Eyes On Target (Into The Gray Chpt. 4)

Welcome Home (01)

Summary: Five Hargreeves had been through two apocalypses, joined the Temp Commission, and scraped his siblings asses off the ground more times than he could count. Now, dying in a barn with seemingly no way out, he makes a very crucial decision. One that doesn’t turn out entirely as expected.

Warnings: Strong language, blood/gore, etc. 

There was one thing about laying in a bed of his own blood with the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes and that was that it brought Five’s world crashing into an entirely new perspective. He could reflect without any of the responsibility of getting up and trying again, no other motives or expectations of saving the world or dragging his siblings off their asses and hoping that they would get their acts together when he needed them to. The last two times, they hadn’t, and looking around the barn, he didn’t expect a third either. 

Nevermind his sibling’s ability to keep a timed schedule, or bother to even do the simplest of tasks if it meant their lives or the rest of the world simultaneously hung in the balance on one very uneven scale. No, there was always a bigger priority that took precedence and damn Five for even bothering to try. His entire lifetime and two apocalypses still wasn’t enough to undo the utter shit that his life had become. 

But he could think about the past and how much he fucked up in his life, how he could have been better, or what the future may have held for him and what he would do if there was somehow a way that he could turn back the clock and make entirely different choices.

Blinking to the end of the world, joining the Commission, stopping an apocalypse twice in the span of a couple of weeks and finding his place back with his family in time to save them only to turn out that he hadn’t. Oddly enough, despite Five having the ability to manipulate time, he seemed to be the only one that never had enough of it.

His head fell to the side, cheek pressed into the solid woodwork of the barn to look at the crumpled bodies of his younger siblings.

All pallid skin and eyes wide open with disbelief. His family was dead--had died--going on the third time now and proving no easier to deal with than the last. Their wide eyes and full irises, the blood that soaked through the barn’s flooring and puddling beneath them in a gory mess, their stench assaulting his nose. 

No matter how many times he had seen it in the last few weeks, it hit just as hard as it had the first time. Five’s expression twisted, and he coughed, his body shuddering with every forceful gasp, pulling air into his lungs that wouldn’t come.

A part of him strongly contemplated doing nothing while he laid on the ground with his life in someone else’s hands. It would have been easier, he knew, to let everything go and give up fighting this long and arduous cycle; maybe finally get the night’s rest that he had been missing out on since his time jump to the end of the world. 

He’d be dead, but that was a minor hiccup in the grand scheme of things. 

If his reality wasn’t still blurring into focus, if the pain keeping him awake wasn’t so fucking obvious, he may very well have. It occurred to him then, casting a look beyond the blurred edges framing his vision, that he wasn’t making the decision just for himself.

In the very back of his mind where he had a tendency to shove all things that would either piss him off or send him over the edge, he could hear the condescending laughter of the Handler, his father’s infamous I told you so pounding against the inside of his skull when he’d advised him against jumping through time in the first place. 

Maybe if he hadn’t, then things could’ve changed. Maybe he could have helped them or saved Vanya from herself. 

Then again, maybe thinking that he would ever have an ounce of free will made him just as much of an idiot as the rest of them. Maybe it was all destined to happen, and none of it had ever meant anything.

That didn’t mean that Five wouldn’t try. 

Trembling fingers curled into loose fists. It hurt, the strain of even the smallest twitch sent a sharp stabbing sensation through every single muscle, splitting through his skull and down through his abdomen until he was gasping. It dulled his senses, the blurring fringes of his vision moving in, spreading, threatening to pull him into the dark and take him. It laughed at his efforts, willing him to finally give up. 

Several decades spent alone at the end of the world, years spent with the Commission, two apocalypses in the span of a few weeks was enough. 

Nonetheless, Five was still the more stubborn bastard.

Seconds. That was all he needed. Not hours, or even minutes, but all he needed was a few seconds and the willpower to not punch each and every one of his siblings for the hell they unknowingly put him through to keep them alive. 

In his hands, the light expanded. Five felt himself being yanked upward by an invisible force. It felt as simple as time grabbing his hand, leading him past a flurry of rewinding images, bodies lurching upward, blood stains levitating from the woodwork, bullets returning to their weapons, wounds closing, a sense of rejuvenation, of life. 

Newfound energy, a deep intake of breath and there was no pain. Only relief. Just a few seconds, a few agonizingly long seconds… 

His body moved in slow motion toward the door, the single most subtle inkling of hope igniting in his chest--a feeling that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. A part of him had almost forgotten if complete idiocy wasn’t the cause of ruining many of his easily salvageable problems.

That hope, like so many others, was quickly snuffed out in service to an alternative outcome.

Just as everything moved back into its original position, Five was thrown off his feet, everything reverting back in one rapid blur--too quick for him to keep up with. The sharp pain returned, wounds reopening themselves as the bullet pierced him again.

He cried out.

The bit of breath that he had managed to grab was snatched from his lungs, the blurred fringes swirling in, and when his back hit the ground below him, he came to the realization that he should’ve made his peace with God before trying this. Every single muscle was tight and shuddering into panicked gasps, and then it all released, leaving him panting and looking up at a familiar tiled ceiling. Weakly, he turned his head sideways only to find six other curious pairs of eyes looking at him, bewildered.

“Five?” Something was wrong. He was looking straight into the face of Luther, much shorter and thinner framed Luther standing next to an equally younger and dumbfounded Allison. 

“Five?! Oh, my God! Where have you been?” Slowly, his head rotated to catch Klaus and Ben on the other side. All young. All kids. 

“Forget that! What happened to you?” Ben piped up, shoving his other brother out of the way to close the distance between them--Klaus shouting a protest in response. 

Five moved first, much faster, swinging his legs over the table to drop to the floor. His hands flew up as they rounded on him, palms out and retreating as he took them in, scanned every single face, listened to every single high pitched prepubescent tone of voice. It was them. Alive and well and completely unaware of what hell he’d been through the last few weeks. 

How far had he gone back?

They hesitated in approaching him now, his continuous retreat leaving little room to embrace him and welcome him home with the open arms that he knew they wanted. This was not happening… This couldn’t have been happening! His chest heaved with every bated breath, his brows drawn into a scowl, retreating until he couldn’t back up anymore. His spine met the wall, almost shrinking underneath their prying gazes, all wide eyed and full of concern. 

