Die Hard Fic for smallfandomfest: We Could Be Heroes
Title: We Could Be Heroes (Just For One Day)
Author: persnickett
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Pairing/Characters: John/Matt
Rating/Category: PG/Pre-Slash
Prompt: Live Free or Die Hard, John/Matt, Morphine
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: John knows this story, and this isn’t where it ends. He knows it’ll wear off this time too.
Notes/Warnings: Nope. Fluffy pre-slash. Written for smallfandomfest.
___________________________
We Could Be Heroes
___________________________
“Dude. Are you gonna e-”
John tossed the kid his jell-o before he could even finish his sentence.
Not that he needed any more damn sugar, but maybe he could use the protein. A couple of days spent in hospital gowns paired with whatever the hell was in their IV drips had given them both more of an eyeful by now than probably was decent, and John now knew a little better than he likely should that something ought to put some meat on that lanky, coltish little frame.
Besides, it was worth it, watching Matt fumble and catch the little plastic cup of gelatin, then hold it up to the light, tossing his hair out of his eyes and grinning victoriously before giving it a little shake - the ensuing jiggle making his grin dissolve into an amused giggle.
There wasn’t a whole lot to do around here for entertainment.
“I know I said I’m not crazy about eating alone, but this Salisbury steak isn’t quite what I had in mind,” John confided, picking half-heartedly at the grey lump smothered in off-grey gravy. “And no offense kid, you’re cute an’ all, but you’re not my usual choice of date.”
“You’re a real cut-up, McClane. All the ladies in the old folks’ home must get a real kick out of you.” Matt expertly popped the plastic lid off his jell-o one-handed and watched its arc as it flipped through the air. He was actually starting to get pretty close to the little blue recycling bin in the corner. “Y’know, they say laughter is the best medicine, but that? Is bullshit. Morphine. Is the best medicine, it turns out. …I’m-” Matt gave another stoner-giggle “just really high right now. Aren’t I?”
“High? Maybe that’s why Urkel’s pants called. Said to stop stealing their bit.”
“Urkel jokes! Very 1990s, that’s progress McClane,” Matt enthused, sarcastically.
“Movin’ on up,” John answered wryly, giving up on the steak and moving on up to the cardboard corn niblets.
“The Jeffersons!” Matt exclaimed, identifying the quote like he was on Jeopardy. Then he cocked his head and raised his spoon, clearly about to make an important point. “Actually some retro cache points there. But I’m pretty sure they’re actually negative value, when it’s unintentional.”
John chuckled a little, but not at the jibe. “Can turn anything into a math problem can’t you, hack-boy?”
“I can try,” Matt sighed, wistfully. “Math is sure easier to understand than some people.” The way he peeped slyly at John from under his bangs seemed suddenly dangerous. “…There was this girl once, that I met in a BSG chat room - or she said she was a girl-”
“For a guy who likes to complain about his blood sugar,” John cut across him, as he dug into his ice-cream scoop of mashed potato mix - always save the best for last - “you sure like to spend a lot of time using your mouth for stuff that isn’t eating.”
Instead of another smartassed retort, Matt got suddenly quiet. John looked over and -- oh hell, no. The kid did not just look down into his single serving carton of chocolate milk and blush.
John felt his pulse pick up an uneasy notch or two. This was all he needed.
Matt was high, John knew. It was all over him - the slow, easy smile and the overbright look to his eyes, with the soft-blown pupils warming the brown to a shade that put John in mind of things like chocolate cake and goo-ily melting candybars… So either the food in here really was starting to get to him, or maybe Matt wasn’t the only one.
But it the thing was, it wasn’t just the morphine. It was like a drug: the adrenaline, the post-Armageddon rush …the hero worship.
And like any drug, it always wore off.
Oh, they would always swear it was love. Swear it on their lives. And maybe it was, in its way - this shiny new outlook on the world and everything in it. The way everything seemed brighter and full of purpose and potential - the way you’d get up to see the sunrise the first few mornings. The way you’d make love after it did, and again when it went down.
