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dindjiarin · 2 years

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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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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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anitalenia · 1 year

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━━━ sierra six drabble ₓ˚. ୭

𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐏 ──⠀۪ ♡ ۫ 𝟾 : 𝟸 𝟾 pm ୨୧

𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒. ̨ ✩°̥࿐ just thinking about the obvious crush you have on Six, but he’s too stubborn to give into it.

pairing: Sierra Six x fem!Reader

authors note: tbh, I liked this too much to just leave it as a drabble. I’ll probably make this into a full fic eventually, so I guess you can consider this a teaser 😭 I thought I’d at least post it and see how it goes. it’s probably not that eventful but whateva.

LINKS ੈ♡˳·˖✶ masterlist | time stamps | taglist

YOU COULDN’T HELP BUT STARE at the way his muscles flexed under his suit jacket; a steely gray that complimented the olive undertones of his skin.

Six barley turned his head, managing to look at you from the corner of his eye. Subtle enough to see the way you looked at him as more than a… whatever he was. Bodyguard. It brought a small smirk to his face as he opened up his jacket and pulled out a piece of gum from his inner coat pocket.

He’d offer you one, but he liked it better when you thought he was oblivious.

You watched as he threw the stick of pink gum into his mouth, bubblicious no doubt. Or watermelon, another one of his favorites. You stared at the way his jaw clenched as he chewed on it, shoving the tiny wrapper into his pocket. You watched as he slowly stalked around the wall length windows, resuming his casual pace, examining the yard like something was going to pop out at any second.

All you could do was watch. Watch him, watch him walk, watch him stare out at nothing. It must’ve been a boring job; just staring, walking, waiting. Waiting for something to happen, daring someone to come.

You cocked your head at him, your eyes running down from the tip of his neat blonde hair, to the strong side profile of his muscular body and jaw, to the big thighs stuck in those gray slacks, to the glossy sheen of his black shoes.

He was so fine and he knew it. He had to of, otherwise why would he tramp around in those suits of his, with his stupid hair gelled back, with his stupid blue eyes, and his stupid big hands, and his stupid broad chest, and his stupid pink gum. You narrowed your eyes at him, frustrated with the longing you had for him like it was his fault. Well it really was honesty, he was the one that looked like that.

Six could feel your stare burning into him, the buzzing silence between you two thick with… something. He could feel it thrumming under his skin, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He looked out at the trees, then glanced at you, then back to the trees with an amused barely-there smile. He wondered what you were thinking about, if you were thinking about him, if you were thinking about him like he was thinking about you.

He put his hands in his pant pockets, wondering how long you were gonna keep up your little staring contest. He didn’t mind it; he enjoyed being gawked at by you actually. Made him feel like less of an asset and more of a person. Even then, you were a pretty girl. Who didn’t like being looked at by pretty girls?

You yourself wondered why Six hadn’t said anything to you yet. He must’ve caught your staring by now, you weren’t exactly subtle. Maybe he was purposefully ignoring you, making it a point to look at anything but you. Whatever the reason, you decided you wanted to hear him, hear his voice one last time before you had to go take a shower.

Honestly, you just needed to get out of the living room before you jumped him like a cat in heat.

“So, anything interesting outside?” You asked stupidly, just wanting to hear that deep voice of his instead of an actual answer; hear that sarcastic clip you knew he’d have with you. Something about the undertones of condescension in his words really made your skin tingle, especially when he looked directly at you when he said them. You tightened your thighs together as he turned his head towards you, the sun shining down on him from the window like he was an Angel descending down the clouds, being hand delivered to only you.

Six felt a chuckle tickle his throat as he turned his head at you, his eyes catching the way your legs closed up when he caught your eye. He licked his lips, quickly, sucking in a calming breath of air as he felt the tantalizing urge to just walk over to you and take you on that couch come over him like a dark cloud of sin.

“Uh, no. No there isn’t, actually. Just those little flowers over there… Tulips, huh? I didn’t take you for a tulip kinda girl.” Six pointed out to the flower patch over to the side of the yard, then put his hand back in his pocket and sauntered over to you with a divert little smile. You noticed it, and it made your skin purr.

You gazed up at him almost lustfully as he looked at you with those steely blue eyes, swirling with amusement and beguiled charm. You let out a soft chuckle at that, blatantly staring at his lips.

“Oh yeah? What kind of girl do you take me for then?” You teased almost too carelessly, cocking your head at him as your thighs pulsed with want straight to your throbbing pussy, thinking more with your salacious desires than your brain. You couldn’t help it. He was so pretty, so strong, so big. Your mind conjured up all the positions he could take you in, bent over this couch, over the coffee table, on the floor, on the window overlooking those damned tulips.

Six could see that you were out of it, your eyes dark with want and your thighs squeezed together so tight. You were just staring at him, entranced, stuck in your own little head. He was able to pick up on those things, you know. Especially after being with you for these past few months he’s come to learn how you operate, what your mannerisms were, what your expressions meant. He knew you inside and out, knew you better than you knew yourself. He knows when your sad, when your happy, when your angry… even when your horny.

He could feel that tantalizing pull within himself as he looked down at you, thinking how to answer your question without saying too much about what he really thought. What kind of girl do you take me for then? Oh he knew what kind of girl you were. What kind of girl he could make you be for him.

He just smiled, shaking his head to try and lighten the tension between you. I mean, god, he could practically feel the pheromones emanating from you.

“I’m gonna go check the perimeter. Don’t go anywhere until I’m back, alright? I shouldn’t be too long.” Six mumbled, taking his hands out of his pocket as he went to check the watch on his wrist. He had to get out of there, and he knew he shouldn’t leave you alone like this but it was an, thankfully, uneventful afternoon, and he figured he could spare a few minutes. He just had to leave, let you sort yourself out. No matter what he may feel, or what he might tell himself, at the end of the day he had a job to do, and no matter what he wanted he couldn’t cross that boundary. He knew that the moment he had a taste of you, the moment he felt your soft skin under his calloused hands, that the moment he gave in to his primal desires… god, just the thought… he’s really just digging up his own grave at this point.

You couldn’t help but feel dejected, slumping down in your seat and letting out a tense breath.

“Oh, okay. That’s fine. I’ll just… watch tv or something.” You rubbed your thighs nervously, suddenly embarrassed, feeling like you ruined the moment with something you did. Did you? Oh well, even if you didn’t, you still felt responsible for the sudden drop in intimacy as Six resumed his blank expression and walked out of the room, the imprint of two guns around his waist as he went.

You stared as he left, your skin hot and your stomach churning. That’s all you could do was watch. Watch him walk away, watch him bid you goodbye. It was a boring job you had. Staring, waiting. Waiting for him to do something. Waiting for yourself to gain the courage you needed.

You grabbed the remote next to you with a frown, staring at the tv with a pit of shame sitting heavy in your stomach, wishing you were watching something else instead.

Six walked out of the room with his cock semi-hard in his pants, his fists clenched in his pockets. It felt like he was trudging through mud the farther he walked away, but he knew it was for the best. It was just…

It was just getting harder and harder to deny you…

#୧💭꒷₊˚𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒. ⊹₊˚#˚ ༘♡.𝙖𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙝.˖⁺.#the gray man imagine #the gray man #lloyd hansen x plus size reader #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen imagine #lloyd hansen fanfiction #lloyd hansen fic #courtland gentry #courtland gentry fic #courtland gentry imagine #courtland gentry x reader #sierra six one shot #sierra six #sierra six imagine #sierra six x reader

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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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niobe-loreley · 9 months

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Heaven Is In A Shortcake {xvii}

AND NOW~ IT WAS TIME~ FOR TUMBLR TO DROWN IN THE SWEET SORROW OF THIS FIC'S 17TH CHAPTER

disclaimer: The Gray Man and the characters are NOT mine, even the reader. I only own the plot and the reader's character lol. Pictures used in the fic are NOT MINE, but only the edited version (u can msg me if u ze owner); credits to the rightful owners and canva + weheartit. Additionally, I am not a Subic/Zambales native, so my apologies for any wrong locations, descriptions, or languages.

Six x F!Reader / Courtland Gentry x Female Reader

warnings: moderate amount of swear words. some filipino dialogues. slow burn. fluff. trust issues. dramaramramamama. comedy if you use a magnifying glass. culture shock. word count check. slightly proofread/revised.

CHAPTER SELECTION IS IN THE ✨Masterlist✨ Chapter 16 was the icon Chapter 17 is the legend

word count: 3.9k (N/N) = nickname *Kiara = Clare *Kurt = Court *cover names = reader doesn't know YET (except you do know #wreckthe4thwall)

This has got to be kidnapping.

Yet how can it be when you're not even verbally struggling to escape?

The only physical binding you have is your sprained ankle. If you didn't have that, you can easily jump out of the car.

But you dare not anger Court any further. He might not let you leave them until you ripen of old age.

Would that be so bad, though?

You blush, sharply averting your gaze out the window as if it would throw the thought away. Being with Court and Claire in less than three hours for thrice a week should be enough for friends hanging out.

Right?

So, why are you wishing for more time?

Why are you always at the edge of your seat waiting for them?

Why is it always hard to watch them walk out of the cafe without you?

The answers are obvious. You just don't want to indulge them again, especially after what happened tonight.

"Home runnnn!" Claire shouts happily as she races through the garage. She certainly looked like she batted a ball out of the field, arms raised overhead, open-mouthed grin, and keys dangling noisily.

You and Court stay silent as Claire unlocks the door. He has you in his arms again, but you don't breathe a complaint this time.

"Want to take a bath, (N/N)?" Claire asks when the three of you entered the guestroom.

You nod. "Sure, that'd be grand."

Court gently sets you down on the bed. "Do you, um, need help?" he questions with a red face, "Taking a bath?"

You laugh. "I'm not that incapacitated, dude. Just get me a chair, towel, and clothes."

"Here's a towel!" Claire gets one from the closet and deposits it on the bed in a flash, "I'll go get a plastic chair!"

She's out of the room before either of you can blink.

"What a proactive teen," you comment amusedly before the silence becomes awkward.

Court snorts in agreement, looks at you for a few seconds, and turns away. "Hey, listen, you can borrow my clothes for the time being."

"Do you have my kind of underwear this time?" you tease.

"About the underwear.. we can buy some tomorrow morning." Court awkwardly rubs his nape, "There's a— what do you call this.. a small market at the park tomorrow. It's always there every Saturday, from 6 AM to 10 AM."

"A tiangge?"

"Yeah, that!"

"Alright, it'd probably be good for me to walk around tomorrow."

"Who says you'll be walking around?"

"Uh, I did?"

"No, you're staying in the car."

"What?"

"My house, my car, my rules."

