Deviant Behavior (Connor x Reader)

Troubleshooting

November 8th, 2038
PM 01:21:09

Everyone wanted to talk.

Connor asked if the two of you could discuss what happened.  Hank tried to reinforce some fatherly advice you'd tuned out.  Chris wanted to know what you were doing back at the police station.  Fowler stopped you to ask what Hank was doing back at work.

The only person who didn't ask for an explanation – knew what to do immediately...was Gavin.

Detective Reed, the biggest douche bag on the force and a friend you loved to hate.

"Didn't think you'd take me up on my offer." He huffed.

"Almost didn't."

"Why did you?"

You strapped your vest on, and kept your mouth shut.

"Don't wanna talk about it?" He handed you a heavy pair of shooting earmuffs.

"Nope." You slung them around your neck.

"Wanna shoot some paper dudes in the face?"

"Yep."

He smirked, leaning against the wall, "Have at it."

Gavin was an unlikely sponsor, to say the least.  The friendship began with a rocky start, and evolved into an avalanche of ill quips and under-the-table middle finger exchanges.

He had a rough exterior, sure.  But somewhere under all that spiced body spray and worn leather, there was a decent enough person.  A person who kept his badge clipped to his belt because everyone had to be reminded at all points in time that he had power.  A person who didn't base his political views on any solid facts, but shoved them down peoples' throats.  A person who was closed-minded and wouldn't know creativity if it slapped him in the face.

A person who knew when to back off when you needed it, because the two of you had one key trait in common:

Misplaced aggression.

But down in the basement of DPD's best precinct, in the shooting range, you had a few layers between you and the problems above.  Reinforced steel and cement filled with rubber to drown out all the bullshit.

Down here, word of mouth didn't mean a damn thing.  It was a gauntlet of brain and brawn; a fight for control over recoil and bullet drop.  Calculations of air resistance and targeted ballistics.  The practice of fight or flight, and how to aim the metal discharge in your hands.

Elijah was wrong.  You didn't need to pick a side.  You were the one that drew the fucking line in the sand.  All you had to do was make sure you'd be left standing when you tried to barricade each faction into their halves...and whoever shot first would have a really pissed off cop to deal with – one who knew her way around a pistol.

An overworked, underestimated weapon that was common in practice, but uncommonly handled in the manner that you executed.

You saw the room through yellow-tinted shooting glasses.  The rubberized grips of your gloves fit neatly around your gun.  You'd missed it almost as much as the weight of a bulletproof vest pulling on your shoulders.

A second skin.  Another layer.  A security blanket that was heavy as fuck and had taken a beating.

Gavin covered his eyes and ears with his equipment, but he pulled back.

"You're not shooting?" You turned your head.

"Nah. Gonna watch a 'Pistol Master,' do her thing."