Live Free or Die Hard Fanfic: "Man Down"
Title: Man Down
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1908 words
Summary: Matt expects that his second attempt at a nice dinner with John will have to go better than the first. He really doesn't know John all that well yet, does he?
Notes: Second fic in what I'm calling the "mousecapades" verse. (The first was "Cutthroat Kitchen".) Written for the 'members choice' square at prompt_in_a_box.
Man Down
by Severina
John's place is essentially what he expected - a pre-war brick with a fading façade and a slightly sagging front verandah, divided into six tidy condos. So far, so good. No problems here. Matt refuses to acknowledge either the nervous heart palpitations or the slight twinge in his lower back, a little leftover reminder of their dinner at Claude's that he brought home along with the extra spiced chicken.
He only hesitates when he reaches the door. John had raved about his lasagna last time they talked - "it'll be your new religion, kid", he had said - and Matt, whose idea of gourmet is adding garlic powder to his pizza bagel, had been looking forward to it all week. But the smells coming from behind John's closed door are decidedly not olfactory friendly. He's catching basil, maybe, and the sharp tang of tomato… but also an acrid, charred scent that reminds him of diesel fuel.
He pauses a fraction of a second more to swipe his hair out of his eyes and square his shoulders. Then he knocks at the door, hears John call out that it's open.
The bitter smell is stronger in the tiny foyer, almost strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. He takes a couple of tentative steps to round the corner and finds himself in the archway that leads to the kitchen.
The stove - or what used to be the stove - is pulled out halfway into the small room. It's blackened surface stretches beyond the appliance itself and up onto the walls. Streaks of scorched wood mar the cupboards on the far side of the room, mixed with the drying splatters of what can only be John's Famous Sauce, and the pall of smoke still hangs in the air.
A tiny part of him thinks he should be surprised, but he's really really not.
"I… didn't know stoves could melt," he says slowly.
"Had a little problem," John says. Matt blinks - in surveying the ruin of the kitchen he hadn't even noticed John, standing by the half-wall that divides kitchen from dining room. His gaze darts between John, leaning casually against the wall, and the blackened hump of the stove.
"A little problem?" he repeats. "Uh huh. What the hell happened?"
John scratches at the back of his neck. "You're gonna like this one, kid," he says. "It was a mouse."
Matt's gaze goes back to the lump of twisted metal on the stovetop. He thinks maybe it used to be a burner. "Was this one ten feet tall?"
"Average size," John says with a shrug. "Got into the wiring, next thing I knew I had smoke everywhere and my sauce was doing a Mount Vesuvius. Tell ya what, kid. Never saw a mouse in here before I met you."
"Great, I'm cursed," Matt mumbles. He shakes his head, gestures behind him to the door. "I could-"
"Nah, come in. Had to finish the lasagna up in the microwave but it's still pretty damn good."
The smell is a little fainter in the combo living room/dining room. Matt detours into the living room to drape his coat over the back of the sofa, and tries to unobtrusively check out the ceiling when he pulls out his seat at the table. But it does look like John stemmed the damage before it reached the ceiling, so the chances of the upstairs neighbour's refrigerator falling through and crushing him like a bug seem pretty minimal. He probably won't die today.
He's starting to figure that with John McClane, 'probably' is the best option he's going to get.
And yet he's still here. Because he's also figuring out that with John McClane, 'probably' is worth it.
"Oh shit," John says. "The beer."
Matt holds up a hand when John starts to rise, gestures toward the water glasses on the table. "Water's fine," he says quickly. "I don't think you should go back into that kitchen until a contractor comes by to make sure it's safe. Or, you know, a demolition crew."
John frowns. "It's not that bad."
"Not that…" Matt splutters. He shakes his head and picks up his fork, concentrates on digging into his lasagna in an effort not to list the top ten reasons why John is the master of the understatement. And the lasagna is pretty good, despite the bitter smoked-plastic aftertaste.
He'd enjoy it a lot more, though, if he could get a deep breath. The cheese sticks in his throat, and it takes more effort than it should to swallow. His next breath feels more like a wheeze, and he goes for casual as he reaches for and drains his glass of water.
It doesn't help. His chest hurts, and he can't seem to get enough air down to his lungs. He clears his throat, tries coughing a little into his napkin. John is talking - he can definitely see his lips moving - but it's taking all of Matt's concentration just to breathe. He has the vague idea that he needs his inhaler, and hopes he mumbles something to that effect when he staggers up from the table.
The last thing he remembers is stumbling over a tufted green ottoman in the living room. Then he's down.
He can't be out long. When he blinks awake, John is bending over him, eyes crinkled and looking anxious.
