A/N: This is a little drabble I wrote for the first Die Hard. It takes place in the scene where John is in the bathroom pulling the glass from his feet, and the conversation he has with Powell. Everything is quoted directly from the movie - literally, I sat there with my notepad and wrote down what they said word for word. I did paraphrase a couple of things because I don't like to put language in my fics; If you don't like it, then you can leave. Honestly, though, there were only, like, three swears in that scene. I replaced one s***, a h*** and an a**, and I think that's it. Anyway, I hope you like it, and please review. *crosses fingers*

Disclaimer: I don't own Die Hard, John McClane, Sergeant Powell, Hans Gruber or the Nakatomi building. If I did, I wouldn't be putting my ideas on the internet, I would be making them into a movie. Duh.


He gasped and dragged himself into the bathroom, not caring, for the moment, whether anyone heard him. They already knew he was alone and hurt, plus there was the blood trail. Strategically, this was the worst situation he could be in. He hoisted himself onto the counter.

"Hey, John. John McClane, you still with us?"

He retrieved the walkie. "Yeah. All things bein' equal, I'd rather be in Philadelphia." He turned on the faucet and began to pull the glass from his injured feet. "Chalk up two more bad guys."

"Well, the boys down here'll be glad to ear that. You know, we got a pool goin' on you?"

"What kinda odds am I gettin'?"

"You don't wanna know."

Great. Not even the cops believed in him. "Put me down for twenty. I'm good for it."

A hearty laugh sounded from the other end of the line. It was good to hear.

More blood flowed down the drain. "Hey, Powell. You got flat feet?"

"What are you talkin' about, man?"

"Somethin' had to get you off the street."

"What's the matter, you don't think jockeyin' papers around a desk is a noble effort for a cop?"

He had been a cop for eleven years, and he had never met anyone who would rather be sitting in a precinct instead of in the field. "No."

"…I had an accident."

He had to laugh at that, despite the especially large shard of glass he was pulling from his foot. "The way you drive, I can see why. What'd you do, run over your Captain's foot with your car?"

There was a moment of silence. "…I shot a kid. He was thirteen years old. It was dark, I couldn't see 'im, his laser gun looked real enough. You know, when you're a rookie, they can teach you everything about bein' a cop, except how to live with a mistake."

The glass clattered onto the counter.

"Anyway, I just couldn't bring myself to draw my gun on anyone again."

God, John, how stupid can you get? "I'm sorry, man."

"Hey, man, how could you know?"

"I feel like crap anyway."

Powell sounded frustrated when he spoke again. "Well, then, this won't matter. The LAPD isn't calling the shots down here anymore."

Jesus. "The Feds?"

"You got it."

There was silence for a few moments, and he continued administering to his injuries. Then everything went black.

"Emergency lighting activated."

He scrambled for the walkie. "Powell, Powell, talk to me, what's goin' on here?"

"That's the FBI. They got the universal terrorist playbook, and they're running it step by step."

He sat for a moment to allow that to sink in. Then he wrapped his feet in paper towels and stepped tentatively onto the floor, leaning against the counter and arguing with himself. Finally, against his better judgment, he picked up the walkie.

"Powell. Yo, Powell, you got a minute?"

"I'm here, John."

"Listen, man, I'm starting to get a bad feelin' up here. I want you to do somethin' for me."

He didn't want to do this. Not only because Gruber may be listening in, and possibly half of LAPD, but because he wasn't accustomed to sharing his feelings so openly with someone. With anyone.

"Um… I want you to find my wife, don't ask me how, by then you'll know her. I want you to tell her somethin'."

No matter how uncomfortable he was with this, there was something he had to say, even if half of Los Angeles could hear him.

"I want you to tell her that, um, tell her it took me a while to figure out, ah, what a jerk I've been. But, um, that… That when things started to pan out for her, I shoulda been more supportive. And, uh, I just shoulda been behind her more.

"Tell her that, um, that she is the best thing that ever happened to a bum like me."

He paused briefly and exhaled, taking a deep breath before continuing. "She's heard me say 'I love you' a thousand times. She never heard me say 'I'm sorry'. And I want you to tell her that, Al, I want you to tell her that, uh, John said he was sorry."

He tried to swallow the emotion in his throat, mildly worried that there was no response. "Okay? You got that man?"

"Yeah, I got it, John. But you can tell her that yourself. You just watch yourself, and you'll make it outta there, you hear me?"

"Well, I guess that's up to the man upstairs."


Something didn't fit.

"John? ...John?"

He spoke again, but this time to himself. "What were you doing upstairs, Hans?"


"No, Al, listen." He pursed his lips, thinking rapidly. "Listen, just lay off for a while. I gotta go check on somethin'."

With that, he grabbed his gun and headed for the roof, and whatever else was waiting for him there.


A/N: Well? Don't even talk to me about John not getting emotional, because I watched the scene three times. He didn't cry, but he was tearing up. And you could tell from his voice, too. And yes, he said "uh", "um" and "ah" a lot. I left a lot of them out, too. Anyhoo, please review. Nothing would make me happier. Except maybe some ice cream right now. Yumm :)