Interlude No. 1, or In-Laws in D Flat Major
by lamardeuse
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John McClane/Matt Farrell
Summary: John and Matt celebrate Thanksgiving. Sort of.
A/N: A sequel to Life, Mid-Crisis and From a Rut To A Groove. Written for Round 3 of Smallfandomfest on LJ.
Thanks to trixxanna for an idea for some of the dialogue in the final scene.
Warnings (highlight to view): explicit sex
“A little more to the left.”
The mattress wobbles slightly, and John has to brace himself against the banister to keep from toppling over. “Uh, is that your left or my left?” Matt asks.
“Your left,” John grunts, whacking his head against the wall softly, repeatedly. If he has to hold this thing much longer, he's going to lose the feeling in his fingers.
“Okay, right. I mean left,” Matt says, and suddenly the mattress jerks to John's right without warning, and it starts to slip from his hands. He makes the classic mistake of trying to hold onto it, which just makes it worse; his whole body twists sideways, and the odd sensation in his lower back, like the dull snap of a rubber band, can't be good. Swearing, he lets go, and the mattress falls, narrowly missing taking off his kneecap, and thank Christ for small miracles, anyway.
“What happened?” Matt's head pokes from around the edge of the mattress, eyes wide and concerned.
“What happened,” John says, closing his eyes against the low, throbbing ache that tells him he's been an asshole and now he must pay, “is that I think we should call those movers. Now.”
The movers are friends of Matt's from the first floor, two huge Nordic-type guys who look so much alike they could be twins. They're pretty and young enough to make John even more pissed off when they lift his huge mattress like it was stuffed with caterpillar farts and deposit it, safe and sound, on the frame already assembled in Matt's bedroom. When they've hauled up the rest of John's furniture, what little there was of it, Matt slaps them on the back and gives them the case of beer they were promised while John grabs a wrench and hunches down, covering up his sulking with the pretense of tightening shit that doesn't need tightening.
When Matt comes back in, John can feel that amused brown gaze on the back of his neck, and it pisses him off even more. “Why don't you get up off the floor before you're stuck down there forever?”
“You're a laugh riot,” John snaps, rising up on creaky knees tentatively and turning to face Matt with a scowl on his face.
“Okay, you do know the McClane Glare of Death only makes me horny, right? Because I get the feeling that's not its intended purpose here, and I just want to make you aware that it's not having the effect you're aiming for.”
John advances slowly on Matt – he hopes his walk has more of a panther's prowl about it than an old fuck's shamble – and ends up crowding Matt backwards until the backs of his legs hit the mattress. Matt twists around and stares at it like he's never seen one before.
“Oh, look,” Matt says, smiling crookedly as he turns back to John, “a bed.”
“Mmm-hmm,” John agrees, already getting with the program by nuzzling Matt's neck. Matt groans deep in his throat and arches his neck back, and John's teeth graze his Adam's apple.
“Front door's not closed,” Matt says, flopping down onto the mattress and spreading his legs as John steps between them. Matt's hand lands unerringly on his zipper, and when John looks down, he finds Matt grinning up at him, wicked and so damned hot that John forgets to breathe for a second. “You still got a couple of boxes out in the hall.”
“Yeah, we should go get those right now,” John says, covering Matt's hand with his own and moving it slowly over the growing bulge in his jeans.
“When you bring 'em in, it's official,” Matt says softly, and John frowns, because it's a weird thing for someone to say when their hand is on your dick, but he's a bright boy, and it doesn't take him long to get it.
Those boxes are the last of the stuff he didn't sell or give away from his Brooklyn apartment, mainly old family photos and papers, a few mementoes from Lucy's and Jack's childhood he couldn't part with, and when he brings them into Matt's apartment, they'll be living together. John hasn't lived with anyone since his marriage broke up, and Matt's never lived with anyone but his parents and a college roommate he calls “The Human Stain,” which John figures means there wasn't a lot of love there. John realizes then that they probably should have known better, because their combined batting averages are practically in the negative numbers.
“Please tell me what's going on in your head,” Matt says. His hand slides out from under John's hand so he can place it on John's chest.
John shakes his head. “You first.”
Matt looks at him solemnly for a moment, then bursts into a smile. “I'm actually pretty good with the whole thing. I seem to remember telling you that when you asked to move in here.”
John frowns. “Wait a minute. Way I remember it, you asked me.”
Matt shrugs. “Whatever.”
John's palms break out in a cold sweat. “No, no 'whatever'. How do you remember it?” He's desperately trying to remember the details that night, about a month ago, when they were lying in John's bed in Brooklyn, this bed. He can recall Matt making a comment about the bed, how great it was, and how much bigger it was than his, and John said he could always buy a bigger one, and Matt said that he had a better idea –
“I thought you asked me,” Matt says casually. “It's no big deal.”
