Chapter 4 - Ice
"Ah, ah, aahh!" Matt cried, his face half-smashed into the mattress. "Come on, man, stop!"
McClane said nothing, just tilted Matt's wrist half an inch up, putting more pressure on the young man's shoulder.
"Please," Matt nearly screamed. He couldn't move, and having his arm twisted and pulled backwards was killing him. One minute he had been looking up at a furious McClane, and the next he had been flung face down on the bed and the older man had shoved one hard hand on the middle of Matt's back while the other hand grabbed Matt's wrist and twisted his arm up behind him.
"You think you're going to move in with my daughter?" McClane bellowed, not loosening his hold. "Over my dead body – and believe me, people who have tried to do things over my dead body have ended up dead themselves."
"You're killing me," Matt protested, his face a tight grimace against the pain.
"Now, over your dead body would be just fine with me," McClane raised the wrist he held captive up another milligram, and Matt cried out.
"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," he begged. "Please, I can't take it any longer. I'll do anything – anything! Ow, ow! I'm telling Lucy if you don't stop!"
McClane looked down at the kid with murderous eyes. "You picked the wrong guy to blackmail, kid. Save good-bye to this arm."
He wasn't really going to break it, or at least McClane felt pretty sure he wouldn't, but Matt broke out into cold sweat and wailed,
"No, don't. Please!" And then he buried his face in the pillow.
McClane abruptly dropped his arm, and Matt pulled it close to his chest, moaning and whimpering as he cradled the throbbing limb.
Sneering and disgusted, McClane reached forward to smack the kid on the top of the head. Matt yelped, but the sound only spurred McClane into action. He popped his hand on the kid's head again before smacking him on the shoulders, the waist, back up to the shoulders, then the head again – anything McClane could reach.
Matt responded by wailing again and pulling his arms up to cover his head. "Stop hitting me," his muffled voice demanded.
"You should be glad I'm not taking my belt to you," McClane growled as he kept whacking the boy, not hard enough to bruise him, just enough to make him worry about what McClane might do next. "The first time I saw you, I thought 'There's boy who needs a good beating.' Smart-mouth, rude, jackass punk."
McClane landed an open-palmed swat on the back of Matt's head one last time, and Matt raised hurt brown eyes up.
"I thought we had an understanding. You saved my life and I helped you and we both got shot and we both care about Lucy. Don't you want her to be someone who really cares about her?"
McClane snarled, and Matt ducked his head under his arms again.
"That's just it," McClane pointed out. "Look at you, hiding all scared. My daughter needs a man who can protect her, not some chess club reject who cries when playing with his dolls."
"I don't cry about my dolls – no, they're not dolls. They're collectables."
"Lucy doesn't date guys with dolls," McClane insisted. "I want her with a guy who I can trust, one who's going to protect her when I'm not there."
"I can be that guy," Matt urged as he sat up straight. "I'm ready to protect her."
"You're not right," McClane shook his head. "Thin, scruffy, shaggy, rude –"
"I'll gain weight, shave, and get a haircut. And I'll stop being rude – I promise."
"You remember when I first met you?" McClane reminded him. "I told you I was cop, and you lied to me. And then when I came in, you stalled before trying to run. Not to mention I was there because you were hacking computers!"
"But I can change," Matt declared.
"Really? Have you been working out at the gym?" McClane crossed his arms. "What good are you if you can't run up a few flights of stairs?"
Matt dropped his eyes down, a shadow over his face.
"You're wrong for her," McClane decided. He stepped away from the bed and took a few steps towards the door. His sharp instinct made him whirl around just in time to see Matt rushing at him, the kid's face a mixture of determination and rage. Before McClane could think, he whipped his arm out and thrust it at the boy, sending Matt sprawling across the small room.
Matt fell, striking his head on the corner of the short bureau. As McClane watched him fall, almost in slow motion, the man's one thought was that Lucy would kill him.
Matt tumbled to the floor and began crying out in pain immediately, clutching his hands to the side of his face.
McClane was beside him in a split second. "Kid, kid, let me see – are you bleeding?"
