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When John had said they didn't have to figure it out all at once, he'd really meant it. Matt's dick had heard "okay" and jumped to a conclusion that was not at all supported by his eyes, ears and brain. It all more than a little frustrating, but Matt remembers those seemingly endless minutes of John's silence, and there is no way that he is going to let his body get ahead of his brain again. John is entitled to his Big Gay Freakout or whatever this was, and Matt is content to wait, sort of.
They still have dinner, like they always do, every night the rest of that week. He's caught John watching him a couple times, and he's pretty sure that's new; he can't figure out what John's looking for, though. They sit a little closer, maybe, but they were pretty cozy, before, for guys. They sit on the couch, and watch the game, and Matt never knows what to do with his hands.
He's at a loss as to how to differentiate one dinner in John's apartment from the forty before it. They've just started whatever they have, and he already feels like they're in a rut. A bad, sex-less rut.
He's not even sure if they're dating. He isn't sure what guys do when they date. Actually, he isn't so sure what straight couples do when they date. Most of his experience is of that peculiar falling-into-a-relationship sort that you have in college when you hook up with someone living two floors down who you met through friends. On the bright side, he's done this before, the friends-into-lovers thing, and he figures that most of it should translate.
Still, he feels like he needs a plan. He wonders if maybe John has a plan, before he remembers that John's version of a plan was stating the goal and trusting everything to fall into place.
"Hey, uh, John?" he says, the Tuesday night when the sitting on the couch gets to be too much for him. The name still feels off on his tongue, and he misses the safe distance of McClane. It's not like he needs to call him anything. There's never anyone else in the room.
"Yes, Matthew?" John says, turning from the tv to give Matt his attention.
Matt smiles to acknowledge the awkwardness. "I thought we could go out. To dinner. Saturday?"
"Sure," John agrees. "Any place in particular you want to go?"
"No. I mean, yes. I mean, I'll find someplace. Nothing fancy, just, different, y'know?"
John smiles like maybe he understands. "Yeah."
When the phone rings Thursday night, while they're poking the last pieces of rice around their plates, John's surprised, but a bit relieved for the interruption. The home phone almost never rings. It's Lucy; John nods toward the bedroom, asking for privacy, and Matt waves him clear.
It just figures that he's dating… seeing. Whatever. It would have to be the one person in the city that both he and his daughter know. There's no way he's getting through a conversation without her asking about Matt, and John doesn't want to lie, but he doesn't know what he wants to say either.
"What's up, honey?" he asks, once he's pushed the bedroom door shut behind him.
"Not much. Just called to say hi. Ask how you are. Ask how Matt is." That is precisely his luck. He wonders if he's a bad parent because he'd prefer that she'd called with a personal crisis.
John stalls. "You can't ask him that yourself?"
"Oh, you know how he is," she says. And John does, but he thinks - hopes - that Lucy doesn't know Matt the way that John does. "I tried. No luck. He's probably passed out," she says, and that explains the buzzing earlier that Matt hadn't answered.
"Yeah, maybe," John says. It's possible that Matt's fallen asleep in the past 30 seconds.
"Or maybe's he out. He sounded weird last time I talked to him. Lonely, sort of."
John doesn't want to put too much weight on that, but his baby girl is smart about people, good instincts, so she's probably not far off. "When was that?"
"A couple days ago?" She doesn't sound sure, but it's close enough that it worries John. "He was on his way to the subway; we didn't talk long. So?"
"I'm sure he's fine," John says, hoping it's the truth.
"Are you okay, Dad?"
"Arm's a little rough still, but you know me kiddo, I'm always okay."
"Well in that case, I thought maybe I could drive up to visit this weekend. Hang out, do some shopping before the semester gets bad?"
Shit, he thinks, and gets ready for some misdirection. "Aw, Lucy, honey, you know I'd love to see you but this weekend isn't great. I've got a thing."
"A date?" she asks.
"No, not a date, just a thing." Two months ago he would have been thrilled at this level of interest from Lucy.
"Well, that's okay, I can hang out with Matt if you're busy," she offers, and John misses the days when his children could be distracted by toys and cookies.
"He's going to be busy too," John admits.
He can hear Lucy's polite interest hardening into petulance with her next words. "You and Matt both have a 'thing' which you will not tell me about and which I am not invited to."
"Right, " he says, trying very hard to remember how special it is that he and Lucy are getting along again.
"Daddy…" she sing-songs, and he knows what that means; the intonation of that word hasn't changed in 15 years, even if he doesn't hear it very often anymore. "Are you sure it's not a date?"
He has an instant of thinking that it's none of her business what's going on in his life since his wife and children disinvited him from theirs. Just an instant, because that is total bullshit; he'll never not love them, and it is still very much his business who his daughter is dating. It's only fair.
