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drivinmeinsane · 7 months

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Witness in the Dark

※ Sierra Six x Claire's Older Sister!Reader ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { requested fic }

※ Summary: Don't we all just want to feel the companionable reassurance of another human being?

It only takes a single tragedy to tear your life to shreds and make it to where you're unable to sleep through the night. You tell yourself that you will never trust a bodyguard again, but things don't go according to plan when a man with a number for a name is assigned to the Fitzroy household while your uncle is away

※ Rating: T for suggestive themes and canon typical violence.

※ Content/Tags: Slow burn, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Night terrors, Pining, Unspecified age gap, Movie based - Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Obsessive behaviors from both parties, Descriptions of injuries, Mentions of parental death, Mentions of past kidnapping, Mentions of past torture, Implied death of minor character(s)

※ Word count: 12,637

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: I don't know what came over me. This really got uncontrollably out of hand and ended up being wildly self indulgent. Huge thanks for @danime25 for proofreading this. I owe you my life.

"Ladies!" Your sister's nurse calls as she walks into the room. "I want to introduce you to Six. He'll be looking after the house while Mister Donald is away."

You look up from your position next to Claire on her bed only to meet the eyes of the man following the nurse. They're startlingly blue. His face is impassive as he turns away and surveys the room. He carries himself with an easy grace that hints at the violence that his body could produce. He reeks of danger. You instantly don't appreciate his presence. You had fought with Uncle Fitz tooth and nail over hiring a bodyguard for the duration of his trip away from the home. This man’s presence here means you have clearly lost that argument.

"Only the two exits?" He questions, moving past the bed to stand at the ceiling to floor windows.

"Yeah." Your tone is hard, biting. The nurse gives a small gasp at your rudeness and says your name disapprovingly.

The man, Six, turns away from the window to look at you with a raised eyebrow. You stare at each other silently, sizing the other up. There’s a flicker of some emotion that you might label as respect in his eyes before Claire, picking up on your hostility, throws her hat in the ring.

"We don't chew gum in this house." You've never loved your little sister's faux-snob act more than in this moment. She snaps a photo of him with her Polaroid, staged records forgotten. He doesn't look particularly pleased about it. It’s more exasperated acceptance than anger though.

He's silent for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry. I wasn't briefed."

There’s a trace of a smile on his face. It’s irritating and you have to look away from him. You stare at a record sleeve like your life depends on it. He asks for the photo and picks it up. You see a flash of a tattoo on his hand as he plucks the Polaroid off of the bedspread. Poorly done and worn with age. He’s definitely one of Uncle Fitz’s prison recruits then. One of the most morally dubious options he could have saddled you with in his absence. Perfect.

He says his goodbyes to you and Claire before leaving the room. Your heart is beating irrationally rapidly and your mouth is dry. The man with a number for a name is stirring up nothing but bad memories. You know you won’t sleep well tonight.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“What kind of name is Six anyway?” Claire asks first thing in the morning after she tosses herself into a chair at the kitchen table. The man in question gives her a long look.

"007 was already taken so…" He says with a relaxed shrug, coffee mug in hand. He's leaning against the kitchen counter in the same suit as yesterday.

You choke back a laugh at the sight of your sister's expression. You accidentally meet Six's eyes over her head. There's warmth in them that douses your amusement immediately. You sober up and turn back to your breakfast. Softness in someone doing his line of work felt… wrong. He isn't trustworthy, you decide, no matter how kind he acts.

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up with a start. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the dry powder of concrete lingers in your subconscious. It takes several heaving breaths to clear your airway and bring you back to the present. You shakily sit up. You press your palms into your eyes. You try to forget the sensation of a knife in your skin. You're here. You're safe . You're one of the last people your sister has. You're the stable one.

You get to your feet in the dark bedroom and open your door to step out into the hall. You trail unsteady fingertips down the plaster and paint as you make your way to the kitchen and living area.

There's a barely audible scuffle and you peer through the gloom to see Six stalking you. You catch the barest glimpse of his face in a strip of moonlight. It's intent. Predatory. There's no hint of recognition, not while you move through the darkest parts of the room.

You feel cold. Your pulse starts to hammer in your veins. Your throat works uselessly. Words won't come out of your mouth. You forge along to the kitchen and fumble for the light. The kitchen is awash in a blinding glow right as you feel heat against your back. It immediately withdraws as the bodyguard removes himself from your personal space. You don't turn to face him while you get a glass from the cupboard and fill it with ice and water at the fridge's dispenser. You stare blankly at the burnished steel while you take sip after sip.

You refill your glass. You blink. You take a drink. You pretend like your mind isn't shattered. You pretend like the man your uncle hired hadn't been about to…

"Are you alright?" Six's voice cuts through the fog in your mind. It's like a lantern has been lit to guide you back into the waking world.

You find yourself then and turn to look at him. You study him. He looks slightly rumpled and tired. There's tension around his eyes and his mouth is set in an almost apologetic frown.

"Just another nightmare. Sorry for disturbing you."

The frown deepens. "You didn't. I was caught by surprise, that's all."

"Fair warning, me out here like this is probably going to be a regular occurrence." You smile wanly. "I know you want us in bed, but I don't do the whole staying put thing so well most nights."

He just nods. He's accepted your words without protest. The frown fades away.

You gesture with your glass in the vague direction of your bedroom. "I'm going to go ahead and excuse myself. Goodnight, Six."

"Goodnight."

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks go by. The household falls into a comfortable enough routine. Claire ribs him good-naturedly every chance she gets. He's always got a faint aura of amusement every time she takes a shot at him. You hadn't yet seen him get angry. Pretending to be annoyed? Yes, but never actually expressing any negative emotion beyond mild exasperation. Not yet, anyway.

He sends the both of you to bed every night after Claire's nurse takes her leave. You inevitably get up in the middle of the night after another vivid nightmare. Six is always either watching the camera footage or doing his rounds. He's stopped being surprised by your presence after the night he hunted you. You linger in the kitchen doorway night after night, watching him keep vigil. He's got a soft face, you've decided. There's tension there, likely from worry and lack of sleep, but not cruelty. You've begun to wonder if he has the capability for it. You know he must. Uncle Fitz has kept you in the dark about a lot of the work he does, but you know a kind man wouldn’t have been a candidate for whatever program your uncle runs.

───※ ·❆· ※───

You're woken up a few nights later by the sound of hands scrabbling on your door. Your eyes snap open and you remain frozen for a second before you hear Claire's muffled voice. You're immediately out of bed so fast you stumble and twist your ankle painfully. You fling the door open and next thing you know, your little sister falls wheezing into your arms. "Something's… Something's wrong." She gasps out.

She can't breathe and is clutching at her chest with weak hands. Horror races down your back and you're pulling her into your arms in a clumsy embrace, desperately trying to keep her upright.

"Six!" The name is torn from you in a shout. You never thought you would be screaming for a man you'd told yourself you couldn't trust.

He's there in an instant. He puts a steadying hand on your back before he gently pulls Claire away and lifts her up into his arms. She wheezes again and both you and Six freeze.

"I'm okay." she whispers. She looks so small and breakable in the bodyguard's thick arms. Like a bird plucked from the sky, held the mercy of a giant's hands.

"Can you get the keys for the car and unlock it?" His voice washes over you. Its steadiness anchors you to reality. You manage a "Yeah." and take off through the house to the garage, making a pit-stop to snag the keys from their bowl. Your ankle is throbbing. Six is close behind, his brisk stride and long legs keeping time with your hurried scrambling. You mash the unlock button on the fob and throw yourself into the backseat. Claire is gently deposited in after you. Her head is resting on your lap. You comb through her brown hair with shaky hands.

"Mount St. Mary's." You tell Six the moment he's halfway into the driver's seat. "They're the ones who put her pacemaker in."

He grunts in response, backing out of the garage. You don't remember when you handed him the keys or when the garage door was opened. You don't think about anything other than your little sister. You can't lose her too. You've already lost so much of your family and of yourself. The ride passes in a blur. You're only fleetingly aware of the passing lights. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it's beating for Claire and you both. You whisper pleas and promises to her, stroking her forehead with shaking hands.

You're pulled out of your trance by Six yanking the passenger door open, and you help guide your sister into his capable arms. The medical team whisks Claire into the back immediately the moment he has her on the stretcher. You're left in a stiff, vinyl chair in the waiting room. Bodies haven't been in it long enough to soften the material. You're filling out intake paperwork on your sister's behalf. Six stands next to you, hands clasped in front of himself. You glance over, checking his watch every few seconds, your leg bouncing in place. Nervousness and fear wash over you in all-consuming waves.

He catches your glance as your eyes dart over yet again.

"You holding up alright?'' His questions surprise you. He rarely is the one to initiate conversations. His gaze is steady, grounding, blue eyes watching you intently.

"Not really." You admit, inhaling and exhaling jaggedly. He nods. There's tension around his eyes. Is he worried too? You have to look away from his face and instead talk to his watch. "She's my sister. I need to keep her safe. I can't lose her too."

You hear him make a noise in response. You watch the seconds tick by one by one on his watch. The two of you are silent for approximately thirty-seven of them before Six breaks the moment by undoing the metal clasp. He pulls the watch away from his skin, revealing a bar of ink across the underside of his surprisingly delicate wrist before he's handing it to you.

"Here."

You stare at the dangling watch blankly before looking up at his face. "What?"

"Keep it safe for me for a while." His tone leaves no room for argument. You reach out with hesitant fingers and take it from his grasp. The steel is warm in your hand. You swallow thickly and drape the watch over your wrist, waiting for the sickening feeling of having your hands bound to hit you. It doesn't. You clumsily latch the buckle. It's sized perfectly for the man diligently standing at your side, no possibility of tightening it without it being resized altogether. It hangs off your wrist like a loose bracelet and you realize then just how big Six is.

He hides his mass well. His muscles are concealed discretely enough underneath blazers and tailored trousers. He simply doesn't take up space in whatever room he's in, always the expert at being unremarkable, unobtrusive, and not worth remembering. But this… this is a dead giveaway. You cast a sideways glance at his hands and, for a dizzying moment, you wonder how your hand would look pressed palm to palm with one of his.

"Miss Fitzroy. Your sister is cleared for visitors now if you would like to see her." A nurse's voice cuts into your illogical musings.

You stand up so abruptly that the chair you were just sitting on screeches agonizingly loud on the polished vinyl flooring before it thuds into the wall. The nurse flinches slightly, but Six is steady at your side. He falls into step behind you as you follow the man through the winding hallways to Claire.

The doctor stops you at the door, arm barring you for a moment before letting it drop. "She's stabilized. Tell your uncle there was a programming glitch. We were able to repair it. Non-invasive." She pauses for a moment, giving the man hovering behind you a hard look before continuing. "The remote system flagged it ten minutes before he pulled up."

"You're able to monitor from that distance?" You interrupt.

"We can keep track of her pacemaker from just about anywhere. You may see her. She can be released later tonight after we have her under observation for a while longer.” The doctor catches your pinched expression and adds. “Just to be safe.”

You nod, gaze bypassing her to focus on Claire. She’s been watching the exchange and, at your attention, she pulls a weak smile under her oxygen mask while raising a pale hand to flash the rocker sign. The doctor finally steps aside but not before blocking Six as he makes to follow you into the room. “Only family allowed.”

You look at her incredulously and open your mouth to protest before Six cuts you off. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.” His tone is bland, unemotional. He arranges himself to stand with his back to the inside of the open door. He’s obnoxiously in the way of anyone that would need to come or go. He spends the passing minutes as they bleed into hours standing there like a steadfast sentinel. Back straight, hand clasped over his right wrist, left wrist startlingly bare, head lowered in waiting supplication; he’s the very image of patient servitude.

You sit at your sister's side in your own vigil. The three of you wait in tired silence until a nurse finally announces Claire is free to be discharged.

She fusses as she's helped into a wheelchair. You and Six stand aside, letting the staff fight the battle. They win, but as soon as everyone spills out of the automatic doors, she's pulling herself out of the mobility aid. She gently slaps away yours and Six's reaching hands when the two of you try to steady her. "Don't you dare."

"But-" you start to protest before you're immediately shut down. "I can walk to the car. I'm not that much of an invalid."

Six doesn't even try to say anything, just forges ahead through the parking lot like nothing happened. He's learned by now that there's no arguing with your little sister. The traitor. You and Claire make it to the vehicle after him and you move to slide into the back seat with her but she pulls a face.

"You're smothering meeeee." she exaggeratedly whines. You give her a flat look. "Smothered." she insists. She dramatically points at the front of the car and raises insistent eyebrows.

You end up buckling yourself into the front passenger seat with an exasperated sigh. You look over at Six. The tension has bled away from his face. He looks more relaxed, relieved even. He notices your stare and the two of you make eye contact. You roll your eyes pointedly at your sister’s antics. Six maintains a serious expression until it cracks and you’re rewarded with the bodyguard's smile.

Six's arm brushes ever so slightly against yours when he puts the vehicle into reverse and then into drive. The feeling of his warmth lingers like a brand on your skin. His watch hangs heavily around your wrist. You fight the urge to gently touch the gleaming metal and instead interlink your own fingers together hard enough to hurt.

You spend the car ride sagged against the leather of the passenger seat, desperately trying to focus on the passing scenery and not the man seated next to you. Not his kindness, not the way he had kept you grounded. You tell yourself he was just doing his job. Any bodyguard would have been tender and careful with your sister… and with you. You try to not read into what Six offering his watch to you for "safe keeping" might possibly mean.

Soon you're back at the house, waiting in the garage with your little sister while the hired man does a sweep of the building to make sure no one has breached the perimeter while it lay vacant. Claire is tucked against your side. She's bleary eyed with exhaustion.

"Clear." Six's voice cuts into the silence of the garage.

You tow Claire along with you and sit her down at the table. She slumps with her cheek resting in her hand. You busy yourself with getting a bowl of ice cream set in front of her.

She gulps it down in huge mouthfuls. Six sits to your right at the head of the table while she eats. His eyes are focused on the screen of his laptop. You're sitting across from your sister, half curled up in the dining chair. The adrenaline has long since left your body, leaving you feeling heavy with exhaustion.

"You feeling better?" Six directs at Claire.

"Just another Thursday." She says with a shrug. "Uncle Donald and my sister say this is the best medicine. Ice cream. I tend to agree."

"They're smart people."

"Only family I got."

Six’s response is instant, like he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t get them out of his mouth fast enough. “Fitz’s the closest thing to family I’ve had in a long while.”

"Maybe that kind of makes us family."

You catch the way that he smiles. He ducks his head to hide it, but you see the hopeless spread of it across his face. There’s something so tender and vulnerable in his eyes that you get stung by a pang in your chest. Your heart aches for the people sitting at the table with you. Claire for carrying the loss of your parents and Six for whose closest hint of a familial tie is his boss. You get pulled out of your spiraling thoughts by Claire yawning.

"You should go to bed." His voice is soft.

You haul yourself to your feet, exhausting hanging on you like a blanket. You whisk Claire’s empty bowl away and gently touch her shoulder. “C’mon, you heard the man.”

She grumbles a little and stands up with you. You’re about to guide her to her bedroom but she pauses and turns. “‘Night, Robot.”

“Goodnight, Claire.” He sounds exasperated with an undercurrent of amusement.

He doesn’t look away from the screen as you and your younger sister retire for the night. You fall into bed, wrung out from the hospital trip. It’s not until you’re firmly under the covers and settled into bed that you realize you’re still wearing Six’s watch. You stare at it, warring with yourself on if you should scrape yourself off of the mattress to go give it to the bodyguard keeping vigil at the table or to just set it aside to give to him in the morning. You do neither of those things. You fall asleep watching the silver metal reflect the moonlight peering through the shivering curtains. You do not dream of your past captors and their leering smiles that night. Instead, you dream of a comforting hand on your wrist, the gentle hum of a deep voice.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The three of you settle back into routine following Claire’s hospital visit, but things have shifted slightly following that night. You gave Six his watch back the following morning before your sister got out of bed and before her nurse arrived for the day. He took it from your hesitantly offered hand. His thick fingers gently brushed your palm as he lifted the piece from it. Your wrist has felt desolate, too light ever since you took it off. You try to ignore it all, try to regain the distance you had before. You don’t succeed. Something about Uncle Fitz’s hired man keeps eroding the walls built from mistrust and agony.

───※ ·❆· ※───

You snap awake, soaked through with rapidly cooling sweat. You’re certain you didn’t scream out. Your throat isn’t sore, but your face is wet, moisture clinging to your lashes. You must have been silently sobbing through your nightmare. You uncurl yourself from your tensed position and drag yourself out of bed. You walk through the darkened hallway to the kitchen. You make sure to roughly trail your hand along the wall and clear your throat. It won’t do anyone any favors to startle Six.

You get your glass of water and make your way into the main sprawl of rooms. The bodyguard is sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, as he is most nights. You pull out a chair and sit down with your glass. You look at it hollowly, trying to ignore the lingering terror from your nightmares. You can't but notice Six’s eyes flickering over to you now and again. There’s a concerned crease between his eyebrows.

“Rough night?”

“The usual. As Claire says, it’s just another Thursday.” Your voice comes out more bitter than you intend. You tighten your grip on your cup until it feels like it might shatter in your hand. You force yourself to loosen your clenched fingers.

The man seated at the table with you gives an acknowledging hum, sedately chewing his gum. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force any explanations out of you. You relax a little in your seat. Having another human being awake and nearby is a comfort. You rest your cheek on your hand and observe him. He looks tired. The light coming from the screen serves only to highlight the weariness weighing down his face and stooping his usually rigid shoulders. Looking at him like this reminds you of the night you watched this man and your sister interact after he drove you both home from Mount St. Mary’s.

“She’s happier with you around, you know.”

There's such a long silence following your unprompted comment that you don't think he'll respond but he finally does. "She's a good kid."

"Yeah. Yeah she is." You don’t think you could have clung to life in the wake of the incident without her there to be strong for. Most weeks, she was the only reason you bothered to try to function.

You drain the rest of your glass and stand up. The ice clinks. You dump it in the sink and put the cup in the top rack of the dishwasher. You felt wrung out enough to attempt sleep again. You pause in the doorway and look back at the man at the table. "Six."

He looks up, eyebrow raised. His lips are slightly parted.

"'Night."

"Goodnight." You can’t decipher his tone.

Your nightmares don’t return that night.

───※ ·❆· ※───

About a month later, you’re screaming and thrashing in your bed. You’re choking under your captor’s hands, the sensation of soaked cloth over your face. You feel the pressure of those cruel fingers on your throat, over your mouth. Water moistening every ragged inhale. You can’t breathe.

Six’s response is all but instantaneous from the moment he hears your first scream. He pushes your door open, one hand on the knob and the other wrapped around his drawn gun. He’s sweeping his eyes across the dark room, There’s no attacker to find, there’s only you writhing on your bed, plagued by your own mind. He holsters his weapon and goes to your side. He tries calling your name, but there’s no acknowledgement, only your panicked wheezing. He puts one knee on the mattress for stability and grabs your upper arms. He tries to shake you awake. That gets a reaction. You start fighting him. Your hands claw and hit at him. He ignores it and repeats your name, asking you to wake up with an edge of desperation to his voice. He’s wildly unprepared for this. A physical enemy he can handle, but this…

You come out of it, going limp in his hold. Your chest is heaving. You blink away the lingering horrors of your dream and look up at him, horrified. For a split second your panic flares anew until you focus on his face. You remind yourself that you know this man, that you trust him with your sister’s life. He releases his grip on you and leans to turn on your bedside lamp. You wince against the explosion of light before bolting upright to reach towards his face. He’s scratched and you wonder if he’s going to be sporting a black eye. He lets your fingertips rest on his cheek for a heartbeat, something unreadable in his eyes before he’s withdrawing his knee from the mattress and standing at the side of your bed. He’s the picture of composure.

“I’m so sorry.” Guilt is suffocating you almost as much as the man in your nightmare.

"You don't need to apologize. I should. I wasn't briefed about how to handle it." He sounds genuinely sorry, a touch of distress bleeding into his tone. It twists the knife of guilt deeper. You feel your eyes start to well.

"No, no it's not your fault.. I don't want to be like this, I'm sorry." The tears spill over. You turn your face away and scrub your hands over your cheeks.

He hesitates and sits down on the bed next to you. There's a yawning span of distance between the two of you. There's not a hint of anger or frustration coming from him, not even pity. just.... sorrow. Understanding.

"Fitz briefed me on your history." It's blunt. matter of fact.

"Then you know about the...." You hesitate.

"Yeah.” He answers before continuing. “Does he know how bad it gets?"

"No… I never told him all the details. I didn't want to burden him. He's got enough to worry about." You shrink into yourself. Your eyes focused on the items cluttering your nightstand.

"Your wellbeing isn't a burden." There it is. There’s a taste of the anger you’d been waiting for in his tone. You squeeze your eyes shut.

"I'm the stable one, Six. I can't let everyone down again ." You laugh a little, self-deprecating. You press your palms against your eyes. Baring down until stars explode behind your closed eyelids.

He hums, and you feel the shift of the mattress as he stands up. You think he’s leaving, disgusted with you and your emotions, but the heat of his presence doesn’t go away. The warmth of him bleeds through your sleep clothes. You can feel him looking down at you. You nearly jump out of your skin when he nudges your arm. You look up at him, startled. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Come on.” He says, offering his hand to you. You take it. He easily guides you up onto shaky legs.

He has you follow him down the hallway and to the dining table. A path as familiar as an old friend by now. He motions for you to sit at the table, and you mutely follow his direction. You hear him move around in the kitchen. He returns with a bowl of ice cream and a full glass of water. He sits both in front of you.

"I have it on expert authority that this should help. All the smartest people I know support it." He's so serious sounding. You look at him flatly. He holds his grave expression for a beat before he winks. You crack a teary smile and lay into the ice cream like it personally insulted you.

He settles into a chair across from you while you eat. He occasionally glances over at the open laptop’s screen to check the security footage, but his main focus is on you. You feel a little self conscious under his gaze. You scour your mind for something to say, anything to lessen the intensity he’s directing towards you.

"Do you ever sleep? Like… go to bed sleep?" The question comes out of nowhere. a flash of surprise crosses his face. You'd seen him cross his arms in his chair and tip his head back. Caught him leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, hip cocked for stability. But the thought of him actually dressing down into pajamas and tucking himself under the blankets seems.... implausible. too soft for this man who is alert and buttoned up into his crisp slacks and fitted shirts no matter the hour of the day. You half supposed he showered in the damn things.

"Not as often as I should. I don't sleep easy either." The honesty surprises you.

"Why?" It's probing but you're too exhausted and raw to care.

"Too many memories. My line of work isn't exactly conducive to pleasant dreams." You wonder if he would have been willing to be so open this entire time or if something changed between the two of you. When would it have changed? Were the moments you found significant also important to him? Was he starting to crave your company in the inexplicable way as you’ve begun to crave his?

You almost apologize to him for prying, but you stop yourself. You nod instead. You understand how it is to have a beast pacing the maze of your sleeping mind, pulling out the threads of your worst memories like entrails for you to witness over and over again.

"I still think about it… About them." You admit. Your eyes skitter across the table like a frightened mouse, focusing on Six's watch face before darting away. You can’t tell the time from this distance. There is a pressure welling up in your throat. Something is clawing its way out into the open.

“Talk to me.” His request is firm, paving the way for your words. He takes his watch off, a mirror of the other night. It slips free of his arm in the same way, inky black revealed on the underside of his wrist, tendons shifting, the movements delicate. He sets the watch on the table in front of you. The metal links clatter on the polished wood surface. You glance up at his face, shadowed in the dim light. “For safekeeping.” He remarks.

You reach out and lift it from the worn surface, running your fingers over the band. The weight is soothing in your grasp. The seconds tick by and it feels as though your heart is trying to race them. You finally open your mouth and release your burden.

“Claire had her birthday party that day. It was the last good day we had with our parents. It was hard to keep the security straight since there were so many people in the house. I didn’t think anything was wrong when two men came up to me and introduced them as part of the security detail. I still didn’t think it was weird when they asked me to come with them. How could I have been so stupid ?” Your breath catches, anger palpable in your voice. Six twitches like he might reach out, but he stills and you continue.

“They got me out of the house. I wasn’t strong enough to fight them off when they put me in the back of the SUV. They… they kept me for days asking questions I didn’t know the answers to. They didn’t like that I didn’t know anything. They tried to be more persuasive… so I started making up things. I just wanted them to stop but they wouldn’t. The wrong answer or the right answer, it didn’t matter. They offered me in exchange for a ransom and eventually they pulled me out of the basement. My parents were there to do the handoff. The guys wouldn’t let anyone else do it. We made it about three miles down the highway before they caught up with us and shot out the front tires. I don’t think they expected anyone to live after we went through the guardrail, so they just.. drove off. Left. I don’t know how long I was in the car staring at my parents. Claire was too young to understand that I ruined her life. I’ve been waiting for her to realize what I did. She hasn’t yet but she will.”

“How did you ruin it?” Quiet, disbelieving.

“I got our parents killed. I shouldn’t have gone with those men. I should’ve known better.” You hear a noise like a wounded animal. A creature left for roadkill, great heaving breaths rattling in that damaged chest. It’s you, you realize dully, you’re the animal. There’s a large hand enveloping your wrist. It’s Six and he’s holding onto you.

“How could you know?” He asks. You shake your head, a sob escapes you. You feel shame. Grief. Six’s hand squeezes almost tight enough to hurt. It grounds you, you can’t escape into your own mind. Not with that insistent pressure to stay . You feel the metal of his watch biting into the skin of your palm. It’s a good kind of ache.

“It wasn’t your fault. You trusted people you were meant to trust. Who could blame you for that?” he insists. His eyes are too soft, too kind.

“Uncle Fitz.” It slips out, involuntary. You would bite your own tongue off if it could take back the betrayal. You don’t dare to look at the man seated across from you. You had all but swung a bat at the person who he said was the closest thing he had to family.

His hand withdraws from your arm, and for a moment you’re certain that he’s going to walk off and leave you sitting here by yourself. He doesn’t, he surprises you once again. He simply leans further over the table, capturing your hands with his before plucking his watch from your ironclad grasp. He lays it over your much smaller wrist. He handles you with so much gentleness it almost hurts. He secures the clasp and simply… holds your hands. He says your name and you look up

“Your family loves you.” He states simply. He says it like it’s an indisputable fact. Like it’s something as true and honest as the rotation of the Earth. You nod mutely. You can’t argue, not when he says it with so much assurance. He gives your hands a final, comforting squeeze and stands up. He gathers up your dishes, bowl, spoon, and glass. The bodyguard makes a soothing gesture to stay seated when you make a motion to rise and help him. You listen to the domestic sounds of him running the sink and loading your used dishes into the dishwasher. Your eyes start to drift shut. There’s a weight off your lungs, your burden has been dispersed, even just for a little while.

There’s a soft touch to your shoulder. It’s Six and he wants you back in bed. You get to your feet and let him escort you to your bedroom door. You feel oddly nervous, fidgeting with your fingers and avoiding meeting the hired man’s eyes. It feels like the awkward end of a weird date where everyone was too uncomfortably honest.. No matter how delusional that sounds even to yourself.

“Goodnight.” he’s the one who breaks the silence first. You feel relieved.

“‘Night, Six.” is your response as you put your hand on the doorknob and slip into the room, away from his unreadable gaze. When you fall asleep for the second time that night, you dream of steady hands marked with prison tattoos.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The morning dawns without preamble. It feels like you have barely laid your head on the pillow. You check the time on the watch hanging loosely around your wrist. Less than four hours have passed since your night terror and subsequent comforting via the household bodyguard. Your morning routine feels more laborious than usual. Every movement feels like crawling through tilled soil.

You’re dressed for the day and walking into the kitchen when you hear your little sister badgering Six.

“What happened to you, Robot?” she asks.

You pop your head around the corner to take a look at the man she’s addressing. You stop cold. It’s a mess. He’s a mess. The skin around his left eye is puffy and bruised. There's clear nail marks on his cheeks and down to his neck. Any exposed skin had taken the brunt of your panic. You can even see some redness through his facial hair. You feel sick, betrayed again by your body. Your own hands had tried to tear him apart.

"Well..." he starts and shrugs his jacket off. He folds it and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs.

He's about to go on his outdoor rounds, which you and Claire have secretly dubbed ‘enrichment time’, and continue wearing a trail into the yard. If he’s feeling particularly comfortable, he might sneak a nap in one of the lawn chairs now that the sun is up. Provided that he’s sure the two of you are secure and can survive without him awake for an hour or so.

"Your sister beat me in a fight. I'll have to hand in my championship belt." It's relaxed and easy. He gives you a conspiratorial wink when Claire rolls her eyes with a scoff.

You match his earnest tone with your own. "You should have seen it, I was about to get the folding chair and everything."

“Ooh-kay, I’ll just assume it was a weird sex thing,” she comments, turning back to her breakfast. “Looks like you already won his watch though. Congrats.”

Silence follows. Claire smugly scrapes her spoon around in her bowl, capturing every last shred of cereal. There’s a self-satisfied smile on her face. Neither of you protest. Either you let it go and hope she loses interest in the bit, or you launch into a defense that will only get her to double down. No matter what, you’ll be the losers.

Six pushes a heavy exhale through his nose and walks out of the room. You follow him right out the back door and onto the deck. The two of you stand there for a moment in companionable silence. It’s beautiful out here. The sun is a sedate creature in the sky. She's lazily casting her rays over the yard. The water in the pool is sparkling in it, lapping playfully at the concrete walls. Six’s shoulders are still tense in your field of view. He looks as though he’s holding himself up through sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry again about last night.” You say to his back.

“Please don’t be. Things happen.” He says with a sigh. You falter. He sounds as exhausted as you feel. You don't want to push the issue.

He gestures for you to sit in one of the deck chairs by the pool. You don’t, instead choosing to trail him as he does his rounds. He’s lit by the sun. You’re in his shadow. His hair looks like a field of golden wheat. You almost want to run your hands though it in order to feel the softness for yourself. You instead soothe the urge by toying with the band of his watch still loosely encircling your wrist. He looks back at you every once in a while, eyes dazzlingly blue in the bright sunlight. You had never noticed the angles of his face before, the curves of his nose with its distinctive bump, the set of his cheekbones, how his facial hair is darker than the hair on his head. You hate that you're noticing these details now. After the events of last night, any tentative bond feels tainted.

The morning grows warmer as you drift behind him like a ghost. Eventually he rolls his sleeves up to reveal his forearms. You start to understand why people in bygone eras got so flustered at the sight of a lady's ankle. His wrists are bodice ripping enough, you suppose, but the space from his fingertips to the crook of his elbow? That is home to so much previously unseen skin. Had he been rolling up his sleeves every morning? If you had simply looked out one of the windows, would you have seen the sight that you’re witnessing now? Would you have seen the distinct veins trailing up the insides of his muscular arms? What about the tattoos whose mere existence beg to have a finger trace along his skin? You avert your eyes, not wanting him to notice you staring. You tell yourself that it’s just the novelty of it all, that the surprise at seeing him less buttoned up will wear off.

With the rounds done, the two of you are back at your starting point. The bodyguard settles onto one of the deck chairs. He lets out a borderline obscene groan as he lets his body relax against the wood. His eyes flutter closed. He shifts slightly, another noise escapes his throat as he does. You make your way to the chair next to him on shaky legs, and drop into it. He doesn’t stir. You debate on standing up, you don’t, the thought of leaving his side makes you anxious. You make yourself comfortable in your seat.

Through the open window, you can hear Claire’s record player. You hear the notes of Feel the Warm. She’s playing Mark Lindsay again. You let it wash over you. The sunlight is dappled across this part of the patio. You cast a glance over at your companion. His arms are crossed and he looks dead to the world. Your own eyelids are drooping, He’s the last thing you see before you drift off.

You wake up gradually, it’s an easy kind of waking. No wild jerk of consciousness, just the soft trickle of awareness. You’ve managed to curl on your side in the deck chair. You squirm upright and feel cloth slide down into your lap. It’s the hired man’s jacket. He must have gone back inside to get it. You touch it with hesitant fingers and look up, scanning for him. He’s currently out of sight, but you do see Claire in the hammock chair across the way. She’s engrossed in her phone and frantically tapping at the screen. You check the time on the watch in your possession before you catch a glimpse of Six coming up the patio steps from the lower yard. He’s got a sandwich in one hand and his own phone in the other. He’s intent on the device. He glances up and accidentally meets your eyes. He jumps slightly as if startled you’re awake. He recovers and gives you a nod.

“‘Morning.” His mouth is full. You know Claire will give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime if she notices.

"It's after twelve." You playfully retort, watching unimpressed as he fights to swallow the bread in his mouth. He’s really struggling for a second before he gets it down, his throat working roughly. You get to your feet, carefully folding his jacket over your arm. You approach him with it.

"Good afternoon then." He says quietly. You swear you catch the ghost of a smile on his face as he looks at you.

“Thanks for the blanket.” You say, offering it to him. He takes it with his unoccupied hand before shrugging it on, doing a quick change of hands with his lunch.

You move to take off the watch and return that as well, but he stops you with a disapproving noise. “You’re keeping that safe for me, remember?”

You pause for a moment, mind racing wildly with the effort to make sense of his words. To find meaning in them. Your hand falls away from the metal and you surrender with a mute nod. If he wanted you to keep it for him for a while longer, who were you to protest? It’s a strange kind of comfort to have it.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Things come to another disastrous head some weeks later. It happens after the nurse sees Claire tucked into bed before heading home for the evening. It happens after you give your sister your own goodnight wishes. You had gently brushed her hair from her face and gave her a kiss on the forehead even if she scrunches her face in mock disgust each time you do. There’s no telling which moment between the two of you will be the last. You hadn’t had the luxury of knowing that your mom’s wet pleas for help would be the last gift from her in that twisted hunk of metal. You wanted your little sister to have a happy memory of you if a goodnight ever turned into a goodbye. Less nightmares that way.

You had stood up from your seat on the edge of the bed, made sure to smooth her blanket out. “Sweet dreams, Claire.” you said before you extinguished the slow glow cast by the lamp on her nightstand.

“‘Night,” she had said to you before yelling. “‘Night, Robot!” in the direction of the door.

You heard a weary sounding response from the ‘robot’ in question. Six was hovering in the hallway, patiently waiting to escort you to your bedroom door. He’s been diligent in performing the action every single night without fail since your impromptu wrestling session with him. He also hasn’t let you return his watch to him yet. You closed the bedroom door behind you, stepped into the hall and nearly brushed against the tall man. He moved back only enough to give you the barest clearance to get past him so he could trail after you for the scant few steps to your own door. It seems lately that he’s been standing closer to you. It also seems like his eyes have been lingering more on your face than the surveillance feeds at night when you emerge from your room, wide eyed and shaken from whatever terror that had gripped you. Your exchanged goodnights haven’t been anything out of the ordinary though, even if his voice was lower… more intimate than it used to be.

The bubble officially bursts for you when you abruptly jerk awake. You assume it was a nightmare you can’t remember, though you don’t feel any of the usual symptoms. There’s no tremors or wild breathing. You’re just… awake. You think about laying in bed and trying to drift off, but there’s a sense of unease you can’t shake. You make up your mind and shuffle over to the door. Like any other night, you turn the knob and walk out into the hall.

Like a snare snatching a rabbit, rough hands seize you. Your mouth is covered, fingers digging in harshly. And with a sudden drop of your stomach, you register the sensation of a gun pressing into your side. The metal’s coldness burrows though the thin layer of your sleep shirt. You’re frozen in shock, mind racing. Where's Six? Where's the bodyguard uncle Fitz had hired? He was supposed to protect you and your sister. Keep you safe. Why wasn't he doing his job? Why was this man in the house?

Tears start running down your face without your permission. Your sobs are broken off against the inside of your mouth. They can’t escape the crushing pressure. A scream you can’t release is building in your throat. What if this man did something to Claire?

The gun digs in deeper, grinding against your ribs. He drags you down the hall and into the living room. It’s dark and you flinch as you feel something sharp dig into one of your feet. You whimper. The floor is littered with broken glass. The sound of it shattering must have been what woke you up.

“Shut up.” the man holding you hisses, giving you a tooth rattling shake while he leans over your shoulder to see where he’s steering you. His breath is sour. “Where is he?” He must mean Six.

The bodyguard must still be able to present a problem if this man is asking about him. You’re not completely alone in this. It’s enough to sharpen your mind. To direct your focus. Your eyes are straining to make out anything in the darkness. It’s a mess of shapes that are so familiar in the daylight, but they look like strangers in the darkness. You manage to recognize the coffee table before the attacker does and you pull your leg out of the way. He slams into it and stumbles. He curses loudly through the pain of hitting his shin on the corner. You see your opportunity and savagely bite the hand covering your mouth. The saltiness of blood washes over your tongue but you bury your teeth in deeper. The tendons and nerves give way beneath your teeth. You go until you hit bone and hang on. Even if you don’t make out of this alive, you’re going to make damn sure this fucker doesn’t get to keep full use of his fingers.

He’s groaning, blinded by the shock of pain. You dare to release your hold on him in order to slam the back of your head into his face as hard as you can, throwing yourself into a backwards jump to do so. He lets out a wounded noise and clutches his face. He’s completely let go of you to do so. The gun is on the floor now, dropped in the surprise of your retaliation. You skate awkwardly on the glass as you make a run for it. The floor feels wet under your feet as you sprint for the hall. You’re leaving a trail of bloody footprints in your wake. The scream you’ve felt building weakly escapes. It’s a too quiet utterance of Six’s name. You can’t find the ability to yell as loud as you need to. You’re nearly sightless from a lack of light and terrified tears. You’re battering against the walls and furniture like a moth around a lightbulb. You make it halfway down the hall to Claire’s bedroom when you feel it. A brush of the assailant’s hand against your back. He shouts when he misses you, and you jitter to the side, making contact with the wall right as he slams into the floor. You put your back to it and look down, eyes wide enough in terror to make out the shapes of two struggling men.

