On The Run

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. 

Into The Gray (Chpt. 7)

Secrets (Into The Gray Chpt. 7)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @96jnie

Everything that you’d learned about human behavior and habit had been through careful instruction, nothing ever given to you without intention. There were things that you’d picked up through basic experience and casual observation–people had a habit of writing their name when given a new pen for example, and if you have a plan B, then plan A is less likely to succeed. 

Sierra Six had uprooted the CIA’s plan A and B, and so far, he was already eliminating all expectations for plans C, D and E. Just like with you, interrogations only left the interrogator more exhausted than when they started, and although you found the entire thing entertaining, you reveled in Carmichael’s frustration with coercing any kind of confession and the realization that he didn’t have Claire to use as leverage this time around. He told Six otherwise, but out of many things that The Gray Man was, ignorant wasn’t one of them. 

For once, you could say that you weren’t the only cause of Carmichael’s misery as much as you wished you were. 

Undoubtedly, getting Six’s compliance was going to take more than pulling a few teeth.

You traversed down sterile white hallways in search of his room–the holding cells had been searched already, and he hadn’t been there–so you strongly entertained that he was put in the same room that you had been during your induction. Carmichael had never said exactly, and although he had suspicions about your whereabouts when apprehending Six, he didn’t have the time to properly look into it, and you’d already been covering your tracks just in case he did.

Your list of things that Carmichael didn’t need to know was growing exponentially longer you realized, but you were too far in to consider confessing them all now. 

Watching him spin in circles had also proved to be vastly too entertaining. 

A few winding hallways and empty rooms eventually led you to find him. Sitting in a stationary chair in the middle of the room with his elbows propped on top of his knees, he looked as though he were debating the world. His expression was fixed into something akin to contemplation, tunnel vision on the tile, but you suspected that he was aware of you outside the room. You weren’t trying to be subtle, anyway. 

“You’re here,” he said once you stepped in, looking up. 

“You should go into espionage with those observational skills.” 

You thought that he bit back a smile, but you couldn’t really tell. There were things that he was good at hiding, such as your involvement at his house at all, you’d learned. He hadn’t told Carmichael; he’d acted dumb when Carmichael had asked. Six had knowingly or unknowingly backed your lie, but you didn’t thank him for that. 

It was the reason behind it that most perplexed you, and you couldn’t help but be a little curious. It was only another thing that you’d find out eventually on your own, so you didn’t ask. He did ask the most obvious question however, still traversing on that very fragile line, and risking the plummet. He’d gone outside of his conditioning and learned to care , and a killer with morals was still a humorous concept to you.

You’d noticed that you had a habit of looking at him, a little too much and a little too long. You had never been a creature of habit, but there was something about looking at a book and suddenly not knowing how to read. Your eyes flickered, traveled , over his form in the chair; no particular direction, and no particular reason. 

“I’m surprised they didn’t cuff you to the chair too.” You mused aloud, recalling the number of irritated negotiators that had left the room with you, then with him –they’d never been brave enough to negotiate without restraints, but they had been more afraid of Sierra Six than you. You’d been frustrating, but him ? “They’re scared of you.”

He scoffed. “I don’t think I’m anything to be scared of.”

“I believe you.” You hummed. “But people like you tend to say that.”

“People like me?”

“A total contradiction that somehow balances out.” You said, but didn’t clarify. Even when he looked at you, eyes probing, you didn’t offer an answer. His brows furrowed, first in confusion, but eventually they settled into the neutrality that you were so familiar with. He recognized very quickly that there was no point, that he may as well have backed down instead of pushed forward. You considered that he didn’t care about that much, and he shouldn’t have. Your opinion hardly mattered as much as anyone else’s. 

You were nothing and no one special, not where he was concerned. 

“Do you know where Claire is?” He finally asked the most obvious question.

“Not here,” you answered immediately, walking further into the room, your arms crossed. There was still a reasonable distance between the two of you, several feet that demanded conversation higher than a whisper. You didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if you were passing secrets. He knew that Claire wasn’t here. 

He sounded tired. “Do you know where ?”

“What makes you think that I do?”

Lips pressed together, he waved vaguely, as though it were really a question worth asking. Unlike you, his eyes never lingered on any certain part of you for too long. “I couldn’t really tell where she went because of your friends from the CIA pummeling me, but I’m pretty sure that you were the last person to have been with her.”

“I know. I watched you get pummeled,” you corrected him.

Then he really did look at you, and quirked a brow. 

“Long enough to watch you get a cheap shot on Agent Morrison.”

His brow quirked further.

“I never liked him that much.” You clarified with a shrug, eyes darting elsewhere. “He has an extensive record, but he had enough connections to wipe his slate clean.” A pause. “He’s also a prick.” 

He looked down. “Sounds familiar.”

“Depending who you asked.” You confessed. “If you’re going to be a prick to anyone, I think you’d at least be honest about it.” 

Then, you thought Six really did smile, even if at the floor; an approximation of one, as close to one as someone like him could get. A scoff of a laugh escaped him, and when he looked up again, his gaze was darting, never staying. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in with the popular crowd.”

“You’re not missing much.”

Your eyes followed his to the same familiar sterile white walls, the minimal amount of furniture, parts of the tile and the baseboards still protruding from where you’d tried to pry it apart so many months ago now; not so much a cell as an actual room . 

You wondered what had changed to get you promoted to being on their payroll, earning an inch of freedom at a time, but you’d always been good at pretending. As far as they knew, you’d only wiped out one of Carmichael’s key obstacles, and you contemplated that he kept you close by for the same reason that they kept Sierra Six alive. Blame. Carmichael hadn’t found your record, nor any hint of your past. 

Yet. 

“I’m assuming that Claire went to a safehouse that you showed her,” you went on. “I didn’t follow her, so I can’t say for sure where she went. If I don’t know, then it’s safe to say that Carmichael doesn’t know, either.”

Something akin to relief flashed behind his eyes—he knew the location, but you didn’t. You didn’t ask; you’d said that you’d find her when you needed her, and that was true with or without his help. 

“You said you weren’t with the CIA. Who are you with?”

A smile crept onto your lips, lingering close to the surface. You could have scoffed, could have laughed, but you didn’t. Your head tilted, your expression flat despite your amusement. “You ask a lot of personal questions for someone who doesn’t go by their actual name.” 

“You don’t ask enough.” He retorted.

Then you really did smile, a slow upturn on both corners of your mouth. “I told you the answer already.”

“The truth.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

His brows furrowed, clearly skeptical. “So you’re parading around with the CIA for… what, fun ?”

“The same reason you’re sitting here when you can leave at any time, I guess.” You said. “You want something.” 

“What do you want?” 

“What do you ?” The two of you stared at each other, level but with one more perplexed than the other. It wasn’t you. When he didn’t answer, you shrugged, incapable of supplying the answer yourself. Instead, you asked: “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘supply and demand’?”

He nodded slowly, still with that perplexed expression that you somehow found endearing. 

“You’re demanding, but you’re not supplying.” You explained. “I’ll give you,” you paused, but it wasn’t a critical decision on your part; the choice wasn’t hard. “Six questions.” You caught him resisting the urge to roll his eyes at your choice of amount and smirked. “Whatever you want to know. But only six.” 