It was being in love with the world, and the earth under your feet and with life - the threat of losing it a pretty damn effective reminder that in the end it was all you really had - and some of all that glowing new colour-your-world had to have some splashback onto the person who just happened to be at your side when it went down. It was only natural.
But it never lasted. And somehow, when you ended up alone, staring down the bottom of a bottle of twelve year old Glenlivett and wondering how many hours ago it had gotten this dark in your one-bedroom apartment …that was the only part that turned out to matter.
Sure, sometimes it took longer than others. John remembered when he’d almost thought he had another grab at the old brass ring with Elaine. Sweet little Elaine, with her wide doe eyes and her soft curves, and her round, perfect tits. Elaine who had her purse snatched in Queens and thought it was a near death experience, and that Manhattan might be an exciting place to visit but that anyone with sense would settle down in a much quieter place like Minnesota.
John had even thought she might be onto something for a while. But sometime between getting the paperwork for the transfer and not one, but three more stays in hospital on the road to closing all the cases in his file, that one wore itself out too.
It wore off with Al, a man whose friendship had once been so thoroughly tangled up in John’s life he used to think they’d never solve another case without a quick call for advice, or to congratulate each other on their respective jobs well done. Sometimes even just to shoot the shit and hear a quick “Ahh, I love ya.”
For years now, his Christmas letter from the Powells had been the kind that was typed up on a computer, and the signature on the bottom of last year’s version wasn’t even in Al’s handwriting.
It even wore off with Holly. Every time.
It got easier after a while, kinder, just to turn them away. It was barely a fling with whatshername after 9/11. --Mary. And the thing with the musician kid John saved from the attempted gay bashing thankfully never went further than a couple of semi-inappropriate emails, and a very definitely inappropriately shaped cake mysteriously appearing at John’s desk on his birthday.
Matt was humming what sounded suspiciously like The Jeffersons theme song and conducting a jell-o taste test now - officially proclaiming the lime to be a ‘scam’ and that if you close your eyes, it’s just orange without the yellow dye #5.
“Nah,” John said, apparently unable to resist. “It’s the orange that’s bullshit. Green is actually the only flavour.” Matt turned to look at him for a moment, eyes too wide to be true. “…It’s not lime though. It’s green apple.”
Matt’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Then it closed, lips going drily tight.
“Oh, very good. You had me, McClane. In my defense, I’m under the influence. I may not always know when I’m getting fucked with, but that apple line was a stroke too far.”
Busted.
“Had to tell ya something.” John smiled. “Can’t have you figurin’ out it’s all Soylent Green and the only difference is a little extra Agent Orange for colour.”
“Oh, be careful with me, Detective,” Matt sighed, batting his eyelashes like a Disney princess. “I’m very impressionable.”
John looked again at the brown eyes sparkling with mischief; dark and soft-pupiled and filled with obvious, open admiration and lit deep down with what John could only describe as ‘joy’.
Then he looked away. He pushed away the years of long distance phone calls and dinners alone and reminded himself what this was.
That this was just an aftershock. That when it’s all over - when the fires are out and the stitches are in, and somebody comes off like a big damn hero in your eyes - somebody who showed up and had your back when you went up against the odds, who got you through the impossible, and who saved the proverbial god damned day…it makes you feel like it’s the end of some kind of fairy tale.
The difference is, John knows this story, and this isn’t where it ends. He knows it’ll wear off this time too.
He just never figured on being on this end of it before.
I, I can remember (I remember)
Standing by the wall (By the wall)
And the guns, shot above our heads (Over our heads)
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (Nothing could fall)
And the shame, was on the other side
Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes
Just for one day
-‘Heroes’, David Bowie
~~
I guess it really isn't where the story ends. Because now there's this:
Nobody’s Hero (So Will You be Mine?)
