Incapable
Title: Incapable
Author: stupidmuse_hatesme
Pairing: John McClane/Matt Farrell PRE-SLASH
Summary: It slowly comes to light, that Matt has absolutely no idea how to take care of himself. Sadly, the last person to realize this is himself.
Warnings: Absolutely none. Well, yeah. maybe cursing.
Rating: For now? PG-13 for cursing.
Length: 3974
The Boys' pads:
John McClane's apartment is on 3rd and 86th Brooklyn New York Bay ridge area
2 bedroom one bath. Wooden floors. Crappy bathroom with yellow tiling. Tub and glass sliding door for shower. Clear glass. Marble sink.
One Block NW from capital One Bank
6 blocks down on 3rd ave. is a cupcake shop.
One more block from there is Deliah's lounge and across the street is Kim Chee Korean.
Go one block west on 86th and 3 blocks southwest on Ridge St. to Monastery Square (park)
Matt's apartment is on 84th and 14th Dyker heights Brooklyn.
1 bedroom studio. Dingy kitchen. Beat up would floors. Plastic counters. Leaker shower no bath.
Two blocks northeast from Dyker Beach park.
11 blocks southeast from McClane. Hafta take 86th and cross I-278 also called Gowanus Expressway: Toll Road.
AUTHORS NOTE: Yeah, I know I've never written anything in this fandom before...But I became rather obsessed with it recently and read all the good ones I could get my hands on, and then thought: Can I write a good one too? Well, I personally think I fell a bit short (mostly because of the word count, and the lack of slash) But a sequel is in the works, this is the first story I've actually finished in a while, and I managed to make it make sense without a beta.
*cheers*
So if this is your cup of tea, read on! If not? Go back to Harry Potter :) Oh, and I'm not a natural third person writer, it's something I've been practicing so if this story does too much telling and not showing and seems a little stilted...that's why. But, enjoy!
Matt is positive that his lifestyle can't possibly be healthy.
There's not much he can do about it, though. His short attention span makes it difficult to acquire new habits. His medicine cabinet is half full of vitamins he's never touched, his closet holds equipment from a brief exercising phase a few months ago, and he's fairly certain that the odd smell in the freezer comes from his healthy food kick from a while back.
The only thing his short attention span does not affect is his obsession with computers. Or maybe his obsession is what feeds his Attention Deficit…He wouldn't be surprised, since his machinery enables him to hop from topic to topic at lightning speed, after all.
Matt's fingers fly across the keyboard whilst his speakers scream. He's positive that McClane would hate whatever he's rocking to: so he turns it up louder. The folding card table rattles under his laptop causing the Red Bull cans to jitter together. Another thing that bugs McClane is his "addiction". Matt knows he's not addicted, he can stop at anytime. He just chooses not to.
He weaves his fingers together and cracks his knuckles, at the same time wishing that he was allowed a computer more sophisticated than a laptop. But after the fire sale, the FBI monitors him much more closely, so it can't be helped. Matt thinks that they'd be better off not allowing him even a laptop. Wasn't that what Gabriel used to hack the country? Heck, Matt could do it with his PDA.
Fingers shaking, he clasps a can and takes a swig of lukewarm unadulterated sugar and smacks his mouth in a vain attempt to banish his cotton-mouth.
His current apartment looks eerily similar to his pre-kaboom pad, but somehow this dissatisfies him.
Unlike McClane's, his flooring is bare, crappy, and wooden. His walls are bare. His fridge rattles all night, and the kitchen sink doesn't work. In some places the plaster is missing on the walls, and Matt forces his eyes to overlook the ugly patches on a regular basis. His "bedroom" is cramped and only contains the infamous closet, and a mattress on the floor. His clothing is piled in all the free space.
His dilapidated couch was rescued from a street corner. He kept the sign that was propped up on it.
It says "Take me home, I won't cheat on you."
Matt thinks that it's oddly witty and keeps it propped in the jammed window next to the couch. It faces the street. Or the alley, more like. Just because Matt no longer lives in Jersey doesn't mean that he's any better at choosing neighborhoods to live in. The only good thing about living here is that he lives 11 blocks from McClane (according to him), and that he lives 2 from a park (according to McClane). Matt honestly can't recall a time that he's been to Dyker Beach Park during daylight, or for the exercise McClane likely thinks it's good for, but he's not going to tell McClane that.
The man thinks he still uses those weights and other gadgets in the closet, after all.
