Die Hard fic: SCARS - for sexy_right's Put a Ring on It callenge
Posting has started at sexy_right for the Put a Ring on It challenge! This is my first submission.
Snick :)
Title: (Because Gray Hairs and Wrinkles are the only Badge of Honor Worth a Damn, and Chicks Dig) SCARS.
Author: persnickett
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1636
Summary: Our heroes trade war stories.
Notes/Warnings: Shameless. Written for the Put a Ring on It challenge at sexy_right in celebration of New York saying 'yes' to gay marriage this summer. The challenge is to create fic or art that relates to the theme of marriage or weddings - open to creative interpretation.
(Because Gray Hairs and Wrinkles are the only Badge of Honor Worth a Damn, and Chicks Dig) SCARS.
“No, not a train. Well a subway, it was a subway train. Where the hell you getting your information from, when we’re stuck in here, anyway?”
“Sorry man, I never reveal my sources.”
“Stay away from my daughter, Farrell.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to make a little conversation here.”
“Look, I’m not telling you a bedtime story like a five year old. So you can just cut it out with the pouting shit.”
“You know, not to push the issue or anything, but I just don’t get your deal. War stories make the best bedtime stories, it’s practically common knowledge. I can see the mark from here…”
“I’m tellin’ ya, kid; quit staring at me.”
“I can’t help it, okay? You pretty much have to make your own scenery in here. The walls are Pepto pink! Who designs these things? Were they trying to match the décor to the medications? Is there some kind of placebo effect to making a hospital environment such an assault on the senses you convince yourself you’re better, out of sheer desperation to get out of here? As if the utter boredom isn’t mental torture enough. …Shit, while we’re on the subject of bad design, could they make this tiny little button on the morphine thingy any harder to push when you’re high? That’s …shitty usability- wow, okay, so you can get the volume on that miniscule TV to go pretty loud, huh? Speaking of five year olds. Come on, McClane, I’m captive here, you can walk around, I have to sit here while you subject me to… this. Are you seeing this? Look at that headline! Sure, that’s fine, good to know. Way to push the Corn Lobby agenda, Fox. It’s not even pretending to be news, just more fuel for the propaganda machine- Nice, McClane. I was watching that. God, why was I watching that?”
“If you wanna hear the story it means you’re gonna have to shut up for two seconds.”
“Shutting. Done. …I am. Really.”
“Alright. …Jesus. It was in 1995, I was off on suspension. And you’re not getting that story so don’t bother lookin’ at me like that. Some asshole calling himself Simon decided it was a good day to ruin a perfectly good hangover and drag me in, by blowing up half of downtown…”
That was the first time. John should have known then it would eventually get out of hand.
**
“An icicle? Seriously? That’s some fucked up shit, McClane.”
“Talk about your brain freeze.”
“Wow. Really? Really. I’m in bed with a guy who, not only can and will kill a man with an icicle, but will subsequently make jokes about it. That joke, no less. Which really? With the entire repertoire of ice-related humor at your disposal, you go with that?”
“What? Shoulda said I ‘iced’ ‘im?”
“In cold blood even.”
“What can I say kid, I’m cold as ice. Gave ‘im the big chill. Snow job.”
“Okay. That was bad. No I’m sorry it really was. Left me cold.”
“What? You sayin’ I can’t pick ‘em?”
“Stop! Stop! I give.”
“Yeah? What’ll you give me?”
“Are you staying? …Because if you’re staying I’ll give you another beer.”
“What if I want something else?”
“Ha, you already had something else. Twice.”
“A wise guy I know once told me war stories are the best bedtime stories. Maybe I want this one.”
“Oh. That. The wrists, yeah, it’s not what you think.”
“No? You gonna tell me what I think now? Because I don’t think it’s a suicide attempt. Too thick. Too wide to be a deliberate cut. A deep, clean cut heals smoother than this.”
“Okay. So score one for the super-detective.”
“Don’t do that - pull away like that. I hate it when you do that.”
“Do you want that beer or not?”
“Nope. Hey, stop for a second. I’ve seen the way you flinch at my touch, kid. The way you look at me with those cornered alley-cat eyes sometimes. How you get sorta twitchy - defensive and lippy, like you can’t stop your mouth from moving when we’re around Bowman, and the other Feds. I wouldn’t say this is the kind of mark you get from a suicide attempt at all, but it was no accident either. Judging by the placement…and this wide, white kind of stripe right over the bone, the way it’s rough here, like the skin was all scraped away, slow, instead of a quick, deep slice…I’d say this is the kind of mark you get from a pair of handcuffs put on too damn tight, for far too fucking long.”
