Fandom: Die Hard 4
Characters: John/Matt (Slash)
Summary: A lesson in skill and distraction.
Author's Notes: Happy Birthday, jasmasson! Hope this little something appeals to you!
Also for writers_choice, this is "teach."
"I can't believe you don't know how to shoot a gun."
John was cleaning up the breakfast dishes while Matt finished his half of the giant combo omelet he'd made them both.
"Well, what's to know," Matt commented. "You turn off the safety, you aim, you shoot."
"Does every gun even have a safety?" John pointed out.
"Um… I'm guessing not, since you asked."
"And would you know what it looked like, if a gun did have a safety?"
"Why the obsession with this all of a sudden?" Matt scowled. "Do I bug you about whether you know how to create secure passwords, or why you don't have a home system of your own?"
John rinsed off the frying pan. "All the damn time," he said.
"All right, yeah, I probably do. Whatever. Why would you think I need to know anything about guns?"
"What if I'm working late, and someone breaks in here? Who's going to protect you?"
Matt turned his head away to smile. It was kind of sweet that John worried about him, though he was sure John would probably want to kill him for thinking of it in those terms. "Why would anyone break in here? What's there to steal? Well, other than my computer stuff, 'cause there's a ton of that around here now and it's definitely awesome, but the rest of it, well you know… The sofa and your record collection aren't exactly prime material."
"It's a really comfortable sofa," John noted, smiling slyly. "We've had some great times on it."
"God, I'll say." Matt shivered, remembering the first time he'd straddled John's lap and ridden him there, the corduroy ridges from the fabric leaving lines in his skin. John had held him close afterward, fingers slowly strumming over Matt's hips and lower back, and it had been so fucked-out-perfect and peaceful.
Matt decided that it wouldn't kill him to put John's mind at ease about the gun situation, all things considered. "All right. So you think I should take some shooting lessons?"
"Gun training, kid," John answered, grinning broadly, the relief visible on his face. "And I'm going to teach you."
"This is kind of cozy, McClane, very up-close-and-personal."
John stood behind Matt, the heat from his chest tingling all the way down Matt's back. He steadied Matt's shoulders, then his hips, and lined up Matt's aim.
It felt like John was touching him everywhere, running some kind of semi-public tease, and it was fucking distracting, is what it was. Matt shook his hips to loosen them, letting them brush back into John, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp.
"I see you came loaded for bear," Matt murmured without even turning around. "Brought the big-caliber weapon and everything."
"Yeah all right, I suppose you want me to be all serious and learn stuff now, get to the point and everything." Matt tilted his head and cracked his neck. "Fine, then. Let's do it."
John explained about angles of trajectory and arc-over-distance, and warned him about recoil. "The rest is aiming and finesse, and keeping your cool."
"Like that's possible, with you right there behind me just radiating, the way you always do," Matt muttered. He brought the gun back up, cocked an eye for aim and shot at the paper target.
"Wide," John commented.
"Missed the target completely, kid. Here, let's move some things around. Small step forward on whichever foot feels more comfortable… Now hold the gun like you're actually right-handed—because you are—and make sure you're not aiming with the wrong eye."
"What does that mean?"
"If the target moves when you close your eye, use the other eye."
Matt adjusted his position, once again under the guidance of John's tempting hands, and aimed again. He shot—and swore he could see a corresponding mark appear on the target. So he shot off four more rounds, trying to refine his results.
John laughed, sounding delighted, and hit the button to bring the target forward. "Look at this—three on the paper, and two of them on the body. Not bad at all!"
Matt grinned. "Feeling a little better now? Though you know I could always have used one of your old football trophies to defend myself, if I had to, and the kitchen's full of stuff—lots of chairs and pots and pans, plus I'm not above throwing knives, I'd totally do that."
John just smiled and shook his head and mounted up a new target, then sent it back out for distance practice again. "Talk to me when you get a couple of good clusters at the heart and head."
Matt leaned into him, rubbed up against him slowly and smiled over his shoulder. "Think I'm already there," he said, taking John's hand and placing it on his hip. "But if a little more personal attention will help, then let's keep going." He rolled his hips slowly under John's touch. "C'mon, McClane—teach me everything you know."
John's fingers dug into Matt's jeans, a bruise-heavy grip that was nothing like the uneven puffs of air against Matt's neck just before John spoke. "Kid," he finally said, voice low and strained as his other hand came around Matt's chest, "I'd be glad to.
"But thank god you're a fast learner, because another hour of this and I'd wind up being your first victim. You're fuckin' killing me."
"Damn right," Matt chuckled, bringing the gun back up to start again. He turned his head just long enough to lean over and whisper in John's ear, lips brushing against the skin:
"Always told you I was awesome…"
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