![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Live Free or Die Hard Fic: National Pastime (2/2)
part one
The implications were impossible to ignore, too amazing to process. Matt watched the sunset, and forced his brain into the channels of the next freelance project he had due. Weirdly, none of his contracts wanted to extend his deadlines, despite the current circumstances, although honestly his contracts could suck it if the power outages kept up. McClane was on a waiting list for a home generator, and even if he--they--he could get one, gas prices were insane. If there wasn't actual rationing soon, shortages were bound to keep getting worse.
Matt started mapping out the price points for a fuel surcharge on his existing projects and wondering who he could extort an adjusted agreement from first. He'd mapped out an entire decision tree--who to approach first, with what offer, and how to proceed from there--when the window beside him rolled up with a faint electric whir, cutting off the rush of air and sealing him into the cool confines of McClane's car. It was dark out, he realized, really really dark everywhere but the Parkway. People were driving slowly in the isolated stream of headlights. The music was turned down low, half-obscured by the shushing of the air conditioning.
Matt looked over at McClane and saw mostly shadows. He wasn't pounding on the steering wheel anymore, at least.
"Hey," Matt said, "did you just take me to a Mets game on a date?"
For a couple of seconds McClane didn't make a sound, and weirdly that was what clinched it beyond any possible doubt. If Matt had been wrong, McClane would have cracked up, or smacked him or something, right away.
What McClane said, in the end, was, "If that's what you're asking me? No, of course not."
Matt watched the darkness go by, trying to pick the city out of the black on black on black, and then tried again. "Having taken me to a Mets game on a date, are you expecting to get laid?"
The words came out pretty evenly, he thought, without revealing too much desperate hopefulness. He remembered McClane's hands on him, though--McClane had been touching him all day, waiting for Matt to catch on, and now that he had Matt wanted more, a lot more, everything. No matter how much time he had to spend thinking about flowcharts and spreadsheets to even pretend to be cool about it.
McClane laughed a little this time, though, and said, "Hey, give me some credit here. It's the first date, I'm a gentleman."
Matt frowned and looked forward, watching the red lights leading them onward. "Shouldn't there be kissing, at least?"
"After I take you home," McClane said patiently--home, like Matt belonged there, like he didn't even realize it mattered. "Some people got no standards."
That was empirically absolutely true; Matt's approach to dating, sex, any kind of hookup, had always been pretty much to take what he could get and run with it. But McClane--McClane was from a whole other generation, one with standards. Rules. Protocols.
Some of which McClane was probably violating pretty badly by going anywhere--even just to a Mets game--with Matt.
Matt tilted his head against the window, looking completely away from McClane, and said carefully, "Do you, um--have you--I really never would have guessed in a million years that you were into guys."
"Yeah," McClane said, and Matt kept staring out the window even when it started to seem like that was going to be the whole answer.
"Yeah," he repeated. "Took me a while to guess myself."
Matt shut his eyes and let his forehead rest against the glass as the realization washed over him that he might very well be the person in this situation who knew what the fuck was going on. Less scary than the helicopter, he thought--he was starting to have a really finely-developed scale for utter terror. That time neither of them had known. Also, helicopter.
McClane sighed, like Matt had dragged the words out of him. "Before this--before the fire sale--I don't know, I thought I was done with a lot of things. Done saving the world, done... but when I decide I'm going to do something, I mostly just go for it. I figure this time at least no matter how bad I fuck it up I'm not going to get either of us killed."
Matt did have to look at him then. "You're saying hooking up with me is slightly less crazy than shooting yourself?"
McClane's grin appeared briefly, in a flash of passing headlights. "You saying it's not?"
Matt shook his head, and it was thirty seconds later by the time he realized he should actually say something, because McClane probably couldn't see him. By then it was too late, and just throwing a no out there was the last thing Matt was interested in doing. He squirmed around getting comfortable, instead, letting his left hand creep sideways to brace himself as he shifted his bad leg. He left his hand there, even when he'd found the right position, and it wasn't long before he felt McClane's hand settle over his--not holding, just happening to be in the same place together.
Matt tipped his head back and closed his eyes. If he couldn't see the looming darkness where a city should be, everything would seem normal, everything except the touch of McClane's--oh, God, John's?--hand on his. When the car slowed and the turns got more frequent, his heart started to race, and by the time they came to a stop he'd broken into a sweat all over again, though it was almost chilly inside the car.
McClane took his hand away to shut off the ignition, and then there was no radio or rush of air, no engine-growl to block out the silence of the power failure and the night. There was a jingle of keys, and McClane muttered something that sounded like, "Yippee-ki-yay, Jesus, John."
Before Matt could decide what the hell to make of that, McClane's hand was on his shoulder, more a gentle shove than a shake. "You coming up?"
"What," Matt said, sitting up and stretching a little--awkwardly, without reaching toward McClane or bashing into anything. Fuck, his arms were just about done. He wasn't going to be able to move tomorrow. "To look at your etchings?"
"No etchings," McClane said, pocketing the keys with an audible jingle. "Coffee? Red Bull? All your stuff is here?"
It was a joke, it wasn't a joke, it was some kind of Schrodinger's banter. If he followed McClane upstairs right now, grabbed a Red Bull and said he just had to put down this thing he'd thought of on his computer, Matt would swear on the hope of New York's crippled electrical grid that McClane would never mention this again.
"Plus that kiss-goodbye-at-the-door thing is really not my style," Matt tossed out, and then opened his door and--even almost deliberately--made a big noisy production of getting himself and his crutches out and upright on the sidewalk. It was really fucking dark out, but not completely--there were stars, when he looked up, stars in Brooklyn, and here and there light spilled out from windows where people had put lanterns or candles. Matt spared a second to hope FDNY's walkie-talkies were top-of-the-line, and then there was a bright white pool of light at his feet.
He looked up to see McClane standing six feet away--apart from that moment in the parking lot, he really was usually awesome about letting Matt figure out his own mobility--aiming a keychain LED. Matt grinned, unsure whether McClane could see it in the spill of light--for himself, McClane was mostly just a dark outline. He looked down and picked his way along the sidewalk, going carefully over the cracked and tilted places, avoiding the trash and the edge of the open square where a tree was growing.
When Matt had nearly reached him, McClane turned and started walking, still aiming the LED. He didn't say a word, and neither did Matt. Out here, even in the dark and the silence, seemed much more exposed, more dangerous, than the small space of the car. Matt wasn't sure he could have said any of that outside. And once they got back to McClane's apartment...
One thing at a time. First, the stairs up to the building door, which McClane held for him. Matt got through the door on the first try, without brushing up against him. It would have been more likely than not to result in some sort of disaster, with the crutches involved.