Six is on top of the man who had grabbed you. His silhouette is identifiable even in the murky dark. Relief turns your legs into jelly. He’s come for you after all. You allow yourself to go limp and slide down the wall, curling up on the floor. You squeeze your eyes closed so you don’t have to put a visual to the violence you’re hearing. It’s wet, crunchy. Eventually you only hear the heaving breathing of one man. You don’t know how long you sit there shaking.

You’re coaxed into opening your eyes by Six’s voice saying your name. Your bedroom door is ajar and the light is on, illuminating the hallway enough to comfortably see, but not enough to where you can’t pretend the dark smears and streaks are shadows. The attacker isn’t in the hall any more. Six is kneeling in front of you. He’s got a cut on his cheek but otherwise looks unharmed.

“Are you with me?” It’s said with aching concern.

"Yeah… Yeah I'm here." You’re all too aware of your stinging feet, the ache of your muscles, the pain in the back of your head.

Relief floods his face at your words. He reaches out but stops himself before making contact with you. You notice that his knuckles are split open and already bruising. His hand hovers in the space between your bodies, trembling slightly like he can’t bear to touch you but withdrawing is equally torturous. You rock onto your knees and shove yourself into his arms instead. They’re instantly around you. He holds you to himself. It’s all you can do to cling to him in kind. If you could nestle alongside the lungs in his chest, you would make a home in his rib cage.

"You did well. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep him from you. His pals kept me busy." His voice is full of bitter frustration.

You shake your head and speak against his collarbone. “Is Claire okay?”

"She slept right through it. She's still asleep. I just checked on her." He soothes, running a hand up and down your back.

“Good…” you respond, unspeakably thankful. You could cry.

“Do I have your permission to pick you and take you to your bed? I don’t want you walking with your feet like this.”

“Yeah, but I’m too heavy?” You’re surprised and uncertain. Sure, he had slammed around a grown man like a rag doll, but what if….

“Believe me, you’re not.” He sounds almost amused.

He eases you up onto your knees and over his lap. He encourages you to put your arms over his shoulders. It’s startlingly intimate. You can easily see the fine lines around his eyes at this distance. His breath is warm and against your face, smelling faintly of the watermelon gum he chews. You have just a second to try and process it before he’s gaining a foothold. He stabilizes you with one thick arm under your thighs and his hand on your back. You reflexively gasp and clench the back of his jacket in your hands. Each of his steps is steady. There’s no sign of strain even as he navigates your bedroom doorway. He carefully lowers you to the edge of your mattress and withdraws his arm. Your thighs release their death grip against his hips and you settle into place, feet off the ground. You avoid looking at his face, you know yours feels like it’s on fire.

You notice that he had already moved your trashcan to your bedside and collected the first aid kit and a roll of paper towels. He must have known you’d cooperate with him. He drags your desk chair over and takes a seat. He pats his thigh encouragingly, and you place your heel right above his knee. He steadies you with a firm hand around your ankle. He removes the shards of glass. He doesn't let you jerk away, not with the grip he has on you, even when the tweezers catch on a particularly deep piece. He works in silence and you eventually allow yourself to lay flat on the bed while he does his task. You don't ask what happened to the man in the hallway. You don't ask how Six got detained in the first place. He doesn’t volunteer the information. The time passes and you’re halfway asleep by the time he’s tying off the wrap securing the bandages on your other foot and carefully easing your leg back down from its elevated position on his thigh.

"Please stay." You ask the ceiling. You feel more than see Six freeze in response to your question.

“I shouldn’t.” He sounds conflicted. You prop yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at him.

“Do you not want to?”

“It’s not that. It’s anything but that.”

You bite your lip and decide to throw all your cards on the table. “I sleep better when I'm around you. You keep the nightmares away.”

He looks surprised, devastated even. His demeanor couldn’t have been any different than if you had asked him to bare his neck and slit his own throat. Resigned, but he would still pick up the knife for you.

"Give me a minute," is his response.

He gathers up the supplies and turns off the light on his way out of the room, plunging you into the familiar dark of your room. You're not sure what exactly he does while he’s away, but he comes back sans jacket and with his sleeves rolled up. He carries the acidic tang of cleaning chemicals. He settles back into your chair after tossing the laptop on the desk. The two of you watch each other for a moment

"Are you okay?"

"Emotionally? I've been better. Physically? I'm fine. Just a few scratches and a bruised ego. " He's soft. You nod, reassured.

You keep your eyes on his face. It’s lit by the soft glow of the screen. It’s become an unhealthy habit, observing this man. You drift off to sleep facing in his direction. He's there when you wake up. He's clearly gotten up at some point to shower, but he did come back to resume his sentence at your side. You greet each other and he excuses himself back to the common areas of the home.

───※ ·❆· ※───

It becomes a thing, you spending time in his presence outside of what follows your nightmares. Something changed in you after the attack. It has culminated in a strong desire to be near him, to be within the frame of his reassuring gaze. Most of the time but not always, you go with him on his surveillance rounds. You walk with him through the yard. It always feels a little like you’re two society members having a chaperoned walk, but it’s soothing. Routine. You’ve also begun sitting with him in the hours before bed. At the table or on the couch while he watches the TV. The two of you simply exist together.

You rarely return to your room most nights, choosing instead to make your bed in the living room. If you lay just right on the couch, you can spot the bodyguard keeping watch throughout the night. His presence in the room eases your mind enough to allow you to peacefully sleep. You wish that he hasn’t become so essential. You don’t want to think about what your uncle’s return will mean.

He accepts your new routine without question. You notice that he always has the throw pillow moved from the armchair to the couch on the nights you don’t tell him you’re going to bed. There’s no blanket in the living room, but you usually wake up with his jacket of the day draped over you in lieu of one.

───※ ·❆· ※───

One night, you and Claire manage to bully him into a game of monopoly after the nurse leaves. You’ve been made the banker because Six doesn’t trust your sister and she doesn’t trust him enough either.

“You just landed on my boardwalk. That’s fourteen hundred bucks.” Claire announces.

Six takes his hand off the game piece and gives her a look . “I thought you owned the brown properties, not the blue ones.”

She picks up the deeds for Boardwalk and Park Place and waves them pointedly in his direction. “Nope, fourteen hundred. Fork it over.”

Six lets out a genuinely flustered growl. You have to smother your laugh. He counts out the remainder of his money and tosses it in front of your sister. He’s woefully short and out of assets. You and Claire had run him ragged the course of the game until she managed to bankrupt you with some suspiciously underhand tactics. Looks like she got to Six as well.

“I’m out.” He says, resigned.

Claire stretches her arms over her head and lets out a satisfied sigh. She then slumps back into her chair in smug victory as the bodyguard extracts himself from his seat at the table to do his nightly check of the doors and windows. She leans over and taps the watch on your wrist.

“He hasn’t won this back yet?”

“Oh… uh. No.” Your answer sounds flustered, even to you.

Your little sister raises her eyebrows. There’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes and she opens her mouth to say something before pausing. She instead gets up and gives you a squeeze around the shoulders. You return it with a one armed hug. “‘Night, sis.”

“‘Night. I’ll see you in the morning.” You return affectionately, letting her go.

“‘Night, Robot!” She cheerily shouts. There’s a responding grumble from the direction of the garage. Claire flashes you a grin and a thumbs up.

She’s in her room by the time Six finishes his checks. You’re in the middle of putting up the game when you feel the weight of his eyes on you. It’s just the two of you alone. He sits back down at the table to help you with it. He’s like a fire against your left side. You’re surprised he didn’t sit in his usual spot at the head of the table.

He lets out a yawn that he can’t suppress. He’s more undone tonight than you’ve seen him yet. He’s wearing a t-shirt tucked into slacks today. No blazer. His hair is tousled, not smoothed into place with product like usual. You think he looks more approachable like this. Your hands touch when you both go to scrape the same pile of deeds off the table. You both freeze. You hear your heart pounding in your ears and with it muffling every other sound, you trail your fingers over the top of his. He shudders when you brush over his knuckles and skim over the dots tattooed into the meat of his thumb. He doesn’t move, staying perfectly still for your exploration. You reach the horse on his forearm and you think his breath hitches in response. You linger on the horse, using your pointer finger to trace its outline. You follow the swoop of its tail, down the outstretched hind leg.

A soft groan from the man you’re touching makes you remember yourself. You withdraw your hand like you’ve been burnt. He twitches and jerks his own hand towards you like he’s about to reach out and stop you, but he doesn’t. You can still feel the sensation of his skin under your fingertips even as you glue your eyes to the remaining monopoly money and sort it into the tray with unsteady hands. You finish putting up the game in silence. You sleep in your own bed that night. He escorted you to your room.

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up weeping the next night. You lay on the couch staring at the living room ceiling while tears involuntarily run down the sides of your face. The imprint of spider webbing glass still swirling around in your mind. You must have made some kind of noise, because Six is making his way across the room.

You sit up and take a swipe at your face. “I’m sorry.”

"You have to let it out somehow. May I?” He asks, gesturing to the space next at your side. You nod and scoot over to give him slightly more space.

He puts the ever present laptop with its surveillance feed on the coffee table before sitting down. You feel your cushion dip. Against your better judgment, you lean against him. He’s solid. He relaxes underneath the pressure of your body. You instantly feel better. You watch the cameras with him for a while, sighing along with him as the local monkeys throw the lid off the trashcan at the curb in search of a meal. You’ll have to clean up after them after the sun rises. It’s one of the downsides to living in Hong Kong.

You stay leaning against him for a while, but a stiffness in your neck gets you to change position. Moving slowly so he’s fully aware of your movements, you carefully lay down. He’s taken the place of your improvised throw pillow cushion. Your head is resting on his thigh. He puts his hand on your upper arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He leaves it resting there, heavy and warm.

You wake up a few hours later. The sun is cascading through the living room, throwing rainbow hues on the floor thanks to the decorative glassware. You’re comfortable, too comfortable you realize. Your eyes widen in horrified surprise. You’re still using the bodyguard as a pillow. He's shifted slightly through the night, more slumped and relaxed. He's slid down further, and your face is firmly pressed against his hip now instead of his thigh. You know that you’re going to have the imprint of one of his belt loops on your cheek. His arm is loosely draped over you with his hand tucked underneath your side, a bastardized attempt at spooning. You crane your neck to catch a glimpse of his face. He’s sound asleep.

You try to sit up without disturbing him, but his arm tightens around you and applies pressure. You’re locked into place. Your mind races. If the nurse or, worse, Claire comes into the room and sees you and Six like this… You have to get up. You put a hand on his thigh and use it as a support to push yourself up. He’s instantly awake from the overt movement. He lifts his arm off your body and lets you sit up. You turn to say something, but find him already staring. His blue eyes are focused on you, they’re sleepy and confused but quickly sharpen to alertness. He looks vaguely distressed. All you can do is offer him a smile and squeeze his leg. You stand up and he follows. Your day goes as usual.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Your nights are largely the same, except that Six seems more distant. He doesn't linger as closely or as comfortably as he did before. Your interactions with the man are more professional. It’s as though weeks, months , of getting to know each other have been erased and you’re back at the beginning. Strangers again. It hurts. You miss him like hell even though he’s right there. Your sleep is worse. It’s almost as bad as in the weeks following the incident that started them in the first place, but they’re different. Amongst the disjointed scenes, there’s a broad shouldered man with dirty blond hair walking away from you in your nightmares now. You scream for him but no sound ever escapes you, just noiseless air. You never see his face.

You finally have enough when he escorts you to your room one night. You haven’t slept on the couch for over a week, and he’s taken that as his cue to resume seeing you to your bedroom door. You turn to face him as always in the doorway. Instead of saying goodnight like you do every night, you confront him. It even catches you by surprise.

"You're avoiding me.” He doesn’t deny it and you think that hurts more than the newfound distance itself.

“Why?” You ask only to get more silence. He won’t look at you.

”What did I do wrong?” Your voice trembles and you hate it. You fumble to take off his watch, to return that final tie between the two of you. He reflexively clamps down on your wrist before you can undo the clasp, pinning your hand to your own wrist. He releases his near crushing grip almost immediately, but the ghost of it lingers. Point taken. You let your arms fall to your side in a clear display of frustration, willing him to talk.

“It wasn’t you. I overstepped. Your uncle hired me to do a job and I've stepped beyond my purview. " The confession is rough. Torn out of him. The corner of his mouth pulls down in a grimace.

You stare at him blankly. "What?"

"I allowed myself to be too close with you. I apologize. I was unprofessional." He explains, but he won't quite meet your eyes. He hasn't for a while. Not since the morning following the night you fell asleep on him.

"You were... unprofessional?” You question, absolutely lost.

"Yes. I let my feelings about you affect me and my work.. I’ve become… compromised." It's matter of fact. It’s said like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

You reach out and grab his jacket lapels. He looks at you like a beaten dog might, as though you might strike him. He makes no motion to pull himself from your grasp. You swallow hard and let out a breath.

"What about my feelings for you?" You ask. His breath catches and he shakes his head, disbelieving.

“It would be better if you didn’t feel anything for me.” There’s heartbreak in his blue eyes even as he looks at you like there’s nothing else in the world he would rather be seeing.

“Better for who?” Your mouth is unbearably dry as you ask the question.

“You. I’ll only jeopardize you.”

”Six…”

You pull him down and you press your mouth against his. He's rigid and unmoving for a moment before he's kissing you like a dying man who has just been offered immortality. His hands come to rest on your back. He grips your clothing like it’s a lifeline keeping him from going under. You gently nip at his bottom lip and he gasps against your mouth, a broken little noise. He tastes like watermelon gum.

You pull away. “Jeopardize me then.

That forces a quietly helpless laugh from him. "Now that was unprofessional." His voice is hoarse.

"I had to give you a proper example."

"Good job. I feel exampled.”

" Good ." You say and kiss him again. He's ready for it this time. He keeps it slow. His hands gently trace your body. He's slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth against your side. You step back, walking him into your room. His breathing is ragged and he's gripping you with a desperation you can’t put your mind around. You stand there, intertwined in each other. His facial hair is rough against your skin but the burn feels good. Your hands make their way around his neck and you gently card your fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He makes a wounded sounding noise in response before he pulls away. His hand is cradling the side of your face to keep you in place while his eyes roam across your face. It's as though he’smemorizing you, imprinting the fine details of this moment into his mind. As though he’s preparing to say goodbye. He trails his fingers gently down your jaw before he lets his hand drop.

"Will you stay? Can we sleep?" You ask before he can make up a way to excuse himself.

There’s a dizzying moment of silence before his face softens. “Okay. Yeah.”

The two of you are left to navigate the awkwardness of getting ready for bed. You spin your finger around in a circle and Six immediately gets the idea. He puts his back to you while you change into your sleepwear as quickly as you can. You turn around after giving him the verbal ‘all good’ in time to see him pull off his jacket and toss it onto the desk chair he had occupied when you first realized how addicted you were becoming to him. He pulls his belt off, coils it around his hand before setting it aside. You watch him unbutton his dress shirt. His fingers work deftly to slip the buttons through the holes. He shrugs the shirt off and lays it over the jacket. He’s in his undershirt and slacks. He bends down to untie his shoes and sets them aside. He straightens up and there’s nervousness on his face. You’ve never seen him nervous before. Worried? Yes, but not nervous.

You slide into the bed and fold down the other side of the blanket for him. You gesture for him to come lay down beside you. He approaches warily and settles in stiffly at your side. His head is on the pillow, hands overlapping on his stomach. He looks like a body in a coffin. You gently touch his hands. He jolts.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, letting your hand rest on top of his.

“I haven’t slept in the same bed as someone since I was a child,” he admits.

“Oh… and that was…?”

“Over twenty-five years ago.”

You allow yourself a moment to grieve for this man before you pull away to shut off the bedside lamp.. You roll onto your back and flop your arms to the side. “Come here then. I’ve used you as a pillow. It’s time for me to return the favor.”

You feel the mattress shift under his weight and he hesitates, hovering over you with arms braced on either side of your body. It’s intimate, having him over you in this way. It’s enough to make you want to kiss him again.You hear him draw breath to raise some kind of concern so you just wrap your arms around him and pull him down on top of you. The weight of him pins you into the mattress. It’s comforting. He’s heavy and warm, akin to a weighted blanket. Granted, a weighted blanket wouldn’t have a muscular thigh wedged between your legs or be breathing against your neck in a way that makes you want to shiver. You fight to ignore your body’s response to him and work on easing the tension that’s holding him rigid against you.

He gradually relaxes as you trace your hands over his back. You feel more than hear him groan when you pass over a particularly sensitive spot. The rumble feels almost like a purr against your chest. You narrow in on that location, working your fingers into the tight muscle. He allows himself to go limp on top of you, no longer stiffly trying to spare you the brunt of his mass. You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as a reward for letting himself relax. It earns you a low moan and an involuntary shift of his hips. You’ll have to keep that reaction in mind for later.

Six’s breathing soon evens out. Years of exhaustion and sleep deprivation have him rapidly sinking into the oblivion of sleep when offered such a precious comfort. You fall asleep with your hand still in his hair. You have the most peaceful rest of your adult life. There’s no night terrors, no pain, no fear, no longing, you just sleep .

The bodyguard is still asleep on top of you when you wake. His breath is whistling slightly through his nose. Not quite a snore, but it’s a sound that gets a fond smile out of you. You wish you could wake up like this every morning. Just this once has given you an insatiable longing for more. You bite the inside of your cheek at the thought of the future. Uncle Fitz is due to return from his trip soon, which means the dismissal of Six from the Fitzroy home to complete whatever assignment is next on his task board. You don’t figure him for the abandoning type though. That way of thinking about him doesn’t fit in with the loyalty and thoughtfulness you’ve seen him exercise in his time spent with you and your sister. You’re sure that he’ll find a way to stay in contact after this job ends.

You gently smooth down his hair. He shifts and buries his face against the hollow of your throat more firmly. You pause, hoping you didn’t wake him, but then you hear a sleep roughened voice say, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

#the gray man #sierra six #courtland gentry #sierra six x reader #the gray man fanfic #ryan gosling #ryan gosling character #the gray man (2022)#courtland gentry x reader #my work #my posts

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dindjiarin · 2 years

Text

Six Days, Part I - (Sierra Six x F!Reader)

Being stuck in a room with Sierra Six for a week causes more drama than you thought.

This was a 16 hour fever dream. It's probably going to be a two-parter, but this one ends satisfyingly anyway! I had to get this out of my head because ✨️Sierra Six deserves a lil kiss✨️ 😌

Beginning / Ending / Prequel

TAGS: Smut, One Bed, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Six x F!Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI 18+, sexual content, blood/wounds/death, poor knowledge of wound care.

WORD COUNT: 7.9k

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The knife slashes diagonally across your upper thigh, cutting deep enough you see … yellow? That’s probably not good, your mind flashes. You stumble forward, holding the wound.

The man who had just given it to you tries to grab you again; he was careless where the knife in his right hand went, as long as you weren’t killed. His gloved hand snatches at your left arm, but his attempt ends abruptly. You feel his body fall to the floor with a thump. You hadn’t even heard the gunshot, but there in front of you appears a disheveled Six, his firearm still pointed down the hallway behind you.

His eyes drop to your hands clutched around your bloody leg, and he closes the distance between the two of you in a second.

“You’re okay. Can you run?” He sounds calm.

One hand reaches out to gingerly touch the side of your face; he tilts his head to peer into your eyes. It won’t cross your mind until later that he’s trying to keep you from panicking.

“I-” your voice breaks. “I think so, yeah.”

Six nods, thankful that your adrenaline has taken hold; even he'd be making noise with that kind of injury. That wound was certainly going to require several stitches.

“Hold on to me.”

He indicates his belt, wanting to keep you close behind him but needing to keep his arms free. You comply gladly, curling your fingers through a belt loop. Though still scared, your body responds automatically to the protectiveness emanating from the man who has watched over you for the last four months.

He sweeps through the house, following the escape route he’d had planned from the very day he got here. You try not to see but the specter of death is unavoidable. Black-clothed, anonymous bodies lay strewn across broken glass. Debris extends throughout the house, but mercifully the kitchen is corpse-free. Six guides you across the room, and he reaches out for the garage door. As it swings open, Six curses.

“What’s wrong?” You whisper to his back.

He hesitates, then states, “A friend did me a favor.”

He doesn’t move toward the broken body lying next to the vehicle - it’s clear by the angle of the man’s neck that he’s beyond help.

“We’re even,” Six solemnizes over the man.

He says it so quietly that you’re sure you weren’t meant to hear. You feel a prickle in your nose like you’re near tears. You don’t know if it’s the situation or the fact that you’ve never seen the reticent man show any strong emotion, but you scrutinize the back of his head, trying to understand what’s inside.

“I’m sorry, Six,” you breathe. You drop your hand from his belt to give him space.

Six doesn’t respond.

You can’t really tell the difference between the man lying there and the other bodyguards that had been rotated through over the past week. Six had hidden the fact that he knew the man well; you’d never seen them interact.

He steps over to the driver’s door cautiously. You wince as your adrenaline starts to fade and the distraction of Six’s body is gone. Ensuring no joy-riders are hiding in the backseat, he climbs in and starts the car. As the engine springs to life, he observes you standing still in the headlights and deadpans, “You stayin’ here?”

*****************************

The two of you burst into the tiny apartment, not initially noticing the fact that it’s shockingly small: one chair, one bed, one bathroom. Without warning, he scoops you up into his arms and heads into the bathroom, flicking on the single bulb. He sets you gently on the countertop. He bends to grab a first-aid kit from the cabinet, and you wobble without his support, lightheaded from blood loss and exhaustion. His hands steady you and he stares into your eyes, willing you to be composed. You blink twice, realizing his face has never been this close to you - ever. You smile shyly, and he frowns. Clearly, he thinks you’re in shock. Your heart is racing but it has very little to do with the night’s events.

You’d been half-expecting an assault for some time now, and you’d prepared yourself as best a normal person could. Sure, you were scared - nothing would ever be the same now. But you had survived, thanks to Six, and the cold, animal part of your brain knew that was all that mattered. No, the thudding of your pulse was the fault of the ever-present magnetism you felt for the man working before you.

“I’m going to cut your jeans,” Six states.

You nod, mind racing with thoughts too silly to vocalize. He pulls a folding knife from his pocket and gingerly slices away the front half of the already-cut pant leg. You’re left with what resembles a pant-mullet and you giggle a little hysterically at the ridiculous thought.

He peeks up at you, now certain you’re in shock, “Lean against the mirror.”

You obey, your eyes lifting to the ceiling as you recline. Six rises from his hunched position, standing so close that you can still see his face out of the bottom of your vision.

“Tell me when you need a break.” His voice is gentle, but you notice his jaw clenching. His hands settle on your skin. “Deep breath.”

Then the pain blinds you. You’d been silently crying in the car, the constant burning feeling in your leg causing you to grind your teeth, fidget, do anything you could to distract yourself. But the bite of the needle through your torn, pained flesh as he stitches you back together is much worse.

You slam your palms down against the edge of the counter, gripping tight - your sheer willpower the only thing keeping you from thrashing against him. You take deep breaths as he instructed, trying to leave your body behind.

Your mind wanders to earlier in the night, before chaos reigned, when Six had actually agreed to play a video game with you. You’d let him pick the game, and he’d chosen a first-person shooter (because of course he did). You’d still beaten the trained assassin. He’d sat beside you on the couch, his body heating your right side, and when you won the match, you’d sworn the side of his mouth turned up a little at your gloating. You’d spent most of your time together trying to make the man laugh, so you’d take anything he gave you. When he beat you in the next round, you’d been a sore loser - accusing him of cheating. You had poked his side, gently, and he had actually laughed. Okay, you checked yourself, it was more like a snort, but it counted.

But then he had admitted to it, “Gotta use everything to your advantage. I could see your location on your side of the screen.”

You gasped, “You’re a screen-looker!”

“A what?” He scoffed. “There’s a name for it? And not even a creative one.”

“Yeah, for cheaters who screen-look.” You glared.

He’d rolled his eyes, then met your stare with his own, much more intense one. His face might be guarded, but his eyes expressed his feelings. He always tried to hide it, but everything was written there among the blue. Your heart had lurched, your breathing requiring thought. For God’s sake, he was so close. His eyes weakly flickered down to your parted lips; but then he had stood, walked a few paces away from the couch.

“It’s late. You should get some sleep.”

Rattled, you followed his lead. You knew he wanted you in your room; he always did his rounds once you turned in for the night. You had stood and stretched upwards, relieving your back. You never saw the guilty way his eyes followed the curves of your body as you moved, nor the way his jaw ticked as you bent to turn off the gaming console.

When you’d turned around, he had been perfectly composed. You had passed by him as close as you dared, close enough to hear the gum he was chewing, and muttered, “Goodnight, cheater.”

“Goodnight, loser.” He’d said, shrugging at you as you closed the bedroom door. You’d laughed at that, and as soon as your door had closed, he’d allowed himself to smirk.

He stuck the needle through a particularly sensitive section of your leg, and you were thrust back into your new reality. The safe house wasn’t safe anymore, and people had died because of you. Including Six’s friend. He’d probably request an entirely new team now; one that would replace him. He’d be free of the assignment he’d had for too long. You’d heard him say once that most assignments don't last longer than a week, and he’d been stuck babysitting you for months.

Your eyes close again, and a sob escapes.

He stops, “I'm just over halfway. You need a break?”

You shake your head, “Get it over with.”

The next stitches are as painful as the others. But then you feel his hands leave your skin, and you hear something fall in the trash can - bloody material, maybe. You hear Six wash his hands in the sink next to you, then dry them with a towel. Exhaustion tinges your every thought, now. It’d been nearly a full day since you’d slept.

Tears fall from your closed eyes, unbidden. Gently, but quickly, his fingers wipe away the liquid, and your eyelids flutter open at the contact. The ugly light causes you to squint, but you see Six lean toward you. His right arm slips under your legs, his left snakes around your back, and he lifts you from the counter. You softly cling to his neck. He’s careful not to jar your leg as he maneuvers out of the bathroom and across the room. The bed dips with your weight as he sets you down on top of the covers. Instead of moving you again, he lays a different blanket across your body. He leaves your wound uncovered.

“Don’t let that touch your leg. Need to keep it as clean as possible, and the last time these were washed, cell phones still had visible antennas.”

“Yes, sir.” You say sleepily. It’d been a long day, a longer night, and though your leg was still paining you, the temptation of the abyss was greater.

Six watches you fall asleep from the red wingback chair in the corner. He was grateful it was thickly padded - he wasn’t sure he could sit in a plastic chair with the bruises he had. There was no couch, and only one bed, but he wasn’t going to sleep anyway.

He wanted to believe that this safe house, two hours away from the previous, was off-the-books enough for his enemies to have overlooked it.

We’re fine here, he was nearly chanting to himself, willing it to be true. But he wasn’t going to relax, wasn’t going to get complacent. Not when he had a job to do.

*****************************

Six’s entire body ached. He hadn’t moved from his chair except to use the bathroom. He was completely still, his arms folded across his body. He wanted to check the perimeter; he wanted to see what was going on outside. Maybe they were setting up for a raid out there. Maybe they were already on their way inside. Or maybe they had one or two agents doing recon, trying to get a confirmed sighting of him or of you. And if it was the latter, him exiting the building would be the opposite of helpful. But god, he hated sitting here feeling useless.

His eyes kept dancing over your sleeping form. You’d slept fitfully at first, but you seem peaceful now, despite it being nearly mid-afternoon. Six wouldn’t dream of waking you unless necessary. The chair creaks as he leans forward, his elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

How could he have found out? What didn’t I do?

He couldn’t carry the heaviness in his heart. His whole life had been about protecting others; his brother, buddies in prison, strangers, and now you. It’s all he knew, it’s all he wanted to do. Now, because of him, Denver was dead.

Six had asked him to help beef up security for a few days. There’d been word that something was likely to go down soon and Six had looked to one of the few men he truly trusted for help. He grimaced, mourning the dead man; he’d saved Denver’s ass three separate times, each one becoming a joke between them about life debts. Six wished he could’ve been there a fourth time, but he also knew he wouldn’t have altered a thing.

You hadn’t been asleep like he’d assumed so he had broken the pattern in their established rounds to find you. He’d felt nearly panicked searching the house, and when he recognized what he was feeling, he’d grunted, trying to shake it off like a broken toe or a stab wound. It had hurt nearly as badly. He’d shot two men and gotten into blows with a third before finally seeing you at the end of the hallway as you left the bathroom, and of course, he had shot the fourth: your friend, the knife-wielder. Six would never forget the way his body had sagged with relief at finding you.

No, even if he had known that he had a choice that night between you and Denver, he wouldn’t have hesitated in his answer.

And there’s the problem. He somehow knows my answer, too.

*****************************

You sat up quickly, knowing you’d slept longer than normal as the golden light streamed through the small, frosted window. Hoping to neutralize the hunger pains, you threw off the blanket and swung your legs over the side of the bed, hissing at the new pain.

“Well, don’t undo all my hardwork.” Six’s favorite tone with you was exasperation; like a man whose patience was always at its limit, but never beyond.

“It’s fine, doctor,” you toss back sarcastically, “I just forgot about it.”

“You - forgot - about the gash in your leg?”

“...yes.”

He rolls his eyes, a hand passing over his face. You’re about to thank him for stitching you up, since he’s apparently sensitive about it, when your stomach growls.

“Is there anything to eat?”

“Yeah.”

You bite your lip and narrow your eyes at him. “Okay, I guess I will make us some food.”

He doesn’t move except to pick up a book from the shelf.

You hobble over to the kitchenette and see the world’s worst pantry. Canned peaches, olives, green beans, and chicken - the latter of which you gag over. There’s a mini-fridge on the counter next to the hot plate. You open that and see a carton of eggs. Wonder how old those are. The carton seemed new, so you open it and are pleasantly surprised by twelve fresh eggs.

A few minutes later, you’ve made two chopped olive omelettes. There are no plates, but there is a roll of paper towels. You walk slowly toward the chair Six has taken up residence in, an omelette on a makeshift paper plate in your hand. He sees the movement and looks up from the book. He stands and leans forward to take it from you, with a curt, “Thank you.”

“So, what do we do now?” You ask. Your mouth is half-full of egg and you’re nearly unintelligible.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For things to get quiet.”

“Mmm.” You nod, still chewing. “Okay, then what?”

He looks up from his own food, answering, “We move. Further away.”

“Okay. And by ‘we’, you mean you’re not leaving?” You keep the nervousness out of your voice.

“What-? Where would I be going?” Genuinely not anticipating your question, Six’s eyebrows knit together. He blinks, gears turning in his head.

It finally clicks for him and he frowns; you’re a little confused how your question could irritate him, but you can’t stop the satisfied grin blooming on your face. The soulful eyes, the little curl of hair resting on his forehead, Six is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever met, as well as a good friend, and the thought of leaving you apparently never even crossed his mind.

“And now you’re smiling?” He’s now totally bewildered.

Six is doing his damndest to put distance between the two of you emotionally, but you seem to be happy about …him staying with you? After assuming he’d leave you in this mess? He is speechless, his food forgotten momentarily.

“Nothing, really. Don’t worry about it. I just woke up, I’m still loopy.” You awkwardly smile again. You realize he’s not going to be satisfied with that, but you’re definitely not admitting your thoughts. So, you edit and try again.

“Okay, well, I figured since the original team is gone, a new one would be coming. Also,” you pause, knowing he’s against emotional oversharing, “I am very sorry about that. I know it doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme, but I feel terrible. How do you get used to a life like this? People dying for you? My project wasn’t that incredible. There are more intelligent, more experimental chemists than me. There is no way my knowledge was worth that.”

You set your partially-eaten food down beside you, no longer hungry.

“You don’t get used to it.”

He answers your first question in the rawest voice you’ve heard from him. His eyes bore holes into the floor, desperately wanting to come clean, to relieve you of your guilt. They didn’t die for you, they died for him.

You try to catch his eye, to raise him from whatever mood suddenly snagged him, but he won’t look at you. He’s conflicted. Not only is he hiding the truth from you, but you still believe he’s capable of leaving you at the first bit of trouble, that he’ll give you up to another protection detail at his earliest opportunity. Six decides he cannot sit any longer. He rises, still avoiding your face, checks his gun, and walks to the door.

“I’m going to do a perimeter check; probably be gone ten minutes. I’ll knock in that pattern I showed you.” He pauses then adds, “If I don’t, there’s a trapdoor in the bathroom.”

“Alright,” you say quietly, your eyes on his back. Confused by his behavior and unable to let him leave in that manner, you can’t help but stage-whisper, “Please be safe, Six.”

You can’t see the way his throat constricts, the way he closes his eyes and lets your words soak in. Then he’s gone.

You mark the time with the analog clock on the bookshelf, and busy yourself by exploring the infinitesimal room. Your college dorm had been larger than this. The bathroom door is closed, and when you open it to find the trapdoor - just in case - the door hits the toilet bowl.

“Wow,” you wonder. “How did we both fit in here last night?”

You crouch to explore the grimy linoleum for the hidden seam, but you don’t see anything. Your eyes strain and your head bobs from side to side, trying to see something. But you find nothing. Maybe he’s confused this place with a different tiny, foreign safe house. Unwilling at the moment to actually feel around the gross floor, you’re content to just believe he’ll knock in the correct pattern.

You turn back into the main room, and pick up the book Six had been reading off the chair. A trashy bodice-ripper? How in the hell had he kept a straight face? You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. There’s no way he’d actually even read the title. He - for sure - had been trying and failing to seem preoccupied while you cooked. You’d get even with him for that.

You sprawl out on the bed, the book still in hand. You skip to a third of the way through, hoping to find the good parts, and sure enough: pure bodice-ripping. Again, you laugh out loud at the absurdity of the emotionally-repressed man you know reading this. Feeling this.

That sparks an idea in you; it had been a good long while since you’d been allowed to be completely alone. The waistband of your mangled jeans is loose enough to slip your hand down, and you engross yourself in a particularly dirty passage.

You're totally absorbed by the filthy story when the front door flies open and Six barrels through, shutting it as quietly as he could compared to his violent entrance. He flinches at your aborted scream, watches as your hand rips out of your jeans and you scoot up against the wall, trying to seem like you were not doing what you were definitely just doing.

The two of you stare at each other for a breath too long. Knowing he won’t - or can’t - you break the silence, “See anything?”

He short-circuits for a second, “No, you’re wearing jeans.” And then he realizes what you were actually asking about, “Oh, no. Nothing.”

His face is flushed and he can’t meet your eyes anymore. You’re under the impression you’ve mortified him, but he knows if he keeps looking at your excited, glowing face for a second longer, he’ll make a decision you could both regret.

“I’m really sorry. Why didn’t you knock?” You titter at the ridiculous situation. But you’re less embarrassed than you thought you’d be. It hits you suddenly that Six has always made you feel safe in a multitude of ways, and maybe... maybe you don’t mind being caught by him.

“I did knock. You didn’t answer. Hence the busted door.”

“Oh.” You peer up at him sheepishly.

He doesn’t make a reply, so you question, “Why were you pretending to read this?”

“Hm?” He settles his firearm back in its holster.

Six takes a long, calming breath, then meets your eyes. He’s as stoic as can be - except, now you're starting to wonder if it’s a front. You’d long felt like there was an electricity between the two of you. You’d seen Six’s eyes on you more than they should be, you’d feel his hand hover over your lower back sometimes when he walked you to your room, sending chills through you. He was reliable, protective, witty - he was also kind and selfless, though he let few people see it. But only in your daydreams could you believe he had any real feelings for you.

…so why did he just react that way? Wouldn’t a normal bodyguard apologize (right or wrong) and move on? They wouldn’t have to stand there and collect themselves, surely.

Or I’m just seeing what I want to, you chastise yourself.

“I know you were not actually reading this.” You tease, waving the book in the air.

“And how do you know that?” It’s clear he doesn’t even know what the book is about. He folds his arms across his chest and you attempt to discreetly ogle the vein on his bicep.

The smirk on your face warns him that you’re about to say something he’d rather not hear, “You wanna know how I know you weren’t reading this book of trashy erotica?” You heavily emphasize the words, and his eyes go wide. “Want me to read some aloud?”

He lunges toward you and snatches the book. “No. No, I do not.”

He absolutely cannot let you read porn aloud to him, he would lose all semblance of control. Six was already losing it, and that thought has him grumbling under his breath. Unthinkingly, he glances at the page you had open and he groans. This is what you were masturbating to? Fuck, shit. He shouldn’t have looked. His teeth grind together.

Oblivious, you bounce off the bed onto your good leg and say, “Since there’s no one out there, we need food for dinner. Is a store nearby?”

“I’ll go." He immediately takes the diversion. "Gotta find a new doorknob, anyway. You stay here, and listen for my knock.” He pins you with another exasperated look.

You huff, “Okay, jesus.”

You want to push him, ask him for the book back, ask him if you’re allowed to continue, but you can see he’s on edge. So you let it go.

He tosses the book unceremoniously on the highest shelf which you can’t reach. You glare at his backside, but he’s gone without turning around.

Six doesn’t get surprised. He doesn't let emotion get the better of him often, and in the past hour you’ve done it twice in two very different ways. He takes a deep breath, and swears again to build one more wall. He can’t let you continue being in danger because of him.

