Die Hard Fic: Of Ex-Wives, In-Laws, and Other Misadventures - Part Two
On Thursday, John discovers that everyone didn't exactly know about his relationship with Matt Farrell.
"Detective McClane?"
John makes a notation along the right margin of the wiretap transcript, doesn't bother to look up. "You got him," he says.
"I was wondering if we might have a few words."
John lays down his pen, glances up at the stranger. Tall, well-dressed, expensive haircut, tie that probably costs more than he makes in a week. Too unselfconsciously smooth for a Fed, and too passive for a reporter. His money'd be on IA if it wasn't for the tie. By process of elimination, that only leaves lawyer.
And John likes lawyers about as much as he likes terrorists.
"See Captain Scalvino, third door on the right," he says shortly before returning to his paperwork.
"Excuse me?"
John sighs. "The attack on the cyber division yesterday, the use of the ultrasonic pulse to disarm the perpetrators. Captain Scalvino is handling all inquiries. Third door on the right."
When the stranger just looks at him blankly, John raises a brow. "That is what this is regarding," he says.
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly," John repeats. "Then how about you fill me in on what it is regarding. Exactly."
"Well, Detective McClane," the stranger says, "I would say this is regarding the fact that you appear to be sleeping with my son."
Only the years he's put in with the shield enable John to keep a neutral expression. He raises his chin, gestures with one hand toward the interrogation room. "Maybe," he says, "we better take this somewhere private."
The bullpen coffee tastes like the by-product of nuclear waste, but John fetches them both a cup anyway, sets the steaming styrofoam down next to the stranger's elbow.
Daniel Farrell. Matt's father.
Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus.
Daniel takes a seat and warms his hands on the cup but - wisely, John thinks - doesn't take a sip. He raises his eyes to John's instead. "I thought that given the… circumstances… we should become acquainted," he begins.
John leans a hip against the table, crosses his arms at this chest. When he speaks, there is more belligerence in his tone than he expects. "You didn't have to wait until we made the front page to do that. I'm not exactly unlisted. You were welcome to get in touch any time."
"And I would have," Daniel says, "had I been aware that you existed."
John looks up sharply. "You didn't know about Matt… about his…"
John's never been fond of labels. He has no idea how to put it. All he knows is how Matt makes him feel, how if he's away from him for too long he starts to feel twitchy, how he just can't sleep anymore unless Matt is sprawled out on the bed beside him hogging all the covers. How he'll detour out of his way on the ride home to spend three dollars on a low-fat half-caf latte with extra sprinkles just because Matt likes it, or spend a Saturday afternoon reading a comic book - and Matt can call it a graphic novel all he wants, it's got cartoons and word bubbles, it's a goddamn comic book - because it makes Matt happy. How this is the first time he's felt content in so long that at first he didn't even recognize happiness for what it was.
Daniel smiles. "Oh, that. Yes, of course we did. We've known about Matthew since he was twelve. His mother was putting away some things in his room and came across a stack of Playgirls buried at the bottom of his desk drawer. Matthew's sister Elizabeth was seventeen at the time, so we assumed… well, his mother and I gave Elizabeth holy hell for hiding her secret stash in her baby brother's room. Matthew heard us and came clean about the whole thing."
"Sounds like Matt," John says. He lets out a breath, drops into one of the chairs.
"The article implies that the two of you are… seeing each other. I assume by your reaction that the article is correct."
"Ohhh, the article is correct. I assumed you knew." He quirks a grin that quickly becomes a grimace when he swallows down some of the coffee, pushes the mug away. "Some detective."
"Just like his inability to let someone else take the blame for his misdeeds, Matthew also has a… skill for evasiveness," Daniel says.
"You can say that again," John mutters.
He realizes suddenly that the little he knows about Matt's family could fit on the back of a matchbook with room to spare. How whenever he asked Matt would change the subject, or wave it off with a comment about two point five kids and a dog, or do something wicked with his fingers or his tongue that would make John forget all about the line of questioning that he was pursuing. If he'd thought of it again at all, he'd figured that Matt's family didn't approve of his sexuality, that eventually Matt would be ready to tell him about it.