Six looked to think for a moment, picking his words carefully. His eyes had a way of darting you noticed, observing nothing and everything all at once. He was acutely aware of everything in the room, from the protruding tile to the resewed lining in the mattress, to you . From an outside perspective, he may have looked like nothing special, but he definitely was as smart as you gave him credit for. The depth of his mind was far from anyone’s reach. “Why did you let Claire escape?”

“First question. She wasn’t my target.”

“Who was?”

“Do you want to use one of your questions for that, or can you work it out on your own?”

His brows pinched. “... Why me?”

“Second question. I needed to see if you had information on Donald Fitzroy. I was going to search his house—“ well, it’d been closed off as a crime scene until the FBI could tear it apart at its foundation, and that was before Six had gotten ahold of it. You shrugged. “There’s not much of it left.” 

“What kind of information?”

“Third question: A program. Not Sierra.”

“Are you going to count every question?”

“Does that count as four?”

Six shook his head. “Fitzroy didn’t have any program besides Sierra.”

You shrugged. 

“He did ?”

You raised your eyebrows, a silent question. Question four? 

He’d deduced it on his own. You could see his mind working, but in a much more delicate process than your mindless interrogators. He sighed. “Fitzroy’s dead.”

“I know.” You shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything.” To anyone else, it would have. The main target had died, and that usually meant the case was closed. Anyone else would have moved on, but you weren’t just anyone and there were still things that you had to do, and still things that you had to find. 

You were stubborn, but that was what had led you to Sierra Six in the first place. 

“Fitzroy had a lot of secrets,” Six said, still sitting in that same position as though he were debating the world. At least, you knew that he was debating his circumstances inside the room. His fists were curled on top of his knees, sitting straight in a demeanor that suggested he could pounce at any moment. There was a relaxed tension in his muscles that you hadn’t noticed before, but that could change in a second. “The Sierra Program hardly had any records.”

“There are always two people to every secret. If not you, then someone else.” 

Six’s eyes searched your face for the first time since you’d arrived, lingering longer than what was normal for him. You held gazes, but then he was standing, suddenly towering over you despite being several feet apart. His build didn’t strike you as intimidating–if he’d meant it to, it would’ve been. He shuffled closer. The two of you could have whispered if you’d wanted to. 

“What about you? Who do you share your secrets with?” 

You looked up, your voice nearly a whisper now as well. “Question four. You , apparently.”  

“I still feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

“You still owe me three.”

“ Actually , I owe you two, and I’m done answering them for now.” You were leaning up, leaning toward him, bare inches of space that had become familiar for you to invade. He didn’t lean away, even if the coil of his muscles suggested the urge. You’d turned to walk away, but his voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

You half-turned; waited.

Your arms were still crossed, but his were at his sides, two completely different barriers shoving against the same wall. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re looking for; uh, be careful.”

“We share secrets, remember?” You laughed at what was probably the most genuine one in a long time. “I can’t let you out of my sight just yet. I’m not going to make that mistake twice.”

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.

As The Days Went By You’ve Lost Your Mind

Summary: It did this. Ensured that it would survive through belief and magic if just to change the belief in him, turning him into more of a nightmare than a dream. The Lost Boys’ loyalty grew, but only out of fear, only with the knowledge that he was all they had. The island grew darker, the sunlight bled away and pixie dust became useless. It was Peter’s reality now and it didn’t take long to revel in that change. Strangely, he had learned to enjoy this newfound ferocity.

Pairing: Killian x Wendy, Peter x Wendy

Warnings: Violence, strong language, eventual gore

Chapter 1: Prologue 1 (Wendy)5 Years Prior.

“You know, I quite fancy you from time to time.” He didn’t evoke the same reaction from the crew as Captain Hook. Killain Jones was younger; more inexperienced but easily the tallest person on the main deck. The grace that often came with age hadn’t caught up to him just yet–proving to be lanky and a little awkward as something strong and much more profound held steadfast to a body not fully developed.

When he approached, it was with a sense of ungainly superiority. 

The crew, who had been so jovial before, remained as such despite their co-captain making himself present. Had it been their more esteemed captain, they would have only dared to catch each other’s eye as he stalked by, affable only by the mere fact that they had been given permission to shirk their duties for the time being. 

“When you’re not yelling that is.” Killian stopped at her side, neglecting to throw his superiority over her. Instead, he leaned over the side of the ship, forearms pressed against the fine woodworking, his head sinking between hunched shoulders to fix his gaze on the steady waves lapping against the port. “Then again, I believe there is more to fear when you’re quiet.”

He meant no ill will, even if every action taken against her and Peter had suggested otherwise. So he had whisked her away from Peter’s company for the second time since her arrival to Neverland? So he had expected her to remain civil despite his clear indifference for Peter and also somewhat clear fascination with kidnapping her?

There were worse things. Standing on the deck with the moon reflecting off the ocean and the sky nothing but cluttered starlight was the farthest from worse that it could be. Quiet had settled into a dreamy haze, the pricking of guitar strings and distant night calls from various creatures echoing. Killian’s voice–the most profound thing–was a deep timber that was as threatening as simultaneously comforting.

If one could consider Killian Jones comforting in any form of the phrase. 

Remarks of Captain Hook’s more obvious dislike for Peter Pan were sworn to silence, discussions of the various ways he’d prefer the boy’s head on a stick held steadfast, angry spiteful words that stomped on his name for the sake of his captain nonexistent tonight, nothing but his solid form against torchlight promising that he were the same boy at all. 

The same boy with hair an organized mess of brown, facial scruff spotty patches from being in his late teens and only now beginning to grow it in. He wore the proper “pirate attire” so to speak, but one would think of him as the captain if they didn’t know any better; a long coat, and a collection of jewelry that was more extravagant than all of the crew combined. 

In a sea of riches, he stuck out amongst it all. She had no trouble recognizing him when he approached her on the island—when he’d approached her on the island and promised not to throw her in the brig, words devoid of harshness with any demand that she actually stay. It was extended as an invitation, while one that assumed would be answered with a yes, still extended with some formality.

Almost gentlemanly. 

Wendy had fallen into silence while figuring out his intentions. There were several things wrong with the way his words settled in her stomach—settled a drastic understatement; the correct word verging more on a flip. She refused to focus on deciphering the meaning behind it, the steady breeze tugging flyaways into her eyes, rifling through the underneath of her dress. 

Regardless, it still wasn’t strong enough to disturb the serenity of the tree line in the distance. 

This too perfect scene, a beauty in the quality of the most picturesque painting in a place so peaceful that it could only exist in pure fantasy. She entertained the idea that it was a fantasy, a dream of the highest quality. Several other places came to mind that she imagined herself to be, none giving her the peace of mind that she found now. 

That thought alone proved alarming. 

Comfortable silence lingered. Her hands, still held at her sides, put great effort into keeping a divide between them, but her barrier was being chipped away, his voice scraping against its outer wall bit by bit. It was wrong. Everything that Peter had told her, and she was still here. She could have run, could have screamed for help—Peter would have come running. Instead, she had followed without a fight, and didn’t so much as voice a complaint. 

Her only hope was that he didn’t catch her stark blush. That entry point, that something that drew one into a person based around the simple fact that he was here—in all of his mystery and impossibilities. 

Perhaps it was his charm. 

His looks. 

No. 

