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“CASSIDY!”
As a booming voice echoes through Gibraltar, a shot rings out in the dark, followed by the dull clatter of metal on concrete and a string of muttered curses. The young man in question doesn’t need to turn around to know who called out his name from across the training campus. Already sweating bullets, new recruit Cole Cassidy hunches his shoulders in defense as the heavy footfalls of steel toed boots draw ever closer. When finally the night returns to silence, the guilty cowboy dials up his charm and slowly turns, placating, red handed.
Hasn’t even been a week on this stupid rock they call Watchpoint and he’s already gotten himself into exactly the kind of trouble he’d been warned about when they carted him over here. Don’t get on this one’s bad side, kid, Cassidy recalls the goodie-two-shoes-looking poster boy’s first words to him on the jet to Gibraltar, pointing to the brooding figure in the last seat and giving him a playful elbow nudge. Right now, he’d take that awkwardness over this in a heartbeat.
“Look, boss, I-I can explai—” he tries in all his Southern drawl, but is cut short by the rise of an eyebrow and narrowing eyes. Admittedly, any empty excuses Cassidy might have conjured up would fall flat in the face of his new commanding officer, Gabriel Reyes. Cole was always one to scoff at authority, but plucked from his home, his friends, his backup… there’s no way he’d win that fight. Hell, he’d probably still get his ass whooped even with the gang’s help. Tch. Doesn’t matter much right this moment, now does it? Not when he’s staring right down the barrel at one of the Commander’s deadliest looks. Something about the phrase if looks could kill comes to mind, though Cole doesn’t get very far with the thought.
“So,” Gabriel starts, voice stern and slow, “you mind telling me what you’re doing out here, in the dark, holding a gun you don’t even have clearance to use, in a shooting range you’re not allowed to access, alone, hours after curfew?” Reyes emphasizes his point with a step forward into Cassidy’s space and boxes him in, jabbing a finger into his chest in accusation with each new grievance.
“Well, I…” Cassidy scoffs, stumbling back and bracing his hands behind himself to keep from falling as Reyes advances. He tries to look anywhere else, but stretching silence and the lack of encouragement from Reyes, that stern, patient, knowing look, has him squirming under his skin. With his CO pushing so far into his personal bubble, the warmth that gathers between them pushes Cole to fess up.
“I…” his voice squeaks; the blood rushing south from his brain has him thinking anything but clearly, so he gives up on trying to lie. “I used to be the best shot around. Not just the best in the gang, but the best anywhere near our turf. But…” he trails off again, voice straining against the lump in his throat and mind distracted.
“But?”
Cassidy sighs, no choice but to continue. “But not here. Lot of the stuff I knew by heart out there just don’t apply in trainin’. If I wanna have any shot of making it somewhere, I gotta keep up. I thought…maybe, if I came out here in my off time, I could, I dunno, train myself?” He grimaces as he finishes, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground; he didn’t want to have to do this kind of shit so soon into the job. What will Reyes think of him now? Sure, this place is another meal ticket and some relatively free rent, but he can’t deny the heat that bubbles below his stomach every time he sees the infamous Gabriel Reyes. Who wouldn’t be allured by tall, dark, and mysterious?
Cole snaps back into reality when Reyes splays his hand flat against his chest and slides it up to grab at his shoulder; on the surface, a strong fatherly grip, but every place his hand touches burns on Cassidy’s skin, and the intimacy of it all is not lost on him. It’s all Cassidy can do but stare. As they look at each other, Reyes twists his face in what looks like a pitiful half-smile, one that says, somehow, I know what you mean, and don’t worry, kid, I’ve got you. Cassidy’s sure that’s what it says. The older man exhales hard through his nose after a moment of wordless conversation and squats down to retrieve the gun and the spent casings. He reaches around Cole to set them down, guiding the boy to turn around so they stand flush together in the booth, facing the targets.
The breeze that saunters through the open-air range does little to soothe the fire in his face and his ground— all that is made worse when Gabriel slides his hands over Cassidy’s, engulfing them in a new warmth and guiding the shaky things to reload the chamber. A heady cologne of spice and sweat wafts over them as they move in tandem; Cole can’t tell what is muscle memory and what is Gabriel as they raise the pistol level with his eyes. He can’t tell his right from his left as his feet are nudged and he feels the radiating heat of Commander Reyes’ thigh between his own. He can’t tell what words are real and which are imagined, but he knows from the way the hair on his neck stands on end with every hot breath that there must be words. Definitely words. Hazy, and growing hazier the faster Cole’s heart beats.
Luckily for him, Gabriel doesn’t need words to shoot a gun. Expertly, his thumb guides Cassidy’s over the hammer, pulling it back deliberately, letting the click of it wash over them both.
“Shoot.”
As the low voice echoes in Cassidy’s ears, a shot rings out in the waning twilight, followed by the shallow panting of a boy out of his league and a string of muttered curses. Gabriel’s body absorbs the shock of recoil, though the backs of Cole’s arms still smart. He hisses, almost dropping the gun to rub his hands on one of the offended elbows. A warm hand caresses the other, nudging it for attention. When Cassidy looks up, the first thing he sees is a hole through the head of the target, still smoking. He cranes his neck to observe his commanding officer’s face, seeking approval.
In Gabriel’s face he finds that and more, fondness for the young cowboy seeping into his expression already.