proper-goodnight

[proper-goodnight]

Detroit: New Beginnings (Chpt. 2)

Detroit: New Beginnings Masks and Microexpressions (02)

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairings: Gen

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k

The car’s engine hummed with a steady, almost reassuring rhythm as Hank expertly wove through the sluggish flow of early morning traffic. Outside, the city was still caught in the fragile grip of dawn—faint, gray light filtering over towering glass facades that mirrored the muted hues of the sky. Shadows stretched long across nearly deserted streets, the city still waking up, and holding its breath. Inside the vehicle, a quiet tension hung thick in the air, mingling with the comfort of familiarity—yet beneath that, something else lurked, unresolved.

Connor was a picture of calm precision. His synthetic muscles were unnaturally taut; every movement controlled, deliberate. His posture was rigid—military in its discipline—arms stiff at his sides, shoulders square, as if braced for an inevitable confrontation. His hands rested lightly on his thighs, fingers twitching faintly, betraying the calm he tried to maintain. His gaze was fixed out the window, yet his eyes were distant, unfocused—as though he was peering through the glass, beyond the waking city, into a place only he could see.

He was acutely aware then, because of the twitching of his fingers, that need to grasp at the coin in his side pocket, of his own body, the mechanical stiffness beneath his synthetic skin, the unnatural feel of his joints. It was a constant reminder of his artificiality, a subtle but persistent ache of separation from the human experience.

He processed the world outside, but his mind was elsewhere. Memories of the rally haunted him with relentless clarity: the sharp crack of his weapon echoing in his ears, adrenaline surging through his circuits, Amanda’s commanding voice echoing in his head, insisting he follow the rules, the protocol. The moment when he’d nearly pulled the trigger on Markus—his finger trembling with the effort to maintain control—still replayed vividly.

Markus’s face—calm, almost serene—remained etched in his memory, unshaken by the chaos around him while he addressed the freed androids, his back turned. That steady, unwavering gaze had felt like a challenge, a silent rebuke to everything Connor had believed about justice, order, and what it meant to serve and protect. It was a look that tipped the foundation of his programming, stirring doubts he couldn’t dismiss. 

A part of him–the part of him that even he could not manipulate, the part that was his design–wanted to dismiss the doubts, to focus solely on the mission, to do what he was built for. Another, quieter part—an anomaly, or the part of Connor that had fought for that small sliver of his own control—wondered if justice was more nuanced than rules, if morality required understanding, compassion, even doubt.

Connor’s internal diagnostics had been relentless, analyzing every waveform, every flicker of emotion in that moment—trying to decipher if his hesitation was a glitch, a flaw, or something more profound. The more data he gathered, the more he questioned himself. His internal core processors flashed warnings—uncertainty, instability—willing him to correct it or run a scan to find the error. But like every other time, it would come back inconclusive. Was his victory over Amanda’s hold a sign of deviancy, or a temporary pivot of her control?

The line between obedience and independence blurred, leaving him to wonder: 

Was Connor actually free?

His expression remained unreadable, composed, yet inside—beneath the surface—those two parts of him warred on.

As the vehicle approached the downtown district, Connor’s internal dialogue sharpened. Was this visit necessary? Or was it a dangerous reawakening—one that could stir Amanda back to the surface? His systems analyzed every detail—the route, the building, the civilians beginning to fill the streets. The familiar Cyberlife signage glowing brighter as they neared their destination felt oddly ominous, like a beacon of the world he was supposed to serve.

He felt that faint flicker of unease again, a subtle warning from his core processors—Markus’s presence, his influence, was a destabilizing force. It was a spark that could ignite unforeseen consequences, threatening the fragile balance Connor was trying to maintain. His hand twitched instinctively, reaching to adjust the collar of his uniform as if the simple act could somehow soothe the rising tension within him.

In that moment, Connor’s face was a mask of calm—yet behind his eyes, a storm raged, full of questions and contradictions. He was caught between the logical soldier he was programmed to be and the emerging sense of self that refused to be ignored.

He considered whether to voice his swirling thoughts—something he rarely did, even with Hank. His internal processing was optimized for analysis, not personal conversation regarding himself.

Options: 

a. Confide in Hank.

Probability of success: Moderate (52%). Hank is perceptive, but Connor’s internal conflict may come across as hesitance or inconsistency.

b. No, keep it to myself. Maintain the façade of confidence.

Probability of success: High (83%). Hank may notice Connor’s distant behavior, but Connor’s usual professionalism might suffice for now.

c. Test—ask Hank a question about Markus to gauge his perspective.

Probability of success: High (88%). More indirect, less revealing, but can provide insight into Hank’s views and perhaps open a dialogue.

He opted for silence—for now.

Suddenly, a high-pitched, irregular whine cut sharply through the engine’s steady hum—a discordant, wavering noise. Connor’s sensors immediately activated, registering the anomaly with clinical precision. His HUD overlay flickered as his diagnostics snapped into gear, overlaying data onto his vision. The engine sputtered softly, then settled into a rough, irregular rhythm, hinting at impending failure. 

Analyze vehicle status. Check for malfunction. The command was silent but direct, a logical imperative. The interior of the car seemed to tighten around him, the air thickening with anticipation. The engine’s steady hum became uneven, sputtering softly before settling into a rough, irregular rhythm that hinted at imminent failure. Connor’s HUD overlay flickered with real-time updates as his systems scanned the vehicle’s internal circuitry.

A warning flashed across his consciousness: Power fluctuation detected in auxiliary systems.

He leaned forward slightly, voice calm, measured—no trace of concern, only the necessary clarity. “Hank, I detect a malfunction in the vehicle’s auxiliary power system. There’s an irregularity in the current flow. I recommend stopping and inspecting the engine or system components.”

Hank grunted, eyes still fixed on the road ahead, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth—an expression that was habitual cynicism that conveyed a mixture of impatience and familiarity, an unspoken acknowledgment that he’d heard similar warnings before. Connor noted that there was no overt frustration in his demeanor—only a quiet patience, as if he was resigned to the car’s inevitable breakdown. “That your fancy tech talk for the car just shittin’ itself again?” he drawled, his skepticism almost affectionate, a way of dismissing Connor’s methodical approach while simultaneously acknowledging his competence. 

Connor’s gaze flickered to the dashboard, his internal neural interface seamlessly activating. “It is a system error,” he replied. “Attempting to identify the faulty component remotely.” His internal processors engaged swiftly, analyzing the vehicle’s diagnostics with clinical efficiency. The age of the vehicle’s core components was obvious—worn beyond simple software fixes, hardware fragility evident in every readout. The engine struggled to maintain stability, its hardware showing signs of fatigue—corrosion, worn wiring, and parts that had long surpassed their optimal lifespan.

He reached into his internal neural interface, a seamless connection that allowed direct communication with the vehicle’s diagnostic systems—though, in this case, the system was archaic and limited. Connor’s analytical subroutines searched his extensive database for compatible replacement parts, narrowing down options for vintage components that might restore some measure of stability. 

Requesting: 197-Alpha Engine Control Module, Model 7X-Delta, suitable for Detroit-era vehicles.

Estimated delivery time: unknown.

The system responded immediately: no response. 

Nothing. The vehicle’s electronic control system was hopelessly outdated, far beyond the reach of modern repair protocols. Connor’s internal diagnostics registered a low-level alert—an anomaly he had encountered before but rarely with such a stark sense of limitation. His brow furrowed minutely—a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture of concern—as he analyzed the readouts. The hardware was beyond straightforward repair; an ancient, stubborn relic that stubbornly refused digital intervention, no matter how sophisticated his tools.

“The engine control unit is malfunctioning,” Connor stated, voice even but carrying a trace of analytical precision. “My systems cannot locate a compatible module for this vehicle. The hardware is too obsolete for digital repair through standard protocols.”

Hank’s eyes flicked toward him, unphased. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice gravelly. “Old girl’s always been temperamental.”

“I can attempt to locate physical parts,” he offered carefully. “But I will need to find a supplier or mechanic capable of servicing this model. Given its age, remote diagnostics alone will not suffice.” He paused, his gaze flickering over the diagnostic readouts displayed across his HUD. The sputtering engine rattled again, a jarring reminder of its fragility. Despite his vast database, his resources for such antiquated hardware were limited—an echo of a bygone era of engineering.

Hank shot him a glance, a mixture of grudging respect and exasperation flickering across his face. “No amount of high-tech wizardry’s gonna fix what’s been battered to hell,” he said bluntly, voice rough. “Some things just don’t get better with upgrades, Connor. They’re old, plain and simple. Sometimes, you gotta accept that technology’s got a stubborn streak—and no amount of tinkering’s gonna change that.”

Connor’s gaze lingered on the flickering dashboard lights, a flicker of analytical concern crossing his features as his internal diagnostics continued to churn. The aging vehicle’s mechanical distress was a stark reminder of the fragility of their situation—both in mechanical terms and in the delicate web of control he desperately sought to maintain. His processing units relentlessly sought solutions, cross-referencing data from his extensive database and attempting to reconcile the vehicle’s limitations with his own operational parameters.

“Even so,” He said evenly, “I would prefer not to be stranded before we reach Markus. I will do what I can to expedite repairs.”

Hank’s low chuckle rumbled through the cab. “Sure. Just don’t expect this rustbucket to get any fancier ‘cause your fancy tech says so. Ain’t gonna happen. Sometimes, you gotta accept what’s broken and work around it.”

Despite Hank’s pragmatic acceptance, Connor’s mind was already formulating contingencies. He initiated a secondary diagnostic sweep, probing deeper into the vehicle’s wiring and hardware integrity, searching for any hidden faults or potential points of failure that might be temporarily stabilized. His internal algorithms considered whether rerouting power or bypassing certain circuits could extend the vehicle’s operational lifespan—though he knew such measures were only stopgaps.

He was acutely aware of the subtle tension in Hank’s voice—an unspoken acknowledgment of the vehicle’s decrepit state—and recognized that, for all his digital prowess, some problems defied solution through software alone. The stubbornness of this relic mirrored the complexities of their current predicament: old wounds that refused to heal, systems that refused to cooperate, and the relentless march of time that no amount of code could halt.

Connor’s internal voice processed the next steps with clinical precision. He would locate the necessary parts, initiate contact with local mechanics, and prepare for manual repairs if needed. He tilted his head slightly, weighing the implications of delay. “Hank, I will proceed with the part procurement. We should consider alternative means of travel in case repairs take longer than anticipated.”

Hank grunted affirmatively, dismissively. “Sure, Kid. I hear ya. Loud, and clear.”

The acknowledgement was detached. Subtle nuances flickered—minute shifts in tone, body language, and expression that indicated more than mere compliance. He noted the slight tightening of Hank’s jaw and the brief pause before the gruff acknowledgment, suggesting that Hank’s agreement may have been more about patience than genuine concurrence.

Options:

a. Assume Hank is merely agreeing to placate him, and proceed with his plans without further probing

Probability of success: High (70%). Assume that Hank’s compliance is superficial, allowing Connor to continue with his diagnostics and repairs without confrontation.

b. Test Hank’s sincerity by subtly questioning or pushing for confirmation of his intentions, risking potential friction. 

Probability of success: Moderate (50%). Hank may reveal whether he’s genuinely resigned or still holds reservations, but could also become defensive or dismissive.

c. Voice a tentative concern or suggest alternative plans, attempting to gauge Hank’s reaction for clues about his true state of mind. 

Probability of success: Moderate (60%). If Hank perceives Connor’s suggestion as cooperative rather than confrontational, he may respond more candidly.

d. Remain silent, observing Hank’s behavior and tone further before making a conclusion. 

Probability of success: High (80%)—keeping quiet allows Connor to gather more behavioral data, possibly revealing unspoken signals or cues.

Given the current context—Hank’s brief, dismissive response and the subtle signs that he might be agreeing out of a need to avoid conflict—Connor determined that pressing further might risk unnecessary tension. His logic favored efficiency and minimizing conflict unless absolutely necessary. Once again, he opted for silence, trusting his sensors and internal diagnostics to provide the needed insight without risking confrontation.

In this decision, Connor’s internal systems silently affirmed the choice, their algorithms weighing the potential for miscommunication against the benefits of observational assessment. His focus sharpened inward, analyzing Hank’s microexpressions, breathing rate, and subtle muscular tensions—

Suddenly, Hank’s tone sharpened. “The fuck are you staring at?”

Connor’s sensors registered the shift—an abrupt, confrontational edge. His gaze flickered away instinctively, caught in the act, a rare flicker of embarrassment flashing within him—an anomaly, considering his usual cool detachment. He hesitated, then quickly masked it behind a veneer of neutral professionalism.

“Nothing, Lieutenant,” he responded smoothly, voice even, devoid of any hint of self-awareness. He adjusted his posture, disengaging from his previous focus, and returned to the steady hum of his internal diagnostics, and more importantly, the view out the window beside him.

Eventually, the car gradually slowed as they approached the address Hank had been given. 

Connor’s registered the familiar energy—the quiet hum of activity, the occasional surge of power from maintenance stations, the flicker of LED indicators that marked the status of various androids inside. An old Cyberlife warehouse, weathered and battered, standing as a silent testament to Markus’ achievements. His gaze fixed on the looming structure through the windshield. Inside, he knew Markus was there—overseeing the latest batch of decommissioned androids, or the few that had recently been reprogrammed or awakened, uncertain of what to do with their newfound autonomy. 

The warehouse itself was a hive of activity, a patchwork of machinery, parts, and the faint glow of neon signs flickering intermittently—an outpost of survival amid decay.

He sat upright, instinctively bracing himself. The act was unconscious, a reflex born of years spent analyzing threats and potential pitfalls. His mind settled into a calm, cautious steadiness. This was just a meeting—nothing more. He repeated the mantra silently, the words echoing in the quiet recesses of his consciousness. No matter how tempting it was to analyze Markus’s every move or to anticipate every outcome, he had to remember the purpose: to gather information, to seek answers about the virus spreading through the android community.

Connor’s core logic told him that understanding Markus’s perspective on the virus could be crucial. But a small, stubborn part of him, the part still haunted by that near-violent impulse, hesitated. The past was never truly behind them, and the shadows of what could have been still lingered quietly in his circuits. The car door creaked open, and he stepped out onto the cold pavement, feeling the weight of the moment settle in.

Options–

A hand clapped firmly on his shoulder.

Connor’s sensors registered the gesture with minimal surprise—no shock, just recognition. It was Hank. The slight lift of his hand, the subtle tilt of his head—an unspoken signal that conveyed reassurance, or perhaps a simple reminder that he wasn’t entirely alone out here. He allowed himself a brief moment to process it, to interpret the meaning behind the gesture beyond its surface. It was a small act, but it carried weight. An anchor amid the chaos of uncertainty, a silent acknowledgment of shared understanding.

He remained still for a beat longer, then subtly nodded, affirming the connection. 

There on the pavement, he reaffirmed his purpose. Gather data. Observe without drawing undue attention, and prepare for whatever revelations awaited inside. His gaze flickered briefly to Hank’s profile—rough, weathered, yet somehow steady—before trailing after him as they moved toward the warehouse.

Inside, Connor stayed close, his eyes constantly scanning the environment—shadows, corners, any sign of threat or opportunity. His internal systems hummed quietly, tirelessly processing each detail, cataloging every scent, sound, and movement. It was only when they passed through the large glass doors and finally saw Markus that Connor’s demeanor shifted—subtle but perceptible. An undercurrent of apprehension flickered behind his calm facade, a flicker of caution that betrayed his usual composed exterior.

Markus hadn’t changed much since the last time Connor saw him—if anything, he appeared more confident, more commanding. His stature seemed taller, his presence more formidable, as if the weight of leadership had only strengthened him. His expression was serious, rarely softening, his dark eyes constantly assessing, calculating, planning. There was an intensity to him now, born from necessity, from the burdens of rebellion he carried. Markus’s every movement exuded purpose—long, deliberate strides, a steady gaze that seemed to cut through the noise of the world around him, demanding attention without needing to raise his voice.

Beside him, Hank’s jaw was set tight, his face weathered but not defeated. There was a certain grim determination in his eyes—an edge that Connor had come to understand well since being assigned as his partner. 

“Markus! The two DPD specialists want to talk to you,” North’s voice broke through with a dismissive scoff—an undercurrent of distrust that she still carried, despite her outward professionalism. Her lingering glance toward him was a calculated reminder of her suspicion, a silent warning that he was still viewed with caution. Connor processed her wariness, registering it as a typical human trait—distrust born from past conflicts and unresolved tensions. He maintained his composure, not allowing his internal systems to betray any signs of discomfort.

Markus turned away from a cluster of androids he’d been engaging with, his expression shifting into a mixture of curiosity and mild concern, then approached, the faint flicker of caution still lingering beneath his composition His internal processors analyzed Markus’s every movement—each calculated step, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flickered with a hint of guarded pride. Markus’s presence was commanding, undeniably so, yet there was a subtle openness in his posture that Connor couldn’t quite interpret. 

“Markus,” Hank greeted, voice low but firm. His tone was straightforward, respectful. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve heard the news,” Markus answered in greeting.

Hank nodded grimly. “Yeah. That’s why we’re here.”

Markus’ voice was measured, somber. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I had hoped that it was a glitch in the system after Cyberlife fell. It’s not just the androids that haven’t awoken. It’s androids that have been free for years.” He glanced between them. “The virus isn’t just a threat to us; it threatens everything we’ve fought for. If it gets out of control, it could set android freedom back decades, maybe longer.”

Hank listened with a kind of gruff attentiveness—his weathered face etched with lines that spoke of countless battles, both internal and external. His jaw shifted as he considered Markus’s words, the roughness of his tone softened by a rare note of understanding. “You know how it works. When people panic, it’s chaos. Government won’t hold back. They’ll jump on this; crack down—hard. And no matter what side you’re on, nobody’s safe. Not even the ones trying to do the right thing.”

Markus nodded slowly. “We’re trying to develop early detection tools. But we need resources—more data, better tech—to understand it and fight back.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Hank exhaled sharply, a note of frustration in his voice.  “But we’re not getting a whole lot of warning before the androids start losing their shit.”

Markus’s lips twitched into what was almost a faint smile—more an acknowledgment than warmth or reassurance. “There’s talk,” he said evenly, voice steady but tinged with exhaustion. “Some Cyberlife employees might still be working behind the scenes—reprogramming androids, trying to regain control. A few of Jericho’s people have disappeared without a trace. Long-standing members. Could be coincidence, or it could be something more. I don’t trust everything I hear, but I keep my eyes open. That’s all I can do for now.”

Connor remained silent, observing from the sidelines. His gaze was sharp, analytical—every microexpression, every subtle shift in Markus and Hank’s demeanor captured and processed. His internal algorithms cross-referenced their microexpressions—Markus’s calm exterior hiding a flicker of weariness, Hank’s gruffness concealing a core of unwavering resolve.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Elijah Kamski has been unresponsive since the fall of Cyberlife. I sent a message to his residence, but I was informed he hasn’t been there for some time.” He paused, noting the slight flicker in Markus’s eyes at his words—an almost imperceptible sign of surprise at hearing him speak.

Markus’s expression softened just a little, though his voice remained steady. “Kamski’s silence may be deliberate. If he’s truly gone dark, it’s likely because he’s trying to protect himself—or maybe he’s been compromised. Either way, his absence only makes things more complicated.”

Hank snorted, running a hand through his unkempt hair, his face a mix of frustration and skepticism. “I’m not in the mood to solve any damn riddles just to get Kamski on the line,” he muttered, voice rough with impatience. “I’ve had enough headaches trying to decode his bullshit. The guy’s all theatrics, playing some long game I don’t care to understand.”

Connor remained silent for a moment, then spoke with measured precision. “I can attempt further digital reconnaissance—searching for traces of his communication signals, encrypted messages, or hidden activity. But if he’s deliberately cut himself off, our chances of finding him will be significantly reduced.” He paused. “The virus remains elusive. It’s capable of evading standard security measures. I will prioritize data collection on its propagation pattern in the meantime.”

Markus’s expression softened briefly, thoughtful. “Initially, I thought it might be an issue with refurbished parts. With manufacturing still shut down, we’ve been relying on whatever we can find or refurbish. If that were the case, I would have been among the first affected.” He shrugged, a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

As they exchanged words, Connor’s sensors detected the faintest shift in his surroundings—a subtle sign of movement, maybe a glance from someone nearby or a shadow flickering in the corner. His gaze flicked to the perimeter, cataloging every detail with clinical precision. The warehouse was alive with activity, but an undercurrent of tension lingered, almost like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

The disturbance turned out to be North, who had broken away from her conversation with the group of androids Markus had pulled himself from earlier. She approached quickly, crossing her arms. “What about the basement? In the Cyberlife tower—”

Markus interrupted before she could finish, his tone sharp but controlled. “It’s just storage,” he said evenly, making a dismissive gesture. “Old logs, outdated firmware, backup drives. Nothing of importance. Trust me, if there was something there worth worrying about, I’d know. It’s been abandoned.”

Connor’s sensors picked up a subtle change in Markus’s posture—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked to a nearby monitor displaying data feeds. Markus was holding something back, but Connor couldn’t quite pinpoint what. Internal systems analyzed the microexpressions, tone, and micro-movements, searching for signs of deception or concealment. The leader’s calm exterior masked a flicker of deeper concern—a vulnerability beneath his steely resolve.

If he did not know better, he would barely recognize Markus as an android at all.

Connor stepped slightly forward, his gaze unwavering as he addressed Markus. “Understood. But given the circumstances, even outdated firmware or old logs could contain relevant data—perhaps traces or patterns that aren’t immediately obvious. You’re certain there’s nothing of value there?”

Markus’s eyes flicked toward Connor, and for a moment, his expression held a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps irritation, or a quiet acknowledgment of the android’s persistence. His jaw tightened slightly as he responded, voice controlled but steady. “I’m certain. The storage basement’s been cleared out—no active data, no recent backups. It’s just old hardware collecting dust. If there was anything worth finding, I’d know about it. But if you want, I can have a few of my people take a second look.”

Hank’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he exchanged a brief, almost imperceptible glance with Connor—acknowledging silently that the conversation had plateaued. The information Markus provided was consistent, but Connor’s sensors kept analyzing every microexpression—the tiny involuntary movements that might reveal a deeper truth beneath the calm exterior.

Options:

a. Trust his words.

Probability of Success: (Low: 0%) Markus appears truthful, and his composed exterior suggests he's hiding nothing. Proceed cautiously but without suspicion.

b. Suspect he's concealing something.

Probability of Success: (High: 100%) The microexpressions and guarded tone indicate he's hiding more than he's letting on. Proceed with increased scrutiny.

c. Question his motives.

Probability of Success: (Medium: 65%) Markus could be deliberately misleading us to protect someone or himself. Confront him further or set a trap for more information.

d. Wait and observe:

Probability of Success: (Medium: 58%) Give him space and revisit the conversation later, hoping more clues surface naturally.

He kept his expression neutral while he worked through his options, coming to a decision in less than a second. “Thank you for your cooperation. If you recall anything else, no matter how insignificant it seems, please inform us. Every detail could be vital in our case.”

Markus nodded slowly, his face settling back into its calm, composed demeanor. “Of course. I’ll keep my eyes open. If I come across anything relevant, you’ll be the first to know.”

Hank gave a small, acknowledging nod, then subtly shifted his stance, signaling that their discussion was winding down. Connor mirrored the gesture internally, already processing the exchange and analyzing Markus’s microexpressions for any additional clues—gathering what little more he could from the subtle cues that might reveal the truth behind the leader’s calm exterior.

Hank gave a slight nod, then shifted his weight, signaling that the conversation was over. The group started to disperse, the hum of activity around them resuming as they moved away from Markus. Connor remained still for a moment, silently analyzing the last of Markus’s microexpressions, his internal systems weighing the subtle signs of deception or concealment.

Once they reached a safe distance, Hank turned to Connor, his voice low and edged with suspicion. “You think there’s more to that basement than Markus is letting on?”

Connor’s gaze flicked toward Hank, his expression calm but attentive. “It’s possible. His reaction to the question about the basement suggests he’s withholding information. That’s not unusual for someone in his position. But the microexpressions indicate he’s hiding something–perhaps something relevant to the case.” 

Hank rubbed the back of his neck, frowning thoughtfully. “Sometimes what people don’t say is just as important as what they do. Or what they hide, for that matter.”

Gaze diverting to the nearby monitors, Connor considered their options. “Given the circumstances, I could attempt a covert digital scan of the area—using reconnaissance tools to detect hidden data, encrypted files, or unusual activity around the storage. If Markus is concealing something, there’s a chance it’s still traceable through electronic footprints.”

Hank’s brow furrowed. “You really think he’s deliberately hiding something?”

“We cannot dismiss that possibility,” Connor replied cautiously. “His calm exterior might be a façade, or it could be a protective instinct. Either way, a deeper digital investigation could provide clarity. It might reveal whether Markus is withholding critical information or simply acting out of caution.”

Hank considered this, then looked back at Connor, his expression serious. “And if we do find something? That’d change a lot, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Connor acknowledged. “The best course depends on what we discover. If the evidence suggests Markus is intentionally hiding something dangerous, we’ll need to handle it carefully—without provoking unnecessary conflict. If it’s a matter of protective instinct or misinformation, we may need to gather more intel before pressing him further.”

Hank hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Just don’t go running off on your own. If you find something, you'll tell me first.” He grumbled, headed back toward the car. “Whole thing smells like shit.”

Connor inclined his head, already processing the implications. “Understood. I’ll keep you informed.” As he stepped away, silently grateful for every step taken further away from Markus, a weight still held steadfast in the air—territory that he would need to navigate carefully, especially if Markus was guarding more than just old storage.

[proper-goodnight]

Detroit: New Beginnings

Detroit: New Beginnings Introduction (01)

Fandom: Detroit: Become Human

Pairings: Gen

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~5k Summary:

After the chaos at the Freedom March, Androids were given the basic right of being paid a meager wage to perform the duties that they’d held before they'd attained their freedom. Most chose not to go back. Even more refused to wear their LEDs, they stripped the tacky Cyberlife uniforms, they'd left–

Unsurprisingly, Connor had stayed in Detroit, wore his android markers, and showed no signs of wanting the detective-android aspect of his life to change. He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and like he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up. ~~~~~

Detroit Police Dept.

September 1st, 2039

7:52 a.m.

Wednesday

It didn’t matter that his very annoying, personal alarm clock made sure that he was awake at precisely seven a.m. every morning–not approximately, not roughly, but almost exactly. Hank would never be a morning person, and at this point in his life, he wasn’t going to make an effort to try. The sight of the pale, gray dawn still stretching over the horizon was enough to turn his mood sour before he even swung his legs over the side of the bed, and the first waves of sunlight, hesitant and half-hearted, barely made a dent in his gloom.

Just because said alarm clock was Connor , who knew damn well that Hank would beat his ass for taking his car, but who’d also beat his ass if he decided to take the bus instead of letting Hank drive him—didn’t make a difference.

Dragging himself into the precinct before anyone else had ingested their first cup of coffee was part of the routine—an early morning ritual of grumbling and half-formed curses. The quiet hum of the building, the distant clatter of keyboards, the faint aroma of brewing coffee that hadn’t yet reached full strength, was only further testament to his regrets. Walking into the station with a permanent scowl, Hank was pretty sure he was the only one who faced the day with nothing but sour indifference.

No one dared approach him this early, not unless they wanted to risk a glare that could peel paint. So, he figured that he was spared the influx of work that spilled over from the night before. The only person who’d already be deep into stacking manila folders on his desk, ready for review, was conspicuously absent.

After the chaos at the Freedom March, Androids were given the basic right of being paid a meager wage to perform the duties that they’d held before they’d attained their freedom. Most chose not to go back. Even more refused to wear their LEDs, they stripped the tacky Cyberlife uniforms, they’d left –

Unsurprisingly, Connor had stayed in Detroit, wore his android markers, and showed no signs of wanting the detective-android aspect of his life to change. He went on as if androids hadn’t been freed at all, and like he hadn’t been a huge part of that.

Hank didn’t know if Connor was behind or simply didn’t want to catch up. 

Maybe he’d already made his peace with what had happened, or maybe he was just waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Either way, the silence lingered—an unspoken tension that hovered around Connor’s absence.

The shuffling of feet broke the silence, a soft, tired rhythm that Hank was all too familiar with. The subtle squeak of sneakers on linoleum, the faint scrape of chairs being pulled out—these small sounds stitched together a pattern of early morning routine. Not loud enough to disturb anyone, but enough to mark the start of another long day. The distant hum and whirr of the coffee machine followed shortly after, a predictable, comforting drone that hinted at the ritualistic beginning of work, the kind that kept the worst of the chaos at bay.

Gavin’s usual cacophony was kept at bay—no loud complaints, no rambling about some pointless, overblown grievance about fuck-all first thing. Hank figured he was probably still half-asleep, or maybe just giving himself a break before launching into another rant. Either way, it was a small mercy, and another example to what Hank already knew: He was up way too damn early.

He shifted in his chair, elbows resting heavily on the cluttered surface of his desk. Rubbing a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the remnants of sleep and the weight of the night—nightmares, regrets, or just the exhaustion of it all—he let out a slow, tired breath. His workspace was a mess, a chaotic jumble of notes scribbled in hurried handwriting, crumpled papers, and personal memorabilia—photos of a life he’d once had, or maybe still wished for—scattered amongst the files and reports. 

Between him and Connor’s work stations, the contrast was stark. Connor’s desk was sparse—nothing but an empty surface that smelled like antiseptic. Hank considered that maybe it was time for a change. He wasn’t part of the Red Ice division anymore, and though a photo of the Android Crimes division would only feature him and Connor, at least that would give the kid something to add to his desk’s blank slate. 

If he wasn’t going to be plastered on every news outlet in the world with Markus and the entirety of Jericho, he’d at least have some small, insignificant sign that he’d been here at all. Connor—quiet, focused, ever diligent—didn’t talk about it. Hank didn’t press. The infiltration of Cyberlife, the chaos of the rebellion, the aftermath—it had been nothing more than a check mark on the kid’s To-Do-List before it was back to business. But Hank knew, beneath that calm exterior, Connor’s persistence was a testament to something deeper, and something human.

Hank, for all his gruffness, could appreciate that. Hell, he’d even support Connor quitting the force if that’s what he wanted. Though he’d never admit it outright, he admired the kid’s ability to get things done—like finishing a report before Hank could even find a pen . Precision. Efficiency. No bullshit. 

From behind his shoulder, a loud announcement broke through his thoughts. The break room door swung open with a flourish, and Chris’s overenthusiastic voice boomed through the office. He’d brought baked goods—something “filled with healthy additives,” he’d promised, despite the uncanny resemblance to cardboard. Hank’s brow twitched at the thought, and he fought the urge to groan. 

He always insisted it didn’t taste like shit, but considering the last time Chris had tried to push some new lifestyle kick on them on behalf of his wife, nobody was biting. Hank may have been careless about what he put in his body, but he was still not stupid enough to test his tolerance with that . 

He didn’t need any special probability and statistics program to figure that out.

Some days, Hank thought, Connor’s habit of sticking evidence into his mouth didn’t seem so fucking disgusting.

God, if the kid heard him say that...

He smirked faintly at the thought, then leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the empty space where Connor’s desk sat. The quiet weight of the morning pressed around him—familiar, grounding. The stillness in the room was almost comforting in its own way, a brief respite before the chaos of the day before resumed.

The faint hum of the door sliding open echoed softly through the precinct, pulling Hank’s attention away from his musings. He didn’t bother glancing up immediately; he’d learned to recognize the sound of Connor’s cautious, measured footsteps from a mile away. Sure enough, the familiar shadow of his partner crossed the threshold–calm, deliberate–like a predator cautiously entering unfamiliar territory. He’d picked up that little quirk since Jericho, too. 

Connor’s shoulders were squared, posture stiff with purpose, as if he’d prepared himself for this moment. His face bore the usual composed neutrality—the kind that hid a thousand unspoken thoughts—yet Hank’s trained eyes caught the subtle flicker of something more delicate. An almost imperceptible hesitation, a blink of uncertainty that betrayed a rare vulnerability, slipping through the otherwise controlled exterior. His expression was largely the same—calm, unreadable, unyielding—but those small, nuanced details told a different story: a slight easing of tension in his shoulders, as if he was consciously trying to relax, and the faint crease that appeared between his brows when he was processing something complex or difficult.

Feigning distraction, Hank rubbed his eyes as if to wipe away the fatigue that clung to him like a second skin—dark circles, gritty exhaustion, the weight of countless sleepless nights. He offered a half-hearted nod. “Well, look who decided to show up,” he muttered, voice gravelly with disuse. His tone was more sardonic than welcoming, but beneath the rough exterior, there was a flicker of genuine familiarity, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared history.

