Live Free or Die Hard Fanfic: "It's A Stretch"
Title: It's A Stretch
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt, Warlock
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1899
Summary: He should fly to Baltimore and kick the Warlock's ass for putting this idea into his head. Of course, if he had the ability to kick someone's ass he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.
Notes: Written for sexy_right's "Resolutions" challenge. Snick and I were laughing about silly results of NYE resolutions, and this came out of it. Of course it did. :)
It's A Stretch
by Severina
"Dude, I'm telling you. This will work."
Matt leans back in the chair, bites his lip. "I don't know."
Warlock scowls at him through the webcam. "Listen to me, man. Are you listening? You tell him you want to get in shape, new year and all that, but you don't know what you're doing and hey, maybe he can help you find your way around the gym. You get there, do a few reps, reach up and hang on one of those overhead bars like fucking Rocky-"
Matt glances down at his own biceps dubiously. "Okay, you realize Stallone was ripped in those movies, right?"
"You said McClane's been giving you the googly-eyes."
Matt frowns. "I never said-"
"Fine, 'appraising looks'."
He's definitely seen John watching him when he thinks he's not looking. When he notices, John always looks away quickly. One might even say guiltily. And then there's the fascination that John seems to have with his lips. The first couple of times he caught John staring at his mouth, Matt actually thought maybe he had something gross stuck between his teeth. But John keeps doing it. Matt's almost certain he's not imagining it.
"Well?" Warlock asks.
Matt sighs. "Yeah. Yes. But-"
"Fine, then the dude doesn't give a shit that you're not built. Apparently he goes for pipsqueaks. Who fucking knew?"
Matt opens his mouth to protest - not because he disagrees, really, but because it seems like a guy should at least make an effort to object when he's basically been called a wuss - but Warlock just keeps talking.
"So you go to the gym, do some stretches, get him to look at your ass-"
Matt laughs nervously. "Okay, I don't think that's-"
"And then you pounce."
"Pounce?"
"You fucking pounce, man! You wait 'til he's giving you the googly-eyes-"
"I never said-"
"-and then you push him up against the wall and-"
Matt holds up his hands. "Okay. Whoa. I just… I can't see that… I don't think this is the best idea."
Warlock huffs out a breath. "You know what? Fine. You stick with your plan. What was that plan again? Oh, right. You just keep staring longingly at him every night. Then you can sigh wistfully like a goddamn girl before you go to your room and beat off to the picture of him that I know you clipped out of the fucking newspaper."
Matt jerks. While the longing stares and wistful sighs are kind of a given, he sort of thought that the newspaper clipping thing wasn't quite so obvious. Guess Warlock knows him better than he realized. Which is kind of a scary thought.
"Maybe after that you can write about how dreamy McClane is in your diary. You can draw hearts in the margins," Warlock continues.
He actually has a private journal. And it's online. And while he has written about John, he's never once used the word 'dreamy'.
"Because that's not at all pathetic."
Matt can hardly imagine himself even walking into a gym, let alone getting hot and sweaty on an elliptical or straining over a barbell. And if the push-ups he manages are anything like the ones he fumbled through in gym class in high school, John will be too busy laughing at his flailing to even notice his ass. But the alternative isn't exactly working out for him either.
"All right, you've made your point," Matt says. "I'll do it."
* * *
"This is your gym?"
John stops at the mid-point of tugging off his sweatshirt to glance his way. "Yeah. What'd you expect?"
Matt tries not to make a face as he looks around at the scruffy equipment, the battered punching bag hanging in the corner and the faded blue mats on the floor. What he expected was rows of gleaming treadmills and stationary bikes, a spotless floor-to-ceiling mirror, aerobics experts in crisp uniforms hovering nearby to assist him with his exercise regimen and perhaps provide fresh towels. Maybe a juice bar in the back.
He opens his mouth to ask if the place has been inspected for termites at least, but then John drops his sweatshirt on the bench to reveal the old white wifebeater underneath and Matt kind of forgets how to breathe for a second. What comes out instead of his usual snark is an odd wheezing, puffing noise that makes John's eyes narrow.
"You okay, kid?"
"Nothing," Matt says. "I mean, what? Yes. Fine. Let's go work out! Do some jumping jacks! Hit the ol' bag!"
He figured it would take at least ten minutes and one inept session on a rowing machine for him to get this fucking red. Luckily John chooses to ignore the beet-flush to his cheeks and just shakes his head.
"We'll start you off with some simple stretches to warm up," he says. "How about that?"
Matt nods. Stretches don't sound so bad. Maybe all the hours he spent stressing out about today were totally unnecessary. He's young, lean. He can stretch, for fuck's sake. And more importantly, John can notice him stretching.
In this decrepit building, maybe he'll even be able to find an overhead pipe to reach up and grab.
