Live Free or Die Hard Fanfic -- "Sausages and Sage Advice"
Title: Sausages and Sage Advice
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3193
Summary: Fridays are for slow kisses during the post-game show that lead to questing hands, clothes strewn on the floor on the way to the bedroom, rediscovering Matt's body with his hands and his lips.
Fridays are not for Matt standing awkwardly in the middle of the room in too many clothes, refusing to meet his eyes as he tugs on his gloves.
Notes: Written for sexy_right's Notable Quotables challenge, for the prompt "Four, Nan, Four." (Sorry for the lame title.)
Sausages and Sage Advice
by Severina
The worst day of John's life turns out to be a Friday.
He usually meets Matt at the pizza joint, where they sit and grab a beer while waiting for their pie to cook. But on this Friday - this fucking Friday - Matt has a meeting with a client that nicely syncs up with John's final deposition of the day, so they hook up at a corner near 50th, walk to the subway together.
Matt's rambling on about his client - something about impossible standards and how "he's a damn programmer, not fucking Houdini" - and John knows that he's grinning at the kid without seeing himself reflected in the store windows. He grabs at one of Matt's flailing hands before he takes the head off one of the passing holiday shoppers, and keeps holding it while they walk. He doesn't even think about it… until two of his detectives walk out of the shwarma place on the corner.
He drops Matt's hand quickly when Randall nods his way, stops to shoot the shit with them on the sidewalk. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, tries to nod in the right places when Randall starts talking about the witness who recanted his testimony on the Porter case, but he's mostly acutely aware of Matt standing silently beside him, of Blenheim's curious glances toward the kid. And he knows, he knows he should be making introductions, but all he can think about is the shitstorm he will go through if it gets around that he's dating not only someone half his fucking age, but a guy.
He's not embarrassed to be seen with Matt. He's not. But the John McClane that Randall and Blenheim and the rest of the guys at the precinct know? He doesn't swing that way. And even though his relationship with Matt is about more than sex, his mind blanks on anything that doesn't sound like this is the guy I'm fucking and he ends up stumbling through the conversation and then sending the detectives on their way without mentioning Matt at all.
John feels the tension thrumming through his shoulders for the next block, but Matt doesn't say anything about it. Maybe he's a little quieter than normal, but John stocks that up to the icy air stealing the breath from their lungs, the noise of the traffic making it hard to be heard, anyway. By the time they clatter down the subway stairs Matt's talking about some video game he wants to get at the end of the month, and John's able to relax slightly. He slings his arm over the back of Matt's seat in the car, picks up the tab for the pizza at Vanelli's.
They sit and eat the pie while watching the Rangers get annihilated in the first, and it's only when John's returning from the kitchen with a couple of cold beers that he realizes that he completely underestimated the whole thing.
Matt looks up at the sound of his footsteps. He's already got his coat back on, his fingers fiddling with winding his long scarf around his neck.
"So," Matt says. "I'm gonna go."
John blinks, feels his grip tighten on the cold bottles. He says the first thing that pops into his head, inane as it is. "The game's still on."
"Yeah. Well. I'll check the score tomorrow, maybe. I'm sure they'll come from behind." Matt's smile is soft and just a little sad, a combination that John doesn’t think he's ever seen before. It makes something in his chest squeeze tight, makes it suddenly hard to breathe.
He gestures with the bottle. "You don't have to."
"I think I do."
John tries to think past the white fuzz taking up residence in his skull, but the only thing that's sticking is this isn't the way it's supposed to go. Fridays are for hockey on the tube, greasy pizza from Vanelli's. Fridays are for unwinding after a long week, lounging with Matt on the lumpy sofa. Fridays are for slow kisses during the post-game show that lead to questing hands, clothes strewn on the floor on the way to the bedroom, rediscovering Matt's body with his hands and his lips.
Fridays are not for Matt standing awkwardly in the middle of the room in too many clothes, refusing to meet his eyes as he tugs on his gloves.
"Matt-" he tries, but the kid is already shaking his head.
"I always knew this was hard for you. I get it, you know? We're from different generations, and this is all new to you. But I guess tonight… with those cops… I guess that just made me realize that I can't do this anymore. I'm not going to go back in the closet for you, John, and I can't bear being someone's dirty little secret." He takes a breath then. Looks up, and his eyes are clear.
