Rating: NC-17
Words: 9,714
Disclaimer: Recognizable characters are from Die Hard 4.0
Notes: Set about three weeks after His Space.
When I'm rich and famous, Matt thought, companies will send a limo to pick me up. No--a helicopter. 'Course, I don't like flying... but they'll offer. And then I'll tell them, no, send the limo. With a little bar and a TV, and wireless. And maybe a jacuzzi in the back. And a chauffeur with gloves and a hat. Unless the helicopter has a minibar--no, fuck the helicopter. Limo. And then I won't be standing here on the N train at eight in the morning, wearing somebody else's cologne.
The train was packed: wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling humanity that made Matt think of pictures from animal rights brochures, illustrating the inhumane conditions in which cows or chickens were kept. It might've been the oxygen deprivation from the way his left lung was being squeezed between two particularly large and unyielding passengers, but he remembered some of those cages looking roomy compared to this. Matt was pretty sure if he lifted his feet, he could float where he was, just with the pressure of the surrounding crowd, but he wasn't going to try it again. The day before, his wry sense of humor had gotten the best of his self-preservation, and of course, five people had chosen that precise moment to move down the car. Matt had found himself sprawled across the laps of two guys who looked like they could crack walnuts with their eyebrows. Fuck courtesy; Matt had shoved everyone he had to to get to the next car.
If I believed in god, Matt thought, I'd take this as evidence that human society was beyond redemption, and our punishment as a species was to commute.
One nice thing about being an IT consultant--one of the many--was that you usually worked from home, and if a company wanted you to come in, they typically didn't insist you adhere to regular business hours. Matt had ridden the New York City subway before, but until recently, he'd never had to do it at rush hour. The system itself was still warily recovering from the Fire Sale, and so not as many trains were running as usual, or as fast, with the result that something like the entire population of China was always waiting for you almost a block from any subway station, and the numbers didn't dwindle as you were buffeted along by the human tide, they just had to cram themselves into narrower and narrower spaces. The steep stairs down were a real heart-stopper in these conditions; Matt had to comfort himself with the thought that if he did fall, he could just body-surf to the bottom over the heads of the crowd. The platforms weren't so good for the blood pressure, either. Matt did his best to stay well back from the edge, and only let himself be torn from the pillar or bench he'd latched onto when the train had come to a full stop and opened its doors. That, however, meant he forfeited any chance at a seat, and got to work on his sardine impression for an hour each morning and evening.
For Christ's sake, elevators had maximum weight limits, buildings had maximum safe occupancy; surely subway cars had them, too? And whatever the hell they were, they had to be way the fuck over them, by now. They were eighteen different kinds of health and safety hazards waiting to happen, Matt was sure of it.
For the tenth time in the last half hour, Matt looked wistfully at the plastic loop suspended about eight inches ahead of him and to his left. He could reach it, but if he did grab hold, he'd be going through all sorts of unnatural contortions for the next nine stops, trying to keep his elbow from clocking the businessman next to him in the face. Matt sighed and resigned himself to the odd calisthenics of keeping his balance without any handholds, and the numerous apologetic expressions he'd have to shoot in the direction of everyone he jostled when he failed to do so.
It wasn't entirely the combined body heat of his fellow commuters that had Matt's color up as they rattled along, either. These close quarters were embarrassing. Matt had never been all that physical a guy--not in terms of sports, or his relationships with other people. He'd never been a hugger with either gender, never engaged in all that back-slapping, headlocking, play-wrestling shit, usually didn't even sit all that near his friends, when space allowed. He was cerebral... intellectual. He lived in his mind, and in the cyber-realms... where people didn't invade your personal space so damn much. He knew no one had a choice in these circumstances, which was why he hadn't hauled off and punched any of the people who brushed up against his ass, landed their hands in inappropriate places as they pushed past him to the doors, or, y'know, stood flush up against his back and breathed in his ear for six stops. Nevertheless, it set off his fight-or-flight instinct to have complete strangers, en masse, getting more intimate with him than Matt had been with anyone but John. He couldn't do anything with that instinct except grit his teeth and sweat in a river down his back, with the distinct impression that other people were sweating on him, too, twice a day for an hour.
At least it was nearly over. By tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, Matt figured he'd have the bank's servers and online customer access as secure as they were ever going to be, and then he could ditch this scene. He believed fervently in public transport, in theory, as a great social equalizer, providing universal access to employment and vital services, and reducing pollution, but right now, as far as he was concerned, everyone could take the fucking bus, and roll around in SUVs running on diesel, if it would get him off the goddamn subway.
Matt managed to haul his left side out from between the ex-boxer-looking dude and the weight-lifter-woman who'd had it squinched between them, earning himself a pair of dirty looks. Matt scowled at the ass of the woman to his right--it was in the way of the floor, which was completely invisible--and rubbed what he imagined was his bruised lung. "So sorry for exercising my Constitutional right to breathe," he grumbled.
"What's that?" barbell-woman demanded.
"Hmm?" Matt looked up at her, all wide-eyed innocence and guileless smile.
The woman grunted and turned her eyes back to the door.
Matt slunk into the apartment at seven thirty-six, wanting to shed his own skin. John looked up from the evening paper and made a silent "phew" with his lips. "It's forty degrees out, kid, did you run back?"
Matt gave him a withering look and slid his laptop case off his shoulder, propped it by the door. "Can't talk till I shower," he said as he shrugged out of his coat.
John hooked an arm around his waist as he passed the sofa and hauled. Matt yelped and landed with an "oomph" across John's lap, knees draped over the armrest. He pulled his best glare, but when John smiled--that really cute one that pulled the right corner of his mouth up higher than the left--the glare fizzled. Matt closed his eyes and tried in vain not to smile back. "At least you're here," he grumbled.