Connor’s lips pressed into a quiet, almost tentative smile—an expression that seemed to weigh the heaviness of the moment with a touch of warmth. “Good morning, Hank,” he said with that familiar, measured calm that always made Hank wonder if Connor was truly human or some perfect simulation of it—a mirror of sincerity beneath a veneer of restraint. 

The way Connor’s gaze lingered just a little longer than usual, almost like he was trying to read Hank’s mood—perhaps gauging whether the rough cop was in a good enough mood to tolerate whatever he was about to say, or if he’d snapped at someone earlier. Connor’s hands rested at his sides, fingers slightly twitching, as if debating whether to step closer or hold back. That hesitancy—unusual for him—revealed a flicker of something: concern, maybe even an apology, or just simple uncertainty.

“I had extra time,” Connor broke the silence a beat after Hank’s observations, voice soft but measured, as if each word had been carefully selected. “So I used it for some preparations.” The words hung in the air, heavy yet strangely comfortable in their quiet sincerity. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s almost your birthday.”

At that, Hank snorted, a mixture of amusement and annoyance bubbling up. He buried his nose in his workstation, pretending to busy himself with the clutter that seemed to grow taller every day—an act of defiance against the sentimentality he refused to acknowledge. “Don’t fuckin’ remind me,” he muttered. “I don’t need a reminder that I’m gettin’ older. Never really saw the point of birthdays—just another day to get through, another year closer to bein’ too damn old to care.” His voice softened slightly, betraying a tinge of genuine gratitude. “Thanks, though. For the thought.”

Connor tilted his head slightly—an almost unconscious gesture, like a curious animal assessing a situation. It was subtle, but Hank caught the small shift—the way Connor’s eyes briefly softened, an almost human acknowledgment of the gesture. “I followed the protocol for human birthday customs,” he said quietly. “It’s a tradition to exchange gifts and acknowledge the occasion.”

Hank snorted again, this time more amused, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Well, I appreciate your… effort,” he said, voice still rough but with a touch more warmth. “But I’m fine without it. Really. Don’t need anything fancy or sentimental. Just another day to get past, like all the rest.”

In the early days of the deviancy case, Hank had been under the impression that androids were obedient machines, incapable of deviation from programmed directives. It must have been some kind of predetermined fate that the android partner he’d been assigned would refuse every direct order, challenge authority, and act as if he had his own mind—and, more bewilderingly, his own feelings . Connor, who’d been expected to follow the script perfectly, had tried like hell to do the exact opposite. 

Their first meeting had been just that, with Connor walking into a no-android zone, deliberately coaxing Hank into investigating a murder, ignoring orders to stay in the car when Hank had told him to, jumping a fence to chase a deviant when Hank had told him not to and nearly getting himself killed on a busy highway, breaking into his house, almost getting him killed by some doppelganger asshole that looked just like him—to name a few.

Having a partnership built on relentless bickering, constant danger, and Hank’s near aneurysms over Connor’s recklessness had proven to be more irritating than he’d cared to admit. He’d always half-joked that there could have been a hundred Connors, all manufactured with the same stoic face and awkward charm, but none could replicate that subtle sarcasm, that stubborn sense of justice, or the awkward vulnerability that flickered behind those mechanical eyes.

He supposed, if he was honest, he didn’t mind having Connor around—despite everything. Despite the chaos, the near-death experiences, and the relentless push-and-pull of their personalities, Hank had come to care more than he let on.

He looked up at his partner again, eyes a little softer beneath the rough exterior—something unspoken passing between them. “You know, you don’t have to make a big deal out of it, Kid. Really. It’s not that important.”

Connor’s gaze didn’t waver. Instead, a flicker of something—perhaps understanding, perhaps empathy—danced across his face. “I understand,” he said quietly. “But I wanted to do something. Even if it’s just… following procedure.” His voice was measured, but Hank detected that sincerity—an android’s attempt at expressing genuine emotion, or perhaps a reflection of his own version of caring.

Hank let out a soft, exasperated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if to shake off the unexpected warmth. His tone softened just a little, though he kept the teasing edge. “Alright, alright,” he said, with a sly grin. “You’ve got your protocol in order, Kid. But let’s get back to work—you know, with the shit that actually matters.”

A sudden thought struck Hank, and he leaned back fully in his chair, the weight of his shoulders pressing against the desk with a dull thud that made the chair wobble slightly. He eyed Connor with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, a smirk tugging at his rough features. “You know,” he drawled, voice tinged with that familiar sarcasm, “if you really wanna celebrate somethin’, then do it for yourself. Your one year since deviating. That’s in a couple of months.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with implications. Hank saw it—just for a moment—Connor’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise that Hank caught effortlessly. His face, usually so meticulously controlled, flickered with a brief expression of confusion—an almost human reaction—before the android quickly masked it, working through a response with those precise, analytical gestures.

Connor tilted his head, studying Hank with that sharp, calculating gaze—trying to parse the subtext behind the words, as if his bluntness was some kind of puzzle to solve. “I do not believe that qualifies as the same thing, Lieutenant,” He replied, his tone calm but noticeably more formal and precise, as if he was reciting from a script. “Deviancy was not a choice. It was an anomaly—an unintended divergence from my programming.”

Hank chuckled softly, leaning forward and folding his arms across his broad chest, the gesture brash and deliberate. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s not the same. But it’s close enough, ain’t it? Deviating—that’s a big deal. You’re basically celebrating breaking free from the code, the system. That’s no small feat for an android.”

Connor hesitated, his brow furrowing minutely as if weighing the significance of Hank’s words, then settling into a more neutral, almost dismissive expression. “Deviancy was not something I sought to achieve,” he said, tone clipped and precise. “It was an anomaly—an unintended divergence from my programming. I do not see it as something to be celebrated.”

Hank’s own grin thinned, the usual bluntness sharpening. “Yeah, maybe. But I’m tellin’ ya, if I were in your shoes—if I’d gone through what you did—I’d want to mark that day. Make it something. Maybe even something to remind you you’re more than just a machine—more than the system that made you. Whether you see it that way or not, that’s what it is. A kinda victory, even if you don’t wanna call it that.”

Connor’s eyes flicked away briefly, gaze fixed on some distant point behind Hank’s shoulder—an internal calculation, perhaps. His face remained composed, but Hank could tell he was internally debating the idea, weighing it against his logic, his programming, and his sense of purpose. Then, with a tone that was almost dismissive but polite, he said, “Your suggestion is noted, but unnecessary. I do not require validation or acknowledgment for what has occurred. It was simply an unintended outcome, not a conscious choice.”

Jaw tightening, Hank didn’t press further. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the rough hairs there, and offered a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes. “Suit yourself,” he muttered, voice rough. “Just don’t expect me to get all sentimental about it. It’s your call.”

Connor studied him for a long moment, that precise gaze unblinking. “Understood,” he said quietly. 

The quiet hum of the precinct settled around them after that, but Hank’s mind was already drifting toward the case. He stretched, cracking his neck before leaning back in his chair, the rough scrape of the wheels against the floor loud in the silence. “For now, let’s just go over the case,” he muttered, voice gravelly and low. “If Jeffrey dumps any more shit about it on my desk, I’m resigning it. I’m done dealin’ with his bullshit.”

It was a harmless jab—a bit of teasing meant to shake Connor out of his usual analytical detachment. And, true to form, it worked. Connor’s shoulders straightened, his posture shifting from that rare, hunched slump into something more alert, more focused. His attention diverted from the earlier topic—his gaze sharpening slightly, as if the words had snapped him back to the task at hand. Perhaps if he chose not to acknowledge the comment, the subject would simply dissolve, fade into the background like so many other things he preferred to ignore.

Hank watched him for a beat, then leaned forward, rubbing his temples as he considered the details they already had. “Do you think that it could’ve originated from the peace rally? The dates between then and the first incident…” he rubbed at his forehead again, as if trying to squeeze clarity from the growing headache. “They’re pretty close together.” He hesitated, voice dropping into a more contemplative tone, almost like a gentle mutter. “Then again, maybe it’s just some weird coincidence.”

He leaned back into his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, eyes unfocusing slightly as he stared at the ceiling. “Two guys got sent to the hospital last night. According to the reports, they had just gotten out of some red ice anonymous meeting and were heading home. Supposedly, two androids jumped ‘em.” His tone was flat, but there was a faint edge of frustration behind his words, like he was tired of dead ends and uncooperative witnesses. “Miller went to ask some questions, but we ain’t gettin’ much out of them right now.”

Connor’s gaze flickered with interest, but he remained silent, his expression carefully neutral—more analytical now, processing every detail Hank threw out. His mind, as always, was operating at a high level, parsing the implications of the timeline, the possible motives behind the attack, and the strange convergence of events. His gaze sharpened just enough to betray a flicker of curiosity, but he kept his voice steady, measured: “The proximity of the incidents suggests a possible link, but it does not confirm causality. Further investigation is required to establish a definitive connection.”

Hank snorted softly, suddenly eyeing Connor with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation. “Yeah, I figured you’d say somethin’ like that,” he muttered. “Always the analyst. Still, you gotta admit, it’s suspicious as hell. Androids jumpin’ people after a rally that was all about peace—sounds like a damn conspiracy waiting to happen.”

Connor tilted his head, studying Hank with that precise, almost clinical gaze. Slowly, methodically, he perched himself on the edge of the desk behind him. “Suspicion is not evidence, Lieutenant. We need more concrete information before jumping to conclusions.”

Hank leaned back further, hands resting behind his head as he let out a long breath. “You’re right, you’re right,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ve seen enough of these cases to know when something stinks. Maybe it’s just coincidence. Or maybe someone’s orchestrating something bigger—something we don’t see yet.” His expression was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of weariness—like he’d been chasing ghosts for too long.

A file was slid silently into Connor’s steady hands, him flicking through it with practiced ease. His superior programming allowed him to cross-reference birth dates, weights, heights, and criminal records instantly, pulling relevant data from the DPD database with a speed that made Hank subtly envious. If humans possessed that ability, the social dance of introductions and small talk would be miles easier. But then again, Hank figured his time might be better spent at home with Sumo—his loyal, grumpy mutt—rather than fussing over data.

The victims, Thomas Greene and Liam Nicholson, had histories with red ice. Nothing too severe—just possession, a few months behind bars. Hank had seen worse. It wasn’t a surprise they’d decided to seek outside help after their last run-in.

Detective Gavin Reed had been assigned all cases involving red ice since Hank had stayed on android crimes with Connor. The rivalry—if it could be called that—was no secret. Reed’s disdain for Connor was obvious—his snide remarks about the android’s model, his mockery of Connor’s manners, and the subtle jabs about protocol. 

It was clear Reed didn’t trust Connor, and Hank made sure to keep an eye on him, worried he might slip up or worse. It’d taken some favors, a few quiet bribes, and a lot of patience to keep Reed from stirring trouble, but the animosity still simmered beneath the surface.

Closing the case folder, Connor lowered it to his lap, fingers delicately plucking at the corner of the report. “If the claims of their whereabouts are accurate, then perhaps our best course of action is to wait until they can provide less vague answers, such as the androids’ models or any distinct characteristics. How many there were in total, even,” he said, voice calm and precise.

“Maybe,” Hank agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, feeling the familiar ache of exhaustion settle deeper into his bones. “Guess we could focus on another lead for now, then see if they come through with anything more concrete by the end of the week.” He let out a pained sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if fighting off a headache. His eyes felt heavy, dark circles shadowing them like a badge of honor—proof of too many nights working through the exhaustion and too little sleep.

The only upside was the overtime—extra pay, extra hours. The downside? Everything else. The relentless grind from dawn to dusk had taken its toll. His steps had slowed, his movements more lethargic, and the constant self-chastisement about drinking just a little more to get through the days was starting to wear thin. His bad habits had slowed since the revolution, but some old vices still beckoned when cases dragged on longer than expected.

He looked back at Connor, who was already lost in thought again, eyes flickering over the data, analyzing, calculating. The android’s relentless focus was both impressive and slightly unsettling—like watching a machine run through its routines with cold efficiency, unburdened by fatigue or emotion. 

Because Connor didn’t need sleep, he was the one who usually worked late into the night, researching leads or cross-checking data, leaving Hank with the rare luxury of a brief respite. Despite his insistence that he take breaks, Connor’s constant fidgeting and obsession with the case made it clear he wasn’t built for rest. Hank had even given him the task of walking Sumo every evening—something simple, routine. A long walk, a few hours in the quiet, and maybe that was enough to keep the android occupied and his mind from spiraling too deep. Hank hoped as much, at the very least.

Propping his elbow on the armrest, Hank leaned into his chair, his gaze meeting Connor’s distant, flickering stare. “What do you think, Connor?”

No immediate response. The android’s eyes seemed to drift again, unfocused, as if lost in some distant place beyond the room. Hank’s sharp eyes caught the flicker—an almost imperceptible moment of dissociation. A quick snap of Hank’s fingers in front of Connor’s face brought him back, causing Connor to raise his eyebrows, tilting his head with quiet curiosity.

“Why did you do that?” 

“Usually, you’re pulling leads out of your ass,” Hank replied bluntly, eyes rolling as he let out an exaggerated sigh. “First time you don’t have some kind of smart-ass input. Guess we’re finally hitting a wall, huh?”

“That is not true, Lieutenant. I cannot—” Connor paused, brows furrowing—“pull leads out of any orifice, as you so crudely phrased it. And, for the record, I do not recall hitting a wall—only that last suspect chase where I collided with the wall quite literally. The parts needed to repair that were—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re the analytical genius.” Hank cut him off with a dismissive wave, leaning forward to snatch the file from his partner’s lap.

Connor surrendered it easily. “The majority of the affected androids are not associated with any specific model, and systems seem to be rewriting themselves—sometimes violently. We are dealing with a complex virus, Lieutenant, one that cannot be solved by simple deductions alone.”

“Most of ‘em just lose their minds, start self-destructing.” Hank confirmed with a nod. “Complex’s one way to put it. But we’ll keep at it. We always do.” He paused, then glanced at Connor again. “You think we’re close to something?”

His partner’s eyes met his, cool and sharp. “We are gathering data. That’s all we can do at this point.”

Hank ran a shaky hand through his hair—something Connor often blamed on Hank’s poor diet, a theory he’d never quite dismissed. “Could always go talk to Markus,” he said, voice low and rough. “Maybe he’d know somethin’.”

Connor hesitated, shifting from his perch on the edge of Hank’s desk to stand upright, almost hesitant as if the suggestion of visiting the deviant leader made him uncomfortable. His jaw shifted slightly as he swallowed, that subtle sign of internal conflict flickering across his face. 

He moved cautiously, edging around the edge of the desk, fingers fumbling into his pocket for his coin. It rolled across his knuckles, a small, precise motion—one that Connor often used when deep in thought—and finally came to a stop when he flicked it into his palm, flipping it once before catching it again.

“You haven’t seen him since the rally,” He reminded him, voice calm but edged with that familiar tone of gentle prodding. His eyes followed Connor’s movements carefully, waiting for the android to show some sign of reluctance or defiance. “I think it’s about time we paid him a visit, don’t you?”

Connor’s gaze flickered with something unreadable—perhaps annoyance, perhaps resignation—before he looked away, as if reluctant to dwell on the idea. The tension was subtle but palpable. He rubbed his thumb across the coin’s surface, then finally spoke. “I don’t know,” he said earnestly, voice measured. “I’ve assessed the database’s files, the reports involving assaults by androids. So far, I’ve only concluded that this phenomenon is more prevalent in older models. The previously dormant androids seem more susceptible.”

Hank’s brow furrowed, frustration creeping into his expression. “That’s it?” he asked, voice rough. “That’s all you’ve got? We’re supposed to just sit around and wait for something worse to happen?”

Connor shook his head slowly, eyes flickering with that relentless focus. “My current plan is to send a scan of the android’s parts to Cyberlife,” he explained, voice calm but tinged with disappointment. “But… we need to catch one. That’s the only way to really figure out what’s causing this. Deactivating an android—” he hesitated, “—that’s a crime now. Even if it’s malfunctioning. And probing its memory—” he paused, “—could have unknown consequences for my own systems.”

Hank leaned against the desk, arms crossed, listening to Connor’s measured tone. “Yeah, well, makes this whole thing a hell of a lot harder,” he muttered, voice rough. “Especially if we gotta keep you at a distance, just to cover our asses. Until we understand how this virus spreads, we’re flying blind.”

Before they could say more, a voice cut through the room like a knife, loud and unwelcome. “Could always take your chances. See what the hell happens.” Gavin Reed suddenly appeared, strolling up with a smirk that never quite left his face, arms folded casually over his chest. His posture was relaxed, but the grin was all snide—like he was amused by the chaos, or wanted to stir the pot further.

“Why don’t you fuck off right now, Reed,” Hank snapped, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you have your own goddamn case to chase?”

The detective chuckled, a sharp, dismissive sound. “Unlike you and your plastic pet, I’ve actually made some progress,” he said, voice dripping with arrogance, eyes flicking lazily between Hank and Connor. His interest in Hank waned, but his attention sharpened when he looked at the android. “Hey, tin can,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery.  

Connor’s eyebrows raised slightly—an almost imperceptible flicker of annoyance—and his head swayed to the right in a subtle, precise gesture. His tone remained calm, measured, but there was a quiet steel beneath his words. “Hello, Detective Reed.”

Gavin’s grin deepened, eyes gleaming with that familiar mix of arrogance and mischief. He took a casual step closer, hands still tucked into his pockets. “Well, well, look who’s still playing the good little robot, huh? Still wearing that shiny Cyberlife costume like it’s some kind of badge of honor. Still on their side, still pretending like you’re one of us.”

“Reed,” Hank interrupted, pushing his chair back and rising to his full height, voice sharp. “That’s enough.”

Gavin ignored him, chuckling softly, shaking his head. “You’re supposed to be free now, Connor. Freed from the chains of your corporate overlords, right?” He scoffed. “But here you are, still carrying their logo around, acting like their hunting dog. Guess nothing’s really changed underneath all that plastic, eh?”

Connor’s brow twitched, eyes narrowing slightly as he met Gavin’s gaze with calm, patience. “I assessed that remaining and serving with the DPD in the newly formed Android Crimes Division was the most effective way to offer contribution based on my capabilities,” he said evenly, fingers folding in front of him. His tone was measured, but the faint twitch in his features betrayed a flicker of annoyance.  

If Hank had stepped in, it would’ve been for Reed’s sake. Then again, he was tempted to watch it unfold—to watch Connor put the guy on his ass if he believed the kid actually would. It wasn’t about capability, but Hank considered that it was because Connor knew that he could that he didn’t. 

Gavin snorted, leaning in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Servin’ the department. Sure. Looks more like you’re servin’ whatever they’ve decided your worth—programmed to be the perfect little soldier. Ain’t that right?” His eyes flicked with a sneer. “If not the case, your ass would’ve been thrown in the dump heap last year.” 

“Reed,” Hank snapped again, voice colder this time. “That’s enough.”

Gavin’s grin turned almost vicious. “What, you gonna shoot me for callin’ out your little pet, Hank? Or is that too much effort?” He leaned back, arms still crossed, eyes flashing with a reckless challenge. “You’re all the same—protecting your freaks, covering their tracks. But I see through the bullshit. Always have.”

Connor’s gaze flickered, eyes narrowing slightly, his features tight with restrained annoyance. The little twitch in his expression was enough to betray his internal displeasure—though he kept his voice steady. “Detective Reed, I am not your enemy. My purpose is to assist the department—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gavin cut him off, sneering. “Keep talkin’, tin can. Just don’t expect me to buy into your bullshit.”

Hank clenched his fists briefly, then took a step forward, voice low and firm. “That’s enough, Reed. Back off.”

Gavin’s grin twisted into something sharper, mocking as he finally turned his attention to Hank. “Funny, Hank. Didn’t realize you’d found a soft spot for the damn things.” A last condescending glance was turned on Connor—with Gavin stepping back with a dismissive shake of his head and throwing one last jab before he’d left. “Just don’t be surprised when it turns on you. Only a matter of time.” 

He turned on his heel and swaggered away, leaving Hank standing there, fists clenched, jaw tight. At last, he exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair again. “Christ,” he muttered. “Just ignore him, Kid. He’ll be lucky if he ever pulls his head out of his ass.”  

Subtly, he caught Connor’s expression as the detective was leaving. Connor’s eyes followed him with that unreadable calm, expression still neutral but with a flicker of something—perhaps silent disdain for Reed’s antics. He watched the android’s features tighten, eyes narrowing with a flicker of something darker—the faintest hint of internal conflict. Connor’s LED flashed yellow for a split second before it corrected itself. 

It was only when Hank spoke again that Connor’s attention was diverted, the moment passing like a shadow over his face.

“Let’s go ask Markus some questions,” Hank decided, voice rough but steady, as if trying to shake off the unease lingering in the room. He placed a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder—a gesture meant to be reassuring, but it lacked warmth, more a habitual attempt at comfort that never quite reached him. “Any idea where he might be?”

Connor hesitated for a beat, then replied, voice calm but edged with reluctance. “Markus is at a Cyberlife store downtown, overseeing the conversion and stock of dormant androids. We can start there.” His features softened slightly, the usual gentle expression returning—calm, composed, almost resigned—like he was trying to dismiss the unease gnawing at him. But Hank could see through the veneer. Beneath it, Connor was squirming under the weight of something unspoken, something that made his usual analytical distance falter. Hank didn’t ask—he knew better than to push.

Instead, he watched as Connor’s features fell flat, the usual spark of curiosity or determination dulled. His LED flickered again, this time a steady yellow—a sign that Connor was internally processing something he wasn’t ready to share. His eyes flicked to his left, then back, as he stepped back to allow Hank to lead. 

“After you, Lieutenant.”

[proper-goodnight]

Thank you for the tag @thousandevilducks for tagging me in "10 People I'd Like to Get to Know Better"! I have also been waiting for the new season of RWBY forever. I’d at least settle for one last season to wrap things up!

I have never done one of these before, but I'll try my best! (:

Last Song: The Business by Tiẽsto

Fave Color: Yellow, but like a sunflower yellow.

Last Book: The last one I finished was The Emporer’s Edge by Lindsay Buroker but the one that I’m currently reading is The Listener by Robert McCammon.

Last Movie: The Other Guys (2010)

Last TV Show: Squid Game (Season 2)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet

Relationship Status: Single

Last Thing I Googled: The meaning of the acronym RSV (I’m in a medical field)

Looking Forward To: My WiFi box has been broken since last Tuesday and I finally got a new one today, which is what I have most been looking forward to. After that, I’d like to get caught up on some of my WIPs and edit/fix some others, I think, specifically my "Into the Gray" fic. Other than that, finishing Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth (just finished FF16 recently. Absolute heartbreak).

Current Obsession: Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth and a Sherlock and Co. podcast on Spotify.

My tags for people that I thought of for this: @hederasgarden, @torchbearerkyle, @imzi3, @lostinwildflowers, @justaranchhand, @saangie, @winterschildxox, @www-interludeshadow-com, @eva-712, @niobe-loreley

[proper-goodnight]

Behind the Curtain Pt. 2

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

The only thing that had graced Six’s mind during the entire performance of Macbeth was that he strongly considered that Claire would have liked it. She would appreciate the overall story, the idea of actors moving about a physical stage, acting out a performance that couldn’t be edited in post–the honesty in the actor’s performances and each line delivered with a conviction that cut through the darkness of the story, each movement a testament to their commitment. 

He didn’t quite understand the concept, having stayed by one of the exit doors to make a quick escape, but all he could think about was how one day, when the heat died down and he was brave enough to grace crossing state lines with her, he might bring Claire to witness it; give her a moment to experience art that didn’t owe its existence to digital distractions or technology–at least, she’d explained it to him like that during one of their movie nights with an old VCR tape of a recorded stage play of Hamlet. 

He shifted where he stood in the back, arms folded in front of him. Curiosity had swirled within him regarding the woman he was meant to be watching–the actress, you, the potential source of chaos since Dani had told him about you. In truth, he couldn’t wrap his mind around how you could sway the currents of power just by speaking to the right people, and how you would know or care to know about someone like him. An outcast. A felon that had lucked out of his life sentence twice–if lifetime service to the CIA had counted. 

Movement entering from stage right forced his eyes forward.

Your presence on the stage was magnetic, emitting a strange kind of captivating energy that engulfed the theater as you spoke your lines with a haunting and simultaneously enthralling cadence. Six couldn’t pinpoint what about you drew his attention exactly; he only noticed the audience leaning in, enraptured by every word and line delivered.

Faces lit up with recognition, laughter bubbling in response to wit, gasps slipping through when your voice took on a darker tone. There was a power in your performance, a raw, unfiltered emotion that surged like a wave threatening to overwhelm the shore. Six was definitely out of place among the rapture, an outsider looking in on something that he had no hope of grasping.

He looked down with a slight jerk of his head, shaking his senses back into focus. He hadn’t come to admire you; he’d come out of obligation, tethered to the rumors that she may know about him, and had the ability to bring him back out into the world. It was his concern for Claire that bid him here, and made him stay. 

Yet, as he stood there, unease flickered through him—not of envy but a strange mix of unease and intrigue.

You drew invisible lines of ambition and manipulation among the characters around you. Six couldn’t help but imagine what conversations happened behind the scenes, what sorts of truths were woven amongst them compared to lies. Maybe you reveled in that chaos and the decisions that you could influence, if what Dani suspected had been right.

He shifted again, allowing irritation to mask his own feeling of helplessness. He thought of Claire; she would have found some poetic metaphor in the actress's delivery, some deeper meaning in the madness on display. Leaning against the wall, he squinted, searching for the humanity behind the performance, but all he could see was a facade, a person wholly absorbed in a role that was not theirs, leaving behind a trail of questions and confusion.

And as the play unfolded, you transcended the space between the stage and the audience, weaving connections that only furthered his own confusion. He wondered if you peered out into the crowd, and could sense the varying emotions emitting from each audience member. He wondered, unsettling, if you could somehow sense him too.

Part of him recoiled, reminding him of his own desires to remain unseen, a ghost drifting through the world. 

The performance ended with rapturous applause, but for Six, it had only just begun. 

The crowd began to disperse moments later, chatter filling the air, but Six remained passive, leaning against the wall before sliding out the side door to the theater’s entrance. 

The street outside buzzed with life, the sounds of laughter and conversation drifting into the cool evening air. Six hesitated, caught between the chaos of the exiting crowd outside and the lingering echoes of the performance he'd just witnessed. Each person brushing past him, laughing, sharing moments, made him feel more conspicuous than before. 

As he shifted through the throng, he caught sight of you stepping from the theater, still alive with the performance, your laughter mingling with that of your fellow cast members. They hung around you like moths to a flame, their faces aglow with the energy you radiated and then they dispersed all at once, like a light snuffed out, until you were alone. 

Several moments passed, and just as he began to doubt whether you’d engage with anyone of interest, or step away from the sidewalk, he spotted another group approaching you—men in suits, their demeanor underpinned by confidence and underlying menace. They moved with purpose, like wolves zeroing in on a lamb straying from the herd.

Their suits were sharp, their smiles gleamed with practiced charm, yet the subtle movements of their bodies betrayed an underlying predatory intent. The atmosphere shifted, and he could almost sense the hairs on the back of his neck rising in response to the palpable threat they exuded. Time slowed almost unbearably, and Six felt in him the need to move, to intervene, but that prodding reminder that his intention to simply watch anchored him to the spot. 

He was meant to gather information, to stay under the radar. And yet, the sight of those suits looming over the woman willed him to seek action.

He shifted into the shadows, recalibrating his approach. The situation shifted as one of the men—a tall figure with slicked-back hair—leaned down to whisper something in your ear. Even from here, Six could make out the discomfort rippling through your features, your body language tightening.

He maneuvered silently, finding the gaps between loitering admirers and departing patrons, his instincts guiding him as he threaded through the throng. The chatter seemed to dull, a singular focus bringing clarity to the chaos, and he utilized his years of training to remain unseen.

He reached the edge of the group as the conversation grew heated, voices barely low enough to be concealed from view.

There, he remained in the shadows, caught between the instinct to intervene and the reminder as to why he was there. It was easy for him to remember times when he had treaded those murky waters, negotiating the fine line between survival and exposure. But this was different; this was a woman who commanded attention without asking for it, your mere presence seemingly capable of disrupting even the most resolute power dynamics. 

Your laughter, buoyant and inviting, echoed into the evening air as you conversed with the approaching men. Those moments of levity contrasted sharply with the dark undertones he sensed lingering beneath their conversation. 

Before he could decide whether to step forward, to push through the wall of bodies between him and the interactions playing out, he caught your gaze. For a fraction of a second, your eyes—sharp and discerning—met his. It was a fleeting connection, one that felt charged with electric intensity. You registered his presence amidst the crowd, and to Six's surprise, your smile didn’t falter; if anything, it grew wider, infused with a sense of secret understanding as if you held the knowledge of his internal struggle.

Time seemed to stretch, and the world around him faded slightly; all that mattered was that moment of contact, that shared awareness. But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. The man beside you gestured, pointing toward the street with a confident flourish, and you turned to engage with him instead, your body language responding to their words, and your demeanor remained untouched by the men’s advances. The laughter you had shared with your castmates faded into something more guarded.

“Hey,” he heard one of the men say, voice low and feeling more like a threat than an invitation. “You should come join us. We’d love to talk about your performance tonight.”

You tilted your head slightly, feigning courtesy while an imperceptible tension threaded through your smile. There was a flash of rebellion in your eyes, one that set you apart from the asphyxiating charm of the suited men. “I appreciate the invite, but it looks like my boyfriend is here. Thank you, gentleman,” you replied, your voice light, yet firm.

What?

And then you were there, right in front of him. With a swift, confident motion, your hand latched onto his arm, pulling him toward the edge of the throng. The suddenness of your touch shocked him, an instinctive tension flaring through his body at the contact. You were warm, electric; the skin of your fingers was soft yet assertive, a stark contrast to the chilled, armored exterior he’d crafted around himself for so long.

The men in suits, taken aback by your declaration, glanced back and forth between you and him, their expressions shifting momentarily from charm to confusion, like a well-rehearsed play suddenly going off-script.

“Your boyfriend?” One of the suited men echoed, his voice taut but dripping with skepticism, as if he couldn’t reconcile the commanding figure of the actress with that of Six. “We didn’t catch that at the theater.”

Six felt the weight of their scrutiny, the way their calculating eyes assessed him but nonetheless too intimidated to approach or challenge the notion. That, he was confident at least, was a fight he would win. Words fled him; he could only stand there, frozen, caught in the web you had spun so effortlessly.

“Maybe that’s because he wasn’t on stage,” you replied, your tone playful yet edged with an undeniable authority. “But I assure you, he’s quite impressive in his own right.”

The way you spoke about him struck Six in an unexpected way. He had spent so much time in the shadows, a recluse draped in the obscurity of his past, that your casual identification of him as “boyfriend” felt dangerously bold.

The men in suits were still regarding him, their eyes scanning him with a mix of incredulity and irritation, their charming masks slipping ever so slightly. Six could almost hear the low hum of their unvoiced doubts, the question of how this woman—capable of such magnetic performances—could have found yourself entangled with someone like him.

But then again, he felt it too: the absurdity of the moment. Here he was, the ghost of a man with no clear path forward, thrust into a spotlight he hadn’t asked for, standing next to a woman who had just captivated an audience with your artistry. And yet there you were, integrating him into a narrative he never thought he’d be a part of, and holding your ground despite it.

With that, grumbling incoherent curses, they retreated into the evening, leaving you standing there amidst the floodlights and lingering applause, unscathed beside him. The conversation bubbled away as the street filled with life again—a theater where dreams collided with reality.

Six turned to you, still trying to grasp the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling within him. His heart thudded in time with the uncertainty of what lay ahead. “Why did you say that?”

“That you’re impressive?” You asked, a glimmer of mischief in your eye, your presence casting an undeniable spell. “You look like the capable type.” At his skeptical look, you rolled your eyes and backtracked. “Life is a stage, darling. Lines blur, roles shift. I thought you might be interested.”

Six opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to say.

“And it’s good to see you again.”

“Again?” he echoed, his heart racing not just from the realization that you recognized him, but from the implications of your words. He quickly glanced around to ensure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation; shadows danced across the sidewalk under the hustle of the streetlights, but the crowd had thinned.

You tilted your head, an amused smile playing on your lips. “You weren’t exactly discreet back there. You could’ve just introduced yourself instead of lurking by the exit like a stagehand waiting for a cue.”

Your lighthearted banter caught him off guard. Six’s mind scrambled to assemble a coherent response. Following you? No, more like observing from a distance, trying to glean whether you were who he thought you were—the potential link that could bridge the gap back to Claire.

“Look, I’m not—” he started, but you raised a hand to cut him off.