And John realizes that maybe Matt's giving him a chance to interrupt; maybe he's waiting for him to say that's not how it is. But his mouth is dry, and he can't think beyond his heart pounding in protest against his ribcage.
Matt nods, presses his lips together around a smile that looks painful. "You take care of yourself, John."
John doesn't stop him from walking down the hallway. Doesn't take a step when he hears the front door open, then close softly. He just stands in the middle of the room with two rapidly cooling beers clutched in his fists and a giant hollow pit forming in his stomach.
It's not supposed to go like this.
* * *
It takes two weeks for him to fully comprehend that Matt's not coming back.
Two Fridays of sitting alone in Vanelli's while Joey makes the pie, sipping on his beer and stealing glances at the door. Two Fridays of listlessly staring at the Rangers chase the puck while the pizza sits like lead in his gut. Two weeks of tossing and turning all weekend long on a bed that's entirely too big.
Two weeks of picking up the phone and dialing a few digits of Matt's number and then replacing the headset on the cradle and picking up another beer instead.
On the second full weekend without Matt in his life, John pulls himself out of bed in the middle of the night. His eyes are gritty and burning from lack of sleep, his breath sour. But he can't handle being in the bed another minute, can't handle the quiet, can't handle the cold spot on the bed that should be filled with Matt's warm, willing body.
He splashes some water on his face, scrubs a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and pronounces himself good enough to drive.
He glances at the oversized clock on the wall above the counter when he pushes open the door of the diner. A little past four a.m., and the place is just as deserted as ever at this time of the morning. The diner is one of the few in the city that is both open twenty-four hours and qualifies as a cop hangout, but even cops need to sleep. Tonight there's only John and a couple of rookies in blue at one of the corner booths, their young heads bent together over a notepad and a plate of fries.
John slides into his usual place on one of the stools, nods to Nan when she pushes off from the edge of the counter and tucks her Sudoku behind the register. He picks up one of the slick menus and taps it against his palm and tries to ignore the empty place beside him where Matt should be sitting, his long floppy hair in disarray, complaining loudly to all and sundry that he was this close to a breakthrough on that code, McClane and that he doesn't need to eat, he needs to work, not all of us have a cushy 401K, you know. The voice in his head is so loud and insistent that it's all he can do not to glance over at the stool, to smirk and order the kid double of everything just to make him protest even further. He bends his neck, closes his eyes so he won't look.
"Mornin', Detective," Nan says. The clunk as she sets his coffee down is loud in the room without Matt's chatter to drown it out. "The usual?"
"Sure," John says. "And double the sausage, would ya?"
She's turning toward the grille when he looks up, reaches for the coffee and gulps down half the cup. The stuff is thick as tarpaper and twice as strong, and has caused more than one rookie to splutter all over the worn tiles trying to choke it down. But the sludge-like coffee is one of the constants of the place, just like Nan with her smoke-ravaged voice and the greasy pencil stuck behind one ear. He's finished his first cup and has reached over the counter and helped himself to a second - and the beat cops have long since gone back to their routes - by the time Nan slides his breakfast in front of him.
John picks up his fork, then scowls at his plate.
"Problem, Detective?"
John looks up to find her standing with one hand planted on her hip, a scrawled-on eyebrow pointing toward the ceiling.
John takes a breath, because he'd rather have Scalvino rip him a new asshole sideways than have Nan ticked off at him. He's not sure he could actually survive without an infusion of her scrambled eggs at least once a week. "I asked for double the sausage," he says calmly. "That's four, Nan. Four."
"Uh huh."
John pokes at the sausage on his plate, raises his own brow. "I count two."
"Consider yourself lucky I didn't switch 'em out with that vegan crap," Nan says. She points a finger, and John's forcibly reminded of Sister Mary Bernadette in second grade just before she lectured him about throwing pencils or picking on Susan Towers. "You're supposed to be watching your cholesterol. You think sausages in a greasy spoon is the best way to get that count lowered, Detective?"
John blinks. "Who--?"
"Who do you think? That boy tries to take care of you even if you won't take care of yourself. Think he don't know you sneak out to the back porch for a smoke now and then, too?"
She leans against the back counter and shakes her head, and John's again transported back to the classroom. The look of disappointment in Nan's eyes is the same as the one he saw in Sister Mary Bernadette's, all those years ago. Change the pale yellow polyester to a nun's habit and the effect would be complete.