“I won’t be involved in any villainy against Peter,” she said with an authority appropriate for business dealings. The only contrast between this and business was the privacy and the intimacy of the moment that felt so unlike anything that she could have predicted. 

Something indiscernible and undecipherable stirred inside her. 

One look swept over his hands gripping the railing, as abrupt and swift as her many other glances that evening. A part of her wanted to read his mind and solve the mysteries inside that would help to satiate her childish curiosity. She searched for excuses within herself to downplay the conflicting feelings but she could only find a numbing, pricking, and incessant sensation at the center of her chest instead. 

Killian cracked a smile, but she didn’t quite sense the joy behind it, but something more resolved. “I didn’t bring you aboard to ask as much,” he said it as mere fact, confident enough to deliver it as a simple truth without the guilt associated with a moral, empathetic man. She knew him as a man of honesty, however harsh that honesty may be. 

He was never apologetic about who he was, and whenever she saw a glimpse of Killian Jones, the facticity of him being a pirate hit her full force. At that point, he was closed off to her and Wendy found herself at the very beginning all over again. 

“I brought you out here for a toast, actually.” He shrugged, indifferent to her suspicions. “Without the champagne. Your Neverland Prince destroyed what little we had of that after his latest romping.” There was insult behind it, even with the seamlessness in which the words rolled off his tongue, the suaveness in the way he said it offering little room for correction regarding Peter’s honor. “So I’ll wager that you’ll have to make do with my company sober.”

Only when she took one tentative step toward him did he raise his head in order to see her–in all of her depths. The patchy scruff spotting his face was charming, and regardless of their difference in height, she still believed that she stood equal beside him–as equal as she could be. The wind brushed against him, the gentlest breeze pulling and pushing just enough to add something favorable. 

It touched her too.

“He isn’t—Peter isn’t my prince.” Wendy retorted, albeit spat with empty defiance. A toast. It wasn’t some ruse to lure Peter from his camp–a space she’d flown upon only to be nearly shot from the sky because of a jealous fairy–nor a sick prank only to ultimately make her walk the plank and let that somehow hurt Peter in the process.

There was no reason for him to be hurt by her disappearance, let alone by her demise anyhow. They’d only just met several weeks ago, after all. Nonetheless, a nagging sensation pricked at the forefront of her mind—the possibility of this somehow being a trap, a game…

Or did he actually just enjoy her company in some twisted way? 

Killian smiled, the beginnings of a laugh starting in his throat. Any retort that Peter was everyone’s plaything, that if one were unfortunate enough to end up in his sights, he would have them, was a retort kept to himself–just another harsh truth, if thought so at all. However heinous he may have found her answer to be, one hand shoved him upright from the side of the boat, dragging his attention from the island sitting eerily off the shoreline. He turned to her then, not taking any long moment to look at her, as had become customary between them.

Wendy tried not to appear disappointed. 

She was deprived of a sweeping gaze, and a hungry curiosity that couldn’t be satiated and plucked over her form to linger. He’d seen what there was to see, what he wanted her to see, and what he’d found had been good enough. 

Or enough to satisfy whatever current urges lingered there still. 

“Next time you take it upon yourself to bring me here, you should at the very least offer me a glass of wine.” She dared on impulse, a desperate attempt to downplay the ridiculous softness of her tone before. An abrupt and puzzling longing to appear more grown up than she actually was surprised her, leaning with the small of her back against the railing, easing the tension in her muscles. Her stomach was a mess of excited nerves, her face a soft flush of color. 

In a way, she felt as if she were following a rabbit into its hole with the striking knowledge and obvious exception that the pirate standing next to her was neither harmless, nor soft. The tension between them was something more akin to magic, but not quite—rather it was something more scientific and logical. 

Despite falling in love with Neverland through the stories that she’d tell her brothers, being in such a place in person had caused her to love it so much more fiercely. Weeks felt like months, adventurous and cherished, spent in the company of Peter and his boys—in Killian’s company as well. Wendy smoothed down her dress, albeit still watching him, the corners of her mouth involuntarily twitching into a faint grin. 

“Next time?” He cocked a brow. “I’ll be sure to take note for the occasion.”

Killian perched one elbow on the side of the ship, leaning his head against his fist. The other hovered between them for the barest second before it slipped into quiet submission into one of his coat pockets. He stood at his full overbearing height, turning his gaze out toward the sea, resigned. 

“You could look past his petty facade and see him for the bloody demon that he is, you know.” A serious undertone did nothing to betray his lighthearted nature, jests that took his resignation and molded it into something casual. “You’re more intelligent than the average, I’ll certainly give you that, but your judge of character leaves something to be desired.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “What does that say about you?” 

One corner of his mouth twitched, a hard solemn tap of his knuckles against the railing not introducing any specific beat, but signaled that whatever thought that crossed his mind had gone and passed. 

“And he isn’t a demon.” No, he was just Peter: lively, curious, brave but stubborn Peter. The Lost Boy who would be baffled that she was conversing with his enemy. Every part of her presented the reminder that she should have left a while ago now. Yet she didn’t. “Why do you hate him so much?” 

“I leave the hate for Pan to Hook. Their petty squabbles are of little importance to me, but I know how to properly judge a man, or rather a boy.” His expression twisted into a soft grimace, as if whatever unspoken truth that stood between him and Peter was all black and white. Simple, and yet undefinable. As gruesome a story as the one about how Hook gained his name, Killian didn’t seem to back that behind any sort of dislike for Neverland’s Prince. 

His complete dismissal of the subject altogether, while disappointing, had been expected. 

Her brows furrowed. 

Killian didn’t treat him like an irksome fly circling his head; rather a snake swerving between his legs prepared to bite at any given second. Yet, he laughed.

One final time, that sweeping stare found her. It didn’t dwell, and held no lust behind it except for the barest possibility in its place—as if he knew or rather sensed something was unspoken there, some sort of interest of the other that had piqued them both. He hadn’t the gull to act on any form of instinct lest he be wrong, and while Killian may not have been a liar, he most certainly held his fair share of being wrong.

“Why don’t you join me?” He offered underneath a lowered brow. 

What started out as a startling conviction ended with his chin jerking toward the middle of the deck, and the low strum of instruments along with the low hum of a tune whispering sweet nothings against their ears—albeit still struggling to dissolve the sudden spike of energy. 

“For a dance,” Killian finished with a shrug; a smirk. “We don’t have much else to occupy our time without the wine this time around. Any leisurely activities are rather useless without it.” He spoke and held himself with such intimidating confidence, and she once again reminded herself that she should have left. 

Somewhere buried, her mind couldn’t decipher what to do with Killian Jones. She thought about declining the invitation, but quite frankly didn’t have it in her. This was a man who had fought Peter Pan alongside his crew’s side countless times, had witnessed who was presumably a close friend lose his hand and watch it be fed to a set of crocodiles. 

Most men would have retreated after such an event, made humble by defeat. He seemed confident, powerful, and maybe even more frightening because of his loss. Oh, how Peter had bragged; passed it off as mere child’s play—a game, but also an unnerving story. 

She should have shunned his invitation, even standing there with him now. A part of her didn’t want to bury her head under the sand and keep quiet either.

Why wasn’t Killian angry?