"Bad day?" John asked.
"Day was fine," Matt said. "It's the commute that blows."
John brushed Matt's hair straight back and kissed his forehead. "That's the City for ya."
Matt sighed and relaxed against him. "Your city is barbaric and also, maybe, well, probably, most likely, full of perverts."
There was a pause and Matt cracked an eye open to look at John's face; he looked pensive. All he said was, "Close quarters, huh?"
"Critical mass. I'm just waiting for a car I'm in to explode from sheer density. Either that, or I finally snap and punch out the next shithead who knocks me into an old woman, start a stampede and get killed. You know, I came the whole way from Union Street tonight, shielding this woman in her seventies." Matt held up his hands. "You've gotta picture the car for me, okay? I got on the last one, 'cause I thought maybe if I got to the head of the line, and got my back up against a wall, I could spare a hand to play a game on my cell phone, or something. No such luck; it was crammed. All the reserved seats nearest the end of the car were taken, and mostly by guys in suits in their thirties and forties. So everybody piles on, and I get stuck roughly in the middle." Matt drew the lines of the aisle with his hands, extending from either side of his body. "The aisle's filled, right? Like, three people across, all the way down the car, then there's me, and behind me, against the wall, is this tiny old lady. I mean old, John. Like, could've blown away on a stiff breeze, old. Didn't come up to my shoulder, tiny. And I'm kinda lookin' at the people in the reserved seats, who looked perfectly healthy, and I don't see a broken leg, or even a case of gout among them. And no one stands up."
John snorted. "You think people still give up seats for the elderly on the subway? You sure you're not older'n me?"
"But they were the reserved seats! It says right above them you're supposed to give them up to senior citizens and anyone less able to stand than you are!"
"Yup."
Matt shook his head and gave a despairing huff. "Anyway, the train leaves the station, and there's me, standing at the end of the aisle, in front of Methuselah's mom. And maybe sixty people standing in front of me... and not one of the bastards is holding onto anything. So every time the train stops, the whole fucking train just lets themselves sway back, and me, I'm holding onto one damn loop with my left hand--I was too packed in to even raise my right, I'm not even joking--and trying to push back these hundred and fifty people between my left hand on a swinging loop that's anchored a foot off to my left anyway, and my tenuous grip on about a half a foot of floor space."
"When'd the extra ninety people get on the train?"
"Prospect. There were two hundred. A thousand. There were a million and a half people in that car."
"Some rush hour."
"No kidding. I thought my shoulder was gonna dislocate every time we pulled into a station. I was praying she would get off, but she stayed on until my stop. I'm not shitting you here about the pressure--no one gave a shit. I don't they were even trying to stand upright. It's the fucking subway, not a summer camp trust exercise! And I was the only one pushing back! I've never had to keep my body that tense for that long. My arm hurts."
The right corner of John's mouth was twitching with his effort not to smile. He slid his hand around Matt's left biceps and pressed in gently but firmly with his thumb. Matt winced. "Here?"
"Yeah." John began a slow, rolling massage. Matt narrowed his eyes and let out a hiss of appreciation. It stung, but it felt good. "Know what happened?"
"You slipped and bumped into her anyway, and she gave you a dirty look."
Matt looked at him. "Were you on that train?"
John gave a short laugh. "Nah, I just have a keen eye for dramatic irony. And I'm a veteran New Yorker."
Matt sighed. "It was at our stop. I let go of the loop 'cause I'm about to get off, and right then, someone shoves me to get to the door, and I crash straight into her. I body checked the oldest woman in America."
"It wasn't that bad, was it?"
"It was a good knock. It was a good dirty look, too. She even called me a delinquent."
John grimaced. "Aw, kid."
"That better not be condescension in your voice, McClane."
"Wouldn't dare. You saved that woman's life. You're my hero."
"Goddamn right," said Matt. He let his head fall back against John's shoulder. "So, what'd you do? Save a burning school bus full of orphans from going off a cliff?"
John grinned. "A lotta paperwork on stolen cars. You filled the daily heroism quota for the household."
"Well, someone's gotta."
John's hand moved up to Matt's shoulder, where his strong fingers began to work into an old knot.
Matt's eyelids fluttered. "Mmm. You are a man of many talents, John McClane."
"If the rap sheet fits." John leaned in and demonstrated another of those talents, which in a few short seconds had Matt feeling loose and relaxed in all but one area of his body. When their lips parted, John said, "Matt, you start wearing aftershave?"
"Ohhh, god, I knew it!" Matt groaned. He rolled off John's lap and scrambled to his feet on the carpet. He was already halfway to the bathroom before John managed a bewildered, "What the hell?"
There were appetizing aromas wafting down the hall when Matt emerged, thoroughly scrubbed, from the bathroom in his pajama bottoms, towel around his neck. He paused and lifted his nose. He thought he detected fried chicken, which set his mouth watering. His stomach contracted to remind him lunch had been a can of Red Bull. Still steaming a little in the relative cold of the corridor, Matt padded quickly down the hall and ducked into John's room.
The drawers of the old, oak dresser in there were wide and heavy enough that you had to grasp both handles to pull them out. Everything inside smelled pleasantly of the wood, the scent overlaying that of clean cotton and the detergent John used. Matt took one of the neatly folded white t-shirts from a stack, shot a stealthy glance over his shoulder, then buried his nose in it. It wasn't that the shirt smelled like him, really, since it was clean, but this scent was part of John's, since everything he kept in there smelled the same. Matt pulled it over his head. God knew how old it was; the cotton was worn to a silk-like smoothness. He liked how it fit, too--or rather, how it didn't: the neck was too wide and always slipped too low over one shoulder or the other, and it hung straight down from his shoulders to well below his ass.
