Guns (hitman dadvid au)

Flashback III

It had been 5 years. 5 years since I'd decided to raise the child as my own. Max. That's what I'd named him. It just seemed to suit him. He was 6 years old when he first started asking me about my visible bruises and scrapes from work. Of course, he didn't know what my work was. I'd told him I worked in an office. But though he may have been young, he wasn't stupid; he realised how late I'd come home on some days, and how I'd bring a new scar or bruise with me each time. When he'd ask me about it, I'd change the subject.

But, eventually, he started to put 2 and 2 together. He knew my job was clearly something dangerous and secretive. He'd ask me over and over again, though I'd avoid the question each time. But I knew that he knew something was up. And I couldn't keep my biggest secret from my son. So one night, I just told him. He was only 6, but I felt as though it was better to tell him then than to keep it a secret any longer. If I wanted him to trust me, I had to show him I trusted him. He reacted quite calmly to the whole thing, which came as a shock to me; I know I wouldn't act so casual finding out that my adoptive dads a hitman!

He honestly didn't seem too surprised when I told him. I'm just glad he reacted so chill about the whole thing;
I was worried that he'd be scared of me. I swore Max to secrecy, making him promise me that he'd tell no one about my job. He seemed to be fine with that, and I trusted him.

Those were the good days; I'd get on with my job, Max would get on with school, and we were both perfectly happy with our lives and fake family. Even Gwen had warmed up to the idea of me being a father, though it took her some time to approve in the beginning. She'd come round my house most days, and we'd play board games, video games, or watch movies with Max. Life was good, and despite me having one of the most dangerous jobs out there, I hadn't a care in the world.

Though, there was this one incident... Max was 8, and he hadn't asked me about my job since the day I'd told him what it was. But, as I picked him up from school in my car, he asked me, "You only kill the bad people...right?"
I remember swallowing nervously, really not wanting to discuss this with my son as such a young age. "What do you mean?", I asked.
"Well, do you only kill bad people? Like criminals?", he continued. I didn't say anything. I was trying to think of a good answer. "You're...you're not the bad guy, are you?", he stuttered. That moment, small piece of my heart broke. For a second I felt as though I really was the bad guy, but I couldn't be- I killed the bad guys. I didn't want my son thinking I was a villain. I didn't want him to be scared.
"N-no! Of course not!", I spluttered. "I only kill because it's how we get our money, Max. I'm sure some of the people I've hurt were...less deserving than others, but I had no choice. People pay me, and I do what they say.", I explained. I wanted to be honest with my son, because I knew that some of the people I'd killed hadn't deserved it. But that's life. "Oh, okay.", Max responded. "I guess if it's a your job, it's not so bad."

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