Matt tried to turn away, but McClane rolled him over to see the damage. Thankfully, there was no blood, but an ugly red mark marked the side of Matt's left face, from his hairline down to his jaw. It was swelling and would be an ugly bruise if left alone.
"Kitchen," McClane ordered. "I'm going to get some ice."
"No," Matt moaned, biting his bottom lip to keep from crying. "Leave me alone – let me go."
"Come on, kid, up you go," McClane ignored his protests and scooped his arm under Matt's shoulder to help him stand. "Kitchen. No, don't touch it – it will only hurt more."
He began leading Matt down the hall, worried about how dazed the young man looked. Head wounds could be serious, and McClane wondered if he should call 911.
"Why – why did you hit me?" Matt asked as he was guided into the small kitchen and into a chair.
"You ran at me," McClane opened the freezer and began digging out ice.
"I thought you would think I was brave and could take care of Lucy," Matt blinked, his eyes glazed with pain.
"Don't ever run at a cop," McClane told him, wrapping the ice in a clean hand towel. He reached out to press the ice against Matt's face, but the kid pulled his head back.
"No, it hurts."
"I have to get ice on it. Stop struggling. Sit still. Matthew Farrell, sit still."
Matt kept trying to shy away, and McClane lost patience. He grabbed the kid's right ear and turned his head so he could press the ice again Matt's left side.
"Ow, it hurts!"
"Quiet down," McClane ordered. "Take it like a man."
"You're the one that pushed me," Matt said, but he did his best to stay still even though the hard, cold ice hurt quite a bit.
"We need to keep it cold for a while," McClane ignored the accusation. "I'm pretty sure you don't have a concussion, but I'll wake you up every few hours to make sure. I'm going to get some ibuprofen for you. Hold this," he grabbed Matt's hand and pushed it against the make-do ice pack, "against your face until I get back. Take it off, and it'll be trouble."
He left Matt sitting in the kitchen and went to the medicine cabinet to get the pills. He had proscriptions for stronger drugs, medicine for his own gun wound that would take away all the pain and make him sleep for hours. McClane briefly considered slipping Matt one of those pills – the kid would doze off in minutes and if Lucy came, McClane could tell her Matt was already asleep.
Sighing, McClane took the ibuprofen down from the shelf, assuring himself that Matt was tired enough to go to sleep and there was no need to start drugging the kids just yet.
Stepping into the kitchen, he saw Matt holding the ice a few inches from his face. Matt hastily put the ice against his face, trying not to look guilty and failing completely. McClane gave him a stern look before getting water and glass. Popping off the top of the plastic bottle, he shook three of the brown pills into Matt's hand. It was rather endearing to see how much the kid trusted him – Matt didn't even look at the pills before putting them in his mouth and gulping down the water.
"You always take pills without looking to see what they are?"
"You have the bottle right there and it says ibuprofen," Matt pointed out.
"I could have filled it with poison," McClane retorted. He felt a little better when Matt looked scared. "You have to think about these things. Okay give me the ice. Yeah, it's going to bruise. At least your hair covers most of it. Tomorrow, haircut first thing. Have you eaten anything?"
Matt shook his head the tiniest bit, and McClane huffed impatiently.
"You shouldn't take those pills on an empty stomach. You really are a helpless idiot."
After getting Matt to press the ice on again, McClane got out a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Not the fanciest of meals, but McClane did not have much food on hand and he thought a peanut butter sandwich would be better than nothing.
Matt made no comment about the food; he ate hungrily, wincing slightly while he chewed but kept the ice up. He drank all the water left in the glass and then sat, blankly staring at the wall.
"Bed," McClane directed. "You want to brush your teeth first?"
"Oh, yeah," Matt stood slowly. "Guess I should."
"Have to remind him to brush his teeth – it's like raising Jack all over again," McClane grumbled.
A few minutes later, Matt was back in bed, this time under the covers and leaning back against the pillows. He looked exhausted, and McClane briefly wondered if the kid had gotten any sleep since he had been shot. Even after the pain stopped, the nightmares lingered.