Matt looked up and glimpsed his reflection in the full-length mirror set in the half-open closet door, swimming in John's shirt. He smiled hesitantly. When he wore something of John's, he liked the constant reminder of his smell, his size... Of course, that also meant it reminded him of his own size relative to John's, and he wasn't sure he was supposed to like being smaller than another man--or this much less built; when he held up his arms, the sleeves were so loose he could see his chest. He retrieved his towel from where he'd dropped it on the foot of the bed and gave his hair another vigorous drying. He started out the bedroom door, then paused again, narrowing his eyes at the mirror. He went over and opened the closet door the rest of the way. He frowned pensively at his reflection. He had identified as bisexual as soon as he learned the word. He didn't remember a time after puberty when he hadn't had a lively appreciation of both genders, so he considered himself a qualified judge, and he had never seen anything special about himself. Well, he was pretty satisfied with his hair, but that was it. The rejections he'd collected over the years--only a few, but that was because he hadn't had the confidence to try very often--would seem to support his assessment. He wasn't tall or athletic, he didn't think he could pull off graceful, he wasn't movie-star handsome or model-pretty, but he could hear John saying, "You're really easy on the eyes, kid, you know that?" He could picture his face, inches above Matt's own, when he'd said it.
Matt closed his eyes against the jolt of arousal that accompanied the memory. When he opened them again, there was something extra in his reflection. Something intangible. Something that he liked.
How fucked is that? he asked himself. Your self-esteem wasn't supposed to be based on someone else's opinion of you, and yet, the fact that John liked him, wanted him, made him value their differences instead of seeing them as inadequacies, made the guy in the mirror somehow better-looking. So, you're kinda like the shirt, Matt thought, raising an eyebrow at his reflection. You like it because he does. He shook his head and shut the closet. But, hey, if he keeps me half as long as he must've had the stupid shirt, I'm set for life, right?
John was setting down two plates of bread-fried chicken as Matt came into the living room. "Good timing," he said. "Siddown."
Matt ignored the command and went to collect drinks from the kitchen.
"You smell good," John said as he passed.
"Entirely like myself, now, I hope," said Matt.
"A bit like pie, to be honest," said John. "That's what happens when you use those crazy bath-detergents, or gels, or whatever the hell they are, instead of soap."
Matt slapped John's beer into his chest and took his seat. "Body wash is efficient. That's why I take the manly ten-minute shower."
John sat and flipped the cap off his beer, then winced and held the bottle away from his plate as foam spilled over the side. "Long, hot showers are one of life's greatest pleasures," John said. "Not my fault your attention span's too short for you to enjoy the simple things."
"Forty minutes' worth of simple things. I don't know what you do in there."
"Any time you want me to show you," John said. His tone was casual enough that it took a second for the words to hit home. When Matt looked up, John's expression was entirely innocent.
"You're good," Matt said, shifting in his seat.
"Years of practice."
"I would've made dinner, y'know." John had ordered take-out the night before, and tonight he'd done it himself--there was pasta and a simple salad to go with the fried chicken. "It's my job."
John waved his fork dismissively. "When I got home first, I figured it'd been a pretty shitty day for ya."
Matt frowned at his plate, then sighed. "I less than three you, John."
"The hell's that code for?"
"It means you are the awesomest awesome ever to ply his awesome. With awesome on the side."
"See, I know you're tired when you start doubling up on adjectives. Relax."
"Thanks, John."
"You'll make it up to me."
Matt raised his eyebrows. "By coming to see what you do in the shower?"
John smiled thoughtfully. "Well, that'll just be damned educational, but I meant tonight."
"Why, what happens tonight?"
"Tonight," said John, "I'm gonna take you back to my room, and lay you out on my bed. I'm gonna lube you up and work you open, one finger at a time, till I can sink my dick all the way into you in one, smooth stroke. I'm gonna fuck you so deep you can't tell where you end and I begin, so good you can't say anything but my name. Gonna fuck you for hours and hours, till you come so hard you forget how to type."
Matt's fork clattered to the table. He glanced at his nerveless fingers, then back at John, who was still entirely poker-faced. "You bastard," he said. John smiled at him. "Some guys are content to make you squirt milk outta your nose. You, you have to nail me to the table with my--"
"Just telling you what's on the program. You asked."
"Fuck the program," said Matt. "Let's go do that now. Right now."
"Dinner first," said John. "You're gonna need your blood sugar nice and high for this. That's why there's pasta."
Matt whimpered. "How can you say all that with that innocent, just-the-facts-ma'am smile on your face?"
"I'm just lookin' out for your health and well-being, kid. I'm out to protect and serve."
Matt glared, and retrieved his fork.
"And fuck you till you walk sideways," John added.
"Oh, goddamn it, McClane!"
John's alarm clock wasn't just analog, it was one of those shiny metal deals with two bells on the top and a tiny, honest-to-god hammer that vibrated between the two, like you saw in old Warner Brothers cartoons. Only John got touchy when Matt had suggested throwing it out the window, saying he'd inherited it from his father. Go figure, the man owned working pre-World War II technology. Mr. Creative Anachronism.
When it went off that morning, Matt's practiced hand shot across John to the night stand, wedging two fingers between hammer and bells while he fumbled with his thumb for the off switch. He let his arm fall back over John's waist and nestled his face against the other man's chest. Outside, it was still winter-dark. Inside, there wasn't even light to see the clock by, but Matt knew when it was set to go off each morning, and it was a barbaric time to get up. "Aw, no, don't," he mumbled, as John shifted underneath him. He screwed his eyes shut as the bedside lamp chain clinked against its ceramic base. The light clicked on.
"Morning," John yawned.
"You lie." Matt held onto John tighter.
"Last day," said John.
"Mmmfivemoreminutes," Matt groaned into John's skin. John had relented somewhat as far as the hours involved, seeing as both of them had work the next morning, but otherwise, he had made good his word the previous night. Matt couldn't have found the space bar with both hands and Google Earth afterwards; wasn't positive he could, now.