He leans back on the chair. "So you were okay with Matt being…"
"Bisexual?" Daniel supplies. "Well, we were a little thrown at first. What parent wouldn’t be? But yes, we did our best to support him. He brought several girlfriends home during high school. A couple of boyfriends, too. They were all welcome in our home."
John scrubs a hand across his jaw. Over the course of the last six months - since that night in August when he finally admitted to himself that the teasing camaraderie he'd built up with Matt was more than friendship, that he was coming up with excuses to touch him, that sitting on the edge of his bed in the spare room at night and smoothing a hand through his hair while he slept in order to chase away the dreams felt like nothing paternal, that the kid awoke a need in him that was constant and unrelenting and ferocious - he'd gotten used to the idea that he was the only one with a history. Not just baggage but a whole overflowing closet, years and years of a time-without-Matt.
It comes as a surprise to him to discover that Matt has a history, too. A family that supported him when they found he liked boys as much as he liked girls. Dates brought home to meet the parents. A life-without-John that he had no idea existed.
But John is also a cop, and sometimes he thinks he was born cynical. He raises his eyes, cocks a brow. "No offence, Mr. Farrell, but if things were so peaches and cream at home, why doesn't Matt ever see you? Talk about you? Have anything at all to do with you?"
Daniel spreads his arms. "He's very… headstrong, is Matthew. He made some bad decisions, got into some trouble with the law. He… rebelled, Detective. And… I do believe he's embarrassed of us. I'm an attorney, my wife is a pediatrician. We have a double car garage and a time share in the Caribbean. We embody all the crass capitalism that Matthew came to hate."
John nods. "You sure as hell talk like a lawyer."
"Hazard of the trade, I'm afraid," Daniel says with a smile. "Sometimes I think Matthew was born at the wrong time. He would have fit in very well in the '60's."
"He's sure as hell got the hair for it," John says wryly.
"But now that he's dating a police officer, that all seems to have changed," Daniel says. He leans back in his own chair, eyes John thoughtfully. "Though I must be honest with you, Detective. When we saw the photo in the paper..." He shakes his head. "I can't say that we were thrilled with the idea of Matthew dating someone old enough to be his father."
John knows - knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt - that if Lucy showed up with an old man on her arm, John would deck him, then lock Lucy in her room until she was thirty.
At least he'd try. Lucy's right hook is as good as her mother's.
But understanding where Daniel Farrell is coming from doesn't do jack squat about the way he feels about Matt, or the way Matt feels about him. There is no way he's giving that up. Not ever. He wants Matt to have a good relationship with his family, but if it means he loses him in the process? John has a problem with that. If that makes him a selfish asshole, so be it. He's been called worse.
John leans forward in the chair, meets Daniel's eyes. "Look," he says. "If you had told me a year ago that I'd be involved with someone like Matt, I'd have said you were swilling turpentine and then hauled you off to the closest shrink," John says. "This isn't anything I planned, and it sure as fuck isn't anything I expected. All I can promise you is that I care for him. I love him. I will never hurt him."
Daniel watches him for a long moment, then nods. "I'm a good judge of character, Detective. I have to be, in my profession, just as you do in yours. You seem to be an honest man. And if even half of the exploits they've printed about you are true, you're also a good man. That means a lot in my book."
"I appreciate that, Mr. Farrell."
"I'd like to get to know you better," Daniel continues. When he hesitates, John sees the first crack in the smooth courtroom façade, sees the nervous twitch in his eyes that reveals him as an anxious husband, a concerned father, as human.
"My wife Wendy and I were hoping that you and Matthew could come to dinner next week," Daniel finally says. "We haven't seen Matthew in… a long time, and we'd like to… we'd like to reconnect with our son."
"That'll have to be up to Matt," John says.
