Work Text:
alana maxwell doesn’t carry a gun. she doesn’t have to and she knows it (much to the annoyance of her team)
why carry a weapon when you’re side by side with two. why carry a weapon when just your name carries enough weight to stop the right person dead in their tracks? and besides, if it doesn't- there probaby isn't much risk to her. not when she's got the two of them right beside her.
no, alana maxwell doesn’t carry a gun, she hasn’t for a while. of course she knows how- when you grow up in the middle of nowhere, rural town she did, you learn to use a firearm before you learn long division. well, in most cases, she doesn't count the eight year old alana who would steal worksheets from the teacher next to her class, the one two grades ahead of her, just to see how much of it she could figure out, a little challenge for herself. (spoiler- of course she figured it all out)
and of course she had basic training from goddard. she knew how to and theoretically could, but it never felt natural. the weight of the weapon pulling on her side, the way her clothes never seemed to cover it up just right, and no matter what she did, the way she somehow felt safer without it.
ducking as she leans, back to back with a partner- no, not just any partner- with /her/ partners. her team. her boys, as she affectionately deemed them one long night- she presses up behind one of them, in the moment it doesn't matter who, just to get enough cover for her to finish completely reworking whatever goddard competitor's security system they were attacking this time.
but of course she knows who it is. she knows the way his breathing slows as he aims, the way he pushes right back against her, the small -pat of his hand against her shoulder- an acknowledgment of her presence and an order. hurry up, alana. quicker. get it done. just one more.
and she does. the bang of gunshots ring through her ears and she pays them no mind. not that she doesn't care, not that she isn't concerned, but she's never been really worried. she knows they've got this.
the final piece clicks into place and as soon as she turns a hand is at her back, rushing them away. major kepler fires off one last shot behind them, barely sparing a glance, as jacobi leads her out the way they planned and learned forwards and backwards. a cold rush of air hits them as they run, alarms and bullets right on their tail. she laughs, uproarious and free, cackling into the crisp air.
so alana maxwell doesn’t carry a gun and she doesn’t have to.