John ruffled his hair. "Go ahead. I'll wake you up again when I get out of--"
"Nuh-uh." Matt opened his eyes a sliver. In the forty-watt lamplight, edges were soft and colors barely more than shades of sepia. John's face was sleepy and peaceful, his body alongside Matt's and his arm around Matt's shoulders were warm, his heart thumping a pacific rhythm under Matt's cheek. How unfair was it to ask him to get up from that? It wasn't just the night-owl in him that wanted to stay like this.
But there was that whole, troublesome, need-to-work-to-eat thing, so he let John lever them both upright and disentangle himself. In the other room, Matt's own alarm clock spun up and began to play the second Gorillaz album. He detoured in there to lay out his clothes. The bank had been fairly cool about the dress code; they didn't want jeans, t-shirts or sweat-shirts, but they hadn't forced him to go corporate tool. He pulled out a ribbed turtleneck and a pair of once-black slacks that were veering towards the lower register of grey. He held the latter up, squinting at them, and decided he could get away without ironing.
He nudged his mouse and the screen of his desktop hummed to life, a mosaic of program screens entirely obscuring the wallpaper. Along the right side of the screen was a messenger window showing a series of IMs from WAR10CK from the previous night, followed by Matt's automatic idle message.
WAR10CK 22:15:31: Y0, Farrell. WTF are you?
Autoresponse from descartes_is: Apparently my life's more exciting than yours, 'cause I'm AFK and you wish I wasn't.
WAR10CK 22:45:56: Seriously. You said you were gonna beta this script for me.
Autoresponse from descartes_is: Apparently my life's more exciting than yours, 'cause I'm AFK and you wish I wasn't.
WAR10CK 00:27:42: You know, if you're too busy getting cavity-searched by Lt. Lockjaw, you should just put that in your Away message. Autoresponse from descartes_is: Apparently my life's more exciting than yours, 'cause I'm AFK and you wish I wasn't.
WAR10CK 00:28:00: That's weren't, you dick.
"Oops," Matt said aloud. WAR10CK was offline, now, or at least invisible. Matt turned on his Away message and entered, "Busy being a corporate tool; back to usual business hours tomorrow." He frowned at the screen for a second, then amended his idle message to read, "you wish I weren't." Matt rolled his eyes. He couldn't tell whether WAR10CK was genuinely pissed off, or just being a douche--it was a fine line with him.
Consigning that mystery to the many unsolved, he went to make coffee.
John's police station was a fifteen-minute walk from the apartment. With the state of traffic lately, John had been walking to and from work most days. When he failed to make his turn two blocks from the apartment, Matt looked at him.
"I've got some statements to take around 42nd Street," John said. "Thought I'd go in with you."
"You haven't been on the subway since the Fire Sale, have you?"
John shook his head.
"Boy, are you in for a treat."
John whistled when they reached the edge of the crowd heading to the station, a block and a half away from the entrance. They weren't on the edges for long; they had barely moved any closer before more Brooklynites crowded in behind them. They bobbed along slowly through the sea of elbows and shoulders, where breath and body heat raised the temperature a good ten degrees from that of the frigid November morning. It was an effort not to get separated in the press; Matt had to make more assertive use of his elbows than he usually bothered to. On the stairs, someone jostled him and he bumped against a wide hand hovering just left of his shoulder. He glanced to his right at John, but the detective was looking forward, surveying the crowd making their way down the steep stairway, funneling into the narrow tunnel ahead. Matt wondered if he was going over security concerns in his head, or watching out for someone getting knocked down. His arm remained poised around Matt until they had gained the level ground of the tunnel, just waiting, in case.
A train was just pulling out when they reached the platform. John looked to Matt. "Last car," Matt said, and led the way down to the end. They had a long wait, while the platform filled with grumpy commuters.
"Eesh," John muttered. "I thought public transport had hit its low in the nineties."
"Nice to know the city can still surprise you, isn't it?"
Eventually, the train wheezed into the station, and everyone piled on. Matt was shoved over the gap and nearly fell into the car; John caught his arm and steered him to the far side. Matt found himself up against the wheelchair railing next to the doors, John in front of him. "Last day," he said.
John smiled with one side of his mouth and nodded. People pressed in behind him and John took a step forward, planted his right hand against the window, near Matt's shoulder and grabbed the vertical handle next to the door with his left. "You weren't kidding about the crowd."
"A million people per car--I told you. I never exaggerate."
John gave a wry lift of the eyebrows and nodded. The train pulled out with all customary smoothness, throwing everybody against their neighbors. Despite his grip on the railing, Matt's shoulder hit John's forearm--which didn't budge. He glanced up apologetically and John gave a minute shake of his head. "So," he said, over the roar of the train's start-up, "what're you gonna do once this gig's over?"
"Sleep in," Matt said with feeling. "I'd say 'stay up,' but--"
"You were doin' that, anyway."
"Well," Matt said, then clamped his mouth shut over, "when you let me." Public place, after all. "Game," he said. "My online rivals have been getting away unpwned this week."
"Poned?" John repeated. "What is that, some crazy Jersey slang? Like what you do to corn?"
"Hey, I don't know what you do to corn, McClane..."
The train rattled and hummed its way along, collecting mobs more people at every stop, till it seemed there shouldn't be enough air in the car for all of them. Matt's body tensed with the familiar apprehension at Canal Street, just waiting to be shoved in eighteen directions at once as people elbowed their way past him to get out and in. Three lines crossed there; practically everyone changed trains. It was by far the worst stop on this route if you were trying to stand still. The doors hissed open and the crowd turned liquid around them, a sea of limbs and contorted faces like a Bosch tableau animated. Matt's fists closed tighter around the railing.