You chuckle. "Court, seriously.. what are you doing? This is rather sweet and all, but you're lowkey scaring me." you swiftly add to ease his growing anxiety, "It's scary in a funny way, actually. But I'm getting worried that you're over-worrying about me."

He glances down at the floor. "Isn't this what friends do?" and peers at you with eyes so dubious it's as though he doesn't know the meaning of friends.

"Yeah, it is.. and I would do the same for you, it's just that…" you look straight into his eyes, "This kind of overworrying feels different. I can't help but think it feels different. This, us, we.. feel different. But I don't want to think it does, I want to know."

You're quick to realize what you just said, their weight and meaning, so you let out a loud laugh. Hopefully it will dispel your statements.

"Or maybe it's just me!— Me being silly ol' me," you snicker.

Yet Court is looking at you as though he understands the facade you're wearing.

"What's so funny?" Claire drags a monoblock chair into the room.

You shake your head. "I was just mimicking Flint Lockwood."

"You know Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs?!"

"Know it? I've watched it a hundred times!"

"There! Good as new!" Claire declares, satisfied.

After taking a bath, the father-daughter duo helped you with your wounds again. Claire has just finished bandaging your elbow. While Court went to get another compression bandage after leaving an ice pack on your ankle.

"Kiara.. may I ask you something?"

She snorts. "Of course. And no need to be all formal."

"How did you and Kurt find me?"

Claire freezes, the look on her face somewhat resembles a search engine loading continuously due to a weak internet. "Um, well.. we were going to invite you to watch a movie with us," she smiles sheepishly, "It's Friday. And it's been a while.

"Anyway, we knew you were going to Lillia's, so we turned around and drove to the hotel. We got there just as you were being chased."

You resist a shudder when you hear derisive howling in your ears. You wonder how long those guys will be in your mind, their laughs and hoots bouncing back and forth, reverberating your skull.

"I'm glad you two turned around," you smile at Claire with glassy eyes. "Thank you, Kiara."

She's stunned until tears brim her eyes. But Claire doesn't let them fall. "Don't just thank me. It's Six who beat their asses," she snickers.

"Who?" you ask.

"What?" Claire replies and freezes in realization.

"(Y/N), are you hungry?" Court inquires, sidling in the room.

"No, thank you." you glance at him from head to toe, "How about you? Didn't all that ass kicking got you starving?"

"Not really." Court sits on a chair at the edge of the bed. He takes off the ice pack from your ankle, which he towel-dries before he mindfully wraps a compression bandage around it.

He's too focused on your sprain while you're so engrossed watching him that neither of you notice Claire sneaking out of the room.

"Hey, can you come over here and hand me the ice pack?"

Court just finishes bandaging your sprain. Yet he wastes no time obliging you. This, again, neither of you notices.

"You found another welt on you?" he asks, sounding like he's half-joking (but he's not).

You snatch the ice pack from him and press it up against his left jaw. Court is monumentally unprepared for the "assault" that he winces in pain.

"Nope! Found a bruise on you, though." you say, snickering.

Court lets the astonishment wash over him. "You notice that?" he asks, somewhat amazed.

"At first, I thought it was a tattoo."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking."

"Oh.."

You snort. "Doofus."

"Twerp," he fires back, flaring.

You double over, laughing. But you still have the ice pack steady on his jaw. "Sometimes you're a sore loser," you examine his face for any more injuries, but it's hard when he's scrunching it up to a scowl. "No, scratch that, you are one."

"And you're just infuriating. All. The. Time." he remarks with hardening emphasis.

"But you love me," you intone jokingly.

Court stares at you, astounded. And as the blood creep up his face, your laugh dies down in shame.

He knows you're joking, right?

You know you were joking.. right?

Sure, you like-like him, but you wouldn't call it love. Infatuation is more like it. Or stirrings, as Captain Jack Sparrow termed it.

Your inner self gives you an unimpressed look.

'Ok, fine.. feelings.'

Court calls your name.

"Huh? What?" you snap out of your stupor.

Court grabs the ice pack from you and off his jaw. "I asked if you want to call somebody." he says with genuine concern.

"Oh… I don't think I can talk to anybody about what happened just yet."

"Okay," he pauses, "Sorry.. I thought you'd feel better if you talked to Mindy. Or maybe Erick."

You chuckle. "I would if we were still dating."

Court blinks at you.

You elaborate. "I mean, we were only dating. He's not really my boyfriend in the first place."

"So… You two aren't dating anymore?" Court asks.

"That's right." you nod and pretend like your heart is not leaping up your throat because of what you plan to say next. "I told Erick I can't date him anymore because I realized I already like someone else. Even before him."

"So," he hums inquisitively, "You're dating this someone now?"

You shake your head, smiling sadly. "No, I haven't told him I like him yet."

He gulps. "Why is that?"

"Because after what happened tonight, as much as I want him to know.. I don't want him to think it's because he saved me."

Court is looking at you like you're a thousand-piece puzzle.

You blush. "I know I've liked this guy for a long while now. And I know this isn't the right time, but.. I'm idiotically still trying to tell him. That I like him."

Silence spreads to every corner of the room. And if it weren't for the crickets serenading outside, the silence would be awkward the way it should be.

Court is still saying nothing. He has his eyes on the floor and you have no idea what's going on in his mind.

Typically, you're that friend who advises their other friends to just say it— do it!— Don't ride the merry-go-around.

Yet here you are, dangling on one of the carousel horses as it spins for all eternity.

"You should get some rest." Court says finally.

"Huh?"

"I said, you should get some rest."

"Oh… That's what I thought you said."

He hauls out something from his jacket pocket. "Here.. the channel is all set," he nods at the walkie-talkie, "Keep it open and call me as soon as you need me— or anything."

"Sure," you grab the device absentmindedly. "Good night."

"Good night."

And then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

You look at the transceiver, place it on the bedside drawer, and expel a hefty sigh. "Ang tanga mo talaga," you tell yourself, forcibly lying down. "Stupid, stupid, stupid! You should've just told him!— Why didn't you tell him? Oh right, because I'm an idiotic, no good, shit for brains, twat!"

A sharp twinge rises up your leg as a scratching pain erupts from the rest of your body. "Ow, ow, ow," you stop thrashing, slowly placing your sprained ankle atop the pillow it was on. You sigh exasperatedly, "I'm such a dumbass."

"You're such a dumbass!"

"Excuse me?" Court glares at Claire over his shoulder as they climb up the stairs.

She rolls her eyes. "Her message was as clear as the archipelago sun!"

"Whose?"

"(N/N), duh!"

He furrows his brows. "What message?"

She snaps her fingers. "And that's why you're such a dumbass."

"Fine. Whatever. Just get to bed."

"Fine! Let's all see how this stupidity between you and (N/N) plays out!"

Claire storms in her room and noisily shuts the door before Court can retort. He ponders what she's got to be mad about.

He takes a short bath, sets another set of clothes aside for you, and checks the house's security.

No one's after you three.

That's not just why Court suggested you stay with them for a few days. This is better than you staying all night at the cafe alone. And like hell he'll ever leave you alone after what happened tonight.

Court checks the handgun under his pillow as he looks at the guestroom's feed.

If someone did come after them, he'll have no choice but to take you with him and Claire.

Suddenly, he recalls what you said earlier as he lays on the bed.

"...as much as I want him to know.. I don't want him to think it's because he saved me."

You're not talking about him, right?

"I know I've liked this guy for a long while now—"

There's just no way, right?

"—And I know this isn't the right time, but.. I'm idiotically still trying to tell him. That I like him."

Court abruptly sits upright. "Fuck!" he breathes out, wishing he can do the same to the heat in his cheeks. "Don't do this to yourself, man. You're 100% uncertain."

Maybe you were just delirious from the trauma.

Yeah, that's plausible.

But also worrisome.

Court glances over to his desk, where the security feed is showing any events live inside, outside, and ten meters around the house. But he's focused on one feed: the guestroom.

You're fast asleep already. And how you're so unmoving sets paranoia ablaze in his veins.

He has the right to worry, right?

So, it's okay for him to switch on the guestroom's camera audio and cranks it up until he hears your breathing, right?

He puts on one earbud and doesn't dwell on the fact that what he's doing is downright creepy.

Setting up a tablet beside him on the bed, Court finds the security feed on the device. He then lies back down and tries closing his ends. Not after a minute, he ends up watching you on the screen.

'Hopeless..'

He ignores his demons snickering at him.

As he continues eyeing the security feed of the premises, particularly you, Court doesn't realize he fell asleep.

Until he hears you scream.

"NO! NO! STOP— PLEASE!"

Court practically becomes The Flash. He bolts down to the guestroom before his eyes can fully open.

He shouts your name as he bursts in the room. Opening the lights, he finds that you have no (external) attacker.

You're sitting down, yet you looked like you ran a marathon. "Hey, Kurt," you wipe the cold sweat off your brow. "I'm so sorry for waking you."

He stammers. "No. Not really, I.. I just got up to get some water."

You glance at the time, 1:35 AM. "Still, sorry for disturbing you and shit."

Court sighs. "Stop apologizing. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Maybe 99 more to get it through my thick skull?"

"That's probably not enough."

You laugh, shaking your head, and you scratch behind your ear. "Did I wake Claire up, too?"

Court glances out the door when he hears footsteps. Claire carefully rounds the corner, armed with a handgun dipped towards the floor.

"No, she's still asleep." he blankly says as he turns back to you.

You heave a brow. "Why are you lying?"

Court is taken aback. Was he that obvious? No one can usually read him, not even Claire; although, Donald and Margaret used to.

"Oh, Claire!" you holler in a singsong voice.

The teen reluctantly peers in the room, hiding her weapon behind her. "H-Hiya," she smiles nervously.

You chuckle. "The two of you should get back to bed. I'm sorry for getting you out of there in the first place."

"It wasn't your fault you had a nightmare, (N/N)." says Claire. "Would—"

"Would you like some company?" Court asks just before the teen could. He looks at her in befuddlement, while she sneers maniacally at him.

"No, you two should rest." you give a small smile, "I'll be fine."

Except you didn't get to be.

For the past three hours, you've woken up from several nightmares. Only a few of them did you wake up screaming. Sometimes you can't even sleep immediately because it takes you back to the same bad dream.

It takes all of Court's might not to barge back in the guestroom, lay down next to you, and kick all those nightmares in the ass.

After your first nightmare, Court hasn't slept a wink. He returned to his room and watched you through the security feed. When you've had your second nightmare, he quickly sets up the sandbag in his room and starts whaling on it.

But there's only so much that he can take from hearing your cries. He tried muting your security feed, yet for some reason, it's worse than before.

So, Court has selfishly decided that you need someone with you tonight. Whether you like it or not.

He waited until you're back in deep sleep after a nightmare.

