bound to drift a while
By seraphina_snape
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The fic title is a line from the Creedence song "Long As I Can See The Light" - I make ample use of clichιs in this fic, so why stop short of using song lyrics for a title? A huge, enormously huge, "thank you" goes to my two betas, Liz and Lynn, who helped me turn this story into something I can be proud of. They did an amazing job. Any remaining mistakes are the result of my being too stubborn to take their advice.

"What do you mean, Kaschinsky asked about me?" John asked irritably. His shift was practically over and now dispatch was hailing him about a random B&E case. "Tell him to solve his own damn cases."

The voice of the desk sergeant was distorted by the microphone as he replied, "He says you know the victim."

For a second the picture of Lucy in the grip of one of Gabriel's men flashed through his mind. His little girl, scared but too much of a fighter to let it show. His hands tightened their hold on the steering wheel. "It's not my daughter, is it?"

"No," the sergeant replied quickly.

John breathed a quiet sigh of relief and made a note to check in with Lucy at Rutgers. Lucy, while not taking back the name McClane, had been a more constant fixture in his life lately, and he didn't want to lose her again.

"It's a guy," the sergeant continued, accompanied by the sound of clicking computer keys. "Named Matthew Farrell."

"Fuck," John swore quietly. Matt wasn't a cop, but after their little terrorist adventure John had always assumed that the kid could take care of himself. That behind that smart mouth and all his blundering, he was capable and determined to do the right thing.

"They brought him to St. Vincent's. He's in the ER."

John had already turned the car around and was heading back downtown.

John had thought Matt looked young before – when he was almost as tall as John and had somehow managed to scare up some beard stubble to make him look more grown-up – but the sight of him in that hospital bed was a thousand times worse.

His first instinct was to reach out and physically make sure that Matt was okay, that he was just sleeping. Just a little touch, something to reassure him that the pale and fragile boy in front of him was still alive, but the arrival of the doctor stopped him in his tracks.

John moved back from the bed and waited as the doctor checked on Matt. The nametag pinned to his white coat read 'Miller' and like all ER doctors John had ever met, Doctor Miller had an exhausted air about him. "You here for Matt Farrell?" he asked, looking up at John over the rim of thick square glasses that sat on a too-long nose.

John nodded. "Yeah. I'm John McClane. How is he?"

Doctor Miller looked down at Matt, grabbed Matt's patient chart and nodded towards the door. "Let's talk outside."

The hospital hallway was busy with life – nurses, patients, visitors – and hardly the place for a serious conversation, but John firmly planted his feet right outside the door where he could see into Matt's room through the small observation window. He had no intention of letting Matt out of his sight any time soon. Definitely not until he had some answers.

"Are you Matt's family?"

"He doesn't have any family in town," John said. "I'm Detective McClane. Matt and I are friends. That's why Detective Kaschinsky called me. So, can you tell me what's wrong with him?"

"From what I've been able to determine, Matt is suffering from amnesia as the result of a head injury. He doesn't remember who he is, Detective. He won't recognize you or necessarily trust that what you tell him is the truth. You need to tread carefully for now."

Well, fuck. John ran a hand over his scalp. "But he'll get his memory back, right? He'll remember."

"There is no reason to think that he won't," replied Doctor Miller. "Usually, PTA – Post Traumatic Amnesia – is more common with this type of head injury, but Matt has no trouble recollecting the events that transpired since he woke up. He can't recall anything from before his injury – his type of amnesia is retrograde, probably caused by the trauma to his brain. But he's young and healthy. As his brain heals, he should be able to recall more and more."

"And how long is that gonna take?" John asked, already dreading the downward spiral his witness interviews would take if Matt didn't remember soon. It was his memory, not his personality, that was damaged – the Matt he knew would get frustrated after the twentieth 'I don't remember.' Frustrated and cocky. John sighed. Mouthing off to the cops wanting to investigate your assault case was never a smart move.

Doctor Miller tucked Matt's patient chart under one arm and took off his glasses. He reached for the edge of his white coat to polish the lenses. "The process is gradual and can take weeks if not months." He held up his hands to stave off John's protest. "I'll be able to tell you more once the swelling is down and he's had a chance to rest up. But either way you won't be able to do much to make it happen faster." He pushed his glasses back onto his nose and flipped Matt's chart open.

"It's very possible that Matt remembers scenes from his childhood up to early adulthood – depending on the severity of the injury, a patient with retrograde amnesia may lose more or less of his or her memory, dating back from the initial onset of amnesia. I haven't had a good chance to talk to Matt yet and find out how much of his memory is missing. But since he answered the standard question about the date with 2000, I'm estimating it to be around seven or eight years."

Jesus Fucking Christ. Matt had lost nearly a decade of memories. That made him, what? Fourteen? Sixteen? Fuck. John grimaced. Days like this could almost make him wish he'd never sobered up. A neat Scotch would be perfect right about now. But the comfortable weight of the gun at his side and the knowledge of his shield in his pocket drove the thought away. A drink was exactly what he didn't need. He'd fallen off the wagon before, and it had nearly cost him his job. It had cost him his marriage. He took a deep breath and straightened up, looking the doctor squarely in the eye.

"Okay. So how long until we can question him?"

Doctor Miller tilted his head to the side. "Don't get your hopes up, Detective. Matt may never recover the memory of the events leading up to his injury. It all depends on how much of the events his brain was able to commit to long-term memory before he was injured. If you're looking to hear a description of his attacker, your luck might have run out."

"Great," John muttered. "When do I get to take him home?"

"Well, I want to keep him here for at least 5 hours to monitor his condition," Doctor Miller said, glancing again at Matt's chart. "I've already scheduled a number of tests to establish the extent of his injury. We need to be sure that there is no bleeding into the brain. His injury might have other effects that only become apparent after a period of time and I want to rule them out as far as I can before I release him into your care. However, Matt has voiced a request to go home as soon as possible, and I am willing to let him go under close and constant supervision and on the condition that he comes back immediately if his condition worsens."

Doctor Miller checked his watch, and John took the hint.

"Well, then I gotta tell him he can't go back to his own place because it's a crime scene now. That'll go over well…"

John watched Doctor Miller hurry down the hall and disappear into another hallway.

Tread carefully, the words of the doctor rang in his head. John snorted. Easier said than done. He had no idea what to say to the kid. Matt usually provided a running commentary whenever they met up for Chinese and a movie and all John had to do was grunt in acknowledgement from time to time or give him in a half-questioning, half-commiserating look whenever Matt shut up for a couple of seconds.

Gradually, John became aware that he was being watched. Maybe it was an instinct honed by years on the streets or maybe that was all just psychological bullshit but something told him he was being watched. He scanned the hallway. Nothing. Everyone was just going about their business. Then his gaze fell through the small window in Matt's door.

Matt's eyes were open and his head was turned towards the door. Their eyes met and John took a deep breath before opening the door. "Hey," he said, stepping up to Matt's bed.

Matt looked up. "Hey," he said, carefully neutral. "You a cop?"

Surprised, John raised an eyebrow.

"No white coat, no scrubs, no nametag," Matt explained. "And you haven't tried to take any more blood. Yet."

"And I won't."

"Cop, then," Matt said with a sigh. "I already told the other ones: I don't remember anything. Ask my doctor." He ran a hand through his hair, then cursed quietly when the pulse oximeter on his finger got stuck in his hair and the dressing around his head.

"Here, let me." John quickly stepped up to the side of the bed and disentangled Matt's hand from his head. "You okay?"

Matt gave him his patented 'are you stupid?' look and John had to remind himself that the kid didn't even remember himself, let alone John.

"I was attacked. I don't remember who I am, where I live, who my parents are – if they're still alive! I have the mother of all headaches and I have no clue what the fuck I'm gonna do now!" Matt yanked his arm out of John's grasp. "I am so not okay, man."

John held up his hands. "Stupid question."

Matt not-quite-glared up at John. "Who the hell are you anyway? Do I know you? Or do you just like hanging out in people's hospital rooms?"

"You know me," John said. "I'm John McClane, and yes, I'm a cop. And… we're friends."

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Friends?" he repeated.

"Friends," John said, trying not to take the skeptical tone of voice personally. "You saved my daughter's life."

Matt's eyes held their dubious expression, but he didn't comment.

John had never had to worry about awkward silences with Matt. Matt 'Motormouth' Farrell never shut up unless you told him something he needed a second or three to think about before responding. Which he would, usually with an amount of words worthy of a Shakespearean monologue.

"So, what happens now?"

John shrugged. "I talked to your doctor. They want to keep you here for a few hours and do some tests."

"I know. I'm already scheduled for a CAT scan," he said. "The doctor tried to explain how it works, but my headache kept getting in the way."

"Do you need more painkillers?" John spied a visitor's chair across the room and pulled it over to Matt's bedside.

Matt shook his head, then grimaced. "Ouch. Remind me not to shake my head. And no, no more painkillers for me until they've 'assessed the extent of the damage,'" he said, air quotes audible in his tone of voice.

John nodded. "Okay, listen up, kid. I know you don't know me from Adam right now, but the doctor said he's only letting you out of here if you're not on your own. You've spent a few months on my couch before--"

"I have?"

"Yeah. When your place was blown up and--"

"Blown up?" Matt interrupted him again and then, very slowly, shook his head. "McClane, you and I need to talk."

"Well, I think the rest of that story's gonna have to wait until we get home. You'll never believe me if I can't show you any proof that it actually happened. I think we can stop by your place and get you some stuff though. Like your laptop."

