fic: die hard 4.0: Drive in the Rain (or, Four Times John McClane Drove)
Or, great fic dump of 2008 part the second. Because I unearthed this fic in its entirety, author's notes and everything, I thought it deserved its own post.
Title: Drive in the Rain (or, Four Times John McClane Drove)
Prompt: rain, 033. Songfic
Summary: John and Matt really spend a lot of time in transit.
Why don't we drive in the rain
Straight to the eye of the hurricane?
-Driving Rain, Paul McCartney
I. Camden, New York - Washington, D.C., approx. 7 hours 10 minutes
"Wh - why would they want to kill me?" Matt Farrell asks. He doesn't sound hysterical anymore, which is nice, but he's still absolutely petrified.
"You tell me, kid," John McClane replies. "You're the criminal." Farrell stares at him, wide-eyed and terrified, and he looks so young. It's obvious he has no clue what just happened, and if John wasn't flying so high on adrenaline he'd probably feel kinda shitty for saying that.
There's a long stretch of silence as they head out of Camden towards the highway. Every time John sneaks a glance, Farrell's staring blankly out the window. He's stopped shaking but he's still restless, adjusting his seatbelt, fiddling with the buttons on his door, the catch on the glove compartment. And yeah, okay, the kid can't be much older than Lucy, and despite his problem with authority he doesn't really give off even a white-collar criminal feel, and his own adrenaline must be receding because John actually does feel pretty shitty for calling him a criminal.
"Look, kid," he says once they've pulled onto the I-83. "I didn't ..." But Farrell's head is tipped back between the window and the headrest, his long dark hair brushing his neck. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly open and John yanks his gaze back onto the road. "Shit," he mutters, and turns on the radio as quiet as it will go.
He spends the next five hours trying very hard not to look at the man in the passenger seat next to him.
II. Washington, D.C. - Middleton, West Virginia, approx. 2 hours 44 minutes
Matt's coming down from his latest adrenaline rush pretty fast and hard. He hasn't had anything to eat in ten hours and he can't seem to stop sweating and wow, he thinks he might throw up if the world keeps spinning like that. "Holy shit," he murmurs, putting his head between his knees.
"Hey, kid." John McClane's hand lands warm and solid on Matt's neck, which actually feels really good, so Matt moans low into the leather of his seat. "You gonna puke?"
Matt shakes his head slowly, and McClane's hand travels up into his hair and then down again, rubbing Matt's back gently. Out of nowhere Matt remembers seeing a Snickers bar in the glove compartment, so he sits up a bit and reaches for the latch. McClane's hand slips down lower on his back, almost at the waistband of his pants and oh, suddenly Matt's breathing kind of hard. He looks at McClane sideways, from under his bangs, and McClane's looking back. His eyebrow lifts as if to ask, 'What?', as he cooly takes his hand from Matt's back and places it on the steering wheel.
Matt blushes - which is really embarrassing, because don't people stop blushing in, like, junior high? - and starts fishing around in the glove compartment. "Here," he says, extracting the chocolate bar from the mess of papers. "I just, kind of, um ..." His fingers haven't exactly quit shaking yet, so he fumbles with the wrapper for a few seconds, before McClane plucks it out of his hands.
There's a faint undertone of laughter in McClane's voice when he says when he says, "You weren't joking about that low blood sugar thing, hey?" He hands the bar back, opened, and Matt is so happy to see food that he almost drops it.
"Mmnnmm," Matt mumbles through a mouthful of blessed nougat, peanuts, caramel and chocolate. He swallows and says, "My mom has diabetes, so when I was born I had this thing called hyperinsulinism, and I -- " He breaks off and takes another bite. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John's eyebrow saying 'What?' again. When he finishes that bite, he continues, "Whatever. It doesn't really matter. I just tend to get kind of freaky when I don't eat. I should be okay in a few minutes." He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. It's like he can see the sugar rushing through his veins, easing the jitters out of his muscles.
After a minute or so, he cracks an eye open, and looks at McClane. "You want?" he asks, brandishing the remaining half of the chocolate bar in his direction. McClane arches his eyebrow again, looking highly amused.
"I'm alright," he says. "I think you need that more than I do." Matt kind of huffs out a laugh and lays his head back again, because all of a sudden he's really, really wiped. He can't seem to keep his eyes closed, though, still riding too high on the knife's edge of fatigue and tension.
There's a bit of a silence, then McClane says, "That was pretty good back there, kid," and Matt decides it sucks that the one time McClane actually wants to talk, he's far too exhausted to appreciate it.
"Thanks," Matt says, and tries to smile.
III. Middleton, West Virginia - Baltimore, Maryland, approx. 1 hour 12 minutes
It occurs to John after they've taken off: "How're we going to find Warlock's house?"
