McClane woke with a start and yelled,"You fucking psycho son-of-a-bitch!"
He blinked a couple times before realizing that he was in his own bed in his own apartment sleeping next to his not-entirely-ex ex-wife. He climbed out of bed and walked into the adjacent bathroom. Leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water onto his face. He looked in the mirror and muttered to his tired reflection, "I guess I need to find a new German motherfucker so I can beat the shit out of his terrorist ass."
Then, from the other room, "John? What's wrong? Come back to bed."
He yielded and stumbled back to his side of the bed in the dark. He didn't waste any grace on slipping back under the covers.
"I'm in a fucking rut."
Well, that's what he had wanted to say. Instead, "I had another dream last night."
He wanted to throw a 'fucking' or a 'damn' in there, but that's what gets you a divorce- saying 'fucking' more than actually doing it. She stroked his face. He could imagine, even in the darkness, the sympathetic look she would be giving him- he knew it too well. It would be the one that said she felt his pain even though she clearly didn't because she couldn't. He didn't mind though. McClane was at the point where he decided he deserved sympathy, even the fake kinds. After all, he had lived through enough terrorist ass-kickings that he shouldn't be having these damn recurring dreams that were fucking up his head, his health, and just his life in general.
"We should take a vacation," she offered.
On an entirely different train of thought, he added, "Maybe that was my first mistake."
"Hmm? What?" she asked sleepily.
"Nothing."
He was, of course, talking about giving up his drinking- the only reason that Holly had agreed to come back to him, at least temporarily. Make no mistake, McClane loved his wife dearly, but, well, the bottle had been pretty good to him, too. In some ways, kicking the habit helped him, but he had been having increasingly disturbing dreams- which he assumed was due to his brain cells recovering and working too much, thanks to his constant sobriety. These dreams were killing him, he thought. Shrugging it off for the moment, McClane got out of bed for the second time. He sighed and decided he wouldn't sleep naked anymore. Surprisingly, it was he who "wasn't in the mood" lately. It had been like that for a couple weeks- another, more recent, "fucking consequence" of his "higher mental activity during REM sleep cycles" or whatever the shit was that his doctor had said. The dreams were pissing him off and distracting him from some of the better parts of his life. Like sex.
McClane got dressed slowly and quietly. He brushed his teeth and glanced at his receding hairline. It was a little embarrassing, but it was his look and in actuality it didn't look too bad. He reached the bedroom door moments too late, being stopped by another, "John, come to bed."
He was beginning to think that Holly had set her internal clock to remind her to say that every ten minutes that she found him absent from bed.
"I'm going to work, honey."
It was mostly true.
She sat up and tried to look concerned or angry. All he noticed was that her hair was a mess- he could never figure out how it got that way.
"Are you sure you should?"
It couldn't fucking hurt.
"I'm just going to see if the boys need any help today, nothing dangerous. I'll be a good little boy."
The first part was true. As for being good, well, he could pretend. He moved away from the door and bent over to kiss her on the lips.
"Good night, honey," he whispered.
She smiled. He left.
McClane was on temporary leave since the 'Simon Says Revenge Case' (as he came to think of it) had been closed. In honesty, he didn't like being out of work, but he did know he needed the break, so he only stopped by the station to cut down on the number of shitheads that had to be filtered every day. It wasn't really his favorite pastime, but he was getting paid while being off duty, so he figured that doing this would even things out a little. Even then, he only came in when he felt like it. Besides, he would either come back to work officially in a month or so and make it up to his superiors or he would quit and do something else. What the "something else" would be, McClane didn't know. For the time being he wanted to take it easy- or shoot the the fucking part of his brain that made him dream and then take it easy.
The guys with the force would be a good distraction today. They always knew how to take your mind off the tough shit. And you didn't have to avoid using all the words that help you express how you really feel (basically any and every cuss word).
"Maybe that's the difference between men and women," McClane thought, "We don't give as much thought to 'being polite' and pleasing everyone all the time. Guys accept each other. And that would explain why for every fucking 'close-knit' friend of theirs, a guy will have eight buddies."
He then noticed that the cab driver was waiting patiently for him to get out.
McClane shrugged and paid the man a little extra.