"Laptop?" Matt's face brightened. "I have my own computer?"

"Sure." John shrugged. "You're some sort of computer genius. You could probably build more computers from the spare parts you have at your place than there are in the bullpen at the moment. Even on good days you can hardly drag yourself away from the thing."

"Computer genius, huh? Well, I guess my career is going to take a drastic fall into the red numbers unless I get my memory back." Matt swallowed loudly and looked up at the ceiling. "I'm missing a decade of updates; right now I'm not sure I know how to switch one on."

"Hey. It'll all come back to you, you'll see." John hesitated for a moment, then gave in. He wasn't good at comforting people with words. He sat down on the edge of Matt's bed and squeezed his shoulder. Matt tensed for a second, but he didn't shrug John's hand off and John left it there until Matt fell asleep. He ignored the tears trailing down Matt's cheek and onto the pillow.

The doctor and two nurses arrived half an hour later and took Matt to get a CAT scan. At his request, one of the nurses pointed John towards the cafeteria where he bought himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich. The coffee was worse than the sludge they had at the station and the sandwich drier than the Sahara. He forced both down and vowed to get a nice sirloin from Mike's in the next few days.

John had wandered down the hallway of the first floor, waiting for the nurses to wheel Matt back to his room after the testing was done, when he was hailed by a familiar voice.

"Hey, McClane!"

Lieutenant Detective Kaschinsky was a good six inches taller than John but weighed a good deal less. His thin frame was usually hidden behind well-tailored suits and expensive ties that sometimes made him look like a Wall Street banker rather than a cop. His partner, Detective Howard, was a slender brunette who looked downright fragile next to her tall and looming partner. But John knew that – if the situation warranted it – she had enough attitude to fill an Olympic pool.

"Kaschinsky, Howard." John nodded in greeting. "They've brought Matt down for some tests," he said. "Should be back soon though."

"Good," Howard said. "We want to speak to him as soon as possible."

"Well, you're fresh outta luck if you want a description," John said. "That knock upside the head? Gave the kid amnesia."

Howard groaned at the news and Kaschinsky, in an uncharacteristic display of vulgarity, swore. "Damn!"

Eyebrows raised, John looked from one to the other. "Okay, what's going on? Not even you are that hung up on a home invasion charge. And by the way, why were you working that anyway?"

Howard half-heartedly rolled her eyes. Kaschinsky didn't even crack a smile.

"Shut up, McClane. This was not a regular home invasion." He looked around the relatively empty corridor and added, "We think Matt Farrell was supposed to be victim #7 of our good friend Handy Joe."

"Fuck!"

"You said it, McClane," Howard said. "He fits the victim profile, the time of day was the same as with the other attacks, one of the residents of a neighboring building vaguely remembers a guy in work clothes going in…" She trailed off and pursed her lips. "Farrell was damned lucky. If that first hit had knocked him out..." She shook her head with an air of grave finality.

"Want to fill me in on what happened?"

"We got a call from a Frederick Smith at 1:32 pm, saying that his neighbor had been attacked," Kaschinsky said. "Said neighbor was bleeding heavily and seemed to have passed out. The operator told him that an ambulance and a squad car were on the way."

"You've seen the leaflets they handed out to the departments about Handy Joe?" Howard jumped in.

John nodded. "Yeah. With a short profile from the Feds, MO, that sort of thing." One of those leaflets was pinned up in the bullpen. John got a good look at it every time he raised his head during long hours of writing reports and filling out forms.

"Yeah, those." Howard nodded. "The officer on scene recognized a few of the points – time of day, type of victim, type of neighborhood – and called it in. We didn't think it'd turn out to be him--"

"--it was too soon," Kaschinsky took over. "The previous victims were all at least a month apart."

"And the last one was found eighteen days ago," John said. "I read about that."

"It's definitely him," Kaschinsky said. "He took his usual trophy."

John didn't know what that trophy was – it wasn't his investigation – but he knew that Matt had been very Spartan in his decorating. "The less I have, the less I need to replace if I happen to piss off another cyber terrorist who plants a bomb under my desk," he'd said, grinning at John's skeptical look when he'd first seen the place. Two rooms, a bathroom and a kitchenette, all filled with less furniture than John had in his living room.

Whatever Handy Joe had taken, it had probably been a personal item. A cold shiver ran down John's back. He was glad that this wasn't his case, or all bets were off once he got his hands on the fucker.

There was a blurry red stain on the outer doorframe of Matt's apartment, at about eye height. If he let his eyes go unfocused just a little, it looked like a smudged handprint – four fingers and part of a palm. Not for the first time that day, John took a deep breath and told himself to concentrate on the important thing: Matt was alive and safe, and if John had anything to say about it, that fuckweed of a serial killer would never get his filthy hands on him again.

John glanced at Matt and found him staring at the same spot that had captured John's attention. The kid was chewing his lip, frowning at the red spot like it held all the important answers. If he'd been the sentimental sort, John would have had to admit that seeing Matt like that gave him a small painful stab to the heart. Instead, he stepped up the door and used Matt's apartment key to slice through the police seal. He quickly unlocked the door and stepped in, holding it open for Matt, who followed him a little hesitantly.

"So, this is my place? Looks… nice," Matt said, coming to a halt after just a couple of steps into the apartment. "Maybe a little--are you sure that this is my place?"

John snorted. "Yeah, kid. This is your place all right."

"Huh." Matt took a few careful steps into the room and John closed the door behind them. "It's so…" Matt trailed off and waved a hand around.

John nodded. He could understand the kid's confusion. The first time he'd visited him here, he hadn't quite believed it himself. The bare walls and sparse furnishing were so unlike Matt's apartment in Camden, which had been crammed with heaps of useless crap, including his prized collector's items, and a lot of more or less useful technical gadgets. At the time John hadn't paid much attention to it, besides marveling at the amount of trash somebody could collect on their floor space. Of course, at the time he hadn't known Matt. In fact, he'd been ready to dislike him on general principle for being the reason why John had to make a three-hour drive in the middle of the night.

"O-kaaaaaay." Matt drew out the word and slowly turned in a circle until he faced John again. "So I have a gambling problem and had to sell all my stuff?"

John chuckled. "I told you. Your last place blew up about a seven months ago."

"Right. You still owe me that story, by the way."

"When we get home," John said. "Look, you go and feed the fish," he said, pointing Matt towards the bedroom. "I'll check the fridge for perishables so that you don't have a miniature wildlife preserve waiting for you in there when you get back."

Matt nodded and headed to the bedroom. John grinned. He dumped a few bags of Chinese takeout into the trash and checked the expiration date on the rest of the perishables in Matt's fridge. John's grin widened. Any second now Matt would--

"Oh, very funny, McClane!" came Matt's voice from the other room. He appeared in the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest. "I think the fish are dead. Acute case of being made of plastic."

John laughed, and Matt joined in despite himself. The plastic tropical fish in the aquarium in Matt's bedroom had been a source of much fascination for John. Not only were they the only piece of decoration in the whole apartment, they were also deceptively authentic. He just couldn't understand why Matt had them. Matt claimed that real fish didn't survive for more than a month in his care, no matter what he tried. John got that. Lucy had given up on bringing by plants to 'make the place more liveable' when they always ended up dried up and dead by the time her next visit rolled around. But why Matt had had to buy a real aquarium with all of the extras only to put in fake fish John didn't know. A poster would have worked just as well.

"All right, sit down. You look like you're about to fall over," John said. He watched until Matt, pale as he was, had staggered over to the sofa. "I'll throw some clothes into a bag and grab your laptop, and then we're outta here."

Matt's gaze wandered around the sparsely furnished living room again and John held his breath. But there was nothing, no spark of recognition, in Matt's eyes.

Duffel bag in hand, John headed for the bedroom. As he threw a few shirts, underwear, cargo pants and jeans into the bag, he told himself not to be disappointed. Matt had been out of the hospital for an hour. He'd been knocked out and almost killed – a thought that chilled John to the bone – not seven hours ago.

Don't get your hopes up, Doctor Miller's voice echoed in his head.

John sighed and opened the door to the small bathroom. It was barely big enough for a sink, a toilet and a shower, and John was sure that someone with limbs as long as Matt's was constantly knocking his elbows into the shower walls. The thought of Matt, too tall for his shower and cursing his fate, made him chuckle. He quickly grabbed Matt's toothbrush and headed back to the living room.

Matt was conked out on the sofa, his head bent to rest on the back of it. He looked young and vulnerable and John tightened his grip on the duffel bag.

"Matt. Hey, come on, kid." He reached out a hand and gently shook Matt's shoulder. "Wake up."

Matt's head rolled to the side and he blinked up at John out of half-closed eyes. For a moment, John thought he recognized something in that look, but the moment was gone before he could put a name to it.

"We leaving?"

"Yep. Come on. There's a couch with your name on it waiting at my place."

"Okay, I'm thinking we order in. What do you say to pizza?"

Matt nodded at the suggestion and wandered around John's living room, touching this and that, looking at photographs and memorabilia that were collecting dust on his shelves.

"You're married?"

John looked up from his hunt for Tony's menu. "Not any more," he said.

Matt was holding a cheap photo frame from Target. Their wedding picture. John smiled a little. A lot of things had gone wrong at the wedding – the best man, his brother, had misplaced the rings and Holly's mother had nearly broken her leg on the stairs up to the reception hall – but it had been the happiest day of his life.

"We're divorced."

"Oh." Matt carefully put the picture back in its place. "Was it recent?"