John clears his throat. "I think I'm old enough to decide how many sausages I can eat, Nan."
"And whatever you did to piss Matthew off?" Nan continues, ignoring him completely. "Fix it, Detective. We only get a few go-rounds with love in this world, and even less when you get to be our age. You don't just throw that down the dumpster the first time there's a little blip on the radar. Besides, weekends get pretty lonely for this old gal without that motormouth in here keepin' me entertained."
John sets his fork carefully down next to his plate. Straightens the paper napkin. Counts to ten slowly before he looks back up into Nan's face. "You know," he says.
Nan snorts. "I might be old but I ain't blind, Detective. You spend more time moonin' over that damn boy than you do eating your sausage. Of which you're still only getting two."
* * *
The sun's blazing through the windshield and John's entire body is stiff and sore from sitting so long by the time he finally gets out of the car.
The building is a little better than the one that got blown to smithereens, but not much. There's no lock on the front door, and the sour-coke stink of crack permeates the lower halls. By the time John gets to Matt's floor the air has cleared, and he spent enough time agonizing over bullshit in the car like a twelve year old girl that now he doesn't let himself hesitate. He walks confidently to Number 802 and knocks loudly on the battered door.
He can feel the weight of Matt's through the peephole, folds his hands together and does his best to look non-threatening. It's only when the door doesn't open that he realizes he doesn't have a back-up plan. He envisions slinking back down those halls, making the long drive back to Brooklyn alone.
The prospect is unthinkable.
John has time to count the old knife scratches and bullet holes in the door and make definite plans to get Matt out of this shithole - if all goes well - by the time Matt finally cracks the door open, looks out through the chain. "Do you have a warrant this time, Detective?"
"Yeah. Funny, kid," John mutters. He shakes his head, meets Matt's eyes before he can lose his nerve. "Listen. Matt, there's a few things you might not know about me," John says. "The thing is, I'm an asshole. I'm a jerk. I'm self-centered, I think only about myself-"
"That's the same thing."
John huffs out a breath. "I'm not as smart as you, all right? And because I'm not as smart as you, I didn't figure all this shit out the way you did. And because I'm a self-centered asshole, I got all caught up in worrying about what could happen to me instead of paying attention to the most important thing."
When Matt just leans against the doorjamb, John straightens his shoulders. "You, kid. You're the most important thing."
"Yeah, got that," Matt says. He shifts slightly, and John can briefly see beyond him to the rumpled bed in the crappy little studio apartment. He flicks his gaze back to the kid sharply. Matt's hair is more than its usual floppy mess, the sleep pants are slung low on his hips. He'd taken for granted that the kid would be up all night working on his computer shit, hyped on caffeine and junk food by the time John showed up at his door. It occurs to him that maybe their separation is affecting Matt the same way it has him, by screwing up their natural rhythms: he wonders if it's causing him to be unable to sleep, and Matt to sleep too much.
"Is there a point to all this?" Matt asks. He waves an arm behind him carelessly. "Because…"
John swallows roughly. Now that it's down to it, his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry. But he reaches out quickly to grab the door before Matt can shut it in his face, before he forced to make that shameful walk back to the car. "Yeah, there's a goddamn point," he snaps out. "You think I drove all the way out to fucking Jersey just to remind you I'm an idiot?"
Matt just lifts his shoulders, blinks at him sleepily. Now that he's stepped further into the light John can see the shadows under his eyes, the pallor of his skin. He clenches his fist and has to force himself not to snap the flimsy lock, take the kid in his arms. Instead he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath.
Now or never.
"There's a softball tournament. My guys against homicide. Next Saturday."
Matt lifts a brow. "Okay?"
"I want you to go with me," John blurts out.
He's not sure what he expected, but Matt's blank stare was definitely not it. He swallows again, amends his words.
"I'm asking if you would like to go with me to the softball tournament. As my date." He licks his lips, swears he can physically feel the words frantically bubbling up and out when Matt only continues to look at him. "I'm not good with words like you, and I'm not even sure what you see in me, kid. I'm not saying that I won't still mess up, because I will, I'm the kind of guy that messes up all the fucking time, but-"
Matt blinks once, slowly, and then pushes off from the doorframe. And John has a brief shining moment of pure joy before Matt steps back and shuts the door in his face.