"I tripped?" he asks hopefully.
John settles back on his haunches at that, some of the worry leaking from his face. "You fainted."
"Great," Matt moans. He shuts his eyes, tries a breath. A trickle of cool air reaches his lungs, so he cracks open one eye. "If I'm gonna keep ending up on my back when you're around, I should be getting more out of it."
John's breath is rich with marinara, and he can taste sweet bell pepper when their lips brush. "Better?" John asks.
"I think I might puke."
"Okay, never had that reaction to one of my kisses before, kid. Is it the garlic?"
Matt opens his mouth to reply, but never gets the chance. Instead he watches John's eyes grow wide and then he's being manhandled into a sitting position, John's big hand warm on the back of his neck as he forces his head down. "Just breathe, Matt," John says from somewhere far away, and then Matt is wobbling precariously alone for a moment before a rush of cold air lifts the damp hair away from his cheeks and John is back, keeping up a gentle pressure on his nape. The edges of his vision that were starting to go a little grey and fuzzy begin to clear after a moment, and Matt waves a hand to get John to release him. He sits up straight and takes a tentative breath.
"Okay?"
There's still a tea-kettle wheeze to his breathing that he doesn't much like. But the open window helps, and it no longer feels like his throat is coated in ash. "A bit better," he says.
After a few minutes he feels well enough to move to the big chair by the window. The air is cool and thick with the scent of rain. It feels fantastic. Even better is the sensation of air that doesn't taste like scorched soup actually reaching his lungs. He looks over at the abandoned plates - John's, Matt sees, is actually upturned on the floor, which gives him an indication of just how fast John must have jumped up when he saw him - how embarrassing - faint in the middle of his living room. He wrinkles his nose. "I guess the lasagna is ruined."
"Yeah. Sorry, kid," John says. "I should've thought… your asthma.."
Matt lifts a shoulder. "Nah. It's not like you could've known that a mouse was going to explode your stove."
"Still," John says. "It's not often I almost get a guy killed twice on as many dates."
"Not often?" Matt repeats. "So there's been a precedent for this, then? Exactly how many dates of yours have been tackled by ex-Marine cooks and then nearly suffocated from smoke inhalation?"
"Negligible. Hardly any," John says. The corner of his mouth lifts. "You'll probably be okay on date number three."
There's a lilt to the end of the sentence. And there's that word again. It kind of makes his chest ache, but not in that gasping like a dying goldfish way. It's more a world of possibilities way, accompanied by tingling in his extremities and the inability to make saliva. So more like the dying goldfish thing than initially suspected.
He licks his lips before replying. "Probably," he agrees.
And he likely imagines that little huff of relieved breath that John lets out, because then the guy is hustling around opening more windows and pulling out a little fan left over from sometime in the 60's with an engine like a motorboat that John sits down in front of him and placing a pizza order. Sometime in all the ruckus Matt moves over to the sofa, and when John finally flops down next to him the line of their thighs touch and Matt kind of feels like he can't breathe again anyway.
John reaches over to make a minute adjustment to the fan, and Matt feels his hair lift back and away from his head like he's in some kind of hair care commercial. Which, if he must admit the truth, he totally qualifies for considering the amount of product he's got sitting on the ledge in his bathroom. "Because I'm worth it," he says under his breath.
"Huh?" John squints at him, but then slaps at his thigh and heaves himself up from the couch before Matt can answer. "Almost forgot," he says. He bends over the little television cabinet to forage in the drawer, and Matt has a moment of empathy with whatever mental lapse John is having. Because with a view like that, he almost forgets his own name.
John really needs to wear jeans more often.
He blinks when John comes up grinning, a battered copy of Jurassic Park in his fist.
"You own a VCR?" He waves a hand to forestall the answer. "Never mind. Of course you do. And in that cabinet over there," he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, "I bet you've got an 8-track. At the very least a cassette player. You still own a Walkman, don't you?"
"You wanna watch this or not, smartass?"
Definitely a cassette man. "A little Sam Neill saving the day? Hell yeah, I'm down," Matt says.
He rests his head back against the sofa and crosses his hands over his stomach. Okay, so maybe the date started out kind of… horrendously awful, what with the exploding kitchen - which is kind of getting old at this point, he should remind John that they've already been there, done that and ask if he has any collectibles that Matt can ruin while he's here - and the asthma attack and the passing out and all. But now there is pizza on the way, fresh air to breathe from the open windows, and a hot guy with a really great ass bending over in front of him. Again.
John rises from inserting the tape and Matt has about three point five seconds to enjoy the bliss of their second date.
Then there's a pop, a sizzle, and the entire house goes dark.
