almosthonorable | [[ pre-dawn, milliways, upstairs ]]

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[[ pre-dawn, milliways, upstairs ]]

whitetextiswhite

[ the lonely light of morning ]

He's blinking in the darkness, already upright and swinging his legs over the side of the bed before he knows why.

Then the rapping -- light but insistent -- registers.

"Hold on just a minute, gotta -- "

He yanks on his pants and pulls his undershirt over his head, then pads to the door barefoot.

"The hell's the -- "

He's squinting, running his free hand through his impressive case of bed-head.

" -- Kate?"

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She shakes her head.

"No, I-- I only had cause to use a rifle, when predators were about the property, back where I grew up. Seen it done, though. Lots of the boys around the farm had sixes."

Daddy just didn't want me near one.

"It ain't hard -- you know how to handle somethin' with a trigger, so you know not to be careless."

He nudges the box of shells closer to the edge of the bale for her and unholsters his own Colt.

"Just watch."

It's a simple demonstration; he empties the chamber and reloads, repeats the steps again for good measure, then looks at Katherine.

"Your turn," he says with a nod toward her gun.

She adjusts the gun in her hand so she isn't holding it quite so awkwardly, and sits on the edge of that hay bale.

She watched carefully the first time, checking her memory the second, and now nods and turns to the pistol in her hands.

There's only a moment's hesitation before she opens the chamber, her fingers sure and strong, mimicking his actions. Loaded, she flips it shut again, and turns her eyes back to his face for approval.

"Just about perfect."

He'd smile, but he can't quite find one.

"All right -- I'm gonna knock down this first can, but the rest of 'em are all yours."

He stands, fingers tightening around his Colt.

"Somethin' you need to remember: shoot with both eyes open. Lots of folks squint, and I'll never know why. Both eyes gives you better depth for what you're aimin' at."

Stepping to the line, he glances at her.

"Accuracy's gonna be a little different from a rifle, 'cause the barrel ain't as long." A one-shouldered shrug. "Other'n that, I think you're gonna be just fine."

He raises the Hand of God, cocks the hammer, aims and fires, the report breaking the stillness of the morning; after the first can falls and he re-holsters, then steps back.

"Go right ahead."

The absence of his usually incorrigible grinning is barely noticed tonight. Today. Her brain is still in a fog, and she is concentrating hard on everything he's saying.

"All right," she says, watching the can cartwheel across the earth. She stands, and steps up to the line.

She takes her time getting her footing right, trying to still the raging pulse of blood through her veins. She grips the gun like Ben had his, lifting her arm.

Keep it straight.

It's heavy in her hand. The hammer feels stiff as she uses her thumb to cock it back. Her fingertips are trembling against polished wood and steel.

Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Click.
Click.

She empties her chamber, but there are still two cans standing.

The expression on her face is nothing short of frustrated.

Her arm shakes as she lowers the gun.

Her stance and posture are good, and her sight's even better, but he knows she needs something smaller to take back to Green Lake.

Stepping closer, he's already shaking his head at the look on her face.

"No need to be mad at yourself -- that's a damn fine job, especially for your first time shootin' one of these. You got a good eye, Kate."

She lowers her head, staring at her muddy shoes as she catches her breath.

"Easier with a rifle," she murmurs, shaking her head. "I ain't quite used to the kickback with this thing. Don't have nothin' to keep my hand steady, either. I would have only needed the five shots to knock them cans down, if I had my Winchester."

The words are quiet, but firm and hot-tempered. She needs to do better than that. She can do better than that.

His lips twitch, just a little, at the fire behind her words.

"Then use both hands -- might keep you steadier."

He nods toward the box of bullets.

"And let's do this again. You reload, I'll set up your targets."

She sighs, her breath shaking free from her lungs like a trembling leaf.

Blinking hard, she nods, and moves for the cartridge box again.

I'll do this however many times it takes. Even if I'm here all day.

Flipping the chamber open again, she lets the empty casings fall to the earth, and quickly reloads her weapon. Her hands are becoming more sure at the motion, despite the shake.

It's just the cold.

She knows it's a lie.

Her second try at the cans goes only slightly better. With six rounds spent, five cans are down, one left to glare at her from across the expanse.

"Even better," he nods. "Both hands help."