And why wasn’t Wendy afraid? She’d lost her mind, surely. There was no real fear, and she reminded herself that there were certain rules in Neverland—not any she knew were written down for record, but figured were obvious enough for newcomers to figure out on their own.

Do not fall for a criminal.

Do not dance with a ruthless, cold-blooded pirate.

Rules were meant to be broken, with a crash and rebellion for someone who clearly didn’t fit. 

“I’d be delighted,” Wendy quipped, dropping into a small curtsy. Her anticipation was difficult to mask, the timid smile upon her lips curving contentedly and betraying any attempt to remain stoic.

It was an impossibility to avoid, his charming manner evoking a child-like giddiness in her, very much like hearing a secret for the first time. It struck her with guilt, but she took another deliberate step toward him, an almost dreamy ease to her expression, eyes alert yet fluttering as if dosed with some form of sedative.

Killian’s expression mirrored her own, extending a gloved hand to her in order to lead her to an open space on the deck. He didn’t stop until his polished boots came to the middle, an area subconsciously reserved for the two of them—out in the open of the pirates, even Neverland itself to see them. Dark eyes freely strayed to her again, relieving his hands from their gloved confines—finger by finger, agonizingly slow before even they were retired to the pockets of his coat. 

“My asking was me merely being a gentleman, but having your outright permission is swell indeed.” His bare palm pressed against her own, interlacing their fingers and raising them to a position where he could better glimpse—one flicker of a glance to the side that didn’t obscure his ability to look at her fully. To feel the growing warmth that resonated from his skin to hers made her entire being swell with heat. Not out of embarrassment or any general discomfort, rather quite the opposite. 

Comfort. 

Confidence.

Exposing his hands so freely to her made her imagine him as strangely vulnerable in a way, as if opening a part of himself to her that he shared with no one else: a thought that pricked her when his other hand snaked around her waist and gently lingered against the small of her back to tug her closer. She could bask in the warmth that he radiated, revel in the heat that flowed between their intertwined fingers.

Electricity surged through her body the moment he touched her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, harsh as thunder. He stood so close, the moment unspeakably intimate, like a quiet understanding or a word scribbled on a blank slate. Her steps were light and practiced. 

How could a man who had the reputation of being so brutal touch her so gently, or sway with her so softly? With each thrum of her racing heart, Wendy felt her legs trembling. Everything else became more obscured, and a little more irrelevant.

But she couldn’t look.

In a strange way, it was easier to look at him when he was leaving, and in the beauty of the vanishing sunset in the distance, she wondered how she had never seen him before now. Actually see him. Really looked as she was now, mustering up the bravery to let eyes linger on certain aspects. 

Killian took the first step. “Did they teach you how to dance properly in those London nurseries?”

"Luckily they did." 

Wendy’s eyes fluttered when she forced her gaze upward, goosebumps running the length of her skin. She subconsciously squeezed his hand, delicately, shakily as if to make sure that he was really there, that this was somehow real. It was surprising how warm he was, having always assumed in her stories that such a villain was cold to his very core.

The vanishing sunset skinned the skyline, dark as a bruise but red as blood. A part of her feared losing this, the strains of her heartbeat telling her so. Losing Neverland. Losing Peter.

Losing Killian Jones. 

The deck was hard beneath her feet. Her firm set jaw and pensive glare seemed to mark the fact that she was reflecting, slow dancing with the very pirate who was after her friend. It unnerved her. She could not fathom his purpose in all of this.

But her musings dissolved, gradually replaced by a fiery intensity burning in her stomach instead. She stared at him, savored a particular look on his face, soaking in the central feeling that he gave her. 

Killian squeezed her hand in return, no particular reasoning behind it if only to copy her gesture without understanding its full meaning. At least for her side. Her steps were graceful—much unlike his own—but he managed to keep up with her well enough. The way she placed her feet one after the other was led by multiple dances in the past, multiple partners adapting to different styles.

But none quite like this.

“Well, I may not be the most well behaved man on the island, but-” He began, his voice finding a new sense of formality. It was as if his whole composure changed in the blink of an eye, as if he was coming to realize he shouldn’t be dancing with her. Though that switch only depicted itself in his tone of voice. 

Killian actually drew her closer to his body, his foot hooking against the back of her heel and sweeping her feet out from underneath her into one final step in their dance; the dip. He lowered her in his arms, relishing to see the color drain from her face if fate willed it so and thought itself a comedian. A sly smirk found his lips. “I’ll wager I’m a lucky man to be given the honor of your company.”

Pot Roast and Power Plays (Into the Gray Chpt 3)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: 1.5K Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @my-tearsdryontheirown, @96jnie

It became apparent very quickly after your induction that you made Dani Miranda very uncomfortable.

A quick sweep through her house had told you everything you needed to know about her versus what she needed to know about you; which as far as you were concerned was the bare minimum only. You’d noted the distinct lack of luxury, the furniture kept to the bare minimum of what she’d needed–and you’d already perused her closet to get an idea of her personality when not wearing a suit. 

She didn’t need to know that much. 

The contents weren’t anywhere outside the realm of ordinary, anyway. In fact, they were more normal than what you’d expected. A quick search through the drawers and the space told you that it was clean, almost abandoned if not for the few sentimental objects that you’d found and promptly left alone. Her personal life didn’t matter to you as much as her temperament in the field, but you convinced yourself that anything in her personal life could come back to bite you if her head wasn’t on straight. A glimpse through her contacts told you that she didn’t have any kind of romantic attachment; potential messages with anyone matching that kind of description were too mundane for further pursuits, and you’d noticed that she hardly replied back if further pursuits were attempted. She had a history with a dating site though, as brief as it was. 

In conclusion, Dani’s life was dedicated to work, tediously rising through the ranks with the promise of a position on some similar level to Carmichael. She ran on a set schedule, hardly ever straying away from her fixed pattern. There weren’t many things concerning–at least to you–that could get in the way. Regardless, you’d had to be sure. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dani’s inquiry bordered somewhere between incredulous and annoyed, the rise in her tone tipping precariously between the two. 

“Making dinner,” you replied, your voice nonchalant as you stirred the simmering pot on her stove. The aroma of garlic and sauteed vegetables filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere of her meticulously organized home. 

Dani crossed her arms, her stance solidifying into a defensive posture. You kept your back to her as she kicked off her shoes and shut the food with more force than necessary. “This is my house.” 

“You act as if I don’t know that it’s not mine.”

Dani closed her eyes, her face pinching into a soft grimace. The hand that she’d balled into a fist uncurled, hovering between the two of you, as if whatever argument she’d been about to make was snuffed out by the immediate truth as opposed to some half-assed excuse. A harsh exhale through her nose preceded her next words. “Why are you here? I thought you were still on assignments overseas.”

You tossed some herbs into the pot, having ground them by hand, much like everything else. You’d always liked the thought of a kitchen, but you wouldn’t ask for one because that would be admitting too much about you. Something that you didn’t want to do in front of Carmichael. Or anyone else for that matter. “Debriefing. I need someone to give my statement to. No one’s at the office.”

“So you came all the way here instead of waiting until morning?”

“I made a pot roast.”

You knew without turning that the usually confused pinch in her eyebrows were evident, the slight shuffle of her feet forward as she was still coming to grips with you. She didn’t trust you, but her trust wasn’t something that you were looking for so much as seeing if you could trust her. “You’re supposed to give your statement to the DCI.”