He lets his forehead fall into the battered door, feels his fingers scratching against the wood. The lack of sleep suddenly batters against him, and he feels the weight of every one of his fifty-two years; his legs like blocks of wood, his neck barely able to hold up his head. He can't imagine walking back down all those stairs, getting in his car and driving back to Brooklyn. Spending this weekend and next weekend and every weekend thereafter without Matthew Farrell in his life.
He's not good with words, but he suddenly knows the words he should have said. And it's too fucking late.
Then the chain scrapes against the lock, and John nearly stumbles when the door opens and Matt stands in the archway. "You mean it?" he asks. "No more hiding. No more pretending I don't exist when your cop buddies are around. No more-"
"No more," John promises. And then he says the words he should have started out with, the words he really should have said weeks ago. "I love you."
Matt shakes his head. "You really are an idiot, you know."
"Yeah," John agrees. He relaxes slowly, those imagined lonely months and years fading into the ether, and tries his most charming smile. "Forgive me?"
Matt rolls his eyes, but his lips upturn in their own small, satisfied grin. "Since I love you too, I guess I have no choice," he says.
John wastes no time in closing the distance between them, enveloping Matt in his arms. The kid's arms quickly wrap around his waist, and for a long moment they just stand there, holding on to what they almost lost. He only reluctantly lets Matt pull away, swipes a backhand over his eyes and tells himself that any moisture there is simply due to lack of sleep.
"You owe me so much!" Matt says, slapping at his chest. "Jesus, McClane!"
"Hey, I apologized," John protests. "I'm an asshole, I admit it."
"I'm thinking… rainbow badges on our shirts at that softball thing. No, not big enough. Pride rainbows painted on our cheeks! No, I've got it McClane. You and me on a float at next years Pride Parade!"
John laughs. He pushes Matt inside the apartment, shuts the door and steers the kid toward the bed. He needs sleep, blissful sleep with Matt wrapped in his arms. He manages to get Matt tumbled into the bed, climbs in beside him and closes his eyes.
And he makes sure to keep his lips pressed together while he listens to Matt's increasingly ridiculous demands, even as sleep slowly claims them both. Because the way he feels right now, he'll agree to every damn one.
.
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3193
Summary: Fridays are for slow kisses during the post-game show that lead to questing hands, clothes strewn on the floor on the way to the bedroom, rediscovering Matt's body with his hands and his lips.
Fridays are not for Matt standing awkwardly in the middle of the room in too many clothes, refusing to meet his eyes as he tugs on his gloves.
Notes: Written for sexy_right's Notable Quotables challenge, for the prompt "Four, Nan, Four." (Sorry for the lame title.)
Sausages and Sage Advice
by Severina
The worst day of John's life turns out to be a Friday.
He usually meets Matt at the pizza joint, where they sit and grab a beer while waiting for their pie to cook. But on this Friday - this fucking Friday - Matt has a meeting with a client that nicely syncs up with John's final deposition of the day, so they hook up at a corner near 50th, walk to the subway together.
Matt's rambling on about his client - something about impossible standards and how "he's a damn programmer, not fucking Houdini" - and John knows that he's grinning at the kid without seeing himself reflected in the store windows. He grabs at one of Matt's flailing hands before he takes the head off one of the passing holiday shoppers, and keeps holding it while they walk. He doesn't even think about it… until two of his detectives walk out of the shwarma place on the corner.
He drops Matt's hand quickly when Randall nods his way, stops to shoot the shit with them on the sidewalk. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, tries to nod in the right places when Randall starts talking about the witness who recanted his testimony on the Porter case, but he's mostly acutely aware of Matt standing silently beside him, of Blenheim's curious glances toward the kid. And he knows, he knows he should be making introductions, but all he can think about is the shitstorm he will go through if it gets around that he's dating not only someone half his fucking age, but a guy.
He's not embarrassed to be seen with Matt. He's not. But the John McClane that Randall and Blenheim and the rest of the guys at the precinct know? He doesn't swing that way. And even though his relationship with Matt is about more than sex, his mind blanks on anything that doesn't sound like this is the guy I'm fucking and he ends up stumbling through the conversation and then sending the detectives on their way without mentioning Matt at all.