But no one bumped, elbowed, or shoved him. No one stepped on his feet or nearly dragged him out of the train with them. Matt glanced up. John was looking out the window behind Matt's head, his stance relaxed, arms straight either side of Matt's shoulders. The crowd was as large and as filled with knees and elbows as always, but it seemed to roll around John and slide off his back.
A minute later, the doors slid shut and the train pulled out. The uneven start spilled everyone sideways like dominoes, but the wave ended where a tall man in a suit hit John's left arm, without that arm so much as shifting; it didn't touch Matt. John was watching the tunnel streak by, and gave no sign of noticing.
At the next stop, John started talking about the weekend, going to catch some exhibition--martial arts--happening in Central Park, how they could force a little Vitamin D into Matt, maybe breathe the closest thing to fresh air the city was offering. Matt answered absently, although the mention of fresh air got him, because he was starting to find it difficult to breathe. He was watching the swell and press of people around them, realizing that he had space to shift, that he could move his hands and feet freely on a rush hour train. It wasn't even the same city anymore; couldn't be. It was a completely different train he was riding, somewhere where you reserved your own private car.
The doors opened again and the crowd surged past. John kept talking, didn't so much as twitch as the flow simply broke against him and trickled past like a river parting around a boulder.
He was so nonchalant about it.
"Yeah," Matt said faintly. He cleared his throat and repeated himself. "Yeah, that sounds alright."
John wasn't even trying, didn't notice the way the fabric of reality warped around him. It was natural for him, to create safe space where there wouldn't have been, to let others breathe easy by putting himself between them and adversity.
Matt swallowed, let his gaze fall to John's belt and tried to breathe evenly. His face felt flushed and he hoped it didn't show. He tried to concentrate on what John was saying about upcoming police training exercises, and to react with the right level of indignation when he suggested that Matt could stand to participate. But now that he'd noticed the little bubble of space around him, he was hyper-aware of it, as he was of the body creating it, leaning just clear of him--of John's arms planted firmly on either side of him; of his legs like immovable columns; of the ridges of his abdomen, just hinted as they were where his shirt clung; the wood-and-cotton scent of that shirt; the glimpse of his collarbone where the top button was undone; the relaxed line of John's throat and jaw; his mouth...
It was no good. Matt didn't know if it was all right for him to feel this way. Whether any adult should react this way to being protected. Being an adult meant standing on your own, making space for yourself, being self-sufficient. If anything, he probably should have felt insulted, indignant that John thought he needed shielding, that he wasn't capable of braving the rigors of a simple commute on his own.
Instead, his heart was hammering so hard he felt lightheaded, there was heat unfurling in his stomach that had nothing to do with overcrowding, and he was so desperately hard it hurt, right there on the N, surrounded by dozens of other commuters... who couldn't touch him because the wide back and strong arms of John McClane formed an impenetrable wall between them.
Matt's lids fluttered. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and concentrated on the rhythm of the train rattling through the tunnel, on John's even breaths, close enough that he could hear them over the ambient noise.
His skin was on fire.
He shifted, slumped against the railing. He riveted his eyes to the lapel of John's leather jacket--something neutral... except that he could smell the sharp scent of the old leather over the soap-clean of John's skin and the mild tang of his shaving cream.
Matt bit the inside of his lip. It wasn't right to need a hero. Only children did. But that was unquestionably what John was, and the sense John gave him, of being not just safe, but cherished, moved him on a deeper level than he could deny.
"--stop. Kid."
Matt lifted his eyes, dazed.
"Isn't this your stop?" John asked again.
Matt craned his neck to get a look at the sign through the window opposite as people poured through the doors. "Yeah," he said. He swallowed and whispered, "I can't get off right now." He wasn't sure he could move at all. He met John's eyes. John looked confused for a moment, then glanced downward and back up.
"Get off at my stop," he said. "Time enough to take a bus back."
Matt nodded.
He looked at his feet as the train continued on its way, his business casual black shoes, still shiny, flanked by John's: scuffed grey, worn at the sides and heels, soles a bit of a cheat, thick and springy for running.
Damn. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe calmly and void his mind of all things strong and wise-assed, but how was it supposed to work when he was close enough to touch?
Matt looked up desperately as they pulled into the next stop. "John," he said under his breath.
John took his arm and nodded to the doors. "Get off here."
"Wha--"
"C'mon."
They entered the crush, spilled out onto the platform. John steered Matt away from the stairs, somehow creating a path through the people crowding toward the exits without any undue force. Matt stumbled to follow, walking impeded by certain conditions. They reached a barrier at the far end of the platform, a single metal railing supported by a few posts, with a cardboard sign attached declaring "Staff Only Beyond This Point" in faded red marker. John stepped over the rail and at his jerk of the head, Matt ducked under it. The door beyond was unmarked. John cast a glance over his shoulder, but there was no one nearby and those amassed further down the platform didn't seem to be paying them any mind. He opened the door and beckoned Matt to enter. With his own glance back, Matt did.
John pulled the door shut behind them. There was a click, and a fluorescent bulb sputtered alight overhead a moment later. It cast a pale, flickering light on a largish maintenance closet, mostly filled with boxes and old equipment. There was an ancient PA system hulking behind the door, and a transistor radio sitting in the tiny, grungy utility sink.
"We're not meant to be in here, are we?" Matt asked, momentarily distracted by the weirdness of the place. There was a yellowing train schedule stuck to the wall with crumbling tape on which he thought he glimpsed the date 1940. "What is this place? Why isn't it locked?"
"It's mostly junk," said John. "And we're not, really, but no one gives a press-charges level of a damn."
"Why do you know about it?" Matt asked. "Or do I even wanna know?"