Matt stopped just inside. It was darker indoors--no light from under any apartment doors, and the starlight was lost. The silence was heavier, the air more still. McClane pulled the door shut behind them and touched his hand to Matt's back as he moved around him to take the lead again, shining the light on the floor even though it was level here, free of obstacles. McClane moved soundlessly, and Matt thumped along in his wake--he winced at the thought of the neighbors, and then remembered that it wasn't actually the middle of the night, that the sun had only just gone down.
He followed McClane past the elevator, to the stairs, and McClane held the door for him again. Matt hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, but McClane didn't pass him this time, just shone the light ahead of him. Matt took a breath, steeling himself, and out of the darkness and absolute silence, McClane said quietly, "Last set, go on."
Matt was so glad not to hear, hey, princess, you need a lift? that he almost laughed, and got himself moving. He managed to get the door mostly open himself, at the top, but McClane reached past and held it so he didn't have to hop through sideways. He stayed behind Matt all the way to the apartment door, and then Matt leaned against the wall beside the door and McClane let go of the LED to find his key.
Without that little white light the darkness was absolute, and there was nothing, nothing in the world, but his own ragged breathing and the muted click of keys in McClane's hands. It was stupid, weak, helpless, but Matt reached for him, got a fistful of McClane's shirt in his hand.
He felt McClane go completely still--the keys clashed and then went silent--and his own breath stopped in his throat. McClane's hand was on his shoulder the next second, quick and rough enough to unbalance him if he hadn't already been leaning. McClane's hand didn't stop, finding his throat, his jaw, and then there was the press of McClane's body against his, McClane's mouth on his.
Matt's lips parted on impact, and his hand clenched in McClane's shirt tugged, like he could possibly pull McClane any closer. The claustrophobic darkness was suddenly hot and close around him, and McClane was kissing him roughly, desperately, like a last chance, a last breath, one hand still on Matt's face and the other arm around him. Matt just tried to keep up, giving himself up to the kiss, his fist against McClane's side through his shirt, his knuckles throbbing from holding on so hard.
"Thought this wasn't your style," McClane said, his lips dragging along Matt's jaw, his hand sliding down to cup the back of Matt's neck.
Matt tried desperately to remember when he said he wasn't into being kissed like kissing was the only thing in the world.
Oh. "Dude, does this seem like a kiss goodbye?"
McClane laughed a little and muttered, "Dude?" as he squeezed Matt closer. Matt's head was swimming. The heat was sauna-like, and his clothes felt like that lead vest at the hospital. McClane's next kiss was gentler.
"I guess not," McClane muttered, and dropped his arm from around Matt with a clash of keys. "I should really--"
"Sure," Matt said, and kissed him again, kissed John McClane, because he could, because McClane's mouth opened for him and McClane's hand on the back of his neck tightened just a little when he had Matt's tongue in his mouth. Still, Matt forced himself to break away. "Yeah, maybe--inside."
"Yeah," McClane said, and took both hands away to sort through his keys again.
Matt held on to his shirt the whole time, until he heard the locks slide back and McClane pushed the door open and shined the light inside. He stepped inside far enough to hold the door, and Matt pushed himself off the wall, shook his head, and made his way inside, into pitch darkness.
He closed his eyes--this he could actually do, because he and McClane between them were pretty good about keeping the floor clear, and he'd had nothing better to do for the last five days than learn how to navigate this one space. It usually freaked him out, trying to do it blind, but he really had other things on his mind right now.
There were barstools at the kitchen island, that was the closest. Matt was moving even as McClane was doing up the locks behind him, remembering to evade the coat rack and the recycling bin, only misjudging the doorway a little. He got his hands on the countertop and let his crutches drop--they bounced, crashing and echoing--and he did not care because he was perched on a barstool and his hands were on his lap and he didn't have to use his arms to get anywhere.
McClane appeared with a soft jangle of keys, bathed in white light as he held the LED over his head. He raised his eyebrows at Matt, but said nothing, just walked over and picked up his crutches off the floor. He propped them against the (long since unplugged) fridge--three, maybe four hops, Matt could remember that--and then the light went out again, and a second later McClane was there, standing between Matt's knees, hands on Matt's shoulders.
Matt could feel him leaning in, even where they weren't touching--he could feel the extra heat of another body, feel McClane's breath stirring the air between them. He'd kind of quit breathing, himself.
"McClane," he said, and it came out hoarse and shaky. McClane still didn't move, and it was dark, and they'd just kissed in the hallway. "John, hey."
McClane's hands squeezed on his shoulders, and the warm pressure sent a crazily intense bolt of pleasure-pain through his body. Matt's back arched and he let out a gasp and shoved his mouth against McClane's. They kissed clumsily, already breathing hard, coming together and apart in rough presses and slides of mouth against mouth. McClane's hands opened, and he rubbed his flat palms over Matt's shoulders, dragging all kinds of desperate and incoherent noises out of Matt's mouth.
McClane pressed his knuckles to Matt's biceps, and he nearly fell off the chair, finally raising his hands to grab at McClane and hold on. He might die from this. He was painfully, fantastically hard from kissing McClane and having his shoulders rubbed. Actual sex might seriously kill him.
So a typical day with John McClane, then.
"Okay, okay," Matt gasped, pulling away to catch his breath, "seriously, I don't care what kind of gentleman anybody here is, you had better be putting out now."
McClane laughed a little, but he sounded breathless himself this time. "That a fact?"
His hands were wrapped around Matt's upper arms, not really moving, just a little heat and pressure, and McClane's mouth was still brushing against his on every other breath. Matt couldn't quite think, but he could talk.
"It is a fact," Matt said. "Also a fact, the day we met we spent like thirty-six straight hours together including three different multi-state trips, one of which was actually in a helicopter, and neither of us even tried to kill the other and you bought me food. That is at least ten or twelve dates right there, even without a multiplier for saving the world and committing justifiable homicides together.
"Plus, then you asked me to move in with you, and then we didn't have any sex, and you know who moves in together after like three days, and then doesn't have sex? Lesbians. And not the ones in porn, the ones who wear flannel and don't shave their legs."
McClane laughed right out loud this time. "Did you just call me a dyke, Matthew Farrell?"
"Both of us," Matt corrected. "John, John, man, I'm really sorry, but the only way to defend our masculinity at this point is to get our goddamn pants off. Right now."
"Oh, right now, he says," John murmured, his hands sliding down to Matt's hips, his lips brushing Matt's jaw and then his throat. "Right now, huh? Not that I haven't thought about stripping you naked on the kitchen counter or anything..."
