AN: I've been reading all this Die Hard fanfiction, and I decided, Hey, I think it's my turn. And, of course, being me, I have a Gawd-awful deathfic. As if the title isn't enough of a warning, here's another before you get too far and realize what you've done to yourself: THIS IS A DEATHFIC. AND A SLASHFIC. And with that said and done, please enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Die Hard movie series. I do not own the characters of the Die Hard movie series.
The Death of John McClane
Everyone thought he would go down in a blaze of glory, out with a bang, gone with the wind, or some other shit-like ending. Everyone thought he would die a hero. But not Matt.
Because Matt knows the truth, knows who the real John McClane was.
He knows how many bottles of rum John kept hidden in his kitchen cabinets (seven). He knows how many shots of whiskey it took to get John buzzed (five), to get John drunk (eleven), to get John into bed with him (none), to get John to forget the pain (not enough).
He knows what John liked to be called in public (McClane), in their apartment (John), in bed (Johnny-Be-Good), and never-ever (Jonathon). He knows what John liked to call him in public (Farrell), in the apartment (Kid), in bed (Jesus-Mother-Fucking-Christ), and never-ever (Matthew).
He knows why John never said "I'm sorry" (because he couldn't), never said "Don't go" (because he shouldn't), never said "I love you" (because he wouldn't). He knows why John threw him apologetic glances (because he could), wanted him to stay (because he should), loved him (because he would).
He knows who John turned to when he was frustrated with being a cop (his therapist), with Jack and Lucy (Holly), with life in general (Jack Daniel's). He knows John knew who he turned to when he was frustrated with work (John), with life in general (John), with John (John).
He knows where John would go after a bad day on the job (the bar), a good day on the job (the bar), any day on the job (the bar). He knows where John would go to find him after a bad day (the bedroom), a good day (the bedroom), any day (the bedroom).
He knows what John would do when he was worried (furrow his brow), feeling guilty (frown pensively), frightened (clench his jaw). He knows what made John furrow his brow (Matt's scream-inducing nightmares), frown pensively (Matt's swaggering gait), clench his jaw (Matt's vivid flashbacks).
Matt knows that John McClane did not die a hero. He died alone in their apartment while Matt was out getting groceries and champaign to celebrate their eighteen-month anniversary. He died as his heart, his poor-excuse-of-an-organ heart, spurted, fluttered, and stopped. He died a well-worn cop, a dead-beat father, and an ex-husband.
So Matt sits with Lucy at the funeral, letting her hold his hand and cry into his shoulder. He doesn't wonder why so few people have shown (fucking bastards), why Jack isn't there (fucking prick), why Holly looks bored (fucking bitch). He doesn't listen to the eulogy (John hated pointless words from pointless people), doesn't pay attention during the three-shot rifle salute (John hated rifles), doesn't leave when the casket has long been lowered and buried (Oh, John...).
"...take me with you."
AN: Yea, "happy endings" are my thing...Except not really. Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.