But, part of him knows there’s not much he can really do; leaving would only make you vulnerable and leave him lost. He couldn’t leave your fate up to strangers. No, he knew staying was still the best option. He just needed to stop entangling himself in you. Six’s best chance at protecting you long-term was to convince everyone else that you meant nothing to him. That meant getting through this current shitshow, and disengaging from you. You deserved a normal, boring life. A life where you wouldn’t be hunted, used as a pawn, just to hurt him.

*****************************

Six didn’t speak to you again the entire night. He hadn’t been able to get much with the cash he’d had on hand, but dinner was satisfying enough. You’d handed him his portion on another paper towel, and he had nodded his thanks, but that was just about the only communication he gave you all night. He’d fixed the door and you’d teased him about being handy, but his only response had been to stick his palm out for one of the screws you'd been holding.

He then picked up a book, pointedly avoiding his earlier choice, and actually read all evening while you snuck glances at the way the light from the dusty reading lamp caught his fair hair, his tense face. He had pretended not to notice, but each time your head tilted toward him, he realized his feelings might not be quite so one-sided.

Sure, he knew you were attracted to him; after all, he was trained to notice the little things. The difference between your genuine smile and the polite ones you gave the other bodyguards; the way you unconsciously broke his personal space, brushing past him, poking him; and the way you tried to take care of him. He'd never had that, never had someone bring him glasses of water while he sat at his laptop, ask him how he felt about a certain song, what his favorite flavor of gum was.

But he was afraid it was more Stockholm Syndrome, or boredom, than genuine affection. You were a good person, and bringing someone a glass of water wasn't a Declaration of Intent. So, he had ignored the numerous times you turned to him - written them off as restlessness.

Now, the sheets scratch your face and you rub your eyes, sleep calling you once again. You roll over to face Six, still in his chair, to ask him to join you. Not for anything nefarious, but because you know he must be exhausted. The past thirty-six hours had been stressful, and your method of coping with humor had been at his expense.

Your eyes adjust with the dim lamplight and you see the book drooping from one limp hand, his eyes closed and head tilted to the side. Happy he was finally getting some rest, you shuffle off of the bed, take the book and mark his place before setting it on the shelf. You grab the plush blanket he had given you last night and drape it over his much-larger body. It didn’t fully cover him, but it’d do.

You gaze down at him, admiring his vulnerable form. Six meant more to you than you cared to tell him. No family, a workaholic with coworkers for friends, you’d let yourself grow fond of the reserved, self-sacrificing blonde man with the affinity for chewing gum. It was the closest you’d been to a person in over a year. No matter what he considered you - a client, a ward, a burden - you considered him a friend.

“Thanks for always being there, Six,” you whisper, knowing he wouldn’t hear. You softly kiss the top of his hair, then get back in bed. The abyss welcomes you back. You must’ve been dreaming when you heard what sounded like a defeated groan.

*****************************

III

You wake the next morning to Six seated on the opposite corner of the bed, his gun in pieces. You prop yourself up on your left elbow and watch as he painstakingly cleans each part.

“Can you teach me how to do that?”

He lowers the barrel in his hands, turning to you. You’re backlit by the small window on the far wall, and he curses inwardly. You look sleepy, domestic. Something pure and stable that he knows he’ll never have.

“Yeah, I can.”

He twists a little in place to fully face you, and you crawl a little closer to see the parts. He picks up a piece and hands it to you, extremely careful not to touch you.

“This,” he explains, “is the slide. It’s what chambers a new round and ejects the old casing.” He hands you a paper towel, again obviously avoiding your skin. “I like a softer cloth, but I don’t have anything blood-free. Gently rub the interior.” He instructs.

You do as he asks, working in silence. You hold it up to him for inspection, a smile, disproportionately proud of your simple task, beams on your face. He responds with a faint smile, and places the slide on another towel designated for finished parts.

“Can you show me how to-” You falter as he turns his heavy eyes back to you. “Like, if I needed to, how to use it?” You hesitantly ask, hoping you weren’t bothering him. You’re not a fan of firearms, they’ve always made you nervous. But if push came to shove, you’d prefer not to be using the gun as a club.

Six is not quite so nervous around guns, and he nods, agreeing that you should have every possible manner of defending yourself.

“Sure.”

You watch in silent admiration as he puts his weapon back together faster than you’d ever be able to, meeting his eye at the end and giving him a dramatic, impressed look. He smiles again, a shade more than earlier.

You slide over to sit beside him, your legs dangling off the bed. He spends the next few minutes helping you find your way around the gun. He still refuses to touch you, and it gets more noticeable with every second. He even sets the gun on the bed for you to pick up rather than hand it to you. You wilt a little at that, sure now that you’ve pushed him away even further than you thought. You can’t help but feel a pit in your stomach. He’s never been a touchy-feely, overly-friendly person; why did you make him so uncomfortable yesterday? You want to kick yourself.

You watch as he stifles a yawn.

“Didn’t you sleep?” You ask incredulously.

“I slept enough.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Six sneaks a quick, longing glance at you, replaying last night’s feeling of your lips on his hair. How he’d woken up at your touch. How could he have slept after that? He’d warred with himself about climbing up beside you, holding you close. But Six didn’t want to push this now. He knew there was a power imbalance here (although most of the time it felt to him like you were the one in control) and he didn’t want your feelings out of gratitude or survival. He’d compromised with himself by letting his mind free; he imagined your breathy sighs as you slept curled against him, how perfectly you’d fit alongside his body, the feeling of your hair between his fingers. He tears himself away.

“Please take a nap. You’re no good to either of us dead on your feet like this.”

“For a corpse, I think I look pretty good.”

“Six, for god’s sake, it’s daylight and it’s been silent for days. I promise I will wake you at any noise.” Your voice drips with earnesty, “I promise.”

He rubs his brow, knowing you’re right. “Yeah, okay.” His eyes are intent upon you, “You promise.”

You nod twice in quick succession and he makes a face like he’s accepting a plea bargain. He stands, then all but collapses onto the same side of the bed where you’ve been sleeping. You take up vigil in his chair, and it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

After an hour, your legs begin to cramp, and you start pacing the tiny apartment. Still feeling a little guilty for yesterday, you wonder if there’s any gum nearby. Maybe a vending machine? You assess Sleeping Beauty: still breathing deeply. You tiptoe over to the door and unlock it. Six’s rhythm is unchanged by the sound of the deadbolt, so you slowly pull the door open. Peeking your head out, you see a featureless, white hallway; several other plain-looking doors leading to God-knows-where; and there, at the end and nearly out of sight due to the alcove it’s in, is a glowing vending machine. You pat your pocket and find two coins. Should be enough, you hope. You’re unfamiliar with the local currency, and honestly you’re not even totally sure which country you’re in. You prop the door open, just in case, and cautiously step out into the hallway.

Ears straining for any noise at all, you begin your trek. Keeping your feet as close to the baseboards as you can, you make as little sound as possible. Eventually you reach the vending machine, and you’re right - you have no idea which country this is as you don’t even recognize the language. But you can identify a pack of chewing gum anywhere. It’s only one of the coins, so you pop it in and get your reward. Uneventfully, you return to the room, quietly slipping the door closed, and deadbolting it shut.

Six sleeps for another few hours, while you spend time making lunch for when he wakes up, and reading some of the other, mostly boring, novels scattered around. One novel piques your interest with a convoluted plot which helps time pass. The book makes you feel uneasy, makes you start to wonder about your own situation. It really doesn’t make sense for Six to still be assigned to you over some biochemical project that never even made it to the testing stage. The fact that someone had actually attacked you made even less sense. None of your research was on your person, and it’s not like you had memorized every single formula. Maybe Six knew more than he’d told you.

Thinking about Six makes you grow lonely, wishing selfishly he would wake. You’re debating getting in bed and taking a nap with him, your only inhibitor being your promise, when he stirs. He shoots up like a dead man raised from the grave, his hand going to his side where his weapon usually rests.

“Everything’s fine,” you assure him.

“Mmph,” he grumbles. You’re trying not to stare at him, but he looks so uncharacteristically soft, you can’t help it. He pretends not to notice, thankfully. Six tosses the covers off, and picks his gun up from the nightstand. He walks to the door and listens. Satisfied, he turns around and sits back on the mattress.

“I can make lunch-” he starts to offer, but you cut him off.

“I already made you some,” you swiftly grab the sandwich from the mini-fridge and deliver it to him. After he takes it, you pull the gum from your pocket, extending it towards him, too.

His eyes jump from you to the gum and back again twice. “Where’d you squirrel that away?” He jokes, thinking you took it from your previous residence. Then he remembers the machine outside. His face tightens, “You didn’t leave the room, did you?”

“... don’t be mad at me,” you begin slowly, dropping your hand to your side.

“Dammit.” Six hisses. “Dammit, you promised.” He’s off the bed again, towering over you.

He shakes his head, disbelieving. He’s still in the hyper-alert mode he has been used to for twenty years. But his eyes keep catching on your pouting lips. He’s finding temptation difficult to ignore when all he can think about is how those lips would make him feel.

“I upheld my promise! There were no noises!” You know it’s not a real defense.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his mind on the problem. “Did you see anyone? Did anyone see you?”

“No to the first, and honestly, I can’t answer the second.”

His mouth opens to retort, but he closes it, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. He raises his hands in supplication and slowly states, “You can’t go out there alone.”

“I wanted to do something nice.” You explain. “But I am sorry. I was trying to ease some small amount of stress for you, not add to it.”

Six snorts and looks away. You'd put yourself in danger to make him happy. How was he supposed to react to that?

When he turns back to you a moment later, he reaches to take your wrist. Goosebumps appear down your arm, but he tries to ignore them. You loosen your grip on the small paper package, allowing him to take your peace offering. You don’t want him to let go of your wrist, and he doesn’t. His hand is hot, his thumb rubbing languidly across your skin.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “But shockingly, you take priority over gum.” His tone deepens and he orders again, “Do not go anywhere alone.”

He’s not trying to turn you on, but with his rough hand holding yours, his authoritative face inches from your own, and his protective demands, you feel the tension coiling.

“Mhm, noted,” you respond.

Your blood feels hot. Surely he can feel your pulse thrumming? You try to shake yourself out of the rising heat you feel. Take a cold shower, you thirsty bitch, you mentally jar yourself.

“You wanna relax? Make my job a little easier? It’s like you’re trying to kill me yourself.” Six accuses playfully, finally releasing your wrist, where - yes - he had been enjoying your quickening pulse.

His soulful eyes dance between yours. You feel flames licking up your body, your stomach tightening in anticipation. Am I killing him? The way he’s killing me? Your heart is hammering, body screaming for him to touch you again.

“Little dramatic,” you snort, surprised it comes out in a normal tone of voice. Turning away from him, you walk towards the bathroom.

And you’re not sure what possesses you, you’re half-sure he can’t stand you, but still you hear yourself say, “I’m going to shower. Am I allowed to do that alone, Six?”

His head snaps, his intense stare nearly stopping your breath. You watch him swallow hard and you wonder what he’s thinking. Your chin tilts upward, eyes locked with his, confirming every pass you’ve ever made at him.

And well, he tried, didn’t he? Six is a strong man. He’d been stabbed, shot, he’d fallen from great heights, been pepper-sprayed - and through everything, he’d kept on fighting. But this? The slow drip of you over the past few months had been bad enough, but stuck in this room with you nearly begging for him? He wasn’t strong enough for that.

“No. You’re not,” he growls.

He crosses the room in two strides, his arms enfolding you. He grunts as he lifts you up and backs you into the wall; at the same time his lips come hard against yours, months of repressed feeling apparent in his grip, his fevered kiss.

Your legs curl around his waist, tugging him closer, and your hands move down him - everything you can reach, you want to feel. Your hands press in his hair, his beard, they caress his throat before dropping to feel the beat of his heart through his wide chest. Your frenzied movements send him wild. He had no idea giving in would feel this good; he’s already forgotten about the shower.

You feel the wall disappear as he moves toward the bed. His knee bends on the soft surface as he lays you onto the blankets. You feel his weight pressing into you, grounding you to him. His left hand slides up your shirt, breaking his kiss to remove it fully. He tugs his own off by the collar, and the sight of his bare chest makes you gasp. Intensely defined muscles riddled with scars and tattoos decorate his body. He's lived a hard life. You’re breathing heavily, chest heaving, and he makes a lustful noise at the sight. He unclasps your bra, replacing it with his mouth.

“Oh,” you throw your head back at the feeling, and he makes another deep, rumbling sound at your approval.

His pants go next, leaving him in dark red briefs. He pauses and regards your pants, your wounded leg.

“Um, carefully, I guess?” You shrug.

He moves his hands appreciatively along your sides, stopping when he reaches your waistband. Six’s beard scratches your sensitive skin as he plants kisses lovingly around your thigh. He’s hoping you understand it’s his apology for not killing the man before he ever touched you. He unbuttons your frayed, fucked-up jeans and places a large hand over the cut on the outside of your leg to protect it while he pulls the material down, your underwear also going.

As he leans back over you, you can’t help but admire him, your eyes brimming with fondness at his care. His burning chest presses into yours, and you can feel his muscles flexing as his hands grope your body.

Your hands go to his hair once more, clutching him to you. His tongue skates over the hollow at the base of your throat - you inhale sharply at the sensation. His thigh shifts between your legs, and the pressure on your most sensitive area causes you to tilt your hips back and forth, riding him a little. Six notes your reaction greedily; he presses his thigh into you harshly and you whine. He places a large hand around the base of your throat, and continues his mouth’s path upward until he reaches your jaw, spurred on by the obscene moans you’re making.

“Sweetheart, you’re making me blush," his breath caresses your ear.

One of your hands cradles his chin while the other snakes along his body, pushing his briefs down - he kicks them off. The feeling of his thick, naked thighs against your own nearly distracts you from your goal. But you find him quickly - you knew he would be big there, too - and you relish the way his powerful body goes slack at your touch. In your peripheral, you can see his biceps shake at the tension building in him. Your thumb brushes over a vein, and you shiver as he lets go of the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard him make.

You lean up to capture his lips and swallow the sound he just made. His hand plunges into your hair, cradling your head while the other palms your lower back; he grunts as he leans back onto his heels, easily taking you with him. His mouth connects with yours, and his hand slides to the curve of your ass.

Your thighs straddle him in this kneeling position, and you grind along his smooth erection. His hand on your ass encourages your rhythm. His other arm falls from your hair to wrap around your midsection, holding you tight to him. Six’s kisses are deep, desperate, but tender somehow. It makes you want him everywhere - you want to know nothing but him. You rock forward far enough that his tip catches at your center.

He stills your movement, keeping you in limbo. He leans his head back to see you. You can feel the strength in his muscles, so you don’t even attempt to fight him for the friction you’re craving. Artlessly pushing back the hair that had fallen in your face, he then rests his palm on your cheek, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip.

He shifts his body for a better angle, then slowly - so slowly - pushes up into you. Six’s eyes are almost entirely black, the smallest bit of blue rings his blown pupils as he drinks in your whimper. You didn’t think you could be more turned on, but the look in his eyes is so hungry. He sucks a line of kisses up your neck and the sensation of the warm trail cooling on your skin causes you to clench down on him; he grunts again at that.

You sigh in relief when his hip bones sit flush with yours. You’ve been so ready for this man, the considerable stretch doesn’t hurt in the slightest. You breathlessly laugh; utter bliss surging through you. You don’t try to move, knowing instinctively that he’s in charge.

“Mmm,” he hums gruffly, running a hand through your hair.

You feel him twitch inside you, and you want to ask him what he just thought about, but he pulls out and thrusts up into you without warning. You cry out, but he’s not done. He does it again, then again, snapping his hips brutally. You’re getting what you wanted, he’s driving up into you and it is overwhelming; Six is destroying you, piece by piece. His arms flex as they hold you still, his stomach muscles jump at the strain underneath your slack hands. Sweat begins to shine on both of you; the slick reward for his exertion somehow making you wetter elsewhere. A lock of dirty blonde comes free, swinging against his forehead; and you’re mesmerized by the masculine beauty of Sierra Six.

His pattern slows briefly to lay you both back down. His right hand finds its home in your hair, before he begins a deeper, more sensual pace. You gasp out his name at the new feeling, the intimacy. He’s weakened your body so thoroughly that he is absolutely fucking you senseless into the mattress despite his slower pace. You grasp at the bedsheets above your head; you can hear the bed creaking with the force of him. His lips press against your forehead, breathing heavy. One hand cradles the base of your skull while the other plants against the wall for leverage. He tilts his head to rest against yours, and it’s clear he’s all but making love to you at this point. The knot in your stomach gets more tenuous with each and every one of his touches.

You try to reign in your gasps, your cries, but his left hand falls between where you’re joined, and your attempt at being quiet ends entirely.

His lips brush your ear and he growls, “Should’ve known you’d be as loud in bed as you are every other fucking day.”

“You love it,” you choke out, smiling smugly.

His voice is heady, “It is that obvious?”

You’re in sensation overload, the feeling of Six pushing inside you, the rhythmic motion of his hand, and that look in his eyes has your body taut as a bowstring. Your hands reach up to frame his face, wanting to hold him, when you're surprised by the tension in your abdomen snapping viciously. You writhe up beneath him, fucking him back, never breaking eye contact. You feel yourself repeatedly clench down as you come apart for him, finally closing your eyes when you breathe out his name. Six possessively parts your lips with his, groans echoing in the space between kisses as he lets go, too. His hips begin to stutter; his abdominal muscles jerk as he buries himself deep within you, spending himself nearly as powerfully as you did.

His head drops to your collarbone and you press another kiss to his hair. Six raises up on his forearms, memorizing the way you look underneath him. His lips meet yours again softly before he carefully eases himself from you. He wraps a muscle-bound arm around you, tugging you to him. Six scoots both of you a few inches onto a pillow and throws the covers over you.

Diffused, indigo light from the window indicates that sunset has just occurred, and you can’t help but hope tomorrow doesn't come. Staying here in this comfortable, intimate twilight world was the only place you cared to exist. You feel Six’s chest press into your back then retreat, and his exhale tickles your ear. The tattoo on his left forearm lay across your naked breast, and you don’t stop yourself from tracing it.

“That feels wonderful,” his sigh is gravelly. You shift further into him and he responds by pulling you tighter, settling you flush against his body.

“I won’t stop, then,” you promise him quietly.

He sighs, and within a few moments, you feel his breathing deepen. You keep your promise until you drift away, too.

#sierra six #sierra six x reader #six #the gray man #the gray man fanfic #the gray man fic #court gentry #sierra six fanfic #ryan gosling #rg #personal #my fics #courtland gentry #smut #sierra six smut #lloyd hansen #chris Evans

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glitterpeachtree · 8 months

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Found this on Pinterest....

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bisexual-magnus-bane · 10 months

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Sierra Six x Reader *smut*

“Are we ready to begin?”

His voice, deep and strong, reverberated off the walls and echoed into my mind. My legs shook from my nerves, anxiety through the roof at this point. He was dressed in a simple black shirt with a relaxed fit grey suit jacket and grey dress pants. A downright daddy, perfect for the part I guess.

I softly nod my head yes. This is an awkward situation I’ve gotten myself into and now I don’t even know how the hell to get out of here. He raises his eyebrow at me like I’m supposed to guess what’s up. “Words, use your words.”

Fuck. Fuck. “Yes I’m ready to begin.” My voice is quiet and I’m scared you can hear the tremble in it. He doesn’t seem to pick up on it, which I’m thankful for. “Why don’t we start off with something simple, I would like you to sit on this pillow beside me. Then you’re going to pass me the remote for the TV okay.”

At first I am shook, what the hell! Am I a slave? I don’t know but I also sort of enjoy it. I slink over as sensually as I can and plop down on my knees. “Being a sub, means always thinking about what could benefit or make your dom happy.” He speaks these words to me calmly, like this is an everyday sort of conversation. I feel my face on fire as I hand him then remote, my ears burn and I’ve never been happier to not be able to see myself. Thinking back to his words I proportion myself so that when he looks down at me he’ll get a great view of my tits. He gently grabs my chin all of a sudden causing a short breathy moan to fall from my lips.

“Perfect. See you’re a natural, you just need a little help getting there.” He is pulling my head into his lap, I try my hardest not to get as close to his cock as I want to. This meeting isn’t supposed to have any sexual contact in it, however I find myself craving it. I want to make him feel as good as he wants, I want him to order me around. His dick is pressed against the fly of his dress pants, I will not touch it unless I’m told to though. A sudden groan drags me out of my daze, causing me to realize I’ve been heart-eyeing his crotch the whole time. “Mmm baby girl you’re staring at my cock like it’s candy. I know we’re not supposed to be doing sexual contact until a few more meeting but would you like to have your first fully controlled blowjob?”

My small gasp is all the confirmation he needs however he waits until words seal the deal. “Oh god, yes Sir I would love to!” Ugh I’m desperate, but I can’t help it. My hands shake with nerves and fear of fucking up as he sets my head in his lap and goes to work with his pants.

It’s beautiful, red and raw. Just waiting to be loved by someone other than his hand. He takes hold of my head by using my hair, I moan with need for him at this. He pulls me to his cock and his warmth fills my mouth, as quick as it went in it was gone. Closing my eyes I let myself fall into the feeling of being degraded. He was rubbing his cock around on my face, tapping my cheeks and forehead with his thickness. To make it even more disgustingly hot, his cock had a sheen of my drool on it, smearing my face. “Why don’t you take off your shirt and bra?” I sighed at the loss of contact but did as I was told. He tells me he loves my perky breasts as he shovelled his manhood back into my mouth. Praises fell from his lips as I ate him, he told me that I was a good sub, a good girl, we were going to have so much fun together. I didn’t even pay attention to my own wetness, just focused on sucking, licking and rubbing his dick all up. He let me get messy and I let him tell me to. I had spit dripping down my chin, saliva and pre cum smeared on my cheeks and here I was rubbing his dick in between and all over my tits. They were completely soaked and oiled up from my spit and pre cum. He called me his good dirty whore while I did this and I mewled. He ended finally by calling me daddy’s filthy little girl and came right on my tongue. I swallowed some and then let the rest drip down onto, what are now, daddy’s breasts. He grabbed me by the hair and had me rest my head face to face with his soft red cock and we watched TV. I honestly wasn’t paying attention, I was thinking about how hopefully next time my daddy would pound my little pussy and make it his.

#pinterest #pinterest aesthetics #fandom #fanfic #sierra six #courtland gentry #courtland gentry x reader #sierra six x reader #Sierra six x reader smut #sierra six smut #the gray man #chris evans #ryan gosling #courtland gentry x reader smut #sierra six x you #sierra six x y/n #smut #pure filth

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danime25 · 4 months

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Jingle All The Way

ao3 // normal masterlist // christmas masterlist

*Summary: Six and his wife take on their first mission as a married couple. Shopping for their beloved daughter Claire

*Content/Tags: Fluff, Couples Taking Things Way Too Seriously, Shopping

*Rating: E for Everyone

*Status: Oneshot/Complete

“So I’m just going to meet up with Jenna and Ashley in the food court. I’ll text you if we go anywhere else.” Claire told her dad

“Okay, love you. We’ll meet back up at 3.”

“Okay. Love you too.” Claire made a little peace sign with her fingers and made a run for the food court. Meanwhile her father and mother turned around and pulled out a map of the mall that his wife had in her purse

“So we need to hit… Barnes and Nobles for those books Claire likes.”

“On it.”

“I’ll go to Kohl’s and get some sweaters.”

“Then we take on Gamestop together?” Six asked her, looking up from their pre-planned route

“Then we can go to Sephora.” She nodded, her eyes still fixated on the paper

“What do we need from there?” Six raised an eyebrow

“Well I wanted a perfume…” She started, “You bought it for me already didn’t you?”

“Can’t say, sworn to Santa secrecy.”

“That only applies to Claire.” She huffed but shook her head. “Okay, let’s break.”

“Break.” He replied and they went in opposite directions in the mall. He sprinted past people who were on their phones, arguing about what color to buy a toy for their kid. He scooted around teenagers waiting in the mile long line for Starbucks all in an effort to get to the bookstore. The employees gave him a weird look as he dashed into the store from the mall entrance but he made a straight line to the Young Adult section for Claire’s books. He thumbed through the dividers until he found the last name of the author he’d been given by his daughter. There were books written by him that weren’t the one Claire asked for, but he’d definitely seen in her room. Finally, the series seemingly popped out in his line of vision and he grabbed every book from the shelf. He held onto them and carried the stack up to the register. The employees begrudgingly rung the total up for him and he flashed his credit card up against the machine. He flipped through his phone for a second to see where his wife was on the agenda.

“Stuck in line. Sweaters. Go on without me.”

With that, he made a beeline to Gamestop.

---

“Going to…”

“Do you really need to tell your dad everything?” Claire’s friend rolled her eyes as she waited for Claire to finish typing.

“Yes.” She replied, not lifting her eyes up from the screen

“Why?”

“Because… my parents are on a mission.”

“A mission?”

“Yeah.” Claire sighed

“Is that why they’re using maps like weirdos instead of looking up the mall map on their phones?” Claire’s other friend asked

“Yeah.” Claire shook her head, “Mom thought it’d be more fun.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah. I know.”

---

Six had made it to Gamestop when he saw his wife making a run for him. He held his arms out as she basically landed into him

“Hi Honey.” She smiled, “Managed to get out of there with more time than I thought.”

“Good.” He smiled back at her and kissed her, “Ready?”

“Ready.” She replied and let go of her husband. She got in the line to buy a system with a game face on, ready to deck a Karen if it meant getting a system for Claire. Six couldn’t have been more proud of his wife if he had tried. She smiled at him and waved as she waited. He waved back to her and thumbed through the games. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and he checked it. Claire was moving from the food court towards Kohl’s, which would put her right on their path. He makes a gesture saying that they either needed to buy the system or get out of Gamestop right now when she makes it to the counter. She quickly buys the console and they hide behind the clearance bins as their daughter passes by.

“I don’t think she saw us.” She sighed out of relief

“We should be clear.”

“Anything else we can get here today?” She asked Six. He pulled the map out from his pants pockets and took a quick glance of his notes

“No, we’re good.”

“Okay, you go to the car and get the presents in the trunk. I’ll go run my errand.”

“Okay. Love you.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek

“Love you too. Whatever you do, don’t move the car. That parking spot is gold.”

“I know.” He nodded as she went off on her own. Six decided that this would be the perfect time to go buy her her gift.

#my writing #my fic #fanfiction #fanfic #ryan gosling character #ryan gosling #courtland gentry #courtland gentry x reader #sierra six x reader #sierra six #the gray man #the gray man 2022 #12 days of goosemas

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proper-goodnight · 2 years

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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: ~4K

Tags: @pyrokineticbaby , @medievalfangirl , @biblichorr

Into the Gray

Interrogation:

You’d been listening to the clock ticking, every change of a second pounding against your ears like gunfire, for the better part of the last hour. That, combined with the absence of sound and the harsh overhead light positioned to glare directly onto you, made you assume that this was their attempt at pressuring you. If you didn’t tell them what they wanted when time ran out, then something would happen to you. The clock was a symbol of that, a warning ticking precariously toward your fate.

That didn’t deter you from holding your silence, their attempts to get you to talk pointless, but something you humored. That little bit of control that they thought they had over you kept them from twitching in their seats, sitting as hazy shadows on the opposite side of the table, continuously asking questions to hide just how uncomfortable you made them feel.

Your eyes swept from one to the other, the glaring lamp above your head hardly proving any kind of obstacle.

“Where are you from?” The first, a twitchy man with glasses too round for his face had asked most of the questions thus far, but when you’d looked at him, the thin sinew of muscle visibly tensed underneath the seams of an expensive suit. He was shaking, something telling you that he was more prevalent with computers; office work–he didn’t have experience dealing with things like you.

“Around,” you answered immediately.

“Do you have a name? An alias? Are you foreign or American?” The second man was stockier, older and more experienced at this kind of thing–that made him brash, and prone to aggression. That didn't matter, either. You couldn’t be scared into submission, and something in you suspected that he knew that. It kept him glued to his chair, the urge to lash out at you trapped inside the buttons of a suit too small.

You almost suggested the two of them switch, and you swallowed your smile despite yourself. “That’s subjective.”

The stocky one grimaced, and bit back a retort.

Something about that was oddly comforting, that even in your current situation, you could still have that effect on people. The cogs turned, and if you looked close enough, you’d see smoke. The two interrogators exchanged a look, but just like the past hour, they would have no idea how to approach you. After all, they knew nothing. You didn’t have connections, or attachments, nothing that they could use to turn the tables in their favor. As far as they knew, they were at your mercy until a trade could be made.

There was nothing that you wanted. Not from them, specifically.

The thin one adjusted his glasses, straightening papers on the table that they’d given up referring to shortly after the interrogation had started. You suspected that it was some kind of outline, a list of questions that would detain the most pertinent information. There’d been nothing to write, and the neat print from a computer was glaring out at them, a lack of handwriting to meet it. “You killed several of our operatives when we tried to bring you in. Something tells me that wasn’t your first.”

“It wasn’t.” You didn’t remember his name, but you remembered that your first was a Don of sorts. He’d breathed out a warm, slimy puff of air against your neck before he’d collapsed back against red, satin sheets. Your hands had pressed over his mouth to muffle the sounds as he’d choked, his blood seeping through your fingers, thick and grimy.

Most of all, you had remembered his expression of slack surprise, his dead eyes holding a fading look of doubt that someone at the tender age of fourteen could have accomplished such a feat. Something about it had been poetic. So much red in a space that was once white with purity.

“My first was a practice target. Someone manageable if they tried to fight back.”

“Why?” The psychologist you suspected, the twitchy one, might have been interested in the mental implications, but it wasn’t personal baggage that you were willing to unload against men that you obviously didn’t trust.

You turned your head to the interrogator, and you saw him flinch.

“Maybe they thought that if the first kill was easy, then the rest would be too.”

“Mentally?” Came the psychologist’s hesitant question, sitting up a little taller, leaning his body toward you. “Or physically?”

You leaned back, ignoring the subtle pinch of discomfort in your wrists where the handcuffs had rubbed them raw. It was nothing compared to the protest that the rest of your body made, a pained gasp shoved to the back of your throat. You refused to let them believe that you were at their mercy because you weren’t.

You never would be.

You smiled, small and barely distinguishable, but it was there in the dim light of the interrogation room, like a shadow across the wall. The psychologist straightened his glasses and turned his focus down, an audible clearing of his throat signaling the other to speak.

The interrogator however looked at you with a renewed curiosity that replaced his nervous anxiety, and the other’s cautious twitching. If he believed that you laid awake thinking about it, he was wrong. You held his gaze, appreciating that he didn’t try to be your friend or sympathize with your cause.

They were interested because they had reason to be, and they treated you as what you were: a threat.

“What were the others? The other kills?”

“Sierra.”

His expression cracked, and beside him, the psychologist nearly choked on his own spit. He leaned forward, hands clasping together. When he spoke, he kept his voice low and even, as if they were sharing a secret. “There aren’t many people who know about them.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“It’s tightly classified information within the CIA.” He clarified.

“Hardly,” you retorted, leaning forward with your hands clasped, matching his posture, his tone. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

“What can you tell us about them?”

“What do you want to know?”

Despite Lloyd’s earlier suggestion that you cooperate so that the two of you could have a conversation without bars getting in the way, you were beginning to regret it. You weren’t going to negotiate for privileges, not to them. They weren’t worth anything to you.

“If you’re telling the truth, they are arguably the world’s most successful assassins,” the interrogator said, a dryness creeping into his otherwise scratchy baritone, doubtful of your bold claims. “They’re rehabilitated convicts that we exchanged loyalty for freedom to. Whatever you can tell us, what you know outside of that, we might find very valuable.”

“I don’t think that any information I give you would matter.”

“And why is that?” The interrogator asked.

You looked over your shoulder, towards the one-way mirror where you were sure their director was watching. When you answered the question, you directed your words to him: Denny Carmichael. “They’re all dead.”

“How do you know that?” The psychologist asked quickly, perhaps a little too eager, earning a glare from the interrogator. He sunk into his seat, and even out of the corner of your eyes, you could see the subtle contempt flash between the two. It was an observation you noted for later should you need it.

Your mouth was dry from lack of hydration, but you didn’t work to correct it, refusing to betray any sign of discomfort. You pressed your mouth together in a tight-lipped smile that made the other two tense, appearing ready to leap out of their suits at any time.

“I’m the one who killed them.”

There was a moment of silence, then just as you’d wanted, the door to the interrogation room opened.

Carmichael stepped inside, his expression unreadable as both the psychologist and the interrogator scrambled up to greet him. He motioned for them to leave, and they did so, practically stumbling into the door upon their exit. You looked at him, and his full attention was on you. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.” It wasn't a question, but you didn’t take it as one.

You looked up, the edges of your mouth holding steadfast, albeit with a razor sharp edge. “That may take time that you and I both know you don’t have.” You wouldn’t tell him everything–but you’d slip just enough to pacify him. Some things–a lot of it–he didn't need to know.

“This may be a new concept to you, but you’re wrong. You see, I think that you and I can come to an agreement.” He pulled out a chair, the legs scraping the floor. He settled into it, straightening his tie. Both of his forearms settled against the table, and with a vague hand gesture, he motioned for you to start.

It didn’t matter. In the end, you’d won. So you did.

After that, they confiscated your clothes during your medical exam.

The CIA reveled like smug children, and had purposely voiced no outright promise that any of your belongings would be returned. You’d spent the last several hours sitting in a room–not a cell finally, but a room–picking at the bandages that had replaced them. You were given a stack of folded replacements, but they sat undisturbed on the edge of the mattress. Such little pleasures were tempting, but you didn’t trust them.

You’d been cornered and brought here. Sleep was a possibility, but a vulnerability that you didn’t want to pursue. Even as your eyelids fluttered and your injured limbs begged for that momentary reprieve from this hell, you didn’t succumb to their prodding insistence. Better use of your time had been secluded to looking for cameras. Carmichael and a woman–Suzanne, you thought her name was–had promised there weren’t any.

That didn’t stop you from looking. Every small crevice did not go unnoticed, every nook that you could manage to squeeze a hand into, you did, and it didn’t take long. It wasn’t as if it was a penthouse suite with everything you would need. The foundation of the room had been carefully molded to avoid the possibility of escapes, but even with that knowledge in mind, your hand dove into vents, and you checked for cracks and small holes in the tile. You’d climbed onto a chair and checked the ceiling trim, the floor, then you’d spent the better part of half an hour trying to pry it apart with your nails.

The only thing at your disposal, your bag, had been searched and emptied. Now a sad pile of leather fabric on the floor, the seams cut and tore apart, the only thing left was a few toiletries from a hotel that you’d taken for the road, and further examination told you that nothing had been stashed inside it for surveillance, either.

Ultimately, you’d settled on the floor, your back to the wall and staring a hole into the mattress and the clothes across the room–the only two things that you hadn’t checked. You only hoped that they hadn’t put anything inside you, all food given to you having been properly examined before you’d so much as tasted it.

Lloyd Hansen had been the only name that you’d come to trust–rather, respect.

He had come to heel for no one. Moments before your capture, having warded off other agents–his teammates–gun drawn and threatening to ‘shoot their entrails all over the goddamn pavement’ if they moved toward you, he’d issued a command to Carmichael before shoving you into an unmarked van. The latter hadn’t blinked.

“This one’s mine.”

When the sudden knock at the door proved to be that same man, you’d felt in yourself the urge to fall in. You hadn’t taken orders willingly in a long time, but it was a habit that had been drilled into your head since you were small. After all, you couldn’t run–not as you were–and everything in you warded against staying. They weren’t breaking you, but with a stationary room and clothes and other basic freedoms you had never experienced before, they were on their way.

You’d do what you were told. Temporarily.

“They respect you.” He’d finally concluded, never prying further into your background. He didn’t care about that much–he cared about the mystery–and neither did you. “But they don’t know what your loyalties are, or who you belong to. Naturally, they’re suspicious.”

“Nobody,” you’d said simply, shrugging, as if that solved everything.

Lloyd Hansen lasted only a few short months after that, and he’d been killed by the last Sierra a few years later.

Your first encounter with Six was on the opposite side of a one-way mirror. He 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. They’d buzzed Carmichael through the door several minutes ago, but your focus was on the man handcuffed to the table–the same table, his pensive stare bleeding through Carmichael around a wad of chewing gum.

Your lip twitched.

Carmichael’s back was to the mirror, hovering over the table, flipping through an evidence folder–the folder that he’d adjusted. Every fuck up that the CIA had made over the course of the last several months would be pinned on Sierra Six; a scapegoat. Fitzroy’s program hadn’t been about second chances.

It was easier to place blame on convicts.

For the duration of the interrogation, you’d settled in the back of the room, your shoulders pressed against the hard metal of the wall and let the cold of it keep you grounded.

Carmichael slid the folder between him and Six, opened it with precision, then flipped it towards Six. Every action was taken with practiced restraint, his hands moving to fold on top of the table, leaving the folders' contents exposed in their macabre glory. It was all a show, you 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. He was in no condition to fight, and you didn’t think that he wanted to until he figured out where they had transferred Claire.

Six didn’t spare the file a glance.

“If you’re going to charge me anyway, can’t we just…” Six waved a vague hand gesture over the table, one brow taking on a high arch, the movement of his hands limited with his restraints. “Skip this part? I’ve played this game several times and it's never worked out.”

Carmichael pivoted his head to the side. “What makes you think it won’t this time?”

A corner of Six’s lip twitched. “Because you don’t care what I have to say.”