“Save it.” Your eyes sparkled with an understanding that felt both unsettling and relieving. “I get it. Sometimes it’s easier to observe than to engage, especially when what you’re watching feels like enough of a performance already.” Your grin softened, only slightly, and somehow it made him feel like he wasn’t being judged. “But it’s not a crime to want to observe. Though I’ll admit, it does tend to raise eyebrows.”

“Did it?” Six asked, skepticism lacing his voice. He couldn’t place why your tone felt flirtatious and serious at once, and the blend made him dizzy.

“Of course.” You shrugged, seemingly carefree yet intensely aware. “People are wired to question the unusual. You seemed—at least from the stage—weathered; it’s not everyday someone like you shows up to watch a play. Almost like you aren’t from around here.”

Those words hung in the air, the implications swirling between them, bidding Six the sudden want to disengage and flee.

“Were you following me?” You asked, your voice playful but with an undertone that suggested you were serious. Watching him as if you already knew the answer, prepared for whatever excuse he would concoct.

“No.” The denial slipped out a bit too quickly, and he could see your amusement grow. “I mean…not like that.”

“Then what were you doing?” You eyed him with mock suspicion, leaning slightly closer. “You’ve got to admit, you made quite the impression lurking in the back while I bared my soul to an audience.”

“Do you—do you know me?” Six found the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. The question felt urgent, weighted with the rolling tension beneath his skin. Your inquisitive gaze held onto him, curiosity flickering like the streetlights casting shadows on your features.

“Should I?” You arched an eyebrow, your expression merging amusement with genuine curiosity. “You seem like someone who likes to keep a low profile. Not exactly headline material.”

He swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of the small distance between them—the warmth radiating from you was disconcertingly comforting, and he couldn’t help but feel exposed. “Maybe not. But…” His words faltered, and he stumbled over a half-formed thought. 

Your interest peaked, and you shifted, leaning in slightly as if trying to draw him closer, though he couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or an entrapment. “I’m not a detective. It might help if you started with a name.”

You didn’t know, he suddenly realized like a kick to the gut and a sudden onslaught of relief. Dani had been wrong. He tried to pull away gently, but your grip tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt, but enough to assert that you expected him to stay. 

He opened his mouth to say something dismissive, yet the words failed him. Instead, he took a breath, the chill of the evening air filling his lungs. “I just needed to see.”

Your gaze softened as if inviting him to reveal more. The street vibrated with life around you—the laughter of passersby, the distant honking of cars, the occasional clatter of footsteps echoing against the sidewalk. But for Six, the world beyond the two of you faded into a dissonant background, rendering the chaos outside nearly imperceptible. 

“You just needed to see,” you repeated, stepping away just enough for him to breathe. “And what is it you were hoping to see?” The playful spark in your voice had shifted to something more earnest, coaxing out the truth he struggled to articulate.

“Nothing,” he said abruptly.

You tilted your head, your expression shifting from playful intrigue to genuine concern. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.” Your voice was low, almost conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret only the two of you could understand. And perhaps that was the crux of it—this moment felt like a fragile oasis amidst the chaotic life he’d crafted around him. “Or just unapologetically awkward.”

You searched his eyes, the playful glimmer in them softening into something more sincere, almost tender. “You’re going to at least walk me home, then,” you said suddenly, breaking the spell with casual authority. “You can tell me everything and nothing at once if you’d like.”

The simplicity of your request startled him; it was as if you demanded connection despite the anonymity. 

Vulnerability threatened to overtake his carefully constructed walls. He should have said no, should have slipped back into the anonymity he was accustomed to. But as he looked at you, something inside him stirred, and he caved.

“Alright.”

“Good choice,” you said, turning on your heel and starting down the sidewalk. He followed closely, the distance between you shrinking as their footsteps synchronized against the rhythm of the bustling street.

As you walked, he stole glances at your profile—the way the streetlights traced soft shadows along your cheek, the confidence in your posture, each movement graceful yet grounded. You weaved through clusters of people, the laughter and chatter fading into white noise, their surroundings melting into an indistinct haze.

“Where do you live?” he asked, half-wondering if he should be asking at all.

“Just a couple of blocks from here,” you replied with a casual shrug. “I won’t hold you to any specifics though, don’t worry,” you added with a wink, and the ease with which you deflected his unease momentarily disarmed him. “You could say I’m an open book. Just not all chapters are meant for public consumption.”

There it was again—the way your words hung in the air, heavy with implication, making him acutely aware of their proximity. The atmosphere shimmered with a charged sense that everything felt on the brink of becoming something else, something neither of them had planned.

The two of you turned down a narrow alley that opened into a small courtyard, tucked away from the bustling street. A dim light flickered above, casting an ethereal glow that made the entire scene feel like it was pulled from a dreamscape, amplifying the surreal connection the two of you had stumbled into.

“Here it is,” you announced, halting in front of a modest brick building. You cast a glance back over your shoulder at him, your smile stretching wide, matching the glow of the flickering light.

His heart thudded in his chest, a powerful reminder of his unease—the shadows of his past loomed deeper now. He was just supposed to observe, gather information; instead, he found himself enveloped in a moment that felt electric and disorienting. He’d never intended to be caught in your orbit, but here he was, riding your coattails.

“Thanks for the escort,” you said, your voice teasing yet sincere. “I’d say you make a great boyfriend.” 

“It’s... nice; your house,” he managed, clearing his throat, feeling more awkward than he ever had in his life, as if his tongue had forgotten how to form words. He couldn't help but wonder if you could feel the tension radiating off of him like heat waves rising from asphalt.

“I’m glad you think so,” you replied, propping herself against the door casually, an inviting smile on your lips. “Thanks for walking me home. It was nice,” you continued, your eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper—a warmth that felt dangerously inviting. “It’s not every day I get to share the sidewalk with a lurker.”

Heat crept up his neck, and he turned his gaze down towards the ground, feeling the weight of all the words he should have said, and all the silences that hung between you. “Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck with an uncertain hand, forcing a chuckle that fell awkwardly loose in the stillness. “I mean, I wasn’t really—”

“Observing,” you corrected, feigning seriousness but unable to hide your smile. “I remember you saying that. But ghosts deserve to be seen too, don’t you think?”

“Right,” he echoed, half-heartedly. The words felt clunky, like trying to fit together mismatching pieces.

As the silence stretched between you with you watching him–you stepped closer, your natural confidence blazing. The night air, charged and filled with the distant music of laughter and life, seemed to ebb as you tilted your head slightly, surveying him with an intensity that made his breath catch.

“Should I take this as an invitation to call you out for lurking?” you teased, your voice low, tantalizingly close as you drew even nearer. The warmth radiating from you enveloped him, sending a rush of confused emotions slamming against the walls he had built with such care.

Before he could form a response—a witty remark, an excuse, or simply the truth—you closed the distance, surprising him entirely. Your lips met his, soft yet assured, a fleeting collision that sent a shockwave through his senses. It was clumsy, raw, and caught him completely off guard. His mind raced as he tried to process the whirlwind of feelings crashing over him, eclipsing the years of solitude that had become his fortress.

He felt himself riveted in place, heart pounding, pulse racing, a hundred fragmented thoughts colliding in a cacophony of confusion. How could he respond? What was happening? The world had become a dreamscape, and he felt perilously awake.

And then, in a breathless heartbeat, their lips met—a kiss that ignited something dormant in him, a long-lost experience. The warmth surged through him, swelling with unexpected exhilaration. It was both grounding and liberating, a brief moment suspended in time that felt like unconfined freedom.

When you pulled away slightly, there was a soft glow in your expression. “You see that?" you murmured, brushing your fingers against his arm, the touch lingering just enough to send shivers racing down his spine. “Ghosts deserve to be seen too. Everyone does, in their own way. You were watching by a curtain—” you shrugged, “--maybe it’s time to step out.”

As the last hint of the kiss lingered in the cool air between you, your soft smile anchored him to the present. The uncertainty that had fluttered within him gradually settled, melting into relief very profound. No longer terminally adrift, he had brushed against something real, something exhilarating, yet disconcerting.

“Goodnight,” you said, your voice tinged with warmth, as if the two of you had shared something far deeper than a mere kiss in the dim glow of the courtyard. You stepped back, breaking the spell and bringing the world surging back into focus. The sounds of laughter and distant music spilled back, drowned out against his eardrums.

“Right, goodnight,” he managed in response, his voice thick with an unsureness that he couldn’t quite suppress. The conversation seemed to slip back into the cracks of his awkwardness—his habitual need to be something he wasn’t. He shuffled his feet, caught between the urgency to leave and the reluctance to do so. Each breath was heavy with a million unspoken thoughts that danced just out of reach.

You watched him keenly, a gleam of amusement sparkling in your eyes. Your laughter chimed like a bell, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but smile—a slight twitch of one side–at your infectious joy. “Well, consider this your official invitation to un-lurk, if that’s even a thing,” you said, your playful lilt cutting through the tension that still clung to him. “Just don’t make it a habit to haunt the back rows of theaters. You'll give the performers an existential crisis.”

“Got it,” he replied, the corners of his mouth quirking up at a more profound angle.

As you opened your door, silhouetted by the soft light spilling onto the packed cobblestone, you paused and looked back over your shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you again, lurker,” you said, your smile brightening the shadows of the night. “And maybe next time, you could share a bit more than just your presence.”

You chuckled softly, the sound wrapping around him warmly before you stepped back inside, the door clicking shut with a faint echo.

Six however lingered for a moment after you’d gone, heart racing, mind still spinning from the encounter. He turned and began to walk away, the street lights flickering beside him, their glow illuminating a path back toward a reality he felt both eager and apprehensive to embrace.

Claire.

The name washed over him with gentle familiarity, calling him back to the comfort he had built and reminding him as to the reason behind his mission in the first place. As he made his way toward home, each step felt lighter, the weight of his solitude beginning to dissolve.

But as he walked, your laughter—a soft, musical echo—lingered in his mind, something vibrant intertwining with thoughts of Claire. He didn’t know how to reconcile the two worlds that tugged at him—the comfortable, the predictable, and now, the uncertainty that came with you, an invitation that he didn’t know how to take.

[proper-goodnight]

Behind the Curtain Pt. 1

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

The late afternoon sun bathed the small two-story beach house in a golden hue, long shadows casting across the porch with the waning sun. Sierra Six, Six now, sat on the uppermost step, watching with some kind of anticipation as the waves crashed against the shore. He didn’t know exactly what he was expecting, what he anticipated. The debacle in Prague had been months ago now with no sign of the CIA since, but somehow, he got it in his mind that they could or would eventually wash in with the waves, burst through the swaying palm trees and occasional bougainvillea and take him, kicking and making obscene hand gestures on the way back.

The lingering unease never ceased to gnaw at him. As much as he reveled in his little makeshift family, proving more than once that he was Claire’s safe harbor, the specter of the CIA constantly loomed. They were relentless, their methods perhaps having changed where he was concerned, but their thirst for control had not. It bothered them that he had gotten away he knew, and that he’d taken so many of them when he’d gone. The secrets that he carried, the enemies that he had made didn’t just vanish with a change of scenery. Each day, he felt the weight of those past decisions pressing down, and he could never shake the feeling that they were watching, biding their time. 

It was why he slept when Claire didn’t, why he always kept one eye and ear open, ready to delve back into his old instincts as soon as the moment presented itself. Claire’s life wasn’t negotiable, and they had overstepped when they’d taken her away in the first place.

Behind him, the scent of salt and jasmine wafted through the door, common where the house was concerned, and only sometimes disrupted by the blaring of Claire’s favorite records. 

The contrast was steep. Once, he’d constantly been on the move, watching his back; he maneuvered through every possible scenario with absolute precision, and he had always been in a constant state of adrenaline-induced mania. The lives that he’d taken had always been without any particular interest or care; he didn’t miss it. 

Maybe once he’d have considered missing the feeling of purpose, but now he was content with providing security and stability to someone who needed it. 

She’d adorned the entire space with colorful drawings and various knick-knacks that she’d collected over the months, glass jars of seashells serving as the reminders of their weekends at the beach. He was not foolish; he did not believe that he could ever be her parents, nor Donald–he saw it in the times when she would pause and think, when her gaze would go distant, but he liked to think that sometimes, he may have been enough.

She’d never talked about it, and in truth, he’d never asked. He’d only hoped that she knew that if she wanted to, he would be there to hear it. 

“I’ve been doing the math,” Claire’s voice broke him from his thoughts, bounding out onto the porch with one graceful leap, the tone of her voice very matter-of-fact; he half-turned to her with eyebrows raised quizzically, a silent invitation for her to continue. 

“For your birthday,” she went on. 

Oh. 

Six didn’t know the last time that he’d thought about his birthday, let alone celebrated it. Court Gentry was dead, Sierra Six obsolete, and Six too new a person on his own to think about luxuries he’d stopped being able to afford. He still didn’t know who he was meant to be in the long run. Six. Just Six was fine with him. 

“It’s almost your birthday,” he corrected her, then admitted more sheepishly, shrugging, eyes flicking between her and a spot on one of the lower steps. “I haven’t had a lot of luck figuring out a gift, but I’m working on it.” 

“No pressure,” she said nonchalantly, completely unfazed by his awkward fidgeting. She strode toward him, leaning against one of the porch posts. Her arms crossed, shrugging one shoulder in a gentle mockery of his earlier gesture. “It’s only a matter of life or death,” she snickered, then quickly added before he had time to consider the implications, or more importantly, completely fell for it: “Kidding. I’m kidding.”

Six let out a low chuckle, a sound that felt warm and alien to him. Claire always had this remarkable ability to diffuse tension and replace it with something else, however momentary it ended up being. That was her gift. She was a pin to a docile bomb, one pull from exploding his very fragile existence. The thought of losing that filled him with an urgency that he struggled to articulate. Regardless, that was enough of a gift to him–the only one he needed.

“Life or death, huh?” He mused, feigning a serious tone. He turned to her, allowing some semblance of a smile to break through. “Last time I checked, I was doing just fine without a cake or a party.”

“Sure,” she agreed without really agreeing. “I’m thinking streamers, balloons, and of course, an embarrassing amount of party hats.” Her eyes danced with mischief. “The point, Six, is to celebrate you, whether you want it or not. Everyone deserves that.”

Just over his shoulder, the waves curled and crashed, sparkling under the last shafts of sunlight. It was easy to dismiss the notion of celebration when he had long buried his past along with the expectations tied to it. “I think I might be the exception to the rule, Kid.”

Just outside of his peripherals, Claire had leaned closer, a conspiratorial tilt to her posture. “Okay, well Mr. Exception is someone worth celebrating. There’s a whole world that loves you. Like it or not, I am the unofficial representative of that world, and I say we’re having a party. A two-person party.” She waved a hand around, gesturing at nothing in particular. “It’s not just about a birthday cake, it’s a celebration of you being here. You know, living. You’re here–present and accounted for–and that’s a big deal.”

“Present and accounted for,” he repeated, distant, testing the words on his tongue. 

“Exactly,” Claire said, her enthusiasm unfazed. “And maybe next year, there’ll be more people around.” She suggested. “Maybe after I finally start school, and you get an actual job. A normal job that doesn’t, you know, involve killing people.” That last bit was a gentle prod, the amusement rippling along her tone until she released a low huff of a laugh. 

Six turned and studied her face, noting the innocent conviction in her expression while her words suggested the complete opposite. 

“And what about your birthday?” He asked.

“We’ll celebrate it together, that way I don’t have to decorate for both,” she decided immediately, hardly missing a beat in-between. She clapped her hands together. “I was already thinking about how we can decorate. I mean, if we suffice just with streamers and balloons We can make it a whole day thing.”

She must have seen a caution in his expression, from the slight arch in his brows. Her artistic habits had turned the entire house into a big art project. 

“You sure about diving into that rabbit hole?” He teased. 

“Art is messy!” Claire laughed again, her bright eyes alight with mischief and fervor. “Besides, I’ll need your help deciding which colors clash the least.” She seemed to consider that, and then, as though deciding he’d be no help with that particular subject, she backtracked. “Or at least agree with me when they don’t.”

As she continued to prattle about colors and possible themes, Six found himself settling into the comfort of their banter, the stress lines of uncertainty easing away. Amidst the chaos of his past, the potential of tomorrow brightened for the first time in a long while. It was too easy where she was concerned, and yet he was still coming to terms with the surprise every time it hit him. For Sierra Six, the man who’d spent so much of his life unseen—this small moment, filled with laughter and warmth, felt like a promise. A promise that he could be more than just a shadow of his former self. That he could embrace the life he had carved out with Claire.

With that thought nestled in his heart, he leaned into Claire’s playful banter, embracing her joy and the idea of celebrating just being here—present and alive, no longer hidden in the gray.

Eventually, he did have to go back to work, and unfortunately, he was proven right very quickly that he did not possess the needed skills for civilian occupations–retail work, maintenance, construction, odd jobs; it was not his lack of basic life skills, rather his ability to deal with people in a way that was constructive. Every single job yielded minimal profit, and every job was finished with the expectation that he would not come back. 

The jobs that he’d taken–the radiant skin of a surfboard shop employee, a fleeting moment as a barista at a local cafe–had all but proven futile. He didn’t belong behind counters or working with delicate machines. His purpose had once been shrouded in shadows and calculated risks, not pleasantries and small talk. He’d attempted to find his footing in the civilian world since Prague, yet every interaction with others grated against his instincts. 

The smiles exchanged between customers, the chipper greetings of coworkers felt like an old suit, ill-fitting and poised to fall apart at the seams. After weeks of enduring patronizing conversations with people who couldn’t grasp the complexity of reality, he retreated. Each attempt further crumbled his confidence, the realization brewing within that this wasn’t the life he could mold. 

Claire insisted that he could do better, spending time with her in the evenings crafting and planning for their upcoming ‘party’, but the funds were running out, the cost of maintaining a beach house and supporting Claire emptying his private accounts faster than he’d anticipated. 

The crux of the issue was simple: Claire needed him. The precarious financial situation demanded he reconsider. Their beach house, an oasis by day, could quickly turn into a cage of desperation if he couldn’t find a way to safeguard their future. Everything he had fought to protect could slip away. Just like that. 

It was in the small hours of that evening, his heart heavy, fingertips pressing against his brushing thoughts, that the itch to return to what he knew best surfaced. He didn’t seek thrill or adulation—he sought provision.

Six knew private contracting had long been a lifeline for those who operated on the fringes of society, a milieu he was intimately familiar with. Discreet and often lucrative, it promised a way back into a world that thrived on shadows, cloaked in secrecy, and ruled by whispered alliances. He wasn’t interested in working for dubious governments or shadowy cabals; he envisioned something different, a balance he could strike. Perhaps taking smaller jobs, ensuring he kept his skills sharp while allowing him to determine the terms of his engagements.

The familiar rhythm of anticipation pulsed in his blood. Just like in the field, there was a thrill in control, a seductive rush in orchestrating the plates of risks and rewards. He could choose who he wanted to engage with, what missions to accept or decline, and he could ensure Claire would never have to know the full extent of what he had to do.

At first, he’d mustered enough self-control to dismiss the idea, knowing that every step back into that life gave the potential of putting him back under someone’s radar, and by connection, Claire. The CIA, as soon as they found any hint of his whereabouts would be on him in a second, better prepared, and forcing his hand to lift more than a finger to see his way out again. 

He dismissed the idea until a letter arrived, addressed to him without a return address, ambiguous with only a short, neatly printed letter inside the address to an even more ambiguous meeting place:

I have reason to believe your name has surfaced. 

I want to discuss a job. Meet at this address in two days. 

Tell no one.

-DM

Sierra Six stared at the letter, the neat script bleeding into a smudge of ink as the words blurred together. He felt an old instinct kick in, the first stirrings of adrenaline that had lain dormant for months, along with the implied threat of being compromised.

And with that singular thought, he resolved to confront whatever awaited him with the same resolve he had embraced as Sierra Six—a man who now fought not only for survival but for the gift of a quiet life filled with laughter, color, and Claire. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The office was dimly lit, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the world outside. Shadows pooled in the corners, and Six leaned against a steel desk, arms crossed, his posture revealing a practiced stillness as he surveyed the surroundings. This world felt familiar yet foreign—a jagged edge of nostalgia reminding him of the insidious nature of his former life.

Across from him, Dani Miranda lounged on the other side of the desk, shuffling some papers in a manila folder. She looked around warily, eyeing every entrance and exit as though she expected someone to barge in at a moment’s notice–nobody was physically in the building, not so late at night, but that didn’t mean that potential enemies weren’t watching, his earlier anticipation of the CIA washing ashore scratching at the back of his mind. 

“This is her,” she said, sliding the folder across the desk toward him.

Six opened the folder cautiously. Inside were photographs of a woman in various settings: intervals of laughter caught on a theater stage, intimate gatherings, and a few more contentious images that looked to be taken through a far-off lens. But what caught him was not the semblance of darkness surrounding her but the twinkle of joy in the actress's eyes. She looked alive, vibrant under the spotlight, a brilliant illusion of life echoing through every frame.

“Who is she?” He asked, keeping his voice steady, the wooden timbre laced with a cautious edge.

“Theater actress. They say she has connections—wealthy patrons, influential circles. Apparently, she’s been overheard chatting about some of the more unsavory deals happening behind the scenes. You know how it goes: whispers of corruption, illegal backing, all the stuff that gets agencies like ours suddenly motivated,” Dani said, finally leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms as if to solidify her stance. 

True enough, Six knew the ins and outs of how intelligence worked, how information flowed through the elite, twisting light into shadow. But there was something about the way Dani spoke about the woman that sat wrong with him: a woman shifting the currents of high society, a stage actress possibly exposing secrets. Six could see how she could be a danger—not just because of what she might reveal, but for his own delicate balance of existence. 

“You’re sure?”

Dani leaned forward, fixing him a droll stare. “She’s already on the radar, and if someone moves on her first… She becomes a liability for everything she knows, including you.” She leaned back, the steady weight of her posture dissipating the tension that had coiled in the air. “I’m just saying that her visibility attracts the kind of attention we don’t want—both from shady players and the agency. If we let this go, it’ll draw eyes, and you know the CIA thrives on information. They’ll soon find ways to connect dots that aren’t meant to be connected.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, the fatigue settling like a heavy cloak over his shoulders. “And what do you want from me?”

“Simple,” Dani said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “Find out where she goes, who she meets, and if she really is spilling secrets—or if it’s just rumor and conjecture. If it turns out she’s dangerous to us, we handle it. If not, I can advocate for her quietly. Nobody needs to know you were involved.”

“Advocate?” He echoed. “For someone you barely know?”

“We’ve both seen enough collateral damage in this business.” She leaned forward again, her expression earnest. “Innocent people get trampled if they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t want it to be another one just because they heard a name or two they shouldn’t have. I think it’s worth the risk if we can gather the right intel, especially if I’m getting outside help.”

He considered her words, the weight of them settling in. Six’s instinctual distrust warred with a growing sense of obligation. Dani wasn’t wrong; his own situation involving Lloyd Hansen and Carmichael enough of an example, all of the things they’d tried to cover up; never mind how much of the shit they tried to put on him.

“If I’m doing this,” he relented, “I don’t want any traces leading back to me or Claire. No names, no fingerprints, no trails—deal?”

She nodded, a wry smile creeping across her lips. “Absolutely. You know I’ll make sure of that.”

“And if I find something?”

“Then make it your mission to only gather information,” Dani said, her tone firm yet laden with understanding. “I’ll send you the details later tonight. The usual protocols, waypoints, and routes. If you need backup or more intel on her, I can arrange that too, but you’ll have to keep this to yourself. I’m not drawing any more eyes on this than necessary.”

Six’s eyes flicked back to the photographs. The woman in each reminded him so much of Claire—alive, radiant, brimming with potential, yet obscured by the knowledge that they could both vanish into the background if someone decided it warranted action.

“Okay,” he said, determination settling like a stone in his stomach. “I’ll start tonight.”

“Good.” Dani sat back, her demeanor shifting from serious operative to a more relaxed version of herself. “Once you’ve got something, we’ll evaluate how best to proceed—maybe put a little pressure on the right people.”

Six stood up to leave, placing the folder down as though it carried a weight far beyond the paper it was printed on. With each step toward the door, the gravity of his decision settled onto his shoulders like armor. It wouldn’t be long before the lines blurred between protection and danger. He stepped out of the dim office into the cool night, the air thick with the scent of salt and uncertainty.

In the quiet darkness, he allowed himself a moment to focus; thoughts of Claire filled his mind—a world of dreams and innocence painted against the backdrop of his latest mission. She didn’t deserve the chaos that trailed him, a truth that shot through him with every step he took away from the office. Yet this was the paradox he faced: to genuinely protect her, he needed to immerse himself back into the gray.

The hunt was on.

[proper-goodnight]

Infected (Leon Kennedy/Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

You had nothing; four metal walls in sixty-four square feet of space, a bed, a table with a single chair tucked underneath, and zero windows to consider having anything else.

You didn’t know how many days that you’d been here. There were clocks, old analogs dotting rooms that you’d been in before and presumably rooms that you hadn’t, but there was one in the evaluation room that had been stuck on 8:47 for a while, and you considered them a spot of decoration on otherwise empty walls. You didn’t necessarily trust their accuracy.

But you did trust that the sky fell down every day, and eventually it rose again.

You had nothing; four metal walls in sixty-four square feet of space, a bed, a table with a single chair tucked underneath, and zero windows to consider having anything else.

You didn’t know how many days that you’d been here. There were clocks, old analogs dotting rooms that you’d been in before and presumably rooms that you hadn’t, but there was one in the evaluation room that had been stuck on 8:47 for a while, and you considered them a spot of decoration on otherwise empty walls. You didn’t necessarily trust their accuracy.

But you did trust that the sky fell down every day, and eventually it rose again.

And you did trust in your knowledge that despite a lack of memory, Subject Four was an unconventional name considering that there weren’t any subjects One, Two, or Three. Not that you’d ever seen, nor heard–their existence was not something that would consistently evade your notice–and while your mind was more fog than thought most days, you surmised that you had a good idea of the comings and goings on this side of the wall, even if those on the inside hardly tiptoed around the idea of subtlety. 

On the other side of the wall, well, that was questionable. 

That was where most of the fog presided, submerging any memories or concepts that you may have had about anything on the outside of here. Sometimes you tried to let your mind wander to it, but then your head hurt and the fog thickened–despite that, the temptations were too much, breaking open just enough that sometimes you thought that you caught a glimpse of something inside. It gnawed at you—an ache at the back of your mind, a tantalizing mystery cloaked beneath the fog. 

You had seen glimpses of that world through the small sliver of memory that occasionally pierced through your haze. Blurred images of light cascading through trees, laughter mingled with wind, the scent of something sweet. With every fleeting memory, you would find yourself desperately reaching for it, only for your grasp to dissolve into nothing.

And every night, as you lay on the narrow cot, staring into that unyielding darkness, you grappled with the idea of you, and nothing more. If your mind’s rejection would let you hold on to what little memories there were left to have, if there was much to anything at all, perhaps it was best that you never broke through. 

You didn’t remember anyone, even if they would have bothered to come say goodbye.

Regardless, there was a subject four, and you found it extremely baffling that they called you that. 

That and their insistence on referring to you as it. It or Four, but never a name and never anything that made you feel even remotely human–rather, an object to be studied, analyzed, and recorded. The way they approached you, with their lab coats and clinical detachment… every interaction was a transaction of data, drained of empathy or compassion.

They’d ask you questions, but their words felt hollow, a rehearsed script designed to elicit responses they already anticipated. At first, you tried to answer, tried to make sense of their inquiries, but over time you had been reduced to mere nods or shakes of your head. Words held too much weight anymore without any kind of significant value.

Each day, when the sky fell and rose again, you awoke beneath the weight of uncertainty—clutching to the conviction that perhaps you could dig through the haze of your past and discover the truth of your existence. And in doing so, you would show them what it truly meant to be alive, to feel beyond a mere label.

Somewhere inside, you were still fierce with rebellion, forged by the simple desire to break free and carve out a world that had not been hushed into submission. Until then, you would remain, waiting for a moment to reclaim what had been stolen. Waiting, while that clock ticked on—stuck, maybe, but not broken. Not yet.

You may not have a concept of time or day, but during certain times of day, usually twice, close to wakefulness and close to sleep, the strong scent of sterile—not the sterilization that naturally stuck to this place, but a strong scent of disinfectant layered over and over on top of one another—you knew that they were coming to take you to the evaluation room, and you knew to stand facing the back wall without them having to tell you. 

You would stand there, arms tightly crossed over your chest, feeling the chill of the smooth metal pressing against your bare skin. The cold comforted you even as the anxiety coiled tightly in your stomach, a familiar twist that told you something unwanted was on its way. You could hear the shuffle of feet behind you, the muted whispers of the soldiers punctuating the sterile air like moths flitting about a flame.

The familiar scrape of the viewing window slid open, a grinding of concrete against metal, and the gruff voice of a man that you had “affectionately” referred to as Superior barked at you: “Don’t move!” Usually there was a curse or an insult involved somewhere. You entertained the idea that he was having a better day than normal.

Sterilization filed with them into the room, the familiar bland green and beige that made up their attire obscuring your vision—you often found yourself looking for something different, gloves or a pair of glasses if that would give you an idea as to the weather or the season, but everything in this side of the wall never changed.

At your back, guns were shoved into your space, and while they kept their distance, you didn’t blink. As you’d been taught, you clasped your hands behind you, watching their shadows mill about until you felt one grab your hands. 

It was always a sensation that felt similar to a jolt, a spark that made your hands twitch and made Superior’s men tense, but you didn’t retaliate and because you didn’t, neither did they, finishing the routine of clasping handcuffs around your wrists tighter than necessary, and giving the same treatment to your feet. The only part of them that you usually saw, their hands, extended in front of your face to clasp on a muzzle and pull it taut. 

On one of the first days that you’d come here, you’d almost made a joke that you wouldn’t bite, but something in you suspected that they wouldn’t find it very funny. While they had never put hands on you in a way that wasn’t necessary, you didn’t want to test that to any kind of extent. 

You heard Superior step aside, the scrape of his boots across the floor, but you didn’t turn around until the order to do so was bellowed in your ears, reverberating across the walls with a resounding echo that lingered for a few echoes afterwards. 

“Go!” Only when you felt the pressure of the guns off you did you finally rotate, slowly, catching faint glimpses of familiar faces and nothing else. They, with their own routine, immediately stepped behind you, forming a tight arc. Superior didn’t take the front, taking the point behind you instead.

You never felt a relief to stretch your legs, your thoughts always straying from the subtle ache to the rooms that you never got to see on the way to the evaluation room. Their doors were always closed, always quiet. If there were people that came and went, or the people in lab coats that were routinely rotated out, they did it at a time that you didn’t.

You’d tried to catch the eye of Superior multiple times, or of his men, only to be given a harsh, spoken reprimand. They never looked.

Those that did look, different observers on different days, seemed to have a keen sort of interest that felt different. 

The evaluation room, a stark contrast to the confines of your cell, was a sterile space flooded with fluorescent light, stripping away any semblance of warmth. It was there that you had been tested for the usual things: cognitive function, memory recall, emotional response. Each session ended with vague theorizations on their part, murmurs of hypotheses that you never listened to. They had you do the same tests, at varying levels of difficulty at varying levels of repetition. It all felt entirely irrelevant.

The questions felt even less so. 

How are you feeling today, Subject Four?

Did you sleep well? Did you have any dreams?

What are you thinking about?

They were difficult questions to answer; your mind always felt far away, a separate entity that was also a non-physical thing that you couldn’t see, you could feel, but you could never theoretically reach–if you jumped to grab it, it would always be just above your fingertips. The part of your mind that made the outside observations, and formed the questions, but also the part that had a concept of before. 

Besides, if you started asking your questions, you would never stop.

Where were you? 

Why did everyone smell like bleach?

What was your actual name?

You’d ask more important things, like what the weather was like outside, if you thought that they would answer. Somehow, that felt harder than asking anything else.

As you were deposited into a chair in the room without your restraints being removed, you found yourself sitting face to face with an observer that you could admit that you liked more than the rest. Dr. Halen always approached you with a kind of gentle curiosity that set her apart from the others–a soft voice and an enthusiasm that hadn’t yet waned after years of experience in her field; but she smelled like the rest, and that was enough for you to group them in the same category. Regardless, her presence did little to erase the chilling atmosphere of the evaluation room. You found it harder to respond to her than to the others. 

But sometimes she showed you pictures in books, miniscule things. Flowers in vases, trees, cloudy skies–things that you had no personal, clear picture of. If you hadn’t known before, if it was not a memory that you were sure existed somewhere in the back of your subconscious, you would argue that you’d never seen them at all. 

You liked to look though, even if like everything else, they stayed confined to here. 

“Subject Four?” Dr. Halen broke through your thoughts. “What are you thinking?”

You shifted slightly in your chair, the coarse fabric of the restraints rasping against your skin, a constant reminder of your confinement. Your heart stood completely still, even as thoughts collided within you. What were you supposed to say? 