"I swear, kid," John says out of the gloom. "Third time's the charm."
.
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1908 words
Summary: Matt expects that his second attempt at a nice dinner with John will have to go better than the first. He really doesn't know John all that well yet, does he?
Notes: Second fic in what I'm calling the "mousecapades" verse. (The first was "Cutthroat Kitchen".) Written for the 'members choice' square at prompt_in_a_box.
Man Down
by Severina
John's place is essentially what he expected - a pre-war brick with a fading façade and a slightly sagging front verandah, divided into six tidy condos. So far, so good. No problems here. Matt refuses to acknowledge either the nervous heart palpitations or the slight twinge in his lower back, a little leftover reminder of their dinner at Claude's that he brought home along with the extra spiced chicken.
He only hesitates when he reaches the door. John had raved about his lasagna last time they talked - "it'll be your new religion, kid", he had said - and Matt, whose idea of gourmet is adding garlic powder to his pizza bagel, had been looking forward to it all week. But the smells coming from behind John's closed door are decidedly not olfactory friendly. He's catching basil, maybe, and the sharp tang of tomato… but also an acrid, charred scent that reminds him of diesel fuel.
He pauses a fraction of a second more to swipe his hair out of his eyes and square his shoulders. Then he knocks at the door, hears John call out that it's open.
The bitter smell is stronger in the tiny foyer, almost strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. He takes a couple of tentative steps to round the corner and finds himself in the archway that leads to the kitchen.
The stove - or what used to be the stove - is pulled out halfway into the small room. It's blackened surface stretches beyond the appliance itself and up onto the walls. Streaks of scorched wood mar the cupboards on the far side of the room, mixed with the drying splatters of what can only be John's Famous Sauce, and the pall of smoke still hangs in the air.
A tiny part of him thinks he should be surprised, but he's really really not.
"I… didn't know stoves could melt," he says slowly.
"Had a little problem," John says. Matt blinks - in surveying the ruin of the kitchen he hadn't even noticed John, standing by the half-wall that divides kitchen from dining room. His gaze darts between John, leaning casually against the wall, and the blackened hump of the stove.
"A little problem?" he repeats. "Uh huh. What the hell happened?"
John scratches at the back of his neck. "You're gonna like this one, kid," he says. "It was a mouse."
Matt's gaze goes back to the lump of twisted metal on the stovetop. He thinks maybe it used to be a burner. "Was this one ten feet tall?"
"Average size," John says with a shrug. "Got into the wiring, next thing I knew I had smoke everywhere and my sauce was doing a Mount Vesuvius. Tell ya what, kid. Never saw a mouse in here before I met you."
"Great, I'm cursed," Matt mumbles. He shakes his head, gestures behind him to the door. "I could-"
"Nah, come in. Had to finish the lasagna up in the microwave but it's still pretty damn good."
The smell is a little fainter in the combo living room/dining room. Matt detours into the living room to drape his coat over the back of the sofa, and tries to unobtrusively check out the ceiling when he pulls out his seat at the table. But it does look like John stemmed the damage before it reached the ceiling, so the chances of the upstairs neighbour's refrigerator falling through and crushing him like a bug seem pretty minimal. He probably won't die today.
He's starting to figure that with John McClane, 'probably' is the best option he's going to get.
And yet he's still here. Because he's also figuring out that with John McClane, 'probably' is worth it.
"Oh shit," John says. "The beer."
Matt holds up a hand when John starts to rise, gestures toward the water glasses on the table. "Water's fine," he says quickly. "I don't think you should go back into that kitchen until a contractor comes by to make sure it's safe. Or, you know, a demolition crew."
John frowns. "It's not that bad."
"Not that…" Matt splutters. He shakes his head and picks up his fork, concentrates on digging into his lasagna in an effort not to list the top ten reasons why John is the master of the understatement. And the lasagna is pretty good, despite the bitter smoked-plastic aftertaste.
He'd enjoy it a lot more, though, if he could get a deep breath. The cheese sticks in his throat, and it takes more effort than it should to swallow. His next breath feels more like a wheeze, and he goes for casual as he reaches for and drains his glass of water.
It doesn't help. His chest hurts, and he can't seem to get enough air down to his lungs. He clears his throat, tries coughing a little into his napkin. John is talking - he can definitely see his lips moving - but it's taking all of Matt's concentration just to breathe. He has the vague idea that he needs his inhaler, and hopes he mumbles something to that effect when he staggers up from the table.
The last thing he remembers is stumbling over a tufted green ottoman in the living room. Then he's down.
He can't be out long. When he blinks awake, John is bending over him, eyes crinkled and looking anxious.
"I tripped?" he asks hopefully.