Without little to no sound, Court sneaks into the guestroom and places a chair beside the bed. And as he sits there, it just hits him that he doesn't know what the fuck to do. You'll probably have a heart attack when you wake up and find him staring at you.

How should he comfort you?

He pinches himself when the first thought he has is to get in bed with you. There's got to be another way other than that— it'll be the last resort.

You suddenly let out a grunt, stirring, and Court flinches, readying to flee. But you're still asleep. It's another nightmare.

Court spots your clenched fist and tightens his jaw. He looks at your grimacing face, and for some reason, it's similar to your concentrating face. Now, here's a thought: what if you're suppressing yourself for him and Claire? So that you won't wake them up because of your nightmares.

He chuckles in both disbelief and admiration. That'd truly be you. Even when you're having trouble, you're still looking after them.

Breathing in and out, Court takes your balled hand in both of his. He strokes your fist, tracing patterns on your skin until he feels your muscles release their contraction. Gently, he unfurls your tightened fingers and soothes them one by one.

Compared to his, your appendages are small and smooth. It astonishes him how a hard worker such as yourself has dainty hands. But he stands corrected when he feels a few callouses. Nevertheless, your hand fascinates him.

What would it feel like to hold both of your hands in his own?

The thought is cut short when he feels crescent marks on your palm. Court frowns at that and then at you. "Idiot.. stop taking on everything by yourself," he whispers and carefully holds your hand in both of his. "I'll be here for you, (Y/N). I am here. You just.. gotta see me."

For the second time tonight, Court has fallen asleep watching you.

And once again, you're the one to wake him. But not with a scream this time.

"Court," you softly call, tugging on his hands.

With his name like a feather on your lips, everything within him stirs wildly into life. But he doesn't show that effect you have on him.

He slowly rises from slumping on the bed. "Hey, sorry, did I scare you?" he blurts out with one eye still closed.

You chuckle. "No, you didn't."

"Get back to sleep. I'll just be here."

"Why don't you..?"

"Hm?" Court blinks at you curiously.

You fight back the blush, scoot further in the bed, and pat the space beside you. "I don't think you're comfortable there. Why don't you sleep here instead?"

He gulps. "Aren't you gonna ask me what I'm doing here first?"

"Will you answer me honestly? Or tell me to shut up and rest?" you question amusedly.

"Both?" he stifles a grin.

You shortly laugh before you tug him towards you. It doesn't take long for him to fold. Just you holding his hand is enough to make Court roll over for you.

He worriedly climbs in the bed—

"Oh, wait!"

"What?!"

"Let's switch."

".. Why?"

You redden. "I don't want you sleeping on my sweat, man! Understand?!"

He looks at you for a few seconds and sputters out a laugh. "Alright, fine," he says before you can chastise him for laughing. You scoot over as he rounds the bed, "There. Happy?"

"Very," you nod and settle down.

"Oh, wait!" he exclaims this time.

"What?!"

Court returns to his room to retrieve his clothes that you were going to wear later in the morning. "Change. You stink." he chucks them to you, sneering.

"Go away, then." you snarl.

"Like hell I would."

"Just turn around, moron!"

He obliges, snickering, and when he faces away from you, horrific realization strikes like vicious lightning across his chest.

You're undressing. With him still in the room. And it's just the two of you. Has he mentioned that you're currently undressing?

His demons are biting into the side of his neck, yanking at him to look over at you. This is bad. His self-control is losing a lot of blood.

"Need any help?"

Yup, that's significant blood loss right there.

"No, I got this. Thanks, Kurt."

After an eternity (minute) of suffering..

"Done!" you exhale, relieved.

And so did Court.

He rigidly gets in the bed without glancing at you. His self-control needs recharging, it doesn't help that you're half-an-arms length away. But even just a visual on you is lethal.

The two of you are staring at the ceiling. Until you turn your head to Court, just as he risks a glance at you. His self-control can't charge anymore.

You grin apologetically. "Sorry for keeping you up. Let's get some rest," and roll on your side, facing away from him. "Good night."

"Yeah, night." he replies, staring at your back.

Before horrendous thoughts can start invading his mind, Court notices something amusing.

He stifles a grin, his shirt is like a blanket on you. The way it hangs on you with too many folds screams that you're wearing an extremely baggy top. It'll never not be entertaining to have you in his clothes. What's more, only ⅓ of your feet are sticking out the hem of his joggers.

This time, Court doesn't fall asleep watching you. Because with you up close, he's granted visual acuity to scrutinize you evenly.

Your hair doesn't appear damp despite the cold sweat you're experiencing from the nightmares.

The curve of your shoulder somewhat displays tenacity and elegance simultaneously.

How can such a tiny body hold so much strength and carry such burdens?

Eventually, the nightmares are back. And Court is ready for them.

As soon as you're stirring abnormally and moaning in fear, Court props onto his elbow and carefully grabs your shoulder. He calls your name, shaking you gently.

You jolt awake, breathing heavily. "Court," you look at him, the fear in your wide eyes diminishing gradually. "Did I wake you?"

"No," says Court, steeling his resolve. "Come here."

You almost didn't understand what he said. Until he pulls you to him. And you move compliantly.

Court shimmies his arm under your head, while the other clutches your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space between your back and his chest.

You stifle a squeak when he slips a leg between yours. "Sorry," he says in your hair, "Just gotta get this.."

He clasps the edge of the pillow with his toes and carefully reels it. "Lift your left leg up," he tells you, and you oblige. He leaves the pillow between your legs and grabs the one you lifted. "You can put this down now."

He helps you in setting your sprained ankle down on the pillow.

"Good girl."

Oh, damn..

Thank the heavens you're not facing him right now. He'd probably mistake your face for a stove.

"No nightmare is getting to you now."

"Huh?"

You feel him moving his face against the back of your head.

"I said," he pauses, voice low, breaths fanning on your ear. "No nightmare is getting to you now. Because I'm protecting you."

Your heart finds it hard to go back to its place after cartwheeling up your throat. And when it's reminded of the position you and Court are presently in, your heart threatens to roll out your mouth.

"The nightmares are in my head, though." you chuckle, placing a hand on the arm you're resting your head on, you reach for his hand. "Thank you."

Court watches, with fireworks gleefully exploding in his chest, as you intertwine your hand with his. When the festivities calm down, he gives your hand a squeeze.

"You're always welcome, (Y/N)."

A/N: these chapters will be all FOR NOW~ I am continuing this fic y'all, albeit it'll be from time to time (ehem month to month huhuhuhu)

The door to Chapter 18 is blocked

✨TAGLIST✨

@kat-thepoet @queenofhellhasrisen @sierrasixswife @vallyb @lyuir @yvxcy @justareaderdude @sortingharryshairclip

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classickook · 2 years

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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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comasuart · 28 days

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THE GRAY MAN (2022)

Begging someone to write a proper good whump fic with Six and Lloyd, a nsfw one

c’mon they are such a good pairing especially for some tortured whump ff, with Lloyd’s pet names and sadistic tendencies and Six’s praise kink

just a suggestion 🗣️

#the gray man #sierra six #court gentry #sierra six x lloyd hansen #the gray man fanfiction #courtland gentry #whump #lloyd hansen #ryan gosling #sierra six whump #pet names #a stoic character getting tormented #hurt #injured #stabbed #sierra six fanfiction

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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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drivinmeinsane · 7 months

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{ requests :: maybe } ※ { ao3 } ※ { last updated :: March. 2nd, 2024 }

All my works for this blog are related in some way to characters played by Ryan Gosling. Be aware that many of the fanfictions and thoughts contain content that is 18+ in nature. Please do not engage with those posts if you are a minor.

My inbox and messages are always open! ♥

※ .{ O N E S H O T }. ※

{ Shot Through the Heart } ※ Colt Seavers x GN!Reader ※ ao3

You've worked with Colt off and on for years, building an easy rapport with the stuntman. The rest of the crew sends you to check up on him after he's bad off following a stunt that seems to have caused his nearly career-ending injury to act up.

{ M o v e s } ※ Colt Seavers x AFAB!Reader ※ ao3 ※ 18+

On unsteady feet and with linked arms, you and Colt stumble along in the sand. You’re hanging onto each other. The warmth of the man at your side is almost more intoxicating than the beer you’ve been sipping all night long. The ocean is refreshingly cool against your ankles as you trail through the lapping waves, shoes and socks clasped firmly in your hands.

※ .{ D R A B B L E }. ※

Golden Hour ※ Colt Seavers x GN!Reader Scene Partner※ Colt Seavers x GN!Reader ※ 18+

※ .{ O N E S H O T }. ※

{ I Do Nothing but Think of You } ※ Driver ※ ao3 ※ 18+

He can't eat. He can't sleep. He's obsessed and restless. What else is there to do but go for a drive?

{ Under Pressure } ※ Driver ※ ao3 ※ 18+

Driver is feeling under the weather. Blaming the oppressive Los Angeles heat for the tightness in his chest, the mechanic leaves in the middle of his shift to try to recover only to receive a shock when it turns out to be something that he should be utterly incapable of.

※ .{ D R A B B L E }. ※

Choking ※ Driver x AFAB!Reader ※ ao3 ※ {request} 18+ Clumsy Stalking ※ Driver x GN!Reader ※ ao3 ※ {request} 18+ Maintenance ※ Driver x GN!Reader ※ ao3 Repercussions ※ Driver x GN!Reader ※ ao3 ※ {request}

※ .{ T H O U G H T S }. ※

Driver ※ Partner Headcanons ※ 18+

※ .{ M O O D B O A R D }. ※

Driver ※ "There's no good sharks?" Driver ※ Werewolf!AU

※ .{ F A N A R T }. ※

Werewolf!AU Driver screenshot study

※ .{ O N E S H O T }. ※

{ Birthday Boy } ※ Officer K x Joi ※ ao3

Officer K does not often find himself surprised. He was made to be clearheaded and adaptable, able to get a read on most situations at a glance. Joi is a true wildcard in his life. She elicits feelings from him that he never could have predicted. As a result, he finds himself floundering in the wake of an unexpected gesture.

※ .{ T H O U G H T S }. ※

Officer KD6-3.7 ※ Partner Headcanons ※ 18+

※ .{ M I S C }. ※

Officer K's jacket

※ .{ O N E S H O T }. ※

{ Crimson Headache } ※ Sierra Six x AFAB!Reader ※ ao3 ※ 18+

You wonder something about Six. Will he allow himself to surrender to what he really wants?

{ Leap of Faith } ※ Sierra Six (solo) ※ ao3

What if the escape mission had gone a little differently? No outcomes are certain. No one is impervious to fault.

{ Witness in the Dark } ※ Sierra Six x Claire's Sister!Reader ※ ao3

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.

