lunabee34 | New Paths to Helicon, Pt. 2, or How Matt Farrell Finally Got into John McClane’s Levis

Title: New Paths to Helicon, Pt. 2, or How Matt Farrell Finally Got into John McClane’s Levis
Fandom: Die Hard
Pairing: Matt Farrell/John McClane
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 2,038
Notes: The title is taken from the song of the same name (which I think contains the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard) on Mogwai’s album Ten Rapid, although I vastly prefer the version entitled “New Paths TP Helicon, Pt. 2” on the BBC Sessions album

This is mostly just me being extremely silly so um *flails*

Matt’s done his share of cyberstalking; in fact, most of the current legislation on the crime stems from Warlock’s obsession with Angelina Jolie’s inbox, not that Matt will ever cop to any involvement in that particular train wreck. So, yeah. Matt is an occasional electronic busybody. But honest to goodness skulking around in back alleys, hiding in the hedges, peeping in bathroom windows kind of stalking? Not so much. At least not before now.

To be completely fair, this is all McClane’s fault.

Matt doesn’t know what he expected McClane to do the second he was awake enough to sign release papers, but disappear wasn’t even on the list. Introducing McClane to music less than a decade old, maybe killing some cars on the Playstation, a lesson in the use of firearms vaguely reminiscent of the pivotal scene in Swiss Family Robinson—those were all on the list. Wheeling himself down to McClane’s empty room just in time to watch the orderlies strip the bed and stuff the IV tubing in a biohazard bin was not.

Matt stopped leaving messages on McClane’s machine two days ago, not because as Warlock put it, he finally realized the futile and pathetic nature of his man crush, but because the machine was full. Besides, this isn’t a man crush; Matt’s had those before and McClane is no Chad Michael Murray. What Matt feels for McClane is something different, emotion forged through adrenaline and mortal terror and shared responsibility. Something way more noble than a man crush. Why else would Matt be hunkered down in the bushes outside McClane’s apartment watching him eat pizza through a gap in the blinds?

Matt backs out of the boxwood and heads across the street to Sal’s to plan his next move. He’s picking twigs out of his hair and massaging the kinks from his knee when Lucy calls.

“What is your damage, Farrell?” she says as soon as Matt picks up. “Forty seven messages in two weeks? Seriously?” She pauses for Matt to say something but he’s always had trouble talking while hyperventilating. “You owe me the ass-kissing of the century for this one. Dad asked me to bring in his mail while he was gone so I was there for at least thirteen of your psycho check-ins. But don’t worry. I deleted them all last night before he got home. Your little man crush is safe with me.”

Matt clenches his jaw; why does everyone insist on calling his Very Important Feelings a man crush? “It’s not like that— ”

Lucy steamrolls right over him. “Yeah, whatever. Listen, you had the right idea with the direct frontal assault. Dad doesn’t respond well, or at all really, to subtlety. Just try not to be so creepy about it next time.”

And before Matt can even begin to contemplate the fuckupedness of Lucy offering him tips on scoring with her father, she hangs up without even saying goodbye. Clearly a chip off the old block. Matt wonders where McClane went and why he didn’t tell Matt he was leaving and if he knocked on his door right now whether McClane would be happy to see him. Matt’s still contemplating that last question and seriously considering calling Lucy back to ask her opinion, when he sees McClane waiting at the light to cross the street.

Matt panics. He’s not ready to talk to McClane yet. He’s afraid the first words out of his mouth will include “direct frontal assault” and a hysterical giggle so he grabs his cane and wedges himself behind a deli case full of cured meat and blocks of cheese just as McClane pushes open the door. Sal raises his eyebrows at Matt but keeps his mouth shut while bagging up McClane’s beer and making small talk about the construction two blocks over. Sal waits until the bell on the door has stopped jingling before he says, “Son, let me give you a little free advice. Ain’t no pepperoni big enough to hide you from John McClane forever. Whatever you did, you better come clean now, before he busts your other leg.” Then he tells Matt to get the hell out of his grocery. So Matt does.

Matt microwaves some taquitos and pops open a Red Bull and then he flicks on the webcam and pings Warlock. Warlock thinks Matt should just show up on McClane’s doorstep with a six pack and some Sylvester Stallone movies and everything else will fall into place. Oh, Warlock types. And wear your Arcade Fire T-shirt. It brings out the color of your eyes.

“Wait. What?” Matt thinks. Really? he types.

Warlock grins and types, No, douchebag. It’s the only shirt you own that doesn’t make you look like a twelve year old girl, before he kills the connection. Matt tosses his empty Red Bull at the equally empty wall behind his computer and screams a tiny bit into his balled up fist; he’s getting really fucking tired of people cutting out on him.

That night Matt dreams that Gabriel has tied him to a chair and is slowly running a knife through his hair. “Nobody’s coming for you,” Gabriel says, his breath hot and wet in Matt’s ear. “I can do whatever I want to you.” He carefully cuts Matt out of his clothes and Matt feels the whisper hint of a blade on his chest, on the tops of his thighs. Matt is cold, afraid, very possibly crying, and weirdly turned on. Gabriel gets off on that. Matt can tell by the enormous bulge in Gabriel’s slacks and the vein throbbing in his forehead. He yanks Matt’s head back by the hair and kisses him—hard and bruising—and Matt doesn’t like this at all, but he can’t move and he can’t get away and this is worse than getting shot in the knee in addition to being disturbingly erotic. Suddenly, Gabriel lurches to the right and makes a few incoherent gurgling noises before sprawling flat on his back. McClane wipes Gabriel’s knife on his jeans and then cuts Matt free. McClane’s eyes are wild, feral and he has this bruise on his cheekbone that is the sexiest injury Matt has ever seen. He doesn’t say anything, just picks Matt up like he’s a freaking bride and carries him away from that place, and Matt is safe and warm in his incredibly strong arms. Matt wakes up with his sheets dried to his belly and figures Warlock at least got the twelve year old part right.