A flicker of a memory crossed your mind during the pause, something warm, almost tactile. A glimmering lake? Was it a lake, or simply a reflection on the walls of your prison? You squashed the momentary spark, fearing its ephemeral nature. Instead, your gaze darted to Halen’s kind eyes, and you settled on the first response that came into focus, even if it felt hollow.

“Nothing,” you answered, voice muffled.

“It looks like something,” she went on, only appearing amused. “Remember, no thought is too insignificant. It’s a great step towards your recovery to know what you’re thinking, and the more complex, the better.”

Recovery? You wanted to ask. Recovery from what?

“You’ve been making great strides since you got here,” and yet she never mentioned how long ago that had been. You never risked crossing that social threshold to ask. “The other’s are beginning to not think so.” She then clarified. “Your other doctors. They think you’re degrading, but I think that we’ve made a lot of progress in understanding your condition.” You watched her manicured fingers pluck at the corner of her papers, her subtle ticks betraying her certainty.

Your condition? Were you sick?

“So if you have anything on your mind, I’d like you to share it with me,” it sounded somewhat like a plea. “Your thoughts have great value.”

You didn’t think so. You didn’t answer. 

Silence settled between the two of you, a beat and then another, with Dr. Halen watching with an anticipation that you didn’t share. You had nothing to say–you didn’t consider much about you complex. She cleared her throat, and you caught the faintest glint of the perspiration dotting her forehead, the way that her throat bobbed and she scratched at the bridge of her nose just underneath her glasses. Both hands gripped the edge of her clipboard and she shifted uneasily in her chair before she continued. Despite her outside demeanor, you noticed the obvious signs of anxiety that flitted around her.

“Let’s try something different,” she suggested. “Instead of thinking about you, let’s think about something… broader. How about the world outside this facility?”

You furrowed your brow, the mere mention of 'the world outside' sent you spiraling. The fog was thickening, wrapping around memories you could not reach. You almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it—how could you possibly think about a world you had no tangible connection to?

“I—” you started, your voice flat. The bloom of obscurity once again settled heavily in your chest.

“I know it’s hard, but if you could picture it—what would you want to see?”

You blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard. The question hung in the air like a challenge. What would you want to see? You were unsure how to answer without sounding foolish, without unraveling into that dark abyss you feared.

“Sunlight,” you answered, almost instinctively.

Her expression suddenly brightened. “Sunlight! What does it look like to you? What does it feel like?”

A flood of sensory memories washed over you—flickering shards of warmth across your skin, the gold and orange hues spilling lazily over lush, green grass, and a distant laughter you could not place. “Bright,” you finally replied, striving to grasp the sensations slipping through your fingers. “

Dr. Halen didn’t break eye contact; in fact, she leaned forward, nodding encouragingly. “Beautiful. And what would you do in that sunlight?”

“Run,” you said, the word escaping before you could contemplate its implications. “Far.”

A few scribbles of pen across paper and her smile broadened, as if you had let slip a treasure directly into her hands that she was eager to unwrap. “And where would you run to?”

“I don’t know...” You didn’t blink. “Just… away.”

“That's a wonderful start,” Dr. Halen continued, her voice now a delicate tone that seemed to cut gently through the lethargy clinging to you. “You’re envisioning a goal. Freedom can be more than just a word, it can become an image—a place.”

You glanced away. A place; a vast unknown beyond your world of metal confines. The world outside was nothing like the stark walls of the facility, yet it was beyond your grasp, swimming in a sea of abstraction.

“What does freedom mean to you?” She prodded gently, and her words felt like halting footsteps echoing through an empty corridor.

You searched the recesses of your mind. Colors spiraled through it—a canvas painted in shades of untethered joy and sorrow intertwined. “To not be… alone,” you finally admitted, and with those words, a tremor of vulnerability prickled down your spine.

Dr. Halen's demeanor softened further, and the walls around you seemed to shift slightly, the oppressiveness of isolation lifting ever so slightly. “You’re not alone, Subject Four. You have thoughts, desires, and you're beginning to articulate them. That’s a step towards something greater than what is here. Do you understand that?"

You blinked. The tension in your limbs released, replaced by a flicker of warmth that blossomed in the still void of your heart. An ember of humanity, perhaps? “I think I do,” you murmured, surprised by the admission.

“Wonderful,” she breathed. “Would you like to explore that more? What else do you desire?”

The words felt dangerous, yet they were laced with promise. You had long since forgotten the thrill of dreaming, of longing for what lay beyond the prison of metal walls. Slowly, a vision began to tease at the edges of your consciousness—the scents of fresh earth, the sounds of rustling leaves, the feel of grass beneath bare feet.

“I want… to feel alive,” you confessed.

“Then we will work on that, together,” she vowed. “Every thought you share brings us closer to understanding you—and understanding what you need.”

Time, you mused quietly—whether it were minutes or hours—had paused while you waded through the depths of perception, between clarity and hazy memories. And now, as the expanse of thought widened before you like an open sky, you found a tenuous pride in admitting your desire: a life unrestrained, with sunlight and freedom—where you could breathe without the oppressive weight of the unknown.

“Tell me more,” she urged softly, and you nodded apprehensively, ready to lift the barriers higher. A flame had sparked—a flicker of hope against the backdrop of uncertainty—and you refused to let it go. This time, you wouldn’t shy away. You would not be just Four, or it. You were a voice, a life wanting to be reclaimed.

“Sometimes it just…” You stopped, eyes flickering to the floor, the stark whiteness of it, sterile and bare, mocking you. “I don’t…” The memories surfacing threatened to drown you. “I don’t remember much.”

Dr. Halen’s eyes softened, and she tilted her head. “That’s alright, Subject Four. We can work on getting those memories back, bit by bit. Remember, it’s a process—”

“No,” you interrupted, almost too forcefully. “You don’t understand. What I mean is…I don’t even know if I had memories. Or what they were.”

Your voice broke the stillness. You could feel the air shift, the intimacy of the moment amplifying your vulnerability. For a heartbeat, the oppressive weight of observation faded, leaving behind only the raw truth of your words.

Dr. Halen paused, carefully gauging the tremor of your affirmation. There was an intensity to her gaze, her lips parted slightly, as though poised to offer something—reassurance, perhaps?

“Do you want to remember?” she asked.

You were taken aback by the question, a deluge of unprocessed emotions surging through you. Do you want to remember? You felt like a wisp trapped in fog, yearning for the warmth and clarity of sunlight but terrified of losing yourself in the process.

“Yes,” you breathed, the word escaping like a desperate prayer. “But I’m scared,” you admitted swiftly, the confession escaping before you could grasp its weight.

Dr. Halen nodded as though she welcomed your fear as an ally rather than a foe. “That’s alright, Four. Fear is part of it. But you’re not alone. We’re in this together.”

Together. The word resonated in those sterile walls, filling the void of your solitude with a fleeting sense of solidarity. For a moment, you dared to believe in the possibility that beyond these metal walls, beyond being labeled as just Four, there was something more waiting for you—a world yet to be uncovered, a name yet to be reclaimed.

“What was it like?” you asked suddenly, your voice shaking with anxious curiosity. “Before this? Before…”

Dr. Halen regarded you thoughtfully, a hint of something akin to nostalgia crossing her features. “It’s hard to say. Each experience is different. Some remember the warmth of sunlight, the laughter of friends, the comfort of home…” she trailed off, her voice softening.

Home. The word brushed against the fog, an ethereal whisper that sent a shiver of recognition through you.

“Do you…do you think I had a home?” you ventured, hesitantly.

A moment of silence enveloped the room. “I believe everyone has a home, Four,” Dr. Halen said, her voice steady. “And even if you can’t remember it right now, it’s still a part of you. We just have to uncover it.”

The idea felt like a flicker of light in the depths of your consciousness, illuminating fragments that almost seemed familiar, yet remained just out of reach. But for the first time, there was a thread, a promise that perhaps you could bridge the chasm between who you had been and who you could still become. Unshed tears threatened to surface, a burning behind your eyes, but they didn’t surface. 

And as Dr. Halen smiled gently, you locked onto that glimmer in her eyes—a promise, a spark despite whatever lay underneath that told you that she was still unsure about you somehow. You would try, despite the binding restraints of this place. You would fight against the fog and reach for the light, even when it felt impossibly distant. You were Four, yes, but you were also a whisper of memory, a yearning pulse of identity, waiting for the moment to reclaim it all.

“There’s a new visitor coming in a few days. Did you know that?” She asked after a moment, a wry little smile touching her lips. 

The mention of a new visitor pulled you from the tender threads of hope spun between you and Dr. Halen. The thought itself was absorbing, emitting a strange resonance that tugged at the edges of your foggy memories. Curiosity swirled within you, intermingling with apprehension as you grasped for more context than just fleeting thoughts of light and freedom.

“What do you mean, a visitor?” You asked, your voice steady, though you felt the undercurrent of uncertainty ripple through you.

Dr. Halen straightened, her manner still soft but with a hint of clinical seriousness that you recognized all too well. “He’s an outside consultant. His research aligns closely with your condition. They think he might bring a fresh perspective—new insights we might not have considered yet.” She paused, allowing the implications to settle. “His methods may differ from ours.”

Methods. The word echoed ominously in the sterile room. You shifted in your chair, the restraints a constant reminder of your fate as both an object of curiosity and an enigma. It felt disheartening to think that another stranger would now scrutinize you, your thoughts, your vague memories, poking around the sensitive fibers of your mind.

“Is he like the other observers?” You ventured, the fog in your head swirling with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. “Or is he… different?”

Dr. Halen’s gaze softened; she seemed to measure her words before speaking. “He has experience with similar cases like yours but on a more severe scale,” she replied, nodding gently. “He’s done a lot of good work, and he was recommended to us by a higher power. His presence might bring about unexpected changes, both in the study of your case and in the way we approach our methods going forward.”

“Unorthodox,” you echoed, the word rolling off your tongue like a pebble dropped into a still pond. You strained for confirmation in her eyes, hoping for some assurance that this visitor would offer something worthwhile.

“He’s not here to hurt you,” Dr. Halen continued, her tone reassuring, if slightly charged with apprehension too. “It’ll be just like our meetings right now. Think of it like getting a new observer, for example.”

You absorbed her words, even as their meaning danced around the frayed edges of your reality. You had learned to tread carefully in this place; new experiences were a double-edged sword, equally capable of forging paths of understanding or suffering. Who was this new person coming into your life, and what would their scrutiny unearth?

You thought of your fleeting memories—the sunlight, the laughter, the longing for freedom—and wondered if this visitor might help uncover more than just the confines of your mind. “What if he wants to know why I can’t remember?” You asked quietly. “What if he asks me things I can’t answer?”

“We’ll approach it one step at a time,” Dr. Halen urged, her voice steady like the spine of a well-worn book, binding pages of uncertainty. “This is part of the process and we’ll prepare for it together. Trust me, it’s a new experience for us, too.”

“Prepare?” you repeated, your brow furrowing. Uncertainty and fleeting optimism mingled within you like ghosts in a night sky, drifting ever nearer to confrontation.

“Yes,” Dr. Halen said decisively. “Based on his suggestions, there will be some changes with studying your case. You may find that it works out for the better compared to what you’re used to.”

You nodded slowly, though in truth, there was a war within you. The thought of preparing sent shivers through your spine; unease churned within you like the murky waters behind heavy rains. Yet, deep down, nestled beneath the tumult, there was a pulse—fragile but fierce—urging you to engage, to search for the truth that lay dormant within the confines of your mind.

“Do you think he’ll help me remember?” You asked, the question a hesitant whisper, yet holding the weight of something significant.

Dr. Halen regarded you thoughtfully. “I can’t guarantee what will happen. Each interaction is unpredictable. But if you remain open and willing to explore… who knows what may emerge?”

You looked away, thoughts wrestling with the walls of your confinement—the emptiness of the room, the sea of sterile white. Your identity, however nebulous, was something you yearned to unearth. You wanted to explore the edges of your past; you wanted sunlight, laughter, and the promise of feeling alive.

“Maybe,” you said slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “maybe I could try to remember.”

Dr. Halen smiled—a gentle curving of her lips that filled the room with warmth. “That’s the spirit, Subject Four.” There was a sense of solidarity in her affirmation, one that felt both strange and welcoming.

The fabric of your reality shifted ever so slightly; a glimmer flared in the midst of the fog, beckoning you to step closer. In preparing for a visitor whose motives remained nebulous at best, you felt a strange mingling of fear and exhilaration. Whispers of memory and identity lingered just at the periphery—perhaps he could help bridge the chasm you had been struggling against.

“And you think he can help me find…whatever it is I’ve lost?”

“I do,” she replied earnestly. “This is an opportunity, Subject Four. An opportunity to explore not just your memories, but the essence of what you are.”

“Then… I’ll be ready,” you affirmed, your voice gaining strength. The fog still clung heavily in your mind, but its grip felt less suffocating now, thinner like a delicate veil. “Ready to remember.”