“Five, are you okay?” Allison was the first to brave the distance. She persisted, and he retreated, his shoulder scraping against the corner as he moved sideways to the other end of the kitchen. The heels of his shoes scuffed against the tile floor, pivoting backwards. His hand braced against the wall with another quick sweep of their faces. 

“Stop!” He snapped. “All of you!” Sweat beaded his forehead, soaking through his uniform. The pain that hit him so suddenly felt very reminiscent of when he’d been shot at the barn, stumbling with a sudden limp. It knocked the breath out of him; electricity shot up the very center of his chest. He clutched it. His breathing, ragged and heavy, was the finishing touches before he buckled forward. 

When he pried his fingers away from his abdomen, there was a fresh burst of blood, scarlet coating the tips. He’d gone back, but his wounds were still there. “No,” he mumbled. His free hand raked through his hair. “No, no, no, no… shit, fuck, goddammit…” The amount of expletives that left his lips were surprising even for him, squeezing his eyes shut as he processed. 

He’d done a number wrong somewhere. A dent in his equation. He could fix this. 

“Five-” Luther said more tentatively. 

“Shut up.” Five shushed him. He waved dismissively, turning his back. He wracked his brain, flipped it around, molded it over and the only conclusion feasible was that he was the one that had messed up this time. 

He’d go so far as to say again, but considering that everyone was still breathing, he could give himself a pat on the back.

They’d grow. Eventually.

His hand gripped the counter for support. All at once, several pairs of footsteps moved toward him, but he held his hand up, inhaled deep through his nose and shuddered an exhale. 

They may have been intact, but he wasn’t.

Figured. 

“How long have I been gone?” Five asked, straightening stiffly. He turned to face them, catching their concerned expressions in the very center of his vision. It felt judgemental, prying for an answer that he didn’t have. 

Now they know how he felt. He cocked his eyebrows. “A few weeks, a few months? Years?” He prompted when no one answered. 

“Uh, just--just a couple weeks.” Allison answered. “We thought that you got lost, or died or…” 

“Where is Dad?” He went on, gripping the edge of the counter to help guide himself along. “Is he here?”

“He’s out on a trip. Said he’d be back in a couple days. What are you….?” Luther moved to help him, but Five warded him back. He held up his hands. “I’m just trying to-”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Are you okay?”

“Look, the only thing that’s obvious besides your kindergarten crush on Allison is that you’re incompetent. I have gotten this far by myself, and I do not need any of you to tell me what I should be doing, got it?” He had hit a little too close to home. He could see it in their faces, the obvious embarrassment in Luther’s eyes, that and an obvious confusion.

“Who is Allison?”

Five’s lips parted to respond, one more shuddering breath escaping him before his eyes rolled into the back of his head as everything suddenly went black.

Five’s eyes slowly opened to find the familiar darkness of his bedroom. The mattress felt soft underneath him, turning his head to find the equations sketched into the wall. On the bed stand to his left lay a plate with a cup of milk and a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and to the left sat Vanya, looking at him with wide curious eyes and clear worry.

Welcome home.

Detroit: New Beginnings

Summary: It has been one year since the androids claimed their rights to freedom after the revolution, and one year since Connor has decided to stay on the force at the DPD. The duo are currently working on a case involving androids going missing while Connor grapples with what he almost did to Markus at the peace rally and fearing Amanda’s inevitable return.

Pairing: N/A

Warnings: Violence, Strong Language

A New Start: Partners (01)

Detroit Police Dept.

August 30, 2039

12:30 P.M.

Tuesday

Chris abandoned his wife’s pastries on the counter in the break room.

Over the years, it had become an unspoken rule to not berate him for the fact that Hank could count the people that were brave enough to try his wife’s newest lifestyle kick for that week on one hand. 

For all of the employees on the force, that wasn’t a lot. He didn’t need any special probability and statistics program to figure that out. 

But, it wasn’t like Hank hadn’t tried. He had, but only once--and couldn’t keep a straight face or control his gag reflex enough to even think about trying it again. Their outward appearance had been what threw him for a loop initially; being made of enough random herbs and healthy shit couldn’t sway the uncanny resemblance between it and actual shit and no amount of Chris promising such couldn’t and would never convince him otherwise.

While Hank may have never cared about what he put in his body, he was still not ignorant enough to test whether or not his tolerance extended to something beyond alcohol or cigarettes. Some days, Connor’s habit of sticking evidence in his mouth suddenly didn’t sound so fucking revolting. 

God, if the kid heard him say that…

In that same area of the precinct, a loud continuous whirring of a coffee machine grinded endlessly. DPD staff shuffled around it eagerly awaiting its cycle to complete, and Gavin had ingested just enough caffeine to erupt into his usual cacophony of loud remarks and comments about fuck-all that morning. 

Of course the prick couldn’t grant them reprieve for even a few minutes. 

Hank supposed if he didn’t then the fucker was either late or… late. It wasn’t like he ever called off.

No, they couldn’t be that lucky.

“No fucking way!” And to complete the morning, here Hank was with a deafening insistence in his tone that left little room to argue over Connor’s suggestion for the umpteenth time that morning. “I have had enough birthdays! I am getting too damn old for this shit!”

In response, Connor looked contemplative, but even more so, unsatisfied with his decision.

Typical Tuesday.

Sitting hunched over his desk, Hank sifted through piles of papers for his tablet. It furthered his incessant personal reminding that he should probably take a few minutes and clear his desk of all of his personal clutter--all of the memorabilia piling up over the years was beginning to make finding anything nigh to impossible, another indication made clear when he bumped a couple of pens to the floor with his elbow. 

Cursing, he dismissed it to the abyss below his desk, staring at the screen with faux concentration. The contrast between their work stations was proving more apparent as the days went on, Connor’s completely clean of surface clutter and retaining a fresh sheen despite having claimed it a little over a year ago.

Besides the mess, the spinning yellow circle glaring at him just outside of his peripherals held his focus, having more recently recognized it as a sign of the android’s thinking--thought processing. Whatever. 

Connor’s brows were furrowed, eyes fixed on him as if deciding in some sort of situational software that he had of some other option that would help move their conversation into a more positive direction, something that would somehow change it in his favor. He wasn’t getting anywhere, and Hank wasn’t going to take any bait. 

The android’s lips parted to speak, but Hank was already turning away, grumbling incoherently under his breath. 

And nothing that he would reiterate unless Fowler was going to lecture him about playing nice with his co-workers. Again.