Before he sets up the cans for another trial, he puts a light hand on Katherine's thin shoulder.

"You're gettin' this."

She manages not to jump or shrink away when his hand falls to her shoulder, though she does tip her face to look at his calloused fingers.

Scrounging up a brief, faint smile, she nods.

'You're gettin' this.'

Less than twenty-four hours ago these fingers were gripping chalk and pencil, school papers and books.

Less than twelve hours ago they were clutching at gunshot wounds, covered in blood.

And now, as she slips fresh bullets back into her gun, the weight of steel growing warm and comfortable in her hands despite the temperature outside, her face falls stern and cold.

"Natural born killer," she mutters to herself, spinning the chamber into place.

The next six cans fall without reservation, her accuracy growing deadly as she adjusts to the feel of the handgun.

"Told you."

This time, he does manage a smile for her, small and grim as it is.

He replaces the six dented cans again (and again, and again) until the box of ammunition is empty and Katherine's face is pinched from exertion and red from the icy air.

Dropping the last can into the cardboard box, he blinks snowflakes from his lashes and looks over.

"How you feelin'?"

She's watching snowflakes filter down to her warm flesh, touching white knuckles (still gripping steel), and melting into teardrops of cold water.

She shrugs just slightly.

"I'm not sure."

"You don't feel good 'bout what you just did?"

He cants his head, trying to gauge her expression.

"Think you need to go through another box?"

He's keeping them both focused on the task at hand; there's no room for anything else -- not if Katherine wants to walk away from what's waiting in Green Lake.

She lifts her chin, squinting up at the morning sky overhead. They haven't been out here all that long; maybe a few hours. She could still...

"No. I think I have a pretty good idea of what I am doing, now," she says, lowering her gaze to Ben's eyes. Her voice also drops lower.

"Enough to get the job done."

A pause.

"Think you're gonna more'n get the job done with your kinda aim. That's some right smart shootin' you just did."

He hefts the box and nods toward the bar.

"Let's get back in -- I've got somethin' for you."

"I... used to practice," she mumbles, staring out at the place where the cans had been lined up. "A long time ago. Way back before...."

Before the world ended the first time.

"...Long time ago."

She combs a bit of errant hair behind one ear, shifting her gaze onto him.

She furrows her brow in puzzlement, but obediently follows his lead back to the Bar.

He can guess what she isn't saying, but doesn't comment.

Once they're inside, he scans the room for Doc, deposits the cardboard box on Bar's surface with a quiet thank you, then turns to Katherine.

"You wanna come up or wait down here?"

He isn't the only one scanning the room for Doc when they reenter. She, however, is both surprised and relieved to see he isn't here.

So she debates for a quiet moment, before shaking her head.

"No, I... I'll wait. Down here," she says, taking a seat on the far side of Bar, where she'll be less likely to garner attention.

Even considering her soiled garb, and the death-grip she currently has on the pistol in her lap.

"All right."

His eyes fall on her bloodless knuckles.

"Tell you what, why don't you ask Miss Bar to hang on to that? I'll be back down before you know it."

She blinks at him before lowering her gaze to her lap.

If he's looking closely, he might be able to see the barest hint of a wry smirk.

"I'm not going to fire on accident," she mumbles.

One corner of his mouth quirks upward.

"That ain't what I'm worried 'bout -- it's just that you ain't gonna need it."

With a slight nod, he turns and heads upstairs.

She looks understandably confused as she watches him turn his back to her and walk away.

Such a statement coming from a man like Ben could mean any number of things.

(She'll fight him if she has to.)

But she obediently sets the pistol on Bar's surface -- Where it will lay, just until she finds out what he's up to.

He's back in just a few minutes, a significantly smaller Colt in hand.

"If I thought I could change your mind, or if I thought I could get to Green Lake without you puttin' a hole in my hide, I would. But, since I can't -- "

He places the gun on the counter, next to hers.

"This'll handle a little easier."

She stares at the Colt for a long moment. It looks like a kitten in comparison with the cougar of a piece Billy's gun makes.

But it fits in her hand, when she reaches for it.

Head bowed, her voice comes out deep and quiet.

"I know."

Beat.

"But it... it ain't your world. S'mine. I gotta do this--"

Her voice catches, and she swallows hard, lifting her chin slowly to meet his eyes.

"Justice, for a good man."

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