“But you brought it up first,” John insists, and Matt raises his eyebrows at him. His hands bracket John's waist, fingers catching in his belt loops.
“Okay, we're now getting into weird territory here, so let's start again. John, would you like to move in with me?”
John blinks at him. It can't be that easy, he's about to say, and then he tells himself to shut the fuck up already. “Yeah, I'd like to,” he manages.
Matt smiles with that little bit of extra twinkle in his eye that always gets John going. “Good, because I'd like you to. There, that was easy; let's go back to making out.” He tugs on John's belt loops, and John gets the hint, leaning down to kiss him.
“And even better,” Matt says when they break apart, “now I don't have to buy that new bed.”
“Oh, you – ” John says, and then he's shoving Matt down onto the mattress and climbing on top of him, and Matt's giggling like a crack monkey and wriggling backwards on the bed so John can get his creaky knees securely planted on either side of Matt's hips, and the bed is soft beneath them and it's not his anymore, it's theirs, and John's laughing too because it's pretty fucking fantastic, the feeling that he might finally have gotten this right.
He's got Matt's shirt open and is pushing it off his shoulders when he hears the faint click-clack sound of high heels, and then a rapping sound. “Matty? Matt, are you here?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Matt whispers, eyes wide with horror, “that's not – it can't be – ”
John scrambles off him and gets to his feet, and Matt's a half second behind him, buttoning up his shirt as he runs from the room. John stands there for a couple of seconds, debating with himself about whether or not he should go too, when he hears Matt's loud, startled cry from the other room: “Mom! Wow, mom! Uh, hi there! Mom!”
Slowly, John creeps toward the door; Matt's bedroom opens on the common loft space that includes his kitchen, dining room and living room, but there's no clear line of sight between the bedroom door and the front door, which he supposes is something.
“You didn't tell me you were coming, mom,” Matt continues, and okay, John thinks, even he can get the hint, thanks: stay hidden. Through the couple inches of space between the door and the frame, John can see just the side of Matt's head, nothing more. He can't see Matt's mother, and he's kind of curious to know what she looks like, since Matt doesn't have any family photos lying around his apartment for John to see. He supposes they were all burnt when Matt's apartment was torched, but then again, there might not have been any family photos to begin with. John knows Matt's relationship with his parents isn't exactly the best.
“It was – an unplanned trip,” Matt's mother says, almost too softly for John to hear, but he can manage to pick out the too-bright tone in her words that indicate she's probably lying, or at least not telling the whole truth.
“Oh, well, that's, uh, good. Where's Dad?”
There's a long pause. “I came alone,” Matt's mother says finally, and John frowns; that's the second interesting answer she's given.
“Okay, well, where are you staying? Dad usually stays at the Hilton, but I don't know if that'll be – ”
“I have a hotel,” she says, louder this time. “Don't worry, Matthew. I don't expect you to put me up.”
“That's not what I – ” Matt begins, and John sees him running his hand through his hair in that way he has that means he's stressed or pissed off and trying not to show it, and John's a little surprised he can recognize it that easily. “Okay, uh, so, where is it?”
“Not far from Houston Street,” his mother answers, “It's more of an historic inn, actually, but that's hardly – would you like to go out for coffee? I have – a few things to discuss with you.”
There's a pause, and John waits, even though he knows what's going to happen – or not going to happen. It is what it is – they are what they are. Matt's never told his parents about his bisexuality; he's sure as hell not going to tell his mother in the next five seconds that he's dating a broken-down cop old enough to be his father.
“Sure, yeah,” Matt says. “Just let me put on another shirt. I'll be one minute, okay? Stay right there.”
John steps back carefully from the door, and when Matt comes in, he's sitting on the bed, trying not to look pathetic.
“I'm sorry,” Matt whispers, and he really does look it. “She's never done anything like this before. Even when I was living less than an hour away – this is – ” he trails off and spreads his hands.
John only nods, because he doesn't want to whisper, and if Matt tries to shush him, he doesn't think he'll be responsible for his actions. He knows he's being immature, but goddammit, he was looking forward to today, to taking the rest of the afternoon and the evening settling into this new thing with Matt, and now it looks like he's going to be rattling around the place by himself. He thinks he's got a right to be a little childish.
Matt stares at him for a moment, eyes big and pleading, then heads for the closet, where he flings three shirts on the floor before settling on a gray cotton pullover that he practically never wears. John wonders absently if his mother bought it for him.