John feels the tension thrumming through his shoulders for the next block, but Matt doesn't say anything about it. Maybe he's a little quieter than normal, but John stocks that up to the icy air stealing the breath from their lungs, the noise of the traffic making it hard to be heard, anyway. By the time they clatter down the subway stairs Matt's talking about some video game he wants to get at the end of the month, and John's able to relax slightly. He slings his arm over the back of Matt's seat in the car, picks up the tab for the pizza at Vanelli's.
They sit and eat the pie while watching the Rangers get annihilated in the first, and it's only when John's returning from the kitchen with a couple of cold beers that he realizes that he completely underestimated the whole thing.
Matt looks up at the sound of his footsteps. He's already got his coat back on, his fingers fiddling with winding his long scarf around his neck.
"So," Matt says. "I'm gonna go."
John blinks, feels his grip tighten on the cold bottles. He says the first thing that pops into his head, inane as it is. "The game's still on."
"Yeah. Well. I'll check the score tomorrow, maybe. I'm sure they'll come from behind." Matt's smile is soft and just a little sad, a combination that John doesn’t think he's ever seen before. It makes something in his chest squeeze tight, makes it suddenly hard to breathe.
He gestures with the bottle. "You don't have to."
"I think I do."
John tries to think past the white fuzz taking up residence in his skull, but the only thing that's sticking is this isn't the way it's supposed to go. Fridays are for hockey on the tube, greasy pizza from Vanelli's. Fridays are for unwinding after a long week, lounging with Matt on the lumpy sofa. Fridays are for slow kisses during the post-game show that lead to questing hands, clothes strewn on the floor on the way to the bedroom, rediscovering Matt's body with his hands and his lips.
Fridays are not for Matt standing awkwardly in the middle of the room in too many clothes, refusing to meet his eyes as he tugs on his gloves.
"Matt-" he tries, but the kid is already shaking his head.
"I always knew this was hard for you. I get it, you know? We're from different generations, and this is all new to you. But I guess tonight… with those cops… I guess that just made me realize that I can't do this anymore. I'm not going to go back in the closet for you, John, and I can't bear being someone's dirty little secret." He takes a breath then. Looks up, and his eyes are clear.
And John realizes that maybe Matt's giving him a chance to interrupt; maybe he's waiting for him to say that's not how it is. But his mouth is dry, and he can't think beyond his heart pounding in protest against his ribcage.
Matt nods, presses his lips together around a smile that looks painful. "You take care of yourself, John."
John doesn't stop him from walking down the hallway. Doesn't take a step when he hears the front door open, then close softly. He just stands in the middle of the room with two rapidly cooling beers clutched in his fists and a giant hollow pit forming in his stomach.
It's not supposed to go like this.
* * *
It takes two weeks for him to fully comprehend that Matt's not coming back.
Two Fridays of sitting alone in Vanelli's while Joey makes the pie, sipping on his beer and stealing glances at the door. Two Fridays of listlessly staring at the Rangers chase the puck while the pizza sits like lead in his gut. Two weeks of tossing and turning all weekend long on a bed that's entirely too big.
Two weeks of picking up the phone and dialing a few digits of Matt's number and then replacing the headset on the cradle and picking up another beer instead.
On the second full weekend without Matt in his life, John pulls himself out of bed in the middle of the night. His eyes are gritty and burning from lack of sleep, his breath sour. But he can't handle being in the bed another minute, can't handle the quiet, can't handle the cold spot on the bed that should be filled with Matt's warm, willing body.
He splashes some water on his face, scrubs a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and pronounces himself good enough to drive.
He glances at the oversized clock on the wall above the counter when he pushes open the door of the diner. A little past four a.m., and the place is just as deserted as ever at this time of the morning. The diner is one of the few in the city that is both open twenty-four hours and qualifies as a cop hangout, but even cops need to sleep. Tonight there's only John and a couple of rookies in blue at one of the corner booths, their young heads bent together over a notepad and a plate of fries.
John slides into his usual place on one of the stools, nods to Nan when she pushes off from the edge of the counter and tucks her Sudoku behind the register. He picks up one of the slick menus and taps it against his palm and tries to ignore the empty place beside him where Matt should be sitting, his long floppy hair in disarray, complaining loudly to all and sundry that he was this close to a breakthrough on that code, McClane and that he doesn't need to eat, he needs to work, not all of us have a cushy 401K, you know. The voice in his head is so loud and insistent that it's all he can do not to glance over at the stool, to smirk and order the kid double of everything just to make him protest even further. He bends his neck, closes his eyes so he won't look.