McClane opened his mouth to tell the kid to go to sleep when he heard the sound of a key in the lock.
"Wait here," McClane ordered as he stepped into the hall.
Lucy was charging into the apartment, concerned and anxious. "Where is he?" she demanded.
"Look here," McClane began, but Lucy brushed right past him to go down the hall, right to the smaller bedroom.
"Matt," she sounded relieved when she saw him in bed, alive and in one piece. "Thank goodness, you're all – what the hell happened to your face?"
A moment later, she sat on the edge of the bed, gently turning his face to look at the bruise.
"I – I fell into the bureau," Matt said.
Lucy glared at her father who had stepped into the doorway. "You pushed him into a bureau? Dad, you have to stop trying to kill my boyfriends!"
"Oh, so he's your boyfriend?" McClane challenged. "That other jerk in the car – he was just the guy with his hands under your shirt?"
Lucy pressed her lips together. "Matt, Dad and I are going to have talk. You go to sleep and I'll be in soon."
"Like hell you will," McClane thundered. "You are not sleeping with him under my roof."
"I'll sleep with him wherever I like," his daughter shot back.
"Maybe I should leave," Matt began to get out of the bed.
"Stay still!" both McClane and Lucy snapped at him. Matt immediately leaned back against the pillow, looking very uncomfortable.
"We're going to talk," Lucy stood up decidedly. She leaned over the bed, pressing her lips against Matt's for a second.
"Lucy, living room," McClane said sternly.
Matt wished she would stay with him longer, but she went towards the hallway, shaking her head in exasperation at her father.
McClane reached out to snap off the overhead light-switch. "I'll wake you in a few hours," he told Matt. And then he shut the door, leaving the bedroom dark except for the street lights glowing through the window.
Matt lay in the bed, listening for voices, but he heard nothing except the low hum of the bathroom fan. He wished he were brave enough to barge into the living room, grab Lucy, and march out of the apartment in defiance. But McClane being McClane . . . Matt rolled on his right side so as not to hurt his bruises and shut his eyes.
He was not sure who would win out. They were both so stubborn, but Matt hoped they would both reach a decision that did not involve throwing him out on the street.
McClane said nothing, just tilted Matt's wrist half an inch up, putting more pressure on the young man's shoulder.
"Please," Matt nearly screamed. He couldn't move, and having his arm twisted and pulled backwards was killing him. One minute he had been looking up at a furious McClane, and the next he had been flung face down on the bed and the older man had shoved one hard hand on the middle of Matt's back while the other hand grabbed Matt's wrist and twisted his arm up behind him.
"You think you're going to move in with my daughter?" McClane bellowed, not loosening his hold. "Over my dead body – and believe me, people who have tried to do things over my dead body have ended up dead themselves."
"You're killing me," Matt protested, his face a tight grimace against the pain.
"Now, over your dead body would be just fine with me," McClane raised the wrist he held captive up another milligram, and Matt cried out.
"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," he begged. "Please, I can't take it any longer. I'll do anything – anything! Ow, ow! I'm telling Lucy if you don't stop!"
McClane looked down at the kid with murderous eyes. "You picked the wrong guy to blackmail, kid. Save good-bye to this arm."
He wasn't really going to break it, or at least McClane felt pretty sure he wouldn't, but Matt broke out into cold sweat and wailed,
"No, don't. Please!" And then he buried his face in the pillow.
McClane abruptly dropped his arm, and Matt pulled it close to his chest, moaning and whimpering as he cradled the throbbing limb.
Sneering and disgusted, McClane reached forward to smack the kid on the top of the head. Matt yelped, but the sound only spurred McClane into action. He popped his hand on the kid's head again before smacking him on the shoulders, the waist, back up to the shoulders, then the head again – anything McClane could reach.
Matt responded by wailing again and pulling his arms up to cover his head. "Stop hitting me," his muffled voice demanded.
"You should be glad I'm not taking my belt to you," McClane growled as he kept whacking the boy, not hard enough to bruise him, just enough to make him worry about what McClane might do next. "The first time I saw you, I thought 'There's boy who needs a good beating.' Smart-mouth, rude, jackass punk."