"Of course." Daniel nods as he digs into his wallet to pull out a small embossed card. "My personal information is on the back," he says as he hands it over. "If you could talk to Matthew, and then call. Or have him call. Anytime is fine, we can rearrange our schedule."
"I'll let you know, Mr. Farrell," John says. He reaches out a hand. "And under the circumstances, I think you oughtta be calling me John."
"Thank you, John." the other man says as he takes the hand in a firm grip. "And please, call me Daniel. Or Dan, whichever you prefer." He gathers up his expensive overcoat, hesitates in the doorway and flashes a wide grin. Unlike the polite smiles that peppered the rest of the conversation, this one is full and open, and for the first time John can see Matt in him.
"Just one thing," Daniel says around that grin. "Don't ever call me Dad."
Matt glances around the restaurant as the waitress leads them to their table. Low lightning, linen tablecloths, leather-bound menus - he definitely feels underdressed in his grubby jeans and faded linux tee layered under a scruffy plaid overshirt. Granted, it's not as high end as the place John took him when he formally asked him to move in, even though at that point most of Matt's stuff had already migrated to John's place and he was only visiting his little one-room walk-up once a week to pick up his mail. But it's still nicer than the usual scuffed table and ten beers on tap joints that he and John normally frequent, which is what he expected when he suggested this night out after a really, really long week.
And that just makes him wonder what exactly John McClane is up to.
As it turns out, it takes John three courses and half a piece of apple crumble to come out with it.
"Dinner," Matt says flatly.
"Yes."
"Dinner with my parents."
"That's what I just said."
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," Matt scoffs. He looks down at his half-eaten pie, sets the fork on the plate and glances around for the waitress. "We should head back if you want to make it home in time for kick-off."
John blinks. "That's it?"
Matt catches the blonde's eye and indicates their need for the bill, flick his eyes back to John's. "What did you expect me to say?"
"I don't know," John admits.
"Well then?"
"I expected you to use many, many words to say it," John says.
"Okay," Matt says with a laugh, sits up straighter. "You want me to flip out, get all worked up? Is that it?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying? Because seriously, John, I have no idea."
Instead of answering the question, John says, "Your parents didn't know about us."
"Nope," Matt says.
"And you don't think that's strange."
"Nope," Matt says.
"Jesus Christ, kid," John grunts out. "Stop this fucking one word shit and talk to me."
"We are talking!" When John just arches a brow, Matt flops back in his chair. There are eons of meaning to John's eyebrow arches, layers upon layers of subtlety that it would take decades to explore, but he knows that when this particular arch comes out of the arsenal it's either time for a rambling monologue that masks his strategic retreat to his office, or a quick-and-dirty launch across the table to distract John from the whole line of questioning. If they were at Colsentino's or one of their other regular haunts he might risk the frontal attack, but he has a feeling the suit and tie crowd here might frown on him sticking his tongue down John's throat. "Look," he says instead, trying for simple and straightforward, "I just don't have any interest whatsoever in spending time with my parents. Full stop. End of story. Nothing to see here, move along folks."
The eyebrow loses a bit of its force when John leans back in his own chair. "Why?"
"Why?" Matt repeats. "You met them and you have to ask me that?"
"I only met your old m… your father."
"My old father?" Matt says cheekily. If straightforward doesn't work, it's always good to give humour a try. "As opposed to my newly minted father from the factory in Scranton? Aaaand there goes the brow again, full throttle." When John just stares at him, Matt sighs. "If you met my dad, then you know what he's like. Trust me, they're both like that. Don’t get me wrong, they're… they're good people, but come on, total Stepford vibe. They have the perfect careers, the perfect house, the perfect car, social life, country home. And the only thing they needed with all that?"
"The perfect kids."