John's hands were moving in, fingers sliding under his shirts to rub at the skin of his sides, which was pretty much the end of Matt's ability to consider whether that was a good idea. It was a right now idea. Matt nodded frantically.
"...But that kind of thing's actually pretty aggravating afterwards, and I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
John's hands stopped moving as he stopped speaking, and Matt forced himself to think a little bit. The couch? John's bed? There was theoretically a guest room where Matt was theoretically staying, but in practice it was full of junk and boxes and, the one time Matt had peeked in there, a framed picture of Lucy and her brother. So, no, definitely not there.
"Um," Matt managed to say, because John had fallen silent, and was maybe waiting for some kind of input.
"Yeah, um," John whispered. "How about you come to bed with me, Matt."
It wasn't a question, or it was, or Matt was too far gone to think about it. "Yeah, fuck, yes please--"
And that was as far as he got before John moved, and Matt had a shoulder in his stomach and then he was upside down.
He managed a pretty coherent, if breathless, "What the fuck?" but John was already walking--carrying him, with one arm across the back of Matt's thighs. "Oh, God, please tell me this is your good shoulder."
"Hold still," John replied, sounding a little strained, but only a little. "Anybody ever tell you there's no nutritional value in Red Bull? Do you eat?"
And then the world flipped around again and he was set down--really, pretty gently, he only bounced a little bit--on John's bed.
"It was faster," John added, from somewhere above him, and then there was a thump of clothing hitting the floor, because apparently John agreed with him about the urgency of getting pants off. Matt wrestled his shirts off--fucking button-down, fucking sleeves, fucking rubbery arms--and by the time he'd won out, there was a dim yellow light in the room.
John had set a flashlight down on the night stand, aiming at the wall. He was setting down his gun and holster beside it, then his badge, and then--with a habitual click to check that it was on--the walkie-talkie. In just a t-shirt, the solid strength of John's body was obvious, and Matt just sat and stared for a few seconds before he realized John had stopped, standing there, with his hands at the hem of his t-shirt. Matt looked up to his face, but John was looking down at his hands.
He was steeling himself, Matt realized, for the twist of his shoulder as he pulled his shirt off. Because he might insist on going around acting like he had a full range of motion, but that didn't mean it didn't still hurt like fuck. Something shook in his stomach--an irrational sense that John was already naked--and Matt twisted around on the bed, dragging his bad leg after him.
"Hey, come here, let me do that."
John looked up, startled, and for a second Matt thought he would just laugh, or rip his own shirt off like he'd never hesitated, or tell Matt to leave. Instead a little tension ebbed from his face, and he came and sat down facing Matt.
"Fair warning, if you tickle me I'll probably punch you in the face."
"Oh, well, that's reassuring, thanks." Matt reached for the hem of McClane's t-shirt and pulled it up to his armpits, not even letting his fingers drag against the skin he revealed. "Okay, just--"
John nodded, and raised his left arm, letting Matt pull his t-shirt off on that side, and then over his head--no hair meant no stupid hair sticking straight up like Matt's probably was now, definitely a plus--and then gently down over his right shoulder. There was still a bandage there, sealed over with plastic tape, which Matt suspected made showering easier. He also suspected it wasn't the way the hospital did it, but clearly John had figured out how to handle his own gunshot wounds by now.
Matt looked away as he tossed John's shirt after his own, and when he turned back John was reaching for him, reeling him into another kiss. Matt went without a struggle. It was crazy how John's mouth was already starting to be familiar, and meanwhile his hands were flat on John's bare skin, all new territory to be learned by touch. He was hot and here and Matt was allowed now. He seemed to be all muscle except where he was made of scars, and Matt had no idea whether it was actually okay to be touching those.
He raised his head--to ask, or look--but John hauled him closer still, so that Matt was half in John's lap, his side pressed flush to John's chest, skin to skin. He could feel John's hard-on through his jeans, and suddenly Matt had a whole new set of priorities for what he wanted to be touching and looking at. John was apparently a step ahead of him, his hands going down to Matt's jeans again, fumbling the button open and tugging down the fly.
Matt caught John's hand before it could go any further. "I should do this myself or, seriously, all over."
John went still, and then he dropped his hands to Matt's thighs--so it was just John's dick pressing up against his ass, just the weight of John's hands driving him crazy on top of the heat and smell and touch of skin. John's mouth brushed down his throat and along his shoulder, and John muttered, "Your call, kid."
Matt squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his lip and then, finally, managed to make himself scoot off and away from John. He shoved down his jeans and boxers together and leaned forward to ease them over the bandages and brace keeping his knee at its optimally obnoxious angle. Then he had to stop and get his shoes off--fucking laces--and his socks, and then he shoved his pants off himself, off the bed, and fell backwards in triumph, his arms raised over his head as he hit the rumpled sheets.
He realized a half-second later that John was standing next to the bed, watching him. He felt an instant's stab of self-consciousness, followed by the almost literally stunning realization that John was watching him, standing there with his hand on his dick and his eyes intent on Matt. John wasn't exactly jerking off, but he was hard, he was into this, really seriously into it, just from looking at Matt, just some skinny geek who hardly ever went outside in daylight.
He opened his mouth to say something--probably something stupid--but John shook his head and said, "Don't move."
Matt bit his lip, suddenly conscious that his arms were above his head, that he was as exposed as he could be. His dick was achingly hard under John's gaze, his toes curling a little already. He looked back at John, instead of down at himself; in the splash of light he could see a pale white scar on John's thigh, the dark blot of a tattoo on one arm, traces of tan lines.
And he could see John's dick, slipping in and out of shadow as John slowly moved his hand over it. It was built pretty much like the rest of John, thick, and what light there was shined on wetness at the head. Matt's brain tripped straight to the thought of getting fucked, by him, by that. Matt shuddered, and felt his own dick jump without so much as a touch. His legs spread almost (almost, but not really) involuntarily as his eyes squeezed shut, because clearly even looking was too much for him.
"Hey," John said, and this could go one of two ways. Matt was actually pretty sure he was okay with getting his ass smacked for not following directions or winding up handcuffed to John's bed or something. Unfortunately it was just possible that kind of deal would be too much for John, what with this apparently being his first day of being kinda gay--except who the fuck knew what was too much for John.
"Matt, hey," John said again, closer, and the voice was accompanied by a hand on his side, the soft place just above his hip. He opened his eyes, and John was leaning over him, looking amused. "Don't fucking tell me you're freaking out, here."