Perched on the only unoccupied corner of his desk, arms crossed over a broad chest, Connor worked a tick in his jaw. If androids had actually possessed the need to breathe--and their biocomponents that simulated breathing were actually functional for that sole purpose--the asshole may have just sighed. For the briefest of an instance, he caught his partner’s stoic expression, tight-lipped and silently asking for some sort of agreement between the pair.

It wasn’t offered.

“I have been researching human cultural practices and I thought that maybe--”

“Drop it. You want to celebrate, then do it for yourself why don’t ya? Celebrate your one year since deviating. That’s in a couple of months.”

Connor almost looked thoughtful, features folding over in confusion as he worked through some sort of response. Hank’s celebration into an even older age was many in the long list of arguments that the two seemed to have, but it was also one of the only topics that Connor seemed ever insistent to talk about that didn’t revolve around a case.

That made it unavoidable.

Goddammit. 

“I don’t think that qualifies as the same thing, Lieutenant.”

“Take my word for it. Let’s just go over the case.” To further his point, he swept his hand over the case files that had piled up on his desk the last couple of weeks. One large unorganized mess of manila folders and reports. “If Jeffrey dumps any more shit about it on my desk, I’m going to resign it.” It was a harmless jab in an effort to get Connor motivated, anything involving the words case or leads never failed to catch his attention.

Connor straightening from his rare hunched posture proved that fact rang true. 

Even after finally closing the deviancy case. 

The conversation, begrudgingly, wasn’t done though. It would be brought up again eventually. Unless the kid forgot or got distracted with something else.

Who the fuck was he kidding?

Connor never forgot. He didn’t possess the ability to forget. Maybe his stubborn nature could be argued with but in the last year or so being his partner, it was something that Hank faced with raw aggression and chose to avoid. 

“Could’ve originated from the peace rally.” Hank went on, rubbing at his chin with faux concentration at the various folders opened up in front of him. He didn’t think any of them were relevant to their current case anyway. “The dates between that and the first android incident are pretty damn close together. Then again, maybe it’s just a weird coincidence.” The words unfolded into a low mutter under his breath, slumping back against his chair. 

He spinned to the side to assess the clutter, a quick sweeping gaze over the mess and he retrieved the file that they needed and extended it to the android. 

Connor’s eyes had followed every movement, and Hank assumed he was judging his lack of organization. 

At least he kept his mouth shut if he was.

“Two guys were sent to the hospital last night.” Hank went on.

“According to the reports from Officer Miller, they were walking home from a Red Ice Anonymous meeting.” Connor confirmed.

Of course he’d kept up to date.

“They were jumped. He went to ask them some questions, bust aside from a brief statement, we ain’t getting much out of ‘em right now.” While he spoke, Connor flicked through it with practiced precision while simultaneously picking it apart. For what he already didn’t know, and Hank didn’t figure that was a lot. 

And while it would be denied for the rest of Hank’s life, he would never admit that he was even somewhat jealous of Connor. If humans possessed the ability to see anyone’s information by a quick scan or retaining an entire casework of information in a few seconds, the meeting and getting-to-know-you shit of social relationships would be made easier by miles. Then again, he didn’t need any superior programming to know that his time would be better spent at home with Sumo. 

“According to their file, Mr. Greene and Mr. Nicholson did in fact have a Red Ice history in the past.” 

“That bit checks out with what Chris managed to get from ‘em at least. Not the worst druggies I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with.” A smirk pulled at one edge of his lips. If they were the worst of the worst, his job would have been a lot easier and most cases would be an opened and closed one. 

“Possession and usage that earned them a few months jail time.” Connor confirmed, turning a suddenly quizzical gaze in his direction, dipping his chin. His brows pinched. “Wasn’t Detective Reed assigned all cases involving Red Ice?” The mention of their most eccentric detective was enough to pull a look of discomfort from the android. 

Maybe it was the ill memory of the beating that he’d been forced to give him in the evidence room last year. Either way, Hank swore that Connor had some kind of satisfaction from it. He didn’t think so. 

The bloody nose that he had given Perkins however? Fucking classic! 

“He is, but there was Thirium found at the scene. No fingerprints on the weapon that was likely used in the attack. We’re looking at another Carlos Ortiz case except we can push an android through a fair trial now.” 

Connor closed the case folder in his lap, his fingers plucking gingerly at the corner. That spinning yellow circle glared accusingly. “If the claims of their whereabouts are in fact correct, then I think that our best course of action is to question them ourselves. Maybe they can recall more when the shock period has passed. Distinct characteristics, how many androids there were in total, even.”

“Not to bust your balls kid, but we can’t scan a serial number like you can. Not to mention all of you androids have the same face. There’s no record of them ever owning an android, but…” Hank threw up his hands in surrender. “Maybe there’s a past history we don't know about. We’ll follow another lead over the next few days,” he decided. “See if they can’t give us anything else by the end of the week.”

With that, Hank breathed out a long-winded sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as though fighting off a headache. Connor was a headache enough, the case being the migraine. He waved his free hand over his desk. “Take your pick. God knows we’ve got plenty.” A pained laugh slipped past his lips, almost incredulous. Borderline sympathetic. 

For them.

Propping his elbow on the chair’s armrest, he leaned his head against a curled fist. His partner’s gaze was distant, even as Hank tried to meet it with a vague curiosity of his own. 

He waited.

“What are you thinking, Connor?” No response was offered, that same accusatory yellow glaring at Hank just out of the corner of his eye. 

Connor’s features folded, looking to an empty space at his right. Upon further inspection, Hank noted that nothing was there, looking between the two confirming the assumption that he was in some far off place elsewhere. An abrupt snap of his fingers in front of Connor’s nose brought him back. He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head. “Nothing. Nothing relative to our case.”

“Any other time you’re pulling leads out of your ass.” The remark was followed by an exaggerated sigh. His eyes rolled to the side. “This is the first time that you don’t wanna input your opinion? Finally hit a damn wall with enough dead leads, didn’t ya?”

A slight tug pulled at one edge of Connor’s mouth, working a tick underneath a rigid jawline. “Hilarious, Lieutenant.” He mumbled.

“It was a pretty damn good joke in my opinion." With a dismissive hand gesture--a quick slice of his hand through the air--he reached across his desk to retrieve one stack of case files. It didn't account for the other large piles but hell, it was a start. 

