𝘉𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘋𝘚𝘐𝘋𝘌𝘋 | 𝘈.𝘏. ✔️

• Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen: 'Cause You're Such A Pretty Face

Boom

A bullet flies through the air with hesitation, barely scratching the target it was meant for. Your hands shake from the recoil but you remain still as stone and watch where you hit. Moving the gun slowly, you look over to see the bullet missed the target, hitting the wall behind it instead. You let out a groan of frustration, dropping the gun on the counter and taking the goggles off your face.

"I'll never be able to shoot a gun," you complain. This was your second round, not one bullet hitting where it's supposed to and your anger is slowly rising.

"It takes practice, you won't get it on your first try. Reid failed his qualifications three times in a row." Hotch says. He stands behind you, arms crossed over his chest.

When he first arrived back from the hospital, he promised to teach you how to shoot a gun for protection. It wasn't until this morning that he decided to fulfill that offer. Two weeks ago, you taught him how to cook Alfredo then proceed to rest per his request. Everytime you think about opening the envelope, he pushes it to the side saying you need to turn your brain off. It didn't make you aggravated, more thankful. Even if you couldn't notice it yourself, you weren't prepared and you didn't know how long it's going to take for you to be ready.

For the most part, Hotch has been filling you in about the case when he arrives back at the house. He tries not to work long, always bringing you home a form of dinner even if you already ate. All that's new is that you confirmed Harmony McGraw was in fact dating Axel. You felt bad for the poor woman but often reminded yourself that she was stalking you on his behalf.

"What if someone breaks it and I attempt to shoot, only to hit a vase instead," you say. He shakes his head and bends down.

"Front sight," he says, grabbing the gun from his ankle holster and getting into position, "trigger press, follow through."

Another boom erupts into the area and you watch as the bullet gets the target square in the chest. A nagging feeling forms in your stomach. Whenever you do something new, you like to be the best at it, picking up quickly without regard. Right now that isn't what is happening. You're conflicted on what to do.

He hands you the gun and picks the goggles off the counter, putting them on your face. "Hotch, I don't think I can do it. Seriously, we've been here for two hours already."

"Try again," he says sternly. You huff in annoyance and turn towards the target. Putting the gun in your hands, feeling the weight of it between your palms.

Front sight, you remind yourself, holding it up in front of you. Trigger press— you pull the trigger, allowing the bullet to soar through the air. Follow through— you wait for the recoil to stop, your hands to regain pulse before moving the gun away.

"Are you kidding me!" You fumed, seeing the small hole in the groin of the target.

Hotch chuckles behind you, "Did Emily teach you that one?"

"You're next," you threatened, placing the gun in his hands angrily. "Why can't I just do it? I don't understand what makes this so complicated. I'll never be able to get myself out of danger."

"Y/N you won't get it that quickly," he repeats. "We don't have a known threat as of now, we have time."

"It's easy for you to say, you're an FBI agent. You shut guns for a living and I've only hit the target once," you argue.

"Once more than never," Hotch grins.

You groan and throw your head back. You didn't like this feeling of being unsafe. Now that he is gone, you just want something to feel better about this whole thing, whether it's a gun or not. You glance down at your watch, ten fifty-seven PM. You and Hotch look at each other, a silent agreement to head back to the bullpen where the team should be arriving soon. They had a case in New Hampshire, serial murderer as usual.