"I am freaking out," Matt said without moving his hands, though he couldn't stop himself from arching just a little into John's touch. His voice was kind of wavery, but John had heard worse from him. "And I will tell you why, because I am scared I'm going to be as old as you are before we actually have sex."
John's gaze shifted, raking up and down Matt's body, and he said almost absently, "Yeah, I know I'm not the math guy here, but I'm pretty sure that doesn't even make sense."
Matt clenched his fists and then released them. He should move, he should do something, push this to somewhere other than John's hand resting on the mostly-neutral territory of his side. He should touch the man. But John had told him to hold still, and all he could bring himself to do now was say, "Fuck, man, you really cannot expect me to be naked with you and make sense at the same--"
"Stop talking," John said, as he gathered Matt's wrists into a one-handed grip and shifted to kneel over him, sliding the hand on Matt's side up over his chest instead of down, where Matt wanted it. Matt's hips rocked up helplessly, to rub against absolutely nothing, because John was a horrible, vicious tease--
"No, seriously, stop talking," John muttered, but he said it against Matt's mouth as he settled lower over Matt, his dick hard against Matt's hip and just enough of his weight resting on Matt to make this real. Matt pushed up desperately, his dick against the firmness of John's stomach, his wrists against John's grip, his mouth mashing against John's in a kiss. John pushed right back, thrusting against him, holding him down, his tongue slicking over Matt's in the best, filthiest way.
John lifted his head a second before Matt would have had to pull away to breathe. He pushed up just a little--just enough that Matt had to dig in his heel and arch up to keep thrusting against him. Matt's ragged breath had the edge of a whine in it, but the next second John's mouth touched him again, brushing lightly over the underside of his arm, stretched and exposed by John's grip on his wrists.
Matt actually went still for a second, whimpering, and then John's mouth found the nearly-raw patch of skin where the crutches rubbed, and Matt moaned out, "Fuck, fuck, what kind of fucking erogenous--"
It was, though, clearly. John licked, and Matt was thrusting wildly, helplessly against him, the same spot on his other arm burning in sympathy, his whole body drawn tight as John traced the extent of that one patch of abused skin.
John's teeth scraped over sensitive skin and Matt let out a startled, choked cry--how could it hurt that much and feel that good all at the same time? He shoved his cock wildly against John's sweat-slick skin. John shoved back against him and bit down, and Matt came like pulling a fucking trigger.
John kissed him again, when he'd fallen still, and thrust down gingerly against him, like Matt might not be into this anymore. Except now Matt had nothing distracting him from the fact that John McClane was into him, hard for him, rutting against him in the semi-dark.
Matt slung one (limp, useless, incredibly happy) arm around John's neck and reached down between them with the other. He got his hand on John's cock for the first time, making John thrust harder.
"Come on," Matt whispered, "come on, you crazy, amazing motherfucker, come all fucking over me, like you've been wanting to--"
John grunted at that, thrusting harder against Matt's belly, under his half-curled hand. Matt swiped his thumb over the head of John's cock, and his own twitched in sympathy. "Except this is like a tenth of what you want, isn't it? This is like--second base? Third? I'm gonna be naked on the kitchen counter as soon as my leg heals, you know that? Naked over the back of the couch, up against the wall--you're going to fuck me, right, like a lot, because--"
"Shut up," John growled, but he was coming against Matt's belly as he said it, hot hard pulses under Matt's fingers, so Matt knew perfectly well that he liked it.
He lowered himself onto Matt and rested there for a few half-suffocating seconds, and Matt wiggled the toes of his bad leg and thought he could probably fall asleep like this. Only he was starting to be aware of how hot it was in here--the motion of his and John's breathing made him feel the sweat trapped between them, and if they actually did fall asleep like this they might well be stuck together at the dick by the time they woke up.
John sighed and rolled away, to the side of the bed with the flashlight and all his gear. He wasn't far--inches, maybe. Matt could still feel him breathing. He watched through half-closed eyes as John reached for the flashlight and then hesitated.
"Stay?"
Matt snorted and reached up to locate a pillow in the shadows above his head. "Can't go anywhere, I lost my crutches."
And John, honest to God, started to sit up, like Matt could actually possibly want his crutches right now.
Matt grabbed his arm, and John resisted for a second, then fell back to the bed at Matt's tug. "Still naked with you, still not making sense. Yes, I want to stay."
John's arm relaxed a little under Matt's grip, and he shut off the flashlight and lay back down. Matt fell asleep before he could decide whether he cared that the manly thing would be to let go.
***
He woke up cold, air moving over his skin accompanied by a low whoosh of white noise, a faint glow through the window.
"Power's back on," John murmured, as he pulled up a sheet over them both and spooned up against Matt's back. Matt glanced back over his shoulder and saw the steady red glow of an alarm clock and, beyond it, his crutches propped against the wall. He blinked at them sleepily--that wasn't where he left them--but then John slung an arm over his waist and Matt gave up on thinking.
"You still awake?" John said softly, jerking Matt back from a half-dream about his crutches going and getting his laptop for him so he'd never have to move again.
"Maybe," he managed, blinking slowly at the dark.
"Something I gotta say," John said, and wow, he sounded totally wide awake. Matt squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide, forcing himself to tune in for this.
"I don’t know what kinda caveman you think I am, but this is over when you say it's over, Matt, I swear to you."
Matt's heart started racing, and he tried to twist and look, but John's arm tightened, holding him still.
"I can only do this in the dark," John said. "I'll say it again, later, if you want, but I just--the worst thing about a shrink is when they tell you what you're thinking and they're right, and I don't want to do that to you, but it's been one week since everything you know about yourself and the world got turned upside down, and the one thing I know from experience is you don't even know what it's done to you yet."
Matt's brain had tripped into overdrive. John was serious about this--he would be, right, he hadn't shot himself just for fun, he'd done it to save Lucy and the world. He was so serious he was scared he was too serious, scared he was--a caveman--pushing Matt into this. It was patently ridiculous, but Matt knew better than to laugh at anything this guy was scared of.
"I'm not saying you don't know what you want," John added, his hand flattening against Matt's belly. "I'm just saying what you want at day one or three or seven after something like this might not be the same thing you want at day eight or nine or thirty or a hundred, and it's--it's all good, okay?"
"John," Matt said, pushing back against him and nestling down into the pillow. "Seriously, shut up, it's four in the morning and I'm trying to sleep."
John snorted against the back of Matt's neck, then kissed him there, but he didn't say anything more. By the time the light outside the window had brightened to the gray before dawn, John had relaxed against him, his arm a dead weight anchoring Matt in place.
Matt was pretty sure John didn't hear him whisper, "I stuck with you through terrorists and baseball, man, I am not going anywhere."