On the way out, Matt pauses in front of him, hesitant, then cups John's face in his hands and kisses him, hard and quick. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” he murmurs, and then he's gone. John brushes a thumb over his lips, then blows out a breath and rises to his creaky knees. Might as well bring in those boxes, he thinks; after all, he's got nothing better to do.
By the time Matt returns, he's been gone for over three hours, and John's long since run out of things to do, including sulking. He's getting ready to go out for a run – might as well get out some of his frustrations – when Matt comes in the door looking like he's just come out on the wrong side of a nine-round wrestling match. All at once, every shitty, sarcastic thing John was planning to say leaves his head, and the fact he can let go of it so easily scares him a little, because who is he and what has he done with the old John McClane?
Matt waves a hand. “I'm really sorry,” he starts, and John shakes his head and steers him to the couch, where Matt flops down bonelessly and stares up at the ceiling.
“She's divorcing Dad,” he says, without preamble. “I asked her why, and she said she wasn't really sure, just that last night she was standing at the sink washing the dishes for the millionth time while he sat on his ass watching TV, and the next thing she knew the kitchen floor was full of broken plates. He came in and started yelling, and she turned around and walked out.”
John sits down beside him. “Geez.”
“Yeah,” Matt says. He lifts his head up and runs a hand over his face. “She's upset, and angry, and more than a little bit crazy; I don't even think she knows what's going on in her head, not completely. It's like she's been storing it up for the last twenty-five years, and now it's all coming out, you know? And man, it's not like I begrudge her her right to rage against the machine, but I never expected to hear my mother swear like a sailor in the middle of a Starbucks.”
John tries to think of something to say to that, but everything he comes up with sounds like a platitude, so he keeps his mouth shut. After a minute, Matt blows out a breath. “So much for the housewarming party, huh?”
A smile tugs at the corner of John's mouth. “Yeah. No big deal.”
“Yeah, well,” Matt murmurs, turning toward John and stroking his arm where it's flung over the back of the couch, “you happen to be a very big deal to me. And I'm sorry.”
John's throat tightens, and it's the second time in as many minutes he doesn't recognize himself. “Okay,” he says finally, leaning in to kiss Matt, a soft brush of lips that swiftly yields to a wet slide of tongue and dangerous graze of teeth.
“God,” Matt breathes, sucking at John's lower lip, “is it horrible of me that I spent about half the time thinking about you fucking me on that big bed? Does that make me a selfish bastard?”
John gets up, then hauls Matt to his feet. Matt wraps his arm around John's neck and pulls him into another kiss, this one all heat and pressure and mutual need. Matt cups his other hand over the bulge in John's jeans, and suddenly it's like the last three hours never happened. John groans into Matt's mouth and Matt grins, then sinks to his knees, and before John can even figure out what the hell's happening, Matt deftly unzips John's jeans, takes his cock out of his boxers and wraps his hand around the base. John looks down just as Matt's looking up, and he watches as Matt takes him in, slowly.
“Christ, kid,” John murmurs. His hand is shaking a little as it strokes over Matt's hair, cups the side of his face. Matt closes his eyes and hums around John's cock, and John gasps and his hips stutter; it's amazing that after this long, the kid still has the power to surprise him. And it's even more amazing that after over fifty years, John's halfway to coming already.
He pulls back from Matt with no little regret, and when Matt peers up at him with a puzzled frown on his face, John reaches out a hand and yanks him to his feet.
“Come on,” John growls into Matt's mouth, “let's try out that bed.”
The next few days, John works a homicide with Joe and Connie that ends up being a lot more open-and-shut than any of them expected, mainly because the killer is really, really stupid. He's sitting in front of his computer, because he drew the short straw and has to do the paperwork, and suddenly it hits him: Thanksgiving is two days away. He's been trying not to think about it too much, because he didn't want to get his hopes up, but it's pretty obvious by now that Jack isn't going to be coming for a visit after all. And it's not like Jack promised he'd be there – he's been pretty busy with his MBA studies, John gets that, but – okay, so maybe he had been getting his hopes up.
He doesn't think it has anything to do with his new relationship, but he can't be sure. He told Jack about Matt not too long after he talked to Lucy, but it was over the computer, like most of his conversations with his son, and those stupid little cameras aren't any substitute for a real face-to-face talk. Jack said he was fine with it, that he was happy for John, but there are lots of things they don't say to one another. Despite the fact that John busted his hump to see his kids as often as he could afford, it's not like he's formed the strongest bond with either of them. He knows there are layers of guilt on his part and resentment on theirs, built up so high and covered over so neatly with hurt and misunderstanding that John wonders if they'll ever get down to the truth.