“That is a personal opinion.”

“What the fuck ever.” Running a shaky hand through his hair--something else that Connor blamed on Hank's poor diet--his gaze never left him, flicking over his rigid form with a blatant curiosity. "We should go talk to Markus. There’s a good chance that he would know somethin'?" 

And then Connor moved from his perch. Carefully--stiffly was a better way of putting it--around the edge of the desk. Long precise fingers fumbled for the coin in his pocket. It rolled across his knuckles, coming to a complete stop as it was flicked into the opposite palm. Hesitation made the movement rigid, not as fluent as it normally would be. A tick worked itself underneath a rigid jawline. Connor didn't look at him, and instead passed by to his own desk. 

"You haven't seen him since the peace rally," Hank prodded. "I think it's about time we paid him a visit, don't you?" 

"I don't know," He answered in what was almost a whisper, voice low. Unsure. "I've assessed the database's files and all of the reports involving our missing androids. I have only come to the conclusion that older models, or new deviants are being reported disappearing from Jericho. That and it's still limited to Detroit and only a few surrounding cities.” He shrugged. “So far." 

Connor shook his head in defeat. "My most recent solution was to send a scan parts to Cyberlife, but-"

"All of the missing reports we’ve managed to solve end with the android self destructing and destroying their systems," Hank finished for him. "That and its considered murder with your rights. Can't just go pulling apart an android and not expect to get your ass busted." 

"I do not know if an exception can be made for some kind of malfunction. I could probe its memory, but there is no evidence as to how that would affect my own systems." 

"Keeping you at a distance makes the shit harder." Hank agreed, and other than nodding in response, Connor offered no comment. "Until we can figure out if it can be spread, there isn’t much that you can do." 

"Why don't you take your chances and see what the hell happens?" An all too familiar and unapologetically arrogant voice drew closer to their desks. Gavin came to a full stop at their desks, arms folded over his chest with a smirk that never ceased to infuriate him. Both of them, he assumed.

He grimaced. 

Fucking asshole.

"Fuck off, Reed. Don't you have your own case?" Hank grumbled, an edge to his tone that Gavin brushed off a condescending smirk.

"Unlike you and the plastic prick, I've actually made headway." Gavin boasted, his interest in Hank diverted to Connor who watched passively. Most of the time he acted as if Gavin was gum under his shoe that he could scrape on the sidewalk and be done with. Like he couldn't be bothered even when he had a gun in his face and death threats on his name. Hank had been guilty of that look once.

Gavin was full of shit, but Hank wouldn't put anything past him. Even now.

"Hey plastic," Gavin halted in front of the android, squaring up his shoulders. The situation would have been alarming if the difference in height wasn't so obvious. Reed had to look up to address him and Connor responded by raising his eyebrows, tilting his head to the right. 

"Hello, Detective Reed."

"I thought that after the walking toasters were suddenly recognized as people you would leave. A detective android prototype hunting androids is still doing the exact same damn thing." He sneered. 

"I assessed that it would be appropriate to remain in the android crimes department to further offer my assistance to the DPD." His hands folded in front of him, meeting Gavin's eyes with that usual infuriatingly neutral expression. The little twitch in Connor's facial features gave him away however, signaling his annoyance at the detective's harsh jobs.

Gavin didn't see it, but Hank knew him well enough that it was impossible to miss. 

"Yet you're still wearing your Cyberlife threads. I'd almost think that you liked hunting 'em down. Does it give you a sick thrill, prick?" 

"Reed!" Hank interjected, rising stiffly from his desk chair. "That's enough."

"I believe that wearing my uniform shows more professionalism than a leather jacket and a relentlessly hostile attitude, Detective." Connor's brows raised and relaxed sequentially, a slight and subtle twitch pulling at one corner of his mouth. 

"The hell did you just say to me, tin can?" Gavin leaned forward, hand clenching at his side into a fist that he pulled back and took aim on the android. 

"I said that's enough!" Hank barked, shoving himself in between them. 

Gavin was shoved back a few steps.

Connor didn't budge. 

"Back off! Can't you ignore him for five fucking minutes?" 

"Fuck," An enraged gaze flicked between Hank and Connor. Gavin snarled in frustration, one hand slipping seamlessly into the pockets of his jacket, the other pointing an accusing finger in the android's direction like it hadn't been the detective that had approached them with the intention of starting shit. 

Hank scoffed. 

"I'll never so much as tolerate the plastic asshole. The day there are two of him is the day I put in my resignation." One last threatening glare was thrown their way, the threat released into a spat. Before either could comment, Gavin was storming off, cursing incoherently under his breath. 

Surprisingly it had gone better than most of the other times. Hank would have admitted that. 

Evidently, every altercation passed by Connor without a second thought. Hell, maybe not even a first. The evidence room incident remained the only time that the android actually retaliated on him. That being that he needed to in order to accomplish his mission. 

Still, he caught Connor's expression as Gavin was leaving. He watched him through distrusting slits, LED flashing yellow for a split second before correcting itself. His jaw was tense, something dark stirring within him, something troubled that Hank didn't quite recognize. It was only when Hank actually decided to speak that Connor finally looked at him, eyes softening into something more calm, relaxed. Normal. 

"Let's go ask Markus some questions. Any idea where he might be?" In a gesture of reassurance that didn't quite reach him, Hank placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Markus has been overseeing the conversion and stock of dormant androids at the remaining Cyberlife stores. We can pull up those that have yet to be listed as maintenance and distribution centers and start there." And as if nothing had changed, as if the threat from the DPD's most eccentric detective had already been forgotten--at least it would have been if he wasn't squirming underneath a clenched jaw--the task of talking to Markus seemed to unnerve him more. Talking to the deviant leader was a task that Connor was less inclined to do over listening to Reed berating him every chance he got. 

The observation was a question for later, and truthfully Hank didn't anticipate an answer. 

Connor stepped back to allow him through first, Hank's hand slipping from his shoulder to dangle uselessly at his side instead. Expression falling flat, he waved him through. "After you, Lieutenant."

Behind the Curtain Pt. 2

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

Movement entering from stage right forced his eyes forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And it’s good to see you again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” he said abruptly.

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

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire.