“If I wait, there’s a chance I’ll forget, and my word hardly matters if I omit key details.”

“You? Forget?” Her eyebrows shot high, and she laughed. You could have laughed too, if Dani weren’t so unaware of the truth, how much of your own life you hardly remembered as much as what felt like somebody else’s. Dani only bobbed her head, the thought still ridiculous to her. “Right.” Her lips smacked together. “Well, I doubt how much credibility that I could give you. I’m still on Carmichael’s shit list.”

“Because of the failed mission in Bangkok involving the last Sierra agent.” You didn’t say it like a question, but you hadn’t intended to. 

“You know about that?” She was still staring at your back, but you could hear her more urgent steps across the apartment, her voice lowered to a hushed sense of urgency as though someone else would hear you. They wouldn’t. You’d checked for any trace of cameras or hidden surveillance systems already. Only then did you turn. Dani had planted her palms face down on the kitchen island, leaning to fix you with an incredulous stare, suddenly bewildered. She bristled, distrustful. 

“Yes,” you said without missing a beat. 

“How? Carmichael is keeping that under close wraps until he’s apprehended.”

“I don’t trust him.”

She snorted. “You have a funny way of showing that. Working for the one guy that you don’t trust.” She leaned forward, and her arms draped across the counter’s marble surface, hands folded together. “What’s in it for you? They think that you’re a double agent, which is why they never let you go anywhere without surveillance.” She shrugged helplessly. “That was Lloyd before he left–”

You raised an eyebrow, harboring a smirk that you kept to yourself. “You’ve done your homework, too.”

Dani pursed her lips, clearly not appreciating the turn of the conversation. “That’s different,” she insisted, her voice sharp but unwavering. 

“I owed Lloyd,” you went on, your expression falling flat again. “I don’t anymore.”

She gaped. “You owed Lloyd Hansen and his perv stache? I doubt that subjecting you to serving under Carmichael would make you owe him as much as him owing you.”

“He could have left me to die.” You shrugged. “He didn’t.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, but Lloyd Hansen has an alternative reason for everything he does. Mostly, it’s so that he can get a good fuck out of it later.” Dani’s eyebrows pinched together, looking at you with vague concern. You didn’t need that from her, but you didn’t tell her, either. “You never owed Lloyd anything. He made his own choices.

“So did I.”

The next few moments passed in silence, and you’d taken the opportunity to pour some of the roast into a bowl, then a second that you’d passed over to Dani. She took it with less hesitation than before, the idea of you being inside her house less discomforting seeing as you weren’t proposing yourself as a threat.

You could see Dani mulling over questions while you ate. The way that she pushed her food around suggested that it was something akin to working through her thoughts, devouring one at a time until she found one that made sense. You didn’t press for conversation in the meantime. Pot roast wasn’t your favorite food–not that you were a picky eater by any means–but there were a lot of limitations in Dani’s house, and you did what you could with what you had.

Dani pushed her bowl away, leaving most of her food untouched.  “Why did you go out of your way to wipe out the Sierra Program?” She asked the most obvious question, of course, the reason that you’d been filtered into Denny Carmichael’s custody in the first place, put under surveillance, followed around by Lloyd, and forced onto a team. “What did they do to you?”

“Carmichael tell you to ask that?”

Her scrutinizing stare didn’t pressure you, the way that her eyes pried over your expression, attempting to gage something. You didn’t relent. “I should’ve figured.” She sighed, her tone suggesting some sort of plea for honesty. “What was it about? You figured out that you missed one and came back to finish the job?”

You remained silent for a moment, studying her face as she wrestled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. It was a question laden with unspoken implications, and for the first time since stepping into her space, you felt the weight of her gaze. Dani wanted answers, but more importantly, she wanted to understand—understand you, understand the world you inhabited, the choices you made, and the chaos that had led both of you to this point.

“It wasn’t personal,” you finally said, your voice steady yet evasive. It was an easy assertion—one that dissolved any deep exploration into your motives. “Not in the way you think.”

Her brows furrowed. “So it was just business?”

“Something like that.”

The tension in the air shifted, her disappointment palpable. “You wiped out an entire program of rehabilitated operatives because it was just business?” Her incredulity propelled her forward in her line of questioning, fists tight against the countertop again as if bracing herself for whatever answer lay ahead. “That’s a big gamble considering you missed one.”

“I had my reasons,” you said carefully, your tone calm but dripping with an underlying tension. The line dividing personal vendetta from strategic decisions had always been thin for you, often blurring into something that felt undeniably complex yet simple to navigate in your mind.

“You don’t have to worry about it.” You went on when she didn’t answer. “I don’t plan on killing Sierra Six.”

She didn’t believe you. “You don’t?” Her eyebrows quirked up.

“No.”

“So, is it regret, then? You’re looking to make amends?”

“No.”

“Right. I often forget that this is you that we’re talking about, and that would be way too easy.” Dani couldn’t have appeared more perplexed, but you had that effect on her since the two of you had been introduced.  She ran a hand down her face, exasperated at what she couldn’t understand. “You killed the majority of the program before he even dissented. Why leave one?”

“Sierra Six has connections to Donald Fitzroy. He has information that I need.”

“You mean Senior Officer Donald Fitzroy? He’s been retired for years.”

You hadn’t known that in the beginning, Fitzroy having nearly disappeared off the map altogether after he adopted his niece. You shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the Sierra program’s specialty–the reason that they were created was to place blame should the CIA ever find itself cornered. It was easier to place blame on convicts after all. Sierra Six was a failsafe. Nothing else. He was hardly worth value to you on his own, at least not now, not anymore.

“Are you going to bring Sierra Six in?” You asked her instead, diverting the conversation. She blinked at you, then you clarified. “Your reputation is shot, otherwise.”

Dani’s smile was forced, and you suspected her words were more sarcastic than sincere. “Yeah. Thanks for that.” She leaned back in her chair, busying herself by pushing her food around with her fork, again picking for an answer that you suspected you already knew. “I don’t know,” she decided. “It feels wrong. Sierra Six had a reason for going rogue all of a sudden. We never had cause to question his loyalty before now.” Another shrug, this one more subtle than the others. She averted her eyes away from you, refusing to look up. “I can’t help but wonder why, and why now?”

“I don’t know.” You said, and you didn’t.

“You’re telling me that there’s something you don’t know?” Dani mocked a gasp. Only then did she look up, giving you a droll stare that you didn’t feed into. You stared at her, and she shook her head. “I don’t think it matters. If I’m given the order, the decision is made for me.”

“If you want to keep your job,” you agreed, blank. “Being one step underneath Carmichael must have its perks.” Dani scoffed, brows furrowing. “When we kill him, what does that mean for you? Doesn’t that beat the purpose of whatever reason you have for coming into the CIA in the first place?”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“Shouldn’t you be?”

“I have eliminated every agent in the Sierra Program. I missed one.” You said, tossing all attempts at subtlety or propriety to the wind. Six had become something of a star in the world of private operators, and a legend amongst covert operators and the rest. His personal ethic had been to only accept contracts against targets that he felt had earned the punishment of extrajudicial execution. It was a small post-it-note in an otherwise empty file, a thin manila folder that held no confidential information worth locking up.