Carmichael then really did laugh, exposed to the truth and unable to deny it in all of its honest sincerity. His posture mirrored Six’s, the brunt of his shoulders pressed back against the harsh metal of the chair, arms crossed. “Then confess.” He invited. “You’ll take the fall either way, but it makes my job a lot easier if I get it in words.”

“Confess to what?” Six’s eyebrows raised, and only then did he cast a glance at the folder. “That,” he pointed down at the file. “Wasn’t me.”

“You didn’t kill Lloyd Hansen either, I take it?” He pushed against the edge of the table, his chair grinding against the floor.

“Actually, I didn’t.”

While Carmichael rose, he circled around the table to stand beside Six, who appeared less than inclined to have him in his space. He had an ominous look about him, his hands braced on the table beside Six, leaning in, leaning down so that they were barely inches apart. “You’re a dead man to the world and nobody will be able to argue in your defense. Other than that, you’re a rogue agent. What advantage do you think you have?”

“The one that makes your job a little bit harder, I guess.” Six answered without missing a beat, smug despite his position in it all. “Should probably get started on that paperwork. It’ll take you a while.” A shrug, blatantly honest despite himself. As far as you knew, he hadn’t told a single lie during the whole thing, his blunt demeanor waning only by his need for sarcasm whenever possible.

You saw Carmichael’s nostrils flare, his teeth clenched as his rage stayed contained in its most primitive form. When he rose, it was stiff, and slow, his unsettling gaze sweeping over Six in the chair one more time, only to slide away and follow his body’s trek toward the door.

It slammed with more force than necessary.

Six looked at the mirror, and your eyes unknowingly met, only for him to ask no one–you suspected–in particular, shaking his hands inside the cuffs: “Can someone come take these things off? I really have to piss.”

You didn’t oblige his request, taking Carmichael’s exit as your own.

Carmichael’s need to yank a confession from him didn’t matter to you. You weren’t looking for recognition, or a place next to Denny Carmichael at the head of the table. His only regret about the entirety of it all had been losing Lloyd as an asset, uncaring about the chaos that followed suit to cover the agency’s secret following the destruction of the drive. He’d been so sure after Six had been taken into custody that he could be controlled, but he was wrong.

When you left Sierra Six for the first time, you left him talking to no one inside the mirror except himself. ~~~

You lost track of the times that the two of you were alone–with him more unaware than you–interrogation after interrogation, all pointless but it gave you something to do in between assignments. He was injured, but he maintained his sarcastic spirit through hours of answering with the same truth: it wasn’t me. The interrogators were losing their patience, much like they had with you, but oftentimes they left you on one side of the mirror and him on the other, with his head leaned back over the chair and his eyes rolled as far back into his head as they could go.

Observation and extra training was your excuse to Carmichael, and to Suzanne, and you convinced yourself that was what it was, aside from a curious intrigue even less innocent than you were.

He was nothing and no one, much like you. There was something to that, something that urged you to watch and listen, see if any of his answers would differ day by day. They didn’t, but you thought that you were getting an understanding of his mannerisms, and his quirks. 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 interesting for you.

How he’d survived this long, you didn’t know.

You lied and manipulated to survive, and 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, you weren’t surprised.

“You’re punishing yourself,” you’d said to Dani shortly before you’d left, resorting to stark statements if you weren’t allowed to ask questions.

“The Sierra agent,” she’d said by way of explanation, having spent the better part of the last few hours bruising her knuckles against punching bags. Sweat drenched her hair, grimy and disheveled as muck seeped through her clothes, turning her regular perfume into something sour. It did little to deter her momentum, fueled by emotions coiling around her pertaining to the asset.

“Sierra Six,” you’d confirmed.

“He escaped the hospital,” she’d huffed, breathless, another fierce punch landing a definitive and resounding tap, echoing out across the abandoned silence of the gym and nudging you back on your feet. “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.

“Should it?”

Dani slowed down, then stopped altogether. You 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.

You hadn’t told anyone when you’d left that you were going to pursue his contract alone.

The Gray Man’s moniker stemmed from his ability to keep a low profile. It’d taken you a few months, but you’d found him. Six had no record, inside or out. He’d been a liability, a scapegoat should blame ever need to be placed. That much of his file was open to you, and that much of his file was accurate after being filled with most of Carmichael’s bullshit.

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, and that included things that you believed 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 preferring dry-humor, looked the complete opposite now; an approximation of happiness that only someone like him could get.

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, you strongly entertained the idea that you would have done the same.

For now, you considered a different approach, positioned at the peak of a hill with binoculars and taking note of his day-to-day. You’d been careful not to approach the house, to keep as low-profile as possible and ask people that came into contact with him down to the most vague detail that you could manage. As expected, nobody had any idea aside from the fact that he was a recent move-in with who was presumably his daughter.

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–but you’d taken extra time to ensure that you pinged Claire’s pacemaker’s signal to different parts of the states, not too close to the sunshine state’s lines, but close enough in the surrounding areas that the distance traveled didn’t appear too far-fetched.

It would throw the agency off the trail for now, and 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 sixteen when Carmichael finally caught on. 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 hand 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 kept his mouth shut. “How do you like the beach?”

“I don’t,” you answered absentmindedly, binoculars still held in one hand; hovering. “What’s the job?”

There was a moment of pause, as if he genuinely considered your words before finally pointing out the obvious. “I don’t remember you mentioning that you were pursuing another contract. 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 to be 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.

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.

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 already appear so deadly. 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.

#the gray man fanfic #the gray man fanfiction #the gray man 2022 #sierra six x reader #sierra six #Courtland gentry x reader #Courtland gentry x you #sierra six x you

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foxdev1l · 1 month

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you need to share more of your thoughts because i know they are good tell me tell me tell me teeeell meeeee

thank you so much for this sweet message. since it's kept vague, i wasn't sure what kind of thoughts you wanted to hear, but i've recently spent a lot of time thinking about and writing down notes about a/b/o headcanons for the rg characters which you might be interested in. i've got notes for basically all of them, but Six's headcanon kind of grew a mind of its own. if anyone's interested in more, feel free to let me know

◇Sierra Six – Shed Skin◇

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54652036

Wordcount: 2.507

Summary: Six does not feel comfortable in his own skin

A/N: much love to @hollandstrophyhusband for helping me brainstorm and beta reading this for me. i hope you guys enjoy my little spin on Six and the omegaverse. might write a second part one day, who knows. there was some talk about six/colt...

Content warnings: nsfw, canon typical violence, self-destructive behavior, rough sex, dub con, identity issues

He presents unusually late, at the age of fifteen, and without any prior warning. It's almost like he's grown a second skin, one that is simultaneously too large and too tight on his scrawny body.

Courtland expects to feel relief. He's an Alpha, after all, the only child to follow in his father's footsteps.

His mother is born an Omega, awfully timid and quiet, and too afraid to raise her voice. His brother has presented as a Beta young, too gentle and too defiant at the same time. His father has always resented them both for different reasons.

So Court should be relieved, to have dodged a bullet, to escape his father's cutting disappointment.

But then his father takes one look at him, his ragged features contorted into a strange expression, something almost akin to pride. He sweeps his gaze over Court's haggard form, breathes in the heavy stench of a newly presented Alpha, and smiles. The smile is twisted, foreign, wrong; like the newly grown skin pulled taut over his frail bones.

Court feels nothing but repulsion.

“I don't think it fits,” he tells his father.

“It doesn't need to fit,” his father says, the contentment on his face turning sharper, more dangerous. “Just wear it like you own it.”

And so he does.

He tells himself things can be different. That it is still about choice. That his second skin does not come sodden in blood. He can learn to be comfortable wearing it, can accept his status, and still reject society's expectations. He can grow up to be a better Alpha than his old man ever was.

It's only when he's standing above the dying body of his father – the powder burns from his gun tainting his fingers black – that he's struck with the sudden realization that he's always been destined to inherit the violence of his father; that this blood-lusting rage is so deeply carved into his DNA, he cannot have one without the other.

He hardly gets any time to think the first few years locked behind bars. He's too busy avoiding becoming a target. He makes himself bigger than he's ever been, plays his part as the aggressive and strong Alpha, and it feels wrong, sickening, but it doesn't matter because this is not about his comfort but the mere act of survival.

He doesn't experience a proper rut until the CIA has him catching the chain. The abuse and trauma he physically and mentally had to endure over his lifetime have taken a toll on his system and fucked with his hormones enough to suppress any prior ruts.

Though he's never experienced one, he's heard of it. How it takes over one's body and mind, burning up the insides with a maddening fever of raw lust.

Court mainly feels pain.

The CIA pairs him up with an Omega. Court is far too gone to protest at that point, but he doubts it would've mattered anyway. The CIA doesn't seem to care much about his autonomy.

He doesn't know the Omega's name, can barely make out their face past his blurred vision. But he knows what's expected of him.

The Omega is nothing more than a piece of meat for the CIA to dangle in front of him, not much unlike a gnarled bone thrown in front of a starving dog. He's supposed to claim them, feast on them, gorge himself on their willingness to submit.

The Omega tells him it's alright, that they don't mind his roughness, the bruises he leaves behind no matter how much he tries to hold back. Court almost wishes they wouldn't have said anything at all.

His rut ends eventually, the fever subsiding without him ever finding relief. The Omega is taken away quickly afterward. Court never sees them again.

The CIA has provided him with a soulless room in a depressing, gray building, and he's allowed a break, an undisturbed couple of days to gather himself back up.

He takes a shower to try and wash away the last traces of his rut, turns the heat all the way up. It burns him worse than the rut but he doesn't step away from the water. Instead, he uses his hands and nails to scrub, scrub, scrub his skin raw, till it's red, red, red, but still there. Despite everything, it's still a part of him no matter how hard he tries to get rid of it.

He wants nothing more than to shed his own skin, peel it away until it detaches from his flesh, tear it apart, so all that remains is a bloody and shredded framework of bones.

What he once reluctantly accepted and exploited for the sake of safety and survival, he's now grown to outright despise, to reject.

He showers multiple times a day over the next week, rubbing and clawing at his skin until it's stung and irritated. It doesn't make him feel better, only leaves him aching and longing for a different life.

Once his break is up, the CIA gets his training underway. It's brutal and laborious and keeps him busy once more, but it also makes everything worse. The once scrawny, lanky boy has grown into a strong, deadly man who seems to fit every stereotype he's sworn to dismantle.

His hands seem to be constantly coated in blood nowadays. He has to stop looking into the mirror when his reflection keeps twisting into the wilted image of his father.

At least he gets put on heavy military-grade suppressants. It berefts him of his ruts and fucks with his pheromones enough to dampen the aggressive smell of his Alpha; but above else, it mainly makes him numb. Court doesn't complain. It's better than the alternative.

He tries to keep to himself, avoid other Alphas at all costs though that's not always possible. He hates it, feels so out of place, uncomfortable, and strangely alien when he's around others.

Rumors begin to spread like wildfire, and as much as he tries to stay unbothered, it makes his hackles rise. They assume he's an omega because why else would he be so tight-lipped, act so odd and deflective whenever the topic gets brought up.

He doesn't know what to think of that. The word Omega doesn't feel as scalding as its counterpart, but it still doesn't fully seem to fit.

It's a bitterly cold winter night when Six makes the decision to hook up with an Alpha for the first time. He finds him in a seedy bar, his cheeks flushed and lashes wet from the snow.

He's freshly off a mission. The gun has left indents in the palm of his hand and he believes he can still feel the sticky, crawling sensation of blood despite the hour-long shower he took.

The alpha is leaning against the beer-sodden bar when Six spots him, nursing a cheap whiskey with one big, calloused hand. He's tall, taller than the Sierra agent, a burly, broad frame with a handsome, aged face.

The stranger turns, then, meeting his gaze dead-on. Six's pulse ticks up, his insides twisting. He isn’t quite sure whether it's from arousal or repulsion.

His instincts are reeling deep below his sternum but he's feeling daring, still drunk on the adrenaline-fueled high of his most recent kill and desperately chasing for more, to break through the heavy, numbing haze of the suppressants.

He ends up with his face shoved against the rough wall behind the bar. The stranger doesn't grant him the comfort of a bed, merely tugs down both of their pants as far as necessary and kicks Six's feet apart. Six thinks he prefers it this way.

The man's merciful enough to work Six open, though it still hurts when he pushes inside. They have nothing but a condom, and Six has never done this before, is hardly prepared to take a single finger, much less the thick cock of another fucking Alpha.

The Alpha's obnoxious scent is filling up the entire alleyway. It's thicker than the smoke of cigars, impenetrable like the billowing fumes of the streets. It clogs up Six's nose, lays heavy on his tongue, sharp and bitter all at once.

Everything about the experience is uncomfortable; the fingers in his hair, tugging and pulling and pressing his cheek into the sharp bricks; the hand on his hip, digging into his bones, squeezing bruises into his flesh; the mouth on him, panting against the shell of his ear, licking and biting up the side of his throat.

Six flinches away when teeth scrape over the skin just below his scent gland but he doesn't get far. The Alpha crowds him further against the wall, keeping an unbreakable hold on him as he relentlessly thrusts into him from behind.

A grunt escapes Six's bloody lips, gut twisting in fear but when the stranger reaches out and grabs his cock, it's already painfully hard and it doesn't take long for him to spill all over the Alpha's sweaty hand.

The Alpha doesn't stop, taking more pleasure than he draws from him, and Six is left to moan against the cold brick wall. He's cold and his legs are trembling by the time the Alpha finishes and pulls away.

“You're not an Omega,” the stranger acknowledges and Six just shrugs because his lungs have yet to fill up with oxygen again.

“And neither are you a Beta.”

Six shakes his head.

The man regards him with a flat, unreadable expression, “I didn't peg you as an Alpha.”

Six simply spits a glob of blood onto the dirt-stained pavement, the inside of his cheek sore where he's bitten through it. Then he shrugs once more and stumbles away, out of the alleyway and back into the shadows.

It becomes a common occurrence after that. The CIA keeps him on a short leash but Six still finds time to slip away every few weeks. He goes looking for meaningless fucks with willing Alphas every chance he gets, in the dark corners of whatever shabby bar is closest to him. He keeps seeking them out no matter how uncomfortable they make him feel.

It's painful, shameful, to be reduced to nothing but a whimpering mess under the aggressive grasp of another Alpha, but he cannot help himself. There is a certain thrill at being forced to give up control. It's strangely alluring, addicting.

He doesn't get off on the pain. In fact, he deeply despises it. But there is a certain sense of detachment that comes with it. It's still not enough to chip away his second skin, but it makes it less restricting, more bearable, gives him something else to focus on.

And then Lloyd comes along and ruins everything.

Lloyd manages to do something no one else has ever done before – he takes one look at Six, gasping and writhering where he's pushed into the wall, chin forcefully tilted back with the muzzle of a gun, and sees right through him.

“Ohh,” he croons, “What a little, pathetic Alpha you are.” He leans in, nuzzles at the column of Six's throat, digs the gun deeper to expose more of the heated flesh.

Gritting his teeth, Six keeps himself deathly still. He swallows down a rising growl, not willing to give Lloyd the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Or,” Lloyd continues, “Is it Omega?” His smile is full of teeth, his leer predatory, and Six does the only thing he can think of.

He fishes for the grenade safely tucked in the pocket of his pants, and pulls the safety pin.

In hindsight, he should've killed Lloyd then and there.

What follows isn't Six's fault. He is aware of that even though it doesn't stop the guilt from eating away at him. His handler is dead, his protégé traumatized, and Six just yearns for a fucking nap.

He's never felt such deep-rooted anger like he does for Lloyd. The Alpha is loud and arrogant and violent, and Six would've torn his fucking face off if Suzanne hadn't stopped him in form of a bullet to his thigh.

The next few weeks are a blur of heavy sedatives and strong pain medication. He's used to feeling trapped but the cuffs binding him to the hospital bed make him sick to his stomach. He finds great satisfaction in ripping them apart.

Tracing Claire's whereabouts is easier than expected and it pisses him off because the CIA obviously doesn't care enough to provide a proper safe house.

He steps onto the property, the smell of blood of his guards at the hospital still sticking to his clothes. The violence of his actions, though necessary, has torn something open deep inside him, a festering wound he fears will never heal again.

Perhaps he is his father's son, after all. Perhaps he's never been anything else.

He feels like a stranger, not only in his skin but his very own bones as he gets closer to the safe house.

His body aches, most of his injuries still not fully healed but he sets his jaw and pushes forward. Breaking open a window at the back of the building, he heaves himself up onto the ledge.

As soon as both his feet are flat on the ground, he goes to work, not daring to waste time. The suppressants have dulled his scent enough to stay hidden as he puts down the vinyl cover and a sloppily written note.

Incapacitating the guards hardly takes any effort. It doesn't bring him any satisfaction, only further rips and gashes at the wound inside. But it's worth it in the end, when all is done, and the blood has begun to dry, and Six pushes open the door separating him from Claire.

Being reunited after being forcefully pried apart feels a bit surreal. Claire looks tired, worn, but her smile is sincere as she clings to him, her nails sharp as claws where they dig into Six's shoulders but he doesn't have the heart to step away.

Instead, he buries his face into her hair, catching the subdued but familiar scent of a young Alpha; intense but gentler somehow, softened by the sweet and mellow taste of wild flowers dried by the sun.

Claire.

The scent slips below his skin easily, effortlessly, soothing the ragged edges of the wound beneath.

Claire is still so awfully young. Too young to be burdened by bearing the weight of her status. And yet, she does not seem to let it drag her down. Despite being impressionable and at the mercy of her biology, through all the illness and grief and trauma, the brutality of the last few weeks – she's remained unchanged.

Her eyes are still kind, her touch still gentle, and her heart untinged.

Six presses her tighter against his chest, his grip white-knuckled where it's clutching the back of Claire's shirt. He takes a moment, then, allows himself to linger, to breathe in the soft, calming scent of his protégé. For once, it does not feel like he's suffocating in the confinement of his own skin.

#sierra six #ryan gosling #the gray man (2022)#the gray man #courtland gentry #sierra six fanfic #sierra six smut #n.sfw.#omegaverse

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glass-dahlia · 2 years

Text

Sierra

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x gn!Reader

Word Count: 17.8k

Warnings: Swearing, cannon typical violence, concussion, use of y/n, mention of eating, (let me know if I missed anything)

Summary: Lloyd Hansen could and would kill anyone for enough money. Well- maybe not anyone. Seems someone sparked his interest back in the day. What a coincidence that they happen to be meeting again.

A/N: I posted this fic already on Wattpad (under a different username, SpideyPeterTingle), I just decided to start writing on Tumblr because why not. Requests are open, I just don’t write desciptive smut

Masterlist

Your breathing refuses to calm as screams pierce through the air. You can practically feel his pain just by hearing it. You shut your eyes tight, not that it does anything in the lightless room you woke up in.

“See, I really don’t know what to say. I mean, you go against your mission? Snoop where you shouldn’t? This is what you can expect, bud,” you hear a smooth, unbothered voice speak up. More exclamations of pain follow. Quite honestly, you’d rather not know what’s happening. Instead, you place your focus on escaping your restraints like you had been taught.

Soon enough, but after what seems like an eternity, the screams have subsided and the silence is blaring in your head. Footsteps approach the room you’re in. You let out a quiet, shaky breath. Pressing yourself against the wall at the side where the door will open, you hear a slight click as the door is unlocked. The second you see the shadowed figure of the creep that brought you here, you throw a punch, only for him to catch your fist and immediately grab your other wrist. His strong grip keeps you from freeing yourself, despite your struggles against him.

“Not so fast, sunshine,” he hums flirtatiously, almost making you gag, “play your cards right, and I might just let you walk out of here. Can’t say the same for your friend there though,” he chuckles darkly.

“Fuck you,” you seethe and knee him directly in the groin, causing him to double over in pain and lose his grip on you.

“Charming offer, but that’s not quite how you do it,” he musters out through the pain.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“Look, Five, you know Sierras work solo, you have no grounds to ask for a partner,” Fitz sighs as he looks at you.

“I don’t give a shit, just please try, I need to know he’s ok. And honestly, he’d kick ass at this,” you insist, starting to get desperate. You know if anyone has your back, it’s Fitz.

“The things I do for you,” he concedes with a sigh as he turns to his computer to begin his search as he types in the name.

‘Courtland Gentry’. The older brother you thought you’d never see again.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Leaning against the wall, shadows hide your face from his view. The only sounds that fill the room are the jangle of his chains and the snap as you pop the gum in your mouth.

He breaks the silence first, “If this is about Winky’s Cantina, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

You smile to yourself slightly as Fitz assures him, “It’s not about Winky’s Cantina.”

“I like honey buns as much as the next guy. I’m not gonna gouge your eye out for one. You gonna write that down?” Court nods to a notepad on the table, keeping his eyes on Fitz.

“I’m not gonna write anything down.”

Court looks over at you slightly, trying to see who you are, but getting nowhere thanks to the lighting.

“You want some gum?” Fitz offers him, regaining his attention.

Court leans in, “What kind you got?”

Fitz takes the gum out of his pocket to read the label. “‘Bubblicious Watermelon Wave’. What do you say?”

“There is no other kind,” Court says with a slight shrug, reaching his hand out as much as the cuffs allow. Fitz slides the pack across the table to him. Court starts to unwrap a piece before placing it back on the table with more force than necessary. “If you think I’m gonna rat somebody out for Bubblicious, you got another thing coming to you. Watermelon or not.”

“It is pretty good though,” you offer with a smile evident in your voice. Court looks over at you and smiles, slightly amused.

“‘Courtland Gentry’,” Fitz begins to read his file, “‘Born 1980. Incarcerated 1995. Eligible for parole in 2031,’” he closes the file as Court looks back at him. “You got quite a long way to go, son.”

“There’s an upside to sleeping so close to your toilet,” he shrugs nonchalantly, popping the piece of gum in his mouth.

“I get it. You’re glib. So were they,” Fitz nods back to you.

You walk over and sit in an extra chair next to him, feeling eyes on you. You look across the table at Court who squints slightly at you, trying to figure out what that means and who you are. In his defense, it has been years and you’ve both grown up.

“Well, I’m just gonna cut to the chase,” Fitz continues, “My name is Donald Fitzroy, and I’m here to commute your sentence.”

“You’re gonna commute my sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that?”

“When I get out of this chair and we walk out of this prison,” he looks at you briefly, “you’ll walk with us.”

“Who are you, my fairy godmother?” Court laughs, not quite believing Fitz. “No offense, I thought you’d look different.”

“I may be. We’ll see.”

“What’s the catch?”

“There’s always a catch,” you add and Court’s eyes shoot back to you, this time with a glint of realization and recognition. You smile slightly.

“You work for us. With Y/n,” Fitz informs him.

“Y/n?” Court’s voice is quiet and you nod in confirmation.

“I missed you, a lot has happened without you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles in relief at finally seeing you again, “I guess it has. So who- who’s ‘us’?” he looks between you and Fitz.

“The CIA,” you state.

“We’re gonna train you to kill bad guys,” Fitz adds, “and since you’ve already killed one, it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You notice Court’s light hearted and joking persona drops slightly, “What makes you think I wanna do it again?”

“Because I personally requested you as a partner. You fit the type anyways, Court.”

“You’d be part of an elite unit with Y/n, the Sierra program,” Fitz says, “you would exist in the gray.”

“Disposable?” Court all but scoffs at that idea, worrying you that he won’t agree.

“I’ve worked with Y/n for a few years now. I know why you pulled that trigger,” Court’s eyes go back to you protectively as Fitz speaks, “I would’ve done the same thing myself. Now, I’m here to help you become a value-add instead of value lost. So why don’t you take all the pain or whatever the hell got you here, turn it around, and make it useful?”

Court hesitates for a few moments, looking down slightly to contemplate the decision before looking over at you again, seemingly making his choice, and looking back to Fitz.

“How long do I gotta work for you?” he asks.

“Let’s just say you’d be indefinitely useful.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Bangkok, eighteen years later…

You look around from your seat with Court beside you. All you have to do is wait for the signal that your target has arrived, take him out, and mission accomplished. They didn’t like to tell you much about your missions anyways. It helps keep your morals out of it, you don’t get the luxury of making your own judgements you figured.

You look over at Court and he just gives you a slight shrug and smile, knowing you’re not a big fan of the waiting period. It makes you feel useless and vulnerable. You smile back at him and chuckle lightly. With all the bright colors and lights surrounding you, the bright red suit he adorns provides an oddly fitting source of camouflage. You opted for the blue suit, they didn’t exactly offer any more muted color choices.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as you see Dani Miranda come into your line of view with a floral suit. Very spiffy.

“Do you need anything?” she asks nonchalantly.

Court shakes his head, tossing a piece of gum in his mouth, “No, we’re good.”

“Nice suits,” Dani states.

“Back at you,” you smirk slightly, “though we just wear what they tell us to.”

“Subtle,” she smiles slightly at you. You two had always gotten along well.

“You’re no fly on the wall yourself,” Court adds as Dani places what appears to be a plastic water gun on the table. She slides it forward to him. “I don’t have a permit,” he jokes.

“It’s not that kind of party,” Dani responds before walking away.

“You look really hot!” you call after her as Court picks up the water gun. You swear you could see her laugh slightly as she disappeared into the crowd.

“Well, if you’re done flirting,” Court trails off as he tosses his napkin onto the table, having finished whatever horderve he grabbed earlier.

“You’re just jealous that I’m the hot sibling,” you tease as you both get up and start walking to where you were told to go.

“Oh, and how has that worked out exactly? You’ve dated how many people?” he prys playfulls, spinning the water gun on his finger as you walk down a dimly lit hall. You both know the answer is zero.

“Shut up,” you mumble as you halt once you reach the door. He glances down the hall briefly as he holds the water gun to a sensor. It beeps as the door unlocks and you follow him inside.

As the door shuts behind you, Court sheds his jacket and removes a sheet from a box containing the scoped rifle. You look above the room, through the mostly opaque glass to see the outlines of footsteps and shadows above you. You can hear the dull murmur of the party guests talking and the vague bass of the music above.

“Five, Six, you copy?” a voice rings through your earpieces. Court doesn’t respond and just gives you an exasperated look at their constant need to babysit the both of you. It gets old fast.

‘Five, Six, you copy?’ you mouth mockingly, rolling your eyes and earning a light chuckle from your brother.

“Five. Six,” the agent repeats, more serious.

“Five and Six, copy,” you reply, watching Court fine tune the rifle.

“Five, Six, this is Denny Carmichael, your center chief,” a new voice says, “Our target, code name ‘Dining Car’, is selling information that could severely compromise national security. We need him eliminated before that transaction is complete. Am I understood?”

“Understood,” Court replies and you nod slightly.

“‘Could severely compromise national security’,” you whisper to Court before mouthing a silent ‘woooow’. He rolls his eyes slightly, but you catch the smile before he turns away.

“I have eyes on Dining Car. Target imminent,” Denny speaks once more.

Court moves the curtains back slightly to get a glimpse outside as you remain focused on watching the feet and shadows above.

“Dining Car has security,” Denny informs you both, “Stay the plan.”

“When do they not have security?” you mutter mostly to yourself.

Court readies the scope rifle, turning on an infrared camera and walking over to your side.

“He’s coming up on you now. He’s almost to you,” Denny states.

You move forward slightly, Court following you. You point up when you spot your target and Court aims the rifle, readying to fire. You keep an eye on the floors between as Court lines up his shot, hearing chatter through your earpieces from the floors above. You pick up some of your target’s conversation to confirm it’s him.

“Target acquired,” Court mutters slightly, a toothpick between his lips muffling his voice just slightly.

“Execute,” Denny confirms.

A crash above draws your attention and you quickly grab Court’s arm once you hear a voice. He glances at you and moves his finger off the trigger. You point to your earpiece with your free hand, telling him to listen as you both hear a child’s voice speaking in thai. He looks back up but doesn’t shoot as you continue to hold onto his arm.

“Five, Six, why am I not hearing anything?” Denny asks, beginning to get impatient.

“We’re picking up collateral. There’s a kid near the mark,” you respond.

“You’re cleared for collateral,” Denny snips shortly, “Go loud.”

You grip Court’s arm slightly tighter, starting to worry about what will happen. You may have done some things other people would call you a monster for, but you liked to think you had your morals straight. That you were on the right side.

“We have a very small window to take out a very bad dude. Go loud,” Denny pushes.

You let go of Court as you hear the crowd begin to count down. He moves around the room, trying to find an angle that will avoid collateral. Especially a child. When the countdown hits one and cheers erupt, Court looks at you and puts the rifle down.

“Standby,” he says to the agents on the other end of your earpieces. You smile slightly and nod, proud that he too kept his morals in check.

“Do not stand by,” Denny objects.

“Gun jammed,” Court says nonchalantly as he smacks the infrared sensor on the rifle down and walks to put it away, clearly pissed that anyone would approve moving forward despite avoidable collateral.

You follow Court out of the room quickly, pulling the fire alarm on your way. The lights go out as the alarm blares once you reenter the main room.

“Five, was that you?” Dani asks through the earpiece, knowing your style when something goes wrong. You don’t respond. “Five? Six?”

You walk past a crowd exiting and you seamlessly pull a pin from a woman’s hair. Without even bothering to turn towards him, you jab one of Dining Car’s security personnel in the neck and continue walking as he instantly collapses. Court takes another out with a knife off a nearby plate. You smash a glass bottle over another’s head.

“You know, I learned that one from dad!” you say loud enough for Court to hear. He shakes his head, getting another with the knife.

Screams have erupted all around you. You hear gunshots somewhere behind you and quickly assume it’s Dani. Court takes on two more guys, shooting at them and taking them hand to hand when needed. You shoot a third that Dining Car uses as a human shield. He throws his human shield out the window, shattering the glass, and jumps out after him. You run after him and jump, Court following a moment after.

You smack Dining Car with a metal pipe you landed near. He reciprocates with a punch to your jaw. He attempts to bring out a gun, but you grab his hands in yours to keep the gun pointed away from you. You quickly unclip the magazine, letting it slide to the ground and away from you both. Court, having just landed and gotten to you, places a foot on the magazine so Dining Car can’t grab it back.

Your target smiles slightly, impressed by your skills and preferring to not jump to hand to hand combat. He throws the gun into the distance as Court kicks the magazine farther, glancing at you to check that you're ok. You shift your lower jaw slightly, trying to get rid of the tension from the punch. It was solid, you’d give him that. Sparks fall around you as fireworks go off.

“You know, I know who you two are,” your target says. “You’re Sierra Five,” he nods to you, “and Sierra Six,” he nods to Court. You both remain silent, slightly shocked at this, not that you’d show it. “They didn’t tell you who I am, did they?”

“They never do,” Court admits.

“I’m Sierra Four. They sent you out to kill one of your own. That’s probably not gonna make you walk away, is it?”

You glance at Court slightly as your target, Sierra Four, takes off his suit coat and tosses it aside.

“Probably not,” Court shakes his head.

Sierra Four clenches his fist before suddenly lunging forward at the two of you. He swings for Court first, but Court dodges, hitting Four in the side. Four grabs Court’s arm, elbowing him in the side and tossing him back. You jump in, throwing a punch towards his throat, but he manages to catch your hand. You use his focus on your missed punch to your advantage and knee him right in the crotch, a favorite move of yours. Court gets up, tackling him towards a firework about to go off, holding his head over it as it does. They struggle and Four begins to get the upper hand, so you jump in, tackling him to the side and freeing Court. You tussle as he backs you against some pipes, landing a few punches that you try to dodge but don’t quite manage to. Before he lands a more damaging punch, Court rams him off of you, knocking him off balance and getting the upper hand. He stabs Four with a sharp piece of debris he found, ending the fight.

You walk over to Court’s side and give him a slight nod to let him know you’ll be ok, if a little bruised. Or a lot of bruises. What else is new?

“If you’re Sierra, who recruited you?” Court asks.

“Fitzroy,” Four breathes out, “same as both of you.”

“Where’d you train?” you cut in.

“Dark site. Tel Aviv. Same as you two. I got all the answers ‘cause I’m telling the truth. They’re not.”

Court doesn’t react, instead cleaning the blood from the debris he used to stab Four. You just look down slightly. You hadn’t exactly liked Carmichael all that much. Or at all.

“Denny Carmichael is a piece of shit. That’s why I’m sitting here in my own blood. You two are probably next.”

You look at Court as he chucks the debris as far off as he can, still refusing to respond with any form of reaction to Four’s words. You look back at Four as he reaches to take off his necklace with a shaky hand.

“Take this,” his voice becomes very breathy, you can tell he doesn’t have long. “And bring the bastard down.” He holds out the necklace, hand shaking.

“I don’t want it,” Court insists.

“You trust Carmichael? Just take it. Please.”

“No, I don’t,” you grab the necklace before Court can interject, “There, I took it, happy, everyone?”

“You give ‘em hell,” Four smiles slightly before his ragged breathing stops and an eerie stillness engulfs him.

You take in a deep breath and hold it, looking over at Court, not knowing what to do next. He has the same unsure look in his eyes and glances at the necklace in your hands. You look down at it as well, noticing it seems to have two halves. You hear footsteps and close your hand into a fist around the necklace to hide it.

Dani slowly approaches with her gun at the ready, “Very discreet.”

“I thought this’d be cleaner,” Court retorts slightly.

Dani approaches Four’s body, still with her gun at the ready just in case, to check his vitals. “It wasn’t,” she states simply. She reaches up to her ear piece to inform the agents on the other end of the status of the mission, “We’re Romeo.”

“He said he was Sierra,” you speak up, clutching the necklace tighter in your fist.

“That wasn’t in the mission folder,” Dani glances at you.

“He knew who we were,” you add on.

Dani grabs her phone from her pocket, sending a picture of your target to confirm you’ve succeeded in your mission. “Maybe he had access to stolen intel,” she offers halfheartedly.

Court looks down slightly, “We’re Sierra. There is no intel.”

Dani just looks over at you two and Court promptly turns and begins to walk away. You glance at Dani briefly before following Court.

You follow Court through a crowd of pedestrians as police cars slowly part the crowd, heading towards the building. Fireworks pop in the distance and you feel your heart racing as you try to wrap your head around what just happened. Your thoughts are suddenly interrupted by Court’s phone buzzing in his pocket. He answers and you turn up the volume of your earpiece to hear what he’s hearing.

“Six,” Court answers, continuing to walk.

“Wanna explain whatever that was?” you hear Denny Carmichael’s stern tone.

“Gun jammed,” Court sticks to the excuse he used earlier. He looks over his shoulder and nods to you to let you know the coast is currently clear and you aren’t being followed.

“That doesn’t qualify as an explanation.”

“Maybe on a secure line.”

“I need a status report. Insecure line. Did the target say anything to you or Five?”

“Well, he was dead, so, you know, no.”

You look at the necklace still clutched in your hand and gently pop the top off, revealing some type of drive. You look at Court and show him what you found.

“What about pocket litter? Did you get anything off his body?” Carmichael prys further, getting no response. “Six, did he have anything on his person that you or Five now have that you’d like to give to me?”

“Who was he?” Court asks, avoiding the question as you close the necklace, slipping it into your pocket.

“A bad guy.”

“Carrying?”

“Bad shit.”

Court looks back at you, trying to decide what you can do, what your options are. You shake your head slightly, not wanting to play along in whatever game Carmichael is leading.

“Last chance, Six. Same goes for Five.” “Understood,” Court hangs up the call.

You look across the street and spot a store. Figuring you’re both forced to go on the run now, you head over to get some new clothes with the spare cash you have on you. A blue suit isn’t going to continue to keep you hidden.

“Hey,” you hear Court call to someone near him, “You a 42 regular?”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Surrounded by indistinct chatter in a mix of Thai and English as those around you focus on their video games, you sit down at a computer. You slip the drive in the port and open it as Court walks over to stand behind your chair, watching over your shoulder and keeping an eye out for the both of you.

Files pop up on your screen along with pictures of Carmichael. When you click on anything, it asks you to enter an authentication key. With only three attempts available, you decide to not press your luck. You feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

“Yeah,” you answer, leaning back in the chair. Court leans forward so he can hear enough without you putting the call on speaker.

“Wheels up in five. Carmichael’s been calling,” Dani speaks on the other end.

“We spoke. You should go without us.”

“You sure you wanna do that? Both of you? What happened with the target, Five? Tell me what I don’t know,” she pressed gently. “Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” you mutter slightly before hanging up.

Court takes the drive out of the port of the computer and you hand him the necklace. He places the drive safely back inside and puts it in the pocket of his newly acquired track suit. He places his phone on the table next to the computer and you follow suit, ditching yours as well.

“No way in Hell we get it right in three tries. We do know someone who will though,” he starts walking off with you following at his side.

“You got a plan?” you ask.

“Enough of one at least. Any idea where we can get a couple of masks?”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

You and Court pause in an alleyway, far enough from anyone else to keep a conversation private as he places a call on a burner phone you just got with your remaining cash. He places the call on speaker, only loud enough for you to both hear.

“Max’s Fireplace and Barbecue,” the familiar voice answers.

“You Max?” Court asks.

“There is no Max,” Fitz responds.

“So it's like ‘to the max’?” you ask, smiling slightly.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” you question.

“Because if something went wrong, I couldn’t blame Max.”

“How you doing, Fitz?” Court jumps back into the conversation.

“It’s good to hear from you two.”

“How’s life in retirement?” Court begins with some small talk.

“I’m headed to a funeral. Putting a friend in the ground. I’m getting to that age, you know? You two working?”

“We were,” you respond.

“Got loud?”

“It got loud. Got real weird too. You know that guy that handed you your walking papers?”

“Yeah, Carmichael.”

“Well, brace yourself, but, uh, he might be sideways,” Court states.

