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You gave him a scare. Came back home from grocery shopping to find your door busted in and called him, all blubbery and panicked. You were lucky that you hadn’t been home when it happened. Crying to your boyfriend for help made you feel silly now, but at the time it had been the only thing that had made sense. It should have been cops first, Leon second, and he would tell you as much later.
“I’m gonna come home,” he’d told you. That only made you cry harder. Through your tears, he managed to make out the reason - you didn’t want him to get in trouble at work.
Bullshit, he’d thought. After all he gave to this place, they could stand to let him cut out early for an emergency. Thank God - that useless bastard - he wasn’t on deployment when all of this had happened. He rattled off instructions for you. Don’t go in the house, call the cops, wait for him to show up.
Leon doesn’t get frazzled often, but you saw the urgency in how he moved then, hopping out of his car before he even cut the engine. He hadn't thought to tell the cops he was your boyfriend, just flashed his badge at the officer who tried to stop him, teeth bared when he told the officer to move. He doesn't usually swing around the weight of his position like that, tries to leave who he is during his working hours at the door and shoulder who he wants to be when he's with you instead - but damn, if it wasn't effective.
He'd slid his arm around your waist, pressed a kiss to your hair and said, "You okay, baby?" and it was probably only then that the officer pieced together that Leon wasn't here on official business.
You were starting to think this whole thing scared him more than it scared you. It was damn near an argument. He made it clear that he wanted you comfortable enough to know how to shoot if it came down to that. He seems convinced, privately, that it would come down to that eventually. Like an attack is inevitable. You had laughed at the idea. After all, who would target you?
Leon doesn't want to give you the long, long list of answers to that, but his silence says enough.
That was that. He was teaching you how to shoot. No more avoiding it. If it buys him some peace, you’ll fire off a few rounds. Maybe it will even be fun. After all, Leon had almost seemed excited when he insisted he teach you. It's an excuse for him to take you out in his Jeep and drive around the countryside if nothing else.
“Are you sure I'm allowed to be here?” You ask, poking your head out the window of his Jeep.
Leon doesn't even turn around. “I’m sure.”
A man shouldn’t look so good hunched over a rusty padlock, ugly boot propped up on the bottom bar. He swings the gate open, spinning the padlock on his index finger. Wrangler’s shouldn’t be that appealing, either, like they’re molded to him. Maybe it’s just the way he walks. The confident sway of his hips could make anything look good.
He swings himself back into the driver’s seat, pulls through the gate, and asks you to shut it behind you. You take the padlock from him. It’s hard to imagine you have the same confident stride Leon had. You feel like you’re shuffling your feet in the dirt, like the gate is so much heavier and your fingers so much clumsier. Leon’s eyes are on you the whole way, even when you clamber back into the passenger seat. Not that you notice.
The range is little more than a grassy field ringed with shooting bays. You don’t know what you had expected - maybe something a little more clinical. A quick look around fills you with relief. It looks like you’re the only ones here right now.
Leon pulls up in front of one of the pistol bays, already explaining range etiquette to you. You help him unload, picking up a bag that you nearly drop with a muffled whoa.
“What the hell did you pack?”
“Ammo.”
Jesus. Was he planning on forming a militia?
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Leon doesn’t do anything casually. You haul the ammo over to the closest table, hefting it up and thunking it down. Your hands settle onto your hips.
The bay is roughly 50 feet deep, the berms healed over with grass. The flat of the bay is tracked with dirt paths, clearly worn over time. A line hangs at the far end, where Leon clips two targets. He trods his own path back and unpacks his assortment of handguns on the picnic table. At his direction, you unload cartons of ammunition, organizing them by their different packaging. 9mm. .45.
The handguns look, for the most part, the same. Some are slick, carbon black, others dull, burnished metal. Your eyes are drawn to a boxy handgun, all sharp angles, the grip pebbled.
“You look nervous,” Leon notes. He straddles a bench, gesturing for you to join him.
“I am.”
Leon laughs. He nudges a magazine towards you, picking up one himself. “Don’t be. I’ll show you. Here - watch me.”
He thumbs rounds into the magazine. He makes it look easy, like he's loading a pez dispenser. You try to do the same and your thumbs come away sore and raw.
“It comes with practice.” He shrugs. He already has another two magazines loaded by the time you’ve finished your first. You hope he’s right, but you have a feeling your hands are going to ache after this.
He pulls one more gun from its case. It's worn, clearly seen plenty of use. The polymer is dulled and scuffed compared to some of the other weapons that he's laid out for you. It looks like someone took a file to the barrel and sanded it at an angle. He handles it with care, looks it over twice before he sets it away from the other pistols.
“What’s that?”
“This?” He says, laying out a stock next to it. That makes you arch a brow as well - a stock for a handgun. “She’s more of a novelty, honestly.”
“She?” You grin.
Leon rolls his eyes. He really should have known you’d tease him for that one. He flips the gun over and draws his finger across the engraving at the bottom of the grip. ‘Matilda’.
Before you can make some smart-ass comment, he clarifies. “She’s a novelty. My first gun. Can’t get rid of her, even though I probably should.”
“Why? What’s wrong with it?”
“Quicker to tell you what’s not wrong,” he says, loading the magazine fondly. “The trigger is heavy as hell. There’s no rear sight. This is a military model, so if I attach the stock it fires in a three-round burst, but the way the barrel is cut slows down the way it cycles, so you lose a lot of -”
Yeah, he’s lost you. He looks so passionate when he speaks, though, you can't help but stare. You cushion your cheek on your fist just to watch him for a moment. You can't remember the last time you saw his eyes light up like this. You ask questions just so he'll keep talking – “Double action - what does that mean?”
And he's off talking again, showing you the difference on two different pistols.