McClane landed an open-palmed swat on the back of Matt's head one last time, and Matt raised hurt brown eyes up.
"I thought we had an understanding. You saved my life and I helped you and we both got shot and we both care about Lucy. Don't you want her to be someone who really cares about her?"
McClane snarled, and Matt ducked his head under his arms again.
"That's just it," McClane pointed out. "Look at you, hiding all scared. My daughter needs a man who can protect her, not some chess club reject who cries when playing with his dolls."
"I don't cry about my dolls – no, they're not dolls. They're collectables."
"Lucy doesn't date guys with dolls," McClane insisted. "I want her with a guy who I can trust, one who's going to protect her when I'm not there."
"I can be that guy," Matt urged as he sat up straight. "I'm ready to protect her."
"You're not right," McClane shook his head. "Thin, scruffy, shaggy, rude –"
"I'll gain weight, shave, and get a haircut. And I'll stop being rude – I promise."
"You remember when I first met you?" McClane reminded him. "I told you I was cop, and you lied to me. And then when I came in, you stalled before trying to run. Not to mention I was there because you were hacking computers!"
"But I can change," Matt declared.
"Really? Have you been working out at the gym?" McClane crossed his arms. "What good are you if you can't run up a few flights of stairs?"
Matt dropped his eyes down, a shadow over his face.
"You're wrong for her," McClane decided. He stepped away from the bed and took a few steps towards the door. His sharp instinct made him whirl around just in time to see Matt rushing at him, the kid's face a mixture of determination and rage. Before McClane could think, he whipped his arm out and thrust it at the boy, sending Matt sprawling across the small room.
Matt fell, striking his head on the corner of the short bureau. As McClane watched him fall, almost in slow motion, the man's one thought was that Lucy would kill him.
Matt tumbled to the floor and began crying out in pain immediately, clutching his hands to the side of his face.
McClane was beside him in a split second. "Kid, kid, let me see – are you bleeding?"
Matt tried to turn away, but McClane rolled him over to see the damage. Thankfully, there was no blood, but an ugly red mark marked the side of Matt's left face, from his hairline down to his jaw. It was swelling and would be an ugly bruise if left alone.
"Kitchen," McClane ordered. "I'm going to get some ice."
"No," Matt moaned, biting his bottom lip to keep from crying. "Leave me alone – let me go."
"Come on, kid, up you go," McClane ignored his protests and scooped his arm under Matt's shoulder to help him stand. "Kitchen. No, don't touch it – it will only hurt more."
He began leading Matt down the hall, worried about how dazed the young man looked. Head wounds could be serious, and McClane wondered if he should call 911.
"Why – why did you hit me?" Matt asked as he was guided into the small kitchen and into a chair.
"You ran at me," McClane opened the freezer and began digging out ice.
"I thought you would think I was brave and could take care of Lucy," Matt blinked, his eyes glazed with pain.
"Don't ever run at a cop," McClane told him, wrapping the ice in a clean hand towel. He reached out to press the ice against Matt's face, but the kid pulled his head back.
"No, it hurts."
"I have to get ice on it. Stop struggling. Sit still. Matthew Farrell, sit still."
Matt kept trying to shy away, and McClane lost patience. He grabbed the kid's right ear and turned his head so he could press the ice again Matt's left side.
"Ow, it hurts!"
"Quiet down," McClane ordered. "Take it like a man."
"You're the one that pushed me," Matt said, but he did his best to stay still even though the hard, cold ice hurt quite a bit.
"We need to keep it cold for a while," McClane ignored the accusation. "I'm pretty sure you don't have a concussion, but I'll wake you up every few hours to make sure. I'm going to get some ibuprofen for you. Hold this," he grabbed Matt's hand and pushed it against the make-do ice pack, "against your face until I get back. Take it off, and it'll be trouble."
He left Matt sitting in the kitchen and went to the medicine cabinet to get the pills. He had proscriptions for stronger drugs, medicine for his own gun wound that would take away all the pain and make him sleep for hours. McClane briefly considered slipping Matt one of those pills – the kid would doze off in minutes and if Lucy came, McClane could tell her Matt was already asleep.