"No. We were separated and back together a couple of times before Holly finally made it a permanent separation ten years ago."

"Ah."

John frowned. "What?"

Matt looked at him with innocent eyes. "What what?"

"Matt."

"It's nothing," Matt assured him.

"Right." John raised his eyebrows at Matt. "Whatever it is, kid, spit it out. I'm not gonna sit here all night with you looking at me like that."

Matt sighed heavily and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Gee, McClane. Maybe I'm just not sure I want to be sleeping on your couch if you've got the creepy-ex/stalker thing going after ten years of separation!"

When John didn't react, Matt walked off in a huff. A few seconds later, John could hear the bathroom door slam shut.

Eight hours since the call came in and John was already being tested for his patience. Tread carefully, the doctor's voice echoed in his head again. "Yeah, yeah," John muttered and sighed quietly. He ran a hand over his scalp.

Matt's behavior had been off all day. One moment it was like the old days when Matt would make a sarcastic comment and they'd share a laugh – or at least a sardonic smile at how fucked up everything was – and the next moment Matt would be withdrawn, snappy and distrustful. John got it – the kid didn't know who he was, who John was and what the fuck he was supposed to do now. The fact that John was a cop and had managed to find a picture of him and Matt together had gone a long way to reassuring Matt that he was safe and in good hands. And then something would come up that made Matt uncomfortable and he'd disappeared into the bathroom because he didn't know where else to go.

John had been watching Matt. No matter how sassy or clever his comebacks were, his body language and the slightly stressed undertone in his voice betrayed him. He saw it all the time on the job. Some kid would get arrested and despite all the posturing and grandstanding, deep down all he'd want would be to have mom or dad make it all go away.

Matt came out of the bathroom after the pizza had arrived. John was in the kitchen grabbing some plates when he heard the bathroom door open. Matt's eyes were bloodshot and tired and John wordlessly handed him a plate.

John sat down in the old but comfortable armchair, leaving the couch for Matt who hesitantly reached for a slice of pizza.

They ate in silence for a while. John switched on the TV and caught the late night news on channel 4. Matt gradually relaxed.

"Okay, kid, here's the deal," John said. "I know you'd rather stay with someone else, like your parents." Matt opened his mouth, but John forestalled his question. "They still live in your old house. I called them from the hospital. Your mother is coming out to see you tomorrow. You can call her in a minute, if you want.

"The thing is, "John said, "this wasn't an ordinary robbery. The guy who attacked you? We think he's the same guy who murdered six other men over the last few months."

He could see Matt's eyes grow large as he took in that bit of news. After another talk with the doctor, he and Kaschinsky had decided that telling Matt might make the situation worse – the added stress might make it harder for Matt to recall anything while at the same time making him push himself harder to remember. But as far as plans went, that had been a shitty one. He couldn't let the kid be blind to the real danger here.

"What does that mean? For me, I mean?"

"It means that you saw his face and got away. He knows you can identify him, and he's gonna want to make sure that doesn't happen."

Matt dropped the rest of his pizza slice onto the plate and stood up, pacing up and down the length of the living room. "But I can't remember! I'd tell you if I knew who it was!"

"I know that, Matt," John said. He was watching Matt and the effect his words had, and yeah, Plan B wasn't perfect either. Too late to reconsider now. "But it doesn't really matter. Sooner or later, you'll get your memory back and he can't let that happen. That's why you're staying with me, and that's why two cops will be sitting outside when I'm at work."

Matt stopped pacing and glanced at the window. "So, I can't go out?"

"Would be better if you didn't."

"And I can't stay with my parents."

It wasn't a question, exactly, but John answered it anyway. "I talked to your parents. They agree that you'd be safer here."

Matt, chewing on his lower lip, sat back down and looked around the room again. His gaze lingered over the wedding picture for a moment before he turned to look at John.

John kept his face impassive. The prospect of not having Matt close enough to keep an eye on was slightly more troubling than John had expected it to be. Matt didn't need to know that he'd spent the better half of the conversation with Matt's mother trying to convince her that her son would be better protected at his place than out in the family home in New Jersey.

"I guess I'll be staying here then," Matt said, settling back into the couch cushions. "I'll even try to be less of a pain in your neck," he added, flashing John a smile.

I'll believe that when I see it, John thought, shaking his head. He headed for his bedroom to grab a blanket and a pillow for Matt, but when he returned, Matt was already asleep.

Breakfast the next morning was a quiet affair. Matt was definitely not a morning person, memories intact or not. He quietly sipped his third cup of coffee and turned a page in last week's newspaper every now and then. He'd already worked through a pretty sizeable stack of old newspapers that John hadn't had the chance to throw out yet. Sometimes the quiet was broken by Matt's doubtful scoffs or a derisive comment about a certain piece of news or the news in general. If his comments were anything to go by, Matt still regarded the news as an instrument designed to keep the populace in a state of mild panic in order to facilitate ignorance and stimulate capitalism.

John was reading as well, but his material included a handful of crime scene photographs. After Matt had fallen asleep the night before, John had called his captain to request information on the Handy Joe case. Since the case was so high profile, only the assigned detectives were privy to the actual case files. Any information regarding the Handy Joe crimes was considered privileged information and even the officers and detectives aiding the investigation didn't have all of the facts. His captain had first yelled at him for calling so late and then told him that Kaschinsky had already requested his assistance on the case. He'd been able to use his NYPD password to review the case files from home and print out what he needed.

The investigation was stagnating despite Kaschinsky and Howard's fears that Handy Joe might be stepping up his pace. There hadn't been another victim, and while that was good news in general, it was also bad news from an investigative standpoint because it meant there was no further information on Handy Joe's recent activities.

John was able to find out the one little detail that had eluded him before – the mystery of Handy Joe's chosen trophy. According to the coroner's report, each of the victims was missing a fistful of hair, cut off with a very sharp knife. Included in the reports was a three-page essay of psycho-babble mumbo-jumbo on the psychological significance of that trophy from the consulting psychologist. John didn't actually need a degree in behavioral science or psychology to figure out that Handy Joe was probably using the hair as a prop in whatever sick jerk-off fantasy he'd built up in his mind.

When John looked up from that report, he could see the spot where Handy Joe had cut off some of Matt's hair. It was partially hidden underneath the bandage around Matt's head and John had assumed that someone at the hospital had cut the hair to get better access to the wound since Doctor Miller had mentioned that they'd had to shave off some of the hair directly around the wound to put in the stitches.

Imagining Handy Joe standing over Matt with a hunting knife in one hand and a handful of Matt's hair in the other had created a pit of boiling rage in his stomach that had left him unable to finish breakfast. He'd been in a bad mood ever since.

"So, how is this going to work again?"

John glanced at Matt. The bandage around his head was partially hidden by an old NYPD cap John had found in the trunk of his car. Spreading out from under the white gauze was a blue-ish purple bruise. It somehow made Matt look older than he was, but the nervousness in his voice and the way his eyes took in their surroundings – curious and trying to take in everything at once – still made him seem more like a kid than a grown-up.

"We're meeting with the lead detectives, Kaschinsky and Howard. They want to ask you a few more questions. You met them yesterday," John added, leading Matt through the bullpen and up the stairs.

The station was bustling with life as always. John had long since given up on searching for reason in the chaos of crooks and cops. He'd learned early on in his time at the NYPD that it was better to ignore anything you weren't actively a part of – anything else led to pain and paperwork that had to filled out in triplicate and approved by the insurance company. The barely-there ache he sometimes still felt in his shoulder had served as a good refresher on that particular rule.

As lively as the station's main rooms were, the smaller offices and meeting rooms one floor up from the main level were the exact opposite. John could catch glimpses of tired faces and heads bent low over case files as he and Matt made their way to the incident room that had been commandeered by Kaschinsky and Howard for their Handy Joe task force.

"Right," Matt said. "The freakishly tall guy and his much prettier colleague."

"Don't let Kaschinsky hear you say that, he still thinks he's the pretty one," came a new voice from down the hallway.

John grinned. "Yeah, he would think that. No one's told him that his new partner is prettier."

Howard grinned back and stepped out into the hallway to shake Matt's hand. "Mr. Farrell, glad to see you could make it."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Why?" He nodded towards John. "Was the armed escort not enough? I still think the police car trailing us the whole way was a little overkill."

Howard looked up at Matt with expertly faked sincerity. "I'm sure that was a coincidence. But speaking of escorts, there are some things I was hoping to discuss with you today. We can go in here," she said, leading Matt down a couple of doors.

Once Matt and Howard had disappeared into the interview room, John brushed his knuckles against the half-open door of the incident room across the hall and entered.

Kaschinsky was sitting at one of the six desks crowded into the room; he looked up when John entered.

"Anything new?"

Kaschinsky shrugged. "Depends. Does the kid remember anything?"

John shook his head.

Kaschinsky heaved a sigh. "Then no, nothing new."

"Where's the rest of the crew?"

The desks around Kaschinsky were suspiciously unused. He'd expected the room to be full of frustrated, over-worked cops who went over the same piece of evidence for the umpteenth time without making any progress.

"Field trip. I sent half of them to re-interview the witnesses and the other half is on the street questioning the less savory elements of society to see if anything shakes loose on this guy," Kaschinsky said. "Except Howard. She talking to the kid?"

John nodded and shrugged out of his jacket. "You don't want to sit in?"

Kaschinsky held up the report he was reading. "I'll head over in a minute. Need to finish this first."