He cobbles together something coherent in the way of a report by the end of the day, submits it to the captain and heads for the subway stop nearest the station – yeah, go figure, he's using public transit, but it takes twenty minutes to get home by subway and forty minutes by car, so it's a no-brainer. And better for the planet, Matt assures him – he's reducing his carbon footprint, yah ta ta, yah ta ta. Saving the planet one Buick at a time: at least that's a hell of a lot easier than driving them into helicopters.
He's halfway up the stairs to Matt's apartment – to their apartment – when his cell rings. Without looking at the display, he hits the talk button and says, “It's too late for me to pick up yak milk at the corner market, I'm almost at the door.” Matt may be the best cook this side of Julia Child, but he's always calling John when he's on his way home from work, asking him to pick up linguine or saffron or cilantro or something else he's forgotten to buy for one of his recipes. One of these days, the guy has got to learn to make a fucking list like the rest of humanity.
“Dad?”
John stops dead, nearly stumbles on a step. “Jack? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it's me. Where are you?”
“Headed up the stairs to my apartment.”
There's a brief pause, the muffled sound of a car horn. “What? How could I have missed you?”
John frowns. “Okay, back up. Where are you?”
“In Brooklyn, outside your apartment building.”
John winces. “Oh, shit, sorry.”
“You moved,” Jack says, a little accusingly. “What, you moved and didn't tell me?”
“I was going to tell you,” John protests. “I didn't think you'd actually – ”
“Do what I said I was going to do? Thanks, Dad. You haven't cornered the market on integrity, you know.”
Christ. John closes his eyes briefly. “Look, stay there, okay? I'll drive out and pick you up.”
“Where are you living now?” John gives him the address, and Jack adds, “Never mind, I can get there on my own. I should be there in a couple of hours.”
“If that's what you really want.” John knows his voice is tight, but Jesus, he's feeling guilty all over again, for something he doesn't even know for sure is his fault.
Another pause. “Is that okay, I mean, if I come?”
“Yeah, God, of course, I'm – I'm really happy that you're here, Jack.”
“But?”
John takes a breath, lets it out. Might as well get it over with, and telling him over the phone does have certain advantages. “I moved in with Matt.”
“Oh. Wow. That's uh – big.”
John barks a short laugh. “Yeah, that's a good way of putting it.”
“I'm – uh. Wow.”
“You said that already.”
“No, it's not – it's only that I was planning to crash at your place. I never even thought – but I guess I should have, I mean, that's – ”
“Jack, you know you're always welcome at my – ”
“ – really presumptuous of me, and I – ”
“ – you're my son, of course you're always – ”
“ – can find another place, it's – ”
“Jack. Jack. Sprout.”
There's a beat of pure silence. “What?”
Suddenly, John feels every one of his fifty-one years. “Just – come see your old man, all right? We can figure out the rest when you get here.”
“Okay. See you in an hour or two.” The line goes dead. John resists the urge to slam the cell phone against the wall until it shatters, then trudges up the last few steps to his floor.
Before he can dig in his pocket for his keys, the door flies open, and Matt's standing there. John musters a smile, but it disappears when he sees the harried look on his face. “What now?” he demands.
“Oh, nothing,” Matt says, grabbing his jacket off the coat rack by the door and shrugging into it, “my mom just drunk dialed me from the Pit, that's all.”
John actually blinks at that. The Pit is Matt's nickname for one of the seedier meat markets in the East Village, catering to the low-rent fetish wear crowd. If Matt's mother doesn't know a lot about alternative lifestyles, John suspects she's probably getting a hell of an education right about now. “She – what? How the hell did she find that place?”
Matt flings up his hands. “How should I know? She's got a travel guide to New York titled, How to Catch Fifteen Social Diseases In One Fun-Filled Night, I guess. Christ, I know she's only forty-eight, but is it ever too early to have your parents committed?”
John opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Matt's mother is younger than he is.
“John, are you having a stroke or something? Because I don't want to say 'this is not the right time', but you know what? It really isn't.” He pecks John on the cheek, squeezes his shoulder briefly. “I'll be back.”
“Uh,” John begins, but Matt's already covered one flight of stairs and is clomping down the next one.
“Great,” John mutters. “Fucking great,” he adds, because it bears repeating.
John wakes with a start when Matt slips into bed behind him and slides a cold hand into his shorts. “Jesus,” he breathes, grabbing at Matt's hand and holding it away from him. “You trying to freeze it off?”
“Nah, just scare it a little,” Matt answers, pressing his forehead to John's shoulder blade.
“What time 'sit?”
“Two-thirty.”