He catches on to your game after the third question, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He sets Matilda aside, warning you off of trying her for now. His hand nestles home in the small of your back, urging you closer.
“Try this one first,” Leon says. It's smaller than the others, glimmers with a sheen that seems to have worn off the rest. You miss the full name - the something-or-other Shield. He runs you through the gun, shows you the safety and hands you the magazine.
It’s the basics he’s been telling you since before you even got to the range - finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Only point the gun at something if you intend to shoot it. He shows you proper stance, flexes his knees to emphasize his stance, and you can’t help the little laugh that slips out of you. His brow furrows.
“C’mon, this is serious.” Your laughter dies quick. You quiet, start taking it a little more seriously, chase the hearts from your eyes for the moment.
It feels like you should be taking notes with the amount of information he’s telling you. You nod along, trying to mimic his stance as best you can. Finally, Leon presses the gun to your palm, his hands covering yours to adjust your grip. His touch lingers, fingers sliding along your wrist as he steps away.
“Remember,” he says, loud enough for you to hear over your hearing protection. “Squeeze.”
Squeeze. Okay. You can do that. Just squeeze. You try, curling your index finger. You tense in anticipation of the shot.
The gun snaps in your hand. The grip sears into the soft skin of your palm. The ejected shell casing sizzles past your ear. You swallow the lump in your throat. You’d squeezed the trigger just how Leon had told you to, and you’d still jumped, pulling your shot up and away from where you had been aiming.
You look over to him, about to say you’re doing this wrong, you’ve got to be messing something up - you can’t even tell if you hit the target. Leon’s giving you a thumbs up and a dorky smile when you look over, though, and any thought of backing out splinters into a laugh. His voice is muffled by your earmuffs, but you think you hear him say ‘keep going’.
The rest of the magazine goes by quicker. You never quite get used to the bark of the gun, but you manage to hit the target more than once, letting out a surprised oh! each time. The slide kicks back and you barely notice - you try to fire again and it only clicks limply.
"Not bad," Leon says. You snort, but you’re smiling despite it, removing your earmuffs. Your shots are all over the place. He stares down range, hip cocked against the bench, arms folded across his chest. “You're pulling up and to the right - see?" He says, pacing down the range, gesturing for you to follow him. You trod over spent casings, catching up quick. He points to the groupings, circling them for you as if you were having trouble seeing the holes you had put all over the place.
He walks you back, talking you through pointers while you try to cram that information in along with everything else. You slide another magazine into place and try to get back into position. Your feet shuffle uncertainly on the concrete slab. Something about this is so embarrassing, being so wet behind the ears at something he’s so passionate about - you can hardly swallow around the lump in your throat.
“Hang on.” Leon’s voice cuts through your nerves. You move to lower the gun, but he stops you with a feather-light touch at your elbows.
He moves you into position, his leg wedging between yours, kicking your feet where he wants them. His touch is a suggestion, guiding you into proper form with the faintest press.
“There you go,” he rumbles. He’s pressed so close you can feel it vibrate down your back. His hands slide down your sides, fingers curling into your hips.“Nice and slow. Take your time. When you’re ready - exhale and squeeze.”
How the fuck are you supposed to breath deep and slow, concentrate on firing on the exhale, when his hands are gripping your hips like that? His breath puffs hot against the back of your neck. His voice drifts to you through your earmuffs, cloudy and dreamlike.
“Nice and slow. Squeeze.”
His hands press your hips, kneading - and then he steps back. You take a moment, let your breathing even, find your rhythm. In and out - on the exhale. You squeeze the trigger again, just like he showed you. The gun jumps, but you’re ready for it this time, the shock absorbed in the roll of your shoulders.
Center mass. On target, roughly where you had been aiming. You lean back into Leon’s chest, grinning.
“Good job,” he says. His hands slide up your arms, squeezing your shoulders. “Much better. I’m proud of you.”
A little thrill rattles up your chest. You’re going to have to unpack all of that later.
“Can I see you do it?” You ask, stepping away from the bay. You drop the magazine just like he showed you earlier. All right- maybe not just like he showed you. You fumble with it, just a little, and he does have to remind you to fish out the chambered round.
“I wasn’t going to let you have all the fun.” He says, subduing a grin. He gestures for you to put your earmuffs back on and takes Matilda in hand.
It’s a night and day difference from the way you had shot. He’s quick and precise, comfortable even with the gun he had spent minutes telling you was ungainly. A tight cluster of shots in the chest of the target, two rounds in the head - just to show off, you’re sure. It’s a blink and you miss it exhibition.
And yet, Leon clicks his tongue. “I’m pulling left. See?”
“Mm…” you pop your head to the side, pretending you see what he does. You step up to him, chest pressed against his back and hands at his hips, tormenting him the way he had just done to you. “Maybe if you just…”
Your hands slide to his front, coasting up his chest. He huffs a laugh and it presses his pecs into your hands.
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,” he says, laughter wobbling his voice.
“I’m taking it just as seriously as you are.”
There’s no arguing with that. He sets Matilda aside and turns to face you. “People pay good money for lessons like these.”
“Yeah? You’re a really hands-on instructor.”
He doesn’t bother hiding his laugh this time. “C’mon. Let's shoot through a couple boxes, get you comfortable. I’ll take you to lunch when we’re done.”
“I thought you packed lunch.”
“Yeah, well. I wanna treat you.”
“You spoil me.”
“I know,” he says, affecting an exasperated sigh. He disentangles himself from you, quickly loading the magazine for your pistol and sliding it over to you. He nods towards the gun you had fired earlier. “That’s why I bought that for you.”
That little shit. You should have known he’d pull something like this.
You open your mouth to argue, but Leon seats a magazine into Matilda and turns to face the target again. “Going down. Earmuffs on.”
Bastard won’t even let you argue about it.