Matt briefly leans back in his chair, again, and extends his arms above his head in a strenuous stretch. That's about as much exercise as he gets nowadays, actually. He groans as he joints strain and pop. Even after 6 months his knee hasn't quite healed properly, so he's rather house bound. He tries using his super cool cane (with flames decaled on the side) for the most part, because he's supposed to be healed enough to only limp a little. But to his undying shame he needs his crutches to go much farther than from his desk to his bathroom.
He takes a cab to McClane's house, but he'll never tell him that.
Speaking of McClane, Matt blearily eyes his computer's clock (which reads 6 p.m.) and wonders if said man is going to come banging on his door soon. Every Friday night since he moved to Brooklyn, which he did directly after getting out of the hospital, so it's been nearly 6 months, he and McClane meet up to do something. Mostly they just retreat to McClane's place and drink beer while watching something on T.V.
McClane likes Sports, and Matt likes Action movies. And Cowboy movies, but he'll never admit that to anyone but McClane.
He can still remember the grin on McClane's face when the smug bastard found out. "What kid, not too stone age for you?"
If Matt didn't like the guy so much, he would've hit him.
So back to Fridays. He usually calls a cab at 5. Which means it arrives by 5:30, and if the traffic is amazing it can drop him a block or two from McClane's place by quarter till. Which gives him the perfect amount of time to sloooowly limp to his friend's door and ring the buzzer. A couple of times McClane gave him an odd look like he suspected that Matt was cheating, but Matt just smiled and brandished his 6 pack of beer and bag of chips.
McClane might be a recovered alcoholic, but he still likes his beer.
Matt blinks blearily again and wonders where the time has gone. His computer now says 6:30 and his music is playing a weird thumping beat that doesn't match the song. He shakes his head trying to blink away the darkness and listens again.
It's the door.
"Kid! I know you're in there!"
"I hear you!" Matt shouts back hoarsely, pushing his chair back from the card table. It catches on a cord and stalls, but he has enough room now and swings it around.
The abuse on the door pauses.
"Am I gonna hafta beat the fuckin' door in, Kid?"
"No!" Matt is ashamed of how his voice squeaks so clears his throat and tries again. "No. I'll be right there."
But when he reaches for his cane his shaking hand hits it away from where it leans against the card table and it clatters to the floor.
"You okay, Kid?"
"Yeah! I got it!" Before he loses the will he shoves himself out of his crappy computer chair and staggers when his vision goes black. He snarls at his invisible enemy "What the fuck stupid vertigo!" and crashes to the floor out of reach of his cane.
"Kid?"
"No worries! Gotta do somethin' real quick, McClane."
"Kid I'm coming in."
Matt drags himself to his cane and as soon as he has a firm grasp on it he shoves himself up onto both feet. His head swims but he forces himself towards the door, swaying. The first thing McClane sees after he busts the door in is Matt's pale, sweaty face goes blank, and then plummet towards the floor as he passes out.
"Kid? Kid!"
Matt mentally notes to himself that he really needs to get carpets on the floor, or at least some rugs like McClane's.
His forehead prickles as he wrinkles his brow. It feels cold, and clammy. He doesn't like that feeling so he tries to roll over to rub his face in his musty blankets. But to his surprise, he's tucked in too tight to move even an inch. He closes his eyes, uncomfortable, and then slowly drifts off to sleep.
The next time he wakes someone is mopping his forehead with a warm dry cloth. "The doctor says that 100,000 people go to the hospital every year because of dehydration. 300 of them die."
"This sposed to make me feel better, man?" Matt croaks.
The cloth pauses, then restarts. "No, it's sposed to knock some sense into your head. How long were you feeling sick?"
"I haven't been sleeping lately, thought it was just that."
The older man sighs above his head gustily, but Matt's eyes refuse to open.
"By the time I got there you had a full blown case of the flu."
"Had?"
"You've been out for a few days."
Matt mulls over that for a few moments.
"My covers aren't nearly so nice. Am I in your guest bedroom?"
McClane's face is totally blank as he answers. "Yes."
"Oh, well that's good." And he allows himself to slip back into sleep.
Matt has never claimed to be an easy sick person to get along with. When he next wakes he's ready and raring to give McClane a hard time. But after a few demanding shouts he realizes that he's alone in the cop's apartment.
"McClane! This isn't funny!"
He subsides reluctantly onto the stiff never used guest bed and sighs. He wriggles until his arms are free and lays them on the covers, grumbling all the while about not needing to be tucked in like a kid.
