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Matthew McClane

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"Matthew McClane, of course. John doesn't look like a Farrell," were the words snapped out of Matt's mouth, as he stared at the camera with that 'I've learned I must play nice but I don't have to enjoy it' expression on his face.

John looked away from the television, down at the bills on the table, as the female reporter burbled nonsense about "there you have it, straight from Matt's mouth."

Matt. John. Those used to be common names, but now, in New York City, only one Matt and John mattered. They'd saved the country and they were having the Big Gay Wedding of the year, probably the decade. Thankfully their first names were short, or the ghouls would be using some cutesy abbreviation, but Jatt or Mohn didn't have the ring of Brangelina.

The front door opened and shut, Matt entering the kitchen, shedding his jacket, dropping it over a chair.

"I'm sorry I'm late. I was going to suggest going to Mulligan's, but I got hounded by the reporters again. How about eating in?" Matt pressed a kiss absentmindedly to John's bald head before opening the refrigerator door. "I could make spaghetti? I'm starving."

"Eating in's fine."

"Good." Matt was already getting out food, moving efficiently around the kitchen. They'd never experienced the same fights about chores that John and Holly had, perhaps, John was willing to admit, because he no longer assumed the housework was primarily his spouse's task. The cooking still tended to fall to Matt since he was usually the one at home during the day, but John ran the vacuum cleaner and scrubbed the toilets without bitching.

Save the country, kill the bad guys, settle down to a life of domestic bliss. John was always more fond of the last part of that sequence than the first two.

"I saw your interview."

"Yeah? Was it another five minutes of hounding me cut down to a ten second sound bite?"

"Pretty much."

"I wish people would turn off their televisions and this unhealthy obsession with our gay wedding and actually do something. Stop reading about Brangelina and their support for gay marriage and take ten seconds to call their Senators and advocate ending the DOMA." Matt kept moving around the kitchen as he grumbled. He was good at multi-tasking, especially when one task involved complaining about how the world and all the people on it should be improved. Bringing plates to the table, Matt paused, glancing at the neatly laid out bills. "Are we okay? On finances?"

"Yeah." John packed the bills into their folder. "Everything's on schedule. The advance came in." He still wasn't quite sure how he'd agreed to write a book about his life, but he couldn't deny that receiving the sizeable advance had been satisfying, even if a significant chunk was going to their ridiculously large wedding. He'd wanted a simple ceremony, just him and Matt, maybe with Lucy, Jack, and his mom as witnesses, but then Matt's parents and siblings needed to be invited, and the question of aunts, uncles, and cousins arose, the Captain had bitched about not being included, and some of Matt's geeky friends had pouted. John couldn't explain what had made him finally throw in the towel and invite the freaking mayor, but he was holding the line at the Governor. Or Holly, regardless of how much she hinted.

"Good." Matt set the plates down, pulling napkins from the holder and putting them by the plates, obviously hovering. "You okay?"

"Look, don't joke about changing your name to Matthew McClane, okay? Don't." Shoving his chair back, John headed to the refrigerator. He needed a beer.

"You don't want me to change my name to McClane?"

John snatched a beer and twisted the lid off savagely. "I don't want you to joke about it."

"I wasn't joking."

Maybe some of those stupid therapy sessions he'd endured with Holly had helped, because John stopped and took a long look at Matt, noting how both his face and body language were screaming his unhappiness. "You weren't joking?" he asked cautiously. Clarify the misunderstandings, the therapist had said, before reacting.

"No." Matt shoved his hand through his hair. "I mean, I get it for women. It was an important part of feminism, of expressing their identity, that they be allowed to choose their last name, though honestly I never understood how keeping their dad's was so much better than taking their husband's."

Could the man ever have a discussion that didn't involve socio-economic or cultural observations? "But you want to take my name?"

"We're going to be a family. I'd like us to share a last name. And you've lived with McClane longer. Besides, it's a different kind of statement now. Did you know that women can simply change their last name when they marry, but men have to file official paperwork? It's another one of those outdated discriminatory practices based on the assumption that everyone is heterosexual and it needs to be changed."

"So when we marry, you're going to change your name to Matthew McClane?" John said, knowing he was repeating himself, but his mind was exploding too much to focus. He'd never even thought about the possibility that Matt would take his name. "And keep it?"

"I'm probably going to end up being Matthew McClane before the wedding. I filed the paperwork today and there's only a 30-day waiting period. And yes, I'm going to keep it. The paperwork's a hassle. I couldn't even file online, can you believe it? I had to physically go to the courthouse to turn it in."

"Jesus." John snapped off the water Matt had started boiling, and reached in the cabinet, finding the olive oil.

Matt's lips curled into a smile as John advanced on him, his body relaxing as he realized he'd done something very right. "John? I take it you approve?"

John pushed Matt onto the table, plunking the oil down next to him, and kissing him as fiercely as he was going to fuck him. Dinner would have to wait, because the thought of 'John and Matthew McClane' needed to be celebrated. Right now.

~ the end ~