“Might be?” you tease, earning a slight eye roll from Court.

“I’m shocked,” Fitz responds in monotone, “What’s your gut?”

“My gut? It’s gonna be our funerals you’re going to next,” you state quite bluntly.

“Give me an hour to find a local extraction team. Get mobile. You may have to hustle.”

You look around, spotting an unmanned taxi. You walk over and Court follows, taking the phone off speaker as you hotwire the taxi effortlessly.

“Let me ask you a question,” Court says to Fitz, “Four have a scar on his right chin?”

You move to the passenger seat and look at Court once you’ve gotten the taxi started.

“They just had me stick a fork in him,” Court informs Fitz, getting into the drivers’ seat. “Some foreign op bullshit,” he continues on the phone, “You know they don’t tell us much. He gave us something they really want.”

You lean back against your seat, feeling tired.

“No. Somewhere safe.”

You nod to the phone and Court puts it back on speaker for you to hear.

“Well, I’ll do some checking. I still have friends up the food chain. Where are ya?”

“Bangkok,” you reply tiredly.

“There’s an airfield near Chiang Mai. Get to it. Watch your backs. Take care of each other.”

“Always,” you smile slightly.

“You too,” Court adds, knowing Fitz could be putting himself in danger with this. “Hey, Fitz. I know there wasn’t some palm trees 401k plan for either of us here,” he looks at you, “but, uh, I mean, at least tell me you guys had some kind of exit strategy.” “We never got that far, kid,” Fitz replies, sounding defeated. You sigh lightly and just nod your head slightly. “And now, probably not.”

“Got it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.”

“Beats being on the wrong side of the bars,” Court admits before hanging up the call.

You stifle a yawn as Court begins to drive.

“I’ll wake you if I’m too tired to drive anymore. Get some rest, we’ve got a rough road ahead,” Court states gently, keeping his eyes on the road.

“No shit,” you mutter, leaning your head back and closing your eyes.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

You’re woken up as you feel the taxi come to a stop. You squint against the bright light of the sun that’s now up. Court gets out of the taxi and you follow his lead as armed men cautiously surround you with guns at the ready. Court stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks forward to one of the men.

“You our ride?” he asks.

“Identity challenge. Heathen,” the man responds.

“Response, hermit,” Court replies without hesitation.

After a glance at the armed man that just checked out your taxi, the man holds his hand out to Court. Court reaches forward for a handshake, but the man pulls back his hand with a laugh as Court looks disappointed in himself for falling for that. You chuckle as he stuffs his hand back in his pocket.

“Need anything?” the man asks, looking at both of you.

“Just a nap,” Court shrugs as he walks towards the plane.

“A massage and cocktail would be nice, but I’m guessing we aren’t flying first class,” you smile as you earn a hearty laugh from the man before following Court onto the plane.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Court is asleep next to you with his head rested against a metal divider, slightly separating sections of the plane. Your head is rested against his arm and you have your eyes shut, not wanting to fully fall back asleep, but wanting rest. You hear a phone ring, but decide to remain still with your eyes closed.

“Yeah” the man that joked with you earlier answers the phone. You obviously can’t hear the other end of the conversation, so you put all your focus on the man’s responses.

“Mhmm,” a pause, “Come again?” you squeeze Court’s arm slightly to wake him up and you feel him stir slightly. “Roger that.”

An uncomfortable silence falls over the plane apart from the music playing over the speakers which increases in volume. You feel Court move briefly before stilling again as you faintly hear footsteps approaching you. They stop just to the side of you and you open your eyes as you feel Court’s sudden movement. He sprays both men that had approached you with a fire extinguisher before jumping up and hitting one in the gut with the extinguisher. You get up, delivering a swift kick to the same location on the other man. Court spins around, continuing to take men out with the fire extinguisher. You grab a parachute pack, swinging it to smack guys’ heads to knock them out.

Grabbing a flare, Court lights it and uses it to draw some men away from you, taking them on himself. With their lowered visibility from the flare, Court takes them out easily with a few skillful punches.

You kick the gun out of another guy’s hand, leading to you both diving for it and grabbing it at the same time. You use your grip on the gun to angle it away from yourself, but the man fires. It hits a gas tank that quickly catches fire and explodes, creating a gaping hole in the side of the plane.

As air is whipped out of the plane, an announcement can be heard overhead warning of a sudden pressure drop and advising you to put on oxygen masks. You manage to make your way to Court and he grabs your arm, pulling you towards the side of the plane where he’s holding onto a bar with his other arm, using that hand to hold on an oxygen mask. You grip onto the bar next to him, shoving an oxygen mask quickly over your nose and mouth and taking a few deep breaths.

You look over at Court, but suddenly a man tackles you from behind, causing you to lose your grip and begin falling towards the hole. You regain your stance much better than he does as he falls to the hole, gripping the remaining bar at the top of the hole. Finding a broken pipe near your feet, you swing it at his hands, forcing him to lose his grip and let go, being dragged out the hole.

Court slides down to you with your parachute pack from earlier. You both grab onto the bar as you feel yourselves begin to be lifted off the floor as the plane drops. You both grab oxygen masks and you catch your breath again. When the plane manages to pull up to a horizontal position again, Court gets into a scuffle with another man which ends with that man being whisked out of the hole and straight into one of the jets.

The hole suddenly begins to widen as more of the side of the plane is ripped away. You glance at Court and he quickly nods to you. With the slight footing you have left, you jump from the plane, managing to slip the parachute pack on as you fall and opening it just in time. You try to look up at the increasingly more destroyed plane that’s plummeting to the earth to try to spot Court, but your parachute blocks most of your view.

The moment your feet touch the sandy ground beneath you, you unstrap yourself from the parachute. You move under a large and stable rock to avoid being hit with any falling debris as you hold your breath slightly, waiting for Court.

You suddenly see a pair of feet above you and to the left as a parachute gets caught on the large rock. Court hops down from the dead man dangling off the rock like it was nothing.

“I guess you didn’t choose to drop by in style,” you tease as he walks over to where you’re sitting.

“What more style can you ask for?” he sits next to you.

“Ok, seriously though, what the fuck was that?”

“That’s what I want to find out,” he pulls out his phone, quickly hitting redial.

“Hello,” Fitz answers.

“It’s us.” “Where are you?”

“Emotionally? I think we’ve both been better,” Court replies sarcastically.

“The extraction team?”

You glance up at the dead man hanging from his parachute on the rock above you and Court. “They’ve been better too,” Court sighs.

“Are you okay? Either of you hurt?” Fitz sounds slightly concerned as he hasn’t heard from you yet.

Court looks at you, but you stay quiet and let him speak. “You know what, Fitz? I’m trying to figure out what answer it is that you want.”

“They leveraged me, kid. They have my niece. You hear me?”

“Hold on. You’re breaking up,” Court holds the phone at arms length and mutters so only you would hear, “shit.”

You run a hand down your face and huff lightly. You glance at the phone as Fitz repeats ‘hello’ trying to see if he lost your connection. You purse your lips slightly as you begin to get an idea of who would use extreme tactics to find the two of you like this.

“Okay, there you are,” Court brings the phone back in front of the two of you, “Sounds like you’re in a real pickle, Fitz.”

“Put him on,” you suddenly state firmly. Court gives you a confused look, but you hear Fitz’s phone being handed off.

“Hey, sunshine. Good to hear your voice again,” Lloyd’s familiar voice responds on the line.

“Lloyd Hansen. To what do we owe the displeasure?” you sneer, taking the phone from Court’s hand as he gets more confused.

“So feisty,” Lloyd retorts with more than a hint of flirtation in his tone, “I’m the one running this op.”

“What op?”

“The one where I get exactly what I want,” he pauses slightly and you can practically hear the smirk in his tone as he adds, “and maybe a little more, Five.”

You choose to ignore his flirting, not that it isn’t at least mildly entertaining to you, “I’m a little unclear as to what that is.”

“Okay, that’s fair. Well, Five, why don’t you come on in, and we can chat? My assistant will get lunch. You like sushi?”

“No, I’m good. I just had some Skittles,” you reply sarcastically.

“Tell you what. Why don’t we skip lunch, you can give me the asset you and Six stole, I won’t chop your heads off, and uh we can have that chat afterwards?”

“When you say things like ‘chop your heads off’, it makes you sound untrustworthy. That’s a big turn off, Lloyd. So, even if we had this thing, I’m not sure I would give it to you.”

“Oh I think you would. See, your old COS here has drawn way outside the lines, Headquarters needs a scapegoat, and his neck is just about the right size.”

��Fitz is a big boy. He knows what business he’s in.”

Lloyd just hums in response, clearly not happy that you’re making this more difficult for him. “And what about having that chat, hm? I’m told I’m a great conversationalist,” he not so subtly continues the innuendo.

“Hey, Lloyd,” Court cuts in, not wanting to hear more of the flirting.

“Yeah?”

“I immediately don’t like you.” You laugh lightly at Court’s bluntness.

“Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Lloyd responds before Court hangs up the call.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“Looks like you overplayed your hand,” Fitz chides Lloyd in the van after the call ends.

Lloyd wordlessly turns, opening the door to his left and tossing the phone out of the moving vehicle. He slams the door shut and turns back to Fitz. “Looks like you need a new phone,” he states.

“Let me give you a word of advice, Lloyd,” Fitz leans forward as Lloyd hums for him to continue, “They say that life in its most unadorned expression is a battle of wills. Five and Six? Their wills, each one their own, are preternatural compared to yours. You’re taking them on teamed up.”

Lloyd delivers a swift, sudden kick to Fitz’s face. Fitz grunts in pain, leaning back into his seat.

“Don’t say ‘preternatural’ to me. It’s an asshole word.”

“You’re a child.”

“A child that’s about to put a hit so big on your kiddos' heads that even their most loyal allies won’t hesitate to drop a dime. Every grade-A wet team from here to Reykjavik will be vying to the prestige of killing the infamous Sierra Five and Six. I’ll dig up every safe house they’ve ever stayed in. I’ll unearth every man or woman either of them have ever slept with. They won’t be able to walk ten feet without getting their heads blown off. And that, Don, is exactly what bad ethics and zero impulse control will get you. I can kill anybody.”

“Maybe not anybody.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

“Five has seen. They’re still around, so-” before Fitz can finish, Lloyd clenches his jaw and swiftly kicks him in the face again.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Court and you sit side by side on the floor of a train compartment to avoid notice. Court eats his share of the food you two scrounged up before getting on the train as you just stare blankly at the door. He glances at you.

“So you know that Lloyd Hansen guy?” he asks.

“Yeah, he’s not someone you want to be up against.”

Court stays silent, waiting for you to explain further.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

It was your early days in the field with the Sierra program. You were new and Sierra Four had recently gone MIA. Headquarters needed some foreign intelligence. Sierra Three was sent to retrieve it as you were told you weren’t ready for such a high profile mission.

You ignored them and followed after Three unnoticed. He was the only other Sierra agent you had contact with as he had helped you in training.

“You’re an idiot to want to sneak onto a mission like this, you know they’d lose their shit if they found out you followed me,” he had said when you followed him to his hotel.

“Then you’d better not let them know I’m here,” you shrugged, earning a slight smile from Three.

“Fine,” he finally conceded after plenty of convincing. You had always thought you’d work best with a partner anyways. Knowing someone would have your back and you doing the same for them.

Neither of you could have known the mission was a set up. Three had stepped out of line one too many times in the eyes of the CIA, and he needed to be disposed of. Before you could even begin what Three had been told the mission was, you were both knocked out by mercenaries Lloyd had hired.

You woke up in a lightless room alone, ankles and wrists bound securely.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Lloyd chimed as he walked in the room, “I have to admit, I wasn’t told Three here had a sidekick. Though I can see why he’d keep you around, you are pretty tough, they said you put up a good fight before they knocked you out. Not to mention attractive,” he smirked at the last part, slowly scanning you up and down.

You did your best not to react, though you felt your face involuntarily heat up. You watched Lloyd as he stopped in front of you. You began to look away, but he quickly grabbed your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look up at him. Not a bad sight, you’d have to admit to yourself.

“So what’s your deal?” he raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not his sidekick, that’s the deal.”

“Then you’d better start talking, Sunshine, because your clock is ticking.”

You huffed lightly, trying to pull against your restraints, but realizing you wouldn’t get anywhere with him in the room. “I wasn’t supposed to be on the mission. No one else knows I came. They call me Sierra Five.”

“Well, Five, how sure are you that no one knows you’re here?” he pried, letting go of your jaw and starting to pace as you swore you saw him soften just slightly.

“Absolutely certain,” you watch him, feeling an odd sense of disappointment at the sudden lack of contact.

He shook his head slightly and let out a sigh before looking back at you. You could practically hear your heart racing as you both held eye contact. You were broken out of your trace when he cursed under his breath and abruptly left the room, locking the door behind him.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“He killed Three?” Court asks. You just nod, still feeling like you can hear his screams echoing in the space around you. “But why leave you? If he wanted to kill you, he had the perfect opportunity. I mean, if he’s this ruthless mercenary for hire, why would it make a difference to him?”

“No clue,” you yawn, leaning into Court’s side.

“I guess he just likes you.” “I wasn’t his target, though I guess if he really wanted to keep me from escaping, he would have. But he didn’t.”

“Exactly.”

You just shrug it off slightly as you drift off to sleep, not wanting to admit you might have feelings for the man paid to kill you.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Two years earlier

Court and you sat side by side in a CIA station in London. Across from you was Fitz and Margaret, a woman from the CIA that worked closely with Fitz.

“Fitz, tell them why they’re here,” the woman instructed, gesturing to the both of you with a cigarette between two fingers.

With a slight sigh, he began, “Okay. I have a niece that I’m raising. I know what line of work I’m in. I want the kid to have a normal life, and Margaret’s helped me give her one,” he nodded to the woman across from you.

“Any number of nefarious assholes would like to see him and his family dead.”

“Is there a point to this story?” Court glanced between Margaret and Fitz.

“Someone in the DC office has accidentally leaked Fitz’s address in Hong Kong.”“‘Accidentally’?” you repeated skeptically.

“Bunch of idiots,” Fitz shook his head.

“Indeed,” Margaret agreed, “We’ve asked for agency security, but for some curious reason, Denny Carmichael won’t supply it.”

You rolled your eyes at the name. The whole situation didn’t sit right for obvious reasons.

“Fitz is starting a mission in Brazil tomorrow,” Margaret continued, “which means you two are going to babysit.”

“Your niece?” you looked at Fitz.

He nodded and began to explain, “My brother and his wife died about three years ago, and to top it off, Claire was born with a heart condition. Last month we put in a pacemaker, and since then, she’s been in and out of Mount St. Mary’s.”

“Poor thing got dealt a brutal hand,” Margaret added.

Court looked between Fitz and Margaret, still a bit confused, “You guys taught us how to kill people, not care for them.”

“You don’t have to care. Just keep her alive.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Claire’s nanny showed you and Court through Fitz’s house in Hong Kong and brought you both to Claire’s room.

“Claire, dear,” she spoke, “this is Five and Six. They’ll be looking after the house while Donald is away.”

Court hardly paid attention to the introduction, scanning around to have an idea of the layout of the house and possible weak spots. You did the same, noticing that Claire wasn’t looking anyways.

“Just the two exits?” you looked at the nanny.

“Yes. That’s right.”

You walked over to look out the window next to Claire’s bed as she was looking through her Polaroid camera. “Five and Six are odd names,” she spoke up without looking directly at either of you.

“Yeah,” Court sighed with a nod, “yeah. Just, uh, 007 was taken, so.”

You chuckled and Claire looked over at Court, “Are you chewing gum?”

Court looked slightly taken aback and just looked at her for a moment before replying, “Yep.”

“We don’t chew gum in this house.”

Court didn’t really know how to respond and looked at you for help, so you stepped in and smiled slightly at Claire, “He wasn’t briefed. I’ll keep him in line.”

“I’m older than you,” Court tried to argue, but went quiet at the shutter of Claire’s camera as she took a picture of the two of you.

Claire smiled as the picture printed from the camera.

“Um, ok,” Court trailed off, not sure what to do or say, “Well, we will try to stay out of your way.”

“Do you mind?” you looked at Claire and gestured to the Polaroid picture, asking to take it, “May I?”

She shrugged slightly, “Sure.”

You took the picture, placing it in the back pocket of your pants, “Thanks. Nice to meet you.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“You have a nice house,” you said, sitting on a poolside chair near Claire to keep an eye on her while Court patrolled around the house.

“Thanks,” she shrugged slightly and looked over at you, away from her phone.

You nodded as the awkward silence fell over you, neither of you sure how to continue the conversation.

“There’s not a lot of stability in the line of work Six and I are in. Never in one place too long, definitely never settling anywhere,” you said, looking over at the pool water dancing gently in the wind.

“Do you get to visit your family? Or friends? Between your missions?” she sat up more, interested in hearing more about your job.

“Don’t have any. Just Six at this point,” you trailed off slightly.

“I don’t really have other friends either,” she admitted, “too risky to be going out on my own. For multiple reasons.”

You nodded understandingly as you heard footsteps approaching. You didn’t bother looking away from the water, knowing Court’s gait. Claire went back to her game on her phone.

Court rounded the corner, stopping when he saw you and Claire. She looked up from her phone and you glanced over, earning an awkward, quick wave from Court.

“Excuse me,” he turned and started to walk off, not wanting to invade your space.

“Looking for your jacket?” Claire called after him. He turned back to the both of you and she continued, “Looks like I sat on it,” she raised her leg to show it under her and chuckled lightly.

You smiled slightly as Court walked over, “Is that a secure phone?” he asked and pointed to the phone in her hands.

“Just got the high score,” she showed him the screen briefly, “I had a lot of time to practice after the operation. They made me stay in bed.”

Court didn’t give much of a response, years of training to kill after being in prison most of your early life really didn’t help your social skills.

“‘How long they make you stay in bed for?’” she asked aloud for him, “Quite a long time. Several weeks, actually. ‘Oh, hope you’re okay.’ Better now, Six. Thanks for asking. How’s your time been here? Enjoying the grounds? ‘Oh, they’re lovely. I like to walk in circles and stare at my shoes.’”

“Can I get that jacket?”

Claire sighed at her inability to break through with him and handed over the jacket. “You know, Five is more fun to talk to.”

“I know,” he took the jacket from her.

“Like your tattoo,” she complimented, noticing it as he reached for the jacket because his sleeves were slightly rolled up. “Where’d you get it? Prison?”

“Yeah, actually,” he sighed as he slipped the jacket back on.

“I’m shocked,” she mused sarcastically. He shrugged slightly, beginning to walk away. “What’s it mean, the writing?”

“Oh it’s, you know” he turned back around, “it’s a guy’s name in Greek.”

“What guy?”

“Just a guy. You know, trying to get a rock up a hill.”

“Why?”

“They made him.”

“Who made him?”

“The gods.”

“Did they need a rock?”

“They were just trying to punish him, I think.”

“Did he deserve it?”

“Probably.”

“Did he like it?”

“Probably not.”

“So why’d he do it?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Court smiled slightly at her.

“You’re quite the conversationalist,” she replied with her signature sarcasm.

“I’m gonna get back to work,” Court turned to leave once more, but again was stopped by a ‘hey’ from Claire and turned back to her.

“Does he ever get to the top of the hill?”

Court let out a humorless chuckle, “I’ll let you know.”

Before Court could walk off again, you grabbed his arm, “He will make it because he isn’t in it alone.”

Court smiled slightly, “You know, I think you’re right.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

You shined the hazy beam of your flashlight down the hall that was in front of you as you walked. You peaked into each room on either side of you to scan for any threats. You got to the front door to see the nanny getting in her car to go out. From your location, the house was almost silent apart from the air conditioning running.

“Five!” a sudden shout from Court broke the silence as you heard his running footsteps, sounding heavier than usual. As you turned to see what was wrong, you saw him turn the corner and run towards you and the front door with a barely breathing Claire in arm. Without hesitation, you ran out the front door ahead of them, quickly getting in the driver’s seat of the nearest car.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“She’s stabilized. Tell Donald there was a programming glitch. We were able to repair it, non-invasive,” the doctor informed Claire’s nanny, “The remote system flagged it ten minutes before they pulled up. We can keep track of her pacemaker from just about anywhere.”

“Thank you, I’ll let him know,” the nanny left the room quickly to call Fitz.

Court stood against the door frame as you sat in a chair nearby. Both of you kept an eye on Claire as the machines around her produced a steady beeping. She looked over, exhausted, and gave a sign of the horns gesture and a nod to reassure you both that she’d be okay.

You smiled slightly while Court gave her a nod back.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Back at the house, Court monitored the security cameras around the property on a secure laptop. Claire sat with the both of you at a dining table, eating a bowl of ice cream.

“You feeling better?” Court asked without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

Claire gave a small shrug. “Just another Thursday,” she said with a sigh, “Donald says this is the best medicine, ice cream. Tend to agree.”

“He’s a very smart man,” you nod in agreement.

“Only family I got.”

“Closest thing to family we’ve got too, apart from each other.”

“Maybe that kind of makes us family.”

You and Claire both noticed the slight smile spread across Court’s face, but you could tell something was wrong when his eyes snapped back to the camera footage and the smile fell.

“I think it kind of does,” you mused, “but I think you should get to bed.”

Claire’s nanny walked over, “All right, little one. You heard the number. Let’s go.”

“Night, robot,” Claire teased Court as she waved a goodnight to you as well. You waved back, getting up as they left.

“Goodnight, Claire,” he replied in a slightly robotic voice to amuse her.

You walked behind Court’s chair to see all the cameras were offline suddenly. Claire put one of her records on and ‘Silver Bird’ by Mark Lindsay started to play. You looked out the window to your left as you heard the hinge to a gate squeak and a dog begin to bark.

Court and you split up to catch the intruder without raising any alarm. You heard the song throughout the house and indistinct chatter from Claire and her nanny.

After walking a quick circle of some empty areas and finding nothing, you spotted the beam of Court’s flashlight as you heard a gun click. You lost the light of Court’s flashlight, and clicking yours off as well, you jogged down a hallway to come around from the other side of the intruder.

You rounded the corner quickly as Court was already in a tussle with the intruder, gun laying on the floor a few feet away. You jumped on the intruder’s back from behind, throwing him off balance, and causing him to stumble into a wall. You quickly let go, landing steadily on your feet and trapping him between you and the wall. With a hefty punch to the right location of his head, he dropped to the floor, unconscious.

Claire peeked out of her room and looked at the both of you, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, broke a bowl,” Court held up a shard of a broken glass bowl. You stepped to the side slightly to try to block the intruder’s feet from her view.

“You sure you’re alright?” she glanced at the feet behind you and looked at both of you.

“Yeah,” you sighed with a shrug, “just another Thursday.”

Claire glanced back down at the intruder’s feet, clearly startled at what she could guess had just happened.

“You should go to bed,” Court suggested gently but firmly, “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Present Day

After leaving the train station and finding your bag with various supplies, you and Court were headed to a dry cleaners listed in a notebook in the bag.

Court knocks on the door and you both stand to the side when you get to the address. Court counts through some of the cash in his hands. You hear movement inside the door and the man inside speaks in German.

“We got dry cleaning,” Court states without looking at the door. You hear the man reply with ‘nein’ and he begins to say something else, but Court cuts him off, “We want the works. Starched, cleaned, pressed, and we want it same-day service. Can you do it or what?”

The man finally responds in English, “That’s a very expensive laundry list.”

Court slams a wad of cash through the open peep hole in the door. He holds up another wad of cash in front of it.

“You seem like a man who wants his shirts done right.”

After all the locks are unlatched from inside, the man opens the door for the two of you and moves his sweater aside to show a gun in his waistband as a warning.

You roll your eyes impatiently, “We’re in a hurry.”

With that, the man leads you down a flight of stairs slowly, grasping the railing for support.

“We’re also gonna have to get into a secure system,” Court adds as you look around as you slowly descend the stairs.

“Sure,” the man chuckles, “You really are the, uh, full buffet, aren’t you?”

The man stops at the bottom of the stairs and looks at you two. Court shrugs and shakes his head slightly, not knowing how to respond to that.

“I do passports over there,” the man points to the far side of the room, “And, uh, well, let’s do your- let’s do this thing first. You can sit. You can sit here.”

You walk past where the man gestured. “Where are you going? It’s… What’s… What’s the secure system?” you glance around a corner to look for something, anything to confirm why a knot is growing in the pit of your stomach, but find nothing. Court looks at you and you shake your head and keep looking around.

“Cormeum Electronics,” Court states as the man repeats it to himself and begins typing.

“It’s medical supplies,” the man states before pointing over at you, “Don’t- Don’t touch that door.”

“Yeah, we’re looking for a pacemaker,” Court informs him.

“I can get you a serial number.”

“That’s all we need.”

“Name?”

“Fitzroy. Claire Fitzroy.”

“This will be a minute.”

“I’m getting that.”

“I think you should go get yourselves cleaned up before we take your pictures,” the man gestures to a small area with a sink and curtains surrounding it, “Unless bloody and beaten is the look you’re going for.”

Court looks unamused at the man’s attempt at a joke. You grab the bag of supplies and walk over, closing the curtain behind you and seeing Court’s shadow just outside to stand guard just in case. You don’t tend to feel so uneasy at nothing, so you’d have to prepare for the worst.

You slip your shirt off and wash off the dried blood from yourself with a wet towel, ignoring various old scars and a burn for your father’s cigarette lighter and quickly changing into a set of fresh clothes from the bag. You sigh lightly and look at yourself in the mirror as an anxious lump forms in your throat. You do your best to shake the feeling and open the curtain, letting Court head in and you hear it close behind him.

You walk over to where the man is setting up his camera and look around for threats.

“A little to your left, please,” he looks through the view in his camera as you hear water running behind the curtain. You oblige and feel your heart racing, blood pounding in your ears.

“Wait-”

Before you can get another word out, you feel the floor drop beneath you and you roll to your side as you hit a cement floor of some kind of pit to avoid injury. You look up just in time to see the man quickly moving a rug over the glass trap doors you fell through. In a dazed state, you suck a big gulp of air back into your lungs and lazily glance around, seeing no route of escape. You hear muffled talking above you and you curse under your breath. Any attempts you make to call out to Court go unheard.

Resigning to your inability to escape, you just press yourself against the wall and sit, hoping to avoid being squashed by a falling Court. A moment later, the doors open and Court lands on the ground next to you with a thud. He coughs, sucking air back into his lungs as you had.

He stays on his back and looks up at you sitting next to him with your head rested against the wall.

“All right. Trapdoor. Unexpected,” Court clears his throat.

Above you, the man shows you both a wanted poster of the two of you through the once again closed glass trap doors. “Someone is very upset with you two."

Court groans in pain slightly as he starts to get up, “Well, now I’m upset with them.”

“A ten and seven zeros’ worth for the both of you.”

Court grabs his gun and shoots at the man, ducking when the bullets ricochet, but luckily don’t hit either of you.

The man shakes his head, tutting at Court. He grabs his camera and looks down at you both, “Hey. Smile,” he taunts as he takes a picture.

Once the man walks away, Court offers you a hand and helps pull you up.

“You okay?”

“Probably got a concussion from that landing, but otherwise, yeah. I should’ve trusted my gut, I knew something was off with that guy.”

“It was the mustache, right?” Court jokes lightly, causing you to chuckle. “What’s the plan now?”

You sit and dig through your supplies bag that Court had on when he fell and you quickly get an idea, “Boom.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“What do you know about the Sierra program?” Denny Carmichael asks Dani back at CIA headquarters.

“Reckless mysteries you guys send in when you can’t officially send anyone else,” she replies.

“The grey men. Your predecessor’s idea. He founded a program to recruit hardened criminals, commuting their sentences in exchange for a lifelong commitment to the agency. Assets were chosen for their skill set, lack of family, and plausible deniability. Identities permanently destroyed. Nameless assassins with limited morality. I mean, what could possibly go wrong, right? Every single Sierra flamed out. All dead or back in prison. Five and Six are the last of the dirty half dozen, and they are 100% conforming to pattern. They hurt people because that’s who they are. Both of them. Your predecessor thought it would be a good idea to take both of them on, let them work together, two heads are better than one deal. They’re siblings, they’ll stick together no matter what it costs anyone else. That’s who you’re protecting.”

“Remove yourself from my personal space. Please,” Dani fixes him in a passive aggressive stare.

Turning back on the voice recorder he had previously paused, Denny takes a seat facing Dani, “Officer, I have reason to believe you’re not being truthful in this debrief. And as such, I must recommend you be suspended from field duty.”

“I want to talk to my COS.”

“I already did, she’s lost confidence in you,” he clicks off the recorder, “Am I jarring your memory yet?”

A buzzing sounds from Carmichael’s pocket. He pulls out his phone, finding a text from an unknown number with the picture of Court and you trapped below the trap door, noting your location, all reflecting in his glasses in the darkened room.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Treading water, you place your makeshift bomb near the trapdoor. Court had managed to burst a water pipe while you assembled the explosive from miscellaneous things you had in the supplies bag. The pit had filled with water and was nearly at the top. You nod to Court and both dive to the bottom of the pit, you with a string in hand that will trigger the bomb. You spot lights being shone through the trap doors. Fucking hell Lloyd’s men got here fast. You tug the string, triggering an explosion that sends the men and the trap doors flying off. Water sloshes across the floor as you and Court hoist yourselves out of the pit. You offer him your hand and help pull him up after getting up quicker. Smoke swirls through the air, limiting your vision as you run forward. Court and you each take on a few armed men, you using their weapons against them and Court using a broken pair of scissors from your supply bag.

A leg reaches out and trips you suddenly leading to a harsher landing than you were prepared for. You feel your head throbbing with a dull pain as your sense of hearing is overtaken by ringing in your ears. With a sigh, you just relax and let your head lay against the floor, shutting your eyes tightly as the room spins around you. Definitely a concussion.

You hear Court getting into a scuffle next to you and hear some kind of spray, likely pepper spray, you’d guess, and the scuffle comes to a halt.

“Come on, man,” Court groans in annoyance.

“Hey, sunshine,” Lloyd’s far too peppy voice chimes.

“Fuck,” you huff, trying to get up, but quickly failing as the spinning room knocks you back down.

“You must be Lloyd.”

“What gave it away?”

“The white pants, the trash ‘stache. It just… it leans Lloyd,” he sighs.

You smile slightly and Lloyd chuckles before getting serious again almost immediately.

“Where’s the drive?”

“I got it here somewhere. It’s just hard to see,” you hear some movement and know Court is about to pull some trick and you’d best run for it. You slowly get up, taking a wide stance to keep your balance, but swaying slightly nonetheless. Your eyes dart between Lloyd and Court as you see Court fiddle with a grenade. No, two grenades. No, two Courts? Or just seeing double from a concussion steadily setting it. “Is that it?” Court holds the ring of the grenade up to Lloyd as he drops the grenade beside them.

Lloyd looks down quickly, “Ballsy.”

They quickly split, Court running one way and Lloyd running the other way and directly at you. Before you can process the situation, Lloyd’s arm collides with your waist and wraps around you as he tackles you out a window, the grenade exploding behind you.

“Alright, we gonna do this the easy way or the hard way?” Lloyd quickly gets up as you sit up, still on the ground.

“Fuck you,” you mutter and glare at him.

“Is that a promise?” he teases flirtatiously as he grabs your arm and pulls you up. He keeps a strong hold on your arm, making you walk with him as he practically holds you up himself. He leaves you next to a car with a group of men who quickly get you in the car, standing guard so you can’t run off.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

An armed guard forcefully holds your arm as you’re led into some fancy ass mansion in who cares. Lloyd stays at your other side, walking with an odd limp. You don’t know what happened to him and hardly remember any of the car ride as you kept losing consciousness. Fitz is led in and upstairs by two other guards.

“Is that Donald Fitzroy?” Suzanne whispers aggressively, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Suzanne!” Lloyd speaks with a passive aggressive enthusiasm, “Long time. If I’m honest, I liked your old haircut. The one where you didn’t look like a bitch.”

“We did not give you permission to kidnap former CIA personnel and their family members. You’ve been hired by the agency to recover-”

“To do your job,” he cuts her off, “because you couldn’t. Could someone get me a Vicodin, please?” he calls out over his shoulder before looking back at Suzanne, “Besides. It’s working, isn’t it?” he gestures to you, “Get them a Vicodin too, actually.”

“But where is Six?” Suzanne demands.

“Where I want him,” he retorts, pouring a cup of coffee.

“In the wind?”

“On the run, scared shitless.”

“Evading you,” you mumble.

“This is ten years of my work on the line here, Lloyd-”

He cuts her off by forcefully sweeping nearly everything off the coffee table in front of him. You cringe at the loud noise.

“I am your only prayer of getting that drive back,” Lloyd snaps, “because I can do everything the agency can’t. You know all those rules you guys are always trying to work your way around? They don't mean dick to me. So unless you want our names spilled across every news alert on every phone in every pocket on earth, shut up and go sit in the corner.”

Suzanne just clenches her jaw unhappily and doesn’t respond.

“Oh,” Lloyd grabs a bottle of pills and rattles it calmly, “How about that? Forget about the Vicodin.”

Lloyd grabs his coffee and holds the bottle of pills out to you to grab. You just stare at it in confusion and he sighs, placing it in your hand until you grab it.

“I’ll take them from here, thanks,” the guard lets go of you and Lloyd takes your arm instead, walking you out of the room.

“Why are you walking like that?”

“‘Cause I got shot in the ass, Suzanne!” he yells, causing you to shrink at the loud noise, he glances at you slightly as you walk, “Sorry.”

Lloyd brings you upstairs to a large room. The curtains are wide open, letting in all the light possible. He leads you to a chair and sits you down, turning back to close the door behind you both. You raise an arm and cover your eyes to block out the bright light.

“Concussion?” Lloyd guesses as he walks over to the windows, drawing the curtains closed to block out most of the light.

“Because you’re so concerned,” you drop your arm as the room darkens, wishing he saw your eye roll.

“So what if I am? Do I have to be a heartless monster all the time?”

You look around the room half heartedly and look at the messy bed. “Can’t even make a bed for your hostages?”

“This isn’t a hostage room,” he hums, walking back over to you and gently pulling you up from the seat and taking the pill bottle from your hands.

“What then? Death row?”

“My room,” he sits you down on the bed, giving you some of the pills and a glass of water as he takes a few pills himself, chasing them with coffee.

You just watch him silently for a moment before taking the pills yourself, desperate for relief from your throbbing migraine.

“Need anything? Food? Change of clothes?” Lloyd offers, sitting next to you on the bed.

“Why?”

He sighs, looking over to the door that has remained closed. “‘Cause maybe I do care, just sometimes, would that be so bad?”

“What other times do you care?” you look at him in a mix of skeptical and dazed.

He hums in thought and looks back at you with a playful smirk, “When we met and I let you ‘escape’, other than that, can’t say any come to mind.”

You feel heat rising to take over your face as you realize how close you both are. In his bedroom, alone. You let your eyes trail down his facial features from his eyes, ending at his lips.

He chuckles lightly, “Something you wanna say, Five?”

You hum and nod slightly, looking back up to his eyes, “It really is a trash ‘stache, Lloyd.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head in disbelief, but you catch a smile spread across those lips you had a stare down with moments ago.

“Such a smooth talker,” he compliments sarcastically as you try to hide a smile, “So, Five-”

“Y/n.”

“Hm?”

“Y/n Gentry is my name. Well, it was. To anyone besides my brother, I’m just Five. Really gotta strip you of everything in my program, even your name.”

“Y/n,” he smirks slightly as the name rolls off his tongue, “want to tell me how someone like you ended up in a shitty ass program like the Sierra program?”

“Lack of hope, it was that or spend a hell of a lot more time in prison.”

“What wound you up there?”

“It’s a long story,” you lay back on the bed and Lloyd watches.

“We got all the time you want, sunshine.”

“My father was an abusive piece of shit, one day was exceptionally bad, and Court knew it was my life or our father’s so he uh, he killed the piece of shit to save me and went to prison for it. No one seemed to care if it was self defense, they thought it was still just a murder. Our mother passed soon afterwards and I was on my own. Floating around the foster care system doesn’t really do you wonders, I can tell you that. It does, however, introduce you to plenty of assholes when you live in the shit end of town. Traffickers, abusers, kidnappers, all those fun sorts. I eventually just figured I didn’t have much of a life to live at that point, so I wanted to do something I could be proud of myself for. I started going after them. I took out a good handful of them too, before they got me.”

“So you really have been righteous your whole life?” Lloyd smiles slightly and lays back next to you, both of you just looking at the ceiling. Your eyes travel over the ornate crystalline light fixture that remains off.

“I guess so, why haven’t you?”

“Because I have no moral compass.”

“Don’t give me that shit, you would’ve killed me a long time ago if that were true, Lloyd.”

“Yeah,” he sighs and glances over you without your notice, “I guess because it’s not what I get paid to do. And I do what I have to to finish my jobs.”

You kick your feet slightly as they hang off the side of the bed still, “Then you’re working for the wrong people. You’re a skilled man, maybe one day, if we’re lucky, you’ll be a good one.”

He smiles slightly, not taking his eyes off you as they graze along the profile of your face as you focus on the ceiling, “Maybe. Get some rest, best thing you can do for that concussion.”

You hum lightly and feel the mattress decompress as he gets up and limps slightly out of the room. You shift your position, pulling your legs onto the bed and resting your head in the pillows that surround you with the scent of whiskey, gunpowder, and musk.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

The embellished chair squeals against the floor as Lloyd drags it from the table, nodding for you to sit. You reluctantly oblige, knowing you have no chance at running now.