That much about Sierra Six was public, and as far as you knew, that was all that ever would be. A killer with a conscience was a humorous concept to you, but the morality of it didn’t matter. You knew what people like him did to survive, had seen it and experienced it firsthand with plenty of other desperate Sierra before him.

The atmosphere in the kitchen felt heavy, an unspoken tension coiling between you and Dani as you sat there, merely a pot roast dividing your two worlds. You could sense the myriad of unasked questions hanging in the air, but you opted to let her stew in her thoughts. Dani was no stranger to the dark recesses of the intelligence world, but there was still a palpable innocence to her approach—something about her moral compass that made her vulnerable to this life, while you had long since abandoned yours as being too cumbersome.

“I don’t understand why you’re taking this approach,” Dani finally said, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. Her eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing you as if she hoped to peel back layers you had spent a lifetime building. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t owe anyone anything and that you’re capable of dealing with things on your own terms… so why not just finish the job?”

“It’s not that simple,” you replied, leaning back slightly in your chair, the tension in your shoulders easing a fraction.

Dani huffed, her gaze a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “So you expect me to believe that after everything you've done, you're suddenly looking for answers instead of blood?”

“You should know better than to assume anything about my intentions.” The words slipped from your mouth, sharper than you intended. But the truth stung; you had long taken the path of blood, and yet here was the contradiction unfolding before you.

“This isn’t personal.”

“Why do you want him alive?” Her question was there, lingering as firmly as the scent of garlic. “He’s just as dangerous, if not more, than the others.” You couldn’t help but shake your head. “It’s about the information he might have.”

“Information that could lead to Carmichael or… whoever?” Dani asked, the challenge evident in her voice.

Your gaze steadied with hers, and something flickered at the edges of your mind, a momentary flash of tension that you had not often shared with others.

“I’m keeping my options open.” Your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. “Getting to Sierra Six is an opportunity. It positions me to control what information gets out to the wrong people.”

The challenge in Dani's eyes softened, a flicker of understanding threading through the layers of doubt that she wore so comfortably. “And if he doesn't want to talk?”

“He won’t have a choice.”

Carmichael was a monster, but even monsters had a hierarchy. Getting to Sierra Six wasn’t just about revenge or even justice for you.

He was a key to something bigger.

Hi dear! Can I be tagged for "On the run" for future parts?

Usually I wouldn't read fics without a reader insert but this one was too tempting to pass, that and the illegally low number of six fics.

And just to confirm, requests are open right?

Thanks ;))))

Hello! (:

Yes, I will for sure tag you in future parts. I am actually working on the second part to ‘On the Run’ as we speak!

Requests are open, and currently, there is no queue. Depending on the depth of your request, I can get it done fairly quickly. For requests, I can do one-shots, multi-chaps, and imagines/drabbles!

If you are interested in Reader inserts, I currently have two: Into The Woods (one-shot) and Existing in the Gray (multi-chap) that you can access from the Masterlist on my profile!

I’m really glad that you liked ‘On the Run’! (: I had a really fun time writing the interactions between Six and Claire! ❤️

Also, you’re right! The amount of Sierra Six fanfiction is downright inhumane! We love our Trash Stache boy of course, but where’s the love for our 42 Regular boy!?

Thanks for your Ask! If there is a particular request in mind, feel free to let me know and we can plan something out! (:

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.”

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.

The Million (Tangerine x Reader)

Fandom: Bullet Train (2022)

Pairings: Tangerine x Reader

Type: Snippet/Concept

Words: 3.9K

Summary:

Of all the corrupt dickheads who crowded The Million, the last that you’d expected to see was a posh klepto, having thought that you’d seen the extent of Big Man’s contacts. He looked vexed, uncomfortable–attractive, but definitely too young to look as though he’d crawled straight from the eighties, cursing and making obscene gestures on his way out. 

Company like that couldn’t go unchecked. So, you checked. Call it your civic duty.

The Million (Tangerine x Reader) The cold was always the worst part for you when it came to living in the city–besides the rain. With its seedy underbelly and dark corners, you’d operated under the idea that you were going to escape; again leave another life behind as nothing but a fading reflection in a rearview mirror, hardly worth the memory as well as the goodbye. 

At one point, you’d had it all planned out, scribbled sloppily onto several paper napkins that had dismissed the idea into the wash just as quickly as you’d dismissed them yourself, but you promised that as soon as you got the money, no one would know you, no one would depend on you, and no one would be out to get you–you’d abandon your apartment and the club, full of scum-bags and mobsters but nothing that you’d never been able to handle before, and you would leave. 

First problem: Bartending didn’t bring in much cash.

Second problem: It was boring. Really fucking boring.

Every swing of the door brought a frigid cold and reignited the thick smell of sweat and alcohol, different colored strobe lights flashing in your eyes everywhere you looked, zipping through the dark like streaks of lightning to accompany the pounding thunder of a bass and its tempting rhythms. It rumbled through your body for hours afterwards.

You’d gotten really good at reading lips though, not having to lean too close to drunk assholes a good trade to all the other shit that you had to put up with in your book. 

‘The Million’ had housed all of the politicians and big family names of the city that took turns rotating on a schedule of speeches promising change and betterment for exact corners of the city like this one. All you’d noticed were some corners being scraped clean of graffiti, only for a new tag to accompany it by the weekend. It wasn’t the type of cleaning up that you’d imagined, but you hadn’t started out optimistic, either. 

Regardless, it’d become a part of you. Much like everything else.

“Fucking asshole,” the soft curse of an exhale under someone’s breath had you turning your head, one of the younger bartenders perched back against the wall, nursing her hand. You’d almost missed it, had she not been standing right behind you–the catcalls of the patrons and the symphony of pure noise drowned out in favor of the girl; the kid, barely of age and her first job if you remembered correctly. “Prick,” she hissed. 

“What’s going on, honey? What happened?” 

At your question, the girl’s shoulder’s drooped, her eyes veering away, suddenly guilty–you’d seen that look on other new girls throughout the last couple years, and unfortunately that look meant that they wouldn’t be keeping their jobs for very long. The grim satisfaction underneath never devolved into regret either way. The headstrong ones never lasted, albeit because of their patron’s lack of strength with handling it. 

Wealthy men with too much time on their hands were happy to share time with a pretty girl, as long as she was happy to share in return–common courtesy and respect be damned.

Until she finally had enough and bit. You had never been at that point—not yet—but you considered yourself to be more tolerant. 

“Who did you hit?” You pressed. 

The girl flexed her fingers, bending each one with a subtle wince. None looked broken, although you couldn’t say the same for the prick’s face considering the amount of bruising already kissing the ridges of her knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

You begged to differ, and was half tempted to make up with whoever you had to if it would help to spare the poor girl her job–you had a few favors that you could cash in on should you ever need to, but you wondered how far that influence extended. The other half was tempted to take care of it yourself. “Why not?”

“That guy already took care of it. He had the bastard kissing the wall in two seconds.”

You blinked. “Guy?”

“That guy,” she tilted her head up, just barely catching your eye from underneath her lashes, as though there was reason to suddenly be bashful about the idea of a white knight wandering the grimy, sweat and beer gummed floor. Whoever it was wouldn’t have been the first to intervene, but they may have been the first to not immediately get knocked back on their ass. “The one over there–” she swung her head toward the back that housed the lounge tables. As vague as the description was in a sea of men of similar descriptions. 