* * *
"Ow! Ow ow ow!"
"You've barely broken a sweat," John says. "Get up."
From where he's lying on the gritty workout mat, Matt's got a truly magnificent view of every sculpted muscle on John's body. He only wishes he could fully appreciate it. As it is, he's too busy clutching at his calf and trying not to weep.
"Cramp," he manages to get out between gritted teeth, and he's aware enough to see John's annoyed face morph into one of genuine concern. With John's help he manages to hobble to the locker room, though he has to keep a death-grip on John's bicep to do it. Figures that the first time since the firesale that he's pressed up against John's body is when he's too incapacitated to do anything about it.
He should fly to Baltimore and kick the Warlock's ass for putting this idea into his head. Of course, if he had the ability to kick someone's ass he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.
"Relax," John says. "Ya tense up, it just makes it worse."
"Easy for you to say," Matt grumbles, but he stretches his leg out on the bench as instructed, tries not to hiss when John's fingers wrap around his calf.
"Just a spasm," John pronounces when he's poked and prodded long enough. Matt's pretty sure it took him about twenty-seven hours to make the diagnosis, though the big old-fashioned clock on the wall tells him it was about thirty seconds. He's kind of obscenely proud that he only yelped once.
"Relax," John murmurs again.
This time his fingers are not so much probing as smoothing over the skin. Matt's always thought of John's hands as big and rough, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Matt hisses again when John's fingers press into a sensitive spot, feels his back arch off the table.
"Sorry," John says, eyes flicking to his briefly before he returns his concentration to the leg. "Deep tissue massage. Gotta work the cramp out."
"Uh huh," Matt says vaguely. Because John has gone back to kneading at his calf, slowly and patiently working at the spasm, and the result has him feeling sort of loose-limbed and limp. Matt shakes his head, props himself up on his elbows. "You're good at this."
"Oughta be," John says without looking up. "Give enough of 'em to myself. Old body starts creakin' at my age."
"You're not old."
When John just snorts, Matt sits up a little straighter. He watches John's big hands rubbing gently at his calf, fingers massaging methodically at the ache. So gently that it seems impossible that they are the same hands that he's seen pummel bad guys to a bloody pulp. His calf tingles, the warmth permeating through his whole body, and his eyes drift upward to the flex of John's arms as he works, to the wide shoulders, the strong neck, the smooth dome of his head. Matt wants to touch every part of him, wants John's hands on him. "I mean it," he says.
When John looks at him again, it's with one of his crooked smiles plastered on his face. John's hands still on his calf. And when John doesn't look away, Matt makes a split-second decision. He closes the distance between them.
John is still smiling, and at first the kiss is chaste, practically virginal. John's body is stiff, their lips the only point of contact, and Matt has one brief moment to realize that he may have read the whole thing wrong, that maybe John hasn't been staring at him all the time, maybe John doesn't have some weird fascination with his lips. That maybe this whole thing is going to end with John pushing him away in disgust, to be quickly followed by John kicking him out of his house. He could conceivably end this week camped out on the Kaludis sofa. Then John breathes into him, lips parting slightly, and Matt closes his eyes.
He raises one hand from the bench to cup at the nape of John's neck, hesitates only briefly before smoothing his palm over the back of John's head. The movement releases something in John, because his stiff shoulders suddenly relax. And when Matt nips at his bottom lip John suddenly surges forward, the hand on his calf coming up to wrap around his waist, to tug him half off the bench as John deepens the kiss.
When they part, Matt's lips feel swollen and he can't help smiling. "I feel better now," he says.
John leans back, swipes a hand roughly over his chin. "You know," he says, "you could've just said you've got the hots for me. We didn't have to go through this whole rigmarole."
Matt blinks. "I… what?"
John slaps a hand on his calf before pushing himself to his feet. "C'mon, kid. Your leg's better now. We got a workout to finish."
Okay, this is so not what he expected. Because he wasn't delusional, John really actually totally does like him. And that was really a phenomenal kiss. How can John even think about stretches and punching bags after a kiss like that?
"But I thought…" he says, and wiggles his eyebrows.
John huffs out a laugh before shaking his head, sobering and arching his own brow. "Oh, I got plans for you, Matthew," he says, and when his voice goes all rough and low like that it makes things tingle in Matt's gut. And in other parts of his body. Then John holds up a hand. "After the workout. You said something about jumping jacks?"
* * *
"Well?" Warlock asks. "Did it work?"
Matt could mention the swollen ankle, the slight concussion, that fact that he has the dubious honour of being the first person in the history of Joe's Gym to ever need to use the oxygen mask. But since John is in the bathroom preparing a hot compress and his other injury is a rug rash that most definitely didn't come from the gym, Matt decides to edit his account of the day accordingly.
"Everything went according to plan," he says.
.