※ .{ T H O U G H T S }. ※

Sierra Six ※ Partner Headcanons ※ 18+

※ .{ M O O D B O A R D S }. ※

Sierra Six ※ Just another Thursday."

※ .{ M I S C }. ※

Sierra Six's tattoos

※ .{ DRIVER x KEN } ※ { ONESHOT }

{ Draw Me In } ※ Driver x Ken ※ ao3 ※ 18+

Ken's insatiable curiosity leads to a messy outcome when he fails to give Driver any semblance of personal space.

{ Take You In Real Slow } ※ Driver x Ken ※ ao3 ※ 18+ 🕊

He twists his house key in the door and turns the knob to open it. Locked. Adjusting the basket resting against his hip, he frowns and tries his key again. The door unlocks this time. The knob is slippery in his grasp. When he pulls his hand away, it’s covered in more of that red stuff from the elevator.

{ The Way You Stare } ※ Driver x Ken ※ ao3 ※ 18+

Ken has never learned the importance of being patient. His efforts to be the sole recipient of Driver's steady focus earn him a hard and frustrating lesson from a man who is not very composed himself.

※ .{ DRIVER x KEN } ※ { MOODBOARDS}

Driver x Ken ※ "I'm thinking 'bout how I want to see you in some kinda lip gloss. Might feel sticky and gritty if I kissed you. Bet you would look pretty, just like now. All pink. Sparkly."

※ .{ OFFICER K x SIERRA SIX } ※ { MULTI-CHAPTER }

{ Eyes Always Searching } ※ Officer K x Sierra Six ※ ao3 ※ 18+

Unpleasantly, K feels the return of the drowning sensation he had felt earlier. It is almost as though someone had placed a mirror in front of him in a dream. The reflection is him, but distinctly not. ※ chapter one: In some Sad Way ※ chapter two: I Already Know ※ chapter three: I Will Not Ask You, Neither Should You

※ .{ OFFICER K x SIERRA SIX } ※ { MOODBOARDS }

Officer K x Sierra Six ※ K places his right hand on the table beside his guest’s. He can feel the warmth of his fellow Nexus sink into his own skin. He swallows, pulse jumping. The hand not on the table clenches around his thigh. His nails dig into the outer seam of his pants. “What was your most shameful moment? ” the baseline mocks at him in his mind. He can’t do it. He can’t bridge the gap. He can’t-

※ .{ O N E S H O T }. ※

{ Bad Dog } ※ Ken x GN!Reader ※ ao3 ※ 18+

You have volunteered to give Ken a lesson in being a good dog. It takes a firm hand to get positive results.

※ .{ D R A B B L E }. ※

Frequently Bought Together ※ Ken & GN! Reader ※ ao3 ※ {request}

※ .{ T H O U G H T S }. ※

Henry Letham ※ Partner Headcanons ※ 18+ Holland March ※ Partner Headcanons ※ 18+ Lars Lindstrom ※ Partner Headcanons ※ 18+ Ryan Gosling!Ken ※ Partner Headcanons (bad end) ※ 18+ Ryan Gosling!Ken ※ Partner Headcanons (good end) ※ 18+

※ .{ M O O D B O A R D S }. ※

Henry Letham※ "If this is a dream, then the whole world is inside it." Holland March ※ "I had to question the mermaids." Ken ※ "Every night is boy's night." Ken ※ "To be honest, when I found out the patriarchy wasn't about horses, I lost interest anyways." Ken ※ "What will it take for her to see the man behind the tan?" Sebastian Wilder ※ "Are you shining just for me?"

※ .{ M I S C }. ※

Favorite Ryan Gosling movies {ask} Favorite pairings for Ryan Gosling characters {ask}

※ .{ HOLIDAY & EVENT COLLECTIONS }. ※

{ 12 Days of Goosemas } ※ 2023 ※ ao3 ※ 18+

This is a collection of twelve fanfictions all under two thousand words each and all pertaining to characters played by Ryan Gosling. Not all of these works are directly intended to be Christmas themed, but they are all set in the month of December and have some seasonal vibes! 01 ※ { Hot Chocolate } ※ Officer K / Reader 02 ※ { Christmas Movie } ※ Driver / Ken 03 ※ { Winter Break }※ Henry Letham / Reader 04 ※{ Snow }※ Sierra Six / Reader 05 ※ { Holiday Party }※ Julian Thompson / Reader ※ 18+ 06 ※ { Decorating }※ Sebastian Wilder / Reader 07 ※ { Alone }※ Driver / Reade 08 ※ { Lights } ※ Holland March / Jackson Healy 09 ※ { Cookies} ※ Driver / Ken※ 18+ 10 ※ { Snowstorm } ※ Colt Seavers / Reader 11 ※ { New Year }※ Henry Letham / Sam Foster 12 ※ { Mistletoe } ※ Driver / Reader ※ 18+

※ .{ THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT SERIES }. ※

A collaborative series written with @danime25 centered around the relationship between Holland March and Jackson Healy.

{ Give Me the Night } ※ Holland March x Jackson Healy ※ ao3 ※ 18+

What if Healy had broken Holland's right arm instead of his left? Like most jobs involving stakeouts, the night is going by slowly. That all takes a turn, however, when Holland March, pent up and frustrated, finally pushes his fellow detective too far. Part one of the Butterfly Effect Series. (Can be read as a standalone)

{ Don't Go Breaking My Heart } ※ Holland March x Jackson Healy ※ ao3 ※ 18+

Even during the most wonderful time of the year, Holland March can't help but be clumsy. A stressful hospital trip to set the detective's re-fractured arm leads an unfortunate revelation about his relationship with Jackson Healy. Part two of the Butterfly Effect Series. (Can be read as a standalone) ※ chapter one: It's Up to Us // ao3 ※ chapter two: I Think We Can Make It // ao3 ※ 18+

※ .{ C R E D I T S }. ※

{ headers } ※ @drivinmeinsane { 18+ divider } ※ @cafekitsune { foliage dividers } ※ @saradika-graphics

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dindjiarin · 2 years

Text

Streetwise Hercules - (Sierra Six x F!Reader)

Sierra Six is paid to safeguard you. Too bad he's bossy and sarcastic and hot as shit.

A/N: This was supposed to be a 3k blurb and it is ... not. I'm so sorry lmao. I love this man and I want to hold him and never shut up about him.

This is a prequel, but - like Part One - I think you can read it alone. I think it's best to read Parts One and Two first since I wrote this last lol.

Shoutout to @crownofdecit for hyping me up 🥹

TAGS: Angst, Fluff, Lead Up To 👉👌, Snark, Six Being a Sassy Sexy Bitch, Idiots to (Eventual) Lovers

WARNINGS: None. Curse words? Sheer horniness without relief?

WORD COUNT: oh god I don't even want to tell you guys (it's 9.9k. I'm adding lil dividers and breaks because I know it's long)

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

How exactly was this place designed to be a “safe” house?

The house was a single story with more glass than wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the east side, while trees guarded both sides. The lot sits on a downward slope, a valley in the background.

The amount of glass made it look insecure if anything. But, you had no say in it - if you wanted to be paid, you’d work here. You’d not given your employers a timetable on your project, and you had hoped they wouldn’t request one. They hadn’t. Unfortunately, that meant your stay here would be indefinite.

After a long ride across a border you hadn't been able to read, a mysterious driver had dropped you off in the gravel driveway. A single custodian had been sweeping when you pulled up, and he had been less than welcoming. You’d said, “Hello,” but the young man had simply inclined his head at you and continued his task.

In less than half an hour, you had found your room and unpacked most of your belongings into the rattan dresser. It was evident the money spent on this secluded hide-out was in its design and the protection detail, not the furniture. You notice there is no en-suite bathroom, and the nearest one is down the hall.

That’s annoying.

The only other room along this hallway must be the bodyguard’s room. It’s at the opposite end, facing yours. You suppose that’s so he can keep an eye on you, and you sigh. It’s hard to believe you could need all of this fuss. You’ve worked in high-security locations and needed top-tier clearances before, but having to leave your apartment to live in this place while an unknown man supervised you? That was not something you’d get used to quickly.

It was Sunday, so, seeing as you preferred to keep a regular work week, you decided you’d survey your workstation tomorrow. You tour the kitchen.

A marble countertop complete with a coffee machine, stovetop, and hanging microwave mark the space. Next to the coffee machine, you notice a crystal vase filled with an amber liquid.

Don’t mind if I do.

The whiskey flows smoothly into your glass, the smoky aroma soothing. You then take a seat at the island bar. The late afternoon light comes through the glass patio door, heating the space. Your head cranes to the right to study the view, mentally wandering through the hills, the trees, and the city far below. The whiskey is excellent, burning your throat pleasantly.

The hinged squeak of the front door opening rings through the house. You swivel counterclockwise on your barstool. A man in a dark gray suit steps over the threshold and into the living room, shutting the door behind him. It’s darker in that section of the house, so he flips the switch to his right. A ceiling fan blinks to life above him, and his blonde hair is highlighted.

“Oh, hi,” you smile.

You hop off the stool gracefully and stroll through the large, open doorway between the living room and kitchen. Extending your hand, you meet him between the couch and the flat-screen television.

You’re stunned by how handsome he is. His eyes are kind and brilliantly blue. His hair is parted to the side and lightly gelled, and his suit barely covers the fact that he is rather muscular. That last part you had expected given his job title.

“Hello,” he says simply, shaking your hand with the slightest grip.

His jaw is working, and you realize he's chewing gum. When he drops his hand to clasp them together, as if he’s at ease, you notice a tattoo of a palm tree and a sunrise on his left hand.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet. I haven’t had a chance to look around.” He chides.

“Oh,” you’re taken aback by his directness. “I was just given the address and told to be here today. They didn’t give me a time. I wasn’t told anything, actually. Didn’t even tell me who I’d be meeting.” You laugh, hoping he’ll tell you his name without you needing to ask.

“They didn’t tell you -?” He’s frustrated by the poor organization. Anyone could’ve met you here and you’d have believed anything they said. He decides to make further progress in his planning than he’d originally intended for tonight. “Alright. I’ll get to work. I’ll stay out of your way.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you insist in reactive politeness. Taking into account his brusque, business-like manner, you amend quietly, “I’ll stay out of yours.”

He nods once in agreement.

Taking the hint that the conversation is over, you turn around and head back toward your barstool. The kitchen is dimmed in the growing dark, so as you walk through the doorway, you reach out for the light switch.

From behind you, you hear steps, firm and determined, which make you instinctively turn your head to face him.

“Actually, can you sit here on the couch while I…?” He trails off and makes a circling motion with his index finger.

“Sure, yeah.” You’re getting nervous about how seriously he’s taking his job, so you sit as he requested.

Is there an actual threat to me? Am I actually in danger? You eye your whiskey glass on the counter.

