A/N: I'd say it took me about ten minutes after leaving the theater to get this idea. If I was any better at writing mystery or action, I might try my hand at a multi-chapter fic featuring the two biggest badasses in New York. Set pre-Shoot 'Em Up and post-Live Free or Die Hard. Also, well- I tried to be accurate about concealed weapon law, I really did. Bear that in mind.

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Smith knows he's in trouble. Again. He needs to find cover, somewhere to catch his breath and think. A few Band-Aids would be nice, too- it's the little cuts that really sting when the adrenaline begins wearing off. The blood-spattered gun bounces gently off the stump of carrot in his pocket. How many bullets left? Smith palms the weapon and checks the clip. Four. That will be a problem soon, if his evening continues in the same vein as the last two and a half hours.

"Excuse me," a voice shakes Smith from his calculations. He looks up to find a man standing before him on the sidewalk with a gold badge presented for his scrutiny. The man is a cop- even without the tiny shield, it's obvious from the millisecond Smith lays eyes on him. "You got a permit for that weapon, sir?"

An old cop, too. There's a comfortable rhythm to his words, and a faintly amused glint to his eyes. "I'm afraid I don't, officer."

A wry smile joins the glint; the cop knows the incredible value of honesty. "Well, then. I guess we have a problem, don't we?"

Smith sighs. "We do."

"So, let's take a ride to the station. I'll take the weapon first, though." The cop raises an eyebrow at the red adorning Smith's gun, but says nothing. He maintains a healthy distance between them as he reads Smith his rights and they walk to a dusty green sedan. The cop opens the back door for Smith, who settles in to enjoy the cushioned ride. It's the little pleasures in life that matter when people keep trying to kill you.

New calculations begin their slow spin in Smith's head as the cop pulls out onto the street. A police station- not bad for cover, actually. Perhaps this is a stroke of luck after all. A new weapon will be easy to come by, at the very least. Smith wonders if the cop would be interested in donating. In any case, police station, not too bad a turn of events, even if he is in custody. The people trying to kill him this time don't seem stupid enough to come into a building guns blazing when everyone in that building has guns as well. Although, if they are, it would definitely take care of Smith's most pressing problem but good. He logs it away with the other plans percolating in his brain.

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This turns out to be a mistake, leaving Smith ill-prepared when it becomes apparent that the people trying to kill him this time are stupid enough. And then some. And Smith's most pressing problem is much more aggravated than alleviated in the process, much to his displeasure. Currently, he has commandeered a copier room as an impromptu fortress. The copy/fax/printer is slammed up against the door, braced by Smith's own legs. Smith and the cop, who says his name is McClane, are checking their weapons. Smith's clip is now full- he's not entirely sure how that came to be. Smith wishes McClane would shut up.

"Jesus fucking Christ, these guys ain't kidding the fuck around! The hell you do to piss 'em off so much?"

"Nothing they weren't asking for."

McClane laughs, "I'll bet! Shit- they're gonna be through that door in a minute, you know that, right?"

"I do. Pass me that ink cartridge there." McClane tosses Smith the black plastic container sitting on a metal shelving unit. Using a switchblade he pulled off one of the people who tried to kill him, Smith pries apart the cartridge's two halves, careful to spill as little of the powdered ink inside as possible.

McClane is grinning again, "Gonna blind 'em, huh? Good thinking." He shifts so his shoulder now braces the copy/fax/printer and tells Smith, "Say when."

Smith finds a smile on his own face, misty scraps of pleasure at encountering a capable ally blowing around far back in his mind. He stands at the side of the door, cartridge halves balanced in his hands. "When." McClane jumps to his feet and must quickly deflect the copy/fax/printer as the door swings open. Two black-clad goons poke their heads in, and get face-fulls of ink powder for their trouble. As they splutter and swear, Smith lands a blow each to the goons' heads with a weighty metal hole-punch that finds its way into his hand. They slump to the floor, revealing the mayhem beyond.

"You know what I hate? People who think overkill is the solution to any problem," Smith mutters, taking in the near-epic shootout in progress within the station's main office.

"Yeah," McClane replies, at Smith's side after clambering over the copy/fax/printer, "People love to underestimate the damage just one guy can do."

Smith frowns, glances at McClane. The cop is surveying the situation just as he is, gun poised and steady, muscles tensed to move. "You go left, I'll go right."

McClane's gaze cuts to the left- counts, considers, plans- Smith can see it as clearly as if it were happening inside his own head. "Got it."

The next few minutes are a blur- they're always a blur. Running, ducking, diving, shooting, punching, kicking, hiding, looking, reloading, grabbing, throwing, lots more shooting and when the dust settles he's standing. Him and McClane.

"I think you oughta get out of here," McClane says, grim-faced and nostrils flaring with each breath. A graze from a bullet across his bare, scarred scalp is dyeing half his head crimson.

"What about the unlicensed weapon charge?"

McClane tosses him a gun; it's just on the edge between warm and hot. "I'll let you off with a warning. Just don't let it happen again."

Smith's not sure how much of his words are a joke and how much are deadly serious. They walk out of the station, other officers watching them both with equal shares of fear, respect, and awe. Out on the street, McClane asks, "These guys after you- should I be worried? I got a family to look out for, and more than enough people who'd like me to quit breathing."

"You should take some time off work, stay indoors and away from windows for a few days. They've blown their load, though. It's over."

McClane laughs at this, a bitter, rough-throated laugh, "If I had a nickel for every time I thought that was true, I wouldn't have half the IRS up my ass, pal. Take care." McClane holds out a hand- there's a full clip in it. Smith shakes the hand, takes the clip.

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Smith feels oddly bereft as he treads the sidewalk. He would almost call it lonely, if that made any sense. But what's the point of being lonely when one is alone all the time? He might as well resent breathing. But still, a sense of loss rattles around in Smith's head, irritating. He spends a few precious dollars on a cup of yogurt and pulls out his spare carrot. There's a bench down the street a ways. Looks like a nice spot to sit and catch his breath.