“Where are we? What do we got?” he asks as he places his hands on the back of your chair, leaning forward to see the various screens in the front of the room.

“Wet teams en route,” someone replies from in front of you.

“Everybody be advised, he has help,” Lloyd glances down at you slightly, “Well, more help.”

“We sure?” Suzanne questions, looking back at the two of you, but you remain silent, refusing to give anything away.

“Well, I didn’t tranq myself in the ass and neither did they, so yes.”

“Got something,” someone else on tech speaks up, “CCTV in Bangkok. Night of the op.”

He walks over, holding the laptop in front of you and Lloyd. Footage of you and Court in masks rolls as you deposit an envelope with the necklace and drive you found in a mailbox.

“They ditched the asset,” Suzanne realizes aloud to which you just sarcastically hum in mock intrigue.

“Where’s the package now?” Lloyd asks the tech, knowing he’ll get nothing out of you anyways.

“Well, it’s already in the system. Resolution’s too shitty to read the address. Clerk said it was to a PO box in Prague? He doesn’t keep any records, so that’s the best we got.”

“That’ll do, pig. That’ll do,” Lloyd smiles.

Suzanne looks at him, “You have Five right here, isn’t your thing to get information out of people with your ‘methods’?”

Lloyd shoots her a glare that you don’t notice while you roll your eyes, just looking straight ahead. “They won’t talk, not worth the time,” he states bluntly, “Better try elsewhere.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“Goldilocks, would you be a lamb and excuse us?” Lloyd walks over to Claire as you walk into the room.

“Go to hell.”

He grabs her shirt with two hands, pulling her up and tossing her aside.

“Hey! Woah! Stop!” she protests.

“Don’t touch her!” you yell, protectively wrapping your arms around her and bringing her close to steady her.

“She has a pacemaker, jackass!” Fitz argues at the same time, trying to lunge at Lloyd, but being held back by his men.

Two more men begin to approach you and Claire, ready to drag her out of the room, but you move her behind you, glaring at them and ready to fight them off despite your concussed state.

“Well then, she definitely shouldn’t stick around for this next part. If you keep her out of the way, they won’t have to touch her,” Lloyd addresses you.

With an indignant huff, you take Claire’s hand and lead her out of the room without a glance in Lloyd’s direction. The door shuts behind you and you bring Claire to a room down the hall, knowing neither of you wants to hear what’s about to happen.

Claire takes a few deep breaths to calm down as you sit side by side on a clearly overpriced couch. You just look down at your feet on the floor.

“What’s he going to do?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think we want to.”

“Is he going to kill him?” her voice is barely above a whisper out of pure fear.

“No, Lloyd wouldn’t kill him, not now. He wouldn’t get anything out of that and would be losing a potential source of information.” Claire nods slightly and leans into your side for comfort. You hesitate slightly, but wrap your arm around her shoulders and rub her arm gently. “It’ll be okay.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“Do not underestimate this target,” Lloyd announces to the wet teams that are after Court as you watch the various computer screens from your chair, “Hit this meatball like a freight train. And turn on cams. I want this pay-per-view.”

You don’t know what went down in the room between Fitz and Lloyd, but you figure Lloyd must’ve threatened Claire and/or you to get Fitz to talk. You know Court is in Prague with Margaret to find out what she found on the drive, though you’re unsure who his ‘help’ is that Lloyd mentioned. Regardless, Court and Margaret are smart. They’ll get out of the corner they’ve been unknowingly trapped in.

You look at each of the cameras displayed on the televisions in the room, watching as the wet teams begin to swarm the area. Lloyd paces behind you, watching the screens as well. You hardly flinch as bullets rain down on the building, mostly annoyed by the loud volume of it that fills the room. Smoke begins billowing out windows after an explosion. The cameras don’t show much as the smoke filled building is swarmed.

“In here,” you hear Margaret’s voice call out in the video feed.

“Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“Do not play with me.”

“What the hell is she doing?” Lloyd leans forward, bracing his arms on the table in front of him. You can’t help but watch the muscles in his arms tense as he does so.

“Outplaying you,” you point out.

“Oh, doll, whatever they are paying you,” Margaret calmly holds a cigarette in her hand with a lighter in the other, “it is not enough.”

You bite the edge of your lip until you taste iron, knowing what’s about to happen.

“Oh shi-” the cams on screen go offline, leaving only maps.

“Jesus,” Suzanne mutters with a shake of her head.

You can see Lloyd’s back tense through his tight fit shirt, though his voice remains steady and unbothered, “Well, that was unexpected.”

“Did we just kill Margaret Cahill?”

“Makes you question if you’re on the right side, huh, Suzanne?” you look over at her, “Because he’s doing exactly what your boss is paying him to do.”

She looks over at you, uncertainty strewn across her features, before turning back to the televisions to mask it.

“We have Alpha and Bravo teams circling,” the tech from earlier announces, “Delta’s en route. Cameras aren’t live yet.”

“Send everyone,” Lloyd instructs as he walks back to your chair, “Get ‘em in there, every team. Light it up.”

“Cops have him near the square at the opera. They’ve called in a SWAT team,” someone informs Lloyd as he stands behind you, observing all the screens ahead of him.

“Alpha team arriving now,” the tech verbalized.

“This clown’s a sitting duck,” he shrugs, pouring two glasses of whiskey and placing one on the table next to you. You ignore it. “You have my permission to shoot anyone standing in his way.”

“Confirmation on target,” a mercenary speaks through his earpiece.

“Make him dead,” Lloyd confirms, bringing the whiskey glass to his lips.

You just stare ahead at the maps and various screens, refusing to show any sort of reaction. You see chaos erupt in the city square where Court is handcuffed to a concrete bench. Bullets fire from every direction, forcing the pedestrians to make a frantic attempt at escape.

“We’re going to prison for this,” Suzanne mutters.

“Keep any more cops out of that square.”

“We’re killing cops now? Margaret Cahill wasn’t enough?”

“SWAT team approaching from the bridge. Multiple vehicles. Six is in the southwest corner.”

“Get Bravo team in there. We need more guns.”

You clench your jaw and quickly down your glass of whiskey, ready for the worst.

“Bravo engaging now.” The screen displays the rosters of Alpha and Bravo, some individuals crossed off, likely dead by now. “Bravo, SWAT on your flank. Watch the fire from that heavy gun.”

“Would someone mind shooting the man handcuffed to the bench?” Lloyd raises his voice in annoyance at the apparent simplicity of the task that is still incomplete.

“We can’t get to him. There’s too many cops.”

“My God, how hard is it to shoot somebody?” Lloyd sighs.

“Not hard at all when you work with the right people,” you raise an eyebrow and shoot him a condescending look. He chuckles darkly, shaking his head.

“Take out that assault vehicle,” he turns his attention back to his job at hand.

“This is insane,” Suzanne moans, looking almost as if she’s about to be sick, “Lloyd, please, pull everyone out now.”

He doesn’t respond, deep in his own thoughts.

“Lloyd!” she raises her voice.

“Extra ten million to the first guy to put a bullet in this Ken Doll’s brain,” he doesn’t even spare her a glance as she lets out a panicked gasp.

The camera footage from a vehicle suddenly goes offline. “What happened?” Lloyd demands.

“The relay antenna must have snapped off,” the tech replies as Lloyd walks over and threateningly leans over him with a hand on the back of his chair.

“Well, get it back on before I beat you to death with that keyboard,” he lowers his voice menacingly but in that undeniably hot way. After letting the threat hang in the air for a moment, Lloyd straightens back up, looking at the screens, “Anybody got eyes on him?”

“Negative, negative. We lost him.”

Lloyd sighs, but before he makes any remark, you hear shots, “He’s on the tram!”

More individuals on both Alpha and Bravo have become crossed off in all the commotion.

“Delta team’s in pursuit.”

Lloyd turns, walking back over to you and placing an arm on the table beside you, entrapping you between him and your chair. “You two are impossible, you know that? The infamous Sierras Five and Six,” he states, almost amused.

“We’re good at what we do, Sunshine,” you smirk, looking up at him with unwavering indignance.

He hums, letting his line of sight trail slowly down from your eyes to your lips, “We could make a very good team one day.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a cold day in Hell before that ever happens,” Suzanne shoots down the suggestion immediately.

Lloyd rolls his eyes at her, walking behind your chair and bracing his hands on the back, “All teams, report status.” The screens iterate a beeping as the icons of individuals on the teams flash with X’s through them. He gets no response. “All teams, report status.” Still nothing.

“This is quite possibly the most spectacular failure in the history of covert ops,” Suzanne turns to Lloyd and raises her voice, “This will be taught in schools as the primary example of exactly what not to do in asset retrieval.”

Radio static hisses from a computer before a voice breaks through, “This is Lone Wolf. Over.”

Lloyd looks up with a slight smirk, “Hello, my sexy Tamil friend. Sit rep?”

“Tracking the target.”

“No change, Lone Wolf. Get me that asset.”

Suzanne nervously looks from the screen showing Lone Wolf to Lloyd as he speaks, “What I do can’t be taught.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“Vehicle on approach,” a voice speaks through a radio.

“Let him in,” Suzanne replies.

The gates open, allowing Lone Wolf’s car to enter as security guards confirm it’s whereabouts to make sure nothing will get past them that shouldn’t. You follow Lloyd towards the entrance, not having much of a choice as the armed men around the place all keep a close eye on you.

“You know what I love about you?” Lloyd walks over to meet him, “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, but it only adds to your mystique.”

Lone Wolf doesn’t reply, but holds up the necklace containing the asset to Lloyd. You sigh and look away from it and out the glass windows around the front door.

Lloyd exhales in relief as Lone Wolf places the asset in his outstretched hand, “Yahtzee.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

One of the people on the computers places the asset in a port on their computer as Lloyd and you both watch the televisions, waiting to see the contents so Lloyd can confirm that it’s what he was after. “It’s loading.”

“Tell me, Suzanne,” Lloyd turns to her condescendingly, “is there any other part of your job that I can do for you?”

“Failing upwards does not qualify as success,” she retorts as he leans on the back of your chair once more, a fresh glass of whiskey in hand.

“No, success qualifies as success.”

“Do you consider putting a bullet in the girl upstairs a success? ‘Cause I’m struggling to see how you’re gonna get out of all this.”

“You wanna make an omelet, you gotta kill some people,” he quips.

“You’re killing a girl?” Lone Wolf speaks up, sounding apprehensive now.

You roll your eyes, knowing Lloyd is all talk right now. If he was going to kill Claire, she’d be dead by now. You just look at the live security camera feeds on a computer ahead of you. Lloyd just looks over at him and takes a sip of his whiskey before placing the glass on the table beside you.

“You know, in English, we call this a happy ending. However, if you say one more word, you may not see it that way,” Lloyd threatens firmly, “Suzanne, please pay my Tamil friend and send him on his way.”

You notice something on one of the feeds and smirk just as Suzanne notices, calling attention to it, “Who’s on the east perimeter?”

“Unit five,” someone responds.

“Where are they?”

“They were there two minutes ago.”

The power suddenly shuts off and you glance back at Lloyd as he begins to get nervous, though he hides it well.

“Get the genny up,” he orders.

Explosions erupt outside, shaking the mansion slightly. Everyone jumps, startled, and they turn to look out the windows behind you. A flaming helicopter crashes into the water beside the building.

“Lock everything down. Get all units to the courtyard,” he grabs a gun in his right hand, grabbing your arm with his left and bringing you with him. You just feel a light sense of amusement at how pissed off he is. “And do not pay this asshole,” he lunges aggressively at Lone Wolf who stands his ground.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

“You wanna tell me what the fucking plan is, Y/n?” Lloyd quickly jogs down a hall, leaving you to follow along, “Make this easy for me and I won’t kill the girl.”

“Bullshit, if you were gonna kill her, she’d be dead. Besides, I have no idea what their plan is, haven’t talked to Six in a while. We’ve both been too busy to call,” you sass.

He doesn’t respond, instead leading you down another hall and speaking through his earpiece, “Get me eyes on the bridge.”

You hear the high pitched whiz of a rocket and quickly move behind a cement wall to avoid the explosion. Lloyd just laughs, appreciating the struggle as if it were a game. He moves out from behind the wall, shooting at the figure that shot the rocket, but not landing a hit. More explosions ensue, pushing both of you forward to avoid them.

“I seriously don’t get a gun or anything?” you huff.

“So you can turn around and shoot me?” he scoffs.

“Aww, you know me so well,” you mock.

“No chance, sweetheart.”

He slowly walks out from behind another wall, stalking along a fence line. He watches the shadowed figure run off.

“He’s trying to draw us away. Shit!” he takes off running.

You follow along, laughing as you go, “You really didn’t realize that sooner?”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

You both run up a staircase inside, straight to the room Fitz and Claire were in, only to find it empty. You just hum triumphantly as he speaks through his earpiece, “He’s in the house.”

You jog over to look out the window as Lloyd walks back to the hallway, productively using his time and resources by yelling at the corpses outside and firing a few bullets in them.

Quickly, Lloyd leads you out to one of the bridges connecting parts of the building over water. You spot Fitz, Claire and Court across from you on another bridge. Lloyd and his men fire at them before you can shout to them, but it looks like they miss, hitting the concrete of the building instead.

“You’re making me destroy a historic building here!” Lloyd yells to Court before they open fire again.

You glance over the edge of the bridge behind you, seeing what’s beneath you, hoping to come up with an exit strategy. You’re snapped out of your thoughts as Lloyd grabs your arm, dragging you with him as he takes off running again. You’re dragged along as Lloyd and his men circle around to the bridge Court is on.

You stay back to avoid being collateral killed by a stray bullet intended for someone else. You hear Claire screaming in panic and you feel your throat tighten. Everything quiets down and you hear a splash down below. Lloyd gestures with his gun, as a vague threat, for you to follow. You walk over to see Fitz laying still.

“Roll him,” Lloyd commands to one of his men who obliges and rolls Fitz over.

Fitz scoffs, “Boring.” He flicks the safety pin off a grenade in his hand.

“You douche,” Lloyd shoves one of his men out of the way, going for you.

You, however, take the opportunity to escape. When Lloyd is close enough, you rip his gun away from him since he won’t be focused on keeping ahold of it. You immediately hoist yourself up and over the side of the bridge, diving into the water below as the blast goes off and before Lloyd can get a hold of you.

You resurface to hear Claire sobbing as Court pulls her to the shore. You quickly follow after them and meet them at the shore.

Court helps pull you out of the water, handing you an earpiece in the process, “You good?”

“Been better,” you shrug as you hop in a boat nearby. You hear a vehicle approaching and Court walks over to check it out. “Stay down,” you nod to Claire and follow him.

Court fires some shots through the windshield to try to take them out. You drop to the ground as the car stops and shoot the mens’ legs as they get out. One runs around the car quickly and kicks at your hand holding the gun. You keep a grip on it and fight with him for the upper hand.

Lloyd runs over, tackling Court to the ground. The two of them struggle for control over Court’s gun. You hear the sizzle of a rocket and a pained yell from Lloyd. The man you’re fighting gets a hold of your gun, attempting to aim it at yourself or Court. Court uses Lloyd’s distraction as his chance to roll to the side, splashing in the water to avoid getting shot.

You use your favorite move, kneeing the man in the crotch to make him lose his grip on the gun. When he doubles over in pain, you fire a bullet through his head and he drops to the ground.

“Wait. Please don’t shoot!” Lloyd begs. You turn around and see him approaching Claire. You try to fire near him as a distraction, but you only hear a click when you pull the trigger, informing you that you have no bullets left. “Look what you did to my hand,” Lloyd whines.

He gets closer to Claire and grabs her before you can react, “Give me that, you little shit.” He yanks the flare gun out of Claire’s hand, causing her to scream as he drags her with him into the hedge maze.

“Lloyd, you jackass!” you yell, running after him.

Court quickly catches up to you and you both hesitate outside the maze, not knowing which direction Lloyd went. You nod to Court and quickly head down the left path, Court quickly moving down the right.

“Six!” you hear Claire yell further from you. You jog ahead, knowing she must’ve seen Court and that you’ll need to find the right way.

“Now, I’m gonna stop you right there, cupcake. What do you say we wrap this up? I mean, I’m having a blast, but it’s way past the kid’s bedtime, don’t you think?”

“Keep him talking. I have a line of sight,” Dani speaks through your earpiece.

You rush around a corner, skidding to a halt as you come to the center, standing behind Lloyd.

“You’re gonna throw me that gun, or the little one gets a new face,” Lloyd threatens Court, not having noticed you yet. “If your strategy relies on whether or not I’ll kill a child, you need a new strategy.”

“Bullshit. Let her go Lloyd,” you walk up behind him, placing the muzzle of your gun against his back. Despite it being out of bullets, it’s a good bluff.

Lloyd chuckles darkly and glances over his shoulder at you. Court sighs and unclips the magazine from his gun, tossing the magazine to the ground and the gun into the side of the fountain in front of Lloyd. Lloyd lifts his arm that was around Claire and she runs to you, both of you backing away from the scene in front of you.

Lloyd aims the flare gun at Court, backing his way around the fountain as Court walks towards him to keep him at a distance. “You know, I think we would have been friends, you and I. Aside from your childish sense of morality and eight-dollar haircut, we have a lot in common. It’s really a shame this isn’t gonna work out between us. Now normally at this point in the night, I wouldn’t be sticking around. With the house lights about to come on, not really my scene to hang out, but you have been a pebble in my shoe since the very beginning. And now I just don’t think I can walk away.”

Court looks over at you and Claire to see if you’re both ok, now closer to you than Lloyd is. Claire clings to you in fear, and you do your best to not sway on the spot as the dizziness creeps back in. You haven’t felt right since the water landing, definitely not a good concussion treatment. Adrenaline has just been mostly keeping it at bay.

“Guess what I’m thinking right now?”

“That you’ve overshared,” Court responds.

“I think I’m better than you. What do you say, Six, you wanna dance?”

“Push him right, and I’ll have the shot,” Dani vocalizes through the earpiece.

Court looks at you again, noticing your uneasiness, “Forget the shot. Come get Five and the kid.”

Court looks back at Lloyd who tosses his flare gun aside, holding up his hands to show that he won’t do anything yet. “You two get to the edge of the maze, okay? Agent Miranda will meet you there.”

“No, no, wait,” Claire sobs, “Wait, we’re not just gonna leave you here with him. He’s crazy.”

“I got this,” he reassures the both of you, “You’re gonna have to help Five walk. Don’t turn back.”

“No, you gotta come with us, just come with us please,” Claire sobs, trying to tug at Court’s arm.

“Claire,” he tries to cut her off, but she hardly hears.

“Please, you two are all I have,” she sobs.

“Claire,” she finally quiets and looks at him, “this is just another Thursday.”

You glance over to Lloyd and couldn’t find that usual cocky confidence. In fact, you could swear you saw uncertainty. Even a sense of sadness. Not that it lingered once he noticed you looking at him, he masks it quickly.

Claire hugs Court tightly and looks up at him, taking a deep breath to calm herself, “kick his ass.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

With your arm around Claire’s shoulders, she helps steady you as you walk through the maze to find an exit. You take a shaky breath and stop walking for a second, looking around you.

“What?” Claire looks up at you.

“I don’t feel so good,” you mutter.

“Are you gonna be sick or something?”

“No, not like that, bad gut feeling. I’m not usually wrong with that,” you sigh and turn back the direction you came from, “Go find my friend, she’ll keep you safe.”

“Five, you can’t go back, you can barely walk. And Six said-”

“Lucky for us I’m a fighter and smarter than him most of the time. I’ll be fine, so will Six.”

Claire hesitantly nods and continues walking towards the exit while you turn and retrace your steps slowly.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Coming to the opening to the center of the maze, you hear the safety of a gun click. Looking ahead, you see Suzanne lining up a shot at Lloyd.

Without a second thought, you charge forward, tackling her to the ground and knocking the gun out of her grasp just after it goes off. Court immediately abandons his fight with Lloyd as he sees you, running over to help you. Suzanne gets the gun back and shoots him to incapacitate him.

“What the hell?” Suzanne yells at you, shoving you off her and pointing the gun at you and Court. You stay seated on the ground and Court raises an arm in surrender, sitting on the edge of the fountain and keeping pressure on his wound with the other. Lloyd stays where he is, kneeling in the fountain and raises his hands as Suzanne turns the gun to him as well as a threat.

“Don’t shoot him.”

She scoffs, cocking the gun once more to retake the shot you forced her to miss.

“Kill him and he gets the easy out,” you rattle out quickly to keep her attention, “Why not leave him to rot in prison for the rest of his days?”

She glances at you, raising an eyebrow in intrigue, “You really want to let that toxic piece of shit live?”

You glance over at Lloyd who just looks back at you, not sure what your goal is here.

“We have history,” Suzanne continues, “Me, Denny, Lloyd, we all went to Harvard together. Those two had this absurd bromance which made it impossible for me to prove to Denny how much of a liability Lloyd was. Then I see these two troglodytes bashing each other. The whole thing just crystalized. Lloyd Hansen is going to take the fall, dead or alive, for everything that has happened. Now, I know how to do that. What I need are a few witnesses to corroborate my story. So, if you two want that girl to live to a ripe old age, you’re gonna do exactly as I say. Bad news is you’ll probably get your old cells back, but the good news is, if you two behave, I’ll let you out to play sometimes. ‘Cause frankly, you are both freakishly good at why you do.”

Court raises his hand slightly.

“What? Do you have a question? What is that?”

“Does this plan involve us all living?”

Suzanne looks down at you, “If Lloyd acts as a witness to corroborate the story, yes. Yeah, you’re gonna live.”

“Then we should go,” Court mutters, “Lotta blood… lotta blood.”

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Court is carried out on a spinal board. Claire looks over as a paramedic checks her over. He smiles slightly at her and holds up a sign of the horns to show he’s ok and she smiles back at him.

Lloyd is examined by another paramedic, but surrounded by CIA agents and cops, ready to jump at any hasty move he could make.

Dani is led by two agents and hardly spares a glance towards Suzanne when they pass one another.

Court quickly gets loaded into a helicopter to airlift him to a hospital for more in depth medical treatment than they can’t do on the scene.

The light of the morning sun continues to bleed over the land, reclaiming the scene of last night’s events.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Two weeks later, Washington D.C.

“Where are they keeping Six and Lloyd?” Denny Carmichael inquires as Suzanne shuts the car door behind them.

“Basement. Most secure floor.”

“And Five?”

“Still MIA.”

“Should’ve put a couple of bullets in their heads.”

“Five and Six tore through thirty of the best operatives in the world. Why would I waste an asset like that?”

“They’re Fitz’s gray men. They’re not gonna do anything you say. You don’t even know where Five is.”

“We’ll find them and they will. As long as I have the girl, they will.”

Carmichael reaches out a hand to stop her, slowly turning to face her, “It is very dangerous for you to start thinking for yourself.”

“You threatened, Denny? How pleasantly out of character. Would you rather I be floating in the Potomac?”

“You’re just lucky Five and Six didn’t try to overpower you in that maze. Guess they didn’t perceive you as a threat.”

“That would be their mistake,” she states simply, walking away and letting the threat hang in the air.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

Police line the halls of the hospital, heavily guarding two rooms. A nurse walks past, giving them a short nod as they walk into one of the rooms, swiping an ID card to do so. The card reader beeps as a green light displays. The steady beep of machines sounds from inside the room of Courtland Gentry until it is muffled by the closing door. Just next door, Lloyd Hansen is stuck in a similar position to the former, laying cuffed to the bed as machines beep steadily around him. A beard has begun to grow around his strong jawline due to the lack of shaving opportunities. The nurse walks over to the door connecting the two rooms.

Court looks over, noticing the break in the very rigid routine the nurses have seemed to follow daily. Lloyd simply rolls his eyes, sitting up more and looking over, ready to make a witty remark.

“Hello boys, long time no see,” you smirk at the confused and astonished looks on their faces as you pull down the medical mask that had obscured anyone’s view of your face.

“How?” Court begins to ask, but is quickly cut off by you.

“Let’s table that discussion for later. We’re on a schedule now, gentlemen, please do hurry. We’ve got to pick up Claire on time,” you quickly pick the locks of Court’s cuffs and set him free, walking over to Lloyd to do the same.

Court practically jumps out of the bed, grabbing a scalpel he noticed in the room for a weapon. Lloyd grabs your hand once you undo his second cuff, before you pull away. He sits on the edge of the bed and smiles slightly.

“You know, I think you were right,” he holds you close, bringing your hand up to his lips as he places a kiss against your knuckles. Your face heats up against your will.

“I’m right about a lot, I’ll need some clarification.”

“You said I’ve worked for the wrong people.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“So, are you hiring?” he smirks and you smile brightly.

≣≛▸✭◂≛≣

A draft blows through the open window to Claire’s room in the practical prison she’s being held in. She peeks out in confusion. Upon seeing nothing out of the ordinary besides the open door, she turns to her record player to see her favorite record propped up. Silver Bird by Mark Lindsay. A piece of paper sticks out the side, just enough for her to notice. She walks over and carefully picks up the record, delicately sliding the note out to read it.

PLAY ME LOUD

She glances around as her suspicions grow, but nonetheless, she places the record on the turntable. The song begins to play once she lowers the arm onto the spinning vinyl. She turns the volume knob as high as it will go as she begins to hear yelling and gunshots below her and outside.

Your sign is Capricorn and every corner of your mind

Says you’ll remain my friend, my friend until you’re mine

Silver Bird

Fly my lady away

Silver Bird

Take her over the bay

Silver Bird

Give my lady a ride

Sensing a presence, Claire slowly turns to look at the door as you and Court walk over, stopping in the doorway.

“Am I allowed to chew gum in here?” Court asks.

Claire runs over to both of you in tears, engulfing you both in a hug. You smile, hugging back just as Court does.

You quickly get her downstairs to your waiting Jeep, hearing a few more gunshots as you go. You keep Claire low, opening the back door for her to get in behind the passenger seat as Court hops in the back with her behind the driver’s seat. You quickly hop into the passenger seat.

Claire looks at you and Court in confusion, “Who’s driving us?”

“My guard dog,” you smirk.

The driver’s door flies open and you catch the gun tossed to you. Lloyd shuts the door behind him, quickly starting the car and shifting into drive, taking off and speeding away from the house.

“Good guard dog,” you tease, earning a smile and an eye roll from Lloyd.

“How do you know we can trust him? He’s crazy,” Claire states.

“Oh, I’m counting on it, he works for me now. His job is to help keep us, and especially you, safe.”

Claire nods reluctantly, looking between the two of you as Lloyd drives. “Ok, but no kissing when I’m around, I’m still at an impressionable age.”

Court laughs hysterically at that, leaning back in his seat as you chuckle too.

Lloyd pouts dramatically, “How am I gonna get paid now?”

“Oh, we can discuss more ideas later,” you send a wink his way.

#lloyd hansen x reader #xreader #lloyd hansen #chris evans #the gray man #chris evans x reader #lloyd hansen x you #the gray man fanfiction #lloyd hansen x y/n #chris evans x you #chris evans x y/n #court gentry #courtland gentry #ryan gosling #netflix #fanfic

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classickook · 2 years

Text

more than a job | sierra six

pairing: courtland gentry (sierra six) x gn!reader

summary: six has been overseeing your safety for a couple of years now, but you’re suddenly wondering if he regrets it and wishes his life was different.

warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of anxiety, mentions of death, hurt/comfort

word count: 2.1k

a/n: finally watched the gray man and now i’m obsessed with this guy. hopefully i captured his character okay, but i’ll be working on some more fics for him in the future!

six was currently positioned by the window, peeking through the thin gap in the loose curtains of your safe house. he was silent, calculating, observant. it was no surprise to you as this was his typical behavior since he had been assigned to guard you after your father’s passing, but something about the noticeable tension in his broad shoulders felt different.

“six? what’s going on?” you asked, feeling your pulse flutter in your throat.

he slowly reached for the gun strapped to his belt and stepped closer, offering you a brief glance before it jumped back to the window and then to the front door. both were as securely locked as they were the last five times he had checked, but six was on high alert and had apparently deemed your surroundings as unsafe by some outside threat.

he put a strong hand your shoulder and you could feel the intense heat of his skin through your shirt as he ushered you out the back door. “we need to get out of here.”

“what—”

“go,” he said firmly, steely blue eyes flashing in warning.

obediently, you rushed out the door and felt him follow closely, gun arm raised behind him as the other stayed glued to your shoulder, guiding you through the dense woods just outside the safe house.

“who is that?” you whispered.

he shot you a silencing glare and you bit down on your tongue, understanding that this really wasn’t the time or place for questions; you would ask later.

six signaled ahead to a copse of trees and you swiftly stepped toward it, avoiding tripping over any stones or snapping fallen branches that would give away your location.

once hidden from view, six backed you into a tree trunk and covered you with his large form, his broad back facing you as he surveyed the area with his gun still raised ahead.

“six—” you started again as softly as you could muster, his name passing your lips on a faint breath that was swept up with the wind, but it must have been too loud for his liking as he held up a hand to silence you.

he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you to his side, lowering his mouth to your ear. the heat of his breath warmed your chilled skin from the brisk air of the woods. “you see that hill up ahead?” you nodded. “just past it is another safe house, a bit larger and sturdier. when i say go, you need to run up there as fast as you possibly can, understand?”

he noticed the question forming on your lips and shushed you with a brisk shake of his head. “there are three men who have been following us and discovered our location. we need to move ahead before they catch on.” his blue eyes flitted back and forth between yours while still keeping his ears perked at any sudden noise. you could always tell when his attention was split by the way his eyes flickered with a faraway look, turning darker, sharper, and his brows pinched just enough to notice.

“when i say go,” he repeated, annunciating each word as he went, “you run like hell. i’ll take care of the men here and catch up to you. do you understand me?”

you nodded quickly, suddenly feeling the severity of the situation and feeling a twinge of anxiety settle in your stomach.

“good.” he faced forward again and took a single step forward until a branch snapped up ahead and he shifted into action. “go!” he bellowed and you raced off to the hill, dodging around trees and crunching onto scattered leaves and sticks that littered the forest floor.

your heart pounded against your ribcage and the cool air choked the breath from your lungs. this wasn’t the first time you had been on the run and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but it never got easier.

gunshots rang out from behind you, one right after another in quick succession, and you practically felt it vibrate through your boots as you ran. birds squawked as the deafening noise disrupted their nests and then the air was filled with chaos and bullets.

you spotted the safe house up ahead, bolting for the front door as shouts sounded from somewhere in the woods. without wasting any more time, you shouldered the door open and then slammed it closed, locking it soundly before hiding beneath the windowsill as you waited for six to join you.

silence and dust filled the air within the safe house, and you had never felt so alone than you did in that moment. your heart thundered as you tried to catch your breath, worried that this would be the moment that six lost, that he would be gone forever and leave you here.

you closed your eyes as tears pricked the corners and you tried to calm yourself down, you really did, but the day had been so chaotic and overwhelming that it all came crashing down on you.

you weren’t sure how long you stayed curled up by the window when you suddenly heard the familiar patterned knock that six had taught you, the one that only he used to let you know it was him.

shooting to your feet, you unlocked the door and shoved it open to see six standing at the threshold, chest heaving and sweat-slicked strands of blond hair sticking to his forehead.

you jumped forward and threw your arms around his waist, relief flooding through your system at seeing him again.

“i thought—i thought that—”

he returned your embrace and ran a hand through your hair as he shushed you with comforting words. “i’m here now. it’s okay. they’re gone. you’re safe.”

six walked you further into the house and attempted to settle you onto the lumpy couch, but you had questions—questions that had been on the tip of your tongue since the two of you first ran off from earlier in the day.

“who were those guys? how did they find us? did my father really have that many enemies? i mean, where did they come from? how did he know them and—”

“it wasn’t because of your father this time,” he interrupted.

your brows knitted in confusion. “what do you mean? i thought that’s why you were assigned to me, i thought—”

“it was because of me, okay? you’re a liability for me,” he blurted out.

you froze, eyes wide and heart caught in your throat. on the one hand, being a liability indicated that you were valuable, that you meant something to him; on the other hand, however, a liability was burdening, suffocating, someone or something that weighed a person down. were you doing that to six? were you weighing him down, holding him back? were you just another job to him?

of course you were, you thought pathetically. he had been assigned to guard you just a couple of years prior and had always taken the task seriously, never questioning anything or perceiving you as a chore, never once condescending or mean. but maybe that had changed without your knowledge, maybe he had hidden his true feelings toward you and this job until it got to be too much. you were too much.

you thought back to the first time the two of you had met, just days after your father’s murder and you were still grieving, though you had your own way of showing it.

“who the hell are you?” you had asked shortly.

“six.”

“six like the number? what, was one through five taken?” you had snorted at the joke.

“yes,” he had replied simply.

“oh.”

“any other questions?”

“not currently, no.”

he had given a brisk nod before turning on his heel. “good, then let’s get going.”

you always joked too much and teased him relentlessly, making light of the tragedy that was your life now: no living relatives, always on the run from your father’s never-ending list of enemies.

maybe six had finally had enough and he was going to leave you just like everyone else in your life had.

you swallowed past the lump in your throat as he continued, answering your silent questions while momentarily glancing between you and the wall like it was difficult for him to look at you for too long.

“there are people out there who will hurt you to get to me, do you understand that?” he paused, and you realized that it wasn’t just a rhetorical question and he was waiting for you to acknowledge the severity of his situation. you nodded your assent, nothing more than a slight tilt to your chin but he took it for what it was.

“i am a cog in this corrupt machine of a world we live in and it is my responsibility to keep you safe, to make sure none of that ugliness touches you. i won’t let anyone hurt you, okay?” he said lowly, tone a soft velvet against your ears, “but you have to work with me here, y/n. you have to do as i say when i say it, or—” he cut himself off and you noticed the tick of his jaw before he finished, deathly quiet, “or i might lose you, and i can’t lose you.”

you stared wide-eyed, words dying in your throat as his speech came to an end. you had thought he was going to abandon you, leave you to fend for yourself in this safe house in the middle of nowhere, not express how much he cared for you.

“this is where you say something, y/n,” he muttered, gaze softening.

“i’m not sure i know what to say…” you bit your lip then continued, “i thought you were going to get rid of me.”

“‘get rid of you’? why would i do that?” he asked with genuine confusion.

“i just thought—i thought maybe you had gotten sick of me. that i was too complicated of a job and you wanted out.”

you noticed the steady rise and fall of his chest falter as realization settled over him. six took a cautious step forward, then another and another until he was standing a hairsbreadth away from you. his hand lifted to brush lightly along your cheek, softer and gentler than you would have ever expected from the man.

“you’re not just a job to me, y/n, and i’m far from being sick of you. why do you think i’ve stuck around this long, hm?” he asked quietly, a slight curve to his lips. “i stayed because i like you. you make me laugh and distract me from my demons and change my entire outlook on life. sure, we were both dealt a pretty shitty hand, yeah?” you snorted in agreement and his thumb swiped across your bottom lip, gently tugging on the cushion of it. “you make my life worth living, make it not so bad. i need you… probably more than you need me.”

“i sincerely doubt that,” you whispered. “i’d be dead without you. literally.”

he breathed out a laugh. “yeah, well, life wouldn’t really be sunshine and rainbows without you either, sweetheart.”

your cheeks flamed at the endearment, loving how it sounded coming from him, the velvety baritone of his voice warming you from the inside out.

“so, if it’s all right with you,” he said softly, “i’d like to stick around. how about it?”

you smiled, feeling his thumb pulling from where it still rested on your lip. you nipped it gently and giggled at his reaction. “i’d like that a lot.”

“good, ‘cause i’m not going anywhere. not without you.”

“good.”

his lips lowered to your forehead as he placed a soft kiss there. “what do you say we change out of these clothes? get some food in you, hm?”

you peered down at your muddy boots and tattered shirt, thanks to the jagged branches that had caught and snagged at your clothing as you raced through the woods. “yeah, that would probably be best.”

his lips quirked up into a smile. “there’s a stash in the bedroom over there. grab whatever you can find and i’ll see what kind of canned epicurean delight i’ve got in the cupboards.”

you rolled your eyes at his playfulness, relishing in this brief moment of peace between the two of you. “thanks, six,” you said quietly.

“courtland.”

“what?”

“my real name is courtland,” he replied, almost sheepish. “just thought it was time i finally told you.”

a grin stretched across your face at his honesty, at this little glimpse into his true self that he was sharing with you, deeming you worthy enough to receive it—to receive him.

“thank you for trusting me with it… courtland.”

#the gray man #the gray man fic #the gray man fanfic #the gray man fanfiction #sierra six #sierra six x reader #sierra six x you #sierra six x y/n #sierra six fanfiction #courtland gentry #courtland gentry x reader #courtland gentry x you #courtland gentry x y/n #courtland gentry fanfiction #six x reader #six x you #six x y/n #ryan gosling

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drivinmeinsane · 9 months

Text

Wild Country.(Part 1)

SIERRA SIX × F!READER

{ masterlist} ※ { ao3 }

※ Part one {this one} ※ Part two ※ Part three {coming soon}

※ Summary: Six is running on empty in more ways than one when he pulls into that gas station out west. He just wants to make sure he and Claire survive when he does the unexpected and says he'll take on the job as a ranch hand. It was a position offered rhetorically and out of frustration, but damn if he doesn't fit the bill of what you need.

※ Rating: 18+ for future mature content.

※ Content/tags: Slow burn, Movie canon compliant, No use of Y/N, Cowboy!Six, Adoptive Daughter!Claire, no need to have read the books

※ Word count: 1,380

※ Status: Ongoing

※ Author's note: There will be no mature content in the first two parts.

