Title: Habit
Author: ThirstySatyr
Rating: T, for themes
Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. MTV's.
Chapter 1: Habit
.
Summary: His father had taught him a habit seven years ago. It hurts a little, breaking it now.
.
.
.
The first time he fired a gun, he was nine. His father had taken him into a secluded part of the forest, leaned a chunk of wood against a tree, then handed him some thin gloves. Once he'd had the gloves on, his father had told him to take off his sweatshirt, and then his t-shirt, until the only thing on his upper body was the tank top that his dad had told him counted as underwear.
He'd shivered in the afternoon breeze, shifting his weight from one foot to the other restlessly, until his father had held out the pistol.
Afterward, his father had told him to wipe his hands and arms on the inside of his undershirt. Then handed him a bottle of hand sanitizer.
"Now, remember; guns are dirty," his father had said with a soft, slightly crooked smile. "Always make sure your hands are clean after you use one. Make sure you get your arms too."
Every time thereafter, when his father would take him into the woods to practice, the process would be the same; clothes off, gloves on, fire. His father was so consistent with the process that, by his fourteenth birthday, it had become habit.
And it wasn't until his fourteenth birthday that he'd figured it out. His father hadn't just been teaching him how to fire a gun – his father had been teaching how not to get caught. Because, for every gun he'd ever held, there wasn't a single one with his finger prints on it. And for every gun he'd ever fired, he'd never walked away with gunshot residue anywhere someone might think to look.
Which was why, now, at sixteen and a half, holding a gun barehanded felt absolutely wrong. He had to fight back a cringe as the metal slowly warmed against his palm. Seven years of habit were screaming how wrong this all was; his finger felt oily and sticky where it passed through the trigger guard, and his arms, covered as they were by his jacket and the long sleeves of his flannel, felt overheated and clammy.
Even as he took careful aim, his mind was racing on with what he was going to have to do after; wash his hands, change his clothes, wipe down the gun with some kind of solvent – bleach, alcohol, vodka?
He'd figure that out after.
At the moment, he had more pressing things to deal with.
"So," Stiles said conversationally, making sure his aim didn't waiver from between the other man's eyes. "How you gonna threaten me now, Derek?"