"Are you sure this is the right place, Hackboy?" John nudged the door to a large, extremely abandoned looking warehouse nestled smack-dab in the middle of the metal works district of some random-ass boondocks-suburb of the great City of New York. That wasn't to say he didn't know where they were, he and Matt, but he just didn't give a fuck anymore. This was the third group of cyber terrorists this week.
The Fire Sale invited what seemed like every greasy teenager who knew how to use a computer for more than checking work email and downloading porn to try and take their own personal whack at fucking over their country, just to see if they could. Since he and Matt were now household names for the 'War on Cyber TerrorÔ', the FBI saw it as good publicity and a chance to win back the American public by making the two of them lead investigations on any suspected cyber-terrorist attacks. And since the FBI labeled these wannabe Hackboys (and girls, it turned out) as 'terrorists', McClane was required to carry a gun. (Matt did for a while, but after nearly shooting off an FBI agent's foot during an episode of twitchy, caffeine powered brainstorming, they took his gun away and told him to listen to McClane at all times.)
However, since the 'terrorists' were really unarmed, usually under aged civilians, John wasn't allowed to actually shoot anyone. That alone served to piss him off more than anything else, even Farrell's whining about his blood sugar.
Matt hit a few keys on the ridiculously small whats-it-called he carried around in his backpack. The kid's hair was overdue for a cut, John noticed, as Matt flicked his head a few times to keep his vision clear. "Uhhh, yeah, this is definitely the place. The signal's been getting stronger the whole way here and now it might as well be screaming at us. They're in there." John pushed the door open cautiously, noting that the hinges didn't make a sound. Odd for a supposedly abandoned warehouse. Matt scrambled to put away his computer thing and followed John in, sticking to the older man's back like a burr. After three steps of nearly tripping because of large, overpriced sneakers stepping on the heels of his shoes, John stopped and glared at Matt. The hacker fell back a few paces. "Sorry."
"Christ, you're like an ex-wife looking for her alimony check."
"You'd know, wouldn't you?" Matt shrunk back further at the look John sent him. "Right, none of my business. Forget I said anything."
The two of them slowly made their way toward the central office where the geeks had set up shop. Compared to Nakatomi Tower, Dulles airport, running around New York, and stopping real cyber terrorists,this was a piece of cake. All it took was a trip up a flight of stairs, a quick SWAT kick to a door, and loud angry shouts with his pistol aimed hungrily at the pack of hackers inside, and the job was done. The FBI arrived a few minutes later and arrested the little bastards while telling John to put the gun away because he still couldn't shoot anyone. He damn near shot Matt when the brat laughed at him.
"I blame you for this." John winced as bony knees dug into his sides, just below his ribs.
"This is not my fault!" Matt pouted and tried to pull himself free once again. John quickly grabbed his hips.
"Stop moving, we're stuck!" John ignored the warm weight that rested directly above his groin. "And I didn't say it was your fault. I said I was blaming you."
"Well, we wouldn't be in this mess if you had just left the last minute sweeping to the FBI like I told you!"
"I was the one that said that! You're the one who wanted to do it himself!"
"…Oh yeah. Oops, sorry."
They were wedged between a couple of pipes somewhere in the maintenance area of the warehouse. John was lying flat on his back, his broad shoulders stuck tight between the pips with only his lower arms free to move. His legs were free, but any movement caused Matt's heels to dig into his ass painfully. Matt sat on top of him, legs wrapped around him but otherwise free to move. The kid grabbed a nearby pipe and tried to yank himself free, but his legs were too tightly packed between the pipes holding them in and John's hips. John closed his eyes and clenched his jaw as Matt's wiggling rubbed their groins together firmly. "Stop moving, kid."
"Huh?" John wondered if the kid hit his head on the way down.
"My name. It's Matt, not kid."
"Oh yeah? How about I'll call you Hackboy, huh?"
"Oh, come on, McClane! I'll stop calling you pig when you're out of earshot!"
"You what?" John dug his fingers into Matt's hips until the kid winced.
"Kidding, kidding! I never, never said that!"
"Uh huh. Fine, if it bothers you that much, I'll call you Matt." Matt chewed his lip nervously. "What now?"
"Can I call you John?"
"Are you fucking serious? We're stuck in the basement of a goddamned warehouse and this is what you're worried about?" John mentally groaned at the put out look on Matt's face. "Fine! Call me John if it'll make you happy. Christ."
They ignored that they were both hard and hot against the other, aching for release but unable to get it. Matt shifted every so often, a small whimper escaping his throat when his cock brushed against the denim of his jeans. Each time, John tightened his hold on Matt's hips until the hacker stopped moving. He pretended not to hear the low groan that came from his chest.
Finally, the FBI realized the two of them were missing and sent a team in to find them. John knew they'd get ribbed for it for a couple of weeks, but then everyone would be busy tracking down the next team of cyber fucktards. He felt Matt's eyes on him the entire ride back to their apartment, and swore he could feel them even after he shut his bedroom door and went to sleep.