Six grits out a quiet groan as he gets out of the vehicle. The skin around the stab wound over his right hip pulls tight at his movements. The rusted out, old Ford truck gives an even louder protest than his when he slams the driver's side door closed. Anything short of body checking the damn thing would have the door creaking back open with a long, cartoonish squeal. He would almost prefer crawling through one of the lowered windows.

"Hey!"

He turns to squint into the truck's cabin at the teenager who had just hollered at him.

"Grab a snack please?"

The only sign of acknowledgement of her words is a slight raise of his hand and look of resignation in his eyes. He hates stealing.

The sun glares down on parking lot as he leaves the truck with Claire inside at the faded gas pump. He had driven them more than six hundred miles since landing stateside. More than half of those miles had been in that truck.

He walks into the gas station. There's no comforting blast of cool air to great him. In fact, it is arguably worse indoors. The smell of grease, stale body odor, and nicotine mingle together in air thick enough to choke on. There's a cluster of patrons shooting the shit in front of the plexiglass walled counter. He passes them over with a cursory glance. They look to be regulars. Blue collars looking to escape direct fire from the sun and to catch up on local gossip. Too early to go to the bar. Too late to keep working in the midday heat.

He ignores feeling of sweat that is continuing to run down his back and soak into the already damp jeans clinging to his legs. A look into the domed mirror reveals that no one in this building is paying attention to him. All eyes, including the cashier's, are on a young woman at the counter.

He slips a snack cake, two packs of crackers, and an overpriced packet of jerky down the front of his mostly undone cotton shirt. The weight of stolen items sits guiltily against his side. With his limited funds and his own reluctance to steal, he is all but swimming in his thin undershirt and plaid button-up. He knows his current way of survival won't be sustainable for much longer, the newly made holes in his leather belt attest to that. But for now and for always, Claire comes first.

He opens the beverage cooler door and picks up two bottles of water. He nudges through the sweaty crowd at the front of the store and sets the bottled water down on the scratched counter. He pauses for a moment and tosses a pack of gum alongside them. Good enough excuse to be in the back for the mere moments it took for him to procure his unpaid for merchandise.

At his side, he hears the young woman that he had noticed in the security mirror raising her voice to drown out the men attempting to speak over her.

"-don't give a shit that-" "No, Rick, if that fucker wanted to make sure he had a job he wouldn't have-"

The sentences are broken up, disjointed by the group of men interrupting. Six clears his throat slightly, hoping to catch the cashier's attention but his bloodshot eyes are focused on the woman who is growing more irate by the moment

"-reliable ranch hand. Goddamnit, I don't see any of you volunteering."

The unemployed mercenary feels his body tense in involuntary movements to face the speaker.

"I'll do it." The answer is out of his mouth before his brain can catch up. His jaw tenses, he suddenly wishes he had a piece of gum in his mouth to grind his teeth into.

The departure from his methodical, calculated actions gives him an uneasy feeling. He is further rattled by the young woman, you, turning to meet his eyes

"You got a name?"

"Sierra." Lie. Clumsy. Immeasurably foolish.

"You ever been on a horse?"

"Yes." Truth.

"You alright with living on site during the duration of your contract?"

"I have my daughter with me." Feels like a truth.

"I- okay. How old?"

"13." Truth

He feels your considering stare, the way you look him up and down, taking in every inch of his sweating, filthy, travel-worn body. He is sure that you know about his concealed cargo pressing into the non-injured side of his torso.

"Okay."

Something in him sings in relief as you proceed to formally introduce yourself and supply the location of where he'll be working along side you.

"-make another right onto the gravel and 'bout half a mile you'll see the sign on your left. Turn into the drive and pull up in front of the main house. It's the big, white one. "

He gives you a nod to show that he understands. He commits your words to memory with the seriousness he would supply for a hit operation. He takes your offered hand and the two of you share a firm handshake.

"See you in a few, Sierra." He nods again. Throat tight.

His face is impassive as he watches you push through the doors with their security bars and out into the dry, blazing heat of the parking lot. When you're out of his sight, he turns to back to the cashier and to the water bottles sweating almost as much as himself.

"This, and the remainder on three." He says, pulling a soggy, crumpled 20 dollar bill out of his right front pocket.

The gas station is silent aside from the labored whurr of tabletop fan, the cashier punching buttons, and the shuffling from too many curious men.

Six pushes his own way through the doors, talk erupting behind him, and walks back to the white Ford. You and your vehicle are nowhere in sight.

He hands the water bottles to Claire through her open window, ignoring her questioning looks. He had attracted too much attention to them with his stunt inside. A man named Sierra traveling alone with a 13 year old girl? It wouldn't take a genius to figure out what was going on. He could only hope that these people were private with outsiders

He knows he's not in any condition to run, physically or financially if word gets out too soon. He also knows that he hasn't yet recovered to a hundred percent (or even fourty percent if he's being honest) after the Prague situation. A month and half hasn't been enough time to fully heal from being stabbed and all but ran into the ground.

The pump shuts off after the last drops of the gasoline he had paid for at the counter trickle into the tank. He puts up the nozzle and looks at Claire thoughtfully.

He supposes they look enough like father and daughter to avoid visual scrutiny. He had dyed his hair the same shade of mousey brown as Claire's before they had gotten on the plane to the States. It had been a slapdash job in a sketchy motel bathroom, arms trembling with exhaustion as he slathered the dye over his shaggy hair. His only excuse could be that she took after her mother. His non-existent, dead from a tragic accident so no one would ask too many questions, wife.

He loops around the truck and drags the driver's door open with a rusty scream. Claire winces at the sound, but doesn't look at him. He shrugs a shoulder apologeticly anyway before getting in.

"Got a job and a place for us to live."

Claire turns to him with her water bottle to her mouth. There's a skeptical look on her face that turns into a smug, shit-eating grin.

"What? Are you going to be a sugar baby? A kept man?" She says, all mock seriousness.

He frowns a little before giving her a flat look. The truck starts with a smoker's cough and jerks into drive. He makes the slow turn out of the gas station and when out of sight, finally pulls the stashed food out of his shirt and passes it to his darling daughter that he definitely loves very much in this moment.

"Something like that."

N E X T.

#sierra six #sierra six x reader #the grey man #the gray man #courtland gentry #courtland x reader #the grey man fanfic #reader insert #ryan gosling #fanfiction #my work #my posts

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dindjiarin · 2 years

Text

Six Days, Part II - (Sierra Six x F!Reader)

I wrote this because ✨️Six deserves a lil more than a kiss✨️ 😌 I read the first The Gray Man book, and some characterization is based on it, but mostly this is movie-based. Let's pretend Lloyd Hansen survived his ordeal, shall we?

A/N: I had not yet read Ballistic (Book 3 of The Gray Man series) before writing this so the unintended similarity between Ch 36 and my work here was unintentional. I'm gratified to know Court Gentry so well lmfao. 💀 My bad, Mr. Greaney.

Lil Spotify playlist I listened to while feverishly typing. (Wipe Your Eyes is a Sierra Six song, I said what I said.)

Beginning / Ending / Prequel

TAGS: Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Six x F!Reader

WARNINGS: MINORS DNI 18+, sexual content, mention of rape (rape is not threatened nor occurs), drugging, blood/wounds/death.

WORD COUNT: 8.6k (yeah, I'm REALLY sorry)

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IIII

The room is dim when you wake. It can’t be later than six o’clock, but the bed is empty, cold where he should be. The bedsheets rustle as you twist to read the green-lit clock on the bookshelf. Your face ticks in confusion at the numbers spelling out 9:09 a.m.

Must be a cloudy morning. Too bad I can’t see out this fucking frosted window, you grumble internally.

Sitting up, you pull the sheet a little tighter to your naked chest and squint at the bathroom door, bringing it into focus despite your sleep-laden eyes. It seems completely closed, but if Six is in there, he’s unusually quiet.

You drop the sheet and leave the bed, looking for your clothes on the floor. On Six’s chair, a pile of material catches your eye. Your hand trails across the folded, new clothing; you pick up the top item, the tags still attached. A smile splits your face in two. He’d laid out a pair of plain white underwear, denim shorts, and a green t-shirt. You quickly locate your old bra and underwear and throw away the bottoms. You’re too uncomfortable without the support of a bra, so you put it back on despite its desperate need of a wash.

Once clothed, you knock on the bathroom door but it swings open with the contact. It’s dark and unoccupied. A sudden wave of fear hits you and you take a step back.

Where's Six?

Irrationally, your mind taunts you: Did he leave me? Get what he wanted and cut his losses? A small sound escapes you at the intrusive thought, but you remember the way he had held you all night, the gentle yearning of his touch, the devotion in his sapphire eyes. You silence the unhelpful worries. No way. That’s not him.

Shit, shit, did something happen? Oh, my god, I hope he’s okay. The fears cycle through your mind. He’d never left without telling you before. Not back at the original safe house, not here, not ever. Unease settles in your chest like a virus.

It was evident he had left and come back this morning to bring you new clothing, but where was he now? You move into the bathroom, quickly flipping on the light to try to dispel some of the dread. You drop to your knees and begin feeling around the floor as grime and dirt pile along your fingertips.

Oh, god, I bet it’s under this disgusting-ass flooring.

You lean left to grip the rough edge of the linoleum where it lies underneath the sink. Pulling at the aged material, it comes up easily enough, and you’re rewarded by a discolored section of hardwood floor. The linoleum slips from your dirty fingers, and as you reach to grab it again, a loud crash booms behind you.

The front door bangs open. You spin around, knocking yourself on your ass. Your heart fears it’s an intruder, but your brain expects it to be Six, mad at you for not hearing his knock.

As the door swings wide, you’re faced with an unfamiliar man, clad in a blue patterned shirt and slacks, standing with a firearm in his right hand. It’s the first thing you see, but it’s not pointed at you. The man looks relaxed - happy, you notice.

“Hey, doll. Been lookin’ everywhere for ya.” His voice is upbeat yet menacing.

“Whatcha doin’ to that floor?” He marches over to you, roughly grabbing your upper arm.

As his fingers dig into your flesh, you stare at the stumps where his little and ring fingers should be. He hoists you to your feet. You don’t even struggle as your brain tries to play catch-up.

“Who- the fuck are you?” Your voice trembles despite your efforts to the contrary. Your heart is throbbing, painful aching in your veins; your worst nightmare is coming true.

“You haven’t heard of me?” He sounds surprised. “Well, isn’t that hilarious. Mr. Moral Compass has been keeping secrets from you.” He makes a mockingly sympathetic face.

“Where is he?” Your voice cracks and pain pricks in your eyes, your vision watering. You’re petrified of this man’s answer.

To your great discomfort, the man laughs. It’s a terrifying laugh: somehow, all of his features seem warmed by his mirth, like he’s energized by your distress.

“That's supposed to be my line, buttercup.”

He makes a condescending gesture, “Someone saw you clomping around this hallway out here. Not very smart, are we? And wherever you are, Six is sure to be trailing like a sad puppy. But I’m not too worried about where he is right now; he’ll follow us, and that saves me quite a bit of effort. Not to mention bullets and bruises.”

It takes a second for his words to find you through the panic, but when they do, you’re nearly lightheaded with relief. You’d thought you managed and processed that first night well. It had given you confidence in your ability to persevere. But standing here, face-to-face with a man who seemed to know things you didn’t, who exuded the dangerous energy of a wild animal, you were frozen in fear. However, if Six was still out there, still okay, you had some hope. You had every hope in the world, in fact.

Six. Six, please. Please walk through that door. All your wits could offer was to repeat his name like a prayer.

“Let’s head on out, shall we? Car’s waiting.”

His grip on your arm tightens painfully, and you still don’t fight him. He steps toward the bed and, with a flourish, places a piece of paper on top of your pillow.

“MapQuest for 007,” he explains without explaining.

You know you can’t win a physical fight with this much-larger, armed man, but the dam in you breaks as he pulls you toward the exterior hallway. You’re already leaning forward from the way he’s holding you, so you aim at your closest target. Your right fist slams just below the zipper on his slacks and he exhales with a yelp, doubling over. He recovers too quickly, though, and whirls you around, leveraging your throat with his forearm. He squeezes and wins a pained, high-pitched rasp from you.

“Do it again and I’ll leave your dead body for him to find instead of that paper,” he says through gritted teeth.

You shiver and try to swallow, panicking when you can’t. He loosens his grip enough for you to shuffle along, and when he tries to walk you both through the door a second time, you let him.

You were right, the sky outside was blanketed by wooly clouds threatening to let loose a deluge. The old city you’d holed up in was quiet for the time of day, and no one saw the well-dressed man toss you into a waiting black SUV. Your cheek smacks the faux-leather gray seat, and you push your arms underneath your body to reorient yourself.

The air inside the vehicle is artificially cold and smells new. The pleather squeaks as the two armed men who had been waiting outside your room seat themselves on either side of you. You hadn’t seen them until the well-dressed man had dragged you from your shelter out into the sterile-looking hallway. It seemed to you that they were reasonably sure you were alone. There was no way he wouldn't have sent an entire team in if he’d thought the two of you were together, right? This man didn’t dress like it, but maybe he didn’t have the funds for a whole team. Six had mentioned to you once how expensive one mercenary could be, and the going rate for a whole group could feed a small country for a week.

A thumb and forefinger pinch your nose, and your mouth drops open automatically. Your hands shoot upward to fight off whatever assault is beginning, but then the agent to your left pops something small into the back of your throat. You try to choke it out, but he had thrown it skillfully, and you accidentally swallow. You lurch forward violently as the driver accelerates.

You gag but nothing comes up. Coughing, you ask, “What'd you give me?”

The kidnapper’s smooth voice answers you from the passenger seat, “The ineloquent call it the ‘date-rape drug’.”

Utter fear shocks through your body at his blunt words. You’re a chemist, you know exactly what it is he gave you.

He turns a little to face you, “Sugar, you look nervous. Don’t worry,” his voice is jovial, “This is a date, not a rape.”

You shrink into your seat as best you can, trying to protect yourself. City blocks quickly turn into dilapidated housing, then farmland since Six’s safe house was close to the outer edge. You don’t know anything about the country you’re in, so memorizing the now-green scenery would be useless. Instead, you decide to evaluate and catalog the men next to you.

The man on your right is tall and tan. With his ironically trustworthy face, you would’ve never given him a second glance if you passed by him on the street. He’s holding what you believe to be a submachine gun, and a pistol butt pokes out of his waistband.

Your friend on the left is his friend’s polar opposite. This man makes you feel like the kidnapper does, and your hands shake just by looking at him out of your peripheral vision. His sharp, pale features keep anger at the forefront. His dark eyes, though rarely on you, twitch with menace. He’s carrying the same weapons as his partner, but you see an added hunting knife hanging from his black cargo pants. Unconsciously, your weight shifts to your right side, trying to put as much distance as you can, though, of course, you know the other man is truly no better.

Heavy exhaustion suddenly falls on you like an anvil. Lethargy places immense pressure on your limbs. Your world goes startlingly black for a second, then you realize you’ve closed your eyelids. You try to lift them, but it’s so difficult. Straining, you see a sliver of blurry light, but your eyes return to darkness. It feels like a weight is pressing on your chest - like Six did last night. Delirious, you half-smile at the recollection. Your head drops to the side with its own weight, and your final conscious thought is that you hope you fell to the right.

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Feeling more peaceful than he ever had in his life, Six had woken that morning on his side with your head on his right bicep. You were asleep facing him, your right calf sandwiched between his thighs, your hand curled on his chest. If he didn’t include every other time he looked at you, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Six felt a sense of possessiveness surge through him; he was never going to let anything take you from him. If you wanted him, he would be there.

Six had never told a woman that he loved her. Certainly not romantically. He wasn’t completely confident in how it all worked, but he no longer wondered what it felt like. Six knew by the way he wanted to care for you as you did him. It was evident in the way he found himself pulling your favorite mug from the cabinet each morning before you’d even woken; it was evident in the way his body thrilled as he counted your not-so-sneaky glances at him. Six knew how powerful love was because he felt all other aspects of his life drop in priority to you. He didn't pretend to be good at it, but he couldn't stop himself from trying.

In a matter of excellent timing, you rolled away, tucking your head down and off his arm. He extricated himself from the bed, intending on performing a quick errand. He was incredibly energized; after yesterday’s long-awaited activities and then the full night’s sleep he’d gotten, he felt sure he could do anything.

After showering, he located an old, plain black tracksuit set that he’d hidden years ago in the bathroom closet. It wasn’t exactly clean after all this time, but it wasn’t the disgusting shirt and pants from the past few days which was all he cared about.

He thought about leaving a note, but it was so dark outside that he knew you’d still be asleep when he returned. And also, he had no pen. Nimbly, he moved to your side of the bed where he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his feather-light touch never waking you. You sighed into his hand as it curved down your cheek, and he felt himself twitch at the familiarity. He quickly decided that he’d be keeping you in bed today; his high energy would be put to good use.

Six casually moved out onto the streets of the old world city. It was just past eight-thirty. The air was nice: warm and breezy, hinting at the coming storm. It wasn’t a bustling locale, but its population was large enough to provide some cover. Six’s furtive yet discreet searches around the area told him that all was well, so he trekked through the city to a store he knew supplied women’s clothing. He figured your old clothes were no longer suitable - he himself had torn them off in more ways than one - and he had nothing in his cache that would be practical for a woman. He was still cautious, still calculated. If he needed you to run, you couldn’t be tripping around in too-long pants.

The brightly lit store didn’t have much, so he purchased the first items he saw that best fit the summer weather, making no guesses as to your size since it was something he’d memorized for this exact situation. He thanked the shop clerk in his native tongue, then took a shortcut back to the room.

He returned as the green numbers glowed exactly 9:00 a.m. to find you still sleeping as he had suspected. He laid the pieces on the chair and then moved to the kitchenette. His jaw set as he realized the food was entirely gone; there wasn’t any substantial meal to be eaten, and canned peaches weren’t going to satisfy the both of you. Grumbling, he took another survey to confirm your slumber, then exited once again, locking the door as he left.

On his ten-minute jaunt to the corner store, Six felt uneasy. Now he believed the electricity in the air had nothing to do with the impending thunderstorm. He felt the breeze rustle through his blonde locks and tried to relax a little. He had a few - well, he couldn’t call them friends - in this general part of Europe, but only one lived in this area. He hoped the man hadn’t seen him; or you, considering the man might know about the situation.

He’d run out of cash, and his nearest stash was about a four-hour drive away in Latvia, so he was forced to steal a loaf of bread and two chunks of meat. Six left his not-inexpensive watch as payment, but he regretted being forced to this level. He’d never stolen anything in his life (except the odd vehicle, those almost couldn’t be helped) and he hated it. He was paid well for his services; he never needed to steal. Every bit of decency he could afford, he performed. If you hadn’t been waiting, he would’ve contented himself with the peaches for the next few hours, but you were injured, and moving on to Latvia could wait one more night.

His walk back from the store was circuitous by habit. He took two extra turns and an alleyway before opening the glass-paned door to the building. The room you two had been sharing was the very first on the ground floor, and something was horribly wrong.

Groceries fell to the floor, replaced instantly by his gun. He swept into the room, then the bathroom, already knowing you weren’t there. A sharp intake of breath sounded as he realized the linoleum had been disrupted.

Thank God, you’d gotten into the safe room.

He grunted as he pried open the heavy trapdoor, already beginning to tell you everything was okay, when the dusty hole gaped empty beneath him. The breath heaved out of him. He cursed loudly and slammed the door shut with such force that it reverberated throughout the lower floor. He spun around and his eyes snagged on the paper positioned on the pillow you’d occupied only moments earlier. He snatched it up.

- Do you miss her like I miss my fingers? -

Below the handwritten taunt was an address. Six needed no further information - he sprinted out of the building and up the street.

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Groggy and unsteady, your left eye opens a little before your right. Warm light streams from a small round window at the other end of the room. It’s dusty, and motes float about in the beams. Your hands chafe at the handcuffs, but the most uncomfortable aspect is the rickety chair you’re roped into. Your shoulders ache and your neck is pained at the position you’d been unconscious in.

Fear rises in your throat, bubbling like lava in your chest. But it’s mutating with another emotion you’re not sure of just yet. You rock forward violently and shift the old chair forward a little, trying to move toward the window. The impact of your weight rattles the rafters, and you realize that endeavor is hopeless if you want to remain alone. You try to scoot, using your untied feet to pull you along, but the chair catches on a warped floorboard, and you’re left stuck.

Panting from the claustrophobic panic and the exertion, you begin taking some calming breaths you’d read about once for test anxiety. It helps, but then you hear the creaking of hinges as a trapdoor falls away a few feet from you. The ladder slides down smoothly, and moments later the head of a man appears. His fit, sweater-wearing body follows. He glares at you.

“You got bits of ceiling plaster on my sweater.”

“What’s going on? What do you want me for?”

You expect him to say something about your job, to demand access to the research, to complete some of it yourself; maybe he wants you to oversee a project of their own. You have no idea and you’re not prepared for what he answers.

“I don’t want you at all, honey. Sorry, you’re not my type. I like women who don’t punch me in the dick.” He says testily. “No, I want your boy, and I want him to be sad. I had no idea you existed ‘til a friend snapped a few pictures of the two of you getting cozy.”

He unfolds three photos from his back pocket. The first is through the large glass backdoor in your original safe house, the telephoto lens capturing Six’s hand nearly touching your lower back, your head turned to smile at him. A second photo was taken from a distance through a window, and it shows Six sitting on the couch beside you, talking. The man holds up a third photo, this one of the two of you outside, Six’s face glows with that reluctant smile he favors, though it's much larger than usual; facing away from you, he looks downright joyous at something you must’ve said or done.

The emotion you’d had trouble naming finally identifies itself as you spit, “Fuck you.”

The man backhands you hard enough to split your lip, but he doesn’t knock you over. Tears spring to your eyes instantly, and you yelp. The moment this man had stepped through your door, you’d done your best to prepare yourself for physical pain. You were still surprised, still shocked by it.

The man crouches in front of you, his eyes level. Your upper lip curls into a snarl.

“I know Sierra Six. That man is a goody-two-shoes. Although, apparently he’s been lying to his lady love. See, I did do my homework: your employer’s security contract with Six ended a month ago. He’s been bunking with you because I sent him those photos the day before termination. If he stayed with you, I knew it was genuine.” He pauses, then jeers, “He doesn’t allow himself to get attached to people.” The man smiles, perfect teeth flashing behind pink lips as he waves the photographs, “But I found the one he has.”

Unable to fully comprehend what’s happening, you just stare. You’d been through quite a few emotions over the past twelve hours and the tumult in your head was raging. Your admittedly hands-off employers had never told you when the protection detail’s contract ended, they probably had just assumed Six would leave of his own accord. The house had been furnished with anything you would’ve needed so you’d kept on working, and your employers kept getting what they paid you for. As long as the status quo remained, no one would’ve questioned each other.

“So, you’ve got me here in this dry-ass attic because you don’t like Sierra Six?” Your confusion manifests with righteous anger. This man is using you, not for your brain, but to get to someone you care about.

He sharply raises his left hand as an example, “I fucking hate him, actually.

“Don’t your manicures cost less now?” You hiss venomously.

Your chair nearly tips when his hand connects once again with your face. You spit out blood, but you’re weak and it lands pitifully on your shirt.

Your mouth already open, you ask one last question, ”And when Six comes for me… you’ll kill him?” You are still angry, but your worry over Six causes your voice to break.

“All part of the show, babe. I’m not monologuing to you.” He shrugs, smiling as if he wasn’t just monologuing to you. He stands and jogs forward-facing down the ladder. You hear his rich voice say something about a knife, and your body goes rigid. More pain. Your heart rate skyrockets and traitorous tears fall.

Calm down, get calm, I can’t be calm, just be calm, this is insane, deep breaths, it won’t help, you’ll be fine, your thoughts race uncontrollably.

Stressed wood and hinges ring out from the ladder as he reappears with a switchblade. He squats and ties your ankles to the chair legs with little effort, despite your kicking. Then he pulls another chair from the far side of the attic to face you.

“Oh, I’m Lloyd, by the way.” He grins as he slices at your already-injured leg.

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Though he’d brought a comfortable chair, Lloyd didn’t stay long. He made a few cuts, watched you scream and squirm a little, but then his stomach had growled. He stood, wiped the bloody knife on your denim shorts, and folded the weapon as he left the attic. He made a little quip about letting bed bugs bite, and then the trapdoor squealed as it shut, as he left you in darkness.

The window across the room is dark blue, now. You beg your mind to relive the previous sunset, but the pain in your wrists and your leg are agonizing. Lloyd had cut a shape into your leg, and you didn’t want to see it. You’d not looked as he worked, and you were unable to do so now. Maybe it’ll be gone by morning, you childishly wish.

Again and again, your mind returns to Six. As much as you may have had a right to be, you didn’t have the capacity to be upset with him. Certainly not right this moment, as all you wanted was to be secure in his arms, and it was unlikely you’d be too pissed later, either. Six was your friend. Sure, he was generally reserved, closed off - but those were his natural defenses, and it was impossible not to feel his sincerity, his regard. Six had stayed on without payment for an entire month. He’d asked for extra men, probably calling in a favor instead of offering a reward. Just because he wanted to protect you. If he’d felt it was best to keep the truth hidden, then the truth was probably best kept hidden. After all, the man was the best tactician around; even you knew he had a near-mythological reputation.

Simply put, you trusted the man unequivocally. You just wished that he would both hurry and stay away. If this lunatic managed to kill Six by using you as bait, you weren’t sure you could live with the guilt. Six spent so much time walling himself off from everyone, and you’d purposefully broken down those defenses. Now you were both in danger. Six was all you had, all you’d wanted, and now that you had him you were about to lose him.

You sat there as time slipped by, in the dark, crying, until your body exhausted itself.

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IIIII

A splitting headache wakes you. Your neck is screaming at the position it’s been in for hours, and you feel a little nauseous. The strong light from the round window allows you to clock the time at late afternoon, and you regret waking. Your body straightens when you realize that the sound of the trapdoor opening is what woke you. The sound sharpens and you tense, waiting for more pain.

As expected, Lloyd’s face beams at you. Immediately, you’re on edge: if Lloyd is happy, you shouldn’t be. He finishes climbing the ladder, and when he does, he motions to someone else to come up.

“Guess who,” he raises his eyebrows conspiratorially.

“No,” you plead. "No.”

“Mhm. ‘fraid so.” He couldn’t possibly smile wider.

A blonde head that you’d recognize anywhere materializes. He’s shoved by someone else you hate to see: the pale man on your left. The pale man looks terrible. His face is swollen and bloody. Since the ladder rises away from you, you don’t see the prisoner’s face until the pale man roughly turns him around, but you knew it would be Six. He’s slammed into his own rickety chair. His beard is sticky with blood, and a cut near his right eye oozes more blood. His black tracksuit is filthy and torn, and his hands are bound in front of him with zip ties. The instant he faces you, he holds your tearful gaze, and he winks. Your eyebrows constrict briefly in confusion, but you return to utter despair quickly. Lloyd was never going to let you go if he captured Six, and you’re pretty sure he never even offered that lie up to you. Now you were both going to watch each other die. Your chest heaves in sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is a hoarse whisper, but Six frowns and shakes his head. His attention is forced away from you, however, when Lloyd steps in front of him.

“Wow, Lloyd, you should’ve squeezed the CIA for a better patch job. You look like shit.”

Lloyd laughs, “Aw, don’t make me kill her already. I was just getting excited.”

“Did you do that to her face?” Six asks conversationally.

“It wasn’t the only thing I did,” Lloyd answers suggestively. And though you can’t see his face, he grins at Six who barely keeps a leash on himself. He files that comment away for later fuel.

Lloyd begins to speak, cajoling as Six flexes his jaw, his expressive eyes never leaving the threat. “The CIA didn’t ‘patch’ me up. They’ve pinned that whole … situation… on me. Rather unfairly, wouldn’t you say?” He doesn’t give Six time to answer before he continues, “I have other powerful friends who aren’t hunting me for war crimes. But they don’t matter. They support my little personal revenge mission, although they’re not funding it.” He holds up his hands, “Don’t be offended I didn’t send a whole squad after you, Six. I’m pretty depleted after all your shenanigans. But anyway!” He claps his hands, “Don’t you wanna know how I knew?” He sounds thrilled.

“A little birdy told you?”

“Your friend Denver. Now isn’t that just the worst? He sold you out. ‘Six has found himself a girl.’ His plan was to live that night, but hey, can’t win ‘em all, right?”

Lloyd moves to grab his chair, and you’re able to see Six’s reaction. His face doesn’t change, but you know those eyes. He’s not completely shocked, he can’t afford to be in his line of work, but you can see the betrayal, the sadness pooling there.

Since he has line of sight on you, again, he takes advantage and the corner of his mouth quirks up quickly. The smile is gone before you’re even sure it existed - but that’s the second time he’s signaled you. Trying to keep me from panicking, as always, you reason. You give him an answering smile, but it’s sad, and he grunts in frustration.

Lloyd has his chair in hand, and he looks animatedly between the two of you - back and forth, back and forth, as if trying to choose. The pale man, still standing next to Six, laughs. Your disgust evident on your face, Lloyd makes his choice and sits directly in front of you.

“Did you miss me, honey?” He purrs. You know from his tone that everything this man is about to do has one purpose: to twist a dagger into Six’s soul.

“Didn’t really get a chance, asshole,” you pour every bit of rage and hatred you can into your voice. This man might break your body, but you’re pretty sure this level of anger will protect your mind.

“Let me see that six.” He orders, which stops you right in your tracks.

“What?” You ask, perplexed.

“The six! The six I gave you.” His bottom lip pouts, “You didn’t even see what I gave you?” And he points at your thigh.

Amidst the blood, you finally see the pattern he had carved into your leg. He hadn’t cut as deeply as your other wound, just deep enough to ensure scarring.

“You said something about wanting a six, right?” He plays dumb. “If that one’s not big enough, here, I’ll do another.” He lifts the knife quickly and you start at the sudden violence.

Behind him, you hear Six grunt, then an unfamiliar, more pained-sounding grunt. Lloyd doesn’t hesitate before he jumps behind your chair and sticks the knife against your neck. As he does so, you see the body of the pale man drop to the floor, his submachine gun in Six’s freed hands. Your chin tilts up as high as you can to avoid the blade.

“You brought a knife to a gunfight, Lloyd.”

“Quite the party foul of me, huh?” Lloyd rejoins. “Oh, well. That’s where your bitch comes in handy.”

Six doesn’t react. Lloyd's using you as a shield, but he is much larger than you. One good shot would knock him back enough that Six was confident he could reach you before Lloyd recovered. Six starts to squeeze the trigger when the knife leaves Lloyd’s hand, aimed directly at his heart.

Six bats away the shining switchblade with the gun, which sends him a little off balance. Lloyd uses his chance to rush Six. Like the football star he had been, he tackles Six to the floor. Six groans in pain as the wind is knocked from him, and a scream tears from you. At the last second, you remember that the other man in the car, the one on your right, was probably somewhere below. Surely he had heard the thumping, right? Why wasn’t he coming?

Six quickly gets the upper hand, kicking out from underneath the other man, smashing the gun into Lloyd’s face twice as he did so. Six is loath to shoot the man outright because he really wants to beat the shit out of him first. Lloyd gets to his feet at the same time Six does.

Frantically, you knock the chair over, and try to wiggle sideways towards the knife Six had hit. It was several feet away, very close to what now looked like a standoff. Six hears what you’re doing, and circles a little more to his right, putting himself between you and Lloyd. He thrusts the butt of the gun at Lloyd’s gut, but Lloyd grabs hold of it. Six immediately ejects the magazine faster than he’d ever made the move before. He releases his hold on the weapon, knowing it won’t make a difference. Lloyd gives him an eyebrow raise before tossing the gun down the ladder.

Your chair scrapes with every inch, but your desperation gets the knife into your right hand right as you hear the gun fall. You saw at the ropes around your body, then once free of that, you cut the flimsy material around your ankles. Unfortunately, you are still handcuffed to the chair’s armrest. Keeping the knife in hand, you lift the old chair and slam it against the floor, once, twice. Thinking better of that, you sit down and jam both heels on the underside of the armrest, hoping to force the slim piece from its spindles. That worked. Unfortunately, you are still handcuffed.

Six waits for Lloyd to swing first, and when he does, Six puts every play he’s ever learned into action. He swings haymaker after uppercut at Lloyd, most of them connecting viciously. Lloyd gets in several licks, but each time Six shakes it off with a growl. Hoping to shorten this dance, you hold up the knife, hoping it’s Six and not Lloyd who sees what you have to offer. They both notice.

As Lloyd starts to run at you, Six leaps forward, grabbing him around the throat by his forearm. He uses the momentum to slam Lloyd down to his knees. Lloyd twists and claws at him, but Six is stronger. To Lloyd’s endless consternation, Six has always been stronger. You gawk on in horror. You’d seen Six kill a man before, but this was different. This was personal, angry, justified. Six is silent as his arms strain, pressing every bit of strength he has into Lloyd’s windpipe. Lloyd is gagging, gurgling. It was terrible.

“Go!” Six commands through gritted teeth, and though he wasn’t looking at you, you obey. You didn’t want to see this.

You flee down the ladder, knife still in hand. Subconsciously, you take in your surroundings: a vacant, crumbling mansion. The white hallway was cracked, and moldy. No furniture could be seen. You could still hear Lloyd’s death throes above you, so you stumble along the hallway, desperate to end the nightmare.

Your right leg, so damaged, gives out and you hit the floor. You see stair railings a few feet away, but you can also see the attic entrance from where you fell, and you weren’t going anywhere without Six. So you drag yourself up against the wall and try to slow your labored breathing as you wait.

A few minutes later, a man dressed in black climbs down. Your heart pounds at the sight of the blonde hair. You stand, wobbling, and drop the knife. As he reaches you, he wraps an arm around you. His hand presses your head to his chest.

“Let me see your hands.”

You hold up your cuffs. He unlocks them with a small key you can only assume he got from one of the bodies upstairs. He nudges you forward, and you start down the hallway, then down the stairs. When you get to the bottom of the wooden steps, you see why the other man never came running. He lay bloody on the floor of the foyer. Six had killed him first.

“Didn’t know where you were in this big old house, so I made my entrance known. Lloyd would take me wherever you were. Amateur.”

Stepping around the body and out the front door, you hysterically giggle at the stolen car Six had parked normally. “You literally walked in the front door?”

“Yeah.”

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

IIIIII

Lloyd had taken you over the Latvian border by several hours, so while you were in the right country, you were still a couple of hours away from Six’s cache. As he drives, you curl up on the back seat, trying to relieve your sore muscles and your stinging leg.

It’s nearly midnight by the time Six pulls to the curb a block from his newest safe house. The streets were bustling with people enjoying their evening, and it wasn’t difficult to blend in. In the darkness, no one could make out your bloody leg, his bloody face.

Six breaks the padlock off the abandoned-looking building’s side entrance, then steps inside, ensuring it was uninhabited. There’d been no actual threats to your life besides Lloyd Hansen, your company hiring Six as a precaution over rumors, but Six was never going to take a chance again when it came to you.

He ushers you through the door, then tucks you into his side as he opens another door. It’s pitch black, and you cling to his jacket. You hear the door shut behind you, then you hear the sound of his hand sliding along the wall trying to find the light switch.

He succeeds and the room is illuminated in warm, artificial light. It’s another ground-floor apartment, and it’s similar to the previous minus Six’s favorite wingback chair. He takes your hand and guides you into the bathroom where you see the biggest difference yet. The bathroom is clean, spacious, and it has both a bathtub and a shower.

“Capital cities have the best safe houses. More people to maintain them,” he replies to the question in your mind. “Strip.”

Your head jerks up to look at him. He unzips his track jacket but leaves his pants. You pull the hem of your shirt over your head and drop the bloodstained fabric to the floor. Six crouches in front of you and unbuttons your shorts.

“I’m a professional,” he whispers, trying to lighten your wordless mood as he covers your new knife wound with his hand and pulls your shorts down.

He takes your hand to balance you as you step out of the bottoms. As he touches you, he looks for a sign of disgust, fear, something that will break his heart but make sense after what you’d been through.

He grabs a washcloth from the counter and wets it. He crouches in front of you again and begins softly cleaning the blood from your thigh, leaving a wide gap around the actual wound.

You’re a little unsteady after the lack of nutrition and the stress your body has undergone the past day, but you steel yourself for a moment: you focus on not freaking out, not crying just yet in order to take stock. You watched him kill someone. How do I feel about that?

In your heart, you know that it doesn’t change anything you feel about him. Six killed bad men - always had, always would - and you’d known that when you met him. Your torso shakes, nearly hyperventilating. No, the worst is that you could’ve died, you could’ve watched him die. You collapse onto his shoulders, your arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry.” He says, the timbre of his voice letting you know that he means it for all that has occurred. For what Lloyd did to you physically and probably emotionally. For not telling you the truth, but mostly for putting you in the situation in the first place.

Too emotionally distraught to check the words thoroughly, you try to relieve his guilt: “’s not your fault someone loves you, Six.”

Still not noticing your own words, you bury your face in his shoulder, and your tears fall freely. The noise he makes under his breath sounds affectionately amazed.

He stands, picking you up, and your legs wrap around him automatically. Your cuts are nearer the outside of your leg, but it still sends a jolt of pain down your limb when you use it to latch onto him. He sets your bottom on the countertop. One hand rubs your back while the other nestles into your hair.