Sighing, McClane took the ibuprofen down from the shelf, assuring himself that Matt was tired enough to go to sleep and there was no need to start drugging the kids just yet.
Stepping into the kitchen, he saw Matt holding the ice a few inches from his face. Matt hastily put the ice against his face, trying not to look guilty and failing completely. McClane gave him a stern look before getting water and glass. Popping off the top of the plastic bottle, he shook three of the brown pills into Matt's hand. It was rather endearing to see how much the kid trusted him – Matt didn't even look at the pills before putting them in his mouth and gulping down the water.
"You always take pills without looking to see what they are?"
"You have the bottle right there and it says ibuprofen," Matt pointed out.
"I could have filled it with poison," McClane retorted. He felt a little better when Matt looked scared. "You have to think about these things. Okay give me the ice. Yeah, it's going to bruise. At least your hair covers most of it. Tomorrow, haircut first thing. Have you eaten anything?"
Matt shook his head the tiniest bit, and McClane huffed impatiently.
"You shouldn't take those pills on an empty stomach. You really are a helpless idiot."
After getting Matt to press the ice on again, McClane got out a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Not the fanciest of meals, but McClane did not have much food on hand and he thought a peanut butter sandwich would be better than nothing.
Matt made no comment about the food; he ate hungrily, wincing slightly while he chewed but kept the ice up. He drank all the water left in the glass and then sat, blankly staring at the wall.
"Bed," McClane directed. "You want to brush your teeth first?"
"Oh, yeah," Matt stood slowly. "Guess I should."
"Have to remind him to brush his teeth – it's like raising Jack all over again," McClane grumbled.
A few minutes later, Matt was back in bed, this time under the covers and leaning back against the pillows. He looked exhausted, and McClane briefly wondered if the kid had gotten any sleep since he had been shot. Even after the pain stopped, the nightmares lingered.
McClane opened his mouth to tell the kid to go to sleep when he heard the sound of a key in the lock.
"Wait here," McClane ordered as he stepped into the hall.
Lucy was charging into the apartment, concerned and anxious. "Where is he?" she demanded.
"Look here," McClane began, but Lucy brushed right past him to go down the hall, right to the smaller bedroom.
"Matt," she sounded relieved when she saw him in bed, alive and in one piece. "Thank goodness, you're all – what the hell happened to your face?"
A moment later, she sat on the edge of the bed, gently turning his face to look at the bruise.
"I – I fell into the bureau," Matt said.
Lucy glared at her father who had stepped into the doorway. "You pushed him into a bureau? Dad, you have to stop trying to kill my boyfriends!"
"Oh, so he's your boyfriend?" McClane challenged. "That other jerk in the car – he was just the guy with his hands under your shirt?"
Lucy pressed her lips together. "Matt, Dad and I are going to have talk. You go to sleep and I'll be in soon."
"Like hell you will," McClane thundered. "You are not sleeping with him under my roof."
"I'll sleep with him wherever I like," his daughter shot back.
"Maybe I should leave," Matt began to get out of the bed.
"Stay still!" both McClane and Lucy snapped at him. Matt immediately leaned back against the pillow, looking very uncomfortable.
"We're going to talk," Lucy stood up decidedly. She leaned over the bed, pressing her lips against Matt's for a second.
"Lucy, living room," McClane said sternly.
Matt wished she would stay with him longer, but she went towards the hallway, shaking her head in exasperation at her father.
McClane reached out to snap off the overhead light-switch. "I'll wake you in a few hours," he told Matt. And then he shut the door, leaving the bedroom dark except for the street lights glowing through the window.
Matt lay in the bed, listening for voices, but he heard nothing except the low hum of the bathroom fan. He wished he were brave enough to barge into the living room, grab Lucy, and march out of the apartment in defiance. But McClane being McClane . . . Matt rolled on his right side so as not to hurt his bruises and shut his eyes.
He was not sure who would win out. They were both so stubborn, but Matt hoped they would both reach a decision that did not involve throwing him out on the street.