Amanda is the type of person to loudly throw a pair of shoes over her shoulder before she attempts to rob a sleeping person. Of course she tries for the gun.

Her hands are calloused, but light. She's used to the precise nature of her traps and tools, balanced weights and perfect rigging; John wouldn't have anything less. It almost feels like he's watching her try to ease the pistol out from the suit jacket, eyes narrowed in a painful squint in the half-light. His ever-present voice in her ear is soft, but firm. Reprimanding.

Amanda.

She exhales, and plucks fast with forefinger and thumb–

And accidentally lets go, when it comes free too quickly. Fuck.