"Because I think he might…" she says, and suddenly it becomes clear that what Lucy is saying is that she thinks John actually doesn't know, not that he's hiding something.
Back in the living room, Matt is trying very hard not to think himself into a nervous breakdown at John hiding himself away. "It had to be family calling," he thinks. The precinct only ever calls his cell phone, and those are short conversations anyway. Matt waits for a minute longer before getting up to turn on the tv, to curb his urge to eavesdrop.
He clears the table, stores the leftovers in the fridge, and John's still on the phone. Washes their plates, and John's still on the phone. Matt's vacillating between sitting down to wait, and leaving a note and going home, when the bedroom door opens and John comes back out.
John looks resigned as he hands over the phone. "She wants to talk to you."
That's unexpected, but 'she' can only be one of two people. "Hello?"
"Hey Matt." Lucy is not necessarily the more reassuring option. And then she says, "So, you and my dad, huh?" and she's definitely not.
Matt clamps down on his terror as quietly as possible. "Yeah?" he wavers. "I mean, yeah," he says with something approaching confidence. John's not meeting his eyes, and Matt has no idea how much she knows.
"He seems kind of okay with it," Lucy says, giving no clue as to whether John is alone in this opinion.
"Yeah?" Matt thinks there are other words in his brain, but he can't find them.
"You're dying, having to have this conversation with him in the room, aren't you?"
Matt turns so that he can't see John, not that it helps. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." It's possible that those other words are hiding with the balls that Lucy is about to tell him to locate.
"This isn't over, Farrell," she warns. "I'm depending on you to keep me up to speed. God knows Dad's never going to talk about it."
"Sure. Fine," Matt says, desperately agreeing to anything that will make this over. "I'll call you later, okay?" He hangs up without waiting for her response.
He doesn't, of course. There is no universe in which he is comfortable discussing his fledgling relationship with John fucking McClane with the man's daughter.
He sends several calls to voice mail and ignores three profanity-laced text messages before he answers when she tries again after work on Friday.
With the first words out of her mouth, the McClane tone to her voice makes Matt think that maybe he shouldn't have ignored her for so long, but it's too late now. "You know I will ruin your life if you don't start talking, right?"
"Lucy!" he chirps, fake-nice well above and beyond the call of duty. "What a pleasant surprise? How's Camden?"
"About like you remember, except my dorm room hasn't been blown up. Spill."
Matt starts looking for someplace out of the crowd to talk, since he clearly is not going to be able to cute-and-oblivious his way out of this one, and losing cell signal is probably an epicly bad idea.
"Come on, Farrell," she prods, when he doesn't respond. "What is your damage?"
Matt takes a fortifying breath and braces himself for what he suspects is a bad idea. "No, Lucy," he says. Firmly. "Just no. I'm not going to talk about it. It's new, and it's your father and it's none of your business."
"Oh my God," she cries. "You're courting him!"
"We are not discussing this."
"Did you buy him flowers?"
"I'm not gonna, like, stand outside his window with a boom box, Lucy."
She laughs, and Matt isn't sure if it's with him or against him, but at least it's not a death threat. "Thank God for that. I've heard that shit you listen to."
"We are not talking about this. I'm serious."
"Fine," Lucy groans. "Whatever, you loser. Have it your way. I just hope you don't fuck this up."
Matt holds in the, "yeah, me too," but he definitely thinks it as he says goodbye and hangs up. The rest of the day is an awkward holding pattern of worry-to-mild-panic, but at least he's down to worrying about one McClane kicking his ass.
It doesn't help John's nerves any when Saturday dawns rainy, and stays that way all day, a boring, oppressive drizzle that has a visiblly angering effect on the pedestrians outside. It is not allowed to be an omen, but Matt's been fidgety since they left his apartment, through the cab ride, and while they waited for their table.
The kid still needs a haircut, but he'd shaved and trimmed his usual scruff into something more presentable, and appears to have actually ironed his clothes, although John can see the top of a game logo on the t-shirt he wears underneath.
Matt listens to the waitress like he really cares what she has to say about the specials, and says thank you when she brings bread and then their drinks. It's such a little thing, but John realizes that he can't remember the last time they were together anywhere with other people - probably not since the hospital - and it makes him smile.
The restaurant isn't fancy, but it's nice enough. They're seated in a two-person booth in one of the back rooms, John facing the room, and Matt mostly facing John. From what he can see, there's a mixture of families and couples, and a few rowdier groups of college kids or coworkers. The tables are decent-sized, planned for quality rather than density. There's plenty of room to avoid contact, but not so much as to draw attention to a casual touch. John wonders how much of this Matt planned, and how much is luck. It's a lot like they always are at home, except for the part where it's unquestionably not, because they've never eaten in a restaurant together. He appreciates the effort either way, and decides that it's about time that he makes one of his own.