"If I was that bad," Matt mutters, "Why didn't he take me to the hospital? Who would've thought there was actually a doctor that does house-calls in Brooklyn."
"How middle-age, huh Kid?"
Matt scowls at McClane where he's leaning idly against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Where've you been?" Matt demands.
"Keep your pants on, Kid. I've been gone for 10 minutes, geezus." He eyes Matt. "To the store."
Matt's glare doesn't abate.
"What day is it?"
"Tuesday. I had some sick days piled up."
"You're not sick." Matt says flatly.
McClane shrugs. "Vacation days, whatever. Boss doesn't care. He's ecstatic that I'm away from work but not blowing shit up and killing people."
"You do have the tendency to do that sorta thing."
McClane smiles briefly. "Yeah Kid. Feel better?"
"Knee hurts, nothin' new."
The man glares. "Why didn't you call?"
Matt shrugs. "Dunno."
"You. Don't. Know." The cop looms over him. "I had to break down your door a half hour after you were due at my apartment to see you collapse, dehydrated, on the floor with a 100 degree fever."
"Well, at the time I was too delirious to think, let alone call you."
McClane's laugh sounds like a dog barking. "I bet, Kid."
Purposefully, the man bends down and tugs at the blankets. "Can you sit up?" He asks gruffly.
Pillows wedged behind Matt's back, McClane returns with a t.v. tray laden with oranges and chicken soup.
"What a combination," The hacker mutters.
"What's that?"
"Nothing!" Matt squeaks, flushing and looking away.
The two men eat in silence and Matt is very proud to see that his hands don't shake one bit. Which is doubly welcome considering how closely McClane is watching him.
Matt finishes his soup last, sleepily slurping it from the bowl.
"So when do I get to go home?"
McClane's bowl hits the tray with a clatter as he abruptly stands.
"I can't believe you, Kid."
Lucy comes over several hours later, in the evening, and wakes Matt from a restless sleep by closing the bedroom door with a sharp snap.
"What's your damage, Farrell?"
He gapes, wondering what he's missed. "What?"
"My Dad was worried out of his skull for you, found you passed out on your floor, too care of your unconscious ass for 4 days, and the first thing you wanna do is go home?"
"Lucy!" McClane bellows from where he's banging around in the kitchen. "I can hear you!"
"I'll ask again," She repeats in a lower voice, leaning over me menacingly. "What's your damage, Farrell?" Her voice is lower but no less dangerous and her eyes seem to spit sparks.
He sighs and looks away. "I never asked for his help, Luce."
She makes a gameshow buzzing sound. "Wrong answer, try again."
He fiddles with the covers, fingers twitching for even a shot of Red Bull. "So I haven't been taking good care of myself."
She snorts.
"But I didn't need the whole cavalry charging after me."
"You could've died!" She protests.
"I've always looked after myself." He says flatly.
"Some job you've been doing."
Matt crosses his arms over his chest and glares. "I didn't ask for help."
"Doesn't mean you didn't, you don't, need it."
"I'd like to go home."
"Pull your head out of your ass and listen to me, you jackass!" Red-faces she huffs and growls at the taken aback hacker.
"Fine!" he says, exasperated. "What exactly is it that you want to tell me?"
"Why won't you let my father help you, Farrell?" She asks quietly.
"You don't, Luce. So why's it a big deal if I don't?"
"You need it. You can barely take care of yourself. Why do you deny it?"
He purses his lips and looks away. "I'm an adult, Luce. I love on my own. I don't need anyone."
She looks disappointed. "Your knee still hurts. What happened to physical therapy?"
He plucks a hair from the quilt. "I quit as soon as I was allowed. No insurance."
"How are you surviving, Farrell?"
"I write programs and sell downloads. I design websites and moderate a forum." He curses under his breath. 'Fuck I hope I'm being covered on the last. War1ock owes me."
She looks skeptical. "And that pays rent?"
"I scrape by."
She reminds Matt of a mother, her brow knit, eyebrows furrowed.
"Allow my father to help with your knee."
"What?"
"The exercises, Farrell! Let him help you."
"Will you fuck off," he says resentfully "If I say yes?"
"Possibly."
"Fine."
Soon after, she leaves, and Matt is aware merely form the sound of the large t.v. that McClane is finished in the kitchen.
McClane listens to the radio if he's in the kitchen.