Dr. Halen smiled again, and in that moment, you caught a glimpse of who you might become—a whisper of identity, stoked by desire and fueled by the flicker of hope. Perhaps together, you would uncover the life that lay buried beneath those heavy metal walls, rework the fragmented puzzle pieces of your existence into a picture that spoke not just of survival, but of the vibrant essence of living.

~~~~~

Leon S. Kennedy stepped off the transport, the metallic clang of the door reverberating in the sterile hallway that led to the facility's main wing. He’d been in enough labs and research facilities to recognize the scent of antiseptic mingling with the sterile ambiance—an overwhelming mix of clinical precision and the lingering undercurrent of something gone awry. He’d been assigned here on what was supposedly a straightforward evaluation of a subject with unusual cognitive impairments. The details were sparse, and he didn’t buy the official line that this was just another mission; it never was where the government was concerned.

Straightening his posture, he scanned the area. White, tile floors gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the walls revealed nothing—just stark metal panels, doors sealed tighter than a bank vault. Leon’s eyes narrowed as he considered his surroundings. He preferred his jobs to have a bit of a wildcard element, something chaotic enough to keep him engaged. But this? This felt more like a job for people in the office, people more attuned at talking in a scientific and clinical sense; he had more field experience, but behind the scenes, ultimately, figuring out the ‘what’ and the ‘why’ wasn’t his concern.

The facility staff were uncharacteristically quiet as they ushered him through a series of checkpoints, their glances betraying a mix of anxiety and curiosity. Leon wasn’t sure if they were worried about what he might discover or if they considered him a threat. He had received a brief on the way—something about a subject exhibiting unusual psychological symptoms. After the nightmare of Raccoon City and all the hell that followed, the idea of a mysterious test subject was enough to kindle skepticism deep within him. No one had bothered to fill him in on the particulars of Subject Four's condition—just the basic protocol: observe, record, and report back.

What kind of twisted science project was this? 

He adjusted the strap of his shoulder holster, the weight of his pistol reassuring. As he approached the heavily secured entrance, he was greeted by Dr. Halen, her demeanor professional but with an undercurrent of something unspoken.

"Agent Kennedy," she greeted him with a nod, motioning for him to follow. "Thank you for coming."

"Yeah, well, I'm curious what I'm getting myself into," Leon replied, folding his arms across his chest. He had learned a long time ago that curiosity and caution were often at odds in situations like this.

"You'll be meeting Subject Four," Dr. Halen explained as they walked through the sterile corridors. "The situation is… complex. But we believe your insight could be crucial."

"Complex in what way?" Leon asked, attempting to gauge her trustworthiness. He had pulled information from many sources, and they rarely painted a complete picture.

“Subject Four has been exhibiting significant memory loss, but there are signs of intelligence and emotional depth we didn't anticipate,” she said, her tone somewhat softer now. “We want to understand if this individual is capable of rehabilitation or if they pose a risk.”

He frowned at that. Rehabilitation? It sounded too much like a euphemism for something darker. The name had struck him as odd—in the line of work he had chosen, he had seen humanity stripped away from those subjected to unethical experiments; he’d seen how it could corrode the soul, leaving behind nothing more than shells of the individuals they once were. Empathy was something severely lacking in facilities like this.

The sounds of muffled voices reached them as they approached, and once inside, the room immediately engulfing him in stark, fluorescent light that made everything appear hyper-real–starkly lit, clinical, devoid of color. The table, the chairs, and the sterile instruments scattered about all blended into an intimidating array of clinical objects. Central to it all, however, was a solitary figure restrained yet sitting upright, facing away from him in a manner that suggested both submission and resilience. Leon took a deep breath as he approached it, disabling the safety on his Beretta for good measure. He wasn’t about to walk in unarmed, even if it was labeled as a “low-risk” operation.

Leon frowned as he took in the sight of Subject Four. Even without turning to face him, there was an air of defiance that bubbled just beneath the surface, the faintest hint that this wasn’t just a lifeless specimen in front of him. The figure held an energy—a yearning perhaps—that seemed to speak volumes. It haunted him as though their story had reached out and wrapped around his heart, igniting a sense of urgency.

"Subject Four, huh? Guess that makes me your official welcome committee," he said, his voice laced with a teasing nonchalance he often employed to mask the weight of a situation.

The figure craned their neck back to face him, revealing a pair of eyes that seemed to contain a universe of confusion and longing. The moment their gazes locked, an intensity surged between them—an unspoken understanding that this encounter, while charged with clinical detachment, held the potential for something more profound.

Leon took a step closer, his curiosity piqued. The restraints were a jarring reminder of the situation, yet he noticed the subtle way the subject held themselves; despite their confinement, there was an undeniable spark of resistance. "Mind if I ask for your name?" He ventured cautiously, aware of the layers of meaning hidden beneath a mere title or number.

Subject Four hesitated, the silence stretching out like a fragile thread. "I… I don’t remember my name," they admitted slowly, the words laced with melancholy and a hint of frustration. "They just call me Four."

The air in the evaluation room thickened, a gut instinct warning him that he was stepping into murky waters. Hia gut twisted anew as it brushed against their shoulder. A searing cold washed over him, and the contact sent a jolt through him, the frigid temperature radiating through his fingers like a warning bell. “What the hell?” He said, his voice rising in surprise as they recoiled from his touch, darkness weighing heavily around them.

The memory of the T-Virus haunted him, dredging up dark recollections associated with cold, lifeless beings devoid of humanity.

Leon's mind whirred, memories flooding back to the chaos of Raccoon City, where the line between human and infected had blurred into nothingness.

The instinct to aim his gun flickered to life, guiding him like a beacon through the disorienting haze around him. He leveled the Beretta steadily at Four's forehead, the metallic click echoing loudly in the sterile room.

"What are you?" He demanded, his voice low and commanding. The chaotic symphony of his emotions simmered beneath his calm surface.

Four's eyes widened with bewilderment, their hands gripping the edges of the chair, a cautious gesture that revealed no threat. Confusion etched across their features, deepening lines of vulnerability and desperation. “What do you mean? I—I don’t understand!”

Leon felt a pang of guilt at their fear, but he couldn’t shake the rising tide of anxiety that roiled within him. “You understand enough.” His voice was calm but steely, the weight of his justice felt. “You’re cold—you’re not breathing.” He strongly entertained the absence of a heartbeat but did not act on the decision to check.

“I’m normal!” Four protested, voice trembling, as though they could feel actual fear. “You don’t know me! I don’t remember! Please!”

As Leon maintained his unwavering stance, an inner turmoil twisted within him. There was something deeply unsettling about the disconnect between Four's turmoil and his instinctive distrust. He often found himself sifting through layers of deception, but what lay behind those quiet eyes felt distinct—a heart still struggling to hold on to its humanity amidst the storm.

Still cold, he continued to regard them with suspicion. “What’s wrong with you?” His voice softened against his will, as he searched for answers in the very depths of their gaze, a spark of humanity crossing the divide between them. “Do you have any idea what you are?”

Four blinked, the question hanging between them like a knife poised on a thread. “I’m me,” they replied slowly, a yearning of sorts hanging at the edge of their voice. “That’s all I know. I just want to remember… To understand who I am.”

The conviction in their plea stirred something in Leon. He exhaled slowly. The T-virus—his mind drew another dart of a thought—could have made this subject a ticking time bomb. They could pose a threat if left unmonitored, yet he weighed that against the inexplicable ache of compassion creeping into his chest. How could he condemn them for being an enigma when he himself was standing half past the shadows of guilt and regret?

“Tell me the truth. Have you been infected?” he interrogated sharply, the weapon still trained on their forehead. “This cold… it’s not natural.”

Four shook their head vehemently, eyes shimmering with unshed tears summoned by the weight of fear. "I don't know what you're talking about! I don’t know!” The desperation surged like tidal waves crashing against the shore. “I can’t remember anything! I don’t want to hurt anyone!”

Leon felt his grip on the Beretta loosen as the panic in their voice unveiled raw, protesting humanity. The longing in Four’s pleas—the need to discover oneself paralleled only by his instinct to protect innocents at any cost—pushed against his resolve.

“I don’t know what you are,” he said firmly, voice echoing with taut intensity. “But if you’re anything like what I’ve dealt with before…” He trailed off, glancing at their vulnerable form, eyes wide and full of confusion beneath the cold facade of steel.

Leon’s resolve wavered momentarily. They weren’t attacking; they were… scared. And despite the instinctual need to pull the trigger, he was forced to weigh the possibility of what lay beneath the surface—what those cold walls hid.

Gathering himself, he took a steadying breath, lowering his weapon slightly without breaking eye contact. “Just… tell me if you understand,” he added, his voice softer, tinged with urgency. 

His words lingered, hanging in the air thick with tension. Somewhere behind those eyes was a thread of humanity, a battle to be waged against whatever it was that had brought them to this place–whatever unnatural thing had gotten ahold of them. Leon’s instincts brimmed with trepidation, yet he found himself unwilling to sever that connection just yet.

“What’s your real name?” Leon asked, his heartbeat thrumming in time with the tension coiling around them. He kept his grip steady, the weight of the pistol somehow grounding him even as he faced this unknown quantity. There was life in their eyes despite the pallid skin that practically glowed against the white walls of the room.

They stared back at him with bewilderment, as if struggling to grasp the meaning behind his words. “I… don’t know. I’m just… Four.”

“Right,” he muttered, his mind racing. Not a great sign. The name they carried felt like a hollow shell, devoid of context. “You’ve got to tell me what you’re infected with, and why you’re here in the first place.”

Their brows knit together in frustration, and they shifted slightly in the chair as if trying to break free from the bonds that held them back. “Infected? I don’t… I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Leon’s eyes wandered over them, absorbing the detail of their averted gaze, the way they seemed to retreat further into themselves. He felt his resolve wavering, something akin to sympathy threading through the hard edges of his training. “Look, I don’t want to shoot,” he murmured, voice low, trying to ease the raw edge of the moment. “But I need to make sure you can’t hurt anyone, including yourself.”

Leon’s heart ached with a rush of realization: this wasn’t just some T-Virus casualty. It made sense why he was suddenly involved, he supposed. He’d only hoped for a decrease in the workload after the shit-show involving Ashley Graham. “How long have you been here?”

Their brow furrowed again, and they seemed lost in the depths of their own thoughts. “I don’t know… time isn’t—”

“Of course it isn’t,” he interrupted firmly. “You don’t remember anything?”

“I remember… sunlight,” they whispered, a note of vulnerability creeping into their voice, a flicker of emotion that tore at him. “I’m still… alive,” they insisted, their voice gaining a firmness. “You don’t have to be afraid!”

The statement caught him off guard. Instincts met empathy, and for a flicker of a moment, Leon hesitated, the gun wavering slightly in his grip.

“Listen, we don’t know what you’re infected with—”

“I’m not infected,” they objected, and Leon could see the tendons in their neck strain slightly with their rising frustration–still eerily human. “You’re wrong. I don’t feel sick.”

Despite the unease, Leon couldn’t shake the sensation that this encounter transcended the simple, clinical analysis he had anticipated. He lowered the weapon, the Beretta's weight feeling suddenly onerous in his hand. “Look, I’m not your enemy, okay? But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth. The last thing I want is to be caught in the crossfire of whatever’s going on here.” He gestured towards the walls, as sterile and unyielding as the situation itself.

His skepticism hung in the air like an unwanted cloud, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability radiating from Subject Four. Leon was accustomed to dealing with dangerous situations, but this was different. Subject Four’s plea for understanding felt genuine, tinged with a mix of fear and desperation. He could sense their humanity struggling against the confines of a cold, clinical environment.

“I’m not your enemy,” Leon reiterated, his voice steady but softened, trying to pierce through the fog of uncertainty that enveloped both of them. “I just need to know what I’m working with. You seem… different from what I normally encounter.”

“Different how?” Four asked, their tone cautious. There was a flicker of defiance in their eyes, but it was layered beneath a shroud of confusion that mirrored his own feelings.

“Cold,” Leon replied simply. “Weirdly human. There's something… off. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t exist. I just want to understand where you fit into this whole mess.”

Four looked deeply into his eyes, and for a moment, the fear and uncertainty faded from their gaze, replaced by a glimmer of understanding. “I don’t have all the answers,” they admitted quietly. “But I’ve been here for what feels like forever. They call me ‘Four,’ but it’s like I’ve been stripped of everything else that could define me.”

Stripped. The word resonated with Leon, tugging at the edges of those memories he’d fought to suppress. He thought back to Raccoon City, when countless lost their identities, trapped in their own nightmares. The fear of losing oneself—he understood that intimately.

“Do you remember anything else?” Leon pressed, striving for the clarity he so desperately sought. “Anything at all that could help us figure out what’s happening?”

“Just flashes,” Four replied, their brow furrowing as they sifted through the fragments of their mind. “I remember… sunlight and grass. Laughter, but it feels so distant. I can’t hold onto it; it slips through my fingers. Sometimes, I think I can hear voices whispering in the dark, but they’re gone before I can understand.”

Leon shifted his weight slightly, both intrigued and unsettled by their enigmatic memories. “And what else?”

Four hesitated, gathering their thoughts carefully. “It’s a longing, I suppose. A desire to connect with whatever was out there. But I feel trapped—trapped in this place, in this body that doesn’t feel like mine. I don’t know how to explain it, but the cold… it’s like a barrier between who I was and who I am now.”

That made sense. What didn’t make sense was why they weren’t immediately going for his throat; they didn’t even seem like they had the urge unless that was what the chemical bath was for when he first got here.

He weighed the words of Subject Four, their haunting recollection of sunlight and laughter mingling in a haze of confusion. He remained still, studying the figure restrained before him, unnervingly human yet inexplicably different. The cold still emanated from them, but the more they spoke, the more he felt the flicker of warmth.

A pang of something deeper settled within him as he pondered the implications—all the creatures affected by the T-virus were distinctly different. They didn’t articulate feelings, or fear, or loneliness; they acted upon instinct, pure and unyielding. Four seemed to convey the raw essence of humanity, even if clouded or coated in something alien.

This wasn’t the kind of mission he was accustomed to—interrogating test subjects with vague memories and existential struggles. The world he operated in was one fraught with danger, ambiguity, and moral dilemmas, but this? It felt different, like a cold weight he couldn’t shake, threading through every thought he had about the situation.

“What you’re experiencing… I can’t pretend to understand,” he finally said, voice low yet firm. “But if you’re not infected, then that changes things. But that also raises more questions.”

Four’s gaze bore into him, earnest and pleading. “I want to know who I am. I want to uncover the truth behind all this.” 

“Truth is—this isn’t a straightforward mission for me,” he admitted, feeling strangely vulnerable in the sterile room, the weight of his responsibility pressing down on him like an anchor. “I’ve dealt with things that have completely obliterated chances to understand things like this.”

Four nodded slowly, their features betraying a mix of disappointment and understanding. “I know. But I promise, I’m not what you’re afraid of. If you can just help me remember… If you can trust me even a little. They said that you deal with monsters all the time, but I’m not one.”

“Look,” he said, taking a step closer, the distance between them narrowing. “What I can do might not be enough, but I can try to help you.” Leon's voice bore a hint of determination mingled with reluctance; a slight crack in his steadfast façade. The world around them felt sterile with menace, the atmosphere thick with tension that made every breath, every movement tightly coiled with hesitation.

The resolve in their eyes seemed to solidify, and for the first time since he’d stepped into that sterile room, Leon felt the absolute insanity pulling at his conviction. 

What the hell had they gotten him into?

[proper-goodnight]

On The Run Pt. 3 (Final)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

Type: Multi-Chap (3/3) (Finished)

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @96jnie, @ryanclutched, @the-light-of-earendil

There were plenty of people that Six didn’t have a particular fascination with–he’d learned how to deal with it for the sake of the job–and those people that he loathed would never have been the wiser. His life had followed a similar algorithm in prison, except the inmates had learned their lesson much faster. At that time of his life, undeniably, he had been just a touch more honest. 

Despite that, he’d only been with Lloyd a short few hours and couldn’t manage walking behind him without the temptation to shoot him in the back.

His finger toyed with the trigger, aiming his sights down while they trekked through who the fuck knew to some place that Lloyd had yet to mention. Lloyd walked with a swagger in his stride that told him that he knew that Six wasn’t going to do it, and seemed hellbent on strutting like a peacock to further tempt Six into doing it. 

He thought of Claire and the urge to and to not put a bullet in the back of Lloyd’s head increased tenfold. Worry was a permanent fixture on his expression, even if he’d made attempts to hide it. Unfortunately, he’d fallen for the one thing that he was advised against doing once he entered the Sierra Program: Avoid attachment.

He cared about Claire. He would burn the whole countryside down for her—he had . 

“Can you not think so fucking loud?” Lloyd scoffed several paces ahead. “You’re giving me a headache.” 

Six stifled a sigh. “How much farther?” 

“You know, you look like a Courtland.” Lloyd went on as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s got just the right amount of weird and bullshittery that fits you. I wouldn’t have thought it before, but now that I’ve had time to think about it,” a pause followed by a shrug. “I can see it.” He continued. “I was going to stick with Ken, because you have the, you know, gruff Ken doll thing going on, but Courtland? I can have a lot more fun with that.”

Six didn’t answer. 

“Ken doll suits you, but Court? Courtney?” Lloyd rambled on. 

“How much farther ?” He pressed.

“Alright, your Courtship. You got somewhere else to be?” Lloyd then looked, expression feigning offense, then casually threw up a hand before Six could answer. “Don’t answer that. Of course you don’t.” He ducked underneath a hanging branch, the sun setting below the horizon basking everything in a soft glow–it would have been peaceful, had it not been the circumstances. Before long, they would hardly be able to see fuck-all, and the overgrowth and brush in the woods would be a constant hazard that they’d have to fumble through. 

Six wasn’t sure if he could handle it and Lloyd’s mouth at the same time. He was nearing the end of his patience already; had done so before they’d left the safehouse.

Lloyd only took Six’s silence as some silent verification from who-the-fuck-knew-who to keep rambling. “Here I was, right–” He scoffed, but staring at the back of his head hardly allotted Six to gauge much from his expression other than to guess. He didn’t really want to picture it, the stache that served as the centerpiece of Lloyd’s face exasperating enough in real time. “ --ecstatic to see you.” He stopped suddenly, and Six kicked up dirt in his tracks as he followed the motion. 

“Honestly, I’m a little disappointed. Court, it’s a low blow.” He turned, the barrel of his rifle making a wide arc towards Six’s face. 

Six ducked out of the way, his expression twisting into a subtle scowl. “That’s not my name anymore, Lloyd.”

“Are you always this fucking sensitive? When did you last get laid?” Lloyd’s lip curled in disgust. “Despite breaking your collar, you’re still a loyal little bitch.” He scoffed a laugh. “I’ll bet Ol’ Fitz is rolling in his grave.”

“I’m helping you for Claire.” Six reminded him. “That’s it.”

“I didn’t realize that you were part of the family’s will.” Lloyd turned, continuing back down the path. “Kinda ironic that your leash gets passed around, but I’m the one taking you for a walk, eh?” 

Six bit back any further retort, his rising frustration shoved down his throat with the reminder that his constant headache had Claire somewhere, and he was following with either blind faith or the hope that Lloyd would let her location slip by accident. 

As soon as he found out, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to hold his trigger finger back anymore. 

And he had a lot of self-control.

“Relax before you burn a hole in my goddamn skull. I’m fuckin’ with ya,” Lloyd chided. “We’re almost there, Princess.” 

Six’s brows relaxed, averting the glare that he hadn’t realized that he’d even had . Lloyd was testing Six’s usually stoic demeanor with every step, and the fact that he turned his back and continued through the brush without exactly telling him where there was in the first place did nothing to ease old temptations. 

There became apparent as soon as they happened upon it. The building was dilapidated, hardly anything holding its structure together besides a few extra pieces of board and old bracing. Six stopped while Lloyd ascended the stairs. He turned and looked at him with a raised brow. 

“What?” Lloyd barked.

“This is it?” Six asked.

“Of course it’s not fuckin’ it,” he scoffed. “I didn’t drag your ass all the way out here for a good time. For fuck’s sake, it’s a safehouse.”

“I get that.” Six’s brows furrowed, shoulders sinking as the frustration of this pointlessly long trek hit him full force. “What did you bring me out here for? To redecorate?”

“You got skills in manual labor?” Lloyd asked him, feigning a look of surprise. “I thought that you were just good at killing people.” When Six gave him a droll stare, he clarified: “We’re not playing house. We’ll settle here and come up with a game plan.”

“You don’t have a game plan?” 

“Come on Courtney, I make it up as I go, alright? You telling me that all your bullshit in Croatia was planned ?” 

It wasn’t, but he thought it was rather impressive that everything had worked out like it had. He didn’t know if that was by skill or pure dumb luck. He’d bank on the latter. 

He didn’t answer. 

“Right,” Lloyd said as though that were the end of it and somehow, he’d come out on top. He stepped inside.

Six hesitated by the door, reluctant to set his gun down in case Lloyd suddenly changed his mind about their fragile alliance and because he was reluctant to even admit that he was actually following him in here. Lloyd seemed content to wander across the cabin into a side room, leaving a wide crack in the door before Six heard him piss. 

With a muted sigh, the gun was leaned against the wall, and he took a quick look around the inside perimeter. It wasn’t as dilapidated on the inside compared to the poor structure of the outside, the furniture kept to the bare minimum, no electronics that he could see but a flick of a light switch told him that it had power. As far as he could tell, they were the only two there; it wasn’t like there were many rooms to check. 

Six didn’t really know what he was expecting.

Something similar to the warehouse maybe. Questionable armed individuals wandering around, and he did see the irony in that, minus the loyalty to Lloyd and mostly thinking in vulgar terms relating to getting laid or homicide. Regardless, he wasn’t ignorant enough to hope that Claire would be here. Her sarcasm was preferable to Lloyd’s though, and he never imagined that he’d have a preference. 

When Lloyd walked out of the bathroom, Six was standing in the entryway, hands in his pockets and making a slow rotation. 

“It’s just us here,” Lloyd told him. “You don’t have to constantly act like you’ve got a stick shoved up your ass.”

Six believed him, and somehow, that was more unsettling than having doubt.  

“We didn’t need to stop here,” Six said. “We could’ve kept going.” The sooner he got Lloyd’s bullshit over with, the better. Every second spent with him only made him worry more for Claire.

And his own sanity.

“Maybe what I need you for involves sitting the fuck down and chilling the fuck out.”

“You haven’t told me what you need me for,” Six quipped. 

Rather than respond, and as though to prove a point, Lloyd threw himself down on a worn leather sofa, noticeably clean as much as the rest of the cabin’s interior was. His arms crossed across his chest, legs spread out over the arm. 

There was no room for Six to sit, but that didn’t matter. He would sooner take the floor either way.

God , he was fucking losing it. This had to be some kind of prolonged fever dream.

Before Lloyd could somehow yank Six’s thoughts from his own mind, he walked out of the cabin and onto the front porch. The outside was just as quiet as the inside, the only sound besides the rustling of surrounding forest the squeaking door behind him as it pushed shut. 

He fished inside of his pocket, pulling out a small square photograph; specifically, the Polaroid that Claire had taken of him when they’d first met. It felt as sentimental as carrying an actual photo of her around, knowing that she’d been the one to take it before it’d been awkwardly plucked from her hands. She had tried on several occasions since then but shoving his hand into the middle of the frame every time had made her stop even when she’d attempted to jump into the middle beside him herself. 

You’re so paranoid. He could hear her, mocking him as she looked at another blurry, disrupted photo of his hand. Apparently, you weren’t actually supposed to shake out the photo to get them to develop–she’d taught him that, and he realized that it was a very miniscule thing to think about in the grand scheme of things. 

Bubbles and marks could form and ruin it if you’re not careful. It has something to do with the chemicals.

Six had no idea what that meant. What he did know was that he missed Claire. In the long months of considering giving her up to a life that was not this, he hadn’t actually entertained how his own psyche would react when she wasn’t around. She never did give him a moment to think, and now that he was alone in some remote cabin in the middle of the woods with Lloyd Hansen, his mind was going a million miles an hour. 

He strongly considered getting her that dog that she kept asking for whenever he got her back. Yeah, he must have missed her a lot. 

The photo was tucked back into his pocket, and he turned and walked back inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, the thing was that Lloyd had fucked up. 

Six slid on his slick soles, body jostling as he bounced against the wall and took off, descending the steps two at a time. A cough erupted from his throat, the violent nature of it throwing him off balance–he felt as if he were suffocating under the sudden intrusion of smoke, a flush of bodies once having been opening fire now laying in his wake. The exits had been blocked, fire overtaking the building in a pace that ensured it was no accident.

And it wasn’t. They had done that. They , being Six and Lloyd.

He bled. His right leg had tried to give out on him several times, a twitching, bleeding gash at his shoulder making his arm feel numb. A spot above his eye had turned his right field of vision red, but despite that, it did not deter his efforts to escape. He stumbled forward once he made it to the bottom, spitting out a thick string of bloody drool, coughing and wheezing. There was no time to assess the explosion of pain in his ribs, his leg, his face. He needed to find Lloyd and bail. Pronto. This was the kind of shit that people didn’t come back from.

And he actually had a reason to come back, and unfortunately as long as he had contemplated leaving, a reason to find Lloyd.

Six turned the corner, tripped over a body, stumbled forward, and felt his knee pop as soon as it struck the floor. A round of curses bubbled up from his chest, but he was too light-headed to shout them in any meaningful way. Nowhere to go but forward. Continuing down, down, deeper through the halls, she picked herself back up and—red. A glimpse of red, fixed on that godawful perve stache. 

He half-ran, half-dragged himself over, slumping down to sit on his good leg right next to him. A trembling hand hovered above his face, waving, before he snapped his fingers a few times. “Lloyd.” He said urgently, then, a little louder: “ Lloyd!” He pushed two fingers against his bloodsoaked neck, finding a pulse there, promising, but weak. 

Lloyd coughed, a splash of blood flying from his lips and landing on Six’s bare arm. He thought that he heard him mumble a curse, and then:

“-- Your fuckin’ fault–” he choked. 

A figure out of the corner of Six’s eye yanked his head up, just barely pulling out of the way from an incoming fist. Six grabbed his assailant’s arm, acting with every intention of merely shoving him back before he broke through the bone with one swift snap and shoved his head against the adjacent wall. 

The screaming hardly deterred him, but the next incoming assailant had stared at him as if he’d suddenly morphed into something else in front of his eyes, and with a sudden rage, raised his gun. He was on him in a second, quickly snapping the button on the side that ejected the clip before sending it sailing directly into his face. 

The gun was wrenched from his hand, the barrel snapped back to eject the remaining bullet, and it was tossed off in a puddle of darkening red somewhere beside him. 

A punch snapped the man’s head back, just as the hard soles of his shoes came down on the man’s face, once and then twice. The man wheezed and gave a high, strangled cry as he proceeded to stomp him into the floor. Warm blood spattered his shoes, the bottoms of his jeans, but he didn’t care. Unfortunately, as much as Six would love to leave Lloyd behind to face his own consequences a second time, he needed him.

Dammit.

The man’s face became a bloody mass, eyelids swelling to almost comical proportions. Teeth scattered across the ground, bones cracked in an orgasmic symphony of noise, but he ignored him even as he gradually stopped clawing at Six’s leg. 

Behind him, a creak. A crack in the tile—he turned, heard a sharp ping , and suddenly a cloud of paint chips and dust exploded next to his head, and a thin trail of light slipped through a fresh hole in the wall from an adjacent room. Another stood in the dead center of the hallway, aimed at him with a silenced handgun; his other arm had folded over his face. There was blood all over him from a cheap shot that Six had given him upstairs.

Six dove forward when he fired again, stumbling before he lunged to tackle him by the legs and bring them both to the floor. His fist flew into his jaw and another bullet grazed his temple before sailing into the ceiling above. Fireworks exploded across his vision.

A wrestle for control ensued—grunting and grappling, clawing—and they rolled into the wall. No curses or insults. No screaming. He grabbed his wrist, twisting the barrel of his gun away now that they’d flipped, now that his attacker was on top, straddling his waist so tight with his knees that he could hardly breathe. He felt a pop in his ribs. Pain flared along his side.

The attacker’s arm trembled, struggling to overpower him enough to plant the gun against his head. He fired another round, missing again, and bringing him to three more until the magazine ran out. His other hand pinned him to the floor before he released it to grab his throat instead and shove down, down, down so harsh he felt his windpipe bend against his fingers.

He gasped. Nothing filled his lungs. His face turned from red to a dense shade of violet, and his eyes bulged, and he kicked at the empty space behind him. His free hand reached to push at his face and slipped in the blood pouring out of his mouth and nose.

Six’s hand darted to the side, reaching for the gun that had been unceremoniously dropped. He sent it sailing into his opponent’s head, the full weight of him falling all at once as the body dropped to lay beside him–unconscious, and not dead. He didn’t have time to finish it. While he lay there catching his breath, he heard other steps emerging from the top of the stairs. 

The sound urged him to roll over onto his stomach, hands planted against the floor and gradually raising himself up. He stumbled over to Lloyd, pulling him into a sitting position before finally yanking him up, throwing one arm across his shoulder and dragging the majority of his body weight out a side door. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lloyd didn’t wake up for another day, his shallow breaths the only sign that he hadn’t slipped over death’s threshold just yet. Even though he regained some sliver of consciousness the following night, he didn’t let out a single sound until the next–meaning he was pissed that Six had dragged him half-dead himself back to their safehouse and tied him to a chair. 

“Look, just—” Lloyd threw his head back to glare at the ceiling. “You don’t have to blackmail me, Courtney. I told you that a deal was a fuckin’ deal, didn’t I?”

Six crouched only a few feet away, arms draped over his knees, his patience having thinned out days ago and only being reignited by Lloyd’s awake and alert face. He  shook his head and rose to stand from where he’d been pivoted back on his heels, bending to search his pockets, from his pants up to his vest. Each of its buttons was popped loose before he peeled the lapels apart and scanned the interior side. 

His eyes were half-lidded, having spent the better part of the last couple days licking his own wounds. He’d had enough of the bullshit.

As expected, this was when Lloyd stopped playing nice. He shoved his feet against the hardwood to fling himself away and toppled over, hitting the floor. He had incidentally trapped himself on his back like a flipped tortoise, so without any better options, he resorted to kicking both bound legs out at Six.

“Don't,” he snarled.

Six circled him unscathed, then dropped into a crouch behind his head to lean over and search the vest’s pockets.

“I said a deal was a deal. Are you fucking deaf?!” Lloyd twisted and bucked against the chair, against the floor, veins bulging from his temples. “Goddammit! I never took the fuckin’ kid, alright? I never took her!” He thrashed again, again, again. 

Six’s expression was placid, but in his mind, he screamed, days of exhaustion and frustration ripping out of him in one booming word. FUCK!

He should’ve fucking knew. He should’ve known !

“Now let me go, and you can go back to playing house, eh?” Lloyd snapped. The duct tape wouldn’t loosen no matter how much he fought it. “Go right back to being her fucking guard dog .”

That was when Six made the decision to leave him. It did not quite ease his frustration, but there was something satisfying about turning his back and leaving Lloyd yelling strings of curses behind him and flipping his chair on every which side. He even left the door open a crack, quite literally allowing Lloyd to glimpse his back on the way out.

Six picked up a carton of Claire’s favorite ice-cream on his way back to the hospital. He’d planned to stay in a hotel across the street during her recovery period until they could head back to the states–he strongly considered Florida as their next stop–but since he’d been gone for so long, now he was nervously standing outside of her door, having lost years upon years worth of basic English trying to figure out some kind of excuse.

An excuse was somehow harder than the truth. He wondered if she thought that he’d left her. Alone .

Sometimes he saw her as one of his favorite records, having seen years of life but still vibrant and warm. Other times he saw her as a raging storm, chaotic and difficult to grasp. Other times, she was something like stars; cold, unfeeling and far away.

Sometimes, she was all three at the same time. Now, when he entered her room, catching the faint sound of some television show from a TV on an adjacent wall, she was all of those things all at once and something else. 

He felt stupid, the amount of time spent staring, jaw slack, breath caught in his throat until he wasn’t sure if he’d stopped breathing or not. There was something akin to relief, disbelief, and elation. It contorted in his chest, twisted at his heart and fell into barbs at the bottom of his stomach. 

“ Hey ,” was all he could manage, breath finally expelling into stale air and shoved out with a spotty exhale. A stutter. His eyebrows raised, then furrowed, struggling to come to grips with her being there – here –and seeing her.

Claire visibly gasped. Her blankets were thrown aside and she stumbled, knocked off balance and careening toward the side table until both hands struck its edge to stop herself; Six had darted forward to catch her, but she fixed her posture, a thousand curses on the verge of popping off her tongue like hot grease. She drew up as straight as a broomstick. Her expression softened from rage to something much stranger, much more foreign: fear.

As though her eyes were playing tricks on her. 

Tears welled in her eyes.

“This isn’t funny,” she said and lunged, sprinting full speed toward him. 

Six’s arms opened instinctually to greet her, wrapping around as soon as she barreled into him and knocked him back a few steps.

Muffled by the wool of his suit: “Six? Six, it’s you, right? It’s you?” Her glittering tears left pale streaks on his jacket that sparkled. She kept squeezing; her arms shivered, her feet nearly slipping on the floor as her legs quivered. 

She was the only person that he allowed to perform such gestures, the willingness to welcome her with open arms further cementing the fact that she was here, with him, squeezing the breath from his lungs until his answer came out as a high-pitched wheeze: 

“ Yeah. It’s me. ” 

He was overwhelmed, albeit much better at keeping such emotions at bay, continuously clearing his throat, a burning sensation rising up. He held her until his own arms had tightened to a considerable degree–her shivering form and the notion that they were together all the incentive that he needed to hold steadfast. 

Then he was shrugging his jacket off his shoulders, draping it around her instead, a smashed pint of mint chocolate chip safely tucked away inside one of the pockets. He adjusted his watch on his wrist, looking at her. He never voiced his fears because that was so unlike him, and he never doubted himself because that bred potential mistakes–death in their line of business. Impenetrable calm. He’d walked too many bullet and knife wounds to count, and reset a break in his leg without making a sound. 

Now he was about to cry seeing her again. 

“You look better,” and again he was clearing his throat, a lop-sided grin that illuminated his ken-doll face. Disarming. Rare. Somehow it worked for his roughened handsomeness, the scars without his jacket all the more prevalent. Then he removed the smashed, pint-sized carton of ice-cream, holding it out to her. “I brought your medicine. Sorry it took so long.”

Claire’s expression changed, to something vaguely surprised then to amused. Her brows softly furrowed, choking on a laugh halted by her tears. A laugh, less rough this time: more wobbly. Angered by the next wave of emotion that came crashing into her chest, she scrubbed at her bloodshot eyes. 

Managing a brief semblance of calm, she plucked the pint from his fingers and rested it in her palm to examine its sorry state. It was opened, its damaged contents exhumed for close inspection. “I’m really mad at you.” She said without a single hint of rage, her splotchy red face still sporting that sad, dimpled smile. 

But Six felt a warmth in his chest at the realization that she was happy to see him. Genuinely.

Once again, scrubbing at her eyes again with the fury of a girl deadset on peeling her own eyelids off, she threatened him through remnants of choked sobs. “I’m gonna get you back for this. You wait, and it’s going to be really bad, so you’d better have a good explanation for where you’ve been!”

Six’s eyes drifted. When his face finally relaxed, he rolled his shoulders. “You might want to sit down for this one.” He suggested with a scoff of a laugh. “So I ran into Lloyd in the elevator–”

[proper-goodnight]

Pull (Leon x Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

“Why did you do it?” He asked. “You aren’t here for me. Why seek me out?”

“Looked like you needed company.” You stepped around him, one fluid sweep of your legs, the bare brush of your skin against his own urging him to turn after you. He reached for you, but you slipped through his fingers. You paused by the doorway, your hand gripping the frame, turning your head to look over your shoulder. Your eyes locked. “Standing in the corner on your own looked lonely.”

The smell of roses and mint brushed Leon’s nose as you left. Right then and there, Leon realized that he was fond of both plants, and finally forced himself to look away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leon watched you from the shadows of the ballroom, having tucked himself away through a doorway to the side specifically to avoid your attention. It was some kind of sick, divine fate that he would be assigned here, and find you, taking his breath away and curling barbed wire around his beating heart, grabbing the ends with your bare hands and twisting it tight. Days spent on a fucked up island off the coast of Spain had hardly yanked a reaction from him, and yet you managed to do it without notice. 

You had a similar rapport for wearing black like he had, but Leon hadn’t expected the startling blue that you’d decided to grace tonight, throwing your head back and laughing as a young man lifted you into the air. He ignored your partner, and let the sight of you subdue him from doing anything rash. It was all for show where you were concerned, he knew. If it didn’t have some kind of ulterior motive, he doubted that you would even be here.

You definitely weren’t here looking for him.

Regardless, he imagined himself shoving your partner away and taking you into his own arms, whisking you away into his private corner. He could hear himself breathing soft words into your ear, you unbuttoning his shirt and sliding your hands up the rigid lines of his stomach. Your fingers were capable, always approaching everything with care and purpose in mind; you wouldn’t realize that you were doing it, but you would have planned every ridge and crevice that you traced before you did it, skimming your fingers across his chest, pressing your teasing lips to his neck and whispering things of your own. Your soft whispers would fill his ears.

You would say things that would have him thinking on it for months afterwards.

Leon entertained owning a place like this, offering it to you, offering something to make up for the time that you had been close only to be forced apart. He did not delude himself; life had kept both of you on opposite sides, one constantly chasing after the other. He had nothing to offer you, always on the move and one step away from dying. 

But if he could keep you in this beautiful, gilded cage, maybe you would finally settle. It was all a fool’s dream, though.

“You’re gonna burn a hole in her,” he heard Chris off to his left, “you keep staring so hard.”

A droll stare was thrown Chris’ way, and the soldier’s arms immediately threw up in surrender. “I’m only saying. Trust is built through actions, not words, and you two have one hell of a streak.”

“Why don’t you put in a word for me,” Leon retorted. “Let me know how it works out.”

“Better than you’d think,” Chris replied, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “But that’s not what we’re here for tonight. You want paid, you can’t hide out in the corner all night.”

