and replaces the light stroke of his hand with the warm wet suction of his mouth. He realizes, not for the first time, that there isn’t a goddamned thing he wouldn’t do for the kid.
He’s perfectly okay with that.
.