Matt spends the next day working on a project for a bank in Iowa; he’s just writing the final lines of code when somebody knocks on his door. “Come on, kid. Open up already,” McClane says from the other side.

Matt has no idea what McClane is doing on his doorstep after two weeks of ignoring him. He has a sneaking suspicion it’s nothing he’s going to like. Matt takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and then he opens the door.

McClane looks good. Most of his bruises have faded and his knuckles don’t look quite so battered anymore. He’s wearing a thin black shirt that stretches across his chest and Matt absolutely forbids himself to gauge just how tight McClane’s jeans are. McClane shoulders past him to lean against Matt’s kitchen wall with his hands in his pockets.

“Knee doing okay?” McClane says.

“Yeah. It’s fine. Mostly.” Matt can’t believe he’s got John McClane in his apartment and they’re talking about Matt’s goddamn knee. This is bullshit. “What’s up with you?” Matt says. “You skip town and you don’t talk to me for weeks and then you show up here unannounced.” Matt doesn’t care if he sounds like Eric Brady; he deserves some answers.

McClane scrubs a hand over his exceedingly handsome bald head and sighs. “Sorry, kid. I just had to get out of town for awhile.” McClane stares at the floor for awhile like the words are hard to say and Matt resists the urge to cross his arms and tap his foot. “I learned a long time ago it’s hard for me to come down from that much adrenaline. Turn into a real asshole. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Oh. Oh. “Oh,” Matt says and tries not to grin like a loon. “You hungry? There’s good Chinese down the block.”

“Sure, kid,” McClane says and when he smiles at Matt, his eyes soften and he looks ten years younger and Matt has a hard time remembering he once saw this man shoot a bad guy through the barrier of his own body.

After that, they fall into a routine of burgers and beer and sporting events that Matt complains about but secretly enjoys if only for all the man flesh on display. Matt gives McClane a Mogwai CD that McClane actually admits liking and every so often McClane grills steaks while Matt shreds lettuce for a salad and Lucy joins them for dinner.

One night Lucy pulls Matt aside and hisses in his ear. “What are you doing? I told you subtlety will get you nowhere fast, Farrell. He’ll never make the first move.”

“Are you insane? What kind of daughter tries to hook her dad up with the guy half his age he assumes she wants to date? What makes you think McClane would even be interested? Cause from where I’m sitting, so not interested.” Matt pauses to breathe when a thought suddenly occurs to him. “Unless he said something to you. Did he say something about me?”

Lucy punches him in the arm. “Get real, disphit. Does Dad look like the sharing and caring type?”

“Then what the hell, Lucy Gennero McClane? And also, ow. What makes you think me putting the moves on your dad would end in anything other than a trip to the ER?”

“Because,” Lucy says. “When he talks about you, he gets this look on his face and it’s completely nauseating and I can just tell.”

After Lucy leaves, Matt washes the dishes while McClane dries. Matt is up to his elbows in suds when he decides that it’s now or never. With the bottom of his stomach falling out, Matt wipes his hands on the dishtowel McClane has thrown over his shoulder, and then very quickly, with his eyes screwed tightly shut, Matt leans forward and puts his lips on McClane’s. For a long moment, McClane doesn’t move and then he makes a tiny helpless noise in the back of his throat and his arms snake around Matt’s waist and he licks into Matt’s mouth until the only thing keeping Matt upright is McClane pushing him back into the sink.

McClane pulls away and Matt opens his eyes cautiously. McClane’s lips are kiss-swollen and spit-shiny and his eyes are dark with desire. Matt can’t stop himself from babbling. “Are you sure . . . I mean, do you really want . . . what—”

McClane cups Matt’s jaw in his enormous hand and strokes a thumb along Matt’s cheekbone. “Yes, I’m sure. Yes, I want you. I don’t really know where you were going with that last one, but give me some time and I think I can figure it out.” Then McClane drags down the zipper on Matt’s jeans and gets his hand around Matt’s dick and before Matt’s brain shorts out entirely, he has the presence of mind to return the favor. Matt can’t stop looking at the head of McClane’s cock pushing through his fist, at McClane’s lower lip caught between his teeth as he thrusts. McClane comes first, his head thrown back, one hand white knuckled on the counter and the other still moving sure and fast between Matt’s legs. He pants out, “Matt, Matt. Fuck, Matt,” when he comes and then Matt loses it too, his vision whiting out and everything spiraling down to the sweet slide of McClane’s palm on his cock.

Later, after McClane blows Matt in the shower and loans him a T-shirt to wear while his is in the machine, they finish washing the dishes—pressed thigh to thigh, their fingers tangling in the soapy water, and Ten Rapid dialed down low on McClane’s stereo.

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From:

atlantisgrrrl.livejournal.com

'To be completely fair, this is all McClane’s fault.'

Yes, yes, I believe it is :)

'...his exceedingly handsome bald head'

NNNNNNNGGGHHHhhhh! And don't we all fucking know it! GUH! 'n also GUH! Loved the t-shirt ('brings out the color of your eyes,' heh) and LOVED AND ADORED Lucy. This is one adorable piece of hyper goodness! Lovely :D