John busied himself by logging on and checking his emails. He wasn't comfortable with computers, but he wasn't a complete technophobe like some of the older cops. Most of the paperwork and research for their cases was handled through the internet and various national and international data banks these days. John remembered the days when they'd had to send someone – mostly the rookie – to pick up the records of any person of interest. Comfortable with computers or not, John thought, if all it takes to get a record that might or might not be useful is a few mouse clicks, it sure as hell beats waiting around for someone to go and get hardcopies every damned time.

After a few minutes of silence, Kaschinsky stood up, stretched and drained the last of his coffee. He looked at John, jerked his head towards the interview room and said, "Let's get to work then."

It had been a week. John looked across the table at Matt who sat, bleary-eyed but almost awake after his fourth dose of caffeine, in front of his laptop, completely engrossed in one of a dozen computer journals he'd bought. Bought online, of course, and now he was reading them on the laptop that he'd propped up on the kitchen table, like he'd done every morning in the past week.

It was almost like a flashback to family dinners back in the bad old days just before the divorce. By then, he and Holly hadn't been on speaking terms at all unless it was with raised voices or in hissed arguments, while Jack had just sat there quietly and answered in monosyllables whenever anyone asked about his day, and Lucy… Lucy had gotten a Walkman for her birthday and decided that wearing headphones was what she was going to do for every free second of the day, including breakfast and dinner.

Oh yeah, lovely times, John thought. The explosion after his confiscating the Walkman for any and all meals had been forceful enough to cause a small earthquake. At least Holly had backed him up that time. It hadn't stopped Lucy from hating him though.

Still, right now Matt got a "get out of jail free" card for shit that would have had John ready to murder someone on any other occasion. The second night out of the hospital, he'd talked John into buying him his favorite drink (But McClane, the doctor said familiar things would create a safe environment that should help me recover my memory). John didn't think that the disgustingly sugary red water had had any effect on Matt's safety. It had had an effect on Matt's already hyperactive mouth, though. Matt had grilled him about recent events until John was just about ready to pass out from exhaustion.

In fact, John hadn't had a quiet minute at home since Matt had moved back in. After the fire sale fiasco, Matt had camped out on his couch for a few weeks, much the way he was now. Back then, John had had to listen to endless monologues about housing and prices and Manhattan versus one of the other boroughs in between all the computer talk and some of Matt's more out there conspiracy theories that inevitably came up whenever John mentioned his work. Then Matt had found a small but affordable one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, not too far away from John's own place, and he'd moved out.

A few weeks later, he'd realized that he missed the constant background noise of Matt, bitching about the people in the subway that evening, clicking away at his computer in the middle of the night, laughing at ridiculous kids' cartoons on Saturday mornings.

Matt made a quiet sound of distress and – with his tongue peeking out between his lips – began to click though his document. "I didn't know they could do that," he murmured. He glanced up at John. "Did you know they could do that?" But before John could answer or point out that Matt still knew more about computers in his amnesiac state than John would ever learn about the things, Matt had turned back to the laptop and began typing furiously.

John watched Matt for a while longer, until he started to feel like a dirty old man for wanting to brush his hand across Matt's forehead, swipe the shiny brown hair aside that hung over his eyes like a curtain, feel those full lips under-- Oh yeah. Dirty old man.

Matt reached across the table and drained the last of his coffee, his tongue flicking out to catch the last drops of the liquid before they could run down the length of the cup.

John suppressed a curse and stood up, taking his empty cup and plate back into the kitchen. If he didn't know any better, he'd think that Matt was doing this on purpose.

"Goddamnit, McClane, get a grip," he muttered to himself. Instead of heading back to the table to read the paper or catch the news on TV, John started loading the dishwasher.

Then John could hear Matt coming up behind him. He straightened up and let the kid pass, readily escaping to the bedroom to grab his gun and his cell phone.

"Don't forget, I'm picking you up for the check-up today," McClane said when he came back into the apartment's main room.

Matt nodded.

John had reached the door and was already breathing a little lighter when he felt Matt's hand on his shoulder.

"McClane."

"Yeah?" John said, slowly turning.

"McClane," Matt said again, his tongue sneaking out to moisten his lips. "John. You're probably gonna hate me for this – hell, I'm probably gonna hate myself for this once I'm in my right mind again, but…" He trailed off, frowning and John was just about to ask if he was okay when Matt leaned forward and pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Shocked, John froze up. Matt moved his head a little and kissed him right on the mouth. It was a chaste kiss, almost platonic, if not for the intent that was clearly written in Matt's eyes when he let up. Matt's shaking hands were gripping the sleeves of John's sweater tightly, and John took a deep breath and swallowed harshly.

"Kid-- Matt. I'm not-- Let's not do this now," John said, taking a step back.

Matt flushed and turned away, shoulders drawn up. "Right. Yeah. Sorry, McClane." He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, "Definitely gonna hate myself for this." He glanced at John. "If you want me to be gone by the time you get back, just say the word, man."

"Hey." John waited until Matt was looking at him again. "I do not want you gone. If you're gone when I get back, I will find you and drag your sorry ass back here by your too-long hair, understood?"

Matt nodded tersely, and John sighed.

"Come on kid, this isn't the end of the world. Like you said, you're not in your right mind at the moment."

Matt nodded again.

John couldn't think of anything else to say – he had enough trouble thinking it over in his own mind, and now he had to talk about it, too? – so he grabbed his jacket and his gun and checked that all the windows were closed and locked.

"Look, I'm gonna head to the station now. I'll be back for lunch at around one and pick you up for the check-up at the hospital."

"Sure," Matt said easily. He finally turned around, but his expression was a carefully constructed mask of politeness and nonchalance. "Anything special you want me to make for lunch?"

John shook his head. "Nah. Sandwiches are fine."

"Okay. See you at one."

John nodded. "One," he confirmed.

When the door closed behind him, John waited long enough to hear Matt lock it and put the chain on. John had never felt less enthusiastic about leaving for work, but he forced himself to walk down the hallway and head for the precinct.

The incident room was crowded by the time John got there. He greeted the officers he knew and nodded at those he didn't until he spotted Kaschinsky.

"Hey, Dave," he called.

Kaschinsky waved him over and they settled on opposite sides of the desk. It was a little crowded, but so was everything else in the room.

"Good, you're here. I want you and Howard to have another talk with our disappearing witness."

The witness in question, John knew, was a homeless guy who might or might not have seen Handy Joe at the second and fifth crime scenes, which were both close to the area where he hung out. "He turn up again?"

Kaschinsky nodded. "Yeah. Patrol spotted him last night."

"Do you think it's worth it?"

Kaschinsky shrugged. "Who knows. But the Mayor is getting desperate to see this case closed, and when the Mayor gets desperate, the Chief gets out the steel spurs. And let me tell you, McClane, I can feel them digging into my sides." He looked up, scanned the room. "Howard's still out getting coffee." He looked at his watch. "Should be back in ten."

"Ten? Where's she getting that coffee? Java?"

"Oh please, McClane. You know as well as everyone else in this building that the coffee here sucks." He closed the file he'd been reading and tossed it onto the table. "If I'm gonna be stuck here all day combing through all the things we still don't know about this guy, I can at least have decent coffee while I'm doing it."

John acknowledged him with a wry grin and reached for the first folder he came across. Autopsy report on the third victim. He'd read it before, as well as the other five autopsy reports, but this time it gave him a chill that wasn't entirely generic. With the ghost of Matt's lips still on his own, it was hard not to imagine Matt's eyes, black, blank and lifeless, as they stared up at him from the pictures.

"So, how is the kid? Any progress at all?"

Kaschinsky's voice yanked him out of his thoughts. John made a vague hand gesture. "He's--" Annoying. Adorable. Too young. Vulnerable. Stubborn. Ingenious. "--fine. Physically, I mean. He's got a last check-up scheduled for today; I'm picking him up during lunch hour. Once the doctor gives him the all clear, he only has to go back if anything happens."

"But his memories…?"

"He doesn't remember anything of consequence for this case," John said, "but his memory is coming back. Slowly, but it's coming. Only random flashes so far, but the doctor said it was a good sign. It could still take weeks until he's fully recovered, but once it's started coming back, it's only a matter of time."

"Except for those crucial last minutes before the attack," Kaschinsky said with a sigh.

John nodded, but his response was lost in a loud cheer of those around them.

Howard had arrived, carrying several paper trays loaded with coffee, one stacked on top of the other. For a second, John wondered how she'd managed to transport and pay for – he did a quick head count – seventeen cups of coffee without breaking a sweat, but the heavy aroma of good coffee distracted him from actually asking her about it. Howard finally arrived at their table and handed Kaschinsky a cup, took one for herself and then extended the tray to John. He reached for the last cup and took a careful sip.

"It's just plain coffee, McClane," Howard said, exasperated. "Gee, if that's all the thanks I get, you can go get your coffee your goddamn selves next time."

"I'd offer you my firstborn, but she's got her own plans for her life," John said. "Thanks for the coffee."

"Yeah, yeah. Next round's on you." Howard pointed to the open file on his desk. "Anything new?"

"Nope. Zip. Nada. Zilch."

She blew out a mouthful of air and looked around the graying walls of the room, now plastered with notes, photographs and city maps marked with color-coded push pins. "You know, I really hope we get something fast, or I'm gonna go insane in here."

John silently agreed. Out loud, he said, "Well, let's go and do some police work then."