“…I asked if you were staying.”
John ended up staying for three and a half weeks. But he got his story.
**
“Yeah yeah, we’ve done this one. The scar on my knee means Lucy. You’re welcome.”
“Yeah we did. 13 years ago. It’s more now. If it’s Lucy, then it’s our grandkids too.”
“Yeah. Those would be your grandchildren. Did you hear what Lily did? She found an old box of ammo in the shed over there. Lucy caught her making the bonfire before she could pitch them in, though.”
“Jesus Christ. Sounds like mine alright. But they’re sure as hell Lucy’s, too. You know what Allan called me yesterday? John. They’ll call you Matt-Matt ‘til your dying day though. See? Yours, just as much as mine.”
“Yeah, well. It probably helps that ‘Uncle Jack’ told him just how much I love it. Turns out the McClane sense of humor is hereditary. From ‘kid’ to Matt-Matt. I swear to God nobody around here knows my real name.”
“Well maybe we should just go back to calling you Dai-“
“DON’T you dare. Buy all the little blue pills you want, if I ever get another pair of jean shorts for my birthday, you’re still never ever getting laid again. …I thought ‘pop-pop’ made you feel old, anyway.”
“Gettin’ old’s not so bad, kiddo.”
“Maybe not for you. …But this. Hijackers, terrorists, flying cars, shit that’s actually supposed to fly just falling out of the sky on you, and this is how I almost lost you.”
Matt had never once laid a finger on John’s pacemaker scar before. He didn’t even like to look at it, never mind leaning down to put a little kiss over the years-faded mark like he was doing just now. Maybe what they said about time and all wounds was true.
**
“This one I know.”
“You think so?”
“Bullet. Two bullets. Surgery. Butterfly knife. Surgery to undo what the first surgery did. Steel cable. More surgery.”
“You missed the burn mark.”
“Nuh-uh that’s collateral damage from bullet number two on the most recent assault. I said two bullets. I’m covered.”
“Covered huh?”
“Oh look, and now I’m uncovered. Hilarious. You’re already such a blanket hog anyway. This is why I don’t sleep in the buff anymore.”
“That and Matty Jr runnin’ in here every damn morning the minute Jack dropped him off.”
“And that. OH and this - what I like to call the continental shift. Things that used to be in Greenland? Extradited to Saudi Arabia. This…I don’t even know what this used to be.”
“That is what happens when you go 49 years without ever seeing the inside of a gym. And somehow never gain a single pound. It’s just lucky everything’s still in working order, huh?”
“Cut it out, I’m onto you and your distraction tactics. Don’t think I’m forgetting that you owe me a story. Actually that shoulder is like reading Braille, it’s probably worth more like seven.”
“You went out of chronology.”
“No dice, welcher. Pay up.”
“Heh heh. Okay, okay, go easy on an old man. Where’d you learn to pinch like that? Christ.”
“Lucy. Seriously, she calls it the Pig Bite and she’s lethal with it, I swear. Oh relax, she didn’t teach me to do it there. …Now what are you- Oh.”
“Mmm. Who’s being distracting now?”
“This from the guy sucking my finger. I can’t help it. Years of conditioning. That response is involuntary when you do that, okay?”
“This thing won’t budge.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you wear a ring for 11 years.”
“That long? Shit. I still remember the day you came home wearing this.”
“Could have fooled me. You didn’t say a word. It was months before you got yours. I remember because I nearly had a fucking heart attack when I couldn’t find it, the day you took it to get them engraved.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You mean you wanted to return the favor. I had to do it. Couldn’t handle any more ‘single dad’ misunderstandings after the cloakroom incident with Matty’s montessori teacher. Remember that?”
“That guy. That was no ‘misunderstanding’.”
“Easy, big fella. …Here, you gotta twist and pull. See? What are you doing with it anyway?”
“Paying my debt. Like you said, that shoulder’s gotta be worth something.”
“So you’re stealing the only valuable in the world that means anything to me? I think you might be kind of iffy on your understanding of how the concept of a debt works…”
“If you want your story you’re gonna have to shut up two seconds.”
“…Shutting. Done.”
“…Alright. You see this battle scar, the one right here? This is what makes sure I’ll always be around to get the next one.”
Matt’s tone is grumpy, even crotchety, when he points out that tan lines are a total technicality, but then he gives a self-conscious little sniff. And by now, John has seen Matt through enough years of traumas and triumph, joy and heartbreak, births and deaths - and for some reason, movies featuring any sort of Christmas music - to recognize that bright shine in his eyes for what it is.
Game. Set. Match.