.
Author: persnickett
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Pairing/Characters: John/Matt
Rating/Category: PG/Pre-Slash
Prompt: Live Free or Die Hard, John/Matt, Morphine
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: John knows this story, and this isn’t where it ends. He knows it’ll wear off this time too.
Notes/Warnings: Nope. Fluffy pre-slash. Written for smallfandomfest.
___________________________
We Could Be Heroes
___________________________
“Dude. Are you gonna e-”
John tossed the kid his jell-o before he could even finish his sentence.
Not that he needed any more damn sugar, but maybe he could use the protein. A couple of days spent in hospital gowns paired with whatever the hell was in their IV drips had given them both more of an eyeful by now than probably was decent, and John now knew a little better than he likely should that something ought to put some meat on that lanky, coltish little frame.
Besides, it was worth it, watching Matt fumble and catch the little plastic cup of gelatin, then hold it up to the light, tossing his hair out of his eyes and grinning victoriously before giving it a little shake - the ensuing jiggle making his grin dissolve into an amused giggle.
There wasn’t a whole lot to do around here for entertainment.
“I know I said I’m not crazy about eating alone, but this Salisbury steak isn’t quite what I had in mind,” John confided, picking half-heartedly at the grey lump smothered in off-grey gravy. “And no offense kid, you’re cute an’ all, but you’re not my usual choice of date.”
“You’re a real cut-up, McClane. All the ladies in the old folks’ home must get a real kick out of you.” Matt expertly popped the plastic lid off his jell-o one-handed and watched its arc as it flipped through the air. He was actually starting to get pretty close to the little blue recycling bin in the corner. “Y’know, they say laughter is the best medicine, but that? Is bullshit. Morphine. Is the best medicine, it turns out. …I’m-” Matt gave another stoner-giggle “just really high right now. Aren’t I?”
“High? Maybe that’s why Urkel’s pants called. Said to stop stealing their bit.”
“Urkel jokes! Very 1990s, that’s progress McClane,” Matt enthused, sarcastically.
“Movin’ on up,” John answered wryly, giving up on the steak and moving on up to the cardboard corn niblets.
“The Jeffersons!” Matt exclaimed, identifying the quote like he was on Jeopardy. Then he cocked his head and raised his spoon, clearly about to make an important point. “Actually some retro cache points there. But I’m pretty sure they’re actually negative value, when it’s unintentional.”
John chuckled a little, but not at the jibe. “Can turn anything into a math problem can’t you, hack-boy?”
“I can try,” Matt sighed, wistfully. “Math is sure easier to understand than some people.” The way he peeped slyly at John from under his bangs seemed suddenly dangerous. “…There was this girl once, that I met in a BSG chat room - or she said she was a girl-”
“For a guy who likes to complain about his blood sugar,” John cut across him, as he dug into his ice-cream scoop of mashed potato mix - always save the best for last - “you sure like to spend a lot of time using your mouth for stuff that isn’t eating.”
Instead of another smartassed retort, Matt got suddenly quiet. John looked over and -- oh hell, no. The kid did not just look down into his single serving carton of chocolate milk and blush.
John felt his pulse pick up an uneasy notch or two. This was all he needed.
Matt was high, John knew. It was all over him - the slow, easy smile and the overbright look to his eyes, with the soft-blown pupils warming the brown to a shade that put John in mind of things like chocolate cake and goo-ily melting candybars… So either the food in here really was starting to get to him, or maybe Matt wasn’t the only one.
But it the thing was, it wasn’t just the morphine. It was like a drug: the adrenaline, the post-Armageddon rush …the hero worship.
And like any drug, it always wore off.
Oh, they would always swear it was love. Swear it on their lives. And maybe it was, in its way - this shiny new outlook on the world and everything in it. The way everything seemed brighter and full of purpose and potential - the way you’d get up to see the sunrise the first few mornings. The way you’d make love after it did, and again when it went down.