Lucy shut the door behind her so Matt decides to try getting up. He realizes it's foolish but his pride spurs him on regardless. Ripping the covers off the bed he swings his legs to the side and sits up. The world stays still and he is encouraged. When he stands his knee shakes, but still he pushes himself to the door.
When he swings it open, clutching the doorframe, he is pale, sweaty, and shaking.
"McClane?" He calls down the hall.
The lights in the living room are out but the t.v. casts a blue glow on various looming objects. Propelling himself across the hall Matt stumbles closer to McClane.
"McClane?" He whispers.
He trips on the edge of the rug but catches himself on the couch. There he finds McClane in an ungainly sprawl, snoring, his mouth wide open.
Matt can't help but smile fondly. "I guess," he admits quietly, "I wouldn't mind staying here for a while."
When McClane wakes it's late, paid programming Is quietly droning, and a blanket is pulled up to his chin.
"Blasted kid."
Scratching his belly absently he ambles down the hall to check on Matt. The streetlamp shines through the blinds illuminating Matt sleeping like an angel. McClane stifles a snort. The hacker's hair flows loosely on the pillow and McClane wonders briefly how soft it is. He shakes his head and steps back out of the room
"Goodnight kid."
When Matt wakes it's to grumbling in the vague direction of the living room.
"McClane?"
Crash. Bang. "Shit!" More clattering. "Yeah?"
"Can you help me…uh…" He trails off, blushing scarlet.
"Just a sec, kid."
Matt is sitting on the bed, waiting, when McClane waltzes in drying his hands off on a dish towel. He whips it over his shoulder and approaches Matt briskly.
"Toilet?" He grunts.
"Yeah," Matt agrees.
"Let's not dick around." He states, and imply lifts the hacker bridal style in his arms.
Matt squawks and throws his arms around the cop's neck.
"I can walk!"
"Sure, kid."
Matt is set down in the bathroom across the hall McClane shuts the door firmly.
"5 minutes." He announces form the hall.
Matt groans and fumbles with the flannel pants hanging from his skinny hips. He flushes scarlet and misses the toilet when he realizes that McClane undressed him. Cursing under his breath he yanks at the toilet paper roll to clean up his mess.
"All right there?"
He yelps when he inadvertently pisses on his foot. "Yes!" He hops around trying to salvage the situation and pulls too much from the roll, effectively TPing the toilet.
He scowls, aims, and shakes off before drying up the damage and shoving all the toilet paper into the bowl.
He's tucked away and dry and the toilet is over flowing when McClane opens the door.
"Time's up kid…."
Matthew stands there horrified, the only sound in the room is the gurgling of the toilet and splashing of the water onto the ugly yellow tiled floor.
McClane covers his face with his hand and exasperation.
"Uh…" The hacker says weakly. "Surprise?"
The cop yanks Matt into the hall and wades into the cramped bathroom. "Five minutes." He bitches. "Five minutes!" Soon the tell-tale sound of the plunger can be heard and Matt sinks to the floor to sit against the wall.
Matt guesses that the grunting and cursing continues for 15 minutes before McClane emerges victorious, and sopping wet.
"I'm off to get a mop. Don't move."
Matt doesn't. McClane bangs out the front door and the young man can hear his heavy footfalls tread down the hall. Muffled voices float through the apartment as Matt allows his head to fall back against the wall and his eyes to shut.
Matt feels the floorboards shift as McClane strides back into the bathroom. As he mops, McClane cheerfully whistles.
"I can leave." Matt says.
"Huh, kid?" He stops whistling but Matt can still hear the rhythmic slap slap of the mop on the tile.
"I can go home." He raises his voice slightly.
"Do you want to?" He resumes whistling and seems to ignore the hacker in the hall. Matt ignores him back.
McClane's apartment is familiar to him. The couch smells like pizza, the kitchen takeout, and everything else carries the musky smell of McClane.
John.
His mind skitters away and focuses on the rugs in the living room.
"I should get me some of those."
"What's that, kid?"
He shakes his head.
"Your rugs. I was thinking I should get some."
Wiping his hands on a rag he looks down on Matt with an odd expression on his face. "Right. I gotta return the mop."
Although McClane walks softly his socks squelch ridiculously and Matt can't help but laugh at the cop as he slowly stands.
"Shaddup, kid"
Matt laughs even harder as he slowly moves down the hall. He's sinking gratefully onto the couch when McClane returns. He shuts the door and locks it. Matt looks up with a grin to see McClane awkwardly trying to peel his socks off against the door.
