He sits on his rack and dismantles the gun, cleaning it slowly, taking his time. The room smells strongly of oil and sulfur. He carefully runs his fingers over each piece, observing them critically in the harsh light. It was his grandfather's gun - old-fashioned and out of date. Moving parts and sliding gears, pockets for oil and rust and corrosion to gather.

It's like the fleet. Parts and pieces that slide against one another, oiled like a ancient machine. Heat and fire and cold steel. Oil and liquor and need and want, greasing hands as his fingers slide over the chamber, the pristine white cloth pulling away gray with residual powder.

He cleans the striations of the chamber, the bristled brush scratching at the minute scars in the metal. He imagines each line as it scratches the bullet, marking it with its unique signature, identifying it, claiming it. He changes brushes again, cleaning away the loose debris with smooth, careful strokes.

He holds the gun up and spins the chamber then slides it home. He sights along the top of the gun, one eye closed and then the other before opening the chamber again. It makes no noise save the slide of well-oiled machinery. He slides each bullet home easily then snaps the chamber shut.

His thumb cocks the safety and he rests the gun on his lap as he cleans up his supplies, carefully putting everything away in the small wooden case. He slides it into its compartment and locks it before placing the gun beneath his pillow.

There is safety and security in routine. And it never hurts to be prepared.