It all starts with a text: a link to a GPS location just off of I-294, a time and a request that he wear something comfortable.
When he texts back, he gets nothing in response, and he knows Aiden has him, his curiosity piqued. Aiden probably knows it, too, the smug bastard, but what can he do but submit? So he goes, his wonder only growing when the tinny voice on the GPS tells him to pull off onto an access road, usually reserved for county vehicles. He finds Aiden a mile or two down it, leaning up against the grill of a pick-up truck he wasn't driving yesterday, the late afternoon sunlight turning it to gold as it runs along the chrome, and he slows to a stop beside him, immediately hanging out of the car.
"Am I underdressed?" he asks, arms spreading wide, showing off his button down and jeans, the most casual things he owns. When he drops them again, when he rounds the car to approach Aiden, he continues, "You never did tell me what this was all about."
"You're fine, Damien," he promises, amusement written on his face. He was right -- Aiden enjoying making him wonder. It's oddly endearing and equally frustrating, but if he plans on commenting to that effect, Aiden stops him, pushing away from the truck to head for a shipping container a few feet off, strange out here, beside the highway. "C'mmon."
Damien follows, Aiden pausing when they reach the doors, muscles in his back straining as he slides it open. He steps into the near-dark, and again he follows, peeking into the container as Aiden retreats. He spots what looks like a fucking arsenal on a table, inside, a dozen or so guns visible before he loses count, and then Aiden's back, holding one of them out to him.
"Here," he orders, and Damien blinks, reaching to take it from him.
"What's is this?"
"It's a .45," Aiden answers, which earns him something muttered in return, sour. Aiden hums, amused, and reaches to cover his hands with his, adjusting his grip on the gun until he's holding it how he assumes is properly, finger off to the side of the trigger, barrel pointed down at the ground. And finally, finally, Aiden tells him, "You teach me how to hack, I teach you how to shoot."
"What makes you think I'm interested?" Damien asks, glancing between Aiden, the gun and back again.
"It's Chicago," he says with a shrug, as if that explains everything. If it doesn't, the fact that he's a sucker for knowledge, no matter how outside of his normal wheelhouse, does. Aiden knows him, know that, and Damien knows himself, so when Aiden brushes past him, heading for a set up of makeshift targets that he didn't notice before, perched in the bed of the truck, he moves to follow. They stop again some twenty feet off, and Aiden orders, "Stand here."
He walks him through it, then -- how to stand, not to lock his elbows, how to aim -- before stepping back, making space to let him try it. He fires, once, twice, his ears ringing louder and louder after each shot, neither of them wearing ear protection. For a second, he's not sure this thrills him much, not like it obviously does Aiden, and then the man's on top of him, Aiden's chest pressed against his back as he wraps his arms around his, around his hands. His heart jumps into his throat, and at his ear, loudly, Aiden orders, "Like this."
It sends a shiver through him, and together they squeeze the trigger, the heat and the sound and the sun and Aiden making his head spin. He doesn't check to see whether or not they hit, though Aiden must, because he hums, pleased, before letting his hands fall away. He stays close, however, shouting a cadence of "again, again, again, fingers finding his elbows, shoulders, head, where ever briefly each time, to correct him. By the time he's out of bullets he's breathing hard, and the target as a lopsided circle in the center of it. He's glad his shirt is too long, untucked, covering the boner he's sure he has. He wasn't expecting that to be so -- intense. He wasn't aware he was so fucking easy.
He turns slightly, in spite of himself, facing Aiden a little more fully, not sure what to do with this feeling (maybe pursue it?), and the look on Aiden's face stops him. He doesn't look in the least bit wound up, interested. It leaves him oddly a little cold, all at once. Well, at least he didn't do anything stupid.
"You alright?" Aiden asks, uncertain.
"Adrenaline response," Damien lies, holding the gun out to him, a barrier pulled between them as he comes down. "I can see why you're so into this, now. It's ... " Aiden takes the gun back and he shrugs, letting it go there.
He turns away then, heading back for his car, to grab his cigarettes out of where they're hidden in the door. It's as good an excuse as any, to get away for a minute, get a handle on himself. Aiden watches him from a distance, before turning around to take a few, more practiced shots at the target, himself. Aiden never really knows how close that came to something, or so Damien likes to tell himself. While Aiden does succeed in teaching him to shoot, it's not like this, nothing so intimate again, the moment gone.