The implications were impossible to ignore, too amazing to process. Matt watched the sunset, and forced his brain into the channels of the next freelance project he had due. Weirdly, none of his contracts wanted to extend his deadlines, despite the current circumstances, although honestly his contracts could suck it if the power outages kept up. McClane was on a waiting list for a home generator, and even if he--they--he could get one, gas prices were insane. If there wasn't actual rationing soon, shortages were bound to keep getting worse.
Matt started mapping out the price points for a fuel surcharge on his existing projects and wondering who he could extort an adjusted agreement from first. He'd mapped out an entire decision tree--who to approach first, with what offer, and how to proceed from there--when the window beside him rolled up with a faint electric whir, cutting off the rush of air and sealing him into the cool confines of McClane's car. It was dark out, he realized, really really dark everywhere but the Parkway. People were driving slowly in the isolated stream of headlights. The music was turned down low, half-obscured by the shushing of the air conditioning.
Matt looked over at McClane and saw mostly shadows. He wasn't pounding on the steering wheel anymore, at least.
"Hey," Matt said, "did you just take me to a Mets game on a date?"
For a couple of seconds McClane didn't make a sound, and weirdly that was what clinched it beyond any possible doubt. If Matt had been wrong, McClane would have cracked up, or smacked him or something, right away.
What McClane said, in the end, was, "If that's what you're asking me? No, of course not."
Matt watched the darkness go by, trying to pick the city out of the black on black on black, and then tried again. "Having taken me to a Mets game on a date, are you expecting to get laid?"
The words came out pretty evenly, he thought, without revealing too much desperate hopefulness. He remembered McClane's hands on him, though--McClane had been touching him all day, waiting for Matt to catch on, and now that he had Matt wanted more, a lot more, everything. No matter how much time he had to spend thinking about flowcharts and spreadsheets to even pretend to be cool about it.
McClane laughed a little this time, though, and said, "Hey, give me some credit here. It's the first date, I'm a gentleman."
Matt frowned and looked forward, watching the red lights leading them onward. "Shouldn't there be kissing, at least?"
"After I take you home," McClane said patiently--home, like Matt belonged there, like he didn't even realize it mattered. "Some people got no standards."
That was empirically absolutely true; Matt's approach to dating, sex, any kind of hookup, had always been pretty much to take what he could get and run with it. But McClane--McClane was from a whole other generation, one with standards. Rules. Protocols.
Some of which McClane was probably violating pretty badly by going anywhere--even just to a Mets game--with Matt.
Matt tilted his head against the window, looking completely away from McClane, and said carefully, "Do you, um--have you--I really never would have guessed in a million years that you were into guys."
"Yeah," McClane said, and Matt kept staring out the window even when it started to seem like that was going to be the whole answer.
"Yeah," he repeated. "Took me a while to guess myself."
Matt shut his eyes and let his forehead rest against the glass as the realization washed over him that he might very well be the person in this situation who knew what the fuck was going on. Less scary than the helicopter, he thought--he was starting to have a really finely-developed scale for utter terror. That time neither of them had known. Also, helicopter.
McClane sighed, like Matt had dragged the words out of him. "Before this--before the fire sale--I don't know, I thought I was done with a lot of things. Done saving the world, done... but when I decide I'm going to do something, I mostly just go for it. I figure this time at least no matter how bad I fuck it up I'm not going to get either of us killed."
Matt did have to look at him then. "You're saying hooking up with me is slightly less crazy than shooting yourself?"
McClane's grin appeared briefly, in a flash of passing headlights. "You saying it's not?"
Matt shook his head, and it was thirty seconds later by the time he realized he should actually say something, because McClane probably couldn't see him. By then it was too late, and just throwing a no out there was the last thing Matt was interested in doing. He squirmed around getting comfortable, instead, letting his left hand creep sideways to brace himself as he shifted his bad leg. He left his hand there, even when he'd found the right position, and it wasn't long before he felt McClane's hand settle over his--not holding, just happening to be in the same place together.
Matt tipped his head back and closed his eyes. If he couldn't see the looming darkness where a city should be, everything would seem normal, everything except the touch of McClane's--oh, God, John's?--hand on his. When the car slowed and the turns got more frequent, his heart started to race, and by the time they came to a stop he'd broken into a sweat all over again, though it was almost chilly inside the car.
McClane took his hand away to shut off the ignition, and then there was no radio or rush of air, no engine-growl to block out the silence of the power failure and the night. There was a jingle of keys, and McClane muttered something that sounded like, "Yippee-ki-yay, Jesus, John."
Before Matt could decide what the hell to make of that, McClane's hand was on his shoulder, more a gentle shove than a shake. "You coming up?"
"What," Matt said, sitting up and stretching a little--awkwardly, without reaching toward McClane or bashing into anything. Fuck, his arms were just about done. He wasn't going to be able to move tomorrow. "To look at your etchings?"
"No etchings," McClane said, pocketing the keys with an audible jingle. "Coffee? Red Bull? All your stuff is here?"
It was a joke, it wasn't a joke, it was some kind of Schrodinger's banter. If he followed McClane upstairs right now, grabbed a Red Bull and said he just had to put down this thing he'd thought of on his computer, Matt would swear on the hope of New York's crippled electrical grid that McClane would never mention this again.
"Plus that kiss-goodbye-at-the-door thing is really not my style," Matt tossed out, and then opened his door and--even almost deliberately--made a big noisy production of getting himself and his crutches out and upright on the sidewalk. It was really fucking dark out, but not completely--there were stars, when he looked up, stars in Brooklyn, and here and there light spilled out from windows where people had put lanterns or candles. Matt spared a second to hope FDNY's walkie-talkies were top-of-the-line, and then there was a bright white pool of light at his feet.
He looked up to see McClane standing six feet away--apart from that moment in the parking lot, he really was usually awesome about letting Matt figure out his own mobility--aiming a keychain LED. Matt grinned, unsure whether McClane could see it in the spill of light--for himself, McClane was mostly just a dark outline. He looked down and picked his way along the sidewalk, going carefully over the cracked and tilted places, avoiding the trash and the edge of the open square where a tree was growing.
When Matt had nearly reached him, McClane turned and started walking, still aiming the LED. He didn't say a word, and neither did Matt. Out here, even in the dark and the silence, seemed much more exposed, more dangerous, than the small space of the car. Matt wasn't sure he could have said any of that outside. And once they got back to McClane's apartment...
One thing at a time. First, the stairs up to the building door, which McClane held for him. Matt got through the door on the first try, without brushing up against him. It would have been more likely than not to result in some sort of disaster, with the crutches involved.