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

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

Masterlist

Important Information: 25 | F | Multifandom Blog/Fanfiction Account

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Fandoms:

The Gray Man (2022)

Into The Gray (Six x Reader) (Multi-Chap)

Link: Ch. 1, Chpt. 2, Chpt. 3, Chpt. 4, Chpt. 5, Chpt. 6, Chpt. 7, Chpt. 8

2. Into The Woods (Six x Reader) (One-Shot)

Link: Into The Woods

3. On The Run (Gen) (3 Parts) (Finished)

Link: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

4. Pawns in the Game (Gen) (One-Shot)

Link: Pawns in the Game

5. Behind the Curtain (Six x Reader) (Snippet/Concept) 2-parts

Link: Part 1, Part 2

Resident Evil

Pull (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

2. Infected (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

Bullet Train (2022)

The Million (Tangerine x Reader) (Concept/Snippet)

The Umbrella Academy

Welcome Home (Number Five-Centric) (One-Shot) (Season 2 Ending AU)

Detroit: Become Human

Detroit: New Beginnings (Post Deviant Connor Route) (Future Multi-Chap/Project)

Star Wars

The Balance Between Us (Post TROS AU/Fix-It)

Link: Like A Light (Rey)

--All current chapters are on my AO3 account under the same username. 29 Chapters and ~110K words.

Peter Pan

As The Days Went By You've Lost Your Mind (Peter Pan Dark AU)

Link: Prologue 1

--All current chapters are on my AO3 account under the same username. 11 Chapters and ~44K words.

Into The Gray Chpt. 8 (House Call)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

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

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

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

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

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

“So,” Claire started, trailing off. 

“So?” You echoed. 

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

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

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

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

You doubted that it counted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what exactly do you need ?”

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

“What are you doing?”

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

“You know him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You liked that about her.

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

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

“You haven’t.”

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

“I don’t have any friends.” 

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

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

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

“Is someone telling you to do it?” 

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

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

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

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

“You’re wasting your time looking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wondered if Carmichael had realized that. 

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

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

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

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

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

“You look like you got into a fight.” You noted. 

“Your friends don’t make good company.” His casual but strained tone was the only indication that he’d noticed you after all, but he didn’t open his eyes to see you.

“And I do?”

Six shrugged, a wince following the motion. “Better company.”

“And here I thought that Carmichael’s personality was just stellar.” You thought that you’d heard the beginnings of a laugh ushered from him, only to be cut short by a hacking cough before he spit a glob of blood across the floor. You didn’t immediately move to help him, lingering by the doorway as though encroaching on the personal space of his cell was worse than encroaching on the personal space of his house. 

In comparison, it was much smaller. 

“How bad are the other guys?”

“Worse off than me.” He wheezed.

With a hum, you finally strode across the room, finding a meager box of first aid supplies sitting on top of the folded clothes. You weren’t surprised that they had left him to patch himself up after beating him half to death, and like you, he’d chosen to be stubborn rather than oblige to anything they handed him. 

After retrieving the box, you’d knelt down in front of him. 

“Got anything to drink?”

You scoffed as you took a small bottle of antiseptic out of the box. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would work. “You’re going to have to deal with this sober,” you said, still digging out some essentials. You threw a glance up at him, only to notice that he was finally looking at you. It didn’t deter you from the order. “Take your clothes off.”

When he didn’t immediately move, you raised your eyebrows. Six looked back at you, one of his eyes partially squinted, promising a bruise within the next few hours. He hesitated to oblige this particular request and you found yourself marveling. 

The Gray Man, who had broken out of a secure CIA building through agents with years of similar–if not more–experience, felt awkward. 

You raised your eyebrows further. 

He still didn’t move. 

“I can’t help you through your clothes.” You pointed out.

Six exhaled through his nose, shifting with a soft grunt so that he could grab at the hem of his shirt and begin tucking it out of the cover of his jeans. His expression twisted at the extension of his movements, a strain on his wounds that had soaked through the fabric and left residue wherever his hands grabbed. You shuffled closer to him. 

“Let me help.” Six moving his hands out of your way was the only permission that you needed. You tugged his shirt free from the confines of his jeans, careful to avoid his wounds while you worked your way up over the defined muscles of his chest, skilled fingers gliding up his biceps and carefully working the sleeves through his arms before you could yank it free over his head. It was dropped to the floor.

Scars covered nearly every surface, old wounds from old places that you’d observed through the window at his house in Florida. There were new wounds and new bruising over the old, some that would leave new scars, but it did little to hinder his rugged handsomeness. You weren’t a fool; you would give credit where it was due. 

Your hands went for his belt next, but he grabbed them.

“I got it,” he insisted. 

“Are you shy?” You teased. 

Your little mockery gave rise to a very light smirk, refreshing the frustration that’d previously occupied his face, but your hands retreated so that he could take over himself, unbuckling his belt and carefully wiggling out of his jeans until he was down to his boxers. Those were discarded beside him on the floor along with his shirt. 

You poked at the space next to one of the bigger bruises at his ribs, purple and green discoloration starting; you went for an open gash adjacent to that space first, taking the antiseptic and gauze into your hands. Your head was bent low, your eyes wandering over the rough outline and bruised edges with practiced focus. 

“Did you finally sign that confession?” You asked.

“No,” Six murmured, soft. “They started beating the piss out of me before then though, so,” he hissed a sharp intake of breath as you dabbed at it with the antiseptic. “It felt like a win.” 

You glanced up, the edge of your mouth twitching. He was looking down at you, eyes wandering, and when your lashes fluttered and your eyebrows raised, he looked back up, to the space around the cell–as empty and disinteresting as it was.

“Uh, thanks.” He went on. “For–for this.”

“I wouldn’t thank me yet. This is not going to be comfortable for you.” 

Six nodded, leaving his appreciation in the air for another time. He leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. He looked more peaceful like this, the lights of the hallway blanketing over him and giving a warm, favorable sheen to features marred by blood. His hair fell away from his forehead, revealing another cut there; another eventual scar. 

You elicited a low groan from him as you pressed the antiseptic into the wound and dabbed at it with the gauze. One of his eyes opened to look at you.

“Just making sure you’re still with me.” You said. 

“Barely. I am beginning,” he hissed out, the words rising like bile in his throat, “to seriously question my life choices.”

Your head tilted. “The Sierra Program taught you how to take a beating, all things considered.” 

“That’s a family trait.”

You exhaled through your nose, poking on another bruise toward his left hip making him gasp; the skin there tender, but nothing that you had to immediately worry about. Nothing felt broken. “You’re hilarious,” you murmured good-naturedly, the action and remark earning a gentle glare from him. “Here I thought that it was the blood loss making you so passive.” 