"Mornin', Detective," Nan says. The clunk as she sets his coffee down is loud in the room without Matt's chatter to drown it out. "The usual?"
"Sure," John says. "And double the sausage, would ya?"
She's turning toward the grille when he looks up, reaches for the coffee and gulps down half the cup. The stuff is thick as tarpaper and twice as strong, and has caused more than one rookie to splutter all over the worn tiles trying to choke it down. But the sludge-like coffee is one of the constants of the place, just like Nan with her smoke-ravaged voice and the greasy pencil stuck behind one ear. He's finished his first cup and has reached over the counter and helped himself to a second - and the beat cops have long since gone back to their routes - by the time Nan slides his breakfast in front of him.
John picks up his fork, then scowls at his plate.
"Problem, Detective?"
John looks up to find her standing with one hand planted on her hip, a scrawled-on eyebrow pointing toward the ceiling.
John takes a breath, because he'd rather have Scalvino rip him a new asshole sideways than have Nan ticked off at him. He's not sure he could actually survive without an infusion of her scrambled eggs at least once a week. "I asked for double the sausage," he says calmly. "That's four, Nan. Four."
"Uh huh."
John pokes at the sausage on his plate, raises his own brow. "I count two."
"Consider yourself lucky I didn't switch 'em out with that vegan crap," Nan says. She points a finger, and John's forcibly reminded of Sister Mary Bernadette in second grade just before she lectured him about throwing pencils or picking on Susan Towers. "You're supposed to be watching your cholesterol. You think sausages in a greasy spoon is the best way to get that count lowered, Detective?"
John blinks. "Who--?"
"Who do you think? That boy tries to take care of you even if you won't take care of yourself. Think he don't know you sneak out to the back porch for a smoke now and then, too?"
She leans against the back counter and shakes her head, and John's again transported back to the classroom. The look of disappointment in Nan's eyes is the same as the one he saw in Sister Mary Bernadette's, all those years ago. Change the pale yellow polyester to a nun's habit and the effect would be complete.
John clears his throat. "I think I'm old enough to decide how many sausages I can eat, Nan."
"And whatever you did to piss Matthew off?" Nan continues, ignoring him completely. "Fix it, Detective. We only get a few go-rounds with love in this world, and even less when you get to be our age. You don't just throw that down the dumpster the first time there's a little blip on the radar. Besides, weekends get pretty lonely for this old gal without that motormouth in here keepin' me entertained."
John sets his fork carefully down next to his plate. Straightens the paper napkin. Counts to ten slowly before he looks back up into Nan's face. "You know," he says.
Nan snorts. "I might be old but I ain't blind, Detective. You spend more time moonin' over that damn boy than you do eating your sausage. Of which you're still only getting two."
* * *
The sun's blazing through the windshield and John's entire body is stiff and sore from sitting so long by the time he finally gets out of the car.
The building is a little better than the one that got blown to smithereens, but not much. There's no lock on the front door, and the sour-coke stink of crack permeates the lower halls. By the time John gets to Matt's floor the air has cleared, and he spent enough time agonizing over bullshit in the car like a twelve year old girl that now he doesn't let himself hesitate. He walks confidently to Number 802 and knocks loudly on the battered door.
He can feel the weight of Matt's through the peephole, folds his hands together and does his best to look non-threatening. It's only when the door doesn't open that he realizes he doesn't have a back-up plan. He envisions slinking back down those halls, making the long drive back to Brooklyn alone.
The prospect is unthinkable.
John has time to count the old knife scratches and bullet holes in the door and make definite plans to get Matt out of this shithole - if all goes well - by the time Matt finally cracks the door open, looks out through the chain. "Do you have a warrant this time, Detective?"
"Yeah. Funny, kid," John mutters. He shakes his head, meets Matt's eyes before he can lose his nerve. "Listen. Matt, there's a few things you might not know about me," John says. "The thing is, I'm an asshole. I'm a jerk. I'm self-centered, I think only about myself-"
"That's the same thing."
John huffs out a breath. "I'm not as smart as you, all right? And because I'm not as smart as you, I didn't figure all this shit out the way you did. And because I'm a self-centered asshole, I got all caught up in worrying about what could happen to me instead of paying attention to the most important thing."