“How is she?”
“Sleeping it off. In the morning she'll be either completely mortified and apologetic or a budding dominatrix. I'm not sure which outcome I'm rooting for. Oh, and there's somebody sleeping on our couch,” Matt adds pleasantly. “Thought you might like to know.”
“That's Jack. He showed up while you were out.” Which isn't actually a lie, and it's easier than the full story, especially when his brain is still eighty percent asleep.
“Oh, hey, that's cool,” Matt says, and he actually means it, John can tell. “You were hoping he'd come to visit.”
John opens his mouth to deny it, then gives up. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”
Matt must hear something of the weariness John's feeling in his tone, because his hand moves, fingers splaying over John's chest and holding tight. “Didn't go so well, huh?”
John blinks at the darkness. “Well, we had a couple of beers, and talked about football. That's a pretty good night for us.” He wipes a hand over his eyes, wondering when was the last time he and Jack have talked about anything that fucking mattered. If they ever have.
“Hey.” Matt's hand is rubbing soothing circles over John's left pec, slow and easy, and John can't help it, he relaxes into that touch, lets it do exactly what it's trying to do. “He's here. That's something, right?”
“Yeah,” John murmurs, already slipping back into sleep under the blanket of Matt's reassurances, “that's something.”
The next morning, John drifts in and out of fitful sleep, finally snapping awake when he hears low, mingled laughter. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, splashes some water on his face, then shuffles out to the kitchen, where Jack and Matt are talking animatedly over coffee.
“No way! That would be awesome!” Matt crows.
“Hey, slow down,” Jack says, holding up his hands palm up, though he's laughing a little. “She doesn't even believe in it.”
Matt looks up and sees John, then grins hugely. Pointing at Jack, he exclaims, “Hey, your little boy wants to marry a Communist!”
“Geez,” Jack groans, covering his face.
John just stares. Matt laughs, pads over to him on bare feet and hands him a cup of coffee, then kisses him chastely on the lips. “You in shock, or asleep?”
“What am I supposed to be shocked about?” John says, sitting down at the table opposite Jack, who's actually blushing.
“Jack's in love with a Red,” Matt tells him happily. “Your Young Republican son – ”
“Oh, for Christ's sake, I was never a Young Republican,” Jack protests.
“Hey, man, if the three-piece suit fits,” Matt says. “You're getting an MBA, don't try to pretend you're not a capitalist pig.”
Jack looks at John, clearly seeking an ally, but John's too busy trying not to laugh at the way Matt's managed to get more out of his son in a morning than he's gotten out of him in over a decade. “Okay, look, so I had to take an elective in social sciences – ”
“ – to learn something about the huddled masses you someday hope to oppress – ” Matt editorializes.
“Shut up!” Jack tells him, laughing. “Anyway, I picked international development, and Simone was my TA – ”
“Seriously, isn't Simone, like, the best name ever for a radical bisexual social justice hottie?”
John can't hold it in any more; he starts laughing, helplessly. “Dad!” Jack whines, and God, it's like he's six again and John won't buy him the GI Joe he's salivating over.
“Sorry, sorry,” John says, trying to catch his breath, though he's not sorry at all. “So this Simone – how does she feel about you?”
Jack's face falls, and he looks at his hands. “She, uh,” he murmurs, “she thinks I'm shallow and selfish. But she's still sleeping with me, so I'm kind of confused.”
“She's probably brainwashing you in your sleep,” Matt says, nodding sagely. “Do you ever get the uncontrollable urge to sing the Internationale at the top of your lungs?”
“Matt,” John says, voice low, and both of them fall silent and stare at him. Turning to his son, he says, “Listen, Jack. I'm the worst person to be giving advice about love, so I'm not going to. Following my heart hasn't always worked out all that great for me, and not following it's gotten me in trouble, too. But I do know that you deserve somebody who loves you, who tells you all the things that are right about you, not what's wrong with you. And from where I'm sitting, there's a whole lot right about you. Always has been.”
Jack blinks at him. “Well,” he murmurs, nodding slowly before he swallows, starts again. “Yeah. I – okay. Thanks, Dad.”
John risks a glance up at Matt, who's leaning against the stove with his arms crossed. There's a soft, fond look in his eyes that stops John's breath for a moment.
“The thing is, though,” Jack adds, “she kind of reminds me of you.”
John stares at Jack. Matt, naturally, breaks the silence first. “Wow, that's – really fucking kinky.”
“God, not like that,” Jack sighs, “I mean – she has this hokey way of talking about social responsibility, and it reminds me of the way you always used to talk about being a cop when I was little. I didn't understand it then, but now, the way she explains it – I couldn't help thinking that I've finally figured you out a little bit.”