He knows you’re in shock, and he knows you didn’t mean to tell him you loved him like that. It’s good to hear, and he can’t help the sunrise in his heart, but his primary concern is consoling you. Or distracting you, if possible. Early in his career, he had learned that the best way to move forward was to stop overthinking. Distractions worked well for that.

“Shower or bath?” He asks.

He doesn’t have an ulterior motive, and you’re more than welcome to answer with neither. But in his mind, if it comes to it, he could try to make you forget today for a little while. You sniffle as you pick your head up off his shoulder to see his face.

He’s looking at you like you just saved him, and it’s somehow exactly what you needed.

“Shower.”

You’d love nothing more than to be warm, bloodstain-free, and staring at Six naked. Without another word, he drops his pants and unclasps your bra. You push your underwear off. You latch around him again, and he carries you into the shower. You drop your legs and stand while he adjusts the temperature. The shower’s wide enough that you don’t feel the water at all as it warms up.

As the water begins to steam, Six looks over at you and holds his hand out, palm up. A smile touches your lips and he answers with his own as he pulls you to him underneath the showerhead. His hair soaks instantly. He rotates so your hair can rinse free of all the shit it had gone through in the last week.

Six takes a clean, soapy washcloth and stoops to finish cleaning your leg. He tries to ignore the shape that those cuts are in, but it’s still torturing him. He’d tried to forget it the moment after the words had left Lloyd’s mouth, but now he was face-to-face with the physical consequences of his feelings for you. He straightens up and lets the water get the rest of the blood.

You watch as his expression twists, and he won’t meet your eyes.

“They’re shallow. They’ll heal.”

“Yeah, right into my fucking name.” He begins washing himself as a means to avoid your face.

“It’s not your name." You cup your hand to his cheek. "Hey, ‘Six’ is not your name. Those marks will heal, and even if I’m still able to see the number, it doesn’t bother me.” Your voice rises with each word. You’re trying to tell him that it’ll be an incidental scar, and even if it mattered, it’s the pseudonym of the man who rescued you.

His stormy eyes meet yours finally, skepticism clouding them. “It doesn’t matter to you that you were tortured and permanently scarred," his voice acerbic, "because of me?”

“It does matter, but it wasn’t because of you, Six. It was because that guy was insane. He was unstable. He hated you and I was useful.” You're pleading with him to hear you. Your hand slides up from his cheek into his drenched hair.

You decide to gamble a joke, “Always wanted a man’s name tattooed on me, anyway.”

Your eyes shine up at him fervently, hoping the joke corroborates your apathy over the wound. Because that really didn’t matter to you. The physical scars were nothing - they would heal without issue. If anything, you worried about being separated from Six. How would you ever feel safe without him again?

Your gamble works. He snorts and leans his forehead to yours. Stray water droplets collect in his facial hair.

“But you’re right, that’s not my name,” he murmurs, then carefully presses his lips to yours. He’s gentle, but pain issues forth from your split skin, anyway. You flinch slightly, and Six murmurs, "Sorry."

Angry at the reminder, you decide you’re not letting Lloyd take any more seconds of your life, so you deepen the kiss. Your lips part to allow him in, and at the first touch of his tongue, a spark of tension flares.

He hums deep in his chest at your enthusiasm, your reassurance. Six’s right hand curves around the back of your upper thigh, underneath your ass, and he half-lifts/half-pushes you into the icy wall of the shower. You hiss in surprise, but his warm body follows with a grunt a split-second later, and you’re no longer thinking of anything but him.

Your hand drops to stroke his velvet length against your thigh, and Six’s groaning mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw and drops to the hollow he knows you love. His hands caress your curves, one hand traveling to grasp your breast as the other hand slides between your legs.

You gasp as the friction of his rough palm, then his fingers, send a jolt right to that coil in your stomach. He squeezes your breast gently, and his thumb rolls over your nipple as Six drops to his knees.

“You don’t have to -” you start, but change your mind instantly as you appreciate Six below you: his hair drips into his profoundly blue eyes; water runs down his well-defined body, and his thighs flex as he shifts closer to you and sits back on his heels. His large hands wrap around your hips. You feel your breath hitch as he angles forward and his breath touches your tender skin a moment before his heated mouth. His tongue flattens against you before flicking at the perfect pace; he alternates between the two patterns. The heat floods through you in a deluge - your eyes slam shut, your head rolls back, and when your stomach constricts, your legs go weak.

He makes a pleased guttural sound that vibrates into your skin, and he plants one firm arm upward along the inside of your hip, his hand on your ribs, to keep you upright. His other hand on your hip welds you firmly to him. Your cries of pleasure echo in the space, and he feels himself growing painfully hard.

Your body having been stretched to its limits in so many ways means the euphoria you feel now has you coming easily. Six feels the tension in you splinter, feels the shuddering in your legs. The pride it gives him is unmatched as he holds you still. You moan into the steamy air, and he knows could do this forever.

He continues at the same pace, but in a moment of lucidity, you miss him against you. You pull at his shoulder, and he obliges, standing. His right hand grasps the underside of your knee, palm on the outside of your leg, and he fits himself right against you. You can feel him twitch with expectation. An aftershock of your first orgasm ripples through you, and has you clenching around nothing. You shiver, already anticipating how good he will feel.

“Please, Si-” you beg him, unnecessarily.

He makes a sudden decision, cutting you off, “It’s Court.”

Your eyes fly up to his. But before you have a chance to speak, he steadily shifts up into you. His quiet groan is punctuated by your gasps. His eyes close involuntarily at your tight warmth. Your nails dig into his biceps where you’d braced yourself. The stretch hurts a little this time, but you're too satisfied with the closeness to care. Relishing the unique intimacy of being inside you, he skims one hand down your side before he drags himself unhurriedly out, and thrusts back in.

He begins to slowly increase his rhythm, and with each incredible entrance, you both let the sounds spill out from your mouths uninhibited. Before long he is driving into you so unrelentingly that all you can do is hang onto him. He never neglects your lips for a second, his deep, messy kiss the only thing keeping you sane. You feel white-hot; it’s nearly painful, but it’s so good.

Tears leak down your face. His left hand cups your cheek, thumb swiping away the salty liquid. He can see you’re about to snap once again by the way your face pinches, then begins to unwind underneath his hand. He drops his hand to work you over further. He never knew life could be so sweet. Reserved, isolated his entire adult life, he knows that he’s never going to be happy if he’s not coming home to this.

“Don’t say Six,” he begs. It’s never mattered to him before. He was the same person no matter what anyone referred to him as. But he wanted you to know, to have the purest version of himself. The version no one else had.

He looks down into your eyes as he asks, and when the understanding hits you, it’s the final nail in your coffin. A sob echoes in the small room as your walls constrict around him, fluttering. He revels in the image of you falling apart against him.

He kisses you again, then lets his lips hang open over yours as you both breathe heavily from the wicked roll of his hips. He’s blurry through your tears, and you blink a little to better understand what you just saw flashing in his eyes. What you’d seen there two days earlier, too. He loves you, your mind supplies unasked.

Court’s rhythm changes to deep, passionate thrusts as he tries to bury himself in you. His desperate grunts send aftershocks throughout your thighs. He’d never stop if his body would allow it. He gradually slows his movements, still working you through your own high. He finishes with a low, animalistic noise and closes the small gap between your mouths. Neither of you move, panting.

You look up at him through your lashes, your eyes full of tears at the emotion between you two. He kisses you, hard - full of everything he'd wanted to say for months. After several moments, he lets go of your leg, and removes himself from you.

Unwilling to stop touching you, though, he takes you by the hand as he exits the shower. You twist the knob to shut it off as you walk by.

He wraps an old, gray towel around his waist, and hands one to you. You squish your hair, then wrap it around your chest. He’s quiet, uncomfortable for some reason, so you take his hand again, and back him up against the counter. He barks a reluctant, low laugh at you pretending to be able to keep him pinned. He rests his hands on your waist.

“Why are you sad?” You ask bluntly.

“I’m not the one who was just crying,” he deflects with a quip.

You raise your eyebrows and frown at him.

Remembering that he wanted you to know him, he cautiously answers in a halting undertone, “I would like a calm life.” He stops, thinking. “Maybe with you...”

It's almost a question, and he doesn’t say what he means exactly, but you understand. You're his chance at a normal life. A happy life.

“Maybe not a calm life, no, but you could have me.” You phrase it as a potential, though it’s not one. He’s had you wrapped around his finger for months. You'd do anything if your reward was this man.

His face doesn’t change, so you try again, “You already have me; so, it’d be nice if you’d accept it.”

“Oh, I don’t even get a choice, now?” He smirks faintly, his thumbs rubbing along your hips through the thin towel.

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel happy without you,” you confess your earlier thought. Your hand traces over the tattoo on his chest. “I know I wouldn't feel safe."

He sighs heavily. “I can’t say nothing will ever happen,” he says honestly, “but I can promise I'll be there." He pauses, trying to figure out how to express himself. "If you want me, then-"

“I always want you, Court.”

You cut him off, speaking his name for the first time. When when he smiles, it finally touches his eyes. His grip tightens on your waist. He's contemplative for a moment as his look turns mischievous.

He lowers his voice, “About that book you tried to kill me with: I think I remember a page or two -” he breaks off as he bends faster than you’re capable of reacting to, and throws you expertly over his shoulder, smiling at your laughing shriek.

#sierra six #the gray man #the gray man fanfic #court gentry #courtland gentry #my fics #smut #fluff #ryan gosling #lloyd hansen #chris evans #sierra six x reader #court gentry x reader #the gray man fanfiction #personal #I have a deformed finger and my dad makes that manicure joke all the time fyi #the gray man 2022 #sierra six x you

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glitterpeachtree · 8 months

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The fact that it says "Kendom Salon", and they had to add an extra "o".

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anitalenia · 2 years

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━━ anitalenia’s masterlist ༺ ˎˊ-

❝ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡; 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑚𝑠 ❞ ˚ ༘♡

✧˚. VISIT MY OTHER PAGES↷ ˊ- taglist | time stamps | the great library | writing help

* THIS PAGE NO LONGER IN USE, VISIT MY NEW MASTERLIST *

━━━ GENRES I LOVE ★ mafia ｡･:*˚:✧｡ fantasy/supernatural ｡･:*˚:✧｡ step dad ｡･:*˚:✧｡ enemies to lovers ｡･:*˚:✧｡ polyamory ｡･:*˚:✧｡ stepcest ｡･:*˚:✧｡ teacher x student ｡･:*˚:✧｡ bodyguard ｡･:*˚:✧｡ monsterfucking ｡･:*˚:✧｡ bimbo!reader

'*•.¸♡ UPCOMING FICS / WIP ★ be my protector, be my love , court gentry x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ want you, want me, taijani x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ all of me, eyekey x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ a velvet unity, sierra six x fem!reader

'*•.¸♡ UPCOMING SERIES ★ a thousand bad things, lloyd hansen x fem!reader ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

☆。* THE GRAY MAN 。☆。

lloyd hansen | courtland gentry / sierra six |

the gray boys / multiple characters

───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

☆。* TRIPLE FRONTIER 。☆。

santiago garcia / pope | william miller / ironhead |

ben miller | francisco morales / catfish |

the frontier boys / multiple characters

───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

☆。* SLASHERS 。☆。

ghostface | michael myers | jason voorhees |

slashers / multiple characters

───◌┈┈───♡⃝───┈┈◌───

☆。* MISCELLANEOUS 。☆。

avatar | ari levinson | rio (good girls) | battinson |

𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸𝓶. pirates / mafia / fantasy etc.

KEY — s (smut ) f ( fluff ) a ( angst ) d ( dark content )

˖⁺ ⊹୨ let me make it better ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s, f ) ━━ you hated when lloyd yelled, but loved when he made up for it. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: lloyd hansen x fem!reader started: April 28 published: April 30 edited: yes ୨୧ 𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་

˖⁺ ⊹୨ be my protector, be my love ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s, f, a ) ━━ his job was to protect you, but falling in love wasn’t in the contract. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: sierra six x fem!reader started: published: edited: yes ୨୧ 𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་

˖⁺ ⊹୨ by the lakeside ୧⊹ ⁺˖ ( s, f, a ) ━━ you were angry with benny for almost dying and not even caring about it. luckily, benny finds a way to make it up to you. ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: ben miller x fem!reader started: May 22 published: May 26 edited: yes ୨୧ 𖥔 ִ ་ ، ˖ ࣪ ་

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feral-fae-writes · 2 years

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... And the Beast || Imagine

A/N: The second half of the idea that has me in its clutches, again unedited. I’m less married to the dialogue and the details in this one, but also running with my intuition. We don’t disagree with my intuition, because this scene lives rent free in my head. I just want to get the skeletons out of the closet so I can turn these imagines into something worthy of more than chaotic bullet points.

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Dark!/Corrupted! Sierra Six x Female!Reader, Dark!/Corrupted! Courtland Gentry x Female!Reader

Wordcount: 488

Type: Imagine

(tw: mentions of abuse; kidnapping; mentions of stolkholm syndrome)

imagine: six, all cleaned up, having dinner and a conversation. he’s in his redlight suit, and it would seem like a normal night, if not for the threat and his promise, said as easily as grace.

after kidnapping her, he takes her back with him. she’s sitting across from him again, but, this time, she isn’t restrained. six explains the situation.

“i won’t hurt you. you don't have to love me. i know your family abused you. they’re dead now. don’t try to escape; you won’t be able to.”

of course, he provides her with everything she may need and generally leaves her alone. it's not an "i want to intentionally develop stockholm syndrome so you love me" situation, and he makes that clear. she doesn’t understand it. she doesn’t understand him. she doesn’t understand anything.

but he does things that intrigue her. she's the one who bites -- and she bites down hard.

when they converse at dinner, over a meal he's cooked (perhaps steak, perhaps something inexpensive, perhaps something else, it doesn’t matter. she can’t focus on the presentation or the taste), she at first clams up, and then finally asks about why he wants company.

he, of course, doesn’t answer at first. instead, he stares at her with those grey-blue puppy eyes. perhaps he’s weighing options in his mind. when he finally does, his tone is dangerous and dangerously sexy. but it’s not him, not really. the person who speaks is someone unhinged, twisted up, someone who was hurt so badly, they didn’t know how to recover right.

"shut up before i make you do it myself."

in spite of herself, she lets out a small whimper.

again, six gets up, again, he pushes his chair in.

he takes his time moving towards her, this time like a predator. but he only looks her in the eyes, a finger pressed under her chin to tilt her head up just slightly.

“w-what are you doing?”

“examining for later.”

“i-- i don’t understand--”

his look makes her blood run cold, and her voice falls out of her throat mid-sentence. he doesn’t respond. he doesn’t have to. there’s something in those grey-blue eyes that he was holding back; sparks were escaping the embers they burned in.

at one point in the past, it may have been protective.

in spite of everything, in spite of the fear, she wonders, vaguely, what it would be like, swimming inside his eyes -- what it would be like if she grasped those same sparks before they faded into obscurity.

the finger that was under her chin moves up her jawline, only for him to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

when he does answer, his voice has gone low. he's not responding to her statement, but responding to her directly, making a promise without saying the words.

“listen to me: you belong to me, even if you don’t realise it yet.”

#fae writes #sierra six x reader #sierra six x female reader #sierra six #courtland gentry x reader #courtland gentry x female reader #courtland gentry #court x reader #court x female reader #dark au #corrupted au #the gray man #the gray man 2022 #the gray man imagine #imagine #ryan gosling #fanfic #fanfiction #part 2

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ninjathrowingstork · 2 years

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Never Quite Free

Chapter 3: Filed

Over the long years, he'd gotten used to waking up in unfamiliar places, be it late night arrivals in new cities or bases where he'd (usually ) be shown where to sleep, or using the downtime of travel to steal some rest where he could, awaking to plant his boots on new sands or a different airstrip, waiting to be briefed on where he'd been brought and who it was he was meant to kill. Or, on occasion, the unpleasant awakening after being knocked suddenly unconscious, and the lightning-quick assessment of his new surroundings for where he'd been moved to and who his captors could be. Waking up in a trunk never got easier, and each time was its own version of shitty. And, often, waking up meant returning to the pain. This was one of those times. The man known to the intelligence community only as Sierra Six opened his eyes.

(Ow.)

Most times, upon waking he’d go from unconscious, sleeping lightly, to fully alert, without the groggy half-waking stage. His life had often depended on it. This time, though, something was very much off , and he stared at the unfamiliar ceiling and hazily

sorted out the various sources of pain, trying to backtrack how he’d ended up wherever here was. He’d lost a good amount of blood the night before, he remembered that much and the grogginess tracked with previous occasions of moderately severe blood loss. It was enough to slow him down for a while, but he’d recover. And now, as to where he was. . . He’d. . he was being tracked by that merc outfit and they. . . His mind raced while he mentally cataloged the injuries demanding to make themselves known. (Sutured side and scalp, left shoulder dislocated and re-set so that’ll be swollen for a few days.) He could feel the skin bruised and split over his knuckles, and an exploratory poke confirmed the skin around his right eye was swelling up into what must look like a lovely black eye. That left his left ankle. . . (sprained, likely both sides, that’ll-) he stopped.

The ankle had been carefully wrapped in a bandage and propped up on a pillow. A careful nudge confirmed an ice pack by it that must have slipped off during the night and as alertness gradually returned, other details that weren’t usually there the morning after a mission that’d leave him like this could be felt. He was usually careful to clean off after an op, but. . . reaching up would have been a challenge, with the stitches running over his waist and ribs, and painful with the recovering shoulder, but. . . the unpleasantly familiar stickiness of drying blood and sweat was absent from his hair and face and body. He was clean, he realized. Sleeping on the floor was nothing new, he’d caught sleep in worse places than. . . a kitchen? There were towels under him, head and damaged foot on pillows, with a throw blanket covering him as though to make the hard linoleum floor more comforting. Rolling his head to the side showed another ice pack on the floor that must have slid off his shoulder and now sat by a metal water bottle with a large blue “T” on the side.

He shot the rest of the way to consciousness as the memories of the night before reassembled. (Tori.) He’d found her, the woman from the park five months and a lifetime ago. Weak from the blood loss and the beating he’d taken handling the mercs, somehow, miraculously, he’d remembered the address on her card and dragged himself to her building. She should have kept walking, anyone else would have, he told himself. It would have been safer for her. Keep walking or tell him to get lost, call the police on him. They’d call the Agency and they’d finally come take him back, throw him back behind bars, if he even made it that far alive. That’s what anyone would have done, he told himself. (At least the kid’s safe ). And for a minute, closing his eyes again in the golden morning light sliding in through the window, he let himself enjoy the attempted comfort of his makeshift bed and the quiet of her home and for a few minutes, at least, let himself believe he could be safe, somewhere, also.

A sound, and he was again on full alert, eyes still half-shut and waiting for whatever-

She was awake, shuffling sleepily into the kitchen. (Must’ve woken up because she made a noise) but it was the usual, tactical assessment running, not his focus. She was dressed in sweats, that strange smoke-blonde hair piled up in a bun, the most soft and casual he’d seen her (though the two times so far weren’t a good measure, he admitted to himself). With a stifled yawn, she looked down, grinning when she saw he was awake. “Morning, Court.” She said his name thoughtfully, as though still trying it out and fitting it to him and (it shouldn’t feel this weird to hear someone say my name, right?) How long had it been, really? Or maybe it was just hearing it from her, the way she’d said his number had sounded nice. “How’d you sleep?” There was a series of rattles and thuds, the water running as she got a pot of coffee started by the sink.

(Why does she care?) “It’s fair to say I’ve had worse nights, slept worse places,” he weighed different jokes with answering honestly. “Slept on the floor, not my favorite out of them, beds are nicer, but it does beat. . .” he trailed off, humor gone under her worried eyes. “. . . Bleeding to death outside. Thanks for the-” he gestured to the pillow under his swelling foot, “and for. . . everything else. You didn’t have to.”

Circling the table to where he laid, Tori carefully crouched beside him, looking up and down his blanket-covered body. “Yeah, sorry about the floor, it’s my first time sewing someone back together and I didn’t want any more emergencies during the night that would have me cleaning blood out of the couch. Still got more than the rest of last night’s mess to clean up, anyway.” She hooked a thumb at where his bloodied, ruined tac gear sat in a pile still, in the corner. “Doesn’t look like you’ve popped anything in the night, so yeah, we can get you set up on the couch instead later, that’ll for sure be more comfortable.”

He started to say that was ok, that yes he would very much like a soft couch to sleep on, like a kid at a slumber party, but instead his stomach broke the silence with a massive growl.

“When was the last time you ate?” Eyebrows knitted together, her look turned into. . . concern?

“I- uh, yesterday? Yesterday morning?” He hadn’t really been keeping track, maybe it was the day before?” “It’s fine, I got some pretzels at the bus depot.” He’d always grabbed food where he could, but being hunted left little time and he’d been preoccupied with leading them away from Claire for the past week. Somehow, though, that was the wrong answer.

“Yesterday morning? Pretzels? Goddamnit, Court. You’re gonna need a lot more protein at least, and fluids, to make up for all the blood you lost and all the healing your body’s gotta do now.”

(She’s really worried?) He’d survived worse on less food, just enough caloric input to get him back to his handler or base where they’d patch him up. But the worry in her eyes had something in his chest twisting in a way that wasn’t related to the beating he’d taken the night before. She left, returning moments later after rattling something in a cabinet to press some pills into his hand. “More Tylenol and iron. Here, before you-”

Reflexively, he took them, swallowing them with a little effort .

She sighed. “Dammit You’ve got a bottle of water right here. You really shouldn’t swallow them dry.”

“Um. Yes ma’am?”

Again, that small twinge of confusion that. . . that she cared?

She’d stood, muttering something to herself, and was moving about the kitchen fixing her breakfast. He let himself relax back into the pillow, enjoying the smell of the coffee and peaceful morning sounds. The “ding” of the microwave was followed shortly by her dropping into a crouch by his shoulder.

“Here. Oatmeal. It’s not a lot, but you’re gonna need to eat something soon.”

“I- what?” She’d made him food? “That- food sounds wonderful right now. Thank you.” And it smelled wonderful, too. He reached for the plastic bowl she offered, wincing as his shoulder protested the motion and side twinged under the strain of trying to sit up. With an annoyed sigh, he dropped back onto the pillow.

“Well, that’s not going to work.” She spoke his thoughts aloud. A pause, as she looked at him thoughtfully.

Distantly, he noticed just how adorable she looked in the oversized sweats, with her hair up.

“Be right back.” And, standing, she left the room, into what he dimly remembered was the living room he’d been half-dragged through the night before.

“Ok?” He watched her go. She’d also taken the food with her.

There was a thump, a clang, and he actually smiled as she cursed quietly at the lamp, forgotten from the night before. More sounds of movement and a second later, she was back. “Alright, you up to moving to the couch now?”

The couch sounded wonderful; moving, not so much. He tried not to react to the uncomfortable pulling at his side as they levered him to his feet, leaning heavily on her to keep weight off his bad ankle while not aggravating his still-sore shoulder, and somehow they shuffle-hopped out to her small living room and the couch. He’d managed to hold back any reactions to the sudden shots of pain, but the softness of the cushions under his aching body finally getting to *rest* after too many days had a small groan escaping as he was lowered half-sitting propped up against one arm.

For a moment, the ash-blonde woman’s look of worry returned, then she grinned in understanding. “Yeah it is pretty comfy, glad I sprung for the longer sofa for sure now.”

He *did* have enough space to stretch out, which he didn’t always have. Six - Court - let his head fall back onto the pillow, eyes sliding shut again. (Fuck when was the last time somewhere felt this nice?) After the last sleepless forty-eight hours since boarding the bus here, on the run and being tracked, and then the quiet hunting and being hunted and the frantic, frenzied, desperate fighting in the dark until he was, barely, the last one drawing breath, his body was suddenly saying it was now time to sleep for at least another day.

(Probably shouldn’t say I thought she’d tell me to sleep on the chair if she didn’t trust me not to bleed on her couch.) Goddamn he was getting too old for this.

Then Tori was patting his arm for him to open his eyes, shoving the bowl of oatmeal into his hands. “No, hey, don’t fall asleep again yet, you’ve still gotta eat.” And he re-opened his eyes to the warm bowl being pressed into his hands. The oats looked like a gray-ish mush, but as his stomach let out another roaring growl, it looked like the best meal in the world. Pre-packaged cinnamon and apples, instant out of a bag. It was heavenly.

She watched him shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth for a moment before turning back to the kitchen with a short laugh. “Heh, those pretzels really were some time ago.” More thumping and the clinking of mugs. “I’d say you’ve got to take better care of yourself, but considering the pile of bloody rags and towels on my kitchen floor, making sure you’ve eaten isn’t really your biggest concern.”

His half-smile turned into a wince, (That’ll be more a lot of DNA evidence for me to clean up, once I start moving again)

Tori popped her head around the corner, breaking into his thoughts of counter-detection cleanup. “Hey you want coffee?”

“I- coffee would be lovely, thanks.”

“Aright,” she reappeared, moments later, another bowl cradled in one hand, and two mugs clutched in the other, which she set down on the coffee table, sliding one over to him. “I’m guessing you’d drink whatever I handed you,” which, he realized, was true, “but here it is black because you don’t seem like a milk and sugar person.”

Which was also true, but- he paused, noticing the mug she’d given him. “What-” pointing first at the mug, and then himself, he looked up to meet her barely repressed mischievous grin, which she quickly covered up by taking a bite of her own food. “How is this mug. . . for me?” It’s not what he meant, but wasn’t sure there were words for it. The coffee mug she’d slid across to him was cream-colored ceramic, with a large outline of an old-fashioned penny farthing bicycle on it, and in the middle of the black design was a large, red, number “6”. In smaller, black text underneath, he read the words “I am not a number.”

Finally, she let out the laugh she’d been holding back, and Court finally felt himself smiling at it. “It’s from that show, the one I told you about. Remember?”

He did, from that day in the park.

“I got it ages ago, but I guess it’s yours now, after last night.”

“Last night?” And why did it also tug at something in his chest to hear something here was his now? Not just something he’d use and leave behind, the dingy, impersonal furniture of safe houses and hotels, or something he’d been issued , but something that was really his.

“Last night,” the wide grin had slid into something softer as she met his eyes, “when you told me your name. You’re not just ‘Number Six,’ now, Court.” Something warm was blooming and spreading inside him that had nothing to do with the coffee he’d sipped, breaking eye contact with her. It was good coffee, he noted.

The oatmeal finished, he carefully placed his bowl on the table, and she scooped it up along with hers, disappearing back into the kitchen where the water ran for a few seconds before she returned. “I’ll finish with those later. You good for now, or up for just resting a while longer?”

(She knows I can’t stay, at least,) he mentally agreed. It had been nice, being here, being cared for and actually treated like a normal person. Being around her again. It would ache when he had to leave, and not just from his injuries. “I think this is nice, just like this. For now.” The painkillers had kicked in, and the bruised skin of his black eye only pulsed slightly in time with his swollen ankle and the sutures in his side, and he’d allow himself all the time he could steal to recover before having to get up and the bloody ruins of his clothing before leaving again. He leaned back against the pillow she’d set out for him (fuck this is so much nicer than hotel pillows), staring up at her, hoping for. . . what, that she wouldn’t leve him, for the little time left he could stay there and not put her in more danger?

As if he’d asked, she slid back into the armchair across the coffee table, legs folding up underneath her, elbows on knees, chin on hands. “All right, then. Now. . .” she trailed off.”

(Now what?)

“. . . now that you’re not about to bleed to death or pass out or die from starvation, I just have a few questions, Court, starting with just who the fuck are you?”

There it was. He’d know she’d get around to asking that, and still didn’t have a good plan.

“I know, I know, there’s a lot, probably most of it, you can’t tell me, but I just need to know, I don’t know, what kind of good guy you are?”

(A good guy? Guess I kinda said that.)

“You’re an amazing shot, and were part of some organization where you used numbers, but aren’t anymore since you said you don’t have the expense account anymore, so there WAS one, I’m assuming”

“When did I say that?”

“Last night, you were half-conscious from blood loss and I joked about your owing me another coat. Guess you probably don’t remember that.”

Six remembered parts of the night before, like the concern in her eyes as she’d gently washed the grime and blood from his hair and face, but no he didn’t remember that. (Damn she’s put together that much already?)

“So,” she continued, “thief? Spy? Assassin?”

(There’s no good way to say this, is there?) “Well, more or less. I’m unemployed right now.” He glanced over at her in time to see her eyebrows shoot up.

“Unemployed . . .assassin. . .?”

“Technically. I’m actually between jobs right now.”

“Between what. . . and what?”

“Between. . . (just tell her something, doesn’t have to be the full story just yet)” He closed his eyes again, making himself say what torture couldn’t have forced out of him. “Between being an asset, a trained killer. . . for the CIA,” a sharp inhalation through teeth was her only response, “and. . . just trying to keep myself and the one person I call family alive for now.” She’d kept him alive, and all he could give her for something like that was something else of himself, the little of self he had left to trade with. Across the slim table, she was still staring at him, wide-eyed when he finally looked back.

“No shit.” It was barely above a whisper. She was sitting back in the chair, knees pulled halfway to her chest. “You were CIA. . ?”

Her question trailed off as he shook his head no. “Not an agent, an asset. Deniable, the ‘gray men” they called us.” (Expendable) “They used us, you’re right there were other numbers, for going after truly bad people.” At that, he finally turned back to meet her eyes, hoping as much as he had hoped for anything that she’d understand what he meant.

A small nod seemed to confirm that hope. “Then everything went sideways and now I’ve got an unemployed CIA hitman not bleeding out on my sofa?”

Releasing a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he relaxed slightly. He could tell her the rest later, about his past. If they had a later, he reminded himself, sadly. It wasn’t safe for him to stay here for too long, if any other teams were still tracking him. “Something like that, yeah. Outlived my usefulness and all that.”

Her small “hmm” drew his eyes back to the woman seated across from him and her worried eyes. “So, spy stuff then?” And the small half smile she gave had him nearly grinning back.

“Yeah, spy stuff.”

“Ok then.” And she unfurled her legs to stand.

This was it then, he realized. He’d had time to recover, to sleep and eat and really talk to her more honestly than he had in. . . too many years, really. Now it was time to get moving as much as his aching body was not goddamn ready to move, but she’d gone back into the kitchen, and he slowly, painfully, swung his legs over the side of the couch, somehow pulling himself upright and had started trying to lever himself to his feet when she reemerged from the doorway, holding an armload of black fabric he recognized as his bloodstained clothes from the night before. He’d ask to keep the borrowed white shirt, even though it’d show any new stains it didn’t have the massive slice in the side that would easily show the dressings underneath, instead of just a vague lump on his side. “Thanks, I think I can get changed back on my own now. If I can just keep-”

At the sight of him half-leaning on the sofa, she’d dropped the armload of clothes and boots, crossing the space back to him in two strides. “Oh fuck no.”

“Hey you’re really gotta stop saying that when you see- ow!”

Grabbing his good shoulder, she’d steered him back to sitting on the couch. He knew a thousand ways to kill a man, but let her push him back against the cushions with only a slight protest.

“Hey, if you need to get up, I can help you, but you’re not walking on that-”

“Tori, I can’t stay here-”

“Not on the couch then?”

"When you asked if I was good for now-"

"I meant taking a nap, not hobbling out of here!"

She didn’t understand. “No, I should have been gone long ago, it’s-”

“Like hell you’re leaving, did you think you’d walk out like that?”

He shook his head, “I’ve had worse and survived-”

“You do realize that’s not any better?”

“-And just my being here this long could put you in danger again” “Push through the pain” came the long-dead voice in his head.

“Screw that, I’m not letting you just limp out of my home when you’re that banged up and still short on blood”

“If someone tracks me here-”

“If someone tracks you anywhere like that, you’re gonna die anyway. I don’t know if you were lucid enough to remember, but I did clean the blood off the wall outside, and no one knows you’re here-” she broke off, eyes narrowing. “When you sent that coat, no one knew about me, right?”

He shook his head, “private courier, private buyer, I hid that it was even me who sent it. You’re still safe.”

“Good.” She was still standing over him, hands on his shoulders, pressing him into the sofa.

(All the fights I’ve been in and why is she somehow intimidating?)

“So you can spend the rest of today on that couch, and I’m going to fling everything we got blood on last night into the wash, then go run some errands, pick up more food and some clothes for you that aren’t my brother’s he left behind. You want to get somewhere safer, well I’ve got somewhere we can go tomorrow but we’ll need some supplies and an early start. No,” she cut him off, “you’re staying right here today, I’m not making you go through a road trip right now.”

“I can help-”

“You can stay sitting right there, that’s a bad ankle sprain. My best friend in college did that and made herself power through it to graduate and still has problems sometimes a decade later.”

Ten years? He hadn’t dreamed he’d make it to this age when Fitz had approached him, so long ago, and had no dreams he’d make it another ten. Also he probably shouldn’t mention all his existing old injuries that never healed quite right. . . “Yes, ma’am,” he conceded, letting her steer him back against the pillowed arm of the couch (it really was a nice pillow. “But, how can you trust I’ll still be here when you get back from shopping?”

She grinned at him, sweetly. “Because I’ve just been yelling at you for a minute or so now, and you could easily have just moved me out of the way, if you really wanted to leave.”

That was true.

“You don’t really want to leave, and know staying with me is your best bet at survival.”

That, he also admitted to himself, was true. “Wait- wait.”

She paused, scooping back up the armload of bloody black fabric.

“One of the pants leg pockets, it’s sewn shut, there’s a wallet inside.” He walked her through finding it and cutting the stitches open, and her eyes went wide at the fake passport and stuffed wallet sealed in a bag inside. He’d managed to hit one of his small drops on the way, and it would have to be enough.

“Court, there’s. . . there’s nearly five thousand dollars in here.”

“Take it,” he instructed.

“No, I don’t- I don’t want your money.” She shook her head, staring between the sheaf of folded bills in her hand and him.

“I”m not trying to pay you off, Tori, but clothes and food and everything else are going to add up, and if you’re going to keep me trapped here,” she smiled again at that, “I can at least help with that.”

Finally she acquiesced, slipping the wallet into the pocket of her sweats, then making a face as she realized what she’d just done. “Fine. We are gonna need to buy a lot more food, for what I’m planning.”

Somehow, hearing that at least she had a plan made him feel a little less uneasy at staying here. “Tori.”

She stopped, turning back before she’d rounded the corner of a hallway. “Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

(Why what? She knows what-who I am and still. . .) “Why are you doing all this? Helping me? You don’t owe me from the park, and you don’t want money. . .” he trailed off, not knowing how to end that in a way that wasn’t possibly more insulting.

In reply, she wrinkled her nose in mock-annoyance. “Just so you know, I’m only doing all this because, under all the blood and bruises, the guy I remember from the park was kinda hot, and-” the strange feeling of something rising in his chest stopped as she did, “-and right now you really do look pathetic like that.”

“Hey!” Ok so he probably did. “That hurt.”

Her eyeberows shot up again. “You, the man who just tried walking on a sprained ankle and whose shoulder I reset last night, who was a hired killer for the government was hurt by that?”

That very nearly made him laugh again. “Hey, words hurt more. And anyway, it was more of an indenture.”

“Say what?”

“More of an indentured servitude kind of arrangement. They did pay me. It was complicated.”

Her eyebrows went up again. “Ok. Ok, put a pin in that and we’ll come back later. Getting your bloody mess cleaned up and some errands done and then oh we’re not dropping that subject, but I know I’ll need more food and and at least one drink for that.”

And she was gone down the hall.

In the silence, he leaned back on the pillow she’d given him, arranging his swollen ankle and sore shoulder as comfortably as possible and stared up at this new section of her unfamiliar ceiling. He suspected he’d get far better acquainted with it in time, though. Closing his eyes, he finally- finally let himself relax a little bit more (All the squads on my tail are eliminated, Claire’s safe. I’ve got somewhere secure to rest and heal a little more and she said there’s somewhere else outside the city she can move me.) Depending on the location, he might ask to be allowed to just sleep on her couch some more, if the location and route there risked exposure. But that was for later.

A few minutes later, she was back, in street clothes and with a satchel over one shoulder. “Hey, I’m gonna swing by the office to drop off some stuff, but I’ve got a project we’ve been working on due Monday, but they already know I’m taking some time off after that, so we’ll be clear to get away without anyone connecting it to you, ok?”

He nodded, it sounded like a good plan. “And this second location of yours?”

Shifting around the strap of her bag, she rummaged through her pockets as she spoke. “Got a family cabin up in the mountains, grandparents left it to the three of us and some cousins, but brother’s kids are in school still, sister’s out of state, and cousins are across the country, so it’s all ours. Rest up today and we’ll head out tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, hopefully no one found them before then.

“Hey,” she looked over her shoulder at him, preparing to leave, “bathroom’s first door on the left, you gonna be ok while I’m out?”

When was the last time anyone had asked him that? (stop it,) he told himself. “I’m always fine, it’s you I’m worried about right now.”

“Says the man who looks like hamburger.”

He’d have grinned at that if he hadn’t been thinking about all the ways she could be spotted. Could be followed back to him or grabbed while she was out or- “I’m- it’s just I’m the one who’s supposed to be the bodyguard. What if something happens-”

“Court, I know you’ve been through shit and are probably right to be worried, but,” she grinned again, and oh it was like sunshine , “what if, for just once, maybe nothing bad happens.” And then the door was shut behind her, the bolt sliding home in the lock sounding like safety and not captivity, for once.

What if maybe nothing bad happens?

Around the Gray Man, that was unlikely.

Still, it was a beautiful dream.

And he let it carry him away again, pulling the throw blanket off the couch to cover him as he drifted off in the golden midday sun filtering through the window.

Chapter 4

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