Matt stopped just inside. It was darker indoors--no light from under any apartment doors, and the starlight was lost. The silence was heavier, the air more still. McClane pulled the door shut behind them and touched his hand to Matt's back as he moved around him to take the lead again, shining the light on the floor even though it was level here, free of obstacles. McClane moved soundlessly, and Matt thumped along in his wake--he winced at the thought of the neighbors, and then remembered that it wasn't actually the middle of the night, that the sun had only just gone down.
He followed McClane past the elevator, to the stairs, and McClane held the door for him again. Matt hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, but McClane didn't pass him this time, just shone the light ahead of him. Matt took a breath, steeling himself, and out of the darkness and absolute silence, McClane said quietly, "Last set, go on."
Matt was so glad not to hear, hey, princess, you need a lift? that he almost laughed, and got himself moving. He managed to get the door mostly open himself, at the top, but McClane reached past and held it so he didn't have to hop through sideways. He stayed behind Matt all the way to the apartment door, and then Matt leaned against the wall beside the door and McClane let go of the LED to find his key.
Without that little white light the darkness was absolute, and there was nothing, nothing in the world, but his own ragged breathing and the muted click of keys in McClane's hands. It was stupid, weak, helpless, but Matt reached for him, got a fistful of McClane's shirt in his hand.
He felt McClane go completely still--the keys clashed and then went silent--and his own breath stopped in his throat. McClane's hand was on his shoulder the next second, quick and rough enough to unbalance him if he hadn't already been leaning. McClane's hand didn't stop, finding his throat, his jaw, and then there was the press of McClane's body against his, McClane's mouth on his.
Matt's lips parted on impact, and his hand clenched in McClane's shirt tugged, like he could possibly pull McClane any closer. The claustrophobic darkness was suddenly hot and close around him, and McClane was kissing him roughly, desperately, like a last chance, a last breath, one hand still on Matt's face and the other arm around him. Matt just tried to keep up, giving himself up to the kiss, his fist against McClane's side through his shirt, his knuckles throbbing from holding on so hard.
"Thought this wasn't your style," McClane said, his lips dragging along Matt's jaw, his hand sliding down to cup the back of Matt's neck.
Matt tried desperately to remember when he said he wasn't into being kissed like kissing was the only thing in the world.
Oh. "Dude, does this seem like a kiss goodbye?"
McClane laughed a little and muttered, "Dude?" as he squeezed Matt closer. Matt's head was swimming. The heat was sauna-like, and his clothes felt like that lead vest at the hospital. McClane's next kiss was gentler.
"I guess not," McClane muttered, and dropped his arm from around Matt with a clash of keys. "I should really--"
"Sure," Matt said, and kissed him again, kissed John McClane, because he could, because McClane's mouth opened for him and McClane's hand on the back of his neck tightened just a little when he had Matt's tongue in his mouth. Still, Matt forced himself to break away. "Yeah, maybe--inside."
"Yeah," McClane said, and took both hands away to sort through his keys again.
Matt held on to his shirt the whole time, until he heard the locks slide back and McClane pushed the door open and shined the light inside. He stepped inside far enough to hold the door, and Matt pushed himself off the wall, shook his head, and made his way inside, into pitch darkness.
He closed his eyes--this he could actually do, because he and McClane between them were pretty good about keeping the floor clear, and he'd had nothing better to do for the last five days than learn how to navigate this one space. It usually freaked him out, trying to do it blind, but he really had other things on his mind right now.
There were barstools at the kitchen island, that was the closest. Matt was moving even as McClane was doing up the locks behind him, remembering to evade the coat rack and the recycling bin, only misjudging the doorway a little. He got his hands on the countertop and let his crutches drop--they bounced, crashing and echoing--and he did not care because he was perched on a barstool and his hands were on his lap and he didn't have to use his arms to get anywhere.
McClane appeared with a soft jangle of keys, bathed in white light as he held the LED over his head. He raised his eyebrows at Matt, but said nothing, just walked over and picked up his crutches off the floor. He propped them against the (long since unplugged) fridge--three, maybe four hops, Matt could remember that--and then the light went out again, and a second later McClane was there, standing between Matt's knees, hands on Matt's shoulders.
Matt could feel him leaning in, even where they weren't touching--he could feel the extra heat of another body, feel McClane's breath stirring the air between them. He'd kind of quit breathing, himself.
"McClane," he said, and it came out hoarse and shaky. McClane still didn't move, and it was dark, and they'd just kissed in the hallway. "John, hey."
McClane's hands squeezed on his shoulders, and the warm pressure sent a crazily intense bolt of pleasure-pain through his body. Matt's back arched and he let out a gasp and shoved his mouth against McClane's. They kissed clumsily, already breathing hard, coming together and apart in rough presses and slides of mouth against mouth. McClane's hands opened, and he rubbed his flat palms over Matt's shoulders, dragging all kinds of desperate and incoherent noises out of Matt's mouth.
McClane pressed his knuckles to Matt's biceps, and he nearly fell off the chair, finally raising his hands to grab at McClane and hold on. He might die from this. He was painfully, fantastically hard from kissing McClane and having his shoulders rubbed. Actual sex might seriously kill him.
So a typical day with John McClane, then.
"Okay, okay," Matt gasped, pulling away to catch his breath, "seriously, I don't care what kind of gentleman anybody here is, you had better be putting out now."
McClane laughed a little, but he sounded breathless himself this time. "That a fact?"
His hands were wrapped around Matt's upper arms, not really moving, just a little heat and pressure, and McClane's mouth was still brushing against his on every other breath. Matt couldn't quite think, but he could talk.
"It is a fact," Matt said. "Also a fact, the day we met we spent like thirty-six straight hours together including three different multi-state trips, one of which was actually in a helicopter, and neither of us even tried to kill the other and you bought me food. That is at least ten or twelve dates right there, even without a multiplier for saving the world and committing justifiable homicides together.
"Plus, then you asked me to move in with you, and then we didn't have any sex, and you know who moves in together after like three days, and then doesn't have sex? Lesbians. And not the ones in porn, the ones who wear flannel and don't shave their legs."
McClane laughed right out loud this time. "Did you just call me a dyke, Matthew Farrell?"
"Both of us," Matt corrected. "John, John, man, I'm really sorry, but the only way to defend our masculinity at this point is to get our goddamn pants off. Right now."
"Oh, right now, he says," John murmured, his hands sliding down to Matt's hips, his lips brushing Matt's jaw and then his throat. "Right now, huh? Not that I haven't thought about stripping you naked on the kitchen counter or anything..."