“Just another Thursday,” he quipped. 

“It’s Friday,” you corrected him, your knees tucked against his thigh where you’d moved against his side. Six held up his hand except that his arm couldn’t extend that far and it fell back down to his knees. One hand pushed against his knees to flatten them both so that they were laying straight, granting you more access where it was needed.  “I’m going to work on your side first. I’m going to need you to hold still, okay?”

Other than a sharp intake of breath, and an occasional flinch, he hardly moved at all; one sharp jerk had you leaning your arm over his legs to hold him still, pushed close to his abdomen and practically laying over him. You’d nudged him closer to the wall to make more room for yourself, your hip pressed against the side of his thigh. 

Threading a needle with a closed eye, you glared at it in focus before your thumb and index finger guided the needle through his skin right beside a hole, drawing it over. As you worked, refined, you ignored the gentle sounds that you elicited from him. Soft sounds of pain were nothing new to you, and you did have to admit that they had made him rather resilient. You didn’t know what you had expected, but for some reason, you expected backlash.

You assumed that his and Lloyd’s pain tolerance were drastically different.

The iris scissors were lifted, and you tied off the thread before snipping it.

More antiseptic was soaked onto the wound before a bandage was applied. You shifted up his body to inspect the wound by his shoulder. One of your thighs was forcefully planted to one side of him, trapped between his and the wall, and the other folded beside you. The supplies were placed on his chest for assurance. He’d lifted his head up when he felt you move; the two of you were nearly nose to nose, but your head was turned, focused on his shoulder. 

He placed his hand beside your thigh, holding himself in place should he somehow find himself leaning. Where one of your hands was planted against his chest to hold yourself steady, you felt his heartbeat underneath your palm, pounding in a frantic rhythm. His skin was hot underneath your fingers. 

Charming.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you’ve never had a woman this close before,” you said softly, and low without looking at him, your hand moving away to grab more of your antiseptic. 

His breath hitched when he was about to answer, but you interrupted him.

“I don’t want to know.” You mused.

“I have.”

You snickered. “I said if I didn’t know any better.” You felt his muscles relax underneath your hands, but you associated it more with defeat than relaxation. Granted, you had that effect on people naturally. Considering how often you had knowingly or unknowingly infuriated and simultaneously puzzled Lloyd Hansen and Denny Carmichael, Sierra Six was hardly an added challenge. 

Your slender fingers worked at disinfecting and closing the wound at his shoulder, gradually brushing up the length of his arm. Your skin was cold to the touch as always, and you thought that you felt him shiver under his fingers–there was an explorative nature to your demonstrations, touching every little line and mark as you worked your way up over scars old and new in search of other wounds. 

Your eyes never strayed from the work, speaking in their own silent words. Your hand traveled up to drape across his shoulder and toy with stray hairs, twirling blonde strands in between with gentle tugs that were strangely casual. From there, one would consider a conversation starter, or a knife positioned directly where your other hand lingered at his side, doing the same demonstrations where your fingers splayed at the sensitive skin by his hip bone.

It wasn’t often that you were able to get this close to a man without any other intentions.

Six’s hands lay limp, arrested, slowly curling into fists. When you nudged his arm to look at a wound at his other side, he obliged your wordless request. You felt him tense underneath your fingers, seconds teasing him, trickling past. He waited, and he watched. He didn’t risk another glance, another breath too deep. 

Slowly, mechanically, through painstaking precision, he turned to face you completely opposite with a crinkle in his crescent eyes. You knew that look. You’d seen it before, only with much less speaking involved. Then he truly did subside toward you. He pushed the heel of his palm into the floor for support.

All at once, you found yourself pulling away, your hands retreating from his skin, two breaths escaping in unison once you finally made distance and pulled yourself up from the floor. His fingers lingered, brushing your wrist and curling around your knuckles.

“Are you done?” Six asked, voice sounding groggy, lulled into a kind of security that was never meant to be found with you.

“I think you’ll live another day,” you answered. You forced yourself to not submit, to subside against unwise impulses. Especially with as pale and cold as he was—oh, how he could play the game. 

Later, you promised to no one in particular. 

Six finally exhaled, unable to challenge that certainty in your gaze. He managed a pursed smile, then the smile faded, unreadably flat now. With great reluctance, he let go of you. Not once did his attention stray from your face, clinging to it.

“I can’t promise that I’ll happen to be around the next time you piss someone off.” You advised, the barest twitch pulling at the edges of your lips. “So, be careful.”

“Why did you come around this time?” He’d asked when you’d turned away.

“I wanted to tell you,” you inhaled. “Claire is safe. She wants to see you.”

“I want to see her, too.”

Your hand lingered on the doorframe, and while that hadn’t been your original intentions in coming here, you were glad to give him that reassurance. Claire had never outright said it, but you knew as soon as you’d walked into the safehouse who she’d been hoping to see. You never lied, especially not when the facts were directly in front of your face.

“And you will.”

On The Run Pt. 3 (Final)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six stifled a sigh. “How much farther?” 

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

Six didn’t answer. 

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

“How much farther ?” He pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he had a lot of self-control.

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

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

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

“What?” Lloyd barked.

“This is it?” Six asked.

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

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

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

“You don’t have a game plan?” 

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

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

He didn’t answer. 

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

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

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

Six didn’t really know what he was expecting.

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

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

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

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

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

And his own sanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, the thing was that Lloyd had fucked up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“-- Your fuckin’ fault–” he choked. 

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

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

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

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

Dammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don't,” he snarled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As though her eyes were playing tricks on her. 

Tears welled in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

“ Yeah. It’s me. ” 

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

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

Now he was about to cry seeing her again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 close to your fate. 

That didn’t deter you from holding your silence, their attempts to get you to talk pointless, but something that 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 just to hide 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 in dealing with things like you.

“Around,” you answered immediately. 

“Do you have a name? An alias? Are you foreign? 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 a smile despite yourself. “That’s subjective.”

The stocky one grimaced but nonetheless 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. 

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 coagulating.

Most of all, you’d 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. If you had thought long about it, you thought it may have been considered poetic. So much red in a space that was once white with purity. 