The kid doesn't look as dumbstruck as he probably should, considering the circumstances. " Umm ... it's probably going to be the one with the lights still on," he replies, craning his neck to look out and down. "Oh, my God," he breathes. "That - it's - wow," he says coherently. There's a lot of fright and even more panic but there might be just a tinge of relief in his voice, and if John weren't concentrating so hard on flying the fucking helicopter, he thinks he'd really want to sneak a look at Farrell's face right about now.
"Just keep looking for your friend's house," he says instead, and Farrell squeaks out an affirmative noise without taking his eyes off the ground.
IV. Baltimore, Maryland - Woodlawn, Maryland, approx. 18 minutes
Warlock's rackety old junk-heap rumbles down the highway and Matt finds himself once more with his forehead against a car window, watching the road fly by. He blinks himself out of his stupor and turns to McClane. He's staring straight ahead, not a hint of the half-smile that had been ever present on McClane's face since this entire debacle started. Matt sighs and feels worn out.
McClane's eyes flick towards him and he says, "Kid, can you get Bowman?" The question pulls Matt from somewhere deep inside himself, and he comes out with a shake of his head.
"Uh, yeah," says, fumbling in his bag for a cell-phone charger. He plugs one end into the old-school cigarette lighter and the other into the phone that some poor guy is probably really missing right now, if only for the sentimental value. He flips the phone open and pulls up the menu to connect to the Sat Comms, except -
"It's completely dead," Matt says. "Gabriel must have shut down all the satellite links. Shit," he groans. He flips the phone shut again, stares out the window and feels really fucking useless.
McClane doesn't say anything.
"I'm sorry about Lucy, man," Matt says quietly. "About all of it." He chances a look back at McClane, but he's still staring straight out the windshield, face hard and emotionless. "It's my fault you got into this, this wasn't your fight."
"You've got nothing to be sorry about," McClane says just as quietly, and if Matt weren't so bone-tired - but he can't help the single frustrated tear that rolls down his cheek.
Matt can't tell whether McClane notices. He just keeps on driving.
Notes:
Written to get into their heads a little.
All times from Google maps - Middleton, WV does not exist, so I randomly picked Fort Ashby, WV off the map as a replacement. Also, there's no 'helicopter' option, so I cut the driving time roughly in half for III. I have no idea if this is accurate.
All my research on hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) comes from this site. I don't actually understand much of what they say there, so we can pretty much assume that my explanation in the fic probably isn't possible. Anyhoo.
Title: Drive in the Rain (or, Four Times John McClane Drove)
Prompt: rain, 033. Songfic
Summary: John and Matt really spend a lot of time in transit.
Why don't we drive in the rain
Straight to the eye of the hurricane?
-Driving Rain, Paul McCartney
I. Camden, New York - Washington, D.C., approx. 7 hours 10 minutes
"Wh - why would they want to kill me?" Matt Farrell asks. He doesn't sound hysterical anymore, which is nice, but he's still absolutely petrified.
"You tell me, kid," John McClane replies. "You're the criminal." Farrell stares at him, wide-eyed and terrified, and he looks so young. It's obvious he has no clue what just happened, and if John wasn't flying so high on adrenaline he'd probably feel kinda shitty for saying that.
There's a long stretch of silence as they head out of Camden towards the highway. Every time John sneaks a glance, Farrell's staring blankly out the window. He's stopped shaking but he's still restless, adjusting his seatbelt, fiddling with the buttons on his door, the catch on the glove compartment. And yeah, okay, the kid can't be much older than Lucy, and despite his problem with authority he doesn't really give off even a white-collar criminal feel, and his own adrenaline must be receding because John actually does feel pretty shitty for calling him a criminal.
"Look, kid," he says once they've pulled onto the I-83. "I didn't ..." But Farrell's head is tipped back between the window and the headrest, his long dark hair brushing his neck. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slightly open and John yanks his gaze back onto the road. "Shit," he mutters, and turns on the radio as quiet as it will go.
He spends the next five hours trying very hard not to look at the man in the passenger seat next to him.
II. Washington, D.C. - Middleton, West Virginia, approx. 2 hours 44 minutes
Matt's coming down from his latest adrenaline rush pretty fast and hard. He hasn't had anything to eat in ten hours and he can't seem to stop sweating and wow, he thinks he might throw up if the world keeps spinning like that. "Holy shit," he murmurs, putting his head between his knees.
"Hey, kid." John McClane's hand lands warm and solid on Matt's neck, which actually feels really good, so Matt moans low into the leather of his seat. "You gonna puke?"