John glares at him. “'Hokey'?”
Jack smiles crookedly. “Yeah, hokey.”
John glances up at Matt again, and then he finds himself smiling back. “Okay. Maybe I am.”
John must be dreaming. It's two o'clock in the afternoon on the day before Thanksgiving, and he's in a crowded supermarket with his lover and his son, picking out a turkey.
Matt's an amazing cook, but he's never tried to put together a full Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings, and he keeps having small but significant panic attacks while they wander the aisles, like when he goes into a semi-catatonic state at the prospect of choosing between jellied and whole cranberries. John gently pries the cans from his hands and throws them both in the cart, and Matt looks at him with such pathetic gratitude that John has to laugh.
He's laughing a lot today, and he has a strong suspicion that it's all Matt's fault.
Life is good.
Life is hell.
“You invited your mother,” John says again, because maybe, just maybe he heard wrong.
“Well, duh,” Matt says, calmly chopping carrots and dropping them into the steamer. “Of course I invited her. It's Thanksgiving, and she's in New York and losing her mind. I think she'd probably like it if somebody cooked for her for a change.”
“So what do I do when she shows up here in a few minutes?” John hisses, while over by the stove, Jack pretends to be deaf as he stirs the gravy. “Pretend to be the next-door neighbor? Or just hide in the bedroom like I did the last time?”
Matt winces. “I told her I was living with a guy yesterday when I invited her,” he says. “And don't worry, I made it clear what I meant by living with.”
“How did she take it?”
“Pretty well. Pretty much the way she reacts to everything, kind of like the Queen of England or Scarlett O'Hara. She smiles and nods and waves regally. Fiddle-dee-dee.”
“Did you tell her the guy is older than she is?” John growls. Over by the stove, he hears a clattering sound as Jack fumbles the spoon, then soft cursing as he tries to retrieve it from the gravy.
“I didn't, no,” Matt says diffidently. “I'm taking it slow, okay? She's a little fragile.”
The downstairs buzzer sounds, and John's jaw tightens.
“You let her up here before I've changed into a good shirt and I'm never sucking your dick again,” he snarls. Behind him, there's more clattering and cursing, and he can feel Matt's glare burning into his back as he stomps off to the bedroom.
It's a measure of how much wine he's consumed that it takes John over an hour to figure it out. But then, he'd have to be completely passed out to fail to get it when Mrs. Farrell leans over to him and whispers, conspiratorially, “I think they make a lovely couple, don't you?”
Matt's in the middle of talking to Jack about some music group John's never heard of, so he misses the line that freezes John solid. Frantically, he tries to get his chardonnay-slowed brain to rewind to the moment Matt's mother walked through the door, then replay it from another perspective. John spent the first five minutes holding his breath, terrified Mrs. Farrell was going to slap his face and call him a foul despoiler of her poor, innocent son. When he realized she wasn't hitting him or yelling at him, but was in fact smiling at him and, after her first glass of wine, was seemingly fascinated by his every word, John figured that against all odds, he'd succeeded in winning over the mother. (If Holly's mother had treated him more like this and less like the Antichrist from the moment he crossed her threshold, the wedding reception would've gone a lot more smoothly, but that was another story.) Anyway, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he accepted Mrs. Farrell's approval at face value and didn't question her swift conversion. After all, women have been known to consider him charming, once in a blue moon.
Now, though, it hits him that it’s been too easy, way too easy, and there’s a reason for that: it hasn't even occurred to her that her baby boy might have hooked up with John McClane, fiftyish, balding cop. In fact, she's made a perfectly logical assumption, given the fact that she's been introduced to two men tonight, one who’s approximately her son's age, and one who’s approximately her own. Add to that the fact that Matt and John have both kept the PDAs off today's menu and it all makes sense.
“John?” He feels a cool, tentative touch on his arm, and his head snaps up. Mrs. Farrell is looking at him with open concern, though when he looks up, she yanks her hand away and smiles nervously. A faint blush appears on her cheekbones, and Jesus, no, no way, that’s just –
“I'm fine,” he says, smiling as reassuringly as possible. “I – listen, I have to explain something here.”
“More potatoes, Mrs. Farrell?” Jack asks, lifting the bowl.
“No, thank you, dear,” Matt's mother says. “And please, call me Diane.”
Jack nods, though he glances at John before responding. “Thank you, Diane,” he says softly.
“Okay, who's ready for pumpkin pie?” Matt asks, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. Jack groans faintly and holds his stomach, and Matt laughs. “What?”
“If I eat one more thing, I'm going to explode.”