"You're ridiculous, McClane."
He grunts. "Didn't want to ruin a pair of shoes."
Matt nods his head pensively. "Shoes are a thing for you since Nakatomi, huh?" He says, not really asking.
"Nice rhetorical question, kid. Wouldn't be surprised if you even fished out my psych reports about that shit."
Matt shakes his head in mock horror. "Oh no, not those!" He grins. "Just the police report. Al still a good friend?"
McClane laughs and drops to the cushions beside Matt.
"Seriously, kid. Anyone got any privacy from you?"
"Not you." Matt replies without thinking, then snaps his mouth shut.
"That right, kid?"
Frozen, Matt stares like a startled rabbit into McClane's eyes. Those eyes seem to sparkle with a good humor that Matt cannot quite understand.
It's like everyone knows something the he doesn't.
"Don't worry about it, Matt. Don't bust your brain about it."
Matt gulps and let's his gaze drift away. "So you know I quit therapy."
"Yeah, Doctor said your muscles were seized up somethin' fierce."
"You'd help me, then? With exercises?"
"Sure, kid. Sure."
Matt stays at McClane's place for 2 whole weeks, which surprises him most of all. His acquiescence silences Lucy and lends a smug attitude to McClane's exterior.
This doesn't bother him as much as it should.
What does bother him is the tidy little guestroom he sleeps in with it's flowery bedspread, cute little bedside table, whispy curtains, and old fashioned alarm clock. It even has the two bells with a little metal hammer between them on the top.
Every morning Matt wakes to an innocent white room that feels so unlived in he feels like an unwelcome and grubby person for invading this virgin space.
The fridge contains bottled water, whole jugs of assorted juice, and only a few bottles of beer. The veggie bin is full and the freezer contains plenty of meat. Matt's never lived with someone who actually cooks, before. Even his mom fed him kid cuisine on a daily basis. Who could blame her after working 12 hours a day and raising a kid as a single parent?
McClane made spaghetti the second night after Matt woke. He inhaled it. He complimented the cop profusely. But after he was informed how easy it was to make, he couldn't bring himself to admit he'd never eaten it before.
All day long he sits on the couch and watches the boring old t.v.. Even the news is not safe from him. McClane helps him stretch in the morning before he leaves for work, at night when he returns, and then he cooks and serves dinner.
Matt usually eats the leftovers for lunch, and cereal for breakfast. Although occasionally McClane cooks breakfast as well.
The normalcy is killing him.
He feels like a housewife who doesn't even clean. His fingers twitch when he sees McClane do the dishes. He itches to do even the laundry. Anything. Anything that will stop him from feeling so useless.
Exactly two weeks after his illness he throws down the gauntlet.
"I want to go grocery shopping." He announces just as McClane has sat down with a grunt on the couch after a large dinner.
McClane groans as he heaves himself up. "All right, lemme go-"
"No," Matt interjects. "I want to go alone. Me. And I want to buy the food."
McClane sinks back into the couch, shaking his head. "Kid, you don't' need to do that. I'll go, we can take the car." He stands and rummages in the junk drawer for keys and his checkbook. "Here, take the cash." He extends the book like a peace offering.
With a scowl Matt snatches them both and limps out the door, ditching his cane, and slams the door behind him.
He stumbles down the stairs and out to McClane's car. And without waiting he climbs in, starts the engine, and pulls away from the curb. He only glances in the mirror, but the cops shock from the sidewalk is prevalent even a block away.
He doesn't need McClane. He doesn't need his bullshit babying. But now he's not in the mood to shop either, so he drives to Dyker Park and ditches the car there. He drags his leg across the block, cursing the entire way, and bangs his way up the stairs to his apartment. When he reaches his door he lets his head fall forward against it with a small thunk, and scrabbles at it with shaking fingers. "Damn." He turns, and slides down to the floor, and bangs his head backwards a few times.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid." He bangs his head a few more times in chastisement for forgetting his house keys, then leans back and closes his eyes.
"Stupid."
Some unknown amount of time later footsteps and a sight approach him.
"Gimme the keys, kid." He tosses them up with a jangle, but doesn't look up to see McClane catch them.
"What're you doin' here, Matt?"
"I dunno," he says piteously. "I don't. I don't know."
He opens his eyes to see McClane extending him a hand.
"Move in with me," he says.
Matt takes his hand.
"Only if I get a computer, and things to do around the apartment."
John smiles.
"Deal."