Fandom: Live Free or Die Hard
Characters: John/Matt, Warlock
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1899
Summary: He should fly to Baltimore and kick the Warlock's ass for putting this idea into his head. Of course, if he had the ability to kick someone's ass he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.
Notes: Written for sexy_right's "Resolutions" challenge. Snick and I were laughing about silly results of NYE resolutions, and this came out of it. Of course it did. :)
It's A Stretch
by Severina
"Dude, I'm telling you. This will work."
Matt leans back in the chair, bites his lip. "I don't know."
Warlock scowls at him through the webcam. "Listen to me, man. Are you listening? You tell him you want to get in shape, new year and all that, but you don't know what you're doing and hey, maybe he can help you find your way around the gym. You get there, do a few reps, reach up and hang on one of those overhead bars like fucking Rocky-"
Matt glances down at his own biceps dubiously. "Okay, you realize Stallone was ripped in those movies, right?"
"You said McClane's been giving you the googly-eyes."
Matt frowns. "I never said-"
"Fine, 'appraising looks'."
He's definitely seen John watching him when he thinks he's not looking. When he notices, John always looks away quickly. One might even say guiltily. And then there's the fascination that John seems to have with his lips. The first couple of times he caught John staring at his mouth, Matt actually thought maybe he had something gross stuck between his teeth. But John keeps doing it. Matt's almost certain he's not imagining it.
"Well?" Warlock asks.
Matt sighs. "Yeah. Yes. But-"
"Fine, then the dude doesn't give a shit that you're not built. Apparently he goes for pipsqueaks. Who fucking knew?"
Matt opens his mouth to protest - not because he disagrees, really, but because it seems like a guy should at least make an effort to object when he's basically been called a wuss - but Warlock just keeps talking.
"So you go to the gym, do some stretches, get him to look at your ass-"
Matt laughs nervously. "Okay, I don't think that's-"
"And then you pounce."
"Pounce?"
"You fucking pounce, man! You wait 'til he's giving you the googly-eyes-"
"I never said-"
"-and then you push him up against the wall and-"
Matt holds up his hands. "Okay. Whoa. I just… I can't see that… I don't think this is the best idea."
Warlock huffs out a breath. "You know what? Fine. You stick with your plan. What was that plan again? Oh, right. You just keep staring longingly at him every night. Then you can sigh wistfully like a goddamn girl before you go to your room and beat off to the picture of him that I know you clipped out of the fucking newspaper."
Matt jerks. While the longing stares and wistful sighs are kind of a given, he sort of thought that the newspaper clipping thing wasn't quite so obvious. Guess Warlock knows him better than he realized. Which is kind of a scary thought.
"Maybe after that you can write about how dreamy McClane is in your diary. You can draw hearts in the margins," Warlock continues.
He actually has a private journal. And it's online. And while he has written about John, he's never once used the word 'dreamy'.
"Because that's not at all pathetic."
Matt can hardly imagine himself even walking into a gym, let alone getting hot and sweaty on an elliptical or straining over a barbell. And if the push-ups he manages are anything like the ones he fumbled through in gym class in high school, John will be too busy laughing at his flailing to even notice his ass. But the alternative isn't exactly working out for him either.
"All right, you've made your point," Matt says. "I'll do it."
* * *
"This is your gym?"
John stops at the mid-point of tugging off his sweatshirt to glance his way. "Yeah. What'd you expect?"
Matt tries not to make a face as he looks around at the scruffy equipment, the battered punching bag hanging in the corner and the faded blue mats on the floor. What he expected was rows of gleaming treadmills and stationary bikes, a spotless floor-to-ceiling mirror, aerobics experts in crisp uniforms hovering nearby to assist him with his exercise regimen and perhaps provide fresh towels. Maybe a juice bar in the back.
He opens his mouth to ask if the place has been inspected for termites at least, but then John drops his sweatshirt on the bench to reveal the old white wifebeater underneath and Matt kind of forgets how to breathe for a second. What comes out instead of his usual snark is an odd wheezing, puffing noise that makes John's eyes narrow.
"You okay, kid?"
"Nothing," Matt says. "I mean, what? Yes. Fine. Let's go work out! Do some jumping jacks! Hit the ol' bag!"
He figured it would take at least ten minutes and one inept session on a rowing machine for him to get this fucking red. Luckily John chooses to ignore the beet-flush to his cheeks and just shakes his head.
"We'll start you off with some simple stretches to warm up," he says. "How about that?"
Matt nods. Stretches don't sound so bad. Maybe all the hours he spent stressing out about today were totally unnecessary. He's young, lean. He can stretch, for fuck's sake. And more importantly, John can notice him stretching.
In this decrepit building, maybe he'll even be able to find an overhead pipe to reach up and grab.
* * *
"Ow! Ow ow ow!"