John settles back on his haunches at that, some of the worry leaking from his face. "You fainted."
"Great," Matt moans. He shuts his eyes, tries a breath. A trickle of cool air reaches his lungs, so he cracks open one eye. "If I'm gonna keep ending up on my back when you're around, I should be getting more out of it."
John's breath is rich with marinara, and he can taste sweet bell pepper when their lips brush. "Better?" John asks.
"I think I might puke."
"Okay, never had that reaction to one of my kisses before, kid. Is it the garlic?"
Matt opens his mouth to reply, but never gets the chance. Instead he watches John's eyes grow wide and then he's being manhandled into a sitting position, John's big hand warm on the back of his neck as he forces his head down. "Just breathe, Matt," John says from somewhere far away, and then Matt is wobbling precariously alone for a moment before a rush of cold air lifts the damp hair away from his cheeks and John is back, keeping up a gentle pressure on his nape. The edges of his vision that were starting to go a little grey and fuzzy begin to clear after a moment, and Matt waves a hand to get John to release him. He sits up straight and takes a tentative breath.
"Okay?"
There's still a tea-kettle wheeze to his breathing that he doesn't much like. But the open window helps, and it no longer feels like his throat is coated in ash. "A bit better," he says.
After a few minutes he feels well enough to move to the big chair by the window. The air is cool and thick with the scent of rain. It feels fantastic. Even better is the sensation of air that doesn't taste like scorched soup actually reaching his lungs. He looks over at the abandoned plates - John's, Matt sees, is actually upturned on the floor, which gives him an indication of just how fast John must have jumped up when he saw him - how embarrassing - faint in the middle of his living room. He wrinkles his nose. "I guess the lasagna is ruined."
"Yeah. Sorry, kid," John says. "I should've thought… your asthma.."
Matt lifts a shoulder. "Nah. It's not like you could've known that a mouse was going to explode your stove."
"Still," John says. "It's not often I almost get a guy killed twice on as many dates."
"Not often?" Matt repeats. "So there's been a precedent for this, then? Exactly how many dates of yours have been tackled by ex-Marine cooks and then nearly suffocated from smoke inhalation?"
"Negligible. Hardly any," John says. The corner of his mouth lifts. "You'll probably be okay on date number three."
There's a lilt to the end of the sentence. And there's that word again. It kind of makes his chest ache, but not in that gasping like a dying goldfish way. It's more a world of possibilities way, accompanied by tingling in his extremities and the inability to make saliva. So more like the dying goldfish thing than initially suspected.
He licks his lips before replying. "Probably," he agrees.
And he likely imagines that little huff of relieved breath that John lets out, because then the guy is hustling around opening more windows and pulling out a little fan left over from sometime in the 60's with an engine like a motorboat that John sits down in front of him and placing a pizza order. Sometime in all the ruckus Matt moves over to the sofa, and when John finally flops down next to him the line of their thighs touch and Matt kind of feels like he can't breathe again anyway.
John reaches over to make a minute adjustment to the fan, and Matt feels his hair lift back and away from his head like he's in some kind of hair care commercial. Which, if he must admit the truth, he totally qualifies for considering the amount of product he's got sitting on the ledge in his bathroom. "Because I'm worth it," he says under his breath.
"Huh?" John squints at him, but then slaps at his thigh and heaves himself up from the couch before Matt can answer. "Almost forgot," he says. He bends over the little television cabinet to forage in the drawer, and Matt has a moment of empathy with whatever mental lapse John is having. Because with a view like that, he almost forgets his own name.
John really needs to wear jeans more often.
He blinks when John comes up grinning, a battered copy of Jurassic Park in his fist.
"You own a VCR?" He waves a hand to forestall the answer. "Never mind. Of course you do. And in that cabinet over there," he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, "I bet you've got an 8-track. At the very least a cassette player. You still own a Walkman, don't you?"
"You wanna watch this or not, smartass?"
Definitely a cassette man. "A little Sam Neill saving the day? Hell yeah, I'm down," Matt says.
He rests his head back against the sofa and crosses his hands over his stomach. Okay, so maybe the date started out kind of… horrendously awful, what with the exploding kitchen - which is kind of getting old at this point, he should remind John that they've already been there, done that and ask if he has any collectibles that Matt can ruin while he's here - and the asthma attack and the passing out and all. But now there is pizza on the way, fresh air to breathe from the open windows, and a hot guy with a really great ass bending over in front of him. Again.
John rises from inserting the tape and Matt has about three point five seconds to enjoy the bliss of their second date.
Then there's a pop, a sizzle, and the entire house goes dark.
"I swear, kid," John says out of the gloom. "Third time's the charm."
.