You squinted, but no one stood out among the crowd.

You started to ask that she point him out specifically, but one of the other girls–Izzy, who had been there longer than you had–rounded the bar with a tray of empty glasses. She sported a wicked little grin, humming contentedly at the perception of idle gossip. As soon as the tray was set down, she stretched languidly across the bar before settling with her arms crossed, smirking. “Tall, handsome and a gentleman?” She chuckled. “Yes, please. I haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

“They save those for The Kingsman Lounge upstate,” you intercepted, turning back to the younger girl, suddenly feeling a prick of guilt that you hadn’t remembered her name. “Keep that little crush to yourself, okay? He wouldn’t be the first guy to play the hero with ulterior motives.”

“He could save your job, though. Just FYI. I think they’re friends of Big Man. Him and another Posh guy–they practically rolled out the red carpet when they showed up. I guess they’re here doing a job for him.” Izzy explained. 

“A job?” The younger girl echoed. “What kind of job?”

Izzy fluttered her eyelashes, brows furrowed into something almost sympathetic. “Oh honey, you know not to ask that. Big Man’s business is his. He keeps to his, and we keep to ours. You’ll stay safer that way.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type,” she furrowed her brows.

“He isn’t.” You interjected. “The company he keeps is, and sweetie you can do anything with enough cash.”

“Spoken like a true sophisticate.” Izzy praised, then gave the young girl a droll stare. “Best you avoid him anyway though, doll. Tall, and handsome seems like a sweetie. His friend with the hair-trigger temper? Not so much.” 

As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her very vague description lit to life as though provoked, ignited with a fury that spread through the stench of gluttony and arousal; a building of temptations and a lighter for an addiction that only gave those wanting more and more:

“There are two words to describe this, and do you know what it is?” 

“Easy. Snack cake.”

“No. Nutter Butter. A fucking bloody Nutter Butter. I just…” a huff of frustration, then: “It’s like a compulsion. I see it and I take it. A Nutter Butter though, probably named after some arseholes knob. I don’t understand it.”

“You need help, Mate. Serious.”

They sat the two men down in a roped off area on the balcony, any potential company waved off before being able to get that close. Hair-Trigger Temper had tipped his head back against the wall, savoring every bit of bitter poison of cigarette smoke, curling into his lungs and exhaling through his nose. The cigarette proved company enough compared to any girls that tried their hand at an approach.

“How much do we want to bet that he’s going to be sneaking shot glasses under his coat before the night’s over?” Izzy snorted.

“I’ll raise you twenty.” The other girl mused aloud. 

You didn’t comment, not having the twenty dollars to lose. Of all the corrupt dickheads who crowded The Million, the last that you’d expected to see was a posh klepto, having thought that you’d seen the extent of Big Man’s contacts. He looked vexed, uncomfortable–attractive, but definitely too young to look as though he’d crawled straight from the eighties, cursing and making obscene gestures on his way out. 

Company like that couldn’t go unchecked. So, you checked. Call it your civic duty.

“Where are you going–” Izzy couldn’t finish, the odd determination in your eyes as you were leaving the bar assuring that she would watch your spot until you got back. Along the way, you retrieved a couple shot glasses and some tequila, not preferential, but your trail didn’t offer many options. 

You started off trying to stick to the fringe where there were at least small spaces to infiltrate. You lacked the physical presence to part the crowd, but you knew the layout like a second home, even when you were unable to see over heads and weaving bodies moving to a thunderous rhythm. Your own body reacted to it naturally, a little sway in your hips as you bobbed along. 

Navigating through the club got easier with time, the flush of bodies dragging you closer to the center as you tried not to step on people’s feet or be stepped on in return. Someone pinched your ass at one point, but it had become too familiar a gesture; you hardly bat an eye. 

The crowd pressed in on all sides was hardly an obstacle. Every move was instinctual. 

“Havin’ a good time, boys?”

Hair-Trigger Temper was less than enthused to see you, glancing at his partner, as though you might be something that he needed saved from too. You brandished a smile, undeniably charming but a facade to those who knew how to read it. So far during your time in The Million, no one had. These two were not the proven exception. 

“Not now, Love. I look like I need company?” Hair-Trigger Temper said around another drag of the cigarette, barely sparing a glance out of his peripherals.

“I could,” the partner replied, which earned him a glare, the other man’s eye visibly twitching. “You’re hardly a comfort most days, Mate.” He reasoned.

“And you have a very shootable face, but I don’t fuckin’ shoot it, now do I?”

The partner ignored his remark, waving you into the booth beside himself despite the other’s clear disinterest in welcoming you. “Don’t worry about my brother there. He never has a good time.”

Hair-Trigger Temper hoisted his empty glass in a less-than-enthused salute. “I am having a bloody good fucking time. Or I can at least act like I am.”

“If this–” you gestured between the two, “–is your idea of acting, then clearly the drama teacher at that fancy posh school of yours really failed you.”

The other man didn’t have time to remark, having leaned forward in his seat, before his partner cut in. “You pretty good at assumin’ about people, then?” 

“You get pretty good at it in a place like this,” you answered with a shrug.

His next question came with a sudden enthusiasm. “Do you know Thomas the Tank Engine?”

Clearly this was a topic that was brought up frequently, considering Hair-Trigger Temper’s aggravated exclamation of oh here we fucking go and the other pulling a sticker book from the pockets of his coat. He opened it up, many missing, the outline still visible in the backing paper. A subtle shake of your head answered his question, and he began pointing out the various colored locomotives. 

“Take Tangerine here, right? He’s a Gordon–this blue one–” he pointed. “–and Gordon is the strongest. He doesn’t always listen to others. He’s typically the first choice for pulling special engines, but I can also argue that he’s a Thomas because he’s very cheeky, and can be impatient–”

“What’s that now, Lemon?” Tangerine raised his eyebrows. 

“You–” Lemon hummed, addressing you. “I think you might be a Boco.”

“Boco?”

“He’s a diesel engine. Reasonable. Level-headed. That’s what I’m getting from you.” He peeled one of the stickers from the book and handed it to you. You took it, looking over the weird, and somewhat creepy green engine. You weren’t sure what to make of that. Accurate, you guessed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you decided without too much contemplation. “I’m–I’m sorry–” You furrowed your brows, waving between the two. “Did you say that your names were Lemon and Tangerine?”

“It’s really sophisticated,” Lemon said.

“It’s hardly important.” Tangerine said at the same time. 

“It sounds like your names should be reversed,” the corners of your lips twitched. “If we’re going by personality archetypes.” 

Lemon grinned, jabbing his thumb at you. “I like her.”

Tangerine rolled his eyes, waving at you dismissively. “That’s great, Lemon. You know what Thomas would say? He’d say we’re on a job and to have the lass bugger off so we can get shit done and fuck off.”

“He wouldn’t say that. Thomas isn’t an asshole–”

“You’re also the most obvious at showing you’re on a job,” that caught Tangerine and Lemon’s attention both, albeit Tangerine was leaning toward you, Lemon announcing that he had to use the loo before he was sliding out of the booth. You paid him no mind, your eyes focused solely on Tangerine. If looks could kill, you’d be dead a million times over, but that hardly deterred you. “I’ve worked here for a long time, and I can tell when a man in here isn’t supposed to be.”