As he steps into the kitchen, he sees the alcohol and quizzes, “Did you bring that yourself?”

“No,” you answer, already knowing he’s about to tell you that you can't drink it.

“Don’t drink it.”

“I believe it was courtesy of my employer. I’ve already had several sips - it’s fine.” You assure, a touch annoyed.

You know caution is his job, so you’re mindful of your tone. His impersonal manners are disappointing given how long you'll be around him.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he looks blankly at you before grabbing the drink and delivering it to you. Your fingers close around his as you take the glass, and you smile in gratitude.

Something tells him this is going to be a frustrating assignment; you don’t seem to feel at risk. And truthfully, you don’t. He’s here as an extreme precaution on part of your company. But this man appreciated better than anyone that life could change in an instant.

The next morning you’re awoken by your alarm. You silence the phone and grab a change of clothes. You crack open your bedroom door, hoping the bathroom is free so you can shower. Luckily, the man from last night is nowhere to be found.

He never told me his name; that’s so weird, you realize.

He had checked the house and found nothing of interest, then returned to the living room, motioning to you that you were free to go. He'd spoken no further, and you'd kept your word about staying out of his way.

After getting ready for your day, you walk into the living room to find your workspace. You open the only door you’d not been through: a nondescript wood-paneled barrier beside the kitchen. Sure enough, inside is an array of equipment and a desktop computer. Everything you’d need to perform your job is located in this garage-sized space.

You march into the kitchen to make yourself a pot of coffee. In a cabinet, you’re drawn to a mug with an artist-rendering of the sun. It’s a cloudy morning, so you find it appropriate.

You stand in front of the coffee maker, waiting patiently for it to stop brewing, drumming your fingers on the counter in time with the song stuck in your head. The hair on the back of your neck prickles, so you turn your head to look around. Seated at the bar behind you is the man, dressed now in a bright blue suit, focused on his laptop.

“Oh, my god!” You exclaim, nearly dropping the empty mug. “When did you get in here?”

“You didn’t hear me sit down?” The man queries, his eyes jumping from the mug in your hands to your face.

“Obviously not,” one hand presses over your heart. You can't help but notice that his eyes match the color of his suit.

He snorts once in levity at your misplaced distress and returns to his computer.

“I’m glad you find it funny, Mr. - ?” You prompt.

"You don't need to call me ‘mister,’” he says politely without looking up.

“Okay, well, what do I call you? 'Chatterbox'?” You’re irritated by his lack of apology for scaring you and poor conversational skills.

He looks up sharply, but his eyes are entertained. "I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot,” he states. “You can refer to me as Six.”

Given that this man is your only source of human interaction for an unknown length of time, you're willing to take the second chance.

You reply, “Okay, Six. The right foot sounds good. We’re stuck in this house together. Let's not make it weird.”

“We’re on the same page, then,” Six observes drily, his eyes returning to his laptop.

The coffee maker audibly spits out the last few drops into the pot, and you quickly pour yourself a cup; without speaking another word to the man, you disappear into your workspace to begin.

Four weeks later, you’ve established a routine: each morning, you’d pull out the same mug, make your coffee, and wait for Six to make an entrance somehow. He was generally unable to form routines due to his lifestyle, but each morning he would enter the room from a new direction, laptop in hand, and sit.

The first week, Six’s stealthy entrances had caused you to jump in alarm. He would be standing around the corner or appear behind you when you least expected it. On mornings when you’d slept well, you’d laugh. After that first time, Six started to kindly apologize when he scared you.

He didn’t speak much outside of a “Good morning,” unless you spoke first. Forcing an intimidatingly attractive man who doesn’t want to speak to do so was nerve-wracking. Sometimes you felt too shy to talk to him, but some mornings you were brave enough to ask him how he slept, or what he had planned for the day. He'd always respond with the fewest words in a courteous tone, but you found his patience in indulging your questions somehow charming.

Six started to find the morning routine oddly compelling. He enjoyed watching you drink from the same mug, the same amount of coffee, and make the same well-mannered smile at him. Technically, it was something mundane, calm, and normal - but not to him. To Six, this was fascinating. He knew that letting himself enjoy the company of another person, however silent he remained, was dangerous for his psyche, but this wasn’t a permanent job - he could be reckless short term.

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

One Friday evening, you send out a week’s-end report to your company then wonder what you’ll do for the next two days. You’d spent the past three weekends working. It’s not a major problem considering your average time off was spent reading or watching your favorite movies on rotation, but you could go for a normal conversation with normal people tonight.

Unfortunately, you’re not able to leave the house unless approved by Six, and you’re pretty certain that will never happen. He had been nice, but distant and a touch paranoid. Maybe you’d work for a couple of hours to get ahead instead - then you’d be able to go home sooner.

You stand from the computer in your lab, powering it off. Exiting the room, you’re nearly run into by Six as he leaves the kitchen.

“Oh!” You exclaim. “I’m sorry.”

You’re not surprised by the sudden butterflies in your stomach. He may be reserved, but his physical appeal was impossible to ignore.

"It’s okay,” his arms had gone up automatically to grab your shoulders, but he drops them before touching you. “I’m sorry, I normally hear you.”

“Huh?”

“I usually know exactly where you are because I can hear you. You’re not very quiet.” He speaks without a hint of scorn, but the accusation offends you.

“Of course you can hear me. This is a small house and we’re the only two people in it.”

“You don’t seem to hear me,” Six argues, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He pulls out a stick of gum and pops it in his mouth.

“Because you do your best to scare me to death at every opportunity,” you chastise.

“Scaring you to death would defeat the purpose of my being here."

You have no retort to that, so you brush past his sizable shape and laugh, “Touche.”

You squat in front of the shelf beside the TV. If the only person you’ll get to be around is Six, you might as well try to make friends.

“Want to watch a movie?” After passing little pleasantries for a month, you figure it’s a normal enough thing to ask him.

You hear him question from behind you: “It’s Friday night; you don’t want to go somewhere?”

“Am I allowed to?” You don’t look at him.

“Not without me.”

“As much as I’d love to go on a date with you, Six, I think I’ll just sit here.”

He doesn’t respond, and you hear nothing, despite straining to make out his footsteps. If he is still there, you refuse to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing you regret your words, so you try to focus on the movie.

It becomes obvious that he did leave at some point as you hear the water running in the hallway bathroom to your right. You feel your body relax.

When the movie ends, you pick up a book and retire to your room. As you close the door, Six leaves the bathroom in only a towel. He doesn't see you as he walks toward his own room. His bare back fills your vision despite the distance, and you find yourself staring. He's built powerfully. His smooth skin is broken on his left arm by a jagged, discolored scar.

You inhale sharply at the visual representation of the kind of life he lives, and his head whips around at the sound. You slam your door shut, praying in vain he didn't perceive you.

He stares at your now-closed door, one eyebrow raised. Did you just gasp at him being half-naked? Maybe you weren't expecting him to be there and he scared you again. Six decides to ignore it. Or to try to.

Trying to forget the moment yourself, you pull up some music on your phone and lay across your bed, your hands rubbing your eyes. Your phone’s low-quality speakers mean the Bonnie Tyler song you choose isn't loud enough for your liking, but it's so nice to hear something other than silence that you sing along. You sit up and start folding some of the clothes you'd washed the previous night, still singing along.

A quick knock startles you into standing.

He never talks to me after I shut my door, you're curious as to what he wants and you hope it's not to tell you to stop ogling him.

You move to the door and pull it open cautiously. He's fully dressed in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants. You focus your eyes above his neck, but that doesn't help the blushing, either.

"What's up?" You successfully sound casual.

"I can't hear."

"Can't hear what?"

"Myself think," he gestures toward your phone as the last notes of the eight-minute song begin to fade.

He just can't let me have a single shred of pleasure. Your embarrassment abruptly changes to frustration.

"Can't imagine there's much to hear," you snort. Then you grimace, reminding yourself again it's his job to be alert. You cover your eyes with one hand, "I'm sorry. That was not nice."

But he laughs one, short chuckle. He actually laughs, and the shock of it has you drop your hand to gawk at him. He has a nice laugh; it's soft, ironic-sounding. But he isn't explicitly smiling. It's almost as though the sound escaped him at gunpoint.

"Alright. Continue," he allows with an impassive wink, turning away from you. He leaves you standing there gaping after him.

A wink? What the fuck? This man's getting off on flustering me. When he shuts his door, you swear he's hiding a smile.

You can’t quite pin down your feelings. You’re not afraid of him, but he makes you nervous. Though he’s unsociable, you can see there's something soft behind his professional mask. Maybe it was the gentleness of his eyes or the warmth he unwillingly emanated, but it was impossible not to like him.

Periodically, if he felt secure enough, Six would sleep during the night. He was able to get by with five hours' sleep, and he often took that around lunchtime, but tonight he'd let himself rest. After all, this contract was a farce. There'd been no credible intelligence; your company was paranoid. Six could get behind that, but after a full month with no issues, he was confident he'd be able to sleep.

Of course, he kept his laptop on, flipped multiple alarms, and set a timer for every hour. His reputation wasn't for nothing.

He sits on his bed, wondering why he knocked on your door. Yes, he could hear you - you honestly were not quiet - but it wasn't bothersome. Six found himself relaxing at the noise, at the knowledge that another person was nearby, untroubled.

Your openness, even your petty irritation at him, was fun. You were genuine, natural around him. Most everyone treated Six only two ways: with respect or fear. You treated him as if he were an average person. Was that why he found himself paying attention to you?

Six decides that he doesn't want to know why he sought you out, and he lies back, falling asleep nearly immediately.

You spend the weekend alternating between watching movies on the couch and walking laps around the acre of land. It's boring, so you start working again late Sunday evening. While bent over your desk, you hear a rap at the door.

"Yeah?" You call, unwilling to walk away from your task.

"Are you staying in there much longer? You're typically in bed by now."

"Oh, shit, what time is it?" You ask rhetorically as you pick up your phone to check. Eleven-thirty. "Uh, yeah, I'll head to bed."

You organize your materials for tomorrow, then open the door to see Six, arms folded, waiting for you.

"Are you gonna escort me to my room safely?" You tease him, offering a conspiratorial eyebrow raise.

"Would you rather I got you there unsafely?" He rejoins, his brow imitating yours.

"I'd rather not need anyone to get to my room, but I guess I don't have a choice."

You traipse through the living room. You make it just past the couch before it hits you that he hasn’t done this before.

"Why tonight?"

"Sunday Special," he deflects.

As he walks you the few paces down the hallway to your bedroom, you feel faint heat against your lower back, then a tingling sensation at the base of your spine. It feels almost like someone is touching your skin. Brushing it off as anxiety, you slip into your room and away from Six.