“My first was a practice target.” When their eyebrows raised, a moment passing too long with questioning silence, you clarified: “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, tilted it, and you noticed 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 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 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. 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 as soon as the words left your lips, 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 though the two of you 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, and 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, clearly sounding doubtful of your claim to their sensitive information. You were doubtful of his use of the word “successful” considering where you stood, and where they were buried. “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—the only person you cared to hear. “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.

“Because I killed them.”

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

But it wasn’t who you wanted. It was another man, younger but someone that gave you the idea that he was some corporate asshole with too much time and too much authority for his title. He waded in with a smugness that brought an undeniably static air, the kind that snapped the lackeys into submission with no effort at all. You supposed that you were expected to do the same, but you didn’t. 

Your disappointment outweighed your resourcefulness. 

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. He didn’t say anything, not at first. Then: “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.”

“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. “You tell me who you’re working for, what that has to do with the CIA and more importantly, your involvement with the Sierra program, and I can grant certain immunities, within my jurisdiction of course.”

“Use your jurisdiction to give me who’s above you.”

“And who exactly is it that you think is above me?” Both of his forearms settled against the table, and when you didn’t answer, he merely hummed his assumptions, bobbing his head. “So far you’ve told us nothing that gives you value, and I can’t go off a pretty face as a willing enough trade, so —“ he waved his hand through the space between you. “You give me something, I’ll give you something.” A shrug. “Sound fair?"

Nothing was fair where the CIA was concerned, valuing self-preservation only. You didn’t have to slip him the specifics—he didn’t need to know everything—but just enough to satiate, and get you closer to what had convinced you to get apprehended in the first place.

They confiscated your clothes during your medical exam after that. 

The CIA reveled like smug children, and had purposely voiced no outright promise that any of your belongings would be returned. You’d spend 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 your eyelids fluttered and your injured limbs begged for that momentary reprieve, but you didn’t succumb to their prodding insistence. Better use of your time had been secluded to looking for cameras. Carmichael–the corporate asshole that had finished your interrogation–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. 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 things that you hadn’t checked. You only hoped that they hadn’t put anything inside you. All food given to you had been properly examined before you’d so much as tasted it. 

You shifted, eyes darting back to the door. It was a sterile white, a continuation of the clinical ambiance that made up the room. The clock mounted above ticked on mercilessly, reminding you of the time that was not on your side. Though the hands marched inexorably forward, you were not ready to make your move. 

Pull (Leon x Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You definitely weren’t here looking for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regardless, Chris had a point. 

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

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

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

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

Maybe he was hiding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “You said it, not me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leon didn’t waste a beat. “No.”

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

Leon considered the suggestion. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Leon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

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

It was you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was an order from–”

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

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

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

“I’m–” Leon exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

You raised your head a little higher. 

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

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

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

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

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

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Incarceration (Six) (Into The Gray Chpt. 6)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

Running had become instinct, hiding second nature, every step taken in the last few months planned down to the smallest detail to ensure that he could keep running and keep hiding. Six played his part, did what he was told, and ensured that nobody knew the truth about Courtland Gentry. For years, he obeyed the idea that he was replaceable; at any given moment, if his handlers decided that he had outlived his usefulness, he would kneel down and let them shoot him in the back with only gratitude given for the opportunity. 

Now, they had never outright said that, and it wasn’t in tiny print on any contract that he’d ever signed–that he knew of–but he wasn’t foolish enough to think that everything would be cut and dry. He’d only assumed that what he’d been doing over the years had made up for things, and that he was working toward something. Not to end up being the CIA’s scapegoat.

Not to once again be reduced to the convict that had been incarcerated for the same exact damn thing–being the blame because there had to be someone to blame. 

 When Six was hired by Donald Fitzroy to protect his niece, tunnel vision on the ground and breaking every rule on day one, Claire taught him about normalcy and routine in his world–one that didn’t have those things–and she had successfully enacted a strictness on him that the toughest agencies in the U.S. government could not. It wasn’t a trait inherited from Donald, but one completely her own. 

He was not allowed to lock the doors. 

He had to ask about her day at least once and act interested about it even if he wasn’t. 

No chewing gum in the house. Period. 

Ice-cream was a suitable dinner choice and he wasn’t allowed to argue. 

At the first instinct to run, he had to ignore it.

Claire didn’t like running, or hiding. It guaranteed his freedom, but to her, it may as well have been prison. Living life watching your back constantly thinking several steps ahead wasn’t living, not to her, but he had come to enjoy having his own terms since becoming a fugitive. 

Again.

It beat waiting to be stabbed in the back, his old life that he’d willingly let them burn suddenly reignited because they needed it to be. Claire had unknowingly given him a new purpose, and even after everything, no amount of training or experience taught him how to exactly explain that to her. He spoke several languages, had learned tactics to approach every social encounter imaginable, and he could spot a lie in literal masters of deception.

Yet, he wasn’t sure how to tell a pre-teen ‘ thank you ’. He’d come close, on days that she was understanding of their circumstances, only to clam up on days that she was angry and spiteful, reminded of what he couldn’t give her. 

Like her rules, he was struggling to keep up. 

Ignorantly, he’d chosen to spend a few weeks closer to his hometown so that she could get some grasp of normalcy, and it was because of that they’d finally caught up. His downfall was because of an agent with a ‘come hither’ smile and a whole lot of bad luck. He could have scoffed at his own stupidity had it not been well-deserved.

So, Six was left with not knowing where Claire was again , and waiting until he could confirm that she wasn’t in the CIA’s custody before he made a break for it. The number of bodies stacking up hadn’t made a difference before, and Claire wasn’t there for it to make a difference now. His one viable clue was unfortunately, as far as he knew, on the enemy’s side.

Harsh overhead light washed Carmichael’s face in deep shadows, pulling it back into darkness with every flicker and sudden dim from a failing bulb. It didn’t matter. Six knew that he was the most terrifying thing in this room. The handcuffs were uncomfortable and dug into his wrists every time he shifted, but he could have it around the prick’s neck and have the job done before anyone knew what was happening. 

His pensive stare bled through the man around a wad of chewing gum. It was a previous attempt at winning his favor several hours ago, only for more frustration to succeed when it fell through. Nobody had proved brave enough to take it from him, either.

He slouched back against his chair, his index and middle fingers tapping no particular beat on the metal table. He had yet to look up, questions and demands shifting into the background in one hazy, drowned out sound. His patience with all the shit was thinning considerably. He glanced at the one-way mirror, wondering if you were watching, if you were mocking him just on the other side. ‘ This is the Gray Man?’

