almost immediately into dating, simon riley would buy you a gun.
probably a 9mm. matte black, no frills, utilitarian. nothing bigger than needed. comfortable enough to hug your palm, heavy enough to remind you of the implications of what you carry.
and really, it wouldn’t come as a surprise to you.
you knew he was a soldier, knew he kept closets full of gear and could disappear without a sound — appear the same way too. you knew how he moved, how his eyes never slowed until they met yours. knew there was something unsaid about his skill level, redacted parts he left out on purpose. but even above that — you knew the truth of him. under the mask, under the muscle, under the scars of his past. the boy who grew up with vigilance as his only defence. you know enough to know you don’t survive what simon has survived and come out normal.
you come out disciplined. dangerous. prepared.
simon doesn’t believe in luck. won’t leave his trust in the cavalry showin up in time when that’s already failed him many times before. simon doesn’t deal in safe.
he deals in preparation. for the worst. for even the most unlikely.
love comes in many forms. and maybe for simon it’s not candle lit dinners or couch cuddling movie nights (though of course you bribe him into those anyways. he’s never quite been able to say no to you) it’s making sure he does everything in his power to make you capable.
and he does it with all the patience he’s got to offer. there’s no expectation no pressure no timeline — god knows simon isn’t expecting you to become a super assassin overnight. he takes you out to some half-forgotten range an hour outta the city, tucked in nice between the pine and fog. sets up the targets and has you aim at them empty, watching the way you hold tension in your tendons. teaches you how to force it out through breath. how to work the weapon like an extension of yourself.
the rundown is quick and simple. caliber, kickback, magazine release. then he steps back and tells you to shoot.
you exhale the breath like he taught you and pull. when you miss, he nods once and says again. you go through three full mags and miss each one. it isn’t long before your palms burn as bad as your cheeks do with the humiliation of it — but it’s all forgotten when you land just a tap off the bullseye and simon walks over with his hands up.
“that’s how it starts, sweet’eart.” he murmurs, smirking against your mouth.
simon riley is a man of many talents, but his greatest achievement yet is loving you. and maybe it’s not always voiced by ‘i love you so much baby.’ — but instead it’s running you through drills around the crooked ikea furniture in your living room until the sun has set and the moon is out. or blindfolding you and telling you to unload and reload the mag. or leaving sticky notes with unlikely scenarios scattered around the house and quizzing you on your answers while youre cockdrunk against the counter.
you’ve learned his language by now. hes protective and realistic and a little bit cynical. but god does he make you feel alive for it.
you know by him teaching you how to use this gun it’s his way of saying i will do everything in my power to keep you alive because im in love with you and i wouldn’t survive a fuckin day if i lost you.