"Okay, job well done. Goodnight, Six,” you remark, shutting your door without looking at him.

He makes no noise, but you can almost feel the nod of his head.

One of the cameras had failed. The other four were fine, but Six was nothing if not proactive. If someone was sneaking around, he needed you in your room. As soon as you are out of harm’s potential way, he pulls his weapon.

Six carefully sweeps through the building, checking corners. All clear, he steps out the back door, utterly silent. The malfunctioning camera was the one overlooking the driveway, but if someone had knocked out only one camera, they likely expected him to check there first. He tediously makes his way to the front of the house.

Above the front door, pointed at the ground, was the camera. A small feather clung to the broken piece of tech. Six looks around for the poor bird who must’ve smacked into it, but finds nothing. He reaches up and unhooks the camera. He’d need to either repair it or find a new one.

Satisfied you and he were not under attack, he returns inside. He won’t be going to sleep tonight; his body will remain alert. He begins to tinker with the camera, already looking forward to his afternoon nap.

Several days later, after having had to stop exactly zero intruders, Six feels comfortable enough to continue sleeping overnight. It’s a treat he enjoys too infrequently, and he wakes early Friday morning with energy to spare. He ventures out into the kitchen, enjoying the sun’s rays creeping over the trees. He retrieves his laptop and sits at his usual spot.

Having slept badly, when you walk into the dim room, you're startled by the shape of a man at the bar. Then you notice his profile silhouetted by the sun, and you exhale in recognition.

"I should really just expect you around every corner, shouldn't I?"

He raises his eyebrows at you in jest and shrugs, “Might be best.”

His elevated mood lifts your own. Your smile lights your face. If only he could be this relaxed all the time. You breeze past him to your coffee pot to continue the morning ritual.

Waiting for the machine to brew, you turn, leaning against the counter, and tilt your head toward the window.

"It's not a bad view, huh?"

"I have noticed," he says honestly.

Though that sounds nearly sarcastic to you, to Six it's another slip in his exterior. He doesn't often get the chance to enjoy something for its beauty, but he has been taking full advantage lately.

Your workday is long, but you take a break near lunchtime to find Six seated where you'd left him. You grab an apple from the stocked fridge, then pull a clear glass from the cabinet. In the shiny reflection of the stainless-steel fridge, you notice Six's head tilt to look at you. You fill the glass with water from the tap, then turn and set both items in front of the curious blonde.

"What's that for?"

"You. This is food and water." You grin. More seriously, you wonder, "Have you eaten? I don't think you have."

Six was typically excellent about fueling his body, it was his livelihood as well as his life, but you were right, he had neglected it this morning.

He blinks for a moment, unsure what your angle is. "Why- are you giving it to me?"

"Because I can," you state. "I didn't poison it." You smirk at him and make a face like maybe you should have.

"A poisoned apple would be cliche. I'm sure you have something more creative in mind for me." He examines you, his eyes shining.

You can see his lips fighting a smile. It makes you want to try harder; you need to make this man lighten up.

"Nah, I need you, Six. Who else would I not talk to every day?"

Six licks his lip and shakes his head in defeat. He huffs a short laugh, and you chalk up a victory.

You slap the counter and cheesily announce, "Alright, see you around."

The weight of his eyes on you as you leave the room makes you feel giddy.

Been a while since I've had a crush, you laugh to yourself. From his wit to his patience, his profound eyes to his muscular build, Six makes your stomach twist.

Six is left sitting in turmoil. Why did you care? Do people normally look out for each other like that? He'd done it for his brother, often making him meals, but that was a close familial bond. Six is essentially a stranger to you, despite the month of small talk and close quarters. Worse than a stranger, he was a tool, a product… wasn’t he? Six feels something shift in his chest. A tiny pull, like a bond creating itself. He does his best to push the thought away.

You wake the next day much later than usual. After showering, you leave your room ready to spend the day similarly to last Saturday. As you exit the hallway into the living room, however, the housekeeper is walking out the front doorway.

"Hey! Good morning," you call, excited to see another person. "How are you?"

The youthful-looking man acts flustered, but answers in an accent you don’t recognize, "I'm fine, thanks. You?"

"I'm great. Do you mind me asking your name?"

"Ma'am, I was told not to speak to the residents here. I hope you understand."

"Oh! I'm sorry to have put you on the spot, then." You feel deflated.

"I restocked the pantry and the fridge, and the kitchen is clean," the kid reports.

"Thank you. Can I offer you anything?"

"No, ma'am, I'm on my way out for today."

You thank him again and let him go. You're hidden away so thoroughly that you're not even allowed to speak to other people. The depressing thought makes you seek out your only source of relief.

You find him in the garage, messing with a black, foreign-looking car. Though the sunlight from the open garage door makes you squint, you notice he’s wearing a dark t-shirt and tactical pants today. Six makes your heart spasm when he looks up to greet you.

Goddamn him, you swear internally like it’s his fault you’re attracted to him.

“Morning,” his voice is rough as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. Probably not since the last time he spoke to you.

“Morning. Is this yours?”

“It’s technically the house’s. ‘In case of emergency.’” He explains, disappearing from view as he leans into the trunk.

“Oh. Is it bulletproof?” You joke.

“Yeah,” his voice is muffled.

Your brow shoots up. Is he serious?

His head rises from behind the trunk lid. His eyes are full of amusement.

“You’re fucking with me,” you accuse.

Laughing, you walk around the car, knocking on the windows. You can’t tell.

He chuckles once, then slams the lid. It echoes in the concrete space. Six walks around the opposite side of the car, so tall that the vehicle barely comes up to his ribs. He leans his forearms on the roof, hands clasped, looking at you.

“The windows in the house aren’t normal glass, either,” he smirks at your innocence. He doesn’t tell you they’re not completely bulletproof. He figures they’re close enough.

For your own health, you’re ignoring how seductive he looks propped against the car.

Changing the subject, you tell him, “The housekeeper was here a moment ago.”

“He’s not just a housekeeper,” he corrects but doesn’t expound.

“Ah. Okay. Is anything around here exactly what it looks like?”

He turns his head to look out the garage door.

“You are,” he says after a moment. “I am.”

You tilt your head, "You know what - that's absolutely true."

"I have a question. Can we quit listening to 80s music?" He taunts. He must've heard you again last night.

"We don't. I listen to it, and you invade my privacy." You whip back.

"Once you're singing over sixty-five decibels, it stops being private and starts being a neighborhood nuisance."

His left cheek pulls upward, and he shifts onto one elbow. The movement causes a lock of hair to fall onto his forehead, and you're disarmed - unable to form the scathing rebuttal you want.

Smiling, you do your best, "Well, the neighbors can fuck off. I've got to do something to stay sane."

You know you're barely loud enough to be heard. He was just hellbent on giving you shit for it and you had to admit, it was kind of funny.

Your stomach growls. "Are you hungry? I’ll make breakfast.”

“It’s 11 a.m.”

“... and I’m going to make breakfast.” You walk inside, directly into the far side of the kitchen.

Six follows a few minutes later, shutting the garage door with a click. You’re in the middle of breaking eggs into a mixing bowl when he sits at the table - a rare move for him. He can’t see you well from this seat, and that’s intentional. He keeps his focus on the acre outside.

“Do you want any?” You call to him.

“No, thank you. I'll eat later.”

You wonder why he’s sitting in here with you. You make extra, just in case. When you’re finished cooking, you sit at the bar to eat, feeling on edge about sitting at the table with him.

Six takes the hint and gets up to leave the room. As he passes the stovetop, he sees you’ve made him some anyway. His heart tugs at him once more. He changes direction and picks up the plate.

Without looking at you, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

You smile warmly, “Anytime.”

He takes the plate to his room.

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

That evening, as you curl up in a couch corner watching a mindless TV show, Six sits on the opposite end. You're cold but feel too awkward to grab the blanket from Six's end of the furniture. Feeling his mood, you wait for him to say something first. He never does. After several minutes, you break.

"Were you lonely in your room?" You rib him.

He looks over at you, and you meet his eyes with a quick grin. He shrugs.

"You get used to it," you tell him.

You look back at the TV and rub heat into your upper arm with your left hand. Maybe I should get up and turn the ceiling fan off.

He scoffs. You? Lonely? Compared to him? Then he thinks about it for a moment and realizes you haven't contacted anyone since you've been here.

"You don't have people waiting for you to come home?" He means family, friends, anyone.

"Nope. I got nobody." You say it with lightheartedness, though it makes you sad.

"I got nobody, too." He mimics your phrasing with a frown.

You turn to him again with a smile and offer, "Well, we can be nobodies to each other."

Six's mouth twitches and his eyebrow quirks up. You feel a rush of heat, embarrassment.

But then he makes a soft, pleased grunt and he hands you the blanket.

That next weekend, in the kitchen, you find Six shuffling a deck of cards. Curious, you make a face at him.

"This was how we passed the time in prison." He begins laying out a game of solitaire.

There's so much about his statement that makes you sad, but you ask the obvious question: "Prison?"

"I was in prison, yes."

"Violent offense, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Was it deserved?"

"The crime or the punishment?"

"What you did," you clarify.

"I thought so. Still think so."

Needing nothing else answered, you climb up on the barstool next to him and take the cards. You pick up the few he'd already laid out for solitaire. You weren’t letting him play cards alone.

"Have you ever played 'War'?" You shuffle the deck and begin to deal.

He hides his astonishment at your nonchalance. He'd never told anyone who didn't already know. But to you, it wasn’t a surprise. Your employers had been sure to tell you they’d hired one of the most elite assassins. You’d never expected that person to have lived a privileged, easy life. And you'd always been an excellent judge of character - Six's character was as solid as they come. Whatever his crime had been, it was justified.

"Yes, I've played War. Good way to get into a fistfight." He says, thinking of his long, terrible eight years.

"I could take you," you lie.

Your challenging look is met by his intense eyes, and he grabs his dealt cards.

"Loser has to make dinner."

"Deal," he agrees.

Later that evening, you stand at the stove top, cooking dinner for the both of you. After he beat you soundly in War, you'd insisted on a rematch, but he'd won a second time. Losing somewhat graciously, you told him you hoped he liked poorly made food. You weren't a good cook.

He'd done a perimeter check after that last game, but he was back in his favorite spot now, leaning forward on his elbows. As you flitted between the cabinets, the stove, and the pantry, he watched in near-awe. He didn't care how bad this food tasted. Watching you make it was enough. He didn't think he'd ever get used to how pleasant domesticity was.

As you walk past the stainless-steel microwave, you realize it's reflective enough to see behind you, and Six is currently hyper-focused on you. The fierce look in his eyes sends butterflies soaring in your stomach.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Six is just bored. The poor man hasn't seen another woman in over a month. Of course he’s going to look at the only available one.