"Bingo, got it in one. Give the man a prize," Matt says, and if it sounds more bitter than he intended, so be it. He feels his bangs lift when he huffs out a breath, scrapes his fingers through his hair. "I couldn't just get an 87 on a test and call it good, it had to be a 97. 'This is affecting your college placements, Matthew'," he imitates his dad's clipped tones before dropping back to his regular voice, meeting John's eyes. "I was fourteen! They were all nice when I brought home Rick Felton, but they would've been a hell of a lot happier if it'd been Dave Murray, 'cause his father was on the faculty at Yale. Debate club and trombone lessons, rah rah rah, live up to your potential, be the best you can fucking be, except it doesn't really matter what you do because it'll never really be good enough."
John is silent for a long moment. Then he says, "I knew there'd be a lot more words."
Matt feels his lips quirk. At some point in his running dialogue he's sat up straight, his shoulders tense and his neck stiff, and when John takes his hand across the table he feels some of the sudden thrumming energy in his body ease away. "After a while it just got so I wanted to…"
"Be bad?" John suggests.
Matt cocks his head. "Maybe. I mean, I'm not saying the shit I got into was their fault, it was my stupid fucking decision to boost those cars… just for the joyride," he adds hastily when John's lips thin. He rubs a thumb against John's hand, waits for the answering squeeze before continuing, even though he has the idea that they're going to be coming back to that little revelation soon in the coming weeks. "And then when I got better on the computer I started hacking into other people's systems, corporations, government shit, because I had to, it's really the only way to learn, and I was good at it, and then I was great at it, and it was something that didn't fit in that perfect Stepford world and just…" He shrugs. "I don't fit there. There's a reason why my sister dyed her hair purple and moved to Rome, why neither of go home for holidays or Christmas. It's exhausting to live with that much pressure."
"All right," John says after a moment. "You don't wanna go, we won't go."
"Yeaaaah," Matt huffs out. "Pretty clear I don't want to go."
"Okay," John says. When the waitress appears with their bill, John releases his hand and scoops it off the table, has his credit card tucked into the leather folder before Matt can even reach for his wallet. He is reaching around for his coat instead when John says, "I just want to say one thing."
Matt tries to stifle a sigh, turns around to see John slipping into his leather jacket. "John-" he starts.
"I know what it's like to fuck up with your kids, all right? I am the patron saint of fucking up with your kids. You lay awake at night, wishing you could go back in time to fix it, go back and say all the shit you didn't say and unsay all the stupid shit that came outta your mouth when you had a bad day because some wet behind the ears rookie fucked up the chain of evidence and the perp you spent five months building a case for got off, or because you spent the last seventy-two hours awake in your car on surveillance. Or because for a while you liked spending your time with Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker more than you did with Jack and Lucy."
"That's not… you weren't…"
"I was," John says. "I'm not proud of it. It ain't fun, kid, sitting there night after night remembering all the things you should have done and all the things you did that just fucked everything up even more. To know that you failed." John stops, shakes his head. "To have your kids grow up and want nothing to do with you."
"That's not true. Lucy and Jack-"
"Things have gotten better," John concedes. "Because I kept trying. Because Lucy and Jack let me."
Matt slumps back in his chair. "Wow. Okay, seriously. You really know how to lay down the subtle guilt trip, don't you, McClane?"
"That's not what I'm going for here at all, Matty, and you know it," John says. "All I'm asking is for you to think about it. We don't have to see them next week or next month or next year. You think about it and you want your parents to be persona non grata for the rest of your natural life, I will stand with you on that. Try to see both sides, then make your call. Either way, I got your back."
By the time the waitress returns with their receipt, Matt has shrugged into his coat and gloves and John is wrapping a thin scarf around his neck, his one concession to the sub-zeros of a New York winter. Matt waits until John has slipped his wallet back into his pocket before touching him on the arm.
"I'll think about it," he says.
"S'all I ask," John answers.
Matt is uncharacteristically quiet on the drive home, not even looking particularly happy when John agrees to let him put on his Screeching Cat In Heat music, and also not rising to the bait when John points out what an incredible sacrifice he and his eardrums are making. He's gotten used to Matt's nonstop running commentary, finds the sound of his voice soothing as the tires swish through the wet snow, and the lack of it is almost enough to make John regret having instigated the big family drama discussion in the first place.