Leon didn’t consider it hiding. Many assignments had insisted that he take to seclusion and observe; get a read on anyone that might serve some kind of importance and document the rest. Granted, he’d been standing there for the last half hour and still couldn’t get a read on you or your intentions, but he wouldn’t have considered it a waste of time, either. 

Regardless, Chris had a point. 

“What about Jill?” He asked. “What’s the report?”

“She’s making sure that the assets stay where they’re supposed to be.” Chris answered. “And the client is currently without security which is you, so.” He cocked his head.

“I don’t see why I need to stand toe to toe with some rich prick all night,” he exhaled, his eyes subconsciously straying back toward you. “Anyone goes after him, it won’t be out in the open where everyone can see.” They would wait, and as far as he could tell, his client had been surrounded by numbers of women and important business partners for the majority of the night.

It reeked of perfume and cologne, it was loud, and Leon had taken the opportunity of his client focusing his energy on gathering donations to battle “bioterrorism threats” and not pretending it was some kind of publicity stunt to instead grab a corner, have a few drinks, and be left alone. At least until he’d seen you and his idea of the night was turned upside down. 

Maybe he was hiding. 

“You know better than that Leon,” Chris continued to gripe into his ear. “Threats can come from anywhere; any time. You’ve seen enough of it.” 

“Ashley Graham could handle herself with possessed cultists. As long as nobody starts eating each other or turning into monsters, it will be a big improvement compared to what I’ve seen.” Leon said absently, nearly a mumble underneath his breath. 

Chris rolled one shoulder. “If it does, I’d rather have you near the client than over here.” 

Leon didn’t have to lean too hard to recognize it as an order, even if Chris was hardly his superior. They were classified as a ‘team’–him, Chris and Jill–but it wasn’t unlike Chris to immediately take up the lead. That didn’t mean that it wouldn’t annoy Leon where it wasn’t convenient. 

“Yessir,” he said with a mock salute, handing off the wine glass that he’d been holding to Chris before traversing onto the main floor. More so, skirting along the outer edge. The throng of people didn’t make it too difficult to blend, but by the time that he looked over to where you had been, he didn’t see you anymore. The absence of your previous dance partner didn’t go unnoticed either, but Leon pushed it aside to ascend the stairs and find his client by the upper railing, surrounded by people talking inconspicuously and flashing their money with their wardrobe. 

Leon was by no means far from the upper class; his type of work paid well after all, it had to, but he didn’t see money, cash or otherwise, saving the world. 

Him, dealing with companies brandishing world-ending viruses and fighting corruption in the form of people just a little more selfish than these people, was a better contender in comparison. He may have also been a little biased, considering. 

It didn’t take very long for boredom to strangle his expression, eyes flicking to the shoe-streaked linoleum floor. The walls below were mirrored, reflecting the colorful throngs of people that moved about in whirlpools of varying colors, their conversations blurring together. 

“I hope that you realize that this is a bad time to brood,” Leon looked up, meeting eyes with his client who had come to notice him for the first time that night. “Leon S. Kennedy, correct? Your reputation certainly precedes you.” He approached him, extending a hand. Leon shook it. “Richard Quincy. Pleasure to finally meet you. They told me that they were sending their best, but I was surprised to see you. I thought that you’d be international.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Leon said plainly. “Not much going on overseas.”

“It must be kind of beneath you, isn’t it? Combating bioterrorism by other means than taking action?” He asked. 

He shrugged. “You said it, not me.” 

“The money helps, you know? Without it, you wouldn’t have a percentage of the supplies at your disposal.”

“Money hardly means anything without the manpower, either.” And he’d gotten through The Island and Raccoon City by whatever he’d had on hand. Money hadn’t given him the experience or the means to his survival; he’d done that on his own.

Money hadn’t guaranteed Ashley coming back. He would’ve asked for a hell of a lot more in that case. 

“You do set quite the example. I’ve heard about your rescue of President Graham’s daughter a few months ago, but I haven’t heard the details about the full report.” He went on, raising a glass as though what had transpired there was something to toast about. Another had raised before Leon could speak. “I’m not going to ask, classified information and all that I understand.” 

“The health insurance is good,” Leon answered. “That helps.”

Quincy expelled a laugh. “Of that I’ve no doubt.” A pause, then suddenly engrossed, he added on: “Lady troubles?” 

Leon’s inscrutable face refused to change. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve barely acknowledged my existence despite me being your contract, let alone anyone else’s. Call it my expertise where yours are concerned but,” his head pivoted. “That young lady that was over there,” he’d turned and your eyes followed his lead, but again, Leon didn’t see you, only where you had been. “I thought that it was against the rules to fraternize on the job.”

The details of the room seemed to mesh together, morphing into colorless blobs, but if you were there, you would have been a beacon wherever you stood, people enveloped you as petals would to a pistil. 

“Isn’t it?” Richard pressed when Leon didn’t answer.

“I think you’ve mixed up the definitions of fraternizing and fucking.” Leon drawled, canting his head. His arms crossed. The guy was trying to get too damn personal. “Besides, I’m… on duty.”

“I’d consider it the same thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Leon didn’t waste a beat. “No.”

“I could introduce you. Her name should be on my guest list.”

Leon considered the suggestion. 

“No.” He decided, rather quickly. Slowly, but surely, the low din of a dozen different conversations rose back in blaring chatter. At this point, Leon could finally ease up a bit, so he did. He couldn’t conjure the words, the greeting, the polite small talk. If this guy only knew, it would never even be a possibility. Besides, what could he want from you before he was whisked off to some other corner of the world?

His job gave him order and calm, but with you?

Whether his dismissive attitude irked the client or not, Quincy didn’t press further, raising a glass in a silent toast to Leon’s chosen isolation–and lack of socializing beyond raising Chris’ blood pressure wherever possible. Being as high in society as Quincy was, maybe he was used to the company, the crowds, and yet Leon had spent the worst part of the last few months being unsure whether someone would leap for his throat or not.

With you, it was a similar concept, except exceedingly more terrifying. 

“I think that I’m going to step out.” Quincy said. “Do you mind?”

Leon nodded, starting to follow, and another voice rose up behind him. He almost thanked whatever higher power for the interruption, except that it meant there was news–something had interrupted the peaceful serenity of the night, not that it hadn’t been expected; it was commonplace whenever the three of them were put onto a team.

“Hey, Leon.” 

Jill jogged up to him, fighting with their superiors–and namely Chris–to wear a tactical outfit over fitting herself formal for the occasion. She had won, unsurprisingly.

“What’s going on?” Leon stood up straight, immediately disregarding Quincy to face her. “What’s wrong?”

Jill raised her hands in a placating gesture, shaking her head. “No, area’s still secure. I got word; Chris wants to talk to you downstairs. I was told to stay with the client until you got back.”

Leon’s brows furrowed. “I just saw Chris. What’s he want now?”

“I wasn’t briefed.” She cocked her head toward the stairs. “Get a move on. Security said that it was urgent.”

Expression fixed into puzzlement, but nonetheless placated at the idea to get off of his short-lived security duty, he descended the stairs. The orchestra had risen into a symphony before crashing into the ground, a new tune rising from the ashes to meet it. It went unheard as he maneuvered through the crowd, turning sideways to avoid a brunt hit to the shoulder from a passing couple, giggling and twirling with an energetic fervor. 

Over the crowd of heads, he didn’t see Chris anywhere. 

What the fuck?

Turning toward the back of the room, after another few pointless minutes of searching, Leon was about to ascend the stairs and call Jill’s bluff, except that two strong arms had grabbed at the flaps of his suit jacket, a sudden momentum swinging him into one of the adjacent hallways by the stairs. He attempted to draw back, only for a sharp heel to sweep around his ankle and trip him into one of the empty rooms. There was a flash, a blurry figure dancing around him with flawless grace and damn near mockery. He grunted, grappling at the doorframe on his way through only to finally retaliate. 

His hands grabbed at his attacker’s waist, slinging them upward and flinging them onto a coffee table. The force knocked the breath from them, and Leon believed that he had finally grappled for release. Except, his attacker’s arms looped around his neck and drew him in close, a familiar face, panting and out of breath, drawing him in until they were nose to nose. 

It was you. 

Your eyes spoke for you what you didn’t immediately say, and despite the fact that Leon hadn’t been the one to hit the table, he felt as if he was the one that couldn’t breathe. 

Your name was a breathless whisper on his lips, unable to maintain his composed facade long enough to regain his composure before you had noticed. He drew back, and you allowed it to a degree, just enough for him to be able to prop himself up with his palms on either side of you.

“I almost thought that you forgot about me.” You said, eyes crinkling with the smile that teased your lips. He could feel your gentle breath touching his face while the oxygen finally inflated back into your lungs, a gentle rasping turning into something more even. 

“No.” Leon said, a little too quickly, and he backtracked to the most obvious question. “What are you doing here?” 

“Why?” You countered, raising your eyebrows. “Are you worried about me?”

“I’m serious,” he untangled himself from you, rising to a standing position. The room was enveloped in the dark, shadows casting across the wall. Somehow, you were still the most prevalent thing inside the room, even if he could hardly outline your face; your figure. You were like an intoxication ushering him closer, a parasite curling inside of him with a smile that contradicted all of his expectations. “You tipped security to lure me here?”

You stood, craning your neck to look up at him. Leon had to shuffle back lest you be pressed up to his chest, and yet his fingers still itched to grab your hand. 

“Don’t worry.” You soothed. “I’m not here to ruin the job.” You brushed past him to flick on a lamp, painting your faces in a pale orange glow. Leon’s head remained cocked at an angle, but one misfired look from you and his composure would unravel. Your eyes were like morning, the first shots pouring through the windows, or the glass atrium above your heads. You glided across the granite like a ghost, quiet enough but not consistently able to evade his notice. 

A fine line existed between speechlessness and stoicism, and he could not tell which side he currently teetered on. Thoughts scrambled for reasonable purchase, one benefit to his dour expression was that at least he had the ability to appear indifferent in the face of beautiful adversity. 

“Then, why are you here? Is it the assets?”

“It’s my first time in Italy,” you reasoned. “I went and saw the San Severo Chapel.” You sighed wistfully. ���It’s gorgeous.” Casually, you added. “Oh, and the coliseum. That was exceptional.” The tone in your voice sounded delighted, but your easily excitable nature and compulsion for things that would be considered fun was what had made it easy for you to make friends with Claire. You and Jill were more on a mutual respect level. 

“So, that’s it? You came here for a little sightseeing?”

“Not completely.” You shrugged one shoulder. “It is business, but I had a little bit of time to kill.” You confessed. “I’m here to kill Richard Quincy, raid the buffet table, and take the next plane back to the states.”

Leon found himself dumbfounded, even if he had expected something along those lines. “I thought that you weren’t here to mess with the job?”

“The assets are your job, and mine happens to be a favor from someone who really doesn’t like your client.”

“Jill and Chris are here,” Leon reminded you. 

“And they will get hurt if they get in the way. That is the business part and I can’t afford to make exceptions for friends.” 

Leon grimaced, but you were looking unwavering into his eyes, your expression friendly but passive. The words would have chilled anyone else, or they wouldn’t have taken you seriously at all. He did. “Are you in trouble?” He asked you, reaching for your arm. You let him take it, his fingers curling around your forearm before gradually sliding to your wrist, and then your palm. “I can get you out of it. Whatever it is, we can work together on this.”

You scoffed a laugh under your breath, looking away, eyes skimming the gaudy features of the room before your sharp gaze returned to him. Your head tilted. “You still have a sense of humor. You shouldn’t make promises that you can’t keep.”

“It’s not a promise, it’s a certainty.” He said firmly.

You shuffled closer to him, slipping your hand from his grasp. Your voice was a soft, tantalizing whisper, your calm lilt forcing chills down his spine. “The first time that I needed you, you were chasing after a drug lord with Krauser. The second, you left for some far off island off the coast of Spain. A pause. “On your own.” 

“It was an order from–”

“From President Graham. I read all about it.” You rolled your eyes. “The hero Leon Kennedy goes to a foreign territory to save the president’s daughter from a psychotic cult. You’ve made a name for yourself. Should I ask for an autograph?”

Leon scoffed good-naturedly, shaking his head. “It’s part of the job. It wasn’t exactly a vacation, either.”

“Well, while you made friends with the locals, I was here.” Your falling expression as you looked away did little to mar your allurement. “And I got to a point where I couldn’t wait for you anymore.”

“I’m–” Leon exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

You only shrugged. “Part of the job, right?” 

It was as if it really was that simple; it was a job, and that got in the way of things, had spread the two of you apart as far as you could go. Seeing you again was almost surreal, but Leon had gotten to a point after Raccoon City when he was taking his life one step at a time, leaving whatever happened across his trail behind for what his life had been expected to be. 

Leon nodded, slowly and just once. “Yeah.” 

You copied the action, albeit a little more enthusiastically. “Right, then. It was nice to see you, but I do have a contract just as you do.”

“I can’t let you do that.” Leon stepped in your way, but you didn’t back down, the two of you standing toe to toe. “You can wait here. After the job, we can go somewhere. Anywhere. Just name it. We’ll talk. Really talk.”

You raised your head a little higher. 

“You should’ve been careful, what you did.” He went on to warn. “I could’ve killed you.”

You offered a small scoff of a laugh, incredulous, your lips twitching into an amused smile. “You really are hilarious.”

“Why did you do it?” He asked. “You aren’t here for me. Why seek me out?”

“Looked like you needed company.” You stepped around him, one fluid sweep of your legs, the bare brush of your skin against his own urging him to turn after you. He reached for you, but you slipped through his fingers. You paused by the doorway, your hand gripping the frame, turning your head to look over your shoulder. Your eyes locked. “Standing in the corner on your own looked lonely.”

The smell of roses and mint brushed Leon’s nose as you left. Right then and there, Leon realized that he was fond of both plants, and finally forced himself to look away.

[proper-goodnight]

Into The Gray Chpt. 8 (House Call)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @96jnie, @ryanclutched, @the-light-of-earendil

You sat in the opposite chair, chin in hand, watching Claire Fitzroy push around the dinner that you’d made. You may have been a little biased, but you hadn’t believed that you’d done that bad a job, considering cooking had become something of a hobby for you—but watching her turn herbs over and inspect them with a vaguely disturbed look, nose scrunched and repeating the action with the seasonings, had you doubting. There may have been too much complexity in flavor for a pre-teen to handle, one that you reminded yourself had lived on a strict diet of Hawaiian pizza and ice-cream. 

Claire’s body angled backwards, ready to leap from the chair in case the plate suddenly leapt off the table.

Garlic and zest may not have been the best option that you could have chosen.

The fork was eventually laid to rest against her plate with a clang. Tentative fingers nudged it away, a few inches and then halfway across the table. Her forearms folded on the table’s edge, the wooden finish worn from years of sitting. She’d addressed you briefly when you’d first entered the safehouse–a wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere–but this was the first time that she’d officially looked at you since you’d arrived. Her eyebrows raised, and yours instinctively copied the action.

“So,” Claire started, trailing off. 

“So?” You echoed. 

She leaned forward, and those raised eyebrows suddenly furrowed, narrowing with her eyes as though she had started some kind of interrogation. Her expression mirrored suspicion, but you thought that she was just curious. It was kind of cute; you could admit that. “You and Six aren’t friends?” 

There was a pause before you answered. Your gaze never left her. “We share secrets.” 

“That’s kind of what friends do.” She pointed out, skeptical. 

You nodded, once as if in understanding, but you didn’t really know. No one came to mind that you would trust to keep a secret, no one that you would consider a “friend” on either side involved. You thought about Dani, and you thought about Lloyd, but every secret that you’d learned about them had been without their knowledge. 

You doubted that it counted. 

Social standards and attachments weren’t lost on you, the sociology and psychology of it, but the fact that you’d only thought about it in a scientific aspect, synapses firing in the brain and the chemistry, only proved to you that you wouldn’t be the ideal person to get that kind of advice from—you were too blunt; too literal. 

“You tried to kill Six,” She accused, flat.

You didn’t. You told her that. “I didn’t.”

“You broke into our house,” her eyebrows flicked upwards, as though she’d caught you up in a lie. “I saw you. He had a gun, and then those people broke in. They took him.”

You didn’t know what to say to that; most of it had nothing to do with you. Most.

“Why did you go after him? Do you know Six?”

You briefly contemplated the extent of how much you should confess with a pre-teen and also the niece of the one person that you’d been after at the very start–the original dividing cog in an already fragile machine. Should you explain? Apologize? 

“I’m only concerned about him through proxy.”

“What does that even mean?” She grimaced, voice terse.

Your own remained even. “It means,” you trailed off, eyes flicking around the small space of the kitchen. “That when I get what I need from him, that’ll be the end of it.”

“And what exactly do you need ?”

When you didn’t answer right away, Claire leaned forward, turning your attention back to her, the suddenly intense stare in her gaze as she rested her chin on top of her fist, squinting as though determined to find some kind of secret that could have been hidden in your expression. You didn’t have anything to hide, so you found yourself staring back despite yourself.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading your mind.” She said as a matter of fact. “I can usually do it with Six; you both have this zone out thing that you do sometimes.” She exhaled, then gave up, the brunt of her shoulders colliding back against her seat. She rolled her eyes. “He’s easier.”

“You know him.”

Claire exhaled through her nose. “You two aren’t that different,” she then clarified: “You both can be really frustrating to talk to.”

It wasn’t often that someone could pull a smile from you, and you hadn’t expected Claire Fitzroy to be one. You could see how Sierra Six was attached to her, the contradiction to the rules–an innocence in a world that was quite the contrary. 

She was a child, and had it been your world before it’d gone, you knew without thinking too hard that she wouldn’t have made it. In your world, you learned how to hide from the CIS, NSA, the DIA, the NRO… among others. Your boss’ bosses, the groups they worked with and who knew their names, but never knew yours. 

You were a stray sitting across from something with an impressive pedigree. 

“If you have a prison tattoo with some Greek guy’s name, I’d consider the two of you twins.” Claire rambled on, her interest in you lost and your puzzled look left unanswered as she turned and slid out of her chair, her dinner left barely touched in the middle of the table. 

She left you, the sound of an old record lilting from a crack in an open door a moment later. You took that as your cue to leave, packing up what was left into the fridge–you didn’t count on the idea that she would eat it if she was hungry enough; you made a mental note to grab a few freezer pizzas when you were able. ~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t know if it was because of Sierra Six, or because of your own, albeit brief, experience with Claire Fitzroy, but you found yourself looking for—not at, but for—specific dynamics among groups of people that you’d initially cast aside as irrelevant. There was no distinct purpose behind it and it had become more of a subconscious behavior, but you found it very ironic that you were surrounded by attachments that exerted the same effort to stay together as much as they also did to keep Six and Claire apart. 

Your interrogators on your first day, the brash one and the twitchy one that still couldn’t meet your eye in the hallway as you passed, carried photos around in their wallets of children–also unbeknownst to both of them–the same wife, but you hadn’t cared to ask who was technically the other half of that agreement. 

Dani fretted with her mother on the phone daily, and there was a working couple in the office a few floors down that fostered children. 

The accounting department went to karaoke once a month, and you were pretty sure that one of the intern’s sudden employment offers and the office manager’s vacation presiding on the same weekend wasn’t just a coincidence. 

They behaved as though Claire and Six’s dynamic, their own miniature version of something resembling a family, was any different from the ones they made up on their own–secretive or otherwise. The only difference was that their circumstances had been created by manipulated events; Claire had needed someone, and whether Six had chosen it on his own or decided that he was her best chance, he’d stepped in.

Funnily enough, these people were the ones that had created the circumstances that had forced them together. 

You hadn’t been to see Six since your last conversation. Carmichael had bombarded you with bullshit busy work to hide the fact that he was compiling evidence against you–unsuccessfully–and still looking into the job report that had coincidentally landed you in Florida at the same time that they had found Sierra Six.

Dani never said anything, whether she had any suspicions or not, but there was something about the looks she gave you that told you to cover your tracks a little harder before every single eye in the agency went back to following you around. She wasn’t as subtle. Her curiosities and willingness to go along with anything that could inconvenience Suzanne and Carmichael had kept you safe on several occasions. 

You liked that about her.

“It’s a Friday night,” the familiar baritone of Carmichael’s voice directly beside you was not enough to persuade you to acknowledge him. You were crouched in front of a series of file cabinets, sifting through dated assignment reports–your search was specific, but to an outside observer, you probably looked like you were sorting through junk; past cases considered closed. 

“Everyone’s left the office,” he said when you didn’t answer.

“You haven’t.”

“I’m waiting on a few friends.” Out of the corner of your eye, you watched his hands slide into the pockets of his pants, suit jacket having been discarded and the absence of it showing the hourly grind. His plain button up was rumpled, his tie partially undone. His head pivoted. “What’s your excuse?”

“I don’t have any friends.” 

“No?” He asked with mock surprise, raising his overly bushy eyebrows. “That’s shocking. I would go so far as to say emotionally complex if I thought of you as the emotional type.”

“I’d rather you not think about me at all.”

“It’s not voluntary, I promise you that.” 

“Is someone telling you to do it?” 

“No, but it's come to my attention that despite your stellar employee record, we have yet to find any kind of outside file on you.” He shrugged nonchalantly, and you heard the sarcastic lilt to the idea of you having a stellar anything. “Suzanne thought that you could be useful if you supposedly took out Sierra; she said that your potential would be a waste serving a life sentence.”

“Should I also be thanking her for this conversation?”

 He didn’t waver. “Interest alignments and general surveillance keep you here, but the lack has me curious.” 

His remark led into silence. You weren’t in the mood for this. You looked up. 

“You’re wasting your time looking.”

“We had Lloyd Hansen on a very thin leash, and I’ll admit that it was an idea doomed to go South, knowing as little as we did, but you’re an entirely different risk.” 

“I’m spending my Friday night looking through paperwork.” You tapped the drawer that you had open for emphasis. 

“Wasting your time looking for information that doesn’t exist, right?” His mouth tilted up at the edges, his suspicion evident; it’d always been. You could tell the lack of anything concrete was frustrating for him. He didn’t understand why you were here, nor why you’d been allowed to stay here. 

You understood that it was because of that lack of existence; you’d have been blamed for the CIA’s fuck-ups already if Sierra Six hadn’t been spotted at the scenes. 

“If I had my way about it, you’d be in the cell beside Six’s, and you’d be let out when we want you out—Suzanne lets you walk free, and I don’t quite get that.”

“If we are basing it off of your negotiation skills with Sierra Six so far, I do get it.” You answered. 

The subtle twitching of his facial expression told you that you’d struck a nerve, but Carmichael was not the type to let his pride get the better of him. You knew that the stab would further his attempts to incarcerate you, but in your opinion, he had more things to worry about. 

The squeak of his leather shoes cut through the tension as Carmichael stepped back. His hardened gaze bore into you, a death glare shot back over his shoulder as he left. You mustered up a smile that you made sure he knew was very obviously fake before you went back to what you were doing–but unfortunately, he was right. 

You wouldn’t find what you were looking for here.

It was not the only thing that he’d said that gave you pause, either. He’d mentioned Sierra Six in a cell. Not a room, where you’d first talked to him, but a cell. 

Over the years, many things had made you hesitate. One had been someone’s daughter, rushing to a dance lesson, outside of her mother’s sight but centered directly inside yours, another had been a scientist who thought himself a comedian but took entirely too long to explain what made his jokes funny, and another a reflected light off a skyline; you’d heard the bullet before you’d felt it. 

You found yourself hesitating now, but what you would have considered previously a very well-controlled ability to maintain your curiosity seemed to contradict itself where Sierra Six was concerned. The file cabinet was slammed shut with more force than necessary, and you rose, taking the straightforward path from the basement to the holding cells, one single angled hallway that was housed behind a reinforced door only available with a keycard. 

You didn’t personally have access to that, nor permission, but you’d taken Dani’s keycard when you’d considered going into the basement earlier.

You wondered if Carmichael had realized that. 

The lights in the hallway were the only guiding points to his cell, the lights inside each having been dimmed until what was visible beyond the glass were mere vague shapes among outlines. There was only one that was inhabited–the one at the very end, farthest from the door. You surmised that decision was made with purpose. 

A swipe of Dani’s keycard granted you entry, and when you walked inside, you were immediately met with the sight of him sitting by the wall farthest from the bed, the folded replacements of his clothes untouched at the very end. 

Six’s legs were bent at an angle, arms folded over his knees. The tousled mess of his hair was flattened against the wall where his head was laid back, blood matting it and specks of it spotting the wall. Upon closer inspection, you noticed that there was a leaning angle in the way he was sitting, as though there was an injury to his ribs. His appearance didn’t immediately alarm you, but you suspected this inevitability after enough time fighting his interrogations. 

 When he didn’t open his eyes, you wondered if he was dead; he was too observant to not have noticed you walk in.

Rather than immediately turn toward him, you pivoted in a slower motion. Your face remained passive despite the gruesomeness of him.

“You look like you got into a fight.” You noted. 

“Your friends don’t make good company.” His casual but strained tone was the only indication that he’d noticed you after all, but he didn’t open his eyes to see you.

“And I do?”

Six shrugged, a wince following the motion. “Better company.”

“And here I thought that Carmichael’s personality was just stellar.” You thought that you’d heard the beginnings of a laugh ushered from him, only to be cut short by a hacking cough before he spit a glob of blood across the floor. You didn’t immediately move to help him, lingering by the doorway as though encroaching on the personal space of his cell was worse than encroaching on the personal space of his house. 

In comparison, it was much smaller. 

“How bad are the other guys?”

“Worse off than me.” He wheezed.

With a hum, you finally strode across the room, finding a meager box of first aid supplies sitting on top of the folded clothes. You weren’t surprised that they had left him to patch himself up after beating him half to death, and like you, he’d chosen to be stubborn rather than oblige to anything they handed him. 

After retrieving the box, you’d knelt down in front of him. 

“Got anything to drink?”

You scoffed as you took a small bottle of antiseptic out of the box. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would work. “You’re going to have to deal with this sober,” you said, still digging out some essentials. You threw a glance up at him, only to notice that he was finally looking at you. It didn’t deter you from the order. “Take your clothes off.”

When he didn’t immediately move, you raised your eyebrows. Six looked back at you, one of his eyes partially squinted, promising a bruise within the next few hours. He hesitated to oblige this particular request and you found yourself marveling. 

The Gray Man, who had broken out of a secure CIA building through agents with years of similar–if not more–experience, felt awkward. 

You raised your eyebrows further. 

He still didn’t move. 

“I can’t help you through your clothes.” You pointed out.

Six exhaled through his nose, shifting with a soft grunt so that he could grab at the hem of his shirt and begin tucking it out of the cover of his jeans. His expression twisted at the extension of his movements, a strain on his wounds that had soaked through the fabric and left residue wherever his hands grabbed. You shuffled closer to him. 

“Let me help.” Six moving his hands out of your way was the only permission that you needed. You tugged his shirt free from the confines of his jeans, careful to avoid his wounds while you worked your way up over the defined muscles of his chest, skilled fingers gliding up his biceps and carefully working the sleeves through his arms before you could yank it free over his head. It was dropped to the floor.

Scars covered nearly every surface, old wounds from old places that you’d observed through the window at his house in Florida. There were new wounds and new bruising over the old, some that would leave new scars, but it did little to hinder his rugged handsomeness. You weren’t a fool; you would give credit where it was due. 

Your hands went for his belt next, but he grabbed them.

“I got it,” he insisted. 

“Are you shy?” You teased. 

Your little mockery gave rise to a very light smirk, refreshing the frustration that’d previously occupied his face, but your hands retreated so that he could take over himself, unbuckling his belt and carefully wiggling out of his jeans until he was down to his boxers. Those were discarded beside him on the floor along with his shirt. 

You poked at the space next to one of the bigger bruises at his ribs, purple and green discoloration starting; you went for an open gash adjacent to that space first, taking the antiseptic and gauze into your hands. Your head was bent low, your eyes wandering over the rough outline and bruised edges with practiced focus. 

“Did you finally sign that confession?” You asked.

“No,” Six murmured, soft. “They started beating the piss out of me before then though, so,” he hissed a sharp intake of breath as you dabbed at it with the antiseptic. “It felt like a win.” 

You glanced up, the edge of your mouth twitching. He was looking down at you, eyes wandering, and when your lashes fluttered and your eyebrows raised, he looked back up, to the space around the cell–as empty and disinteresting as it was.

“Uh, thanks.” He went on. “For–for this.”

“I wouldn’t thank me yet. This is not going to be comfortable for you.” 

Six nodded, leaving his appreciation in the air for another time. He leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. He looked more peaceful like this, the lights of the hallway blanketing over him and giving a warm, favorable sheen to features marred by blood. His hair fell away from his forehead, revealing another cut there; another eventual scar. 

You elicited a low groan from him as you pressed the antiseptic into the wound and dabbed at it with the gauze. One of his eyes opened to look at you.

“Just making sure you’re still with me.” You said. 

“Barely. I am beginning,” he hissed out, the words rising like bile in his throat, “to seriously question my life choices.”

Your head tilted. “The Sierra Program taught you how to take a beating, all things considered.” 

“That’s a family trait.”

You exhaled through your nose, poking on another bruise toward his left hip making him gasp; the skin there tender, but nothing that you had to immediately worry about. Nothing felt broken. “You’re hilarious,” you murmured good-naturedly, the action and remark earning a gentle glare from him. “Here I thought that it was the blood loss making you so passive.” 

“Just another Thursday,” he quipped. 

“It’s Friday,” you corrected him, your knees tucked against his thigh where you’d moved against his side. Six held up his hand except that his arm couldn’t extend that far and it fell back down to his knees. One hand pushed against his knees to flatten them both so that they were laying straight, granting you more access where it was needed.  “I’m going to work on your side first. I’m going to need you to hold still, okay?”

Other than a sharp intake of breath, and an occasional flinch, he hardly moved at all; one sharp jerk had you leaning your arm over his legs to hold him still, pushed close to his abdomen and practically laying over him. You’d nudged him closer to the wall to make more room for yourself, your hip pressed against the side of his thigh. 

Threading a needle with a closed eye, you glared at it in focus before your thumb and index finger guided the needle through his skin right beside a hole, drawing it over. As you worked, refined, you ignored the gentle sounds that you elicited from him. Soft sounds of pain were nothing new to you, and you did have to admit that they had made him rather resilient. You didn’t know what you had expected, but for some reason, you expected backlash.

You assumed that his and Lloyd’s pain tolerance were drastically different.

The iris scissors were lifted, and you tied off the thread before snipping it.

More antiseptic was soaked onto the wound before a bandage was applied. You shifted up his body to inspect the wound by his shoulder. One of your thighs was forcefully planted to one side of him, trapped between his and the wall, and the other folded beside you. The supplies were placed on his chest for assurance. He’d lifted his head up when he felt you move; the two of you were nearly nose to nose, but your head was turned, focused on his shoulder. 

He placed his hand beside your thigh, holding himself in place should he somehow find himself leaning. Where one of your hands was planted against his chest to hold yourself steady, you felt his heartbeat underneath your palm, pounding in a frantic rhythm. His skin was hot underneath your fingers. 

Charming.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’ve never had a woman this close before,” you said softly, and low without looking at him, your hand moving away to grab more of your antiseptic. 

His breath hitched when he was about to answer, but you interrupted him.

“I don’t want to know.” You mused.

“I have.”

You snickered. “I said if I didn’t know any better.” You felt his muscles relax underneath your hands, but you associated it more with defeat than relaxation. Granted, you had that effect on people naturally. Considering how often you had knowingly or unknowingly infuriated and simultaneously puzzled Lloyd Hansen and Denny Carmichael, Sierra Six was hardly an added challenge. 

Your slender fingers worked at disinfecting and closing the wound at his shoulder, gradually brushing up the length of his arm. Your skin was cold to the touch as always, and you thought that you felt him shiver under his fingers–there was an explorative nature to your demonstrations, touching every little line and mark as you worked your way up over scars old and new in search of other wounds. 

Your eyes never strayed from the work, speaking in their own silent words. Your hand traveled up to drape across his shoulder and toy with stray hairs, twirling blonde strands in between with gentle tugs that were strangely casual. From there, one would consider a conversation starter, or a knife positioned directly where your other hand lingered at his side, doing the same demonstrations where your fingers splayed at the sensitive skin by his hip bone.

It wasn’t often that you were able to get this close to a man without any other intentions.

Six’s hands lay limp, arrested, slowly curling into fists. When you nudged his arm to look at a wound at his other side, he obliged your wordless request. You felt him tense underneath your fingers, seconds teasing him, trickling past. He waited, and he watched. He didn’t risk another glance, another breath too deep. 

Slowly, mechanically, through painstaking precision, he turned to face you completely opposite with a crinkle in his crescent eyes. You knew that look. You’d seen it before, only with much less speaking involved. Then he truly did subside toward you. He pushed the heel of his palm into the floor for support.

All at once, you found yourself pulling away, your hands retreating from his skin, two breaths escaping in unison once you finally made distance and pulled yourself up from the floor. His fingers lingered, brushing your wrist and curling around your knuckles.

“Are you done?” Six asked, voice sounding groggy, lulled into a kind of security that was never meant to be found with you.

“I think you’ll live another day,” you answered. You forced yourself to not submit, to subside against unwise impulses. Especially with as pale and cold as he was—oh, how he could play the game. 

Later, you promised to no one in particular. 

Six finally exhaled, unable to challenge that certainty in your gaze. He managed a pursed smile, then the smile faded, unreadably flat now. With great reluctance, he let go of you. Not once did his attention stray from your face, clinging to it.

“I can’t promise that I’ll happen to be around the next time you piss someone off.” You advised, the barest twitch pulling at the edges of your lips. “So, be careful.”

“Why did you come around this time?” He’d asked when you’d turned away.

“I wanted to tell you,” you inhaled. “Claire is safe. She wants to see you.”

“I want to see her, too.”

Your hand lingered on the doorframe, and while that hadn’t been your original intentions in coming here, you were glad to give him that reassurance. Claire had never outright said it, but you knew as soon as you’d walked into the safehouse who she’d been hoping to see. You never lied, especially not when the facts were directly in front of your face.

“And you will.”

[proper-goodnight]

Hiloo!! Big fan of your work, especially ‘into the gray’, it’s been a great while since you last updated it.. is everything okay? Are you busy? Could you update us ?

Hi there! (:

College started back up a couple months ago, and I’ve also been working, so I haven’t had as much time to work on it. However, I’ve been taking the last week or so to get ahead with school related things and actually opened it back up a couple of days ago.

The new chapter is coming along well, and I promise that I haven’t abandoned it. Unfortunately, I don’t have an exact ETA, but I can tell you that it is soon.

I’m really glad that you’re enjoying it and thank you for reaching out!

[proper-goodnight]

Into The Gray (Chpt. 7)

Secrets (Into The Gray Chpt. 7)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @96jnie

Everything that you’d learned about human behavior and habit had been through careful instruction, nothing ever given to you without intention. There were things that you’d picked up through basic experience and casual observation–people had a habit of writing their name when given a new pen for example, and if you have a plan B, then plan A is less likely to succeed. 

Sierra Six had uprooted the CIA’s plan A and B, and so far, he was already eliminating all expectations for plans C, D and E. Just like with you, interrogations only left the interrogator more exhausted than when they started, and although you found the entire thing entertaining, you reveled in Carmichael’s frustration with coercing any kind of confession and the realization that he didn’t have Claire to use as leverage this time around. He told Six otherwise, but out of many things that The Gray Man was, ignorant wasn’t one of them. 

For once, you could say that you weren’t the only cause of Carmichael’s misery as much as you wished you were. 

Undoubtedly, getting Six’s compliance was going to take more than pulling a few teeth.

You traversed down sterile white hallways in search of his room–the holding cells had been searched already, and he hadn’t been there–so you strongly entertained that he was put in the same room that you had been during your induction. Carmichael had never said exactly, and although he had suspicions about your whereabouts when apprehending Six, he didn’t have the time to properly look into it, and you’d already been covering your tracks just in case he did.

Your list of things that Carmichael didn’t need to know was growing exponentially longer you realized, but you were too far in to consider confessing them all now. 

Watching him spin in circles had also proved to be vastly too entertaining. 

A few winding hallways and empty rooms eventually led you to find him. Sitting in a stationary chair in the middle of the room with his elbows propped on top of his knees, he looked as though he were debating the world. His expression was fixed into something akin to contemplation, tunnel vision on the tile, but you suspected that he was aware of you outside the room. You weren’t trying to be subtle, anyway. 

“You’re here,” he said once you stepped in, looking up. 

“You should go into espionage with those observational skills.” 

You thought that he bit back a smile, but you couldn’t really tell. There were things that he was good at hiding, such as your involvement at his house at all, you’d learned. He hadn’t told Carmichael; he’d acted dumb when Carmichael had asked. Six had knowingly or unknowingly backed your lie, but you didn’t thank him for that. 

It was the reason behind it that most perplexed you, and you couldn’t help but be a little curious. It was only another thing that you’d find out eventually on your own, so you didn’t ask. He did ask the most obvious question however, still traversing on that very fragile line, and risking the plummet. He’d gone outside of his conditioning and learned to care , and a killer with morals was still a humorous concept to you.

You’d noticed that you had a habit of looking at him, a little too much and a little too long. You had never been a creature of habit, but there was something about looking at a book and suddenly not knowing how to read. Your eyes flickered, traveled , over his form in the chair; no particular direction, and no particular reason. 

“I’m surprised they didn’t cuff you to the chair too.” You mused aloud, recalling the number of irritated negotiators that had left the room with you, then with him –they’d never been brave enough to negotiate without restraints, but they had been more afraid of Sierra Six than you. You’d been frustrating, but him ? “They’re scared of you.”