"Now that's what I call a complete waste of time," Howard said with a sigh. She was leaning against the passenger side of the car, hands buried in her pant suit pockets, and watching their so-called witness disappear around the nearest street corner.

John had to agree with her. The guy hadn't just turned out to be a dead end, he'd turned out to be a dead end with a particularly bad body odor.

"Do you mind if we stop by my place and pick up the kid on the way to the station?" John asked as they were getting into the car. "He's got a doctor's appointment."

"Sure." Howard fastened her seatbelt and reached for the radio. She gave dispatch their new status and location and then leaned back and winked at John. "Maybe something pretty like our witness will brighten my day," she said with a smirk.

John didn't reply. Matt was pretty, John knew that. He'd noticed it the first time he'd met the kid, and for some reason he'd kept on noticing during the months that followed. It was hard not to notice the beauty of Matt's pale skin that stood in contrast with his dark hair, his big expressive eyes and his full red lips. Lips John had felt on his own only hours before.

John turned his head and waited for a gap in traffic so he could pull away from the curb. Sometimes he was really glad that he'd lost any shame – and the ability to blush with it – after a few years as a cop on the streets of New York City.

When Howard's cell phone rang, it took John a moment to recognize the sound. Some people used the weirdest shit for a ring tone.

"Is that the theme music from Shaft?"

"Better than Credence," Howard said, reaching for he cell phone. "At least Shaft had style," she added and flipped it open. "Yeah, Dave?" She listened for a moment. "Yeah, hang on. I'm putting you on speaker." She pressed a few buttons and then held the cell phone between them.

"Hey, McClane, can you hear me?" Kaschinsky's voice was a little flat and John had to listen closely to hear him over the sounds of traffic.

"Yeah, I hear you, Kaschinsky. Our witness was a bust."

"Never mind him, McClane, never mind. You are not gonna believe this," Kaschinsky said. "I still can't quite believe it."

John shared a look with Howard and she rolled her eyes. "Just spit it out, Kaschinsky," he said.

"All right, all right," Kaschinsky said. "Okay, get this: We have a name and address for Handy Joe."

The look John and Howard shared this time was one of shock.

"Okay, from your silence I can infer that I have your full attention, Detectives," Kaschinsky said, sounding gleeful, almost giddy. "We got him, ladies and gentlemen. All that's left to do now is go and arrest him."

"What? How did you--?"

"Oh, that's the beauty of it," Kaschinsky interrupted. "Last week, about two hours after the attempt on Farrell's life, a patrol unit pulled some guy over for speeding. The officer demanded a breathalyzer test because the guy was acting suspiciously. And when the guy refused, the officer ordered a blood test."

Kaschinsky laughed quietly. "The lab just called me. When they tested the guy's blood for the usual narcotics, they noticed that his blood type was AB negative. On a whim they compared his sample to the handful of open case AB neg samples in the database, since it's a pretty rare blood type. And they got a match.

"They got a fucking match to one of the samples we pulled from under Farrell's fingernails," Kaschinsky said. "Handy Joe's real name is Joseph Barclay. I'm sending the details to your cell phone, Howard."

"No way," Howard said, sounding more than a little amazed at their good luck.

There was a distant voice coming over the cell phone's speaker and they heard Kaschinsky talking to someone else.

"McClane, Howard? A few squad cars are already on the way to his address and the rest of us are heading out now," Kaschinsky said, clearly on the move. His voice was barely audible over the background noise. "Meet us there."

Howard looked at John. "No fucking way," she repeated.

John laughed. "He wouldn't be the first to be caught like this. And I don't really care if it gets this fucker off the streets."

"Damn straight," Howard said. "You got any extra lights on this thing?"

"Box under the seat," John said, grinning when Howard gave him an incredulous look when she pulled out an old magnetic beacon.

"Jeez, McClane, maybe you should think about joining the rest of us in the 21st century," Howard said, rolling her eyes as she put the magnetic light on the roof.

John chuckled. "You got the address?"

"Yep," Howard said, giving John an address that was near the other end of Brooklyn. "Oh, hey, Kaschinsky sent a picture of the guy."

The picture wasn't the best and John could only look at it for a second or two before he had to get his eyes back on the road, but it was enough to get the basics. Joseph Barclay AKA Handy Joe was in his mid to late twenties, with dirty blond hair, watery blue eyes and strangely red, protruding lips. Not very handsome, but not the ugliest guy John had ever seen.

"Okay, let's get this assho--" He was interrupted by the loud tones of Fortunate Son coming from his jacket pocket.

While John dug out his cell phone, Howard gave him a superior grin and said, "Shaft rules."

John's answering grin faded slightly when he saw the caller ID. "Hey, Matt, everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," Matt said. "I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to Alan and Simon – Officer Cowder and Officer Klein, I mean – and they said they can drive me to the hospital, no problem. You don't have to sacrifice your lunch to chauffeur me around, okay?" The rustling of clothes and the sound of footsteps told him that Matt was probably pacing again. "I just thought that after this morning--"

"Look, kid, there've been some developments in the case," John interrupted him. "We're actually about to arrest someone."

"What? Really? That's great," Matt said.

"Yeah. If everything goes off without a hitch, I'll pick you up some time in the early afternoon and we can do the check-up then. I want you to call the hospital and tell them you'll be late."

"Are you sure you want to--"

"I said," John repeated, "I'll pick you up a little later than planned."

"Okay, okay. I just thought it might be awkward and uncomfortable after the… thing this morning. You know, you'll be busy pretending it didn't happen, and I'll be busy hoping it'll happen again, and at some point I will do or say something that--"

"Matt!"

"That will make you use that exact tone of voice. A little amused, a lot annoyed, exasperated and trying to decide if you want to hit me or just kick me out."

John sighed. "I told you this morning that I won't kick you out, didn't I?"

"Never mind. I won't ever show my face to you again and I'll probably want the ground to open up and swallow me if I ever get my mem-- Oh, wait a second. There's someone at the door."

He sure knows how to pick the wrong moment for this conversation, John thought, about to roll his eyes at Matt again. Then the barrage of words registered in John's brain, particularly the fact that there was someone at the door, and all the alarm bells in his head went off. The officers out front were supposed to check everyone who wasn't a resident trying to enter the building, and no one was supposed to be at his door unless the officers had called ahead and announced the visitor first.

"Matt! Matt, don't open the door!"

There was no reply.

"What's going on, McClane? What's wrong?"

John glanced at Howard. "There's someone at the door at my place. The kid's gone to open it." He took a quick look at the traffic around them and yanked the steering wheel around. Howard's curse was lost in a cacophony of horns blaring at them from all sides.

"Matt! Do you hear me, Matt? Do not open the door!"

"McClane? Did you just say somethi--"

John could hear a loud thump and a few muffled yells and groans, then there was a faint rustling sound in the line, right before it went dead.

"Matt? Matt!" Nothing. "Fuck!" In one fluid movement, John shoved the cell phone back in his pocket and flipped the switch for the siren. "Call Kaschinsky. Tell him that Handy Joe is taking another shot at killing Matt."

John weaved in and out of traffic at a speed that was – generally speaking – impossible in New York City during lunch hour.

Belinda Howard sat in the passenger seat with her eyes wide open and braced herself against the very real possibility of crashing into another vehicle or a group of pedestrians. She had one hand clenched around her seatbelt and was using the other one to hold on to the dashboard.

"Jesus H. Christ, McClane! You want to slow down a little so that we actually get there in one piece?"

John shot her a glance, steered around a taxi and headed for the red light at full speed.

"Guess not," Howard muttered.

"Handy Joe is at my place, right now, to kill Matt. The two officers assigned to keep an eye on him have missed their last check-in and they aren't answering their radios. You tell me, Howard, do we have time to take it slow?"

"Damnit, McClane. I'm not used to this shit like you are. I'm not the one with a wall of commendations for outstanding service and bravery. I'm gonna have a heart attack if you keep driving like you're crazy."

"This isn't exactly my scene either," John pointed out, swerved around the last corner and barreled down the street towards his house. "Usually, there's more mayhem," he added after a beat.

"Har de fucking har, McClane. You missed your true career." Howard let out a panicked gasp when a bike courier came out of a side street right in front of them at breakneck speed. The courier yanked his bike around and nearly crashed into a parked car.

"One thing I've learned, though," John said, his calm tone of voice at odd with their surroundings, "is that people get out of your way if they think you're crazy enough to keep going."

Howard was spared having to answer when John hit the brakes and stopped alongside an unmarked police car. Despite her earlier protests and complaints, Howard was out of the car, weapon ready at her side, the second they'd come to a stop.

"Anything?"

Howard shook her head. "Empty. No signs of a struggle. Radio appears to be undamaged." She glanced at the shadowed main entrance. "We should wait for backup, McClane."

"Yeah," John agreed easily. He raised his eyebrows at Howard and gave a slight nod towards the house.

Howard sighed and reached for her radio. "Dispatch, this is Michael-15. We're going in."

"Copy that, Michael-15" the dispatcher responded. "Backup is on the way; ETA is seven minutes."

Howard clipped the radio back to her belt and looked at John. "Let's do this."

John nodded and stepped into the house.

The building was eerily quiet and John hoped that was a good sign. Gun raised to chest height, John cleared the next bit of stairway and nodded at Howard. She quickly made it to the next landing and waved him on. John's apartment was on the fourth floor; they encountered no one on their way up the stairs.

Howard was ahead of him when she suddenly tensed and pressed herself closer against the wall. With a few short gestures, she signaled that there was someone in the hallway around the corner. Howard squatted down to peek around the corner of the hallway. She relaxed her pose and let her gun hand drop a little as soon as she'd taken a closer look into the hallway.

