16. Gunpowder
Exeter's a fine gun. Irvine's of the mind that a gun should never be tainted with a sword; it's safe to say he's not really fond of gunblades, especially not with cocky half-wits like Almasy wielding them. He polishes another piece, sets it aside in an order that only he understands, and turns his attention to the next bit as a knock threatens to interrupt his one moment of calm.
Irvine ignores it, with the hope that whoever is on the other side will take the hint.
They don't.
He lines up all the parts to his gun in a row, largest to smallest, just to dawdle.
Doesn't work.
There's a quiet click, and the door scrapes across the carpet.
"I'm sorry."
Irvine has to laugh, and it's bitter and cynical when he does. "Sure."
"Irvine..."
His hands are steady and careful as he reassembles Exeter–the gun doesn't deserve the abuse he wants to give it. It hasn't done anything wrong. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks. "I asked you before if you wanted this. If the answer's changed, I need to know." Pieces slide into place in the silence, locking together with a pronounced click that means at least something is working how it should. He sights down the barrel at an imaginary target on the wall.
"The answer hasn't changed."
He puts the gun down.