"I learned some interesting things about the subway system in the nineties," John said. He tugged on the lapels of Matt's coat to turn him around. "You wanna hear more about that, or you wanna do something about your... situation, here?"
Matt's cock jumped at his tone, and it was all he could do to keep his knees locked under him. "You're supposed to be working," he said.
"We're both a little early," John answered. He slid one hand around the back of Matt's head and walked him backwards until his knuckles touched the old train schedule. Matt closed his eyes when John kissed him and tried not to melt straight into the wall. John undid the large buttons of Matt's coat. Matt slid his hands under John's shirt, up over the long, hard muscles of his back to pull him closer. John's hand slid down Matt's side and round to undo the fastening of his pants.
"John," Matt breathed against his lips.
"I gotcha," John murmured. He caught Matt's lower lip between his teeth and sucked it into his mouth. He pushed Matt's pants and boxers down to his thighs. The rough skin of John's palm cupped the underside of Matt's cock. The surface ridged and pocked with scar tissue and calluses dragged along the sensitive skin and Matt thrust his chin up to kiss John deeply, moaning into his mouth. The closet vibrated with the rush of an inbound train, masking the trembling of his body as John stroked him to the tip, slid back and lifted his balls gently, caressed the thin skin behind them with his middle finger. His sack tightened, his cock hardening against his belly. Then John's hand was dragging slowly back up his length, exerting just shy of enough pressure, bringing every nerve to attention, straining after his touch.
"John," Matt whispered as their lips parted. John kissed the side of his jaw, tilted Matt's chin to the side and licked at the pulse which beat just under it. His tongue flicked over the skin as his thumb grazed the head of Matt's cock. Matt gasped, tried and failed not to buck his hips into John's loose grip.
John sucked at the flesh of Matt's throat. His hand traveled from Matt's chin, down the column of his neck, trailed between his pectorals, splayed over his stomach. His fingers slipped under the hem of Matt's shirt, slid up again over heated skin to bracket his left nipple. John's index traced a slow spiral around it. The sensation stabbed towards Matt's groin and set him writhing against the wall. When John reached the center, he pinched the nipple hard, nipped Matt's neck and brushed his thumb over the weeping slit of Matt's cock.
The rumble of the next train swallowed Matt's agonized cry. Matt's fingers dug into John's back; their grip on each other was all that kept him upright as his knees turned to water. He managed to hold on; he didn't come. That was the best he could say for himself. For the rest, he was lost, helpless with want.
"Fuck me, oh, god, fuck me," he panted as the rumbling faded.
John shifted the attentions of his mouth to the other side of Matt's throat. "Can't fuck you here, kid," he said. He ran his nail under the ridge of Matt's cockhead, tweaked the hardened nub of his nipple.
Matt whimpered and buried his face in John's shoulder. "Please. Please, John. Want you so bad."
John grunted and his wool-clad hips brushed against Matt's bare thigh. The thick, engorged length of John's cock burned through the cloth barrier. "Want you inside me," Matt breathed. He thought about it on those nights--or mornings--they slept apart. He thought about it when they slept together, but hadn't... Matt knew the rhetoric, knew it wasn't all about the penetration, but he never quite felt satisfied unless John had taken him that way, spread him wide open and filled him up.
He thought about it when John was at work, when Matt was programming, gaming, grocery shopping, dish-washing, it all came back to John over him, around him, inside him...
Through bad luck, reclusiveness and sheer laziness, he'd managed to go twenty-six years without getting any further than first base with anyone; he damned well forgave himself for obsessing a little, and fuck anyone who didn't. It wasn't just a starving man's first meal thing, though. When John fucked him, it felt like the hand of the Divine Matt didn't believe in, directly on his brain.
It was the way every nerve-ending seemed to fire at once. The heat, the pressure, the impossible sense of closeness. It was the way John handled him when they did it, like Matt was something precious and infinitely breakable. Matt liked that it was dangerous, that the wrong move could hurt him, that he could give himself up and let John guide him along the razor's edge; the way John never broke eye contact as he prepared him, entered him, watching Matt so intently he felt like he came into better resolution, became more real, just from the intensity of John's observation.
Matt had come close to breaking before--maybe he actually had--and he had always held the pieces together, shored himself up alone. This was the only life Matt had, and he was damned well going to live it, wasn't going to let anyone shatter it, but John... John was the first other person to care what happened to him. He was the first one to be careful with Matt. It was in everything he did and said, but it was during sex that Matt felt its fullest intensity.
"Come on, John," Matt whispered.
John kissed his temple. "Can't," he said. "All I've got's a condom."
"That's enough," Matt sighed. "It'll be all right. Really."
"No. I'm not sending you in to work limping."
Matt leaned up to kiss John's collarbone. "I'm a programmer, I don't need to be able to walk."
"Wouldn't be much fun sitting, either."
"John..." Matt moaned. The train's deep rumble cut him off and John's finger traced the vein of his cock. Matt was glad what his voice did wasn't audible. "All right," he sighed when they could hear again. "Then at least give me this..." He disengaged himself from John's hands, let his knees fold and slid down John's front to the floor. He reached for John's belt.
"Hey, wait," John said.
Matt raised his eyes to meet John's. "Not just me," he said. "Let me make you come."
"Matt, you were the one--"
Matt smiled, continued slowly to unfasten the belt. "But I'm not the only one, now, am I?" He slipped the button open.
"I don't need to--"
Matt rested his cheek lightly against the bulge running along John's inseam, still keeping eye contact. John caught his breath, eyes narrowing. "Really?" Matt said quietly.
"I don't want you to... do anything..."
"I want to," Matt said. He eased the zipper down carefully. "I'm not saying I'll be any good at it, but... I want to."
"Not here," John said. "Like this..." John had never let him do this before. He'd never said he wouldn't, either, just adroitly side-stepped, distracted and diverted whenever Matt tried.