She leaned back against the wall and whispered, "Cowder!"

John recognized the name. Officer Alan B. Cowder was one of the two men assigned to watch his apartment.

"Detective? Is that you?"

"Yeah," Howard said, voice low. "Howard and McClane."

"All right," Cowder said, still hidden from view. "I'm coming out now."

He waited for Howard to acknowledge that and stepped around the corner. He seemed to be unharmed.

"What's the situation?" John asked. He itched to go in and find Matt. Waiting around in hallways always made him itchy. More so when somebody's life was on the line. Especially if it was somebody he liked. But John knew as well as any cop else that barging into a hostage situation without some kind of plan was pretty damn stupid. If he went in now, somebody would end up dead.

"Suspect and one hostage are in the apartment," Cowder said. "The suspect is armed and uncooperative. He threatened to shoot somebody when we tried to open communications."

"Where's your partner?" Howard asked.

Cowder gestured to the end of the hallway. "We cleared out the people next door. Klein is keeping an eye on the door."

"Any word on the hostage?" Howard asked.

John felt something in his chest pull tightly together. They were calmly discussing their options in the hallway while Matt was alone in the apartment with a crazed serial killer. At that moment John wanted nothing more than to storm in there, grab Matt and drag him off to safety. Intellectually he knew that that plan would probably get him as well as Matt and a few of the officers killed. Still, John felt a pang of sympathy for everyone who'd ever done a stupid and risky thing to help out a loved one.

Loved one? John gave himself a mental head slap. Definitely not the time for deep personal revelations, John-boy.

"Okay. Alternate ways into the apartment?" Howard asked.

John shook his head. "Not really. There's a fire escape," he said, "but it's old and creaky. He'd just pick us off one by one if we got too close."

"I'll tell backup to have an eye on it," Howard said, reaching for her cell phone. "He could use it to escape."

"Um, that won't work, Detective," Cowder said. "I don't know how, but the guy's done something to jam any radio or cell signal. We've tried to check in via landline, but I think he cut the phone lines to this building, too."

"Great. Just fucking great."

John couldn't agree more. The thought of Matt in the hands of Handy Joe made his skin crawl with anger, anger at Handy Joe and at his own helplessness.

"Guys!" Cowder's partner, Officer Simon Klein, edged around the corner. "Something's going on inside! Some kind of noise. Shit! I can't tell what it is!"

John followed Klein back to his lookout post and listened for a few moments. "Fuck! It's the fire escape. They're on the fire escape!" John tightened his grip on his gun, his mind racing. No gunshot, but that didn't necessarily mean that Matt wasn't lying on the floor of his living room right now, bleeding to death while Handy Joe made a quick escape.

John glanced back at Howard. "I'm going in."

"Goddamnit, McClane, you can't just--" Howard broke off and shook her head. "All right." She looked at Klein. "You're with me, let's see if we can cut him off before he gets away."

Howard and Klein disappeared around the corner and a few seconds later John could hear their footsteps on the stairs. He looked at Cowder. "You ready?"

Cowder nodded.

John took a deep breath, put his key into the lock and turned it.

John and Cowder made short work of clearing the apartment. It only had two rooms and a bathroom, and all three were obviously empty. The only things of notice were the complete mess in his living room - probably the result of the fight between Matt and Handy Joe that John had heard over the phone – and the small smear of blood on the wall next to the door. John hoped it was Handy Joe's even though he knew it was more than likely Matt's blood, probably from a wound he got in the struggle.

He was reaching for his cell phone to check with Howard before he remembered that it was a useless piece of plastic and metal at the moment. Angrily, he threw it onto the couch.

The fire escape access was through one of his two living room windows. The window was open and there was no one directly outside. Still, John kept close to the wall as he climbed out, immediately casting his eyes around to catch a glimpse of their suspect or Matt. He couldn't see or hear anyone.

Carefully, John inched across the slatted platform, mindful of the usual noises that announced everyone who was going up or down this way. He reached the rail and looked down, expecting to see Handy Joe trying to escape down the alley. But the alley below was completely empty. Cursing, John ducked down and pressed himself back against the building's outer wall. He looked up, straining his eyes to see beyond the glaring noon sunlight. Then he saw movement a few stories up.

"Detective?" Cowder asked from inside the apartment.

"He's going up to the roof," John said tersely. He looked up again, trying to see anything beyond the dark shape of someone moving up the stairs, but it was hopeless. The sun was up high enough to fall directly into the alley and blind anyone trying to look up.

Below him, Howard and Klein arrived in the alley. John kept his back to the wall and leaned over the side of the railing. "He's going up!" he yelled to them.

There was a sound from above and John looked up, trying to see what was happening. But instead of seeing Handy Joe or Matt, John saw hundreds of glittering particles fall through the air.

"Fuck!" he cursed, hiding his face in the crook of his arm just as the cloud of splintered glass reached him. None of the shards penetrated his leather jacket, but a few of them hit his head. John shook the remaining glass off when it was over and ran a hand over his head. There were one or two wet spots on his scalp and one at his right temple, but John ignored them. Nothing he hadn't survived before.

"I'm going up," he said, despite everything that told him it was a stupid move. Handy Joe had every advantage: he had the sun at his back, a hostage at his side and nothing left to lose. "Oh, yeah, bad, bad idea, John," he muttered. If anything, going after Handy Joe would probably get John killed.

He did it anyway.

The roof was one large open space with only a handful of possible hiding places. Hoping that Handy Joe was not looking in his direction, John pulled himself up the last few rungs, climbed onto the roof and ran for the nearest cover.

The creaking of the fire escape announced Cowder's arrival and John scanned the roof, ready to cover Cowder if he needed it. Moments later, Cowder was crouching next to him.

"I can't see any movement."

"I think I saw something over there by the water tank," John said. "I'm going to circle around and see if I can come up behind them."

John waited until Cowder had shifted into a position that would allow him to provide cover fire, then sprinted from cover to cover until he was on the far side of the construction that held the elevator motors and the roof access from inside the building.

There was no one on the far side of the roof.

Where the hell are they? For a terrifying moment, John thought that Handy Joe might have left the roof already and escaped through the inside staircase with Matt. But then a sound from around the corner drew his attention.

Gun at the ready, John carefully approached the corner and hunkered down. Hoping that he wasn't about to come face to face with a waiting Handy Joe, he peered around the corner.

John's breath caught in his throat. Matt was on the ground. He had a makeshift gag in his mouth and was wriggling and squirming against the ropes that were sloppily tied around his hands and legs.

John kept his back against the wall and sidled up to Matt. Matt made a startled sound when John touched his shoulder, but he readily held out his bound hands. John was just reaching for the rope to untie him when Matt's eyes widened and he made a high-pitched, frantic sound at the back of his throat. John recognized it as the warning it was and turned around, already swinging his fist at the attacker.

John caught Handy Joe in the chest, but it barely slowed the guy down. He had a metal pipe gripped tightly in his left hand and John instinctively used his right arm to block the blow. His gun was knocked out of his hand and pain exploded in his arm, spreading to his shoulder. John cursed and tried to grab the pipe from Handy Joe, but his hand, slick with sweat and blood, immediately slipped off the metal.

When Handy Joe raised his arm for the next blow, John grabbed it and slammed them both into the wall, using his body to knock the wind out of Handy Joe's lungs. Handy Joe dropped the pipe and shoved John away.

Handy Joe was young and strong – John had felt the iron-hard muscles underneath the baggy coveralls – but John knew how to fight dirty. He waited until Handy Joe struck out again and grabbed his wrist, using Handy Joe's momentum to pull him closer. In the same movement, John turned Handy Joe's wrist and used his other arm to deliver a blow to the outside of Handy Joe's elbow. John could hear the bone snap as he dislocated the joint and allowed himself a grim smile as Handy Joe howled in pain.

John allowed himself a second to check on Matt who had managed to get out of the leg ties but was still fighting with the bindings around his wrists. He could hear sirens approaching and hoped that they were Kaschinsky and his men. John was about to kick Handy Joe's feet out from under him and put him in a nelson to incapacitate him fully until Cowder could relieve him, when Handy Joe suddenly twisted away and produced a gun from inside his coverall.

Handy Joe held the gun to John's head and herded him back to Matt's side, cradling his broken arm against his chest.

"Don't fucking move!" Handy Joe barked at Matt, and Matt reluctantly stopped his struggles.

"Hey, uh, Joe," John said, mainly to draw his attention away from Matt, "you know you're under arrest, right?"

Handy Joe gave a short laugh, his gun hand wavering dangerously. John might have managed to take the gun out of his unsteady hand, but there was every chance that Handy Joe would squeeze off a round or two before John could overpower him. "It wasn't in the plan, but I am going to enjoy killing you, you asshole. You broke my arm!"

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw someone move towards them. Cowder, he assumed. "Yeah. It was great," John said, smirking a little. It had the effect John had been hoping for: Handy Joe was totally focused on him. Unfortunately it also got him whipped across the face with the butt of Handy Joe's Glock.

John tasted blood in his mouth and spat it out, hoping that whoever was approaching them would use the distraction to attack. Instead he heard the unmistakable sound of someone tripping over his own feet.

Handy Joe swung around and started firing blindly.

Somewhere close to John, a body hit the ground and Cowder yelled: "Police! Drop your weapon!" John took the chance to drag Matt to his feet and around the corner.