John's hands were moving in, fingers sliding under his shirts to rub at the skin of his sides, which was pretty much the end of Matt's ability to consider whether that was a good idea. It was a right now idea. Matt nodded frantically.
"...But that kind of thing's actually pretty aggravating afterwards, and I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."
John's hands stopped moving as he stopped speaking, and Matt forced himself to think a little bit. The couch? John's bed? There was theoretically a guest room where Matt was theoretically staying, but in practice it was full of junk and boxes and, the one time Matt had peeked in there, a framed picture of Lucy and her brother. So, no, definitely not there.
"Um," Matt managed to say, because John had fallen silent, and was maybe waiting for some kind of input.
"Yeah, um," John whispered. "How about you come to bed with me, Matt."
It wasn't a question, or it was, or Matt was too far gone to think about it. "Yeah, fuck, yes please--"
And that was as far as he got before John moved, and Matt had a shoulder in his stomach and then he was upside down.
He managed a pretty coherent, if breathless, "What the fuck?" but John was already walking--carrying him, with one arm across the back of Matt's thighs. "Oh, God, please tell me this is your good shoulder."
"Hold still," John replied, sounding a little strained, but only a little. "Anybody ever tell you there's no nutritional value in Red Bull? Do you eat?"
And then the world flipped around again and he was set down--really, pretty gently, he only bounced a little bit--on John's bed.
"It was faster," John added, from somewhere above him, and then there was a thump of clothing hitting the floor, because apparently John agreed with him about the urgency of getting pants off. Matt wrestled his shirts off--fucking button-down, fucking sleeves, fucking rubbery arms--and by the time he'd won out, there was a dim yellow light in the room.
John had set a flashlight down on the night stand, aiming at the wall. He was setting down his gun and holster beside it, then his badge, and then--with a habitual click to check that it was on--the walkie-talkie. In just a t-shirt, the solid strength of John's body was obvious, and Matt just sat and stared for a few seconds before he realized John had stopped, standing there, with his hands at the hem of his t-shirt. Matt looked up to his face, but John was looking down at his hands.
He was steeling himself, Matt realized, for the twist of his shoulder as he pulled his shirt off. Because he might insist on going around acting like he had a full range of motion, but that didn't mean it didn't still hurt like fuck. Something shook in his stomach--an irrational sense that John was already naked--and Matt twisted around on the bed, dragging his bad leg after him.
"Hey, come here, let me do that."
John looked up, startled, and for a second Matt thought he would just laugh, or rip his own shirt off like he'd never hesitated, or tell Matt to leave. Instead a little tension ebbed from his face, and he came and sat down facing Matt.
"Fair warning, if you tickle me I'll probably punch you in the face."
"Oh, well, that's reassuring, thanks." Matt reached for the hem of McClane's t-shirt and pulled it up to his armpits, not even letting his fingers drag against the skin he revealed. "Okay, just--"
John nodded, and raised his left arm, letting Matt pull his t-shirt off on that side, and then over his head--no hair meant no stupid hair sticking straight up like Matt's probably was now, definitely a plus--and then gently down over his right shoulder. There was still a bandage there, sealed over with plastic tape, which Matt suspected made showering easier. He also suspected it wasn't the way the hospital did it, but clearly John had figured out how to handle his own gunshot wounds by now.
Matt looked away as he tossed John's shirt after his own, and when he turned back John was reaching for him, reeling him into another kiss. Matt went without a struggle. It was crazy how John's mouth was already starting to be familiar, and meanwhile his hands were flat on John's bare skin, all new territory to be learned by touch. He was hot and here and Matt was allowed now. He seemed to be all muscle except where he was made of scars, and Matt had no idea whether it was actually okay to be touching those.
He raised his head--to ask, or look--but John hauled him closer still, so that Matt was half in John's lap, his side pressed flush to John's chest, skin to skin. He could feel John's hard-on through his jeans, and suddenly Matt had a whole new set of priorities for what he wanted to be touching and looking at. John was apparently a step ahead of him, his hands going down to Matt's jeans again, fumbling the button open and tugging down the fly.
Matt caught John's hand before it could go any further. "I should do this myself or, seriously, all over."
John went still, and then he dropped his hands to Matt's thighs--so it was just John's dick pressing up against his ass, just the weight of John's hands driving him crazy on top of the heat and smell and touch of skin. John's mouth brushed down his throat and along his shoulder, and John muttered, "Your call, kid."
Matt squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on his lip and then, finally, managed to make himself scoot off and away from John. He shoved down his jeans and boxers together and leaned forward to ease them over the bandages and brace keeping his knee at its optimally obnoxious angle. Then he had to stop and get his shoes off--fucking laces--and his socks, and then he shoved his pants off himself, off the bed, and fell backwards in triumph, his arms raised over his head as he hit the rumpled sheets.
He realized a half-second later that John was standing next to the bed, watching him. He felt an instant's stab of self-consciousness, followed by the almost literally stunning realization that John was watching him, standing there with his hand on his dick and his eyes intent on Matt. John wasn't exactly jerking off, but he was hard, he was into this, really seriously into it, just from looking at Matt, just some skinny geek who hardly ever went outside in daylight.
He opened his mouth to say something--probably something stupid--but John shook his head and said, "Don't move."
Matt bit his lip, suddenly conscious that his arms were above his head, that he was as exposed as he could be. His dick was achingly hard under John's gaze, his toes curling a little already. He looked back at John, instead of down at himself; in the splash of light he could see a pale white scar on John's thigh, the dark blot of a tattoo on one arm, traces of tan lines.
And he could see John's dick, slipping in and out of shadow as John slowly moved his hand over it. It was built pretty much like the rest of John, thick, and what light there was shined on wetness at the head. Matt's brain tripped straight to the thought of getting fucked, by him, by that. Matt shuddered, and felt his own dick jump without so much as a touch. His legs spread almost (almost, but not really) involuntarily as his eyes squeezed shut, because clearly even looking was too much for him.
"Hey," John said, and this could go one of two ways. Matt was actually pretty sure he was okay with getting his ass smacked for not following directions or winding up handcuffed to John's bed or something. Unfortunately it was just possible that kind of deal would be too much for John, what with this apparently being his first day of being kinda gay--except who the fuck knew what was too much for John.
"Matt, hey," John said again, closer, and the voice was accompanied by a hand on his side, the soft place just above his hip. He opened his eyes, and John was leaning over him, looking amused. "Don't fucking tell me you're freaking out, here."
"I am freaking out," Matt said without moving his hands, though he couldn't stop himself from arching just a little into John's touch. His voice was kind of wavery, but John had heard worse from him. "And I will tell you why, because I am scared I'm going to be as old as you are before we actually have sex."