Matt's brow is furrowed, his lips pursed. John should have known. When that supersmart brain goes into high gear, it goes from zero to a hundred in about six seconds and doesn't let up until the equation is solved. But family issues aren't like math problems, and he has no intention of letting the kid dwell.
He parks in the driveway and lets Matt walk ahead of him up the sidewalk, reaches out to catch his elbow as he mounts the steps. "You really play the trombone?" he asks.
"What? No!" Matt says, turning and pausing on the porch. "I was debate club, chess club. Drama club for a while. My breakthrough role was as the Third Villager in the tenth grade production of Damon and Pythius. Of course, Dad thought I should have played Dionysius." Matt shakes his head, visibly pushing the thought aside. "Anyway. The trombone was Elizabeth. Please, John, do these lips look like they could blow on a… you know what, never mind."
"Oh, they look like they could blow, all right," John says, taking the last step and tugging Matt against his chest, earning a genuine smile for his effort.
"I just walked right into that one, didn't I, McClane?"
John doesn't bother to answer, just wraps his hand beneath the long hair at the nape of Matt's neck. The kid shivers, not entirely from the press of John's cold fingers on his warm skin, and then John's tongue is buried in the warm, wet heat of his mouth and neither of them think about anything for a good long minute.
"Down, boy," Matt says with a laugh when their lips part, pushing on his chest. Matt could push 'til the sun comes up and he wouldn't get anywhere John wouldn't want him to be, but since where John really wants to be is deep inside him within the next ten minutes, he relents and lets Matt push him away. For now.
"You should probably tell me the other thing that's on your mind before we go inside," Matt continues.
John lifts a brow. Trust the kid to know that something else was up. "What do you think you are, a genius or something like that?"
"Something like that," Matt says. "So spill." He leans his shoulder into John's before stepping back, standing in the fall of the porch light. Seeing him like that, glowing like that, it's all John can do not to fling the front door open and throw him down on the hallway runner in a tangle of limbs and…
Matt is waiting expectantly, so John leans against the railing, crosses his arms at his chest. "What did you really go to see Scalvino about on Wednesday?"
"The programming, I told you," Matt says.
"Kid, do I gotta go through that whole cops and lying thing again?"
"It's the truth!" Matt protests.
John doesn't say a word. He's been doing interrogations for a lot of years, and Matt's sins of omission are as easy to catch as his out-and-out lies. He knows he only has to stay quiet for another few seconds and Matt will crack. Five, four, three, two…
"Aaaaand…" Matt says with a sigh, "I might have asked him if the department could give a few days off next week so you could go to Jack's bon voyage party."
John shakes his head. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that.
"And you were right, okay?" Matt continues. "He said No. Actually, he said 'Are you out of your fucking mind, Farrell? Get your skinny ass out of my office.' Scalvino might look like a big dumb hound dog, but the dude doesn't mince words, does he?"
John lifts a shoulder, grateful that Matt has turned away to dig his key out of his pocket and shove the door open and therefore can't see the look on his face. He knew the answer would be no, of course he knew, but that didn't stop the hope from blooming quickly in his chest, or the sense of crushing loss when the confirmation of the No came from Matt's lips. He squares his shoulders, pushes off from the railing and claps a hand onto Matt's shoulder. "Thanks for trying, kid," he says. "Could've told you not to waste your breath."
"Yeah, well," Matt says as he takes a step back onto the porch, gestures with his chin for John to step inside the house. "He wouldn't let you go to California. So, I did the next best thing."
"Eh?"
The hallway light is on, but the figure standing in the archway to the living room is wreathed in shadows. John squints to see in the gloom, then sucks in a shaking breath when the figure moves.
"Hi, Dad," Jack says.
The clanging of dishes in the kitchen wakes John.
