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Nick's grumbles echoed within the walls of the range. Stephen ignored them. The man was constantly grumbling, as much as he was breathing. It was whenever there wasn't a steady stream of disgruntlement pouring out that Stephen began to worry - signs that Cutter was thinking too hard about something, which usually led to either academic brilliance or a heartfelt over-analysis of a situation. He was a bit like a girl in that sense, really.
"I still don't see why you're making me do this." Even his voice was pouty.
Stephen hauled the gun up onto the table, unzipping the case and stroking the metal as he pulled it out. The rifle had been a gift from his father many years ago, but the barrel still gleamed and the wood was still smooth. "Because I can't always be there to shoot the animal for you, and I'd rather you not die before I do my dissertation. It’s always messy to change professors in the middle of a project."
"Your project has taken 6 years."
"And at this point I have a lot invested in it." Stephen checked the clip and loaded it, tugging it and the recalcitrant Scotsman over to the window.
Nick's fingers were initially loose around the stock, reluctantly settling near the trigger. He held it at half-mast, as if pointing it at a paper target was entirely too much commitment to bear. Stephen sighed, guiding the barrel up and peeling Nick's fingers off and down onto the right places. Cutter's shirt was warm and soft, brushing up against Stephen's wrist as he moved Cutter's limbs like a disgruntled doll.
"Brace it against your shoulder."
"I am," Cutter complained.
Placing a hand in the centre of his back, Stephen pushed until Cutter stood up straight. "There. Now, look through the sight, and aim the cross hairs just slightly below the centre."
He felt the professor tense, a subtle shift in the airspace between them. He didn't know if it was the directions or the contact, both of which were uncommon in their relationship.
"What, why?" Cutter asked sharply.
"The gun has a bit of a kick to it, throws your shot off. When you get used to it, you want to aim at the centre. Now, focus, exhale, and squeeze the trigger."
Nick grumbled that he wasn't sure he wanted to get used to it, but exhaled slowly and followed directions. Stephen realised he was standing so close to him that he could feel the other man's body heat. The air smelled slightly of aftershave. Maybe Cutter had a date.
The ring of gunfire in the building was dampened by the earmuffs they both wore but still loud enough to jerk him out of the jealous spiral Cutter's love life always seemed to send him in. He looked up, and saw a small hole, a few inches up and to the left of the target. "Good," he said. "Do it again."
The next few bullets landed at random as he fumbled to figure out the weapon in his hand. Each of the in-between moments was slow but carefully navigated; despite his lack of admiration for the weapon, it was clear that Nick couldn't avoid analysing his luck in the manner of any scientist ever. Systematic over-adjustments left the target well-scarred, but Stephen was pleased to see that none of the holes were more than few inches from the middle.
"Well done." He patted Nick on the shoulder. The muscle was hard beneath his grasp. "Do you know how to load the clip?"
Stephen showed him and watched Nick's fingers fumble to push the bullets in with the right pressure. It reminded him of sex, but most things about Nick did. Watching him fondle dinosaur bones wreaked absolute havoc on Stephen's libido. Fortunately, after this long he was at least immune to his own response, even if incapable of not having a response at all. He helped Cutter reload the clip, then pushed Cutter's body back into posture.
"Relax. You're too tense."
"You're right behind me," Cutter snapped.
Stephen ground his jaw. "I thought we were over this." It had taken weeks, months of arguing, barely talking to each other and one drunken fist fight. Nothing was back the way it was, and it never would be, but it was better, was easier. The air didn't go out of a room because he walked into it anymore, and Cutter could talk to him without spitting, could meet his gaze without there being a challenge in it.
Cutter stared ahead at the target. "That doesn't mean I've lost all sense of personal space."
"If you would just hold the bloody gun like I've told you, I wouldn't have to be in your personal space." He couldn't help the bitterness.
Cutter snapped the gun up to his shoulder and fired, missing the target completely. Stephen stepped away and ground his teeth, folding his arms over his chest and watching as Cutter filled the empty room with angry gun shots but failed completely to put any more holes in the target. The fluorescent light above them flickered, highlighting the angry red spots on Cutter’s cheeks even as it cast shadows underneath his eyes. The barrel was unyielding in the man’s white-knuckled grip, but his shoulder had to be aching from how hard he’d pulled the gun against it.
Stephen waited for the ringing to fade, letting his own tired irritation overwhelm the feelings of helpless frustration and loss that were welling up in him. They were tainted with guilt, too, but the anger was bigger. “We have to work together,” he said finally, watching the muscles of Cutter’s eyelids twitch at the sound. “If you’ve got something to say to me before we can do that, just fucking say it.”
“You sure you want me to do that with a gun in my hands?” the other man growled without looking at him.
Shaking the box of bullets for emphasis, Stephen snorted. “I did just watch you waste the wall behind that target. I think I’m safe.”
The gun sagged, and all the fight went out of Cutter in a sharp exhale. He didn’t speak, though, just looked deflated, and Stephen couldn’t stand it. The silence between them grew until Stephen snapped it with a growled curse, throwing the box of bullets to the ground in one of the most immature gestures he’d let out since he’d escaped the confines of puberty. “Fuck it all, Cutter, just say it! Just tell me how much you hate me, how much you’d rather stab me in the throat than talk to me, how I’m a whore and a useless shit and waste of breath! Don’t just fucking stand there, you great arse!”