It was being in love with the world, and the earth under your feet and with life - the threat of losing it a pretty damn effective reminder that in the end it was all you really had - and some of all that glowing new colour-your-world had to have some splashback onto the person who just happened to be at your side when it went down. It was only natural.
But it never lasted. And somehow, when you ended up alone, staring down the bottom of a bottle of twelve year old Glenlivett and wondering how many hours ago it had gotten this dark in your one-bedroom apartment …that was the only part that turned out to matter.
Sure, sometimes it took longer than others. John remembered when he’d almost thought he had another grab at the old brass ring with Elaine. Sweet little Elaine, with her wide doe eyes and her soft curves, and her round, perfect tits. Elaine who had her purse snatched in Queens and thought it was a near death experience, and that Manhattan might be an exciting place to visit but that anyone with sense would settle down in a much quieter place like Minnesota.
John had even thought she might be onto something for a while. But sometime between getting the paperwork for the transfer and not one, but three more stays in hospital on the road to closing all the cases in his file, that one wore itself out too.
It wore off with Al, a man whose friendship had once been so thoroughly tangled up in John’s life he used to think they’d never solve another case without a quick call for advice, or to congratulate each other on their respective jobs well done. Sometimes even just to shoot the shit and hear a quick “Ahh, I love ya.”
For years now, his Christmas letter from the Powells had been the kind that was typed up on a computer, and the signature on the bottom of last year’s version wasn’t even in Al’s handwriting.
It even wore off with Holly. Every time.
It got easier after a while, kinder, just to turn them away. It was barely a fling with whatshername after 9/11. --Mary. And the thing with the musician kid John saved from the attempted gay bashing thankfully never went further than a couple of semi-inappropriate emails, and a very definitely inappropriately shaped cake mysteriously appearing at John’s desk on his birthday.
Matt was humming what sounded suspiciously like The Jeffersons theme song and conducting a jell-o taste test now - officially proclaiming the lime to be a ‘scam’ and that if you close your eyes, it’s just orange without the yellow dye #5.
“Nah,” John said, apparently unable to resist. “It’s the orange that’s bullshit. Green is actually the only flavour.” Matt turned to look at him for a moment, eyes too wide to be true. “…It’s not lime though. It’s green apple.”
Matt’s mouth opened but nothing came out. Then it closed, lips going drily tight.
“Oh, very good. You had me, McClane. In my defense, I’m under the influence. I may not always know when I’m getting fucked with, but that apple line was a stroke too far.”
Busted.
“Had to tell ya something.” John smiled. “Can’t have you figurin’ out it’s all Soylent Green and the only difference is a little extra Agent Orange for colour.”
“Oh, be careful with me, Detective,” Matt sighed, batting his eyelashes like a Disney princess. “I’m very impressionable.”
John looked again at the brown eyes sparkling with mischief; dark and soft-pupiled and filled with obvious, open admiration and lit deep down with what John could only describe as ‘joy’.
Then he looked away. He pushed away the years of long distance phone calls and dinners alone and reminded himself what this was.
That this was just an aftershock. That when it’s all over - when the fires are out and the stitches are in, and somebody comes off like a big damn hero in your eyes - somebody who showed up and had your back when you went up against the odds, who got you through the impossible, and who saved the proverbial god damned day…it makes you feel like it’s the end of some kind of fairy tale.
The difference is, John knows this story, and this isn’t where it ends. He knows it’ll wear off this time too.
He just never figured on being on this end of it before.
I, I can remember (I remember)
Standing by the wall (By the wall)
And the guns, shot above our heads (Over our heads)
And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (Nothing could fall)
And the shame, was on the other side
Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever
Then we could be heroes
Just for one day
-‘Heroes’, David Bowie
~~
I guess it really isn't where the story ends. Because now there's this:
Nobody’s Hero (So Will You be Mine?)
.