You plate the food, setting one in front of him, for which he thanks you sincerely. You take your own into the living room to escape the air between you two. You flip the TV on, hoping for some background noise to distract you from Six. It works as he remains in the kitchen. After finishing his food, he washes his dish, then retrieves yours and does the same.

"Thank you, Six," you swallow thickly.

"Mhm," he grunts.

Why does the energy between us keep changing?

"I have some things to do outside," he reports.

Oddly relieved, you cheerfully tell him, "Okay, have fun."

He glances at you with a look you can’t identify, then exits through the patio door.

We're both going stir-crazy.

After changing into a tank top and pajama pants, you figure the decanter had been left lonely for too long. You down a couple of shots and put a movie on. This time you pick something you're only vaguely interested in, knowing the alcohol will do the work for you.

You hadn't seen Six since he walked out, but you know he's somewhere nearby. You'd love to offer him a shot, but it's hard to imagine him being willingly impaired.

After a few hours, another glass, and a consecutive movie, you stretch out on the comfy, tan couch. As you lay there, you feel the waves of drunkenness rocking you to sleep.

You're awoken by a masculine voice calling your name. Your eyes crack open to see Six standing over you.

"Six! You wanna shot?" You sleepily propose despite having stopped drinking yourself hours earlier.

His voice is decisive, "No, thank you. Are you planning on sleeping out here?"

"Maybe. 'm I allowed?"

"No," he asserts.

"I thought we were friends, now," you grumble, glaring.

"We're nobodies, remember? And I'm not sitting out here all night making sure you don’t puke," he clears his throat to disguise a laugh.

"Why not? It'd be like a sleepover."

You snuggle down into your blanket and try to find unconsciousness again, but you feel his hand on your shoulder. Your stomach lurches - not from the alcohol, you're barely tipsy now - and your eyes fly up to his face. He's never touched you.

He attributes the blush spreading across your face to the alcohol.

"Don't make me carry you," he tries to threaten, but the idea sparks an evil grin on your face, so he repeats himself, "Don't make me do that."

His jaw clenches at the knotted pit forming in his stomach. Deep down, he wants you to make him.

You sigh dramatically. "Why can't you leave me alone out here? Is it really any less safe than my room?"

"Yes, actually." He doesn't elaborate. "Am I going to get to sleep myself or am I gonna stand here arguing with you until dawn?"

"Okay. Fine. So demanding," you sit up and fold your fluffy blanket as his hand retreats.

He sighs. His biceps jiggle when he crosses his arms tightly.

“You really can’t stand me, can you, Six?” Your voice is sultrier than you intended. You look up at him through your eyelashes.

You watch with confusion as he blinks and swallows hard. He doesn't move or look away from your pouting face. His body heats up as he valiantly fights the temptation to look down your tank top.

Shaking off his lack of response, you stand, and step over to the entertainment center. You then bend to turn off the TV. When the screen blackens, in the reflection, you see Six’s head cock to the side, then snap away from you.

Was he just checking out my ass? No way. I'm drunker than I thought. God, I'm a lightweight now.

Since you’re inebriated, you decide to push your luck, so you turn and brush your fingertips across Six's forearm as you walk by him, murmuring, "Goodnight."

You’re almost to the hallway when you hear his husky voice.

"’Night, sweetheart."

Your theory is confirmed. You must be absolutely black-out drunk because there was no possibility Six called you "sweetheart." You curl up and pass out almost instantly on your bed, laughing at your love-sick, impaired brain's desire for him.

Was he drunk? Six's jaw clamps shut as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He'd never called anyone a pet name. He didn't even know he knew any. He had been headed to bed, but now he couldn't face laying there in the dark with his thoughts. Six walks out the front door, intent on performing unnecessary checks. His thoughts follow him anyway.

He's not sure what's happening to him. Six isn't going soft, he's still hyper-alert, still deadly. But he is softer, somehow. When he looks at you or thinks of you, he feels a protectiveness that has nothing to do with his paycheck. He feels like he could be happy if he could just keep looking at you.

And really what was the point of being freed from prison if he didn't take every opportunity to live before he died? He could allow himself to feel an attraction to you, as long as he didn't name it. As long as he didn't act on it. Six decided he wouldn't fight this, but he also wouldn't encourage any feelings from you. He wouldn’t drag you into this. He would let himself have a friend - no more - if only for a little while.

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

The next morning, you keep your ritual. You have no hangover despite being sure you’d drank too heavily the night before. As you reach for your mug, your fingers brush empty space. It's missing from its place in the cabinet. Groggy, you take a better look around you, and you blink when you see the mug next to your coffee pot.

Weird - did I leave it out yesterday? Hm. Must have.

The telltale squeak of the barstool echoes in the quiet room.

Without turning, you greet him, "Morning, Six. I hope you slept well."

"Oh, you can hear me now?" is his fond response. His tone makes your heart skip.

"I'm sure you're just being louder for my benefit."

A chuckle leaves his lips. You aren't wrong.

Six watches you brew the coffee, imagining what it’d be like to have this view forever. He knows that’s a concerning thought, and he knows he’s torturing himself. It doesn’t stop him. It feels too good to let himself believe this could be his life, just for a moment. In some alternate universe, he could have a wife who loves him, a home, simple mornings, and peace. Six wants to imbibe as much of this as possible.

You finally turn after filling your mug. You peer out the window, but it's still relatively dark outside. Instead, your eyes dart to Six. He's focused on his laptop, so you freely admire him. Your gaze trails over him while you stir your drink.

A white t-shirt clings to him just enough to build pressure in your core. Since he's seated, you can't see his lower half, but you're sure it's some slacks that fit him perfectly. His hair is coiffed as usual, but his facial hair is scruffy. He looks good. If you were honest with yourself, you'd fuck him right there on the counter.

Six didn’t notice every single time you looked at him, but it was close. He didn't know why, but he marked each glance he caught. And right now, he could feel your stare as if it was a physical weight. The pleasure it gave him was electric, addictive. This base desire was easier to understand than the others you made him face, and he felt slightly more comfortable imagining it. This feeling could be partially alleviated.

Six would never act on his desires with you, though. You were under his authority, his protection. You had seen only one other man in over a month. He was new to the strength of these feelings, but he wasn't stupid. You were bored and lonely. He was more lonely, and he'd already let you in further than anyone else. That would be a problem. No, he would be content to let himself bask in your skin-deep attentions and your kindness, but he wouldn't torture either of you with physical complications.

During the silence, while the two of you thought about the same thing, the sun rose, casting you in a golden light. Six's back was to the window, but the sunshine catches his blonde hair, illuminating it. At the same time, both of you smile at each other - yours much larger than his, but no less genuine. He watches as your smile fades into your eyes, and you wet your lips. Nerves tighten in your stomach, and Six sees your throat constrict. Despite the distance between you, your eyes fall to his mouth. His do the same.

Registering the spark in the room, Six abruptly stands to avoid ignition.

"Have a good day," he offers quietly. He heads toward his room, toting his laptop.

Too shocked to reply, you stand there staring after him in the morning sun.

Holy shit, what just happened?

Over the next month, your morning routine is kept mostly the same, except your coffee mug is nearly always next to the machine when you wake. Six is civil, friendlier than he was at first, but you feel a wall returning. It's clear he's keeping some kind of boundary and you respect that. You could use a friend, and he does his best to be just that.

Throughout the month, there are times he finds you seated on the couch and sits with you. He doesn’t speak much, only answering your questions or agreeing with a comment you make about a movie or TV show. It’s the bare minimum that you both need, but it’s not fully satisfying for either of you.

It settles in your mind that you want to tell him you care about him. Platonically and in the most casual way possible, of course. You get the feeling he’s never had someone to look out for him, and that makes you sad.

On the last Friday of the month, you find the courage to say something. He’s seated on the opposite end of the couch, as far as he can be, in companionable silence as you let a comedy play.

“Six,” you begin, your heart already racing. But as you look at his profile, you fizzle out. “Are you hungry?”

He turns to you, face grave. “As long as it’s not the rubber chicken you made yesterday, yeah.”

“Well, maybe you should cook for a change.” Would you ever not be trading jabs at each other?

“I do cook,” he argues.

You roll your eyes. “Mac and cheese from a box for a week straight does not qualify as cooking.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s all I’m paid for. Special cuisine is extra.”

He’s joking, but the reminder of the nature of your relationship makes you cringe. You’ve let yourself grow far too attached to the handsome, quietly witty man, and knowing there was an asterisk on your friendship causes you more sorrow than you thought you’d feel.

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

One sunny morning, as you sit on the patio step, your ever-present coffee mug on the ground next to you, Six joins you. He doesn’t sit, instead, he stands behind you. Overlooking the valley, you ask him random questions that pop into your mind. You’re putting pieces of him together while trying not to pry any further than you know he'd like.

"Favorite candy? Besides gum," you add at the same time he answers.

"Gum. Oh, Skittles," he edits.

“Shoe size?” You turn to look up at him, shielding your eyes from the sun.

His lips twitch, “Eleven. You gonna buy me a birthday present?”

“When is your birthday, Six?”

He hesitates before responding, and when he does, you’re not sure it’s the truth.

“November 12th.”

You nod once and move on. "Ideal vacation?"

"A quiet beach."

“Favorite song?"

He's stumped on that one, "I don't think I have one."

"What about a favorite band? Or a singer?" You ask more generally.

"Hm, Bonnie Tyler." He declares, a gleam in his eye.

You laugh, "You're trying to rile me up, but I bet you probably are a fan of 'Holding Out for a Hero,' aren't you?"

He quirks an eyebrow at you so you explain, "She mentions Greek mythology," you gesture at his left arm, "and I know you love the Greeks."

You pause, then sing your own version of the lyrics to him, markedly offkey, "You're my streetwise Hercules -” Breaking off quickly in laughter at yourself, you bend forward to hug your knees.

You're no longer looking at him, so you miss out on the way his cheeks fight a brilliant, natural smile. You miss the way he loses and has to turn away from you to let the adoration color his face. And he misses the triumphant shutter of a camera in the distance.

The following day, Six is surprised to feel his phone vibrate. Few people had his current number.

Heard you got that cushy contract? I suppose you deserve it after saving my ass so many times.

Ah, it’s Denver, Six knows immediately. Not one for texting, Six leaves the message alone. The less he says about you the better - even to someone Six could almost call a friend.

He mulls over the phase ‘cushy contract’ and frowns. Six was now two and half months into this job, and he knew it would be coming to an end soon. Apparently, you were making good progress because your employer had notified Six they’d be terminating his services shortly - probably at the end of the month.

Two weeks until you were gone. Now that he understood exactly what he was missing, Six wasn’t sure how he would go back to his isolated murderous-errand-boy status. But what he felt didn’t matter - he would be going back to the existence he’d known for nearly twenty years.

