Neal hated guns.
He hated them with the same sort of passion that he loved Monet and DaVinci. The smell of cordite made his nose itch, and the weight of a gun in his hand always felt like it was weighing him down, dragging him down to the level of people too stupid to solve problems with words.
But Peter was on the floor at Neal's feet, unconscious, blood slowly oozing from a cut where one of the bad guys had managed to whack him on the head before they'd run. Neal picked up Peter's gun from where it was still lightly grasped in his limp fingers and turned to face the corner their pursuers would come around at any moment, and tried to mimic the stance he'd seen Peter use numerous times, feet planted, arms up, head on. Tried not to think about how times he'd have to wash his hands, how many sketches he'd have to do, how many paint brushes he'd have to hold before he could get the feel of the gun out of his mind.
Neal hated guns. But he'd be three days cold in his grave before he let them touch Peter again.