Cutter put the gun on the table and spun towards him. “Shut up, Stephen!”
“No, you shut up!” Stephen was aware that he was contradicting himself terribly but seemed unable to stop. “You shut up! I am a piece of scum, and we both know it! I should never have done it, I was stupid and young and that’s no fucking excuse! It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know you very well, it doesn’t matter that it was just once; what matters is that I fucking did it, and I feel fucking terrible about it and I just, I hate that I did it so much I could shoot something! What sort of shit excuse for a friend-“
Stephen didn’t even see Cutter moving, just caught a blur of motion and then Cutter was on him. It was even harder to recognise the action as a kiss – it was all teeth, with Cutter jamming their mouths together with a growled, “Just shut the fuck up, Stephen, Jesus, just, let me,” and pinning him against the wall of the range.
Stephen let Cutter gnaw on him for a moment, stunned, then his body caught up with the events and he surged forward, cupping Cutter’s head in both hands and twisting until their mouths matched up. His eyes shut, because to look at this and examine this was a sure-fire way of losing it, and he let himself go in a frantic kiss that was all groping hands and poorly positioned teeth. It didn’t feel good, not really; it was sort of bruising and insulting with an underlying current of fury, but he threw himself into it anyway. If this was all he was ever going to get from Cutter, he was damn well going to take as much of it as he could get, teeth and all.
Still, it was as disappointing as it was unsurprising when he found himself being slammed up and away, pinned at the length of Cutter’s arms. That didn’t make it any less frustrating, and didn’t stop Stephen’s hands from reflexively reaching out to grab numbly at the professor’s collar.
“You are such,” Cutter said with a gasp, “a stupid, stupid utter bastard!”
“I know!” Stephen snarled, dropping his hands and slamming his head back against the wall hard enough that he could see stars. “I fucking know!”
“I’m not mad at you, you, you… you sodding moron! I’m bloody jealous!”
Stephen snapped his eyes open and looked at Cutter. His hair was a mess from Stephen’s fingers, and his cheeks were red with the same expression he’d had whenever he’d drank too much at an office party, sheepish and charmingly regretful, with an undercurrent of exasperation. “You are?”
“Yes,” Nick hissed with feeling and stopped holding himself away, leaning in and kissing Stephen sloppily.
Stephen didn’t reel with surprise this time; he liked to think he could learn from some of his mistakes, at least. Tugging Cutter against him and kissing him until the corners of his mouth went soft and slack was as amazing as it had been in any of his daydreams, made even better by the faint taste of Cutter’s dinner (spaghetti) and the rough crinkle of his tweed jacket between Stephen’s fingers where they fisted in it. The kiss spread out until it was all-encompassing, until the world narrowed down to the slide of their lips and the way their hips slotted together. The zips of their trousers dragged and caught whenever Nick shifted his hips, so it seemed only natural to reach down and undo them, and then to rub the palm of his hand over Nick’s cock through the soft cloth of his boxers.
“Stephen,” Nick gasped, thrusting slightly. The fabric was damp with pre-come, warm with body heat, and Stephen watched the other man gasp as he squeezed gently. He tugged down Nick’s pants and wrapped his fingers around the warm, smooth cock, fumbling with the slippery foreskin. In a moment of sheer boldness, he also slipped his other hand down the back of Nick’s pants, palming his arse and then letting a finger ghost over the man’s opening. He half expected Cutter to haul back and sock him in the eye, but instead the man groaned and pressed back, shaking.
“I want you to fuck me,” Nick said, voice absolutely wrecked, and the words were as unexpected as the kiss had been. “I have, I brought – in my pocket?”
Stephen stared, stilling his hand on Nick’s cock. “You brought lube?” Somehow, this was what brought the unlikelihood of the situation screaming down upon him; for a second he reeled with he can’t mean this and he can’t want this and a final, miserable flicker of he won’t forgive me for this.
There was a quick fumble and Stephen’s eyes closed in expected pain, but then a tiny tube was pressed into his palm and his eyes flicked back open. Nick didn’t have the decency to blush, but by the feel of it all his blood was elsewhere. The other man leaned in to press his head against Stephen’s neck, breath stirring the soft hairs there. “Please, Stephen, please.”
Stephen couldn’t help the groan that escaped him then. It was relief and want and crazed anticipation all rolled up into one. “Fine,” he managed with an amazingly steady voice. “That’s… Take off your shirt. I want you to turn around, lean over the table.”
His voice was a good two octaves lower than normal, and he liked the shudder that ran over Nick's back at the sound of it, liked the way that Nick didn't question him, just braced himself on his elbows on the counter. Stephen stripped off his shirt and pulled his trousers the rest of the way down, then kicked Cutter's legs a little wider apart, running his hands appreciatively over the arse on display, smoothing away the trembles. He paused, suddenly worried the trembles weren't all from anticipation. "You all right? Are you sure about this?"