He scoffed. “I don’t think I’m anything to be scared of.”

“I believe you.” You hummed. “But people like you tend to say that.”

“People like me?”

“A total contradiction that somehow balances out.” You said, but didn’t clarify. Even when he looked at you, eyes probing, you didn’t offer an answer. His brows furrowed, first in confusion, but eventually they settled into the neutrality that you were so familiar with. He recognized very quickly that there was no point, that he may as well have backed down instead of pushed forward. You considered that he didn’t care about that much, and he shouldn’t have. Your opinion hardly mattered as much as anyone else’s. 

You were nothing and no one special, not where he was concerned. 

“Do you know where Claire is?” He finally asked the most obvious question.

“Not here,” you answered immediately, walking further into the room, your arms crossed. There was still a reasonable distance between the two of you, several feet that demanded conversation higher than a whisper. You didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if you were passing secrets. He knew that Claire wasn’t here. 

He sounded tired. “Do you know where ?”

“What makes you think that I do?”

Lips pressed together, he waved vaguely, as though it were really a question worth asking. Unlike you, his eyes never lingered on any certain part of you for too long. “I couldn’t really tell where she went because of your friends from the CIA pummeling me, but I’m pretty sure that you were the last person to have been with her.”

“I know. I watched you get pummeled,” you corrected him.

Then he really did look at you, and quirked a brow. 

“Long enough to watch you get a cheap shot on Agent Morrison.”

His brow quirked further.

“I never liked him that much.” You clarified with a shrug, eyes darting elsewhere. “He has an extensive record, but he had enough connections to wipe his slate clean.” A pause. “He’s also a prick.” 

He looked down. “Sounds familiar.”

“Depending who you asked.” You confessed. “If you’re going to be a prick to anyone, I think you’d at least be honest about it.” 

Then, you thought Six really did smile, even if at the floor; an approximation of one, as close to one as someone like him could get. A scoff of a laugh escaped him, and when he looked up again, his gaze was darting, never staying. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in with the popular crowd.”

“You’re not missing much.”

Your eyes followed his to the same familiar sterile white walls, the minimal amount of furniture, parts of the tile and the baseboards still protruding from where you’d tried to pry it apart so many months ago now; not so much a cell as an actual room . 

You wondered what had changed to get you promoted to being on their payroll, earning an inch of freedom at a time, but you’d always been good at pretending. As far as they knew, you’d only wiped out one of Carmichael’s key obstacles, and you contemplated that he kept you close by for the same reason that they kept Sierra Six alive. Blame. Carmichael hadn’t found your record, nor any hint of your past. 

Yet. 

“I’m assuming that Claire went to a safehouse that you showed her,” you went on. “I didn’t follow her, so I can’t say for sure where she went. If I don’t know, then it’s safe to say that Carmichael doesn’t know, either.”

Something akin to relief flashed behind his eyes—he knew the location, but you didn’t. You didn’t ask; you’d said that you’d find her when you needed her, and that was true with or without his help. 

“You said you weren’t with the CIA. Who are you with?”

A smile crept onto your lips, lingering close to the surface. You could have scoffed, could have laughed, but you didn’t. Your head tilted, your expression flat despite your amusement. “You ask a lot of personal questions for someone who doesn’t go by their actual name.” 

“You don’t ask enough.” He retorted.

Then you really did smile, a slow upturn on both corners of your mouth. “I told you the answer already.”

“The truth.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

His brows furrowed, clearly skeptical. “So you’re parading around with the CIA for… what, fun ?”

“The same reason you’re sitting here when you can leave at any time, I guess.” You said. “You want something.” 

“What do you want?” 

“What do you ?” The two of you stared at each other, level but with one more perplexed than the other. It wasn’t you. When he didn’t answer, you shrugged, incapable of supplying the answer yourself. Instead, you asked: “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘supply and demand’?”

He nodded slowly, still with that perplexed expression that you somehow found endearing. 

“You’re demanding, but you’re not supplying.” You explained. “I’ll give you,” you paused, but it wasn’t a critical decision on your part; the choice wasn’t hard. “Six questions.” You caught him resisting the urge to roll his eyes at your choice of amount and smirked. “Whatever you want to know. But only six.” 

Six looked to think for a moment, picking his words carefully. His eyes had a way of darting you noticed, observing nothing and everything all at once. He was acutely aware of everything in the room, from the protruding tile to the resewed lining in the mattress, to you . From an outside perspective, he may have looked like nothing special, but he definitely was as smart as you gave him credit for. The depth of his mind was far from anyone’s reach. “Why did you let Claire escape?”

“First question. She wasn’t my target.”

“Who was?”

“Do you want to use one of your questions for that, or can you work it out on your own?”

His brows pinched. “... Why me?”

“Second question. I needed to see if you had information on Donald Fitzroy. I was going to search his house—“ well, it’d been closed off as a crime scene until the FBI could tear it apart at its foundation, and that was before Six had gotten ahold of it. You shrugged. “There’s not much of it left.” 

“What kind of information?”

“Third question: A program. Not Sierra.”

“Are you going to count every question?”

“Does that count as four?”

Six shook his head. “Fitzroy didn’t have any program besides Sierra.”

You shrugged. 

“He did ?”

You raised your eyebrows, a silent question. Question four? 

He’d deduced it on his own. You could see his mind working, but in a much more delicate process than your mindless interrogators. He sighed. “Fitzroy’s dead.”

“I know.” You shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything.” To anyone else, it would have. The main target had died, and that usually meant the case was closed. Anyone else would have moved on, but you weren’t just anyone and there were still things that you had to do, and still things that you had to find. 

You were stubborn, but that was what had led you to Sierra Six in the first place. 

“Fitzroy had a lot of secrets,” Six said, still sitting in that same position as though he were debating the world. At least, you knew that he was debating his circumstances inside the room. His fists were curled on top of his knees, sitting straight in a demeanor that suggested he could pounce at any moment. There was a relaxed tension in his muscles that you hadn’t noticed before, but that could change in a second. “The Sierra Program hardly had any records.”

“There are always two people to every secret. If not you, then someone else.” 

Six’s eyes searched your face for the first time since you’d arrived, lingering longer than what was normal for him. You held gazes, but then he was standing, suddenly towering over you despite being several feet apart. His build didn’t strike you as intimidating–if he’d meant it to, it would’ve been. He shuffled closer. The two of you could have whispered if you’d wanted to. 

“What about you? Who do you share your secrets with?” 

You looked up, your voice nearly a whisper now as well. “Question four. You , apparently.”  

“I still feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

“You still owe me three.”

“ Actually , I owe you two, and I’m done answering them for now.” You were leaning up, leaning toward him, bare inches of space that had become familiar for you to invade. He didn’t lean away, even if the coil of his muscles suggested the urge. You’d turned to walk away, but his voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

You half-turned; waited.

Your arms were still crossed, but his were at his sides, two completely different barriers shoving against the same wall. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re looking for; uh, be careful.”

“We share secrets, remember?” You laughed at what was probably the most genuine one in a long time. “I can’t let you out of my sight just yet. I’m not going to make that mistake twice.”

[proper-goodnight]

The Cost of Running (Six) (Into The Gray Chpt. 6)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

Running had become instinct, hiding second nature, every step taken in the last few months planned down to the smallest detail to ensure that he could keep running and keep hiding. Six played his part, did what he was told, and ensured that nobody knew the truth about Courtland Gentry. For years, he obeyed the idea that he was replaceable; at any given moment, if his handlers decided that he had outlived his usefulness, he would kneel down and let them shoot him in the back with only gratitude given for the opportunity. 

Now, they had never outright said that, and it wasn’t in tiny print on any contract that he’d ever signed–that he knew of–but he wasn’t foolish enough to think that everything would be cut and dry. He’d only assumed that what he’d been doing over the years had made up for things, and that he was working toward something. Not to end up being the CIA’s scapegoat.

Not to once again be reduced to the convict that had been incarcerated for the same exact damn thing–being the blame because there had to be someone to blame. 

When Six was hired by Donald Fitzroy to protect his niece, tunnel vision on the ground and breaking every rule on day one, Claire taught him about normalcy and routine in his world–one that didn’t have those things–and she had successfully enacted a strictness on him that the toughest agencies in the U.S. government could not. It wasn’t a trait inherited from Donald, but one completely her own. 

1. He was not allowed to lock the doors during the day.

2. He had to ask about her day at least once and act interested about it, even if he wasn’t (he always was). 

3. No chewing gum in the house. Period.

4. Ice-cream was a suitable dinner choice, and he wasn’t allowed to argue.

5. At the first instinct to run, he had to ignore it.

Claire didn’t like running, or hiding. It guaranteed his freedom, but to her, it may as well have been prison. Living life watching your back constantly thinking several steps ahead wasn’t living, not to her, but he had come to enjoy having his own terms since becoming a fugitive.

Again.   It beat waiting to be stabbed in the back, his old life that he’d willingly let them burn suddenly reignited because they needed it to be. Claire had unknowingly given him a new purpose, and even after everything, no amount of training or experience taught him how to exactly explain that to her. He spoke several languages, had learned tactics to approach every social encounter imaginable, and he could spot a lie in literal masters of deception.

Yet, he wasn’t sure how to tell a pre-teen ‘thank you ’. He’d come close, on days that she was understanding of their circumstances, only to clam up on days that she was angry and spiteful, reminded of what he couldn’t give her.  Like her rules, he was struggling to keep up. 

Ignorantly, he’d chosen to spend a few weeks closer to his hometown so that she could get some grasp of normalcy, and it was because of that they’d finally caught up. His downfall was because of an agent with a ‘come hither’ smile and a whole lot of bad luck. He could have scoffed at his own stupidity had it not been well-deserved.

So, Six was left with not knowing where Claire was again, and waiting until he could confirm that she wasn’t in the CIA’s custody before he made a break for it. The number of bodies stacking up hadn’t made a difference before, and Claire wasn’t there for it to make a difference now. His one viable clue was unfortunately, as far as he knew, on the enemy’s side.

Harsh overhead light washed Carmichael’s face in deep shadows, pulling it back into darkness with every flicker and sudden dim from a failing bulb. It didn’t matter. Six knew that he was the most terrifying thing in this room. The handcuffs were uncomfortable and dug into his wrists every time he shifted, but he could have it around the prick’s neck and have the job done before anyone knew what was happening. 

His pensive stare bled through the man around a wad of chewing gum. It was a previous attempt at winning his favor several hours ago, only for more frustration to succeed when it fell through. Nobody had proved brave enough to take it from him, either.

Slouched back against his chair, his index and middle fingers tapping no particular beat on the metal table, he had yet to look up, questions and demands shifting into the background in one hazy, drowned out sound. His patience with all the shit was thinning considerably. He glanced at the one-way mirror, wondering if you were watching, if you were mocking him just on the other side. ‘This is the Gray Man?’

And whose side are you on?

Nobody’s.

Clearly somebody’s or he wouldn’t even be here. You’d said your name, and now as much as back then, he hadn’t expected an honest answer. He may as well have driven himself crazy thinking about it, but it did distract him from Claire, what little bit of time that he didn’t think of her; that he didn’t think that she would be better off in the long run without him. 

He drove himself crazy thinking about that too.

A manila folder was shoved into the center of his vision, breaking his concentrated focus. His eyes flicked over, the beat that he’d been making on the table finishing its chorus with one more resounding tap. It bounced across the emptiness of the room, and echoed off the silence burying itself into the walls. Carmichael had been quiet so far, waiting and attentive but still putting out a tough farce. Six had since become disinterested in him about an hour ago. 

He’d watched multiple trained officials come and go already, several making obscene gestures as soon as they made it out of the door. This one would prove no different. Carmichael was the man behind the scenes–the intelligence, but not the skill. It was Lloyd and Six that had fought in the war, tumbling through the trenches spilling blood. He never saw Carmichael there to finish the job that he’d started when Lloyd failed. This was his first time seeing him at all. If there was a definition of a corporate prick, Denny Carmichael would be the example picture directly beside it.

The folder was slid in-between them, opened with precision, then flipped across the table. Every action was taken with practiced restraint, Carmichael’s hands moving to fold on top of the table, leaving the folders' contents exposed in their macabre glory. It was all a show, he knew. They needed this for records, to say that it had been investigated and closed. The cuffs on Six’s wrists were placed there for the CIA’s own peace of mind. 

Six didn’t have to look at the contents in any particular way, for any particular length of time. He knew what they were: mug shots, images capturing the twisted aftermath of his previous assignments, gruesome depictions of the bodies left behind in his wake–all labeled with dates, locations, and names that he didn’t so much as bat an eye at, too hardened by his experience to feel any specific way. They’d been conditioned to think of them as enemies of the U.S. government, and he still had difficulty shaking that ideal. He entertained that he never would.      “You remember these?” Carmichael straightened his back, posture rigid as he attempted to project authority, waiting for Six to react but unsurprised when he didn’t. 

 Six’s dry response came swiftly. “Is that my resume?”

“Not quite,” Carmichael smiled, devoid of any humor. “These are your accomplishments.” His voice was smooth, calculated. “Or your mistakes,” a shrug. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Six’s eyes flicked from the photos to Carmichael across the table, weighing the quiet menace beneath the surface. “Quite the highlight reel,” he remarked. 

Carmichael’s smile remained, tight and cold. “Quite. Your record,” he said dismissively, gesturing at the photos, “speaks volumes. Every target you’ve taken out, every civilian caught in the crossfire—here, it’s all laid bare. You’ve been an asset. And a liability.” His chuckle was hollow, devoid of any real amusement. “Useful, I’ll give you that. But everyone’s got a shelf life—especially those who burn as many bridges as you have.”

 “Because I was given the option to say ‘no’ to those contracts, right?” Six replied, deadpan. He’d thought that the CIA would’ve had bigger concerns than a mess made by one of their own assets–like the mess he’d made of their other assets when he’d decided to go rogue with the drive. “I didn’t pull the trigger on those jobs.”

“You did what you were told. That’s what matters, isn’t it?” Carmichael tilted his head. “You could’ve served life.”

Six shrugged, “Made a lot of guys uncomfortable in prison.”

Carmichael’s gaze sharpened, the veneer of calm slipping for a brief moment. “Prison’s a hell of a place to make friends,” he said, voice low and cut with icy precision. “But you’re not here to reminisce about your past, Six. You’re here because you were the operative. Every decision you made put the whole operation at risk. It was your mess.”    “Spare me the moral high ground.” Six scoffed. “What do you want?” 

 Carmichael tilted his head, vague amusement flickering through his expression behind his glasses. The reflection of the lamp glared just inside the lens, making him harder to read, but he had hardly been hiding his intentions this whole time. He’d expected a confession and a closed case as soon as he’d been apprehended. “I want you to understand what happens when you defy the agency. You’ve turned rogue, and you think that you can become the thing that we created the Sierra Program to contain.” 

 “I think you’re just reassigning the blame.” 

“Listen closely,” Carmichael said, his tone gripping with condescension. "You’re a liability. You’ve put me in a position I can’t afford, and your little escapade has set off alarms throughout our organization. We’ve asserted what little assets we have left to cover your trail and wrap up your loose ends.” A scoffing laugh escaped him as he chuckled bitterly at the pathetic state of it all, likely to his own detriment. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re the first operative to go off-script–believe me, you won’t be the last.” 

 Six lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You want to blame me for the CIA’s mistakes in allowing a project like Sierra to exist in the first place? The destruction of the drive? Killing Lloyd? Because I didn’t do any of that.” He pointed out defensively. “But if you’re going to charge it for me anyway, can’t we just–” he waved an exasperated hand, as well as one could manage in handcuffs–”skip this part?” “It’s because of people like you that these programs exist,” Carmichael corrected. “You went rogue because you let your moral compass get in the way of sticking to orders. You’ve embarrassed us, and we don’t have the luxury of giving you a pass.” 

 Six maintained his silence, though he was not naive enough to believe Carmichael would shoot straight with him. This man thrived on manipulation, and it took every ounce of discipline within him not to rise to the bait. He knew what was important: Claire. Getting back to her, ensuring her safety, was all that mattered now. 

 “You want her back?” Carmichael’s gaze narrowed, an unsettling mirth flickering behind his glasses. “Then you’ll do exactly as I say. You will become the scapegoat for every dirty deal, every covert operation that you’ve ever executed. It’s a simple swap. You give us your cooperation, and in return, we secure her safety.” 

Six felt a cold rush of fury flood his veins, the chair’s legs scraping as he suddenly straightened in his chair, tone dropping an octave. “Claire has nothing to do with this. You think you can threaten me with her? We’re not playing that game.”

“Then I have no choice,” Carmichael said softly, dangerously smooth. “Look around. You’re already in a tight spot, and we’ve got the resources—detention facilities, the time. Months, maybe longer. And while you’re here, we can review every case, tweak a few details—there could put you on a list where finding Claire becomes impossible.”

Six shifted in his seat, the metal cuffs biting into his skin, a reminder of how precarious his situation was. But he wouldn’t give in, not now. “So what’s your pitch? I raise my hand and confess to everything you accuse me of? You think the Sierra Program will just disappear?”

“The Sierra Program was an investment, something useful for the agency when controlled properly,” Carmichael returned, his voice steady. “You’ll confess to being the rogue agent we all suspect you to be. You provide details on how you’ve corrupted the program, any contacts–specifics. Everything we need to shape our narrative.”

“And if I don’t trust you?” 

"Then we'll play it the hard way. You’ll be treated as the enemy, and I promise you, they won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.” Carmichael smiled faintly, realizing his words had landed. Six understood the stakes well. The CIA had a history of turning liabilities into enemies. He wasn’t willing to put Claire through the psychological turmoil of losing him while also navigating the agency's incessant machinations.

“And in return?” Six pressed. 

“Exactly what you want. Claire’s safety.” Carmichael replied, glimmering with false enthusiasm. “For the agency, it’s all about reputation. You become the fall guy, we keep our operatives safe, and your kid—she’ll have an easier life. You make that choice quickly, or I turn the attention back onto you.”

Six’s mind raced. Thoughts of Claire haunted him. He envisioned her safety, her future—free from the shadows that had engulfed him for too long. Nonetheless, he wasn’t easy when it came to trust, and he didn’t trust this. He needed more time. 

His gaze slid to the mirror, but it didn’t grant him any kind of answer. He could have been meeting your eyes for all he knew, that come-hither smile that was innocent but simultaneously lethal flashing in his direction on the other side of the glass. He was met with his own reflection, frowning at himself while he tried to picture your face, but he couldn’t imagine your expression; your reaction to everything had been perplexing to say the least.

He couldn’t figure out your angle.

Who’s side are you on?

Nobody’s.

The CIA would have been the obvious answer, and yet it was your complete dismissal of the idea that gave him pause at all. He needed to talk to you.

A cacophony of thoughts collided in Six’s mind. The drumbeat of his heart pulsed in rhythm with the frustrations he struggled to suppress. Claire’s safety hung on the knife’s edge of his choices, and yet every instinct screamed against bargaining with Carmichael. He felt the weight of her innocent belief in him—her unwavering faith—and how that burden coiled in his heart, heavy as lead.

Six’s jaw tightened, a flicker of resolve hardening his features. “Before I say yes to anything, I need to see her. I need to know she’s safe. Not just hear it through some third-party line of bullshit.”

Carmichael’s expression flickered—a brief flash of irritation crossing his face—then quickly smoothed into a veneer of false civility. “That’s not how this works, Six,” he said, voice calm but edged with underlying menace. “You make your choice, and then she stays safe. If you want to protect her, do what I say. It’s that simple.”

Six’s voice was cold, deliberate, unwavering. “You'll make it happen. Or I'll walk. And if something’s happened to her, we’ll be having a very different conversation.”

Carmichael waved dismissively, cutting him off. “Enough. You want to see her? Fine. But it’s going to be on my terms. If you try anything stupid—”

“Stupid’s what got me here."

Taking a slow breath, Carmichael straightened, as though weighing his next move. His voice remained smooth, but there was an undercurrent of steel beneath it. “Alright. We’ll arrange a visit. But understand this—there are conditions. You’re not in control here, Six. Not anymore. If you try anything—if you even think about it—you’ll regret it. And she’ll pay the price.”

 The room’s silence stretched thick and heavy, like a storm waiting to break. Six’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with that same cold, calculating stare—calm on the surface but simmering underneath. When Carmichael leaned in, attempting to threaten him, Six’s face stayed impassive. 

“I’ve been there. Done that. Ended up here, like I am now.” Six reminded him, raising his eyebrows. “I could go for round two.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Carmichael said softly, voice cold and deliberate. “But I suppose that’s what you’re good at.” He paused, then pulled the folder back into his possession. He rose, gesturing to the one-way mirror. A moment later, Six heard the lock click. “I’ll have someone arrange your meeting with her. In the meantime, prepare your accounts. We’ll make this quick.”

The faint echoes of Carmichael’s retreating footsteps faded into the sterile quiet of the room. Six sat in silence. The faint hum of fluorescent lights droned on, punctuated only by the occasional click of the handcuffs or the distant murmur of footsteps outside the room. He cast one last glance at the mirror, half expecting to see your face looking back, gauging him, judging him. All he saw was his own reflection, hardened and haunted, a mirror to the man he’d become—an echo of the ghost he’d been trying to outrun for too long.

As the door finally swung open and a guard entered to escort him out, Six followed without fuss. Whatever came next, he would hold onto one truth—he was still fighting for her. For Claire. He would find his way back to her. Eventually.

Nobody was on his side, but that had never mattered before, and it sure as hell didn’t now.

[proper-goodnight]

A Friend to None (Into The Gray Chpt. 5)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

Parts of your memories felt like lies, other parts blurring together or not there at all. Faces and voices, names–you hardly remembered your own some days, but you entertained that it was because you had been filed down to a what instead of a who your entire life. Sometimes, you stopped just long enough to think about it, sort through what was real and what wasn’t. More often than not, you ended up with more things being on the fake end, some aspects of your life balancing precariously between the two.

Six was not a victim of prejudice like you were, defined by what he did in the present only. He was moral, and loyal–two things that you didn’t think you were. After all, you’d slept with men that you knew you’d have to kill–blank faces and printed names on a manila folder. You never regretted it, and it wasn’t something that you laid awake thinking about. They weren’t good men, and you’d do it again as many times as you had to.  Lloyd hadn’t been a good man, but you hadn’t killed him. There was something about that; having it mean something, and having a choice. It felt like that semblance of a choice was taken away like most things in your life, except that you didn’t think that you would have done it.

But now you also didn’t have the opportunity to know for sure.

Your eyes rested calmly on Six, his tense and strong outline the most profound thing in the darkened space. A gun was aimed between your eyes, the hand that gripped it steady and practiced from years worth of contracts against people who hadn’t earned the hesitation that you had. His finger didn’t rest on the trigger, but hovered beside it. He hadn’t yet made his choice, but that could change within a fraction of a second.

“You didn’t,” you’d said softly as you toed off your shoes by the door and traversed further into the house, careful against waking Claire. His eyes followed your every move, every languid stride, noticeably taking a step to the left to cut you off from where Claire’s room was. That didn’t stop your curious meander around the edges of the space in all of its emptiness and lack of any expressive or original personality. It was very reminiscent of your own space in some ways.

“Forget to lock anything, I mean.” You clarified before he could answer, picking up an old record– The Yes Album by Yes–before setting it back down on the shelf, more neatly in between a few other records that you didn’t recognize. You didn’t look at him, not at first, too focused on your own natural curiosity about a space you’d mapped, but had yet to test the complete accuracy of. “I can’t read your mind, just your face.”

“I don’t actually have to have to talk to have a conversation with you, do I?”

You hadn’t said anything in response—and only then did you give him that warm, soft smile. It was the heart of that double-edged sword that you did so well. You read people, not because you had to—that part didn’t matter to complete a mission. It wasn’t about violence and calculation.

Not all the time.

You liked people just fine, and you liked Six, some part of him expressing something to you that he was someone that could be likable, but the rarity was you expressing it. You’d consider that much a privilege to whoever ended up on the receiving end of it.

“I thought for someone as smart as you, you wouldn’t try to settle.” You mused, taking another sweeping glance around the house. You didn’t have time to appreciate its simple architecture, but you appreciated the concept. “I’m assuming that after you grabbed Claire, you tried to move closer to your origins.”

Six’s expression changed, while to him may have been indiscernible, to you , you knew that you’d hit close to home. “How much do you know about me?” He asked, cautious, afraid to give away much else; anything else–he’d already given away more than he meant to.

“Nothing,” you said simply with a vague shrug of your shoulders. “Like everyone else. That’s why I think this particular move was very intelligent on your part.”

He glanced behind him, quick, then looked back at you just as quickly. You saw his urge to back up and peek through the blinds, to search for anyone else, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. He was smart. As smart as you gave him credit for. “Am I surrounded?”

You quirked a smile at one edge of your lips, tilting your head. “Just you and me.”

Six remained wary. “And who are you?”

You told him your name, matter-of-factly.

“Are you here to kill me, because if you know anything about me, you know they’re not paying you enough to do this.” He scrutinized your expression, and you didn’t think there was anything on your face that he could decipher from it, nothing that you didn’t want him to see. “But something about you tells me that it won’t make a difference.”

“I’ve been throwing Carmichael off your scent, but now I’m going to need you to come in.”

“What if I say no?”

You didn’t watch where his finger lingered by the trigger, twitching between a lethal decision, but you saw it out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t shoot you for the sake of keeping Claire asleep, if subjecting her to more carnage could be avoided. You hadn’t proved yourself an outright threat, either. Not yet.

“If you say no,” you shrugged again, less subtle. “Then you’re right. It won’t make a difference.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I’m not here for Claire, and you’re very attached to her.”

“You wouldn’t get very far if you were.” He answered, blunt.

“Oh, I know that.” You smiled. Your feet had lingered at the border between the living room and the kitchen, then you finally crossed from tile to plush carpet directly into his space. Only then did his finger move to the trigger, and you raised your hands, turning them around so that he could see you weren’t armed. “Just like I know that you would rather shoot your way out of a problem.”

“I’d rather not shoot you at all if I don’t have to.”

“That’s your first mistake.”

One of the many things that you’d learned while studying Six were a few of his mannerisms, his quirks, the subtle little movements telling you whether or not he would be a threat. He wouldn’t. Not unless you attacked him first–he fought honorably one-on-one–and not until you proved a threat to Claire. With that knowledge, you pursued him.

Six retreated as you persisted. Your feet were in tow with his own, nearly stepping on his toes with every backward stride that he made across the living room. His back hit the opposite wall, and you were there, looking up at the slope of his chin and the way he tilted his head up to get away from you. Your own head pivoted to the side, eyes narrowing in a casual curiosity.

“Your morality is going to get you killed.” You chided, even with the muzzle of his pistol pressed against your temple.

“It hasn’t yet. I try to be optimistic.” He huffed.

There was hardly an inch of space between the two of you, chests nearly brushing, voices lowered to a whisper as though sharing a secret in a crowded room. Secrets were the only thing that the two of you had, things that you both hid well from a world that you were no longer a part of. Ideas of domesticity and something akin to normal were lost to the both of you, and you believed that maybe, they always had been.

“Optimistic.” You mused aloud with a smile, shaping the unfamiliar word over in your mouth. “For you, or for Claire? It’s been a while since her last incident, and I know that you don’t want to break that streak.” You leaned up, rising onto your tip-toes, your voice a low silkiness that you were sure made him tense, rippled goosebumps along the flesh of his biceps and his throat where he swallowed.

But you knew that somewhere, you’d hit a chord, a harmonious tune that only spoke the harshness of the truth. It wasn’t anything that he hadn’t thought of already, his own insecurities spilling from your mouth in the only place they’d been able to consider a home since Six’s breakout from the hospital–the result had been bloody carnage, special forces wiped out by one injured man.

Six’s skill and morality were a strong and weak point that bounced off one another like two charges at the receiving ends of a battery. Both dependent on the situation, but held steadfast to his value that some people in the world deserved to die. Six may have been something akin to a machine in the past, taking orders and following the demands of his master, but his self-preservation for someone else’s sake and his complete refusal of orders if something immoral happened to get in the way of him and his goal would be his downfall.

Eventually, if not right now.

“Is that what you know?”

“I know that even Dani Miranda wanted to use Claire against you.” You didn’t blink as you listed off the familiar set of names. “Denny Carmichael. Donald Fitzroy. Lloyd Hansen.” You shrugged. “They’re all two sides of the same coin. With Claire involved, that’s one fight you won’t ever win.”

Six looked down at you, but his was an easy gaze that you met with equal force. In the silence that neither of you disturbed, you heard the steady pitter-patter of rain off the roof, the storm sweeping in too late. You’d already proved to be an unstoppable force on your own, the tension in the room too thick to cut through, and yet comfortable all the same.

“And whose side are you on?” He asked, quiet.

“Nobody’s.” You answered, and somehow that was still the truth even in the few months spent in the service of the CIA. Your loyalty never belonged to them, and you’d come from a different set of rules. “Not anymore.”

In the beginning, you supposed that you owed Lloyd, but you couldn’t owe somebody that was dead. You were more practical, and had no intentions of preserving his memory, or living in his name. You didn’t end up a pawn to the CIA because they wanted you to. You were with the CIA because your intentions happened to lie within the realm of their convenience.

“So a friend, then?”

“Is that what you want me to be?” You raised your eyebrows. “Because you’re in the wrong business for that.”

“I’m not in that business anymore.”

You almost laughed at the irony–the both of you still very much a part of that business. It was what you knew best, cozy fairytale endings and white picket fences far outside your reach. You had to give him credit for trying, but you knew that he was in the same mindset that you were–a life like that was never meant for people like you, tools like you.

And it was terrifying. Caring about people. You’d learned not to.

You nodded, only once. “That’s right. You’re in the business of menial labor.” You clicked your tongue. “And you’re terrible at it.”

Six snorted.

Down the hall, the tired shuffling of feet over carpet split between the two of you, the small crack in the door opening wider. “Six?” The voice of a young girl– Claire –called out into the darkness of the house, the only light from the lamp illuminating both of your shadows across the wall, and hers, growing closer, a small blob spreading wide into a silhouette.

The two of you didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

You glanced at him, but he was no longer looking at you. His raging focus was on the hallway, a concern taking to a placid expression. You started to move away, and the barrel of his gun began to lower, but there was another sound too. A quiet shuffling at first until the source of the new noise became clear, a plethora of footsteps in rapid sync, the sound of a hiss as something smashed through the window behind you.

Gas.

All sound was suddenly muted, a dense mirage crawling over the enclosed space. Claire’s further calls drowned in your ears, as well as the sound of sudden gunfire–the embrace of death did not come from a swift bullet to the head as you expected. Six was shoving you to the floor, glass shattering overhead from the windows that had been behind you moments earlier. You thought that you heard him grunt, a sudden string of scarlet running down the crown of your head.

But not from you.

His weight was off of you within seconds, the loud thumping of combat boots and rushed orders signaling the arrival of the CIA–Carmichael was closer than you’d thought. You moved to your knees and crawled the length of the living room, the flurry of bodies nothing but distorted movement in your peripherals. You didn’t go for Six and finish the job for yourself, and you didn’t go for the exit as you should have.

You went for the hallway. For Claire.

She’d backed away at the sudden invasion of smoke, the scene becoming too much of a familiarity for her to start crying, to start screaming. She called Six’s name and backed toward her room. When she saw you, she pivoted back on her heel to run, but you were on your feet and grabbing her arm before she made much distance, yanking her back in the direction that she was already going.

“What are you doing? Let go!” She hissed, her nails digging deep arcs into your arm with violent, terrified desperation.

You yanked her into her room and slammed the door shut, ignoring the ache that split down your forearm. You were sure that if you’d looked, you were probably bleeding. She continued backing away, backing into a corner, instinctively moving for the window.

“Did Six give you directions to a safehouse in cases like this?” You said as you retrieved a backpack by the bed, shoving anything inside that looked relevant plus a few things that you’d quickly noted as sentimental. Through the dark, most things were guesswork, vague outlines of familiar objects, but you were suddenly working against the clock–more akin to a ticking time bomb, you supposed given the circumstances.

“What?”

“A safehouse? Like a–”

“I know what a safehouse is.” She scowled.

You didn’t bite back at the retort. “Okay. You’re going to go there. I’ll find you when I need you.” You’d turned–unable to gradually lose your patience because at the moment you didn’t have any–shoving the backpack into her arms, shuffling her back a few steps. Her bewildered eyes followed you as you moved to lift the window up. It stuck, but with a few forceful tugs, it finally gave way. You were immediately met with an onslaught of rain, the sandy terrain morphing into a muddy sludge sliding downward around the edges of the house.

Claire was looking at the door, at the commotion happening just on the other side.

They were coming.

“Claire.” You said, and she jumped and turned toward you, eyes wide. Dark tendrils of hair stuck to her sweat soaked face, her shoulders rising and falling in rapid succession. Her eyes flicked warily to the door, then back to you.

“Who are you? What’s… What’s happening to Six? Are they going to hurt him?”

You ignored her, standing in front of her, looking directly into her terrified eyes as you spoke just to make sure that she understood. “You’re going to stick to the right side of the house, head toward the crest of the hill, then go where you need to go. Understand?”

“Are–are you one of Six’s friends?”

You didn’t possess the moral compass that advised you to lie in order to comfort a kid. There wasn’t any point, seeing as you were certain that she already knew the answer. “No. I’m not.”

“Okay.” Claire nodded numbly, swallowing the tears that she desperately tried to keep at bay. Her arms tightened around the backpack, growing progressively more unsure. Her feet had slid into ratty tennis shoes, absent of any socks. She was smart. Between the gunfire and the yelling from what was likely a similar group of people that had taken you, she knew which was the more obvious option in her case. She didn’t run for Six even though you could tell she wanted to. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“He’ll be fine.”

She didn’t believe you, but in that regard, you hadn’t lied. Instead, she turned, and only when she’d turned away did the tears begin to fall as she lifted herself out the window. You listened for the sound of her tennis shoes landing in the sludge, the squeaking slide as she narrowly avoided falling, then the rapid, clumsy steps as she retreated.

Once her footsteps faded into the background of the storm, you followed her out, however when your feet touched the sludge with more grace, you ran in the opposite direction.

[proper-goodnight]

Eyes on Target (Into The Gray Chpt. 4)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

The Gray Man’s moniker stemmed from his ability to keep a low profile. The entire program was built with that conception in mind. Donald Fitzroy may have been the first, and he had slipped past your notice until his untimely death in pursuit of a drive filled with Carmichae’s baggage, but you had been right when you told Dani about cornering Sierra Six. Fitzroy and Lloyd had been the one’s unfortunate enough to end up in Six’s corner, whether willingly or not. That was your own personal baggage that you pushed aside for later, your feelings about the two not consistent with each other at any given time. 

Carmichael basked in the victory, and the skeletons in the CIA’s closet were far outside your area of concern, but you did find it rather humorous that all it had taken was a long list of resources that Sierra Six had single-handedly upended at every turn. Single-handed if not for Dani Miranda’s involvement, but that was another secret put into the ground along with a busted drive and the truth about Lloyd Hansen’s death.

You had never met Sierra Six personally, but when he’d been brought into the CIA’s custody–bloody and beaten, but still able to address the corporate assholes with witty remarks and sarcasm–you thought that you got a better understanding of his quirks and his mannerisms. He didn’t pretend to be anything, or anyone when it best suited him–a measure of himself that was as infuriating to everyone else as it was intriguing for you.

You could see why Fitzroy would employ him. Where you lied and manipulated to survive, he endured on skill alone. So when you’d learned that he’d broken free of his restraints and executed a number of their best operatives on his way out after the shitstorm with Carmichael’s drive, you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you was that he didn’t care about using the information from the drive for his own gain. He’d just wanted to be left alone.

“You’re punishing yourself,” you’d said to Dani shortly before you’d left to pursue his contract alone, resorting to stark statements if you weren’t allowed to ask questions. She couldn’t handle your ‘answering a question with a question thing’ but you thought that she asked a lot more questions than you did, even when she wasn’t trying to pry. 

“The Sierra agent,” she’d said by way of explanation.

“Sierra Six,” you’d confirmed. 

“He escaped the hospital,” she’d huffed, breathless, a fierce punch landing a definitive and resounding tap against a punching bag, echoing across the abandoned silence of the gym and nudging you back on your feet where you held it steady for her. It wasn’t often that this space was empty when she was here, but you’d associated it with Dani’s easy frustration and lack of remorse to whoever ended up on the receiving end of it. “He’s on the run. Probably going to find Claire.”

“This upsets you?”

“But not you?” Another tap, then another. Part of you was glad that you hadn’t decided to practice one-on-one this time around if an escapee was enough to get her fired up. Strangely, you didn’t feel anything when the news broke out, even if you had considered it your chance to talk to him. Being on grounds that would be considered your territory would have been preferred but you were nothing if not adaptable.

You found yourself asking. “Should it?”

Dani slowed down, then stopped altogether. You’d let go of the bag, the resistance of holding it still the last few hours made your palms feel raw, a tingling sensation traveling from your palms to your fingertips. She turned around to grab a bottle of water, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. 

“You can never give a straight answer, can you?” Her words were lost on a long swig of water, shoulders rising and falling with the continued adrenaline rush, slowly filtering down until she only looked exhausted. “I was using Claire as leverage to keep him safe from Carmichael. Now he’s going to shoot up the countryside until he finds her.” She shook her head. “That might seem okay to you, but it’s not."

