almosthonorable | [[ hands like a gunslinger ]]

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[[ hands like a gunslinger ]]

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bang

A dented tin can falls.

bang

And another.

bang

And another.

Ben's at the practice range.

bang

He's having a good morning -- or, at least, his aim and depth perception are. Sneaking up on him isn't exactly advisable, but he'll say good morning to anyone who wanders up.

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Ben chortles and nods toward the row of cans he'd set back up before he started reloading.

"Don't see why not."

He finishes loading his six and holsters it (guns got a curse on it); he picks up the spare Colt he'd brought out to give some range time.

"This here's a Peacemaker -- six-shooter, real easy to learn on."

To demonstrate, he opens the chamber and empties it, reloads, and smacks it back into place.

Charlie gives it a look somewhere between amusement and considering wariness, making a slight sucking sound of air between his teeth.

"Right." Curious--he's never seen one like this, except on one or another cowboy's hip, in the bar--he takes it, surprised at the weight. "Christ. For being small, it's heavy."

Ben's lips twitch.

"You get used to it."

A nod toward the gun.

"You wanna handle that thing like it's a stick of dynamite -- somethin' that can go off anytime. Hammer ain't cocked right now, but you always treat a gun like it's loaded and ready to fire. That way, you don't shoot off your foot or somebody else's."

A beat.

"Without meanin' to, anyway."

This speech might have been better listened to before you gave him the gun, Ben. Because right now he's looking at it from all angles--and finding into the barrel the most interesting.

At least he can claim he really didn't know better. ~~For a while.~~ It takes him a minute to process the words, and cock his head, still not looking up, to ask, "What's dynamite?"

He'll save 'why would I be shooting anyone in the foot' till later.

Charlie took the gun, if hairs're being split.

But.

Ben's eyes narrow and he goes slate-still.

"Charlie."

His voice is low and even.

"You get that barrel out of your face right now. Point it toward the cans, but don't you touch the hammer or the trigger."

Charlie's eyes flick sideways at Ben, curious at the very sudden change of tone. But he obeys the command, turning the gun around in his hands. It's heavier than the one he was given in that fucked-up battlefield months ago, but looks...not too different, really.

He puts that thought out of his mind, really not wanting to go back to that. Really. "I wasn't going to..." The curiously raised eyebrow still is, wondering why Ben's being so still.

"No, you weren't gonna. But you could've on accident. Or shot me -- and that woulda been a story'n a half."

He lets out a slow, silent breath.

"Dynamite's somethin' that blows up when you light it on fire. So that," a nod toward the Colt in Charlie's hand, "is somethin' you treat with respect, 'cause it can kill you. It's somethin' you gotta handle with a cool head, too, 'cause you don't want it goin' off and missin' the mark."

"Oh no, I know it can kill me. I've been shot before, albeit not with one like this..." Charlie's still studying the gun, but now has to wonder how he didn't shoot himself by accident in that strangely color-obsessed war.

Might've been because he was a bit too busy shooting everyone else. "But I wasn't going to pull the trigger. Are they really that temperamental?"

"If you don't know what you're doin', they're a helluva lot more dangerous. The more you know -- more you handle 'em, more comfortable you are with 'em -- the less you gotta worry 'bout accidents happenin'. Gettin' careless is what kicks up a shit-storm."

He tilts his head slightly.

"When'd you get shot?"

"A couple months ago," he says casually, shrugging. "Four times, in the abdomen, but with nothing like one of these. And I'm supposing that gives me a good reason to get comfortable with this, then."

He tests the feel of it in both hands, before deciding on the right; it feels less awkward there. "Strange. You shoot it the same way, for all of them? Point and squeeze?" He got the crash course from the irritable man in the ugly blue jumpsuit, quite a while ago.

He'd ask more about these gut wounds, but the gun is moving in Charlie's hands again.

"That's the idea."

The Hand of God comes out of its holster.

"Hold it like this -- but you can use two hands if you need both, and then -- "

He cocks the hammer, aims --

bang

-- and one of the six cans falls.

"All there is to it."

A beat.

"Keep both eyes open; easier to sight what you're aimin' at that way."

Charlie would show him, but....Guppy used a skin fuser, so there's no scar. It hardly hurts anymore, either. Maybe Guppy has X-rays. He didn't ask, at the time.

"Ah, so it is as simple as I was told." He watches Ben cock the hammer back and knock one of the cans off, intently studying Ben's hand around the gun. "All I've ever shot was people. They're tricky to aim at, when they move."

The big guy he'd actually shot more than once, though--the one that broke his neck with that punch--he was easy.

Charlie mimicks Ben's actions, pulling the trigger with only a small recoil from the sound. Having braced his arms for a kick, the gun doesn't waver too much; it still clips the next can over, spinning it off the stand. "Has a punch."

"Little bit," he nods, eyes flicking from the can on the ground. "Maybe set your feet another hair apart."

He holsters his piece and cocks an eyebrow.

"You've shot people?"

"Mmmm, I think two. If we don't count Will." He steps apart a little wider, firing again, though he misses the next can. "He was an accident, strictly speaking....I didn't know it was him."

He fires again, and the bang takes him by surprise again, but he does hit the tin can square-on this time. He smiles at that.

"Mostly I used the butterfly knife I was given, I knew how to work it better."

Wryly, "Well, knives're self-explanatory."

And, before the conversation can get any more surreal than it already is, he nods toward the fallen can.

"Right smart shootin'."

He inclines his head to the three still standing.

"Think you can knock down the rest of 'em?"

Charlie shooting and talking about using a knife is less surreal than actually watching him get into a fistfight, trust us, Ben. "If I don't knock myself on my ass with this thing, probably."

He tries again, though with one hand, and has to change his posture. (Unsurprisingly, he stands very straight. Almost ballet. Ask at your own risk.) "And how long have you been shooting one of these?"

It was the confusion over the number of victims and the mistaken identity that was the surreal part; Ben would've asked for more details, but he's focusing on the here and now.

"Long as I could lift one."

Half a smile.

"Shot my first gun when I was four."

Another bang, and the last can falls off into the grass with a resounding thunk. "This would be my....third time firing a gun."

Ben can ask any number of things for details; as long as it's not too emphatic on how he got shot. "Wow. Four years old." Color Charlie impressed.

"I could barely hold on to the damn thing," he says with a short laugh.

Then, nodding toward the dented targets littering the ground, "Not bad for your third time out; keep practicin' when you're here, you'll just keep gettin' better."

"What, can I keep this one?"

He thinks in the long run that might cause him a few problems, though. "Or at least borrow it?" He smiles hopefully; he likes being praised, like any sane person, and finds Ben good company.

"You can hold on to it if you want."

Lord knows he's got more than one extra upstairs.

"If you decide you're done with it sometime I ain't around, you can just leave it with Miss Bar."

Charlie smiles. "Iced, then. I'll keep practicing with this, till I can at least come near you."

"You do that. And come talk to me in 'bout twenty years."

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[[ hands like a gunslinger ]]

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