Matt flaps a hand at him. “Oh, quit whining. I did all the cooking, now you and your Daddy can wash the dishes.”
Diane straightens. “Matthew, I can – ”
“Oh, no you don't,” Matt tells her. “You sit there and relax. Besides, I just bought these plates, I'm not letting you anywhere near them.”
Mrs. Farrell's face goes completely blank for a few seconds, and John finds himself tensing, waiting for whatever’s going to happen.
And then Matt’s mother starts to laugh. She laughs so hard that she's soon wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
“Guess I should have tried for a career in comedy,” Matt says, deadpan, and this time all four of them bust out laughing. John understands that impetus to hysteria, he really does, and when he finally gets himself back under control, he's pretty much on the ragged edge of it himself.
“Just for that,” Matt says, leaning closer to John, “you get to cut the pie.”
And then he bends down and kisses John on the top of his head.
John closes his eyes as he hears Mrs. Farrell draw a breath. She’s got some lung capacity, he thinks abstractly, because she sucks in air for a long time before she treats them all to a wall of sound that would have done Phil Spector proud.
John opens his eyes to see Matt yelling at his mother, his mother yelling back, and shuts them again. He opens them when he hears the downstairs buzzer ring, and leaps up to get it.
“You wait a minute, you pervert,” Mrs. Farrell rages, “I’m not done with you yet.”
John stabs the buzzer fervently with a thumb. He doesn't even care who it is; at this point, a crack addict or a crazed axe murderer would be a welcome distraction. Matt’s gone back to yelling at his mother, telling her she’s being an ageist, bourgeois cow, and oh God, John wants to go back to hiding in the bedroom again.
There’s a touch on his arm, and John recoils instinctively, thinking Mrs. Farrell is now working herself up to assault, and then he hears a soft voice murmur, “Dad.”
John looks up and into his son’s eyes, and they’re dancing with suppressed laughter. “Wow,” he says, “so she thought I was, uh, you.”
John nods, while behind them the battle royal still rages. “Yep.”
Jack’s eyes bug out, and he claps a hand over his mouth.
“You’d better not be laughing,” John says. “’cause this is not anything to laugh about.”
“Isn’t it?” Jack asks, grinning openly now. “Listen.”
John does.
“And another thing!” Matt’s yelling into his mother’s startled face. “If you knew one-tenth of who this man is, you’d be thanking him, not condemning him. But you know, God forbid you'd ever bother to look beyond the surface of something to see what really mattters.”
“Matthew, I – ” That’s the first thing she’s said in the past three minutes at normal volume, but Matt doesn't hear it, or doesn't care at this point.
“Jesus Christ, Mom!” he spits. “Do you even fucking know what it’s like to be in love with someone? Do you remember?”
Mrs. Farrell stares at him for a moment, and then her face crumples. “Yes, I do,” she manages, “I remember,” and suddenly she’s sobbing, great, wracking sobs that shake her slim frame. “God, I wish I didn’t.”
Matt looks stricken, gut-punched, and he touches his mother on the shoulder, a gesture of reassurance between two people who obviously aren't very good at it. Mrs. Farrell cries even louder at that, and she buries her head in Matt's shoulder, clinging to him helplessly. “Oh, hey, Mom, shhhh,” Matt murmurs, finally putting an arm around her and pressing his cheek to her hair.
And of course, that would be the moment when the apartment door swings open and a dark-haired, lanky guy about John’s age comes bursting through. His gaze sweeps the room frantically, and then he yells, “Diane!” and strides over to her. Matt’s mother twists in Matt’s hold, and her breath catches on another sob as she sees –
“Let me guess,” Jack says, pointing. They’re both leaning against the back of the couch now; the only thing they need is beer and popcorn. “Matt’s dad.”
“That would be my guess,” John agrees.
“Wow,” Jack says, admiringly. “I heard New York was the center of the theater world, but I never would have dreamed the floor show would come to me.” He turns to John, beaming, and John’s whole body feels suddenly younger, lighter. “Let’s do this again next Thanksgiving, huh?”
“Yeah,” John says, nodding as he watches the Farrells coalesce into one big knot. “Sounds like a plan.”
Matt jerks awake when John runs a warm, proprietary hand over his bare back. “Mmmmpsshhhh,” he says, face still buried in the pillow.
Grinning, John pulls back the covers, revealing Matt's body to his gaze. In the wan morning light, his skin is almost translucent, like fine porcelain, and Matt would laugh his ass off if John actually said that aloud. Just as well he doesn't need to: it's Sunday morning, they've got nowhere to go, and they're finally alone. John's got better things to do than talk.
