cock it and pull it - BtVS/Criminal Minds
The vague background that’s referred to is ficlet numbero uno for last year’s Wishlist and you absolutely do not need to know it.Disclaimer II:
The title of this darling is a line from a Fallout Boy song and thusly not mine, either. Cheers.Prompt:
azraelz_angel, also known as Demona, asked for BtVS/Criminal Minds, Faith/Reid, The way he wears his gun on his hip is just asking for trouble.
.cock it and pull it
The first thing Faith Lehane ever says to Spencer Reid is, “So you’re the wunderkind, huh?”
She’s part of the same private organization that Summers works for, the one that helped them out the last time they had a case involving the supernatural. This time, Summers is stuck in Rome for something she calls the Yearly Apocalypse Fest and After Party, so she sent them Lehane, who, Reid can tell about thirty seconds in, is just as good and not even close to half as professional as Summers.
The second thing she says to him, thirty seconds later is, “Do you seriously carry your gun that way?”
She drops the question when Morgan enters the room, as women are wont to do and then there’s a new clue and they’re off into the sunset, or something like that.
Reid only listens to her caustic commentary with half an ear, really.
Until they’re stuck in a hole ten feet underground, a ten inch steel door between them and cell phone reception, not to mention freedom.
They spent the past thirty minutes poking every inch of wall in this place, trying to find hidden escape routes or weaknesses or, really, anything.
Lehane – call me Faith, honey – kicks at the door with her steel-toed boot, producing an ominous clanging sound but nothing more. She huffs in frustration and says, “B’s right. Getting stuck in holes fucking sucks.”
Reid personally agrees with that, but he’s not going to say that out loud. Instead he’s calculating how long it will take the team to a) notice that they are missing, b) retrace their steps and c) come and rescue them. He figures it’s going to be a little less than two hours.
Then he calculates how long they’re going to rib him for accidentally locking himself into an old air raid shelter and comes up with a lot less favorable amount of time, commonly referred to as ‘never’.
Lehane repeats her earlier sentiment of how much this sucks and then pouts, looking around. Reid, who has witnessed Summers’s absolute lack of attention span, knows mortal peril when it’s grinning him in the face and holds very, very still.
The room is empty, there’s barely any light and nothing at all to do. Reid is the only entertainment available to a souped-up super soldier in a locked room and she pounces on him like Penelope’s cat pounces on fish.
“So,” she drawls, all faux-casual, “That gun of yours.” She grins and it’s downright dirty. Reid fights the part of his brain that really, really wants to profile this woman and all her obvious trauma. He doesn’t need to understand Faith Lehane. He doesn’t want
to. Some sort of profiling is going to happen – has happened – anyway, but he won’t go through with it to the end. You do that with people you have to work with, things are bound to go sour. So he won’t. But she’s making it kind of hard, what with flinging her hang-ups all over the place. “Do you really carry it like that?”
Redundant question, really. Of course he does. She’s watched him wear it that way for the past few hours. Still, “Yes.”
“Why?” Head cocked to one side, hips thrust out. Cocky, proud, sexy. It’s mostly lost on him, but he doesn’t say so.
“Because it’s within easy reach.”
A snort. “Yeah. Of anyone who needs a gun real quick. Also, can you even sit with it like this? You look like one of those gun slinging cowboys from the movies. Only more… preppy.”
As far as insults go, this one is old, weak and very, very true, which is why Reid refuses to even classify it as an insult. But then, he doesn’t think she’s trying to be intentionally hurtful. This is just how she is. Casual cruelty and a lot of words to hide behind.
He taps the strap of his leather satchel across his chest. “It doesn’t tangle with my bag that way.”
She nods, once, thoughtfully. Then she’s suddenly right in front of him. It’s dark enough that her pupils are blown and he gets the impression that she sees a lot better in this semi-darkness than he does. She smiles and he smells the fries she had for lunch and the gum she chewed afterwards, scent mingling with her sweat, the leather of her jacket, the clean smell of deodorant.
She’s just there
in his nose, in his face, a presence, a heat, a scent, way too close and he has to fight not to back up. She smirks like she’s reading his mind and doesn’t move away. But her left arm, when she raises it, is slow and careful, like she doesn’t want to startle him.
Maybe she’s not as easy to understand as he thought. Not as text book screwed up as she seems.
Then she puts her hand on his gun, flicking open the button of the holster and pulling at in the same instant. She flips it in her hand and holds the wrong end of the weapon against his temple, like she’s going to pistol whip him.
She’s fast, and even though she’s not aiming the barrel at him, he still feels himself tense. He has to fight to stay still, unnerved. She smiles and, just as quickly as she drew it, she tucks his gun back in its holster.
She takes a single, big step backwards, out of his space.
He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until now, when he releases it like an explosion. She lets him have a second, another, a third, and she’s back, right inside his space again, twisting to her left, around him, behind him, close and tight. And again she goes for his gun, draws it with one hand while she puts her other around his neck, bending him back, pulling him down.
This time when the gun settles against his temple, it’s with the barrel first and his heart jumps into his throat, louder, louder, louder. Adrenaline rush, danger, panic, move, move, move.
“This is not funny,” he says as calmly as he can. She’s not going to shoot him. He’s sure of that. To her, this is only a game. But game or not, there’s a loaded gun pointed in his face.
Her chuckles grow louder and then she’s gone, like she was never there, pressed against his back like heat and danger.
She hands the gun back from a safe three feet away, smirk planted firmly on her face. “Learned something?” she asks.
He glares, tucks his gun away and keeps a hand on it, refusing to answer.
“Great,” she summarizes and walks the six feet over to the steel door. She bangs her fist against it once, curses and then goes back to kicking it.
He backs up until he feels a wall behind him and then slides until he’s sitting on the cold stone floor. It’s going to be a long two hours.