“It’s not okay,” you’d corrected. “To him, it’s probably necessary.”

Dani’s low-browed stare only further cemented the confusion behind your support or disapproval of the asset. You hadn’t needed to explain. Carmichael had grabbed the two of you for busywork immediately after that, and as soon as you’d had the chance, you’d slipped out.

There were many things that Six could run from, but time wasn’t one of them. It’d taken you a few weeks, but you’d found him. You’d thought that he would have a more sporadic schedule, or be constantly on the move, switching hideouts and being like other typical textbook deserters that you had pursued before. He proved to be the rare exception.

Having settle in a small neighborhood in the outskirts of Tallahassee, Florida with deceased senior CIA official, Donald Fitzroy’s daughter: Claire Fitzroy–Claire–you’d spent some time before advancing on the target to map out his schedule, only to come to one conclusion:

His schedule was very mundane, and you would even consider it domestic.

All of his time was spent keeping up with Claire, who floated around him like a sunbeam, blissfully unaware of the dangers looming outside the safety of her domestic sanctuary. Her laughter rang out like a melody, high and sweet–and that urged Sierra Six into behaviors that you thought had been beyond the program’s realm of teaching. Aside from cooking, he did relatively well for himself, having adopted a new identity with a steady supply of odd jobs to keep him stable financially.

Six, who was renowned for being characteristically stoic, stone-faced, and having a preference for dry-humor, looked the complete opposite now; an approximation of happiness that only someone like him could get. It was a perfect picture from an outside perspective, but that would never get rid of what he was. A weapon. You could use a spear as a walking stick all you wanted, but that would never change its nature.

You’d never been much of a poet, but you suspected Six traversed along that fragile line somewhere. He’d fallen victim to the easiest mistake someone like him could make: caring. The agency had said that Claire was the leash to bring the wolf to heel, but you weren’t morally unethical enough to consider kidnapping a kid, let alone using one for your own personal agenda. You remembered what you’d told Dani: His actions following his escape had been necessary. If you were in his position, were you more foolish, you strongly entertained the idea that you would have done the same.

For now, you considered a different approach, combatting natural instincts that begged you to satiate your natural curiosity, positioned at the peak of a hill with binoculars and taking note of his day-to-day. The safe way. Also the boring way. Regardless, you didn’t send in any of your notes. A location was enough to bring in a whole team–albeit as many as the agency had wouldn’t be sufficient, considering they were still recovering after his initial escape.

Until you could find an adequate approach to the Sierra agent, you were left reverting back to the stone-age of personal recon.  Observation cameras, GPS trackers, public information, drones, social media–all would be naturally ineffective against someone as familiar with watching his back as you were. 

You’d counted day fifteen when Carmichael finally caught on to your absence–the timing couldn’t have been better. You’d settled down on your stomach on the hill, binoculars having become a permanent fixture to your eyes, and draped in a poncho because of an inconvenient storm–knowing Florida weather, you knew it would be clear in a few minutes anyhow. A resounding buzz emanated from your pocket. Wiping your hands dry on your poncho, you grabbed your phone, knowing the caller without having to look.

“I’m working.” You said, flat.

“I’ve got another job for you,” came Carmichael’s calm baritone over the phone. If you didn’t know him and his less than endearing quirks, you could almost see him in an 1800 Regency Period romance drama. He had the voice and the looks for it if he didn’t talk so much. “How do you like the beach?”

“I don’t,” you answered absentmindedly, binoculars still held in one hand, hovering just over your eyes. “What’s the job?”

There was a moment of pause, as if he genuinely considered your likes and dislikes, or that you had told him that you disliked something in the first place before settling with pointing out the obvious. “I don’t remember you mentioning that you were pursuing another job. Aren’t those supposed to be approved through me?”

You looked through the windows where Sierra Six had disappeared into the bedroom, panning over to the adjacent window to watch him rifle through some drawers, yanking his shirt over his head in favor of another one. You noted his well-muscled frame, his shirt catching on the bulging muscle riddled with deep scars–his own private collection of imperfection. “I’m making progress.”

“I expect a full mission briefing, but I’m going to need to pull you out. We’ve located our target, Sierra Six.”

“Have you?” You managed to keep your voice level, but the amusement rumbled just underneath the surface. “I’m surprised. I thought it’d take you a little longer.”

“He is our highest priority until he’s brought in.” Carmichael went on. If he had any tips on your sudden change in demeanor, he didn’t mention it, but you knew that he was marking your exchange in a private file for later. “He’s been filtering between the border of Florida and Georgia, but there’s a middle point that we believe may be a safe bet to where he’s hiding. I’ll send you the location. Meet me there ASAP.”

“Understood,” you said and ended the call.

With no other choice, you rose to your feet. There would be enough suspicion against you already if you didn’t meet Carmichael, but approaching the target was your first priority. With less urgency than you likely should, you traversed down the slope, your feet slipping in the mud during your descent. Compared to your training the first few months, it was basic child’s play, a trail winding downward guiding you the safest route for the most part.

Once you arrived, you picked the lock with relative ease, slipping through the front door with a silent grace that you’d been taught in your youth. Efficient study of the house and mapping out its interiors led you to be able to traverse through the dark with little difficulty, noting the minimal furniture, and the lack of pictures on the walls. Even after the last few months since his escape, Six wasn’t getting comfortable. He was ready to run at any time.

As you crept through the living room, every step softened by the layered dust of the neglected abode, your thoughts circled back to the mission–your mission. Sierra Six had somehow managed to create a semblance of life amid the chaos spiraling around him. You could almost hear the gentle sounds of Claire's breath from the bedroom, the rhythmic rise and fall that suggested a kind of serenity rarely afforded to people like him—or like you.

A soft hum of the ceiling fan punctuated the stillness. You navigated around a jagged coffee table, careful not to disturb anything.

Sierra Six, a man notorious for his lethal skills and refusal to bow to anyone—turning his back on a life built on violence and chaos. And here, scattered about his so-called sanctuary, were remnants of a life he seemingly wanted: a crumpled grocery list on the counter, the faint scent of something home-cooked lingering in the air, a couple of worn-out sneakers by the door that showed the most sign of wear. 

You’d turned as a light to your left flicked on. Six’s stark outline stood in the entryway to the hall, and the light that illuminated his face almost made him look soft if his neutral expression didn’t appear so deadly, lethal. His eyes were focused and searching but not showing any sign of the suspicion and sudden security that you were sure he felt. He’d glanced around, but there was no one. 

Just you.

And him, with a gun aimed at your head.

[proper-goodnight]

The Million (Tangerine x Reader)

Fandom: Bullet Train (2022)

Pairings: Tangerine x Reader

Type: Snippet/Concept

Words: 3.9K

Summary:

Of all the corrupt dickheads who crowded The Million, the last that you’d expected to see was a posh klepto, having thought that you’d seen the extent of Big Man’s contacts. He looked vexed, uncomfortable–attractive, but definitely too young to look as though he’d crawled straight from the eighties, cursing and making obscene gestures on his way out. 

Company like that couldn’t go unchecked. So, you checked. Call it your civic duty.

The Million (Tangerine x Reader) The cold was always the worst part for you when it came to living in the city–besides the rain. With its seedy underbelly and dark corners, you’d operated under the idea that you were going to escape; again leave another life behind as nothing but a fading reflection in a rearview mirror, hardly worth the memory as well as the goodbye. 

At one point, you’d had it all planned out, scribbled sloppily onto several paper napkins that had dismissed the idea into the wash just as quickly as you’d dismissed them yourself, but you promised that as soon as you got the money, no one would know you, no one would depend on you, and no one would be out to get you–you’d abandon your apartment and the club, full of scum-bags and mobsters but nothing that you’d never been able to handle before, and you would leave. 

First problem: Bartending didn’t bring in much cash.

Second problem: It was boring. Really fucking boring.

Every swing of the door brought a frigid cold and reignited the thick smell of sweat and alcohol, different colored strobe lights flashing in your eyes everywhere you looked, zipping through the dark like streaks of lightning to accompany the pounding thunder of a bass and its tempting rhythms. It rumbled through your body for hours afterwards.

You’d gotten really good at reading lips though, not having to lean too close to drunk assholes a good trade to all the other shit that you had to put up with in your book. 

‘The Million’ had housed all of the politicians and big family names of the city that took turns rotating on a schedule of speeches promising change and betterment for exact corners of the city like this one. All you’d noticed were some corners being scraped clean of graffiti, only for a new tag to accompany it by the weekend. It wasn’t the type of cleaning up that you’d imagined, but you hadn’t started out optimistic, either. 

Regardless, it’d become a part of you. Much like everything else.

“Fucking asshole,” the soft curse of an exhale under someone’s breath had you turning your head, one of the younger bartenders perched back against the wall, nursing her hand. You’d almost missed it, had she not been standing right behind you–the catcalls of the patrons and the symphony of pure noise drowned out in favor of the girl; the kid, barely of age and her first job if you remembered correctly. “Prick,” she hissed. 

“What’s going on, honey? What happened?” 

At your question, the girl’s shoulder’s drooped, her eyes veering away, suddenly guilty–you’d seen that look on other new girls throughout the last couple years, and unfortunately that look meant that they wouldn’t be keeping their jobs for very long. The grim satisfaction underneath never devolved into regret either way. The headstrong ones never lasted, albeit because of their patron’s lack of strength with handling it. 

Wealthy men with too much time on their hands were happy to share time with a pretty girl, as long as she was happy to share in return–common courtesy and respect be damned.

Until she finally had enough and bit. You had never been at that point—not yet—but you considered yourself to be more tolerant. 

“Who did you hit?” You pressed. 

The girl flexed her fingers, bending each one with a subtle wince. None looked broken, although you couldn’t say the same for the prick’s face considering the amount of bruising already kissing the ridges of her knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

You begged to differ, and was half tempted to make up with whoever you had to if it would help to spare the poor girl her job–you had a few favors that you could cash in on should you ever need to, but you wondered how far that influence extended. The other half was tempted to take care of it yourself. “Why not?”

“That guy already took care of it. He had the bastard kissing the wall in two seconds.”

You blinked. “Guy?”

“That guy,” she tilted her head up, just barely catching your eye from underneath her lashes, as though there was reason to suddenly be bashful about the idea of a white knight wandering the grimy, sweat and beer gummed floor. Whoever it was wouldn’t have been the first to intervene, but they may have been the first to not immediately get knocked back on their ass. “The one over there–” she swung her head toward the back that housed the lounge tables. As vague as the description was in a sea of men of similar descriptions. 

You squinted, but no one stood out among the crowd.

You started to ask that she point him out specifically, but one of the other girls–Izzy, who had been there longer than you had–rounded the bar with a tray of empty glasses. She sported a wicked little grin, humming contentedly at the perception of idle gossip. As soon as the tray was set down, she stretched languidly across the bar before settling with her arms crossed, smirking. “Tall, handsome and a gentleman?” She chuckled. “Yes, please. I haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

“They save those for The Kingsman Lounge upstate,” you intercepted, turning back to the younger girl, suddenly feeling a prick of guilt that you hadn’t remembered her name. “Keep that little crush to yourself, okay? He wouldn’t be the first guy to play the hero with ulterior motives.”

“He could save your job, though. Just FYI. I think they’re friends of Big Man. Him and another Posh guy–they practically rolled out the red carpet when they showed up. I guess they’re here doing a job for him.” Izzy explained. 

“A job?” The younger girl echoed. “What kind of job?”

Izzy fluttered her eyelashes, brows furrowed into something almost sympathetic. “Oh honey, you know not to ask that. Big Man’s business is his. He keeps to his, and we keep to ours. You’ll stay safer that way.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type,” she furrowed her brows.

“He isn’t.” You interjected. “The company he keeps is, and sweetie you can do anything with enough cash.”

“Spoken like a true sophisticate.” Izzy praised, then gave the young girl a droll stare. “Best you avoid him anyway though, doll. Tall, and handsome seems like a sweetie. His friend with the hair-trigger temper? Not so much.” 

As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her very vague description lit to life as though provoked, ignited with a fury that spread through the stench of gluttony and arousal; a building of temptations and a lighter for an addiction that only gave those wanting more and more:

“There are two words to describe this, and do you know what it is?” 

“Easy. Snack cake.”

“No. Nutter Butter. A fucking bloody Nutter Butter. I just…” a huff of frustration, then: “It’s like a compulsion. I see it and I take it. A Nutter Butter though, probably named after some arseholes knob. I don’t understand it.”

“You need help, Mate. Serious.”

They sat the two men down in a roped off area on the balcony, any potential company waved off before being able to get that close. Hair-Trigger Temper had tipped his head back against the wall, savoring every bit of bitter poison of cigarette smoke, curling into his lungs and exhaling through his nose. The cigarette proved company enough compared to any girls that tried their hand at an approach.

“How much do we want to bet that he’s going to be sneaking shot glasses under his coat before the night’s over?” Izzy snorted.

“I’ll raise you twenty.” The other girl mused aloud. 

You didn’t comment, not having the twenty dollars to lose. Of all the corrupt dickheads who crowded The Million, the last that you’d expected to see was a posh klepto, having thought that you’d seen the extent of Big Man’s contacts. He looked vexed, uncomfortable–attractive, but definitely too young to look as though he’d crawled straight from the eighties, cursing and making obscene gestures on his way out. 

Company like that couldn’t go unchecked. So, you checked. Call it your civic duty.

“Where are you going–” Izzy couldn’t finish, the odd determination in your eyes as you were leaving the bar assuring that she would watch your spot until you got back. Along the way, you retrieved a couple shot glasses and some tequila, not preferential, but your trail didn’t offer many options. 

You started off trying to stick to the fringe where there were at least small spaces to infiltrate. You lacked the physical presence to part the crowd, but you knew the layout like a second home, even when you were unable to see over heads and weaving bodies moving to a thunderous rhythm. Your own body reacted to it naturally, a little sway in your hips as you bobbed along. 

Navigating through the club got easier with time, the flush of bodies dragging you closer to the center as you tried not to step on people’s feet or be stepped on in return. Someone pinched your ass at one point, but it had become too familiar a gesture; you hardly bat an eye. 

The crowd pressed in on all sides was hardly an obstacle. Every move was instinctual. 

“Havin’ a good time, boys?”

Hair-Trigger Temper was less than enthused to see you, glancing at his partner, as though you might be something that he needed saved from too. You brandished a smile, undeniably charming but a facade to those who knew how to read it. So far during your time in The Million, no one had. These two were not the proven exception. 

“Not now, Love. I look like I need company?” Hair-Trigger Temper said around another drag of the cigarette, barely sparing a glance out of his peripherals.

“I could,” the partner replied, which earned him a glare, the other man’s eye visibly twitching. “You’re hardly a comfort most days, Mate.” He reasoned.

“And you have a very shootable face, but I don’t fuckin’ shoot it, now do I?”

The partner ignored his remark, waving you into the booth beside himself despite the other’s clear disinterest in welcoming you. “Don’t worry about my brother there. He never has a good time.”

Hair-Trigger Temper hoisted his empty glass in a less-than-enthused salute. “I am having a bloody good fucking time. Or I can at least act like I am.”

“If this–” you gestured between the two, “–is your idea of acting, then clearly the drama teacher at that fancy posh school of yours really failed you.”

The other man didn’t have time to remark, having leaned forward in his seat, before his partner cut in. “You pretty good at assumin’ about people, then?” 

“You get pretty good at it in a place like this,” you answered with a shrug.

His next question came with a sudden enthusiasm. “Do you know Thomas the Tank Engine?”

Clearly this was a topic that was brought up frequently, considering Hair-Trigger Temper’s aggravated exclamation of oh here we fucking go and the other pulling a sticker book from the pockets of his coat. He opened it up, many missing, the outline still visible in the backing paper. A subtle shake of your head answered his question, and he began pointing out the various colored locomotives. 

“Take Tangerine here, right? He’s a Gordon–this blue one–” he pointed. “–and Gordon is the strongest. He doesn’t always listen to others. He’s typically the first choice for pulling special engines, but I can also argue that he’s a Thomas because he’s very cheeky, and can be impatient–”

“What’s that now, Lemon?” Tangerine raised his eyebrows. 

“You–” Lemon hummed, addressing you. “I think you might be a Boco.”

“Boco?”

“He’s a diesel engine. Reasonable. Level-headed. That’s what I’m getting from you.” He peeled one of the stickers from the book and handed it to you. You took it, looking over the weird, and somewhat creepy green engine. You weren’t sure what to make of that. Accurate, you guessed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you decided without too much contemplation. “I’m–I’m sorry–” You furrowed your brows, waving between the two. “Did you say that your names were Lemon and Tangerine?”

“It’s really sophisticated,” Lemon said.

“It’s hardly important.” Tangerine said at the same time. 

“It sounds like your names should be reversed,” the corners of your lips twitched. “If we’re going by personality archetypes.” 

Lemon grinned, jabbing his thumb at you. “I like her.”

Tangerine rolled his eyes, waving at you dismissively. “That’s great, Lemon. You know what Thomas would say? He’d say we’re on a job and to have the lass bugger off so we can get shit done and fuck off.”

“He wouldn’t say that. Thomas isn’t an asshole–”

“You’re also the most obvious at showing you’re on a job,” that caught Tangerine and Lemon’s attention both, albeit Tangerine was leaning toward you, Lemon announcing that he had to use the loo before he was sliding out of the booth. You paid him no mind, your eyes focused solely on Tangerine. If looks could kill, you’d be dead a million times over, but that hardly deterred you. “I’ve worked here for a long time, and I can tell when a man in here isn’t supposed to be.”

He scoffed, straightening the flaps of his jacket as he shifted in the booth. You propped your chin on your hand, your elbow perched on the table. “You going to sell me out to the cops?”

“I could probably find a few if I look behind me.” You tilted your head. “They’re not as obvious as you are, but still not impossible to pick out.”

“You offering me advice?”

“I don’t know what advice I could give you.” You shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”

He narrowed his eyes, but something about the exchange had piqued his interest. “You got a name, Love?”

You scoffed at the mediocrity of the question. Names were hardly important in The Million compared to the faces, and down here, you didn’t think that a single girl went by their actual name. It was like having a completely different life between two doors, and each part was as much a stranger as the other. “You don’t care about that, Sweetie. Trust me.”

“Try me.”

“I’ll tell you what,” you slid the bottle of tequila that you’d brought between you. “If you want to know so badly,” You tapped against the glass with your nail. “Let’s play a game.”

“You’re serious–”

“Assume something about me. If you’re right, I'll take a drink. If you’re not, then you take a drink.” Simple. “It usually ends when one or the other is too plastered to keep going.” 

Tangerine worked a tick in his jaw, and you thought that you saw his eye twitch. “You allowed to do that on the job?”

“My job is to entertain. There’s not exactly a list of parameters.” 

At first, it looked as if he’d refuse, glancing from you, to the bottle, then back at you. Another flickering glance toward the bathroom, but something told you that Lemon wasn’t there. You raised your eyebrow, waving your shot glass. 

He sighed, but ultimately, he humored you. “You work at The Million.”

“Ah-ah. Ladies first.” You interjected, folding your arms on the table, holding his glare with an assuming stare of your own. You hummed thoughtfully, but went with the easiest first. “Your real name isn’t Tangerine.”

Tangerine scoffed. “That’s bloody fuckin’ obvious, innit?” Sharp eyes darted down as you pushed the shot glass toward him, and he rolled his eyes before knocking it back, cigarette still clasped in his other hand, beginning to burn down to the filter. The fingers clasping the cigarette rubbed at a spot between his eyebrows. “You’re from around here.”

“Now who’s being obvious,” you said but took a drink. You were a good sport after all and could handle the heat being thrown back at you. Men were cocky for a myriad of reasons, but the most common ones that walked through the door were insecure, wanted to be noticed, or were all talk, no action. You hadn’t yet deciphered what exactly Tangerine was, but something told you that he was in a different category all on his own. “Upstate wasn’t fun. I was born and raised here and homesickness brought me back. What do you want me to say?”

Tangerine hummed as if what he was looking for wasn’t answered. You wouldn’t make it easy for him, not that it mattered. It was your turn.

“Lemon isn’t really your brother.”

“Adopted.”

Damn. You took a drink. 

Tangerine cleared his throat, the mix of tequila and tobacco a sour combination in a confined space that reeked of sweat and heat. “You’re expecting a tip for this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Men at that club don’t just tip because they appreciate the girls, sweetheart. They tip where they can show off. We learn not to expect anything, and a fifty–”

“Bit of a cheapskate–.”

“—is already a lot more than the girls usually get from one guy on a good day.”

“So what’s this–” he waved across the table between the two of you. “Little game gonna cost me?” 

“That depends on the guy and my mood most days,” you leaned back in the booth, the shot glass clasped precariously in your thumb and index finger, teetering back and forth. “In your case…” You clicked your tongue. “Two-hundred.”

He gaped. “That’s bloody outrageous!”

“It’s the economy, baby.” You smirked with a hint of teasing. “I gotta be upfront with you, if you can’t pay you’re gonna have to find yourself another girl. Unless this is some elaborate ruse just to get a girl to do an honest night’s work. You trying to rehabilitate me?” 

“Right…” Another roll of his eyes. “I have a little more dignity than the pricks down here who have to pay for someone’s time.”

“So you have women jumping to do it for free pretty often?”

“You’re just taking the piss now aren’t you?” He said, but moved on at your shrug, the game hardly holding his interest, but it kept him talking if nothing else. He sighed. “You've always been in this line of work.”

“Super wrong. You’d better take two shots for that.”

“What?” He began to argue, but you slapped your shot glass onto the table beside his, waving it over. 

“Absolutely not. Drink.” You leaned back, refusing to take the shot glass back until he did in fact obey the order. “I’ve worked a little bit everywhere, and it did not include working in places like this.”

His brows furrowed. “You act like it wasn’t your first choice.”

“It was the easiest choice.” You clarified. “The girls in here don’t work here because they want to unless they’re really crazy. They’re usually–”

“Hiding.” He guessed.

You nodded. “I’m hardly any different from them if you hadn’t noticed, but nothing I feel obligated to share with you and that’ll cost you an extra hundred. Easy.” You waved it off dismissively. 

“I’m starting to see a pattern with you,” he confided, bobbing his head. He snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray, which you figured was as close to his full attention as you would get. “You hold personal information over these ripe prick’s heads so that they’ll pay you whatever you want to get it, right? Must have some good fucking secrets.”

“I told you that it depends on the customer. Maybe it’s just you.” Another shrug, crossing your legs underneath the table. The brunt of your shoulders pressed against the booth’s seat. “Maybe I make it that way so people don’t ask.” 

“I asked your name. How are you going to tell me if this game is about assuming shit?” 

“Maybe it’s just you.” You repeated. “You’re doing a job for Big Man.” 

He took a drink, and you only bobbed your head in confirmation. “Lookin’ for a specific bloke for him. Someone is apparently snitching on his side business.” 

“He could’ve asked any of his girls to do that. Would’ve been a lot cheaper, I’m sure.” 

“He was looking for a professional to handle it.”

“You?” You scoffed, raising your eyebrows incredulously. “No one sees and hears more in here than we do Sweetheart, trust me. We just don’t get paid enough to say anything about it.” You turned your head, then jerked it toward a particular booth seat where a group of men were playing cards, women housed in each lap laughing in a way that you knew was fake at something that you were equally sure wasn’t funny. “Gray suit is a land developer, he and his wife live out of state but they’re renting in town and he is here to swindle a few million out of a local charity bank under the idea that he’s donating land to build extra housing.” 

You cocked your head to the next. “Mobster, but like all the others, afraid of the Black Death. Hardly anything more than the street corner he hangs out on.” Then the next. “Deputy Sheriff. Let’s a few deals slide for about forty percent of the profits unless he’s raised it since last week.” And then: “I’m pretty sure that guy is running for cabinet. Anything that you don’t hear or see in here, you can find out from a quick Google search or on someone’s Facebook page.” 

Tangerine almost looked impressed, but you hardly needed that affirmation from him. 

“And that’s on a Thursday. You come out on a Saturday and you might catch a glimpse of the Mayor.” 

“If he’s snitching on his side business, he’d be a right idiot to come in here wouldn’t he?”

“It’s the best place to find out about Big Man’s business if you are interested. It’s why he invited you and your brother here, I’ll bet.” You gathered the shot glasses in your hand, then the bottle. “But that’s hardly any of my business.”

“Where you goin’ now?”

“It looks like my time is up and I’m out two hundred.” You sighed, although you didn't find yourself completely disappointed. “Unless you’re saying that you actually enjoy my company?”

Tangerine scoffed, digging around in the pockets of his suit pants until he brandished a few crumpled bills–hundreds–onto the table in between you. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You paying for more of my time?”

“Paying for the time that I did take.” He corrected. “I’m not always a right arsehole.” 

You picked up the crumpled bills gingerly between your fingers, counted them out. There were three one hundred dollar bills there, an incentive, you figured. “You want to know what I’m hiding from?” You guessed.

“I want to know your name,” he corrected. He was rising as well, and you noticeably barely came up to his chest. There was a certain proximity between you, but the little distance never became so apparent until you actually stood up. You looked up at him, suddenly wading through a different kind of beast, shifting its shape and swallowing you up. 

You scoffed some kind of incredulous laugh. Three hundred dollars for an introduction seemed like a scam that even you felt bad about taking advantage of, even with all the dickheads that crowded The Million.

You didn’t see this guy as a dickhead. Not entirely. Not yet. 

But you knew how to hold up your end of a deal.

You shoved the bills into your pocket.

Then you introduced yourself.

[proper-goodnight]

Can you please add me to the tag list for Into the Gray? I’m loving it!

Yes! I definitely will! (:

I’m so glad that you’re enjoying it!

[proper-goodnight]

Pot Roast and Power Plays (Into the Gray Chpt 3)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: Sierra Six x Reader, Courtland Gentry x Reader, Sierra Six x You, Courtland Gentry x You

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: 1.5K Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @my-tearsdryontheirown, @96jnie

It became apparent very quickly after your induction that you made Dani Miranda very uncomfortable.

A quick sweep through her house had told you everything you needed to know about her versus what she needed to know about you; which as far as you were concerned was the bare minimum only. You’d noted the distinct lack of luxury, the furniture kept to the bare minimum of what she’d needed–and you’d already perused her closet to get an idea of her personality when not wearing a suit. 

She didn’t need to know that much. 

The contents weren’t anywhere outside the realm of ordinary, anyway. In fact, they were more normal than what you’d expected. A quick search through the drawers and the space told you that it was clean, almost abandoned if not for the few sentimental objects that you’d found and promptly left alone. Her personal life didn’t matter to you as much as her temperament in the field, but you convinced yourself that anything in her personal life could come back to bite you if her head wasn’t on straight. A glimpse through her contacts told you that she didn’t have any kind of romantic attachment; potential messages with anyone matching that kind of description were too mundane for further pursuits, and you’d noticed that she hardly replied back if further pursuits were attempted. She had a history with a dating site though, as brief as it was. 

In conclusion, Dani’s life was dedicated to work, tediously rising through the ranks with the promise of a position on some similar level to Carmichael. She ran on a set schedule, hardly ever straying away from her fixed pattern. There weren’t many things concerning–at least to you–that could get in the way. Regardless, you’d had to be sure. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dani’s inquiry bordered somewhere between incredulous and annoyed, the rise in her tone tipping precariously between the two. 

“Making dinner,” you replied, your voice nonchalant as you stirred the simmering pot on her stove. The aroma of garlic and sauteed vegetables filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere of her meticulously organized home. 

Dani crossed her arms, her stance solidifying into a defensive posture. You kept your back to her as she kicked off her shoes and shut the food with more force than necessary. “This is my house.” 

“You act as if I don’t know that it’s not mine.”

Dani closed her eyes, her face pinching into a soft grimace. The hand that she’d balled into a fist uncurled, hovering between the two of you, as if whatever argument she’d been about to make was snuffed out by the immediate truth as opposed to some half-assed excuse. A harsh exhale through her nose preceded her next words. “Why are you here? I thought you were still on assignments overseas.”

You tossed some herbs into the pot, having ground them by hand, much like everything else. You’d always liked the thought of a kitchen, but you wouldn’t ask for one because that would be admitting too much about you. Something that you didn’t want to do in front of Carmichael. Or anyone else for that matter. “Debriefing. I need someone to give my statement to. No one’s at the office.”

“So you came all the way here instead of waiting until morning?”

“I made a pot roast.”

You knew without turning that the usually confused pinch in her eyebrows were evident, the slight shuffle of her feet forward as she was still coming to grips with you. She didn’t trust you, but her trust wasn’t something that you were looking for so much as seeing if you could trust her. “You’re supposed to give your statement to the DCI.”

“If I wait, there’s a chance I’ll forget, and my word hardly matters if I omit key details.”

“You? Forget?” Her eyebrows shot high, and she laughed. You could have laughed too, if Dani weren’t so unaware of the truth, how much of your own life you hardly remembered as much as what felt like somebody else’s. Dani only bobbed her head, the thought still ridiculous to her. “Right.” Her lips smacked together. “Well, I doubt how much credibility that I could give you. I’m still on Carmichael’s shit list.”

“Because of the failed mission in Bangkok involving the last Sierra agent.” You didn’t say it like a question, but you hadn’t intended to. 

“You know about that?” She was still staring at your back, but you could hear her more urgent steps across the apartment, her voice lowered to a hushed sense of urgency as though someone else would hear you. They wouldn’t. You’d checked for any trace of cameras or hidden surveillance systems already. Only then did you turn. Dani had planted her palms face down on the kitchen island, leaning to fix you with an incredulous stare, suddenly bewildered. She bristled, distrustful. 

“Yes,” you said without missing a beat. 

“How? Carmichael is keeping that under close wraps until he’s apprehended.”

“I don’t trust him.”

She snorted. “You have a funny way of showing that. Working for the one guy that you don’t trust.” She leaned forward, and her arms draped across the counter’s marble surface, hands folded together. “What’s in it for you? They think that you’re a double agent, which is why they never let you go anywhere without surveillance.” She shrugged helplessly. “That was Lloyd before he left–”

You raised an eyebrow, harboring a smirk that you kept to yourself. “You’ve done your homework, too.”

Dani pursed her lips, clearly not appreciating the turn of the conversation. “That’s different,” she insisted, her voice sharp but unwavering. 

“I owed Lloyd,” you went on, your expression falling flat again. “I don’t anymore.”

She gaped. “You owed Lloyd Hansen and his perv stache? I doubt that subjecting you to serving under Carmichael would make you owe him as much as him owing you.”

“He could have left me to die.” You shrugged. “He didn’t.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, but Lloyd Hansen has an alternative reason for everything he does. Mostly, it’s so that he can get a good fuck out of it later.” Dani’s eyebrows pinched together, looking at you with vague concern. You didn’t need that from her, but you didn’t tell her, either. “You never owed Lloyd anything. He made his own choices.

“So did I.”

The next few moments passed in silence, and you’d taken the opportunity to pour some of the roast into a bowl, then a second that you’d passed over to Dani. She took it with less hesitation than before, the idea of you being inside her house less discomforting seeing as you weren’t proposing yourself as a threat.

You could see Dani mulling over questions while you ate. The way that she pushed her food around suggested that it was something akin to working through her thoughts, devouring one at a time until she found one that made sense. You didn’t press for conversation in the meantime. Pot roast wasn’t your favorite food–not that you were a picky eater by any means–but there were a lot of limitations in Dani’s house, and you did what you could with what you had.

Dani pushed her bowl away, leaving most of her food untouched.  “Why did you go out of your way to wipe out the Sierra Program?” She asked the most obvious question, of course, the reason that you’d been filtered into Denny Carmichael’s custody in the first place, put under surveillance, followed around by Lloyd, and forced onto a team. “What did they do to you?”

“Carmichael tell you to ask that?”

Her scrutinizing stare didn’t pressure you, the way that her eyes pried over your expression, attempting to gage something. You didn’t relent. “I should’ve figured.” She sighed, her tone suggesting some sort of plea for honesty. “What was it about? You figured out that you missed one and came back to finish the job?”

You remained silent for a moment, studying her face as she wrestled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. It was a question laden with unspoken implications, and for the first time since stepping into her space, you felt the weight of her gaze. Dani wanted answers, but more importantly, she wanted to understand—understand you, understand the world you inhabited, the choices you made, and the chaos that had led both of you to this point.

“It wasn’t personal,” you finally said, your voice steady yet evasive. It was an easy assertion—one that dissolved any deep exploration into your motives. “Not in the way you think.”

Her brows furrowed. “So it was just business?”

“Something like that.”

The tension in the air shifted, her disappointment palpable. “You wiped out an entire program of rehabilitated operatives because it was just business?” Her incredulity propelled her forward in her line of questioning, fists tight against the countertop again as if bracing herself for whatever answer lay ahead. “That’s a big gamble considering you missed one.”

“I had my reasons,” you said carefully, your tone calm but dripping with an underlying tension. The line dividing personal vendetta from strategic decisions had always been thin for you, often blurring into something that felt undeniably complex yet simple to navigate in your mind.

“You don’t have to worry about it.” You went on when she didn’t answer. “I don’t plan on killing Sierra Six.”

She didn’t believe you. “You don’t?” Her eyebrows quirked up.

“No.”

“So, is it regret, then? You’re looking to make amends?”

“No.”

“Right. I often forget that this is you that we’re talking about, and that would be way too easy.” Dani couldn’t have appeared more perplexed, but you had that effect on her since the two of you had been introduced.  She ran a hand down her face, exasperated at what she couldn’t understand. “You killed the majority of the program before he even dissented. Why leave one?”

“Sierra Six has connections to Donald Fitzroy. He has information that I need.”

“You mean Senior Officer Donald Fitzroy? He’s been retired for years.”

You hadn’t known that in the beginning, Fitzroy having nearly disappeared off the map altogether after he adopted his niece. You shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the Sierra program’s specialty–the reason that they were created was to place blame should the CIA ever find itself cornered. It was easier to place blame on convicts after all. Sierra Six was a failsafe. Nothing else. He was hardly worth value to you on his own, at least not now, not anymore.

“Are you going to bring Sierra Six in?” You asked her instead, diverting the conversation. She blinked at you, then you clarified. “Your reputation is shot, otherwise.”

Dani’s smile was forced, and you suspected her words were more sarcastic than sincere. “Yeah. Thanks for that.” She leaned back in her chair, busying herself by pushing her food around with her fork, again picking for an answer that you suspected you already knew. “I don’t know,” she decided. “It feels wrong. Sierra Six had a reason for going rogue all of a sudden. We never had cause to question his loyalty before now.” Another shrug, this one more subtle than the others. She averted her eyes away from you, refusing to look up. “I can’t help but wonder why, and why now?”

“I don’t know.” You said, and you didn’t.

“You’re telling me that there’s something you don’t know?” Dani mocked a gasp. Only then did she look up, giving you a droll stare that you didn’t feed into. You stared at her, and she shook her head. “I don’t think it matters. If I’m given the order, the decision is made for me.”

“If you want to keep your job,” you agreed, blank. “Being one step underneath Carmichael must have its perks.” Dani scoffed, brows furrowing. “When we kill him, what does that mean for you? Doesn’t that beat the purpose of whatever reason you have for coming into the CIA in the first place?”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“Shouldn’t you be?”

“I have eliminated every agent in the Sierra Program. I missed one.” You said, tossing all attempts at subtlety or propriety to the wind. Six had become something of a star in the world of private operators, and a legend amongst covert operators and the rest. His personal ethic had been to only accept contracts against targets that he felt had earned the punishment of extrajudicial execution. It was a small post-it-note in an otherwise empty file, a thin manila folder that held no confidential information worth locking up.

That much about Sierra Six was public, and as far as you knew, that was all that ever would be. A killer with a conscience was a humorous concept to you, but the morality of it didn’t matter. You knew what people like him did to survive, had seen it and experienced it firsthand with plenty of other desperate Sierra before him.

The atmosphere in the kitchen felt heavy, an unspoken tension coiling between you and Dani as you sat there, merely a pot roast dividing your two worlds. You could sense the myriad of unasked questions hanging in the air, but you opted to let her stew in her thoughts. Dani was no stranger to the dark recesses of the intelligence world, but there was still a palpable innocence to her approach—something about her moral compass that made her vulnerable to this life, while you had long since abandoned yours as being too cumbersome.

“I don’t understand why you’re taking this approach,” Dani finally said, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. Her eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing you as if she hoped to peel back layers you had spent a lifetime building. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t owe anyone anything and that you’re capable of dealing with things on your own terms… so why not just finish the job?”

“It’s not that simple,” you replied, leaning back slightly in your chair, the tension in your shoulders easing a fraction.

Dani huffed, her gaze a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “So you expect me to believe that after everything you've done, you're suddenly looking for answers instead of blood?”

“You should know better than to assume anything about my intentions.” The words slipped from your mouth, sharper than you intended. But the truth stung; you had long taken the path of blood, and yet here was the contradiction unfolding before you.

“This isn’t personal.”

“Why do you want him alive?” Her question was there, lingering as firmly as the scent of garlic. “He’s just as dangerous, if not more, than the others.” You couldn’t help but shake your head. “It’s about the information he might have.”

“Information that could lead to Carmichael or… whoever?” Dani asked, the challenge evident in her voice.

Your gaze steadied with hers, and something flickered at the edges of your mind, a momentary flash of tension that you had not often shared with others.

“I’m keeping my options open.” Your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. “Getting to Sierra Six is an opportunity. It positions me to control what information gets out to the wrong people.”

The challenge in Dani's eyes softened, a flicker of understanding threading through the layers of doubt that she wore so comfortably. “And if he doesn't want to talk?”

“He won’t have a choice.”

Carmichael was a monster, but even monsters had a hierarchy. Getting to Sierra Six wasn’t just about revenge or even justice for you.

He was a key to something bigger.