Matt grunts and wiggles. “S'cold.”
John leans down over Matt's back and nuzzles the hollow between his shoulder blades. “Don't worry. I'll warm you up.” Gently, he tugs at the waistband of Matt's boxers; Matt makes a small sound of protest, but hitches his hips up helpfully nevertheless. When John finishes peeling Matt's shorts down his legs, he looks up to see Matt's turned his head and is peering at him with one bleary eye.
“Y're naked,” he mumbles.
John looks down at himself. “Huh. Whaddaya know.”
“Sure they're all gone?” Matt asks. The eye surveys the room suspiciously.
“Yep,” John assures him. Jack left last night, on a plane bound for Chicago, and Matt's parents took off the day before that, headed for a second honeymoon – and hopefully some heavy duty marriage counselling.
“Mmm,” Matt mumbles, when John palms his ass, “d'you look under the bed? Mebbe they're hidin'.”
“Nope. I checked.”
“Door's locked?” Matt asks, and now his lip's curling wickedly as he undulates under John's hand.
“Locked and bolted.” Matt sighs and spreads his legs, finally acquiescing, and John kneels between them. He picks up the tube he's laid on the mattress, squeezes a generous amount of slick onto his fingers before guiding two of them inside.
“Christ,” Matt hisses. John notes a fine tremble in his shoulders, and hesitates.
“Okay?” he whispers.
Matt nods jerkily. “More,” he groans, and John obeys, using his other hand to spread Matt a little wider as he eases his fingers deeper inside. Matt's hips roll up to meet John's invasion, and he gasps as John brushes his sweet spot.
John pulls out slowly, then eases back in with three fingers this time, and Matt moans and slides his hands up the mattress until they're gripping the top edge. John watches his knuckles whiten and the flush rise in his cheeks. “Come on,” Matt growls, and John withdraws his hand, fumbles for the condom and rolls it on.
John tries to urge Matt to his knees, but Matt shakes his head, stays where he is. “Like this,” Matt says, “just like this.”
“Jesus,” John breathes, because Matt's basically asking him to fuck him into the mattress.
Matt shifts on the bed, making a low, needy sound, and John eases down over him. His knees are going to hate him for this, but he can't deny Matt's request. It's a little tricky to figure out the best angle at first, but soon he's guiding himself into Matt's body, pressing forward until he's buried deep.
Under him, Matt goes completely boneless, practically melting into the bed, and this time it's John's turn to groan. He starts to move, slowly gathering momentum until he's stroking hard into Matt, and Matt just takes it, takes him, over and over. He doesn't push back into it the way he usually does, just lets John's body rut against his, moving him with each slamming thrust. when John's about a half-inch from coming he notices the top of Matt’s skull is getting perilously close to the headboard. With a grunt, he pulls out, grabs ahold of Matt’s hips and tugs him back down the bed and away from a potential concussion, then shoves in again.
“God,” Matt whimpers, “yeah, God, oh,” and then he's coming, clenching hard around John's cock without even being touched. John manages a half dozen more ragged thrusts before he's following Matt over, finally coming to rest draped over Matt's warm back.
After a few seconds, he presses a kiss to Matt's neck and pulls out, then collapses onto the bed beside him. Matt's still shuddering with the aftershocks, and John can't help but feel a little pleased with himself. “Good?” he asks.
Matt turns his head to look at him, and for the first time this morning John can see both eyes. “Smug bastard,” Matt says, grinning. “Just remember whose idea it was.”
“Guess you really like this bed,” John says, leaning in for a kiss. Matt's mouth is welcoming, lush and generous, and John decides to spend a bit of time there, considering he hasn't had much opportunity lately.
“Yeah,” Matt agrees, when they finally part. “I really like this bed. In fact, I'm planning to spend the whole day here.”
John kisses him again. “You have the best ideas.”
Matt grins hugely at that. “Speaking of ideas, you know Christmas is only a month away.”
“Yeah?” John drawls, propping himself up on an elbow.
“I was thinking, now that I've got the hang of cooking big meals, I should host the family dinner again. What do you say to a bigger gathering this time: my parents, my brother and sisters, your kids, maybe your ex? You think that'd make for a happy holiday?”
“I think I'm gonna be busy that night,” John muses. “Maybe at the top of a tall building somewhere.”
Chuckling, Matt straddles him and leans down, brushing their mouths together. “Then again, we could always have a quiet Christmas in bed, just the two of us.”
John buries a hand in Matt’s hair, holding it back from his face. “No guarantees I'll be quiet.”
“I can live with that,” Matt murmurs, kissing him, and this time John’s the one who lets himself melt into the mattress.
End
August 2008
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