"I said drop your weapon!" Cowder repeated, louder this time. "Drop it or I will shoot you."

John plastered himself against Matt and held his breath, only releasing it when he heard a gunshot, closely followed by two more.

John could only hope that Cowder had been the one to fire last, otherwise they were pretty much dead. "Cowder!" he yelled.

"I'm okay, McClane." There was the sound of footsteps.

Matt started to struggle against his hold and John released him, quickly freeing him from the remaining ropes and the gag. Matt pulled a face and spat on the ground several times, trying to get the taste of the dirty rag and rope Handy Joe had used as a gag out of his mouth.

"Aw, shit! We need an ambulance. And fast!" Came Cowder's voice from around the corner. "Detective Howard's been hit!"

Matt gasped and disappeared around the corner faster than John could react. John followed and took in the scene before him: Handy Joe was lying dead on the ground. Howard was sitting up against the wall, hand pressed to her shoulder, while Cowder was trying to call for help on his radio. He only got static noise. Klein, who must have come up at the same time as Howard, was searching the pockets of Handy Joe for whatever was jamming their frequencies. He finally found and smashed the device. Almost instantly, everyone's cell phone started ringing and the two radios came back to life.

Cowder told their backup that they were on the roof and in need of an ambulance and then sank down to his knees, shaking a little. John gave his shoulder a supporting squeeze. "You do that?" he asked, nodding towards the body of Handy Joe.

Cowder gave an almost imperceptive nod.

"You did good then," he said.

Howard looked at John through narrowed eyes when he crouched down beside her and pulled her blouse open to inspect the wound. "One smart-ass comment, McClane, and you can kiss your manhood goodbye," she threatened.

John laughed. "Don't worry, Howard. I won't tell anyone what color bra you're wearing."

Howard laughed despite herself, then grimaced in pain. "Ow. Fuck! Don't make me laugh, asshole!"

A shadow fell on them and John turned his head, expecting Cowder or maybe Klein. Instead it was Matt who squatted down beside them.

"Is she gonna be okay?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," John said. "She's gonna be fine. It'll hurt like a bitch for a while, though."

"So I guess it's over?"

"Yeah." John put his hand on the back of Matt's neck. He could feel Matt's racing pulse against his fingers and gave him a reassuring squeeze. "It's over."

They waited in relative silence after that, until the noise of the sirens in the street below indicated that their backup had finally arrived. Minutes later the door to the roof was thrown open and several officers emerged, followed directly by an ambulance crew.

John and Matt had to step back to let them work on Howard, and John took the chance to hook one arm around Matt's side and pull him out of the area. He'd seen people get up after being shot, being hanged and being blown up. No need to wait around and see if Handy Joe would get up again.

He could feel Matt shaking against his side and leaning against him for support. John absently nodded to every officer they passed but waved off anyone who tried to stop them. John had a hand on Matt's shoulder, fingers clenched in the fabric of his sweater as he led him down the stairs and outside, and he wasn't altogether sure he'd be able to let go of Matt any time soon.

Finally Matt stopped shaking and John loosened his hold a little. He didn't let go of Matt, but he released his sweater and watched the blood flow back into his whitened knuckles.

"You okay, Matt?"

"Yeah. Sure," Matt said, absently patting John's side. "I got knocked on the head again, but don't worry. First hit to the head, I lose my memory, second hit to the head, I get my memory back." Matt laughed a little. "Like in a fucking movie."

John didn't mention the fact that Matt's laughter was a bit on the hysterical side. He squeezed Matt's shoulder, waved to the second crew of paramedics that were on their way up to the roof and made sure that Matt didn't trip over his own feet.

John was leaning against the side of the ambulance, waiting for the paramedics to check Matt out and patch him up if necessary. Waiting also, but to a lesser extent, for his fellow officers to clear Handy Joe's body from the roof and finish with his apartment – part of the crime scene, a mocking voice in the back of his head reminded him.

John snorted to himself. At least they wouldn't have to take a hotel room for the night. With Handy Joe dead, there was no one to prosecute for the murders he committed. No trial, no need for evidence preservation. CSU would do enough to make the follow-up report into a cohesive whole; the Chief would issue a statement and announce that the public was once again safe.

"Thinking deep thoughts?"

The voice startled John, but he didn't let it show. Slowly, he turned his head towards Kaschinsky. John had seen Kaschinsky arrive with the rest of their backup and Kaschinsky had immediately taken control of the scene. Not that John minded. It was Kaschinsky's case; John had just gotten caught up in it. Besides, Kaschinsky in his clean suit and tie combo looked better on the six o'clock news than John in his torn and dusty shirt that was sprinkled with blood, both his own and Handy Joe's.

"Do you need a doctor?"

John shook his head. "I'll live." He'd already waved off the paramedics when they'd come over to check on his injuries. He had a few bruises and scrapes and some small cuts, but nothing that was serious enough to call for a doctor.

Kaschinsky glanced to the side where Matt was being treated. "Kid all right?"

"Got knocked on his head pretty good, but yeah, he's okay." John grinned. "Got his memory back, though."

"'Course he did," Kaschinsky said and they shared a laugh at the irony of Matt regaining his memory from another hit to the head.

"Howard okay?" John asked after a moment. The wound hadn't seemed too bad, but you never knew.

"They took her to the hospital," Kaschinsky said. "She's gonna be okay."

Kaschinsky's cell phone rang. Kaschinsky glanced at the display and grimaced. "The Chief," he said. "He's been calling every five minutes for the last hour asking about our progress with clearing the scene. He wants me there for the press conference." Kaschinsky nodded a goodbye and accepted the call.

John turned his attention back to the ambulance and was surprised to see Matt waving goodbye to the paramedics.

"All done?"

"Yeah. I have to go to the doctor tomorrow to make sure there are no delayed effects from the second hit." Matt rubbed the side of his face, getting the freshly cleaned skin around his newest bruise smudged with dirt again. He looked at the crowd of onlookers, then shifted his gaze to the focus of their attention: the illuminated roof and the windows of John's fourth floor apartment. "Great. I was just getting used to that couch again."

John snorted. "My couch is a piece of crap," he said. "But don't worry. They'll be done soon."

As if on command, the coroner and his two assistants stepped out of the doors, carrying a simple casket between them. There was a flicker of interest from the crowd that disappeared soon after when they realized that there was nothing much exciting about two men pushing a casket into the back of a van. The crowd slowly dispersed.

Upstairs, John and Matt ran into the last remaining police officers who were following the crime scene analysts on their way out of the building.

John nodded in greeting but didn't stop to chat. Matt followed him inside a little hesitantly.

"Should we be in here? I mean, isn't it a crime scene?" he asked.

"Not anymore," John said. "Handy Joe is dead. Case closed. No need to jump through any hoops to secure evidence we won't need."

Matt nodded in comprehension. "I'm gonna take a shower," he announced.

John grunted in acknowledgement and watched Matt head for the bathroom. A few moments later, he heard the shower start. Looking around, he saw the usual chaos he'd learned to expect from a released crime scene. The combined efforts of the criminal and the police made it look like a hurricane had run through the room. Nothing was in its place, furniture had been moved and a few things were broken. Usually there would be a fine layer of fingerprint dust over everything, but he'd been spared that because there was no doubt of the suspect's identity.

John half-heartedly moved the couch back into place and stared down at one of his bookshelves, overturned during the struggle between Matt and Handy Joe. His wedding picture was buried under a few books and some glass shards from the shattered picture frame. He carefully picked up the picture and placed it on the kitchen counter. He'd have to buy a new frame. Maybe something nicer this time.

John's gaze fell on the duffel bag in the corner of the room. Matt's clothes. He fished a pair of sweats and a t-shirt out of the bag and headed for the bathroom.

He knocked. "Hey, Matt. Got some clothes for you." John set the clothes down right outside the door and was already turning away when he realized that Matt hadn't answered him. He stepped back up to the door and knocked again. "Matt?"

Matt had seemed fine earlier. He had his memory back and the paramedics hadn't protested too much when Matt had refused to go to the hospital with them. He hadn't even complained about a headache.

"Matt?" he called again. Still no answer.

An hour ago John had been pretty sure that his body was too wrung out to do more than sleep. But now he felt his pulse skyrocket and his muscles tense with a combination of readiness and trepidation as adrenaline flooded his system once again. He reached for the doorknob, hoping that Matt hadn't locked the door.

The bathroom was filled with steam. The tiles on the walls glistened with moisture and the mirror was clouded by condensation. "Matt?" John said, training his eyes on the frosted glass of his shower stall. John couldn't see any movement.

"Matt?" he said again, pulling at the shower stall door.

Matt was standing motionlessly under the hot water, head turned back, eyes closed. When John opened the shower stall, his eyes shot open and he jumped.

"Jesus Christ, McClane! Do you want to kill me?!"

John took a step back. "Calm down. I called and you didn't answer."

"So?" Matt said, reaching up to brush a strand of wet hair out of his eyes.

"So, you're the one with his second concussion in eight days," John said gruffly.

Matt looked at him, shivering a little. Then he licked his lips and looked up at John through his eyelashes.

It was almost too absurd. There they were, all cut up and bruised again, John bleary-eyed and Matt sopping wet, in John's bathroom and it looked as if Matt was trying to seduce him.

Matt slowly took a step back. It could have been an innocent action, Matt moving to get back under the stream of warm water. But the look in his eyes and the deliberate way in which he moved spoke again of seduction.