You stroll into the common area one afternoon to see Six standing on the patio, contemplating the horizon. His gray suit is bright in the daylight, and you watch as the wind tosses a lock of hair. You take the opportunity to soak him in, to think about how much you care for him.

You open the door and walk out to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. You follow his eye line to see fluffy white clouds amidst a deep blue sky. Curious to know what he’s thinking, you clear your throat.

“You see something?”

“The same thing you do,” he gives you a tiny smirk. A breeze wafts the scent of his gum and you smile at the essence of him.

He slides his gaze along the tree line. You can hardly take your eyes off him, though. Six fascinates you. The CIA’s deadliest ex-asset was standing out here, looking like that, enjoying the countryside. He was quiet and closed-off, but he was also incredibly funny and warm.

God, what I wouldn't do for him. A surge of attraction consumes you for a moment, and it leaves you feeling unsteady.

Oh, he probably came out here to be alone. I’m interrupting.

“I’ll leave you be,” you say, your voice catching. You turn to go.

Six’s jaw clenches, and his lips part to tell you not to go, to tell you he prefers your presence to anything else on earth, but he doesn’t speak. Honestly, he doesn’t know how to say it - and he hears the door click shut behind him.

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

Two weeks later, Six is anticipating a text from your company telling him to stand down. He’s on edge all day, reigning in his thoughts. Trying to learn how to pack the pieces of humanity you’d given him into something he could carry with him. He can’t decide if it’s best to spend time around you or avoid you.

Six’s phone vibrates for the third time since he’d been here. Fully expecting another text from Denver or your employer, he’s stunned by what he does see.

Three photos have been sent to him by a blocked number. Each one depicts the two of you; each one shows Six exactly how fucked he is. He stares at the last one and the mixed emotions nearly buckle his knees.

Six had never seen happiness on his own face, but there it was. You’d sang to him, made a joke as only a friend could, you’d reminded him he was a man with choices and desires. It had struck him then hardest of all. Six wanted you. He wanted you in every way a man could want a woman, and in that moment he knew he’d never be the same.

But seeing that moment now through the lens of a threat? Six’s body kicks back into the high-alert state he’d been in for two decades. He springs off his bed, grabs his weapon, and sprints out to find you.

Because these photos are of Six’s reactions to you, he knows this isn’t about your work. Six knows exactly who this is and why. He also knows his adversary is probably running on fumes and therefore probably weak in resources. That means Six had some time.

He knocks on your lab door, and you call out, “Yeah?”

“Just checking,” he assures.

He moves off to scan his cameras, then the grounds. He finds nothing, so he retreats into the kitchen, half-facing the direction that the last photo had come from. Six works at his laptop until the sun sets. Through connections and rumors, he figures out someone (he needed no guesses as to whom) had placed a decent sum of money on his head.

His theory had been right, his foe was broke. It was obvious that the guy had poured all of his remaining funds into the bounty on Six's head. Six estimated he had roughly three weeks until a team could be expected. At least he wouldn’t be saying goodbye to you just yet.

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

The end of the third month comes and goes, and another week drags by. No word arrives from your employer. Going home had become something you no longer wanted, so your research had intentionally slowed. You spent more time outside of your lab than in. As time wore on, your mornings with Six became longer. Instead of standing across the kitchen from him, you found yourself seated next to him at the bar more often than not.

But Six had been strange lately. His brow furrowed constantly, he was as uptight as he was when you met him. Six became strict about knowing where you were at all times. And for the past two weeks, he had walked you directly to your room at night, hand hovering over your lower back. It was a weird mixture of familiarity and distance between the two of you.

This morning, you’re both sitting at the bar in comfortable silence. You're reading while he does god-only-knows-what on his computer. You both jump when his phone buzzes and violently dances across the counter. He snatches it up and sighs.

“Next week, some extra people are going to be hanging around.”

“What?” You’re dismayed. The private bubble that had been suspending the two of you bursts.

He has to tell you. If not the whole truth, then part of it.

“There's been a- a threat. It’s not a definite thing, but it could be a problem,” he hedges.

The world drops out beneath you. Not only is the intoxicating time you’d had with Six coming to an end, but it’s doing so because you could be hurt. You take a deep breath, willing your nerves to go away. Your eyes close and you place your palms flat on the bar.

Six suddenly remembers that this isn’t your life, you’re not used to life-threatening events. He slowly, firmly covers your hand with his own. It’s rough and warm; your internal monologue gets derailed.

It’s terrifying to learn that someone will try to assault you. It’s something you never thought would truly happen. However, you know your work has led you into some high-risk areas, and you’re strong enough to hold the information, to accept it. And the appreciation that the person protecting you is Six? He was everything you could ask for.

“You’ll be okay,” he promises, his voice aimed at your stampeding heart. It’s the one thing he knows he can give you, and he feels wildly territorial. He was damned if he let anyone near you.

He reluctantly removes his hand, and you take a second breath. You’re facing straight ahead, but you can feel his eyes reading your face.

“I know. I trust you, Six,” turning to look up at him, you find the courage to tamp down your fear. You give him a sad smile.

Your eyes water, and Six begs them not to spill over. He won’t be able to stop himself from wiping away your tears - it’s his fault they’re there.

Your childlike faith in him jars him with a realization: he would do anything for you. If you asked, he would do it. He was wrapped around your finger, and he liked it. His heart swells. And, for the first time in his adult life since his grueling training, he's overcome.

···

You spend the next week anticipating the arrival of the anonymous men. Six had warned you that - like the housekeeper - these men were not supposed to speak to you.

At the same time, Six divested himself of you as best he could. Once this immediate situation was dealt with, and the contract terminated, he wouldn't see you again. Six's lifestyle would not allow him to have you, and he couldn't change it. As badly as he wanted you, Six would never ask you to leave your career, your home, your life to be with him.

He wrestled with it, though. Six often found himself thinking of scenarios in which he could show you how he felt. Maybe after he killed Lloyd he could come back for you. Maybe after the contract ended you would realize it wasn't boredom, it was real. Maybe your feelings were as strong as his. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The return of Six's coldness confuses you. You miss him despite him being in the next room. You knew why (or you thought you did), you knew he was being paid to be here for this exact situation. It didn't stop you from feeling rejected.

The day comes and a van pulls up in the driveway. Four large, armed men pile out. They all look similar, terrifying. You retreat to your room before they come inside.

Six greets them, instructing them in what he's had planned. He walks the grounds with them but doesn't divulge his personal plans in regards to you. Six wanted everything compartmentalized and separated. No one could know who you were or why Six was there. These are Denver's men, but Six trusts no one completely.

Nearly a full day later, when you get too hungry to stay in your room any longer, you tiptoe to the kitchen. Your heart sinks at the empty room; you'd been subconsciously hoping Six would be at his spot.

As you reach the sink, you hear footsteps enter the room. You turn to greet Six, but you're visibly shocked by a stocky man standing there instead.

"Is everything okay?" You ask when the man doesn't say anything.

"Yeah, sorry. I didn't realize there was a woman here."

"Oh," you laugh, "Well, here I am."

Forgetting that this is not actually your home, and you didn't need to play hostess, you offer the man a drink.

"Water? Or some whiskey? But you're probably like Six with that, huh?"

"Yeah, naw, I can't drink on the job. Thanks though, honey. You been up here a while? You seem happy to see me." The man laughs good-naturedly.

You continue without answering his question, "Anything to eat? We've got plenty." You wince at the way you use 'we' as if you and Six had been playing house.

"I appr-" the man is interrupted by Six flinging open the garage door.

"Why are you in here?" His question is authoritative yet calm, and both you and the man start to answer at the same time.

"No, you." He nods at the man.

"Sorry, man. Should've known." The man quickly retreats outside. The patio door slams shut.

"He didn't even know a woman was here?" You put the query to Six. "Why? What'd he mean by 'should've known'?"

"His job is to watch that direction." Six indicates outward, toward the perimeter. "Not what goes on inside. I don't want anyone knowing anything unnecessary." He doesn't address your third question.

"I'm unnecessary now?" You already know it's a catty remark.

He throws you a withering look. "They're not supposed to be inside at all. If you see them, tell me. I'll take care of it."

"I mean, okay. But that guy was nice. At least he talked to me." You mutter the last bit.

Six has never felt jealousy, so when it flares in his stomach at your words, it burns. His eyes narrow and he strides over, stopping close enough to touch you.

"My job is to protect you. My job is not to entertain you. I'm not paid to be your friend." He sounds frustrated; like he's been trying to tell you something.

Six is overwhelmed and conflicted. He wasn't paid to be your friend - that came naturally. And he wasn't even being paid at all anymore. The deposits have stopped and Six is still here. He can't find a way to tell you that fact, though.

Abashed, you duck your head so he doesn't see the tears that spring up. Gravity works against you, so you look up to the ceiling, fighting the tears back. You feel lonely despite the best friend you'd had in a long while standing in front of you.

Six's mouth goes slack. He's horrified. He just made you cry. Six had made new-widows cry, sure. But never had his words caused the tears of a woman he cared about. He feels unbalanced. Six has no idea how to process anything going on inside him.

You sigh.

I'm the one who's pushed this friendship. He's always been honest about what this was. I can't very well be mad at him when he does his job.

"Okay, Six. I'll stay out of your way." Your voice is hoarse.

You bolt to your room as he stands staring into space, fists clenched.

A few days later, you leave your lab to find an apple and a glass of water waiting for you on the bar. A faint smile pulls at your lips. You realize you've not eaten today. On the countertop is your favorite mug. Peering inside, you see whiskey. Your small laugh breaks the heavy silence in the house.

After eating, you take the mug and sink down onto the couch. The gaming console makes an electronic jingle as you turn it on for the first time. You'd been working hard, again, but your morale was poor. You were miserable without Six's easy humor.

You pick up a game controller and start to scroll through the downloaded games when you hear Six's footsteps enter the house from the garage. Your heart twinges at the discovery that you have his footsteps memorized. He trudges through the kitchen and stops in the entryway to the living room.

You stop yourself from fully appreciating him in his gray suit, but it's hard as you can see your favorite black t-shirt underneath. He sees the mug in your hand and his face becomes hopeful.

"I haven't played a video game since 1995." He confesses, now staring at the TV.

"You want to play?" Your voice cracks embarrassingly.

He almost smiles at you, "Loser makes dinner?"

#sierra six x reader #sierra six fanfic #sierra six #six #the gray man #the gray man 2022 #the gray man fanfic #fluff #personal #ryan gosling #court gentry #courtland gentry #lloyd hansen #sierra six x f!reader #fanfic #fanfiction #sierra six x you #reader x sierra six #my fics

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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.

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