I wonder, Matt thought, if you can understand what you do to me. That you care how I experience something for the first time. That you give a damn whether things are right for me. That you worry.
"Place doesn't matter," Matt said. "As long as it's the two of us." John's hands landed over his, but didn't hold him back. Matt pulled his slacks down. "I want to feel you, John. All of you." He was glad that he could mix some profanity in and pass off what he felt as dirty talk. Otherwise, he'd never be able to say it. Even as it was, he couldn't raise his voice above a whisper. "If you can't fuck me, then take my mouth. I wanna take you deep, want to be so full of you I can't move, can't think." He paused with his fingers hooked into the elastic of John's underwear, John's hands large and warm over his own. John's cock was a thick shape pushing against the soft cotton. Matt breathed against it, "Let me have you, John."
John gave a sigh that hitched and his hands fell away.
Matt pulled the cloth away and down. John's cock curved up toward his navel, flushed dark and rigid, the thick vein standing starkly out. Matt's eyelids lowered.
John stroked Matt's hair back from his temple. "Matt," he said, his voice breathy but even, "you don't have to..."
"Shh," Matt whispered. He reached up, hesitant--awaiting permission, but John didn't stop him--and ran his fingers lightly along the side of John's cock. It bucked under his touch; he cupped his fingers over the top of it, ran his thumb along the silky underside. "I know." He felt John shiver as his breath skated over the head of his cock. John pulled his hand back again, as if afraid to let himself influence Matt's actions. "Just let me."
He flicked his tongue over the head and felt John tense, his cock twitch. Gently, gently, he steadied the engorged member, running his thumb up and down the underside, and gave the head a slower, more self-assured lick. He tasted salt on the smooth surface and followed the trail of precome, swirled the tip of his tongue into the slit and twisted.
John groaned and Matt's mouth flooded with saliva. A shiver ran down the back of his neck and out along his shoulders. He leaned forward, enveloping the head of John's cock in his mouth, laving the underside with his tongue as he moved further, feeling John's pulse through it, beating counterpoint to his own. His lips met his fingers and he found he could reach no further. Sucking gently, he pulled back, following the retreat of his lips with his hand, and was shocked and thrilled at the obscenity of the sound.
John hadn't done this for him, yet; this was the first blow-job Matt had participated in, but the increased pace of John's breathing seemed to indicate he was headed in the right direction. It was all formulas, after all, and Matt had done an awful lot of research, over the years.
He leaned forward again, trying to take John further down, bring him further in. John's cock was thick and heavy, stretched his lips wide just to get halfway in and pinned his tongue almost completely. Once, twice more, he bobbed his head, slurping and swirling shamelessly as the train roared through to mask the sound. Then he realized the problem, and tilted his head, guided John's shaft downward and slid up, gingerly this time. John's cock slid over his tongue, down, into his throat. Terrifying; his throat muscles clenched, spasmed around the invasion. Matt slowed even further, but forced himself calm, took a careful breath through his nose, kept moving until his nose was pressed into the wiry curls of John's groin, his balls soft against Matt's chin. He stilled there, to give himself a chance to adapt, discover what wanted to move where. Like the first time John had been all the way inside him, they were frozen, locked together, nothing outwardly moving, but the pulse in Matt's throat and John's cock hammered side by side, and Matt's panicked internal muscles thrummed. His gag reflex tried to fire, but he forced the feeling down.
His body was trying to tell him how wrong this was; instead, a deep, deep pleasure coursed through him, tightening his balls, making his own cock throb desperately. He was so aware of every millimeter of John, pressing into the sensitive, vulnerable flesh of his throat, it was almost unbearable.
"Matthew," John whispered. "Are you all right? Be careful..."
The rumbling moan that vibrated up through Matt's throat was half assent, half sheer, pleasure-addled appreciation. So good. So goddamn good. Matt raised his hands, curved them around the sculpted muscle of John's ass to anchor himself as he pulled away. He meant to do something more artistic with his tongue before deep-throating John again, but before he could think it through, he was pulling himself back up along his length, wanting to feel that impermanent impalement, wanting the risk and the trust and that sense of closeness so intense it shouldn't be possible for two separate human beings. His moans wrung answering sounds from John, desperate, urgent sounds that twisted Matt's guts into knots, but John didn't move an inch; didn't so much as twitch his hips, didn't try to move Matt's head.
It was wet and sloppy; Matt reflexively tried to swallow, and John made a sound like he'd been gut punched. The train came through, drowning out all sound and Matt swallowed again, then again. The muscles of John's ass tightened under his fingers, his cock leapt. Then, for the first time, John touched his face, and pulled back. But Matt followed, and John's cock bucked again, violently, and his come burst across Matt's tongue, flooded his mouth. He pulled John to him as he tried to move away, drank him down, coaxed out the last few spurts with a careful tongue.
Matt's legs were all pins and needles as John lifted him upright and wrapped him in his arms, kissed him deep and hard. Matt shuddered as his neglected erection rubbed against John's thigh. Then John was pressing him up against the wall, dragging his jeans further down. He heard a crinkle, then John's middle finger pressed against Matt's entrance through the thin, oily skin of a condom. The nerve-endings there fired, sensation stabbing towards his cock. "Oh, yes, yes," he sighed.
"Just enough for this," John said, and kissed him hard as his finger pressed inside.
Matt cried out into John's mouth. He spread his legs wider, got an arm around John to pull him close and urge him on. John's other hand clamped over Matt's hip, steadying him. He took time sliding his finger all the way in. He stilled Matt when he tried to roll his hips against him. "Easy," he said.
"Mmmm... More, John. More. Please."
John stroked his inner wall as he pulled his finger out and pushed it back in, once, twice, three times, before he pushed back in with two. He was right, the condom's lubrication wasn't enough to do much, but still, Matt was aching for it.