His first thought - something along the lines of goddamn fucking kid can't crack an egg without waking the whole neighbourhood - is belied when he stretches out an arm and his knuckles flop against Matt's back. When Matt grunts in response, John frowns. His brain cells are not quite working at full capacity yet, and his heart rate speeds up for a good five seconds - Matt here, noises from kitchen, who the fuck is in my goddamn house - before he remembers the events of the night before.
His son is here. Here, in his house, rattling pots and pans in his kitchen at - he rises onto one shoulder to glance at the alarm clock - at nine fucking a.m. Never mind that John didn't stumble to his bed until sometime after four, and Matt and Jack stayed up even longer, the murmured sound of their voices lulling him to sleep.
He remembers taking two long strides into the hallway, wrapping Jack in a bear hug, how the kid was stiff in his arms for the space of a few heartbeats before he laughed and hugged back and clapped him on the back; remembers downing a couple of beers and Jack's smile and vowing not to fuck this up. And he thinks maybe Jack made the same internal vow, because everything was easy and good and right and at one point he'd made an excuse and escaped to the kitchen and stood with his hands clenching the counter, breathing deep and forcing back the swell of emotion that threatened to overspill.
Matt did that. Matt made that happen.
When John gets introspective, he usually thinks of his life as a series of colossal fuck-ups mitigated by the occasional good deed that probably don't do much to tip the karmic scales back in his favour. So he really has no idea what he did to deserve someone like Matthew Farrell. Maybe the guy upstairs is happier with him than he thought.
In a moment he'll get up, shuffle down the hall and splash some water on his face, go to the kitchen and help his son make breakfast. But now he shifts onto his side, slides his hand slowly up Matt's spine. The kid's head is buried in his pillow, most of his face curtained by that shaggy hair. He lips are parted just slightly, his breathing deep and even.
Yeah. Can't have that.
He wraps a hand around the curve of Matt's shoulder, gives him a little shake. "Hey," he says.
The single eye that John can see flutters once, and Matt's brow furrows just slightly before smoothing back out into sleep.
Nuh uh. Not happening.
John grips Matt's shoulder firmly, puts a little more oomph into the second shake. "Hey!" he repeats.
He's rewarded by that single eye cracking open, Matt scowling up at him and saying something that sounds like "mmmnghwat".
Good enough.
"Hey," John says, "is it me or has this been a really fucking weird week?"
Matt just blinks at him stupidly, and for a second he thinks Matt's going to just slip back into sleep. Then when Matt shifts under the blanket, sliding onto his side to free his hand from beneath the pillow, John figures that Matt intends to flip him the bird - which, granted, he probably deserves, but honestly if he has to be up at this god-awful hour on a Saturday after less than five hours sleep then so does Matt, even if the kid did just get his son here, his son that he hasn't seen in over a fucking year, his son that joked with him and filled him in on his life and didn't call him John once.
But when Matt succeeds in freeing his arm from the pillow he just scrubs a hand over his face. "Hmmm, I don't know," he says slowly, voice still sleep-roughened.
And okay, his son is only two rooms away, but that raw, husky, just-awake voice still goes straight to John's dick.
John shifts uncomfortably under the blanket, tries to focus. "Terrorists," he says. "A take-down in the precinct…"
"Unexpected family visits," Matt puts in. "On both sides."
"Kidnapping," John says. When Matt raises an eyebrow, he frowns. "You were held hostage. It counts."
"Fine," Matt agrees. "Oh, and hey, don't forget an inadvertent outing," he adds with a grin.
John grimaces. That newspaper photo is still a sore spot, and it doesn't help that some jerkwad at the station keeps pinning a new copy up to the bulletin board in the lunchroom every time John rips the previous one down, each time the graffiti and scribbled comments more lewd than the last.
Matt cocks his head, stretches and yawns. John takes a moment to appreciate the light, sinewy muscle revealed in the stretch before Matt flops down again, drapes his arm across his chest and burrows into his side, all soft sleep-warm skin and ridiculous floppy hair. He tucks his calf between John's, closes his eyes.
"I don't know," Matt says sleepily. "It actually sounds like a pretty typical week."
.