"How'd you find this place?" John asks, imagining something to do with the internet, restaurant reviews and star ratings, perhaps something that involves collating data or standard deviations.
When Matt replies with, "I, uh, asked some people at work." it's a little surprising, and a decidedly low-tech approach.
"You asked them where to take a date?" John asks, carefully neutral.
"No, no. I just said that I was tired of takeout and my own cooking. Asked for someplace low-key, independent. Normal-person portions. With a liquor license. I didn't want someplace that was too much. Is it okay? Because it looked okay, but I didn't do more than stop in, and I couldn't really-"
John interrupts his ramble before he can talk himself in a circle. "It's fine. It's great."
"Maybe it's too casual," Matt continues, unperturbed. "It's not far from the subway, actually, just in a different direction, and it was cool to walk around a different part of the neighborhood. I thought it was cool, anyway. You must do that all the time though. Camden's not... not safe away from campus, y'know? Not a lot of walking around, places like this don't do well since they don't have some big corporate light-up sign to lure people in. But this is cool. I like it here." Matt finally seems to realize he's babbling, and stops looking around the room to focus back on John. "I like it here, y'know?" John senses that he is maybe not talking about the restaurant anymore.
"Matt. Hey." John reaches across the table to catch Matt's drumming hand and trap it next to his plate. "Is this going to be a problem for us? Dating?" He glances out at the room before leaning over the table, lowering his voice, "Because I thought you wanted all this, but if you'd rather just go home and fuck, we can do that instead."
That surprises a laugh out of Matt, and John smiles at the intended reaction. "Is that all it takes? I don't even have to buy you dinner, I just have to get you out of the apartment?"
John shrugs. "You want me to play hard to get? I've been told that I'm good at being difficult."
John thinks they both know where this is going, and considering his dry spell, he is surprisingly not in a rush to get there, but they really haven't talked about this, and John remembers his 20s and the sense that there was no point in waiting for things. Right now, John is a long, long way from the last time he had fun on a date, and even further from romance that doesn't have the memory of anger or abandonment as a foil, and he's enjoying the journey.
He thinks that he can give Matt this. He used to be fucking fantastic at dating, before the kids and the job that felt more like his life than his actual life did. The music at the dance may have changed a bit since the last time, but he still knows the steps.
So, he spends the rest of dinner looking at Matt's mouth as much as his eyes, stealing food off Matt's plate and playfully growling when Matt does so in return. He mines his past for funny stories, particularly ones with parts to act out when his impression of Pulaski being attacked by a feral cat turns out to be a winner. They finish off a bottle of wine, and John extends his legs under the table to tangle with Matt's.
It's only by the grace of God that neither of them had ordered anything particularly suggestive, or John might have trouble walking out of the restaurant, although Matt earns a few dirty looks for toying with his dessert. They linger once the plates are cleared and Matt nearly giggles when the waitress, thankfully charmed rather than weary, asks if he'd like more coffee with his sugar.
It's a good night.
Matt groans as he gets up from the table, carefully flexing his leg to test the effect of sitting for hours without thinking about it. When they get out to the sidewalk, he's moving easily if a little unevenly under his own steam. The rain stopped while they were in the restaurant, long enough ago that the sidewalks are damp rather than wet, but the city still looks cleaner under the streetlights.
Matt had totally had a plan. He's a little giddy now with alcohol and caffeine and sugar warring in his veins, so he can't remember what the plan said about transportation, but he thinks getting into a cab with John right now might end up with him embarrassing himself. They're not far from Matt's apartment, and he'd sat around most of the day, so his knee should be up to the challenge. He feels pretty good, honestly, so he nods his head along the sidewalk, questioning, rather than heading toward the curb for a taxi.
John settles in to walk between Matt and the street, so Matt's hand on his cane prevents any awkward hand-holding issues. They keep up their conversation, but with less eye contact, because Matt needs to watch where he's walking, and John is incapable of walking in the city without his eyes scanning their surroundings. They lean into each other a little while waiting for lights to change.
When they're finally standing at the front door to his building, Matt asks, "Do you want to come in?" almost like it hasn't been running in a loop in his head for the past 3 days. He drums his fingers against his thigh as he waits. His own apartment had been part of the plan, too, but in light of the past two hours, it doesn't seem so important a detail anymore.
"Do you want me to?" John asks, like it's casual conversation instead of something Matt wants with every molecule in his body.