When Matt just leans against the doorjamb, John straightens his shoulders. "You, kid. You're the most important thing."
"Yeah, got that," Matt says. He shifts slightly, and John can briefly see beyond him to the rumpled bed in the crappy little studio apartment. He flicks his gaze back to the kid sharply. Matt's hair is more than its usual floppy mess, the sleep pants are slung low on his hips. He'd taken for granted that the kid would be up all night working on his computer shit, hyped on caffeine and junk food by the time John showed up at his door. It occurs to him that maybe their separation is affecting Matt the same way it has him, by screwing up their natural rhythms: he wonders if it's causing him to be unable to sleep, and Matt to sleep too much.
"Is there a point to all this?" Matt asks. He waves an arm behind him carelessly. "Because…"
John swallows roughly. Now that it's down to it, his palms are sweaty and his mouth is dry. But he reaches out quickly to grab the door before Matt can shut it in his face, before he forced to make that shameful walk back to the car. "Yeah, there's a goddamn point," he snaps out. "You think I drove all the way out to fucking Jersey just to remind you I'm an idiot?"
Matt just lifts his shoulders, blinks at him sleepily. Now that he's stepped further into the light John can see the shadows under his eyes, the pallor of his skin. He clenches his fist and has to force himself not to snap the flimsy lock, take the kid in his arms. Instead he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath.
Now or never.
"There's a softball tournament. My guys against homicide. Next Saturday."
Matt lifts a brow. "Okay?"
"I want you to go with me," John blurts out.
He's not sure what he expected, but Matt's blank stare was definitely not it. He swallows again, amends his words.
"I'm asking if you would like to go with me to the softball tournament. As my date." He licks his lips, swears he can physically feel the words frantically bubbling up and out when Matt only continues to look at him. "I'm not good with words like you, and I'm not even sure what you see in me, kid. I'm not saying that I won't still mess up, because I will, I'm the kind of guy that messes up all the fucking time, but-"
Matt blinks once, slowly, and then pushes off from the doorframe. And John has a brief shining moment of pure joy before Matt steps back and shuts the door in his face.
He lets his forehead fall into the battered door, feels his fingers scratching against the wood. The lack of sleep suddenly batters against him, and he feels the weight of every one of his fifty-two years; his legs like blocks of wood, his neck barely able to hold up his head. He can't imagine walking back down all those stairs, getting in his car and driving back to Brooklyn. Spending this weekend and next weekend and every weekend thereafter without Matthew Farrell in his life.
He's not good with words, but he suddenly knows the words he should have said. And it's too fucking late.
Then the chain scrapes against the lock, and John nearly stumbles when the door opens and Matt stands in the archway. "You mean it?" he asks. "No more hiding. No more pretending I don't exist when your cop buddies are around. No more-"
"No more," John promises. And then he says the words he should have started out with, the words he really should have said weeks ago. "I love you."
Matt shakes his head. "You really are an idiot, you know."
"Yeah," John agrees. He relaxes slowly, those imagined lonely months and years fading into the ether, and tries his most charming smile. "Forgive me?"
Matt rolls his eyes, but his lips upturn in their own small, satisfied grin. "Since I love you too, I guess I have no choice," he says.
John wastes no time in closing the distance between them, enveloping Matt in his arms. The kid's arms quickly wrap around his waist, and for a long moment they just stand there, holding on to what they almost lost. He only reluctantly lets Matt pull away, swipes a backhand over his eyes and tells himself that any moisture there is simply due to lack of sleep.
"You owe me so much!" Matt says, slapping at his chest. "Jesus, McClane!"
"Hey, I apologized," John protests. "I'm an asshole, I admit it."
"I'm thinking… rainbow badges on our shirts at that softball thing. No, not big enough. Pride rainbows painted on our cheeks! No, I've got it McClane. You and me on a float at next years Pride Parade!"
John laughs. He pushes Matt inside the apartment, shuts the door and steers the kid toward the bed. He needs sleep, blissful sleep with Matt wrapped in his arms. He manages to get Matt tumbled into the bed, climbs in beside him and closes his eyes.
And he makes sure to keep his lips pressed together while he listens to Matt's increasingly ridiculous demands, even as sleep slowly claims them both. Because the way he feels right now, he'll agree to every damn one.
.