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Yuletide Treat: Harmless Crank Calls and Other Death Defying Acts (Die Hard 4, PG, John/Matt)
I wrote a Yuletide Treat too.
Title: Harmless Crank Calls and Other Death Defying Acts
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rivestra
Rating: PG
Fandom: Die Hard 4
Pairing: John/Matt
Spoilers: pssst: they survive the movie!
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
Length: 460 words
Summary: This is why Freddy doesn't like to actually talk to people.
A/N: A little Yuletide treat for Lasha. A million thanks tosnarkgoddess for the beyond the call of duty (3:30 am, Christmas morning!) beta.
The operator puts him thorough cheerfully. Two big conferences in one hotel meant that he'd expected chaos, but Chicago was a big city and the hotel staff could handle it, apparently.
He closes his browser tabs methodically as the phone rings, once (blip goes the Non-Traditional Evasive Tactics panel), twice (the Exigent Circumstances in Law Enforcement conference's home page winks out), three times (the Slaves to Servers master agenda fades to his history).
Matt answers on the fourth ring. "Yeah… hello?" He sounds breathless.
Freddy closes his eyes, but it doesn't help. He mumbles, "Fucking, Christ" under his breath, but Matt doesn't hear. Louder he says, "Farrell, what the fuck are you doing teaching a bunch of corporate freaks bondage techniques for their data?" His voice is acid and sarcasm – as default a state as he has.
Matt's mouth is pointed away and the phone is muffled but Freddy distinctly hears Matt's, "Warlock," anyway. A too-lazy, "Because I like eating," is directed into the phone, immediately followed by an irritable, "Why the fuck are you calling me at 3am? Is the East Coast on fire again? Can't you take this…"
"Matt."
"…one? I'm in Chicago and it's gonna take me at least three hours to get home. Probably…"
Freddy tries again. "Matt."
"…more, if whatever's going on is affecting the airports…" Something clunks loudly in the background, and Matt is laughing when he uncovers the receiver again. His snorting turns into a mock-cough that doesn't cover his truncated "W" at all before he continues with, "Yeah, I'd have to drive back, for sure."
This is why Freddy doesn't like to actually talk to people. He shouts into the phone, "Matt!"
Matt's verbal diarrhea pauses, but the reprieve is short. "C'mon, man, you don't have to yell. You're the one who called me in the middle of the night. Cut me a little…"
"MATT!" Freddy shouts again.
Matt snaps back, "WHAT?"
"I didn't call you."
"You didn't…"
Freddy can hear Matt scratching his head, hundreds of miles away.
"I didn't call you," he repeats, deadpan, calm. "I called McClane's room."
Away from the phone again but not bothering to cover the mic this time, Matt repeats, "He says he called for you, but that doesn't make…" With a thunk and a scraping sound, his words trail off, quickly fading to a distant, indistinct babble.
"Fuck off, Frederick."" McClane draws out his name like a threat – slow, painful death with two Es and a K.
Hands shaking a bit, just from the basement's cold, and his ears still ringing from the slam, Freddy tucks his cell back into his pocket and lets out a weak laugh. It doesn't sound real, even to him, and he doesn't think he's going to call back.
Ever.
~fin~
~ Fic Index ~
Title: Harmless Crank Calls and Other Death Defying Acts
Author:
rivestra Rating: PG
Fandom: Die Hard 4
Pairing: John/Matt
Spoilers: pssst: they survive the movie!
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.
Length: 460 words
Summary: This is why Freddy doesn't like to actually talk to people.
A/N: A little Yuletide treat for Lasha. A million thanks to
snarkgoddess for the beyond the call of duty (3:30 am, Christmas morning!) beta.The operator puts him thorough cheerfully. Two big conferences in one hotel meant that he'd expected chaos, but Chicago was a big city and the hotel staff could handle it, apparently.
He closes his browser tabs methodically as the phone rings, once (blip goes the Non-Traditional Evasive Tactics panel), twice (the Exigent Circumstances in Law Enforcement conference's home page winks out), three times (the Slaves to Servers master agenda fades to his history).
Matt answers on the fourth ring. "Yeah… hello?" He sounds breathless.
Freddy closes his eyes, but it doesn't help. He mumbles, "Fucking, Christ" under his breath, but Matt doesn't hear. Louder he says, "Farrell, what the fuck are you doing teaching a bunch of corporate freaks bondage techniques for their data?" His voice is acid and sarcasm – as default a state as he has.
Matt's mouth is pointed away and the phone is muffled but Freddy distinctly hears Matt's, "Warlock," anyway. A too-lazy, "Because I like eating," is directed into the phone, immediately followed by an irritable, "Why the fuck are you calling me at 3am? Is the East Coast on fire again? Can't you take this…"
"Matt."
"…one? I'm in Chicago and it's gonna take me at least three hours to get home. Probably…"
Freddy tries again. "Matt."
"…more, if whatever's going on is affecting the airports…" Something clunks loudly in the background, and Matt is laughing when he uncovers the receiver again. His snorting turns into a mock-cough that doesn't cover his truncated "W" at all before he continues with, "Yeah, I'd have to drive back, for sure."
This is why Freddy doesn't like to actually talk to people. He shouts into the phone, "Matt!"
Matt's verbal diarrhea pauses, but the reprieve is short. "C'mon, man, you don't have to yell. You're the one who called me in the middle of the night. Cut me a little…"
"MATT!" Freddy shouts again.
Matt snaps back, "WHAT?"
"I didn't call you."
"You didn't…"
Freddy can hear Matt scratching his head, hundreds of miles away.
"I didn't call you," he repeats, deadpan, calm. "I called McClane's room."
Away from the phone again but not bothering to cover the mic this time, Matt repeats, "He says he called for you, but that doesn't make…" With a thunk and a scraping sound, his words trail off, quickly fading to a distant, indistinct babble.
"Fuck off, Frederick."" McClane draws out his name like a threat – slow, painful death with two Es and a K.
Hands shaking a bit, just from the basement's cold, and his ears still ringing from the slam, Freddy tucks his cell back into his pocket and lets out a weak laugh. It doesn't sound real, even to him, and he doesn't think he's going to call back.
Ever.
~fin~
~ Fic Index ~