And whose side are you on?

Nobody’s.

Clearly somebody’s or he wouldn’t even be here. You’d said your name, and now as much as back then, he hadn’t expected an honest answer. He may as well have driven himself crazy thinking about it, but it did distract him from Claire, what little bit of time that he didn’t think of her; that he didn’t think that she would be better off in the long run without him. 

He drove himself crazy thinking about that too.

A manila folder was shoved into the center of his vision, breaking his concentrated focus. His eyes flicked over, the beat that he’d been making on the table finishing its chorus with one more resounding tap. It bounced across the emptiness of the room, and echoed off the silence burying itself into the walls. Carmichael had been quiet so far, waiting and attentive but still putting out a tough farce. Six had since become disinterested in him about an hour ago. 

He’d watched multiple trained officials come and go already, several making obscene gestures as soon as they made it out of the door. This one would prove no different. Carmichael was the man behind the scenes–the intelligence, but not the skill. It was Lloyd and Six that had fought in the war, tumbling through the trenches spilling blood. He never saw Carmichael there to finish the job that he’d started when Lloyd failed. This was his first time seeing him at all.

If there was a definition of a corporate prick, Denny Carmichael would be the example picture directly beside it.

The folder was slid in-between them, opened with precision, then flipped across the table. Every action was taken with practiced restraint, Carmichael’s hands moving to fold on top of the table, leaving the folders' contents exposed in their macabre glory. It was all a show, he knew. They needed this for records, to say that it had been investigated and closed. The cuffs on Six’s wrists were placed there for the CIA’s own peace of mind. 

He dared think even Carmichael’s peace of mind, seeing as the door was probably locked.

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

Carmichael tilted his head, vague amusement flickering through his expression behind his glasses. The reflection of the lamp glared just inside the lens, making him harder to read, but he had hardly been hiding his intentions this whole time. He’d expected a confession and a closed case as soon as Six had been apprehended. “What makes you think it won’t this time?”

“Because you don’t care what I have to say.” 

A scoff of a laugh from the man followed Six’s bluntness, 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. He shrugged. “If you have something to say in your defense, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

“I’m going to guess ‘I didn’t do it’ isn’t convincing enough?”

Carmichael’s amused smile grew broad, the signs of a man knowing that he’d already won before an argument could be started. “The accusations against you are stacking up the further we look into your background. You’ve never had a clean history. I can pull records before your time in the Sierra Program just as easily if you want to put your old life back into the public eye. Or, we can keep this private. It’s up to you.”

Six nodded solemnly, as though suddenly understanding his position, and the lack of having a way out of it. He would have no other choice but to agree eventually–whether willingly or not, but that didn’t stop him from fighting it in the meantime. He was not foolish enough to not realize that they had ammo stacked against him since the beginning, all of the assignments they’d sent him on further fuel for when their secrets finally slipped, but for someone used to running, he guessed he never expected it to catch up.

“I see where this is going.” 

“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.”

“I’ll confess to my fuckups.” Six’s eyebrows furrowed, and only then did he cast a glance at the folder. “Not yours. And 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 with an audible screech. It didn’t deter either man inside the room. 

“Actually, I didn’t.”

While Carmichael rose, he circled around the table to stand beside Six, circling a man without realizing that he was the one in the shark tank. 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. If I jump, you need only ask ‘how high’, because that is what we made you to do. 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, meeting his glare with a level look of his own, smug despite his position in it all. “You should probably get started on that paperwork. It’ll take you a while.” 

Carmichael pushed off against the edge of the table, putting some much needed distance between them. He hummed thoughtfully, his nostrils flaring but his rage staying contained in its most primitive form. When he moved, it was stiff, and slow, his gaze sweeping over Six in the chair one last time.

“And what about Claire Fitzroy?”

Six looked up.

“We’re not privy to Hansen’s methods, but we do know people who are. If we have to elicit a signed confession from you with less than tolerable means, then we will.” Carmichael’s hands folded behind his back, his tone even despite what he was suggesting. Six could have moved from his chair right then, but retaliation was what they were wanting, more evidence stacked against him in an ever-growing list. “I don’t want to have to do that. Especially to the family of a colleague.”

Six could have scoffed, considering that colleague was dead because of him. It didn’t matter. Claire wasn’t here. The last place that he’d seen her was with you . “Where is she?” He asked, not so much meaning Claire as he was you. He expected that you would have come to talk to him yourself, negotiating Claire’s well-being if she was in your custody. 

Yet, you were nowhere to be found.

“Safe.” Carmichael was lying.

Six’s gaze slid to the mirror, but it didn’t grant him any kind of answer. He could have been meeting your eyes for all he knew, that come-hither smile that was innocent but simultaneously lethal flashing in his direction on the other side of the glass. He was met with his own reflection, frowning at himself while he tried to picture your face, but he couldn’t imagine your expression; your reaction to everything had been perplexing to say the least.

He couldn’t figure out your angle.

“I want to talk to Claire. If I know she’s safe, I’ll sign whatever you want.” He decided.

Who’s side are you on?

Nobody’s.

The CIA would have been the obvious answer, and yet it was your complete dismissal of the idea that gave him pause at all. He needed to talk to you. 

“I don’t think you recognize the position–” Carmichael started. 

“Claire,” Six’s gaze once snapped to him, gradually losing his already thin patience. He ground his teeth, unable to hide just how exasperated he was anymore. He was tired, and the day had been too damn long already. “She’s here isn’t she? I couldn’t tell exactly because of your guys. If she was accidentally killed in the crossfire, just tell me, then I won’t waste my time sitting here.”

“She’s safe inside the facility.” Carmichael said, flat.

“Great.” He said sarcastically, lips pressed tightly together When he leaned forward, he angled himself toward Carmichael, brows drawn. “You want my cooperation? Then go get her.”  He jerked his chin toward the door. “ Now .”

Carmichael’s expressions flitted between several different emotions, not too quick for Six to read, but not important enough for him to care. It was somewhere between annoyed and unnerved. When he slid away, his body followed his trek to the door.

It slammed with more force than necessary. 

Six looked at the mirror, still unsure if there was a possibility that you were there or some regular observer with only half the intelligence. He asked no one in particular, shaking his hands inside the cuffs: “Can someone come take these things off? I really have to piss.”

Nobody obliged his request, taking Carmichael’s exit as their own.