Matt shakes his head slowly, and McClane's hand travels up into his hair and then down again, rubbing Matt's back gently. Out of nowhere Matt remembers seeing a Snickers bar in the glove compartment, so he sits up a bit and reaches for the latch. McClane's hand slips down lower on his back, almost at the waistband of his pants and oh, suddenly Matt's breathing kind of hard. He looks at McClane sideways, from under his bangs, and McClane's looking back. His eyebrow lifts as if to ask, 'What?', as he cooly takes his hand from Matt's back and places it on the steering wheel.
Matt blushes - which is really embarrassing, because don't people stop blushing in, like, junior high? - and starts fishing around in the glove compartment. "Here," he says, extracting the chocolate bar from the mess of papers. "I just, kind of, um ..." His fingers haven't exactly quit shaking yet, so he fumbles with the wrapper for a few seconds, before McClane plucks it out of his hands.
There's a faint undertone of laughter in McClane's voice when he says when he says, "You weren't joking about that low blood sugar thing, hey?" He hands the bar back, opened, and Matt is so happy to see food that he almost drops it.
"Mmnnmm," Matt mumbles through a mouthful of blessed nougat, peanuts, caramel and chocolate. He swallows and says, "My mom has diabetes, so when I was born I had this thing called hyperinsulinism, and I -- " He breaks off and takes another bite. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John's eyebrow saying 'What?' again. When he finishes that bite, he continues, "Whatever. It doesn't really matter. I just tend to get kind of freaky when I don't eat. I should be okay in a few minutes." He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. It's like he can see the sugar rushing through his veins, easing the jitters out of his muscles.
After a minute or so, he cracks an eye open, and looks at McClane. "You want?" he asks, brandishing the remaining half of the chocolate bar in his direction. McClane arches his eyebrow again, looking highly amused.
"I'm alright," he says. "I think you need that more than I do." Matt kind of huffs out a laugh and lays his head back again, because all of a sudden he's really, really wiped. He can't seem to keep his eyes closed, though, still riding too high on the knife's edge of fatigue and tension.
There's a bit of a silence, then McClane says, "That was pretty good back there, kid," and Matt decides it sucks that the one time McClane actually wants to talk, he's far too exhausted to appreciate it.
"Thanks," Matt says, and tries to smile.
III. Middleton, West Virginia - Baltimore, Maryland, approx. 1 hour 12 minutes
It occurs to John after they've taken off: "How're we going to find Warlock's house?"
The kid doesn't look as dumbstruck as he probably should, considering the circumstances. " Umm ... it's probably going to be the one with the lights still on," he replies, craning his neck to look out and down. "Oh, my God," he breathes. "That - it's - wow," he says coherently. There's a lot of fright and even more panic but there might be just a tinge of relief in his voice, and if John weren't concentrating so hard on flying the fucking helicopter, he thinks he'd really want to sneak a look at Farrell's face right about now.
"Just keep looking for your friend's house," he says instead, and Farrell squeaks out an affirmative noise without taking his eyes off the ground.
IV. Baltimore, Maryland - Woodlawn, Maryland, approx. 18 minutes
Warlock's rackety old junk-heap rumbles down the highway and Matt finds himself once more with his forehead against a car window, watching the road fly by. He blinks himself out of his stupor and turns to McClane. He's staring straight ahead, not a hint of the half-smile that had been ever present on McClane's face since this entire debacle started. Matt sighs and feels worn out.
McClane's eyes flick towards him and he says, "Kid, can you get Bowman?" The question pulls Matt from somewhere deep inside himself, and he comes out with a shake of his head.
"Uh, yeah," says, fumbling in his bag for a cell-phone charger. He plugs one end into the old-school cigarette lighter and the other into the phone that some poor guy is probably really missing right now, if only for the sentimental value. He flips the phone open and pulls up the menu to connect to the Sat Comms, except -
"It's completely dead," Matt says. "Gabriel must have shut down all the satellite links. Shit," he groans. He flips the phone shut again, stares out the window and feels really fucking useless.
McClane doesn't say anything.
"I'm sorry about Lucy, man," Matt says quietly. "About all of it." He chances a look back at McClane, but he's still staring straight out the windshield, face hard and emotionless. "It's my fault you got into this, this wasn't your fight."
"You've got nothing to be sorry about," McClane says just as quietly, and if Matt weren't so bone-tired - but he can't help the single frustrated tear that rolls down his cheek.
Matt can't tell whether McClane notices. He just keeps on driving.
Notes:
Written to get into their heads a little.
All times from Google maps - Middleton, WV does not exist, so I randomly picked Fort Ashby, WV off the map as a replacement. Also, there's no 'helicopter' option, so I cut the driving time roughly in half for III. I have no idea if this is accurate.
All my research on hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) comes from this site. I don't actually understand much of what they say there, so we can pretty much assume that my explanation in the fic probably isn't possible. Anyhoo.