Matt shifts his weight before replying, so that he's leaning towards John instead of slouching. "I just thought, it's different, y'know?"
John mirrors his shift in stance. "Different's good too, but I don't think there's much wrong with what we've got."
"So, yeah?" Matt asks, not trying to keep the hopefulness out of his tone anymore. "Coffee? A beer?"
John chuckles. "I don't think you need any more coffee. Or any more alcohol. But yeah."
Matt moves up the steps and opens the exterior door with a steadiness he hadn't been expecting with John that close behind him. The door to his apartment gives him a little more trouble, but he still counts it as a win when it opens and they move inside. He toes off his shoes as John locks the door, and busies himself stowing his cane and keys on an umbrella stand that he doesn't ever use. He turns on the light in the kitchen because he never got around to buying lamps for the living room.
He finally turns back to John, saying, "So at the restaurant when you-" and gets interrupted by John's lips, and then John's body, and he finds himself backed up against the wall with John's arms framing a space around him.
It is unquestionably better than either of the kisses five days ago. It's better than he remembers any of his previous kisses with men being. The longer it goes on, the more sure he is that it's the best kiss ever, but that doesn't matter, because it is obviously the one and only best kiss happening right this second, and it is making his legs weak.
Then it penetrates his brain that one of his legs isn't that strong under the best of circumstances, and he pulls it together enough to move his hands from - God, when had his hands gotten there – up to John's shoulders to create a space to breathe and say "Couch?"
They both turn to look at the couch, which, honestly, had not been purchased with this in mind, before turning back to look at each other, and Matt takes the smirk on John's face as an invitation to say, "Bed?" which is simultaneously the best and worst idea he's had all day. He has been waiting for this for what feels like years, but they also just went 5 days of nothing after their first kiss because it was… was something… and he's not sure how much is too much, and when did he appoint himself John McClane's protector?
"I am not actually a teenager," Matt says, "but at this rate, in about 3 minutes I am going to be horizontal. One way or another. So if we could…?" Matt's words trail off as John runs a hand through Matt's hair and huffs out a breath and nods.
Matt doesn't let go of john until they're both through the door to his room. He only takes off one of his shirts, draping it over his desk chair, before he sits down on the bed and scoots back toward the wall. John's expression eases a little, and he follows Matt's cue, kicking his shoes off under the bed as he sits.
There's a self-conscious pause, and Matt feels the burden of having interrupted them for a change of venue, so he tilts toward John, pausing with an inch between them that John doesn't allow to remain.
A few seconds' time finds John and Matt entwined on the bed, which makes this kiss so much better because it is so much more, with one of his legs threaded between John's, and John's hands free to roam instead of propped against the wall.
Matt has a brief moment of clarity where he's thankful that neither of them was injured on the opposite side, because he's not sure how they could have managed without putting weight on both limbs, and then for one horrifying second he laughs, because he had never, ever imagined gunshot wounds factoring into a sexual fantasy, but he's pretty sure this will play on a loop in his brain until whenever the next time is.
He feels John smile against his mouth as the kiss eases for a second, but neither of them say anything, and then they're back with an intensity that has Matt looking forward to lots of laughter in bed, in between a lot more of this. There is a lot of fumbling and not enough hands on bare skin, but Matt is rutting against John's hip like his life depends on the rhythym and the pressure. Then John hooks his hand into the waistband of Matt's pants, and grinds down as Matt arches up into him and Matt's coming with a throb that leaves him gasping while John continues to rock against him and then shudders, himself, a minute later and Matt is free to drift in sensation.
Which he thinks is, wow, really gross, when he can focus again. There's a reason he that he hasn't come in his pants since high school.
He's sated enough to drowse for a few more minutes, draped over John with John's fingers combing through his hair. Eventually, he scoots further up toward the pillow, and nudges John's chin so their eyes meet. "D'you want to stay?" he asks. When John nods, Matt's never been happier that he owns so many clothes that hang off of him, because he's pretty brave, and getting bolder by the moment, but he still doesn't think he's ready for the reality of a naked John in his bed.
So he climbs over John and gets up, walks to the bathroom for a damp washcloth that he tosses in the direction of John's face and then pulls out a pair of pajama pants with hearts all over them that his expression dares John to object to. The pants barely hang on to Matt's hips even with the drawstring tied, a gift from someone who had apparently never seen him, or maybe just didn't care. Ironic, given the pattern.
When he comes back out of the bathroom again, hair still hanging damply in his eyes but otherwise decently clothed and reasonably clean, it's to the sight of John standing barefoot in his kitchen in front of the sink, in his undershirt and those horrible pajama pants. He doesn't remember that being part of the plan, but John may have been right about the steps being overrated as long as you get there in the end.