"You've barely broken a sweat," John says. "Get up."
From where he's lying on the gritty workout mat, Matt's got a truly magnificent view of every sculpted muscle on John's body. He only wishes he could fully appreciate it. As it is, he's too busy clutching at his calf and trying not to weep.
"Cramp," he manages to get out between gritted teeth, and he's aware enough to see John's annoyed face morph into one of genuine concern. With John's help he manages to hobble to the locker room, though he has to keep a death-grip on John's bicep to do it. Figures that the first time since the firesale that he's pressed up against John's body is when he's too incapacitated to do anything about it.
He should fly to Baltimore and kick the Warlock's ass for putting this idea into his head. Of course, if he had the ability to kick someone's ass he wouldn't be in this predicament in the first place.
"Relax," John says. "Ya tense up, it just makes it worse."
"Easy for you to say," Matt grumbles, but he stretches his leg out on the bench as instructed, tries not to hiss when John's fingers wrap around his calf.
"Just a spasm," John pronounces when he's poked and prodded long enough. Matt's pretty sure it took him about twenty-seven hours to make the diagnosis, though the big old-fashioned clock on the wall tells him it was about thirty seconds. He's kind of obscenely proud that he only yelped once.
"Relax," John murmurs again.
This time his fingers are not so much probing as smoothing over the skin. Matt's always thought of John's hands as big and rough, but his touch is surprisingly gentle. Matt hisses again when John's fingers press into a sensitive spot, feels his back arch off the table.
"Sorry," John says, eyes flicking to his briefly before he returns his concentration to the leg. "Deep tissue massage. Gotta work the cramp out."
"Uh huh," Matt says vaguely. Because John has gone back to kneading at his calf, slowly and patiently working at the spasm, and the result has him feeling sort of loose-limbed and limp. Matt shakes his head, props himself up on his elbows. "You're good at this."
"Oughta be," John says without looking up. "Give enough of 'em to myself. Old body starts creakin' at my age."
"You're not old."
When John just snorts, Matt sits up a little straighter. He watches John's big hands rubbing gently at his calf, fingers massaging methodically at the ache. So gently that it seems impossible that they are the same hands that he's seen pummel bad guys to a bloody pulp. His calf tingles, the warmth permeating through his whole body, and his eyes drift upward to the flex of John's arms as he works, to the wide shoulders, the strong neck, the smooth dome of his head. Matt wants to touch every part of him, wants John's hands on him. "I mean it," he says.
When John looks at him again, it's with one of his crooked smiles plastered on his face. John's hands still on his calf. And when John doesn't look away, Matt makes a split-second decision. He closes the distance between them.
John is still smiling, and at first the kiss is chaste, practically virginal. John's body is stiff, their lips the only point of contact, and Matt has one brief moment to realize that he may have read the whole thing wrong, that maybe John hasn't been staring at him all the time, maybe John doesn't have some weird fascination with his lips. That maybe this whole thing is going to end with John pushing him away in disgust, to be quickly followed by John kicking him out of his house. He could conceivably end this week camped out on the Kaludis sofa. Then John breathes into him, lips parting slightly, and Matt closes his eyes.
He raises one hand from the bench to cup at the nape of John's neck, hesitates only briefly before smoothing his palm over the back of John's head. The movement releases something in John, because his stiff shoulders suddenly relax. And when Matt nips at his bottom lip John suddenly surges forward, the hand on his calf coming up to wrap around his waist, to tug him half off the bench as John deepens the kiss.
When they part, Matt's lips feel swollen and he can't help smiling. "I feel better now," he says.
John leans back, swipes a hand roughly over his chin. "You know," he says, "you could've just said you've got the hots for me. We didn't have to go through this whole rigmarole."
Matt blinks. "I… what?"
John slaps a hand on his calf before pushing himself to his feet. "C'mon, kid. Your leg's better now. We got a workout to finish."
Okay, this is so not what he expected. Because he wasn't delusional, John really actually totally does like him. And that was really a phenomenal kiss. How can John even think about stretches and punching bags after a kiss like that?
"But I thought…" he says, and wiggles his eyebrows.
John huffs out a laugh before shaking his head, sobering and arching his own brow. "Oh, I got plans for you, Matthew," he says, and when his voice goes all rough and low like that it makes things tingle in Matt's gut. And in other parts of his body. Then John holds up a hand. "After the workout. You said something about jumping jacks?"
* * *
"Well?" Warlock asks. "Did it work?"
Matt could mention the swollen ankle, the slight concussion, that fact that he has the dubious honour of being the first person in the history of Joe's Gym to ever need to use the oxygen mask. But since John is in the bathroom preparing a hot compress and his other injury is a rug rash that most definitely didn't come from the gym, Matt decides to edit his account of the day accordingly.
"Everything went according to plan," he says.
.