Oh yeah. Matt was definitely making a play for him. John couldn't help the tiny smirk that formed on his lips even if he was silently wondering if Matt had a kink for seducing his partner or if it was an innate talent of his. Either way, John felt his body respond.

The air between them was heavy with anticipation. For a moment, they simply stared at each other motionlessly. John's mind flashed back to the tentative kiss that morning – God, had it only been that morning? – and he knew he wouldn't be able to pull back again if Matt kissed him. Not when Matt, with his memory intact and definitely in his right mind, was standing naked in front of him, looking at him like that.

Then Matt licked his lips again, his gaze traveling down the length of John's body, and made a small 'come here' gesture that was both unmistakable and hot as hell.

John pushed all his doubts aside and decided to accept the not-so-subtle invitation.

He quickly stepped out of his clothes and into the shower. The water was hotter than John liked, but Matt seemed to enjoy it. His skin had a healthy rosy color and his lips were dark red.

Matt turned towards him and put his hands on John's hips, pulling their bodies close together. Matt's eyes were almost black, his pupils dilated so far that John could only see the tiniest ring of brown around them.

John ran his thumb over Matt's wet lips, unable to resist, and Matt opened his mouth slightly. John slipped his finger inside and groaned when Matt started sucking lightly.

Matt shifted until his erection was grinding against John's and the combination of all the different sensations was so good that John was sure it wouldn't take him long to come from this alone.

It wasn't how John had pictured their first time, on those few occasions that he'd allowed himself to think this far ahead, but they were both exhausted and hurting so maybe slow and easy was the best way to go.

John slowly pulled his finger out of Matt's mouth and brushed his hand against the side of Matt's face. Matt leaned into the touch, tilting his head back, and John bent down, trailing his tongue over the side of Matt's throat. He kissed his way up to Matt's mouth, never stopping when he reached it.

Matt moaned into John's mouth and bucked his hips, his hands sliding over John's back and down to his ass. John crowded Matt against the shower wall and Matt gasped. John didn't know if it was because his back was pressing against the cool tile or because their cocks were sliding against each other with each lazy thrust of John's hips.

John finally broke their kiss and, ignoring Matt's small sound of protest, slid down Matt's body. The tip of Matt's erection nudged against his underside of his jaw and Matt groaned.

"Oh, fuck!" Matt's whispered curse sounded loud in the small shower stall.

John allowed himself a wicked grin before starting to run his hands over Matt's body, caressing his legs and his stomach. He placed tiny kisses on Matt's thighs and stomach and nuzzled his groin, feeling Matt tense in anticipation.

"McClane, stop fucking teasing me!"

John chuckled at the impatient tone in Matt's voice, but obliged and closed his lips around the tip of Matt's cock. Matt gave a drawn-out low moan and John could feel the tremors running through his body as Matt tried to hold back from thrusting into his mouth. John wrapped one hand around the base of Matt's erection and the other one around his own cock and started moving them in a hard and fast rhythm. At the same time he started sucking on Matt's cock. It took only a few powerful strokes and a bit of added pressure from his tongue and Matt came apart in his mouth.

John pulled away slightly and closed his eyes, resting his head against Matt's thigh and rubbing his thumb over the head of his own erection, faster and faster.

Matt was breathing harshly, hands ghosting restlessly over John's scalp and shoulders, until he gave up and slid down the wall. He briefly rested his forehead against John's, then tilted his head and leaned in for a slow kiss. His hands closed around John's, pulling and rubbing until John broke their kiss with an almost startled gasp and came in sputtering bursts.

John stuck his fingers under the spray briefly, then reached out to fold his fingers around Matt's. Their legs pressed closely together, and they sat in the shower until their breathing had evened out and their hearts were beating slowly and steadily. And if John held on a little too tightly at times, Matt didn't complain.

Epilogue:

John woke up with a nose full of hair. He turned his head and looked at the slowly turning ceiling fan. After sleeping in the same bed as Holly through most of the 80s, waking up with his face stuck in a mop of hair was nothing new to him. Waking up with a bad headache and a crick in his back from sleeping on an uncomfortable couch was just as familiar.

What wasn't familiar about this situation was the fact that it was Matt's hair in his face, still smelling faintly of gunpowder. It was Matt's body lying on his arm, Matt who was breathing against the side of his neck.

John closed his eyes for another moment and let the previous day replay in his memories. Matt, kissing him in the morning. Himself, pushing Matt away. Matt's frantic call for help. Handy Joe, small-eyed and with bared teeth, ready to deliver a blow with the metal pipe in his hand. He could still feel breaking glass showering down on him, still feel the fear gripping at him when he realized Matt was in danger.

At least I had my fucking shoes on this time, he thought, tentatively reaching out to touch the cut above his right temple. And why is it always the head?

The heavy weight on top of him suddenly shifted and John groaned when a pointy elbow dug into his ribs.

"Fuck! Matt!"

"Wha--?"

"Get off my ribs!" He shoved at Matt's arm and managed to get him off his chest, but unfortunately Matt hadn't braced himself. He landed – face first – on John's stomach.

"Oof. Jesus, kid, do you want to kill me?"

Matt sat up and John watched as he rubbed his hands over his face and yawned heartily.

"Not especially, McClane. You saved my life again yesterday, I'll cut you some slack," he said, voice raspy. "Yikes." Matt coughed. "I need coffee."

"You and me both, kid." John followed Matt into the kitchen. Matt poured himself some orange juice while they waited for the coffee to brew.

"So," Matt said, draining the last of his juice. He turned to John. "Are we gonna talk about what happened?"

"Wasn't planning on it. Why?"

"Just checking that we're on the same page here," Matt said with a shrug, but John heard the uncertainty in his voice.

John wasn't any more sure of himself than Matt. As far as he was concerned, Matt had the upper hand in this.

"So," Matt said. "This is awkward."

"Yeah," John agreed.

Neither of them laughed or did any of the things you do to cover an awkward moment and the tension in the air got almost too much to bear.

"Okay, here's the deal. I haven't really done this before," Matt said.

"What? You said you had sex before!"

Matt rolled his eyes. "McClane, shut up and let me talk, okay? I haven't really done this before, and by 'this'," he added pointedly, "I mean I have never lost my memory, outed myself and came on to the guy I'd had a crush on ever since he saved my life the first time and then ended up with him saving my life again shortly after regaining my memory. It's a bit much to take in, you know?"

John nodded. "So…?"

"I've done the relationship bit. Not often, but I know the mechanics of 'Person A asks Person B out for coffee and they start dating.'" Matt leaned back against the counter and sighed. "But this? I'm not even sure what this is."

"It is what it is," John said.

"It is what it is," Matt repeated slowly. With a cheeky grin, he said, "Does that mean I don't get to teach you all the dirty tricks I picked up at Space Camp?"

"You think you know any tricks that I don't?" John said.

"I don't know, John. You were married for an awfully long time. I'd be happy to give you a refresher course."

"A refresher course, huh?"

"Yep." Matt grinned. "No special fees, no registration, all completely free."

The smirk froze on John's lips. "Nothing in life is for free," he said roughly. He'd learned that one the hard way. All the good things came with a price. Some people weren't willing to pay that price, and he was usually the one who was called in to clean up their messes.

John was so lost in his thoughts, flashing back to the images of the previous week (Matt in a hospital bed, at his kitchen table, on his couch – in the hands of a merciless killer), that he almost missed Matt turning away from him with a troubled expression on his face.

"What? Hey, Matt." John reached out and grabbed Matt's arm. "Don't turn away from me."

"Why the hell not, McClane?" Matt spat. He yanked his wrist out of John's grip and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I get what? A pity fuck for free and anything else I want, I gotta pay you for?"

"Jesus. Fuck no!" John took a step towards Matt. "Matt. Never. I-- What I meant was that nothing in life is for free. There's always a price. My job cost me my family. My family--my family cost me my hair," he said with a sardonic grin on his lips.

The comment elicited a tiny laugh from Matt, but his expression closed up again almost immediately. "And what, John? I'm not--"

"Let me finish. What I'm saying is: it all cost me. My job, my family, this life." He caught Matt's eyes, hoping that his voice and expression could show Matt how serious he was. "The point is: I'm still doing my job. I still love my family." He cupped Matt's face in his hands. "And I wouldn't want to give any of it up to make it easier on myself."

Matt didn't move or speak. In fact, he barely seemed to be breathing. Then he nearly whispered, "What? What does that--?" He broke off and took a deep breath. "McClane, I know you hate talking about your feelings. Really, I'm not good with all that touchy-feely stuff either, so that's great, okay? And I don't mean to be making it harder on you, but it's possible that my brain is still a little damaged. Just to clarify: You did not just tell me that I'm just not worth it, did you? What you meant to tell me is that this--" he gestured between them "--is totally worth something, right? I mean, you were talking about your job and your family and I'm in neither category, so I wasn't sure how to take your--"

John cut him off the only way he knew how: He kissed him. Matt's lips were still moving when John leaned in and placed his mouth over Matt's. He tasted like orange juice and John wished they could have waited with the earth-shattering revelations until after his morning coffee. He didn't even want to know what he tasted like. But Matt didn't seem to mind. He leaned into the kiss and linked his hands behind John's back to pull him closer.

The kiss only ended when the coffee machine let out a particularly loud gurgle and made them pull apart to check if there'd be any imminent explosions. Matt's hands were still behind his back, pulling them close together. John drew back far enough to look Matt in the eyes.

"Just to clarify," John said with a grin, "You, Matt Farrell, are definitely worth it."

--The End.