Nick nodded his head, jerky and frantic, and Stephen relaxed. "I can't believe you came with lube." Shaking his head, Stephen poured some out on his fingers, coating them with slickness. Nick was hot and tight, groaning at the tentative probing of one finger. Stephen placed his spare hand on Cutter's back, pleased as the contact caused the man to relax. "Easy," he mumbled as he pushed in a second finger, Nick's slick hole sucking with each scissoring, stretching thrust. "That's it, just relax, let me in." His cock ached, the warmth in his stomach almost unbearable as he fought the urge to just take him. He made himself wait, took the time to leave Nick clinging to the counter, whimpering, Stephen's hand three fingers deep and sliding smoothly. Then he let himself give in, rolling the condom on and pushing home in one careful move.
"Oh, you feel good," Stephen mumbled, folding himself over so he could nuzzle the back of Nick's neck. "Is it, can I move? Are you okay?"
"Jesus Christ, Stephen, if you don't move right now I swear I will fire you!"
Stephen laughed, but it slipped into a moan as Nick clenched around him. He began to piston in and out, listening to Nick's small grunts and appreciative whimpers, re-angling himself with each thrust until Nick's whole back shuddered and his whinge changed pitch.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Stephen did it again, grinning at Nick's mumbled curse. He let his dick graze over the spot, an easy see-sawing that left his own legs quivering and weak. It didn't take long before he could only just bear it, and he reached around to find Nick's cock swollen hard and dripping with pre-come.
"Oh, fuck!" Nick's hips stuttered in between Stephen's hand and Stephen's dick as he threatened to collapse on his face. Stephen worked Nick's cock in time with his thrusts, biting down hard on Nick's shoulder and feeling the skin stretch taut beneath his teeth.
Nick groaned. "Oh fuck, I'm going, I'm going to come, I, ahhh-"
"Do it," Stephen chanted, his own orgasm looming hot and close, "Come on, I want to feel you squeeze around me, want-"
Nick went utterly still and silent, and only the warm slick covering Stephen's fist and the rhythmic squeezes around his cock gave it away. Stephen had been trying so hard to be careful, be gentle, but the clench around his dick swallowed all of his control. He couldn't help the sharp, raw thrusts before he was coming, pleasure radiating out in great crashing waves as he pumped helplessly into the condom.
The silence was endlessly vast, punctuated only by panting and slapping wet skin as Stephen collapsed onto Cutter's back. His skin hummed with endorphins, his muscles turned into jelly. Cutter's skin was sticky with sweat, but Stephen didn't care. It could have been sticky with come and Stephen still probably would be laying in it - he wasn't sure he had the cognitive function to get back up.
"Bloody hell," Cutter said finally. Stephen was pleased to hear the awe in his voice.
"Agreed,” he mumbled into the soft curve of Cutter’s neck, pressing a few soft kisses there automatically.
The firing range wasn’t exactly well-heated, particularly on a day when it was technically closed, and it wasn’t long before the cooling sweat on his skin had him shivering a bit. He only pulled away when he saw the goosebumps on Cutter’s skin, but the move was still reluctant. He slid out slowly, watching the muscles of Cutter’s back tense. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled, trying to soothe circles into Cutter’s skin.
“Don’t be,” Cutter said finally, reaching to pull up his trousers. The move pulled an obviously unavoidable wince from him, but the Scotsman simply resolved his features very firmly. “I wanted that, so don’t be sorry for it.”
Stephen brushed a bead of sweat away from Nick’s temple and leaned in to brush a kiss over his mouth. It didn’t feel bold or terrifying this time; it felt natural. “Well, I hate to sound like I was being insincere, but I’m not really sorry. Sorry if I hurt you, certainly, but not sorry about the way I did it.”
Cutter’s lips were bright red and chapped, and there was a blossoming love bite underneath his ear that Stephen didn’t really remember putting there. “Good,” he grunted, and smiled softly.
“I won’t be sorry about it next time, either,” Stephen promised, and that did feel bold.
The smile that slowly spread across Nick’s face was a solid reward, though. “I won’t be sorry either.”
Stephen grinned, aware that he probably looked stupidly giddy. “Don’t think that this means you can get out of shooting practice, however. Clearly, you could use some.”
Cutter smirked. “Is that a euphemism?”
“No, actually,” Stephen replied, then picked up the gun and put it back into Cutter’s hands. “I still want you to be able to protect yourself from angry velociraptors-“
“Is there any other kind?”
“-and so you’ll be needing to have extensive practice shooting guns, just in case I’m ever not around to protect you. Seriously, Nick. I need to know that you can do this. It worries me to think that you can’t.”
Nick stared at him for a while, then tightened his grasp on the gun and turned back to the target. “Okay,” he said, and Stephen felt a huge weight suddenly slide off his chest as Nick loaded a clip and took aim without complaint. The shots he fired were inaccurate, but that wasn’t the important bit. Nick didn’t fight him, didn’t scream and stomp off, or disregard him entirely. He simply adjusted, re-loaded the clip and dedicated his whole concentration to the task. It wasn’t much, but it was at least somewhere to start.