Matt nuzzled his cheek against John's, arched his back to rub against him. "One more, John," he begged. There was a tight burn around just the two, painful in a way that made his heart race and his hips strain against John's hand, wanting to grind down and fuck himself harder on them. "One more."
John nuzzled back, mouthed a sloppy path to Matt's lips and kissed him deep and hard. He scissored his fingers inside Matt. The stretch and slide made Matt shudder, fill his lungs deep and clutch at John's back. John pushed closer, pinning Matt's torso with his own. He twisted his fingers inside. Matt whined, clung tighter, and was grateful John was holding him so firmly in place, because his body was no longer under his own control. Everything was tightening, jerking, twitching of its own accord, seemingly in different directions, but as long as John had him, it was all right; everything was. Matt cried out as John found his prostate and began slowly to thrust into him with his fingers, angling past it each time. He sped up until there was only a brief shiver of receding sensation after every boiling ice-shot shock. Matt didn't know what sounds were falling from his lips anymore, whether there were words attached or not, but he was vaguely aware that this was as much as he could take and as hard as he could stand to be fucked right now, no matter what he'd begged for. The roar of the train let him sob-scream out the thing that flashed through him like light and left him polished and peaceful as the underbelly of the sea revealed by the receding tide.
John was kissing his throat lazily, softly, as Matt came back down to the world of the thinking, his whole body utterly and beautifully relaxed.
"Mmm," Matt murmured. He turned his face into the juncture of John's neck and shoulder and took deep breaths of his scent as his heartbeat slowed. John supported him until his legs were bearing his full weight. "Mmmmgod, John."
"Mm-hm," John agreed.
Matt opened an eye to glance at their surroundings over John's shoulder and smiled against his shirt. This is some serious crazy, kinky honeymoon sex, right here. "In the subway," he giggled.
John's chest rose and fell against his with his chuckle. "Yeah. Not bad, huh?"
"I'm proud to know us both."
John laughed into Matt's hair. With a sigh that made Matt shiver, John pushed himself away from the wall. "Hang there a second," he said. He crossed the little room and wrestled the old radio off the sink awkwardly with an elbow and a hand.
Slouching, resisting the urge to slide all the way down the wall and sit, Matt glanced down at himself and realized that through some last-minute prestidigitation on John's part, there was nothing untoward on his shirt, or any of the rest of his clothes.
"Hey, we've got water," John said, and beckoned. With some effort, Matt heaved himself away from the wall and joined him. They laughed and winced their way through what clean-up they could manage with the trickle of cold water. Then Matt insisted on straightening John's shirt, so John insisted on straightening his, and the clumsy silliness of them both doing it at once made Matt grin stupidly, despite the oncoming blood-sugar crash he could feel dragging at him, and the sneaking suspicion he was already late for work. Fuck it. It was the last day of this gig, anyway.
John raked his fingers ham-handedly through Matt's hair. Matt laughed and wriggled, though not enough to pull away. "You're just makin' it worse." He smoothed his hands over John's scalp. "No fair when I've got nothing to retaliate on."
John gave his hair a last ruffle, completely destroying any last hope of composure it had. "There ya go. Perfect. Business formal to the last hair."
"Bastard," Matt said, smiling. He looked up into John's eyes. "You're gonna be late, now, too, aren't you?"
"Technically. But no one's watching me, since I'm starting the day outta the station. Senior detective, see. They trust me."
"If they only knew!"
"Hey, I was on police business. Had to protect and serve a citizen in need."
Matt lowered his eyelashes. "Oh, I was in need, Detective."
"Glad to be of service, sir."
Matt grinned. "Ooh, 'sir.'"
John snickered.
"You spoil me something awful, y'know," Matt said.
John covered Matt's hands with his own and bumped his forehead gently against Matt's. "You can stand a little spoiling."
Matt looked away, embarrassed.
John brought Matt's hands down in his, clasped them for a moment before releasing them. "C'mon," he said. "You can still say the trains were running late. Er. Than usual."
They slipped out of the maintenance closet. Their end of the platform was still deserted, and the people pouring off one train and down the nearest staircase paid them no heed as they slipped in amongst them.
"That's yours," Matt said, nodding toward the train still disgorging passengers.
"It's only one stop back to yours," John said. "I'll take you."
A shiver rippled down Matt's back. Not cold, not sex; something else entirely. He grinned and gave John a two-handed shove. "Get going, Detective. This citizen will make it on his own. Promise."
"Well, if you say so," John said. "See you tonight."
"Oh!" Matt called after him as he moved away. "Don't cook! Even if I'm late!"
John frowned at him for a second, as if he couldn't hear, then made an "Ah," expression, smiled and held up his hands in acquiescence. Matt gave him a quick wave before he turned to board the train. He watched John's broad back disappear into the depths of the car. The doors hissed shut and the train pulled out with that rush of artificial wind which was the only thing Matt liked about subway travel.
He made his way to the other side of the platform. It was still empty, but he kept a careful distance from the edge.
He ran an idle hand through his hair as he waited, felt the ghost of John's touch, closed his eyes for a moment.
He'd always been determined to keep moving forward and see what the future had to offer. Not even his year in Juvie had managed to dent that resolve. But neither had he ever perceived anything in himself worth careful treatment. John saw that in him, and how far he went to protect it had started to make Matt believe in its existence. What the hell it was, he still had no idea, but he could see its reflection in John's eyes.
You make me feel priceless.
He didn't think there would ever be anything he could give John that would measure up.
When his train finally pulled up, it was just as packed as always, and his head was starting to ache in protest of too much activity on too little breakfast, but neither could diminish how good it felt to be this particular commuter on this particular day.
--August 30, 2008
Sequel: Taking Names
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