John's gaze shifted, raking up and down Matt's body, and he said almost absently, "Yeah, I know I'm not the math guy here, but I'm pretty sure that doesn't even make sense."
Matt clenched his fists and then released them. He should move, he should do something, push this to somewhere other than John's hand resting on the mostly-neutral territory of his side. He should touch the man. But John had told him to hold still, and all he could bring himself to do now was say, "Fuck, man, you really cannot expect me to be naked with you and make sense at the same--"
"Stop talking," John said, as he gathered Matt's wrists into a one-handed grip and shifted to kneel over him, sliding the hand on Matt's side up over his chest instead of down, where Matt wanted it. Matt's hips rocked up helplessly, to rub against absolutely nothing, because John was a horrible, vicious tease--
"No, seriously, stop talking," John muttered, but he said it against Matt's mouth as he settled lower over Matt, his dick hard against Matt's hip and just enough of his weight resting on Matt to make this real. Matt pushed up desperately, his dick against the firmness of John's stomach, his wrists against John's grip, his mouth mashing against John's in a kiss. John pushed right back, thrusting against him, holding him down, his tongue slicking over Matt's in the best, filthiest way.
John lifted his head a second before Matt would have had to pull away to breathe. He pushed up just a little--just enough that Matt had to dig in his heel and arch up to keep thrusting against him. Matt's ragged breath had the edge of a whine in it, but the next second John's mouth touched him again, brushing lightly over the underside of his arm, stretched and exposed by John's grip on his wrists.
Matt actually went still for a second, whimpering, and then John's mouth found the nearly-raw patch of skin where the crutches rubbed, and Matt moaned out, "Fuck, fuck, what kind of fucking erogenous--"
It was, though, clearly. John licked, and Matt was thrusting wildly, helplessly against him, the same spot on his other arm burning in sympathy, his whole body drawn tight as John traced the extent of that one patch of abused skin.
John's teeth scraped over sensitive skin and Matt let out a startled, choked cry--how could it hurt that much and feel that good all at the same time? He shoved his cock wildly against John's sweat-slick skin. John shoved back against him and bit down, and Matt came like pulling a fucking trigger.
John kissed him again, when he'd fallen still, and thrust down gingerly against him, like Matt might not be into this anymore. Except now Matt had nothing distracting him from the fact that John McClane was into him, hard for him, rutting against him in the semi-dark.
Matt slung one (limp, useless, incredibly happy) arm around John's neck and reached down between them with the other. He got his hand on John's cock for the first time, making John thrust harder.
"Come on," Matt whispered, "come on, you crazy, amazing motherfucker, come all fucking over me, like you've been wanting to--"
John grunted at that, thrusting harder against Matt's belly, under his half-curled hand. Matt swiped his thumb over the head of John's cock, and his own twitched in sympathy. "Except this is like a tenth of what you want, isn't it? This is like--second base? Third? I'm gonna be naked on the kitchen counter as soon as my leg heals, you know that? Naked over the back of the couch, up against the wall--you're going to fuck me, right, like a lot, because--"
"Shut up," John growled, but he was coming against Matt's belly as he said it, hot hard pulses under Matt's fingers, so Matt knew perfectly well that he liked it.
He lowered himself onto Matt and rested there for a few half-suffocating seconds, and Matt wiggled the toes of his bad leg and thought he could probably fall asleep like this. Only he was starting to be aware of how hot it was in here--the motion of his and John's breathing made him feel the sweat trapped between them, and if they actually did fall asleep like this they might well be stuck together at the dick by the time they woke up.
John sighed and rolled away, to the side of the bed with the flashlight and all his gear. He wasn't far--inches, maybe. Matt could still feel him breathing. He watched through half-closed eyes as John reached for the flashlight and then hesitated.
"Stay?"
Matt snorted and reached up to locate a pillow in the shadows above his head. "Can't go anywhere, I lost my crutches."
And John, honest to God, started to sit up, like Matt could actually possibly want his crutches right now.
Matt grabbed his arm, and John resisted for a second, then fell back to the bed at Matt's tug. "Still naked with you, still not making sense. Yes, I want to stay."
John's arm relaxed a little under Matt's grip, and he shut off the flashlight and lay back down. Matt fell asleep before he could decide whether he cared that the manly thing would be to let go.
***
He woke up cold, air moving over his skin accompanied by a low whoosh of white noise, a faint glow through the window.
"Power's back on," John murmured, as he pulled up a sheet over them both and spooned up against Matt's back. Matt glanced back over his shoulder and saw the steady red glow of an alarm clock and, beyond it, his crutches propped against the wall. He blinked at them sleepily--that wasn't where he left them--but then John slung an arm over his waist and Matt gave up on thinking.
"You still awake?" John said softly, jerking Matt back from a half-dream about his crutches going and getting his laptop for him so he'd never have to move again.
"Maybe," he managed, blinking slowly at the dark.
"Something I gotta say," John said, and wow, he sounded totally wide awake. Matt squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them wide, forcing himself to tune in for this.
"I don’t know what kinda caveman you think I am, but this is over when you say it's over, Matt, I swear to you."
Matt's heart started racing, and he tried to twist and look, but John's arm tightened, holding him still.
"I can only do this in the dark," John said. "I'll say it again, later, if you want, but I just--the worst thing about a shrink is when they tell you what you're thinking and they're right, and I don't want to do that to you, but it's been one week since everything you know about yourself and the world got turned upside down, and the one thing I know from experience is you don't even know what it's done to you yet."
Matt's brain had tripped into overdrive. John was serious about this--he would be, right, he hadn't shot himself just for fun, he'd done it to save Lucy and the world. He was so serious he was scared he was too serious, scared he was--a caveman--pushing Matt into this. It was patently ridiculous, but Matt knew better than to laugh at anything this guy was scared of.
"I'm not saying you don't know what you want," John added, his hand flattening against Matt's belly. "I'm just saying what you want at day one or three or seven after something like this might not be the same thing you want at day eight or nine or thirty or a hundred, and it's--it's all good, okay?"
"John," Matt said, pushing back against him and nestling down into the pillow. "Seriously, shut up, it's four in the morning and I'm trying to sleep."
John snorted against the back of Matt's neck, then kissed him there, but he didn't say anything more. By the time the light outside the window had brightened to the gray before dawn, John had relaxed against him, his arm a dead weight anchoring Matt in place.
Matt was pretty sure John didn't hear him whisper, "I stuck with you through terrorists and baseball, man, I am not going anywhere."