It's another hurt he carries for when they fall apart.
off of i-294; march 2011 (ren)
When he texts back, he gets nothing in response, and he knows Aiden has him, his curiosity piqued. Aiden probably knows it, too, the smug bastard, but what can he do but submit? So he goes, his wonder only growing when the tinny voice on the GPS tells him to pull off onto an access road, usually reserved for county vehicles. He finds Aiden a mile or two down it, leaning up against the grill of a pick-up truck he wasn't driving yesterday, the late afternoon sunlight turning it to gold as it runs along the chrome, and he slows to a stop beside him, immediately hanging out of the car.
"Am I underdressed?" he asks, arms spreading wide, showing off his button down and jeans, the most casual things he owns. When he drops them again, when he rounds the car to approach Aiden, he continues, "You never did tell me what this was all about."
"You're fine, Damien," he promises, amusement written on his face. He was right -- Aiden enjoying making him wonder. It's oddly endearing and equally frustrating, but if he plans on commenting to that effect, Aiden stops him, pushing away from the truck to head for a shipping container a few feet off, strange out here, beside the highway. "C'mmon."
Damien follows, Aiden pausing when they reach the doors, muscles in his back straining as he slides it open. He steps into the near-dark, and again he follows, peeking into the container as Aiden retreats. He spots what looks like a fucking arsenal on a table, inside, a dozen or so guns visible before he loses count, and then Aiden's back, holding one of them out to him.
"Here," he orders, and Damien blinks, reaching to take it from him.
"What's is this?"
"It's a .45," Aiden answers, which earns him something muttered in return, sour. Aiden hums, amused, and reaches to cover his hands with his, adjusting his grip on the gun until he's holding it how he assumes is properly, finger off to the side of the trigger, barrel pointed down at the ground. And finally, finally, Aiden tells him, "You teach me how to hack, I teach you how to shoot."
"What makes you think I'm interested?" Damien asks, glancing between Aiden, the gun and back again.
"It's Chicago," he says with a shrug, as if that explains everything. If it doesn't, the fact that he's a sucker for knowledge, no matter how outside of his normal wheelhouse, does. Aiden knows him, know that, and Damien knows himself, so when Aiden brushes past him, heading for a set up of makeshift targets that he didn't notice before, perched in the bed of the truck, he moves to follow. They stop again some twenty feet off, and Aiden orders, "Stand here."
He walks him through it, then -- how to stand, not to lock his elbows, how to aim -- before stepping back, making space to let him try it. He fires, once, twice, his ears ringing louder and louder after each shot, neither of them wearing ear protection. For a second, he's not sure this thrills him much, not like it obviously does Aiden, and then the man's on top of him, Aiden's chest pressed against his back as he wraps his arms around his, around his hands. His heart jumps into his throat, and at his ear, loudly, Aiden orders, "Like this."
It sends a shiver through him, and together they squeeze the trigger, the heat and the sound and the sun and Aiden making his head spin. He doesn't check to see whether or not they hit, though Aiden must, because he hums, pleased, before letting his hands fall away. He stays close, however, shouting a cadence of "again, again, again, fingers finding his elbows, shoulders, head, where ever briefly each time, to correct him. By the time he's out of bullets he's breathing hard, and the target as a lopsided circle in the center of it. He's glad his shirt is too long, untucked, covering the boner he's sure he has. He wasn't expecting that to be so -- intense. He wasn't aware he was so fucking easy.
He turns slightly, in spite of himself, facing Aiden a little more fully, not sure what to do with this feeling (maybe pursue it?), and the look on Aiden's face stops him. He doesn't look in the least bit wound up, interested. It leaves him oddly a little cold, all at once. Well, at least he didn't do anything stupid.
"You alright?" Aiden asks, uncertain.
"Adrenaline response," Damien lies, holding the gun out to him, a barrier pulled between them as he comes down. "I can see why you're so into this, now. It's ... " Aiden takes the gun back and he shrugs, letting it go there.
He turns away then, heading back for his car, to grab his cigarettes out of where they're hidden in the door. It's as good an excuse as any, to get away for a minute, get a handle on himself. Aiden watches him from a distance, before turning around to take a few, more practiced shots at the target, himself. Aiden never really knows how close that came to something, or so Damien likes to tell himself. While Aiden does succeed in teaching him to shoot, it's not like this, nothing so intimate again, the moment gone.
It's another hurt he carries for when they fall apart.