He scoffed, straightening the flaps of his jacket as he shifted in the booth. You propped your chin on your hand, your elbow perched on the table. “You going to sell me out to the cops?”

“I could probably find a few if I look behind me.” You tilted your head. “They’re not as obvious as you are, but still not impossible to pick out.”

“You offering me advice?”

“I don’t know what advice I could give you.” You shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”

He narrowed his eyes, but something about the exchange had piqued his interest. “You got a name, Love?”

You scoffed at the mediocrity of the question. Names were hardly important in The Million compared to the faces, and down here, you didn’t think that a single girl went by their actual name. It was like having a completely different life between two doors, and each part was as much a stranger as the other. “You don’t care about that, Sweetie. Trust me.”

“Try me.”

“I’ll tell you what,” you slid the bottle of tequila that you’d brought between you. “If you want to know so badly,” You tapped against the glass with your nail. “Let’s play a game.”

“You’re serious–”

“Assume something about me. If you’re right, I'll take a drink. If you’re not, then you take a drink.” Simple. “It usually ends when one or the other is too plastered to keep going.” 

Tangerine worked a tick in his jaw, and you thought that you saw his eye twitch. “You allowed to do that on the job?”

“My job is to entertain. There’s not exactly a list of parameters.” 

At first, it looked as if he’d refuse, glancing from you, to the bottle, then back at you. Another flickering glance toward the bathroom, but something told you that Lemon wasn’t there. You raised your eyebrow, waving your shot glass. 

He sighed, but ultimately, he humored you. “You work at The Million.”

“Ah-ah. Ladies first.” You interjected, folding your arms on the table, holding his glare with an assuming stare of your own. You hummed thoughtfully, but went with the easiest first. “Your real name isn’t Tangerine.”

Tangerine scoffed. “That’s bloody fuckin’ obvious, innit?” Sharp eyes darted down as you pushed the shot glass toward him, and he rolled his eyes before knocking it back, cigarette still clasped in his other hand, beginning to burn down to the filter. The fingers clasping the cigarette rubbed at a spot between his eyebrows. “You’re from around here.”

“Now who’s being obvious,” you said but took a drink. You were a good sport after all and could handle the heat being thrown back at you. Men were cocky for a myriad of reasons, but the most common ones that walked through the door were insecure, wanted to be noticed, or were all talk, no action. You hadn’t yet deciphered what exactly Tangerine was, but something told you that he was in a different category all on his own. “Upstate wasn’t fun. I was born and raised here and homesickness brought me back. What do you want me to say?”

Tangerine hummed as if what he was looking for wasn’t answered. You wouldn’t make it easy for him, not that it mattered. It was your turn.

“Lemon isn’t really your brother.”

“Adopted.”

Damn. You took a drink. 

Tangerine cleared his throat, the mix of tequila and tobacco a sour combination in a confined space that reeked of sweat and heat. “You’re expecting a tip for this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Men at that club don’t just tip because they appreciate the girls, sweetheart. They tip where they can show off. We learn not to expect anything, and a fifty–”

“Bit of a cheapskate–.”

“—is already a lot more than the girls usually get from one guy on a good day.”

“So what’s this–” he waved across the table between the two of you. “Little game gonna cost me?” 

“That depends on the guy and my mood most days,” you leaned back in the booth, the shot glass clasped precariously in your thumb and index finger, teetering back and forth. “In your case…” You clicked your tongue. “Two-hundred.”

He gaped. “That’s bloody outrageous!”

“It’s the economy, baby.” You smirked with a hint of teasing. “I gotta be upfront with you, if you can’t pay you’re gonna have to find yourself another girl. Unless this is some elaborate ruse just to get a girl to do an honest night’s work. You trying to rehabilitate me?” 

“Right…” Another roll of his eyes. “I have a little more dignity than the pricks down here who have to pay for someone’s time.”

“So you have women jumping to do it for free pretty often?”

“You’re just taking the piss now aren’t you?” He said, but moved on at your shrug, the game hardly holding his interest, but it kept him talking if nothing else. He sighed. “You've always been in this line of work.”

“Super wrong. You’d better take two shots for that.”

“What?” He began to argue, but you slapped your shot glass onto the table beside his, waving it over. 

“Absolutely not. Drink.” You leaned back, refusing to take the shot glass back until he did in fact obey the order. “I’ve worked a little bit everywhere, and it did not include working in places like this.”

His brows furrowed. “You act like it wasn’t your first choice.”

“It was the easiest choice.” You clarified. “The girls in here don’t work here because they want to unless they’re really crazy. They’re usually–”

“Hiding.” He guessed.

You nodded. “I’m hardly any different from them if you hadn’t noticed, but nothing I feel obligated to share with you and that’ll cost you an extra hundred. Easy.” You waved it off dismissively. 

“I’m starting to see a pattern with you,” he confided, bobbing his head. He snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray, which you figured was as close to his full attention as you would get. “You hold personal information over these ripe prick’s heads so that they’ll pay you whatever you want to get it, right? Must have some good fucking secrets.”

“I told you that it depends on the customer. Maybe it’s just you.” Another shrug, crossing your legs underneath the table. The brunt of your shoulders pressed against the booth’s seat. “Maybe I make it that way so people don’t ask.” 

“I asked your name. How are you going to tell me if this game is about assuming shit?” 

“Maybe it’s just you.” You repeated. “You’re doing a job for Big Man.” 

He took a drink, and you only bobbed your head in confirmation. “Lookin’ for a specific bloke for him. Someone is apparently snitching on his side business.” 

“He could’ve asked any of his girls to do that. Would’ve been a lot cheaper, I’m sure.” 

“He was looking for a professional to handle it.”

“You?” You scoffed, raising your eyebrows incredulously. “No one sees and hears more in here than we do Sweetheart, trust me. We just don’t get paid enough to say anything about it.” You turned your head, then jerked it toward a particular booth seat where a group of men were playing cards, women housed in each lap laughing in a way that you knew was fake at something that you were equally sure wasn’t funny. “Gray suit is a land developer, he and his wife live out of state but they’re renting in town and he is here to swindle a few million out of a local charity bank under the idea that he’s donating land to build extra housing.” 

You cocked your head to the next. “Mobster, but like all the others, afraid of the Black Death. Hardly anything more than the street corner he hangs out on.” Then the next. “Deputy Sheriff. Let’s a few deals slide for about forty percent of the profits unless he’s raised it since last week.” And then: “I’m pretty sure that guy is running for cabinet. Anything that you don’t hear or see in here, you can find out from a quick Google search or on someone’s Facebook page.” 

Tangerine almost looked impressed, but you hardly needed that affirmation from him. 

“And that’s on a Thursday. You come out on a Saturday and you might catch a glimpse of the Mayor.” 

“If he’s snitching on his side business, he’d be a right idiot to come in here wouldn’t he?”

“It’s the best place to find out about Big Man’s business if you are interested. It’s why he invited you and your brother here, I’ll bet.” You gathered the shot glasses in your hand, then the bottle. “But that’s hardly any of my business.”

“Where you goin’ now?”

“It looks like my time is up and I’m out two hundred.” You sighed, although you didn't find yourself completely disappointed. “Unless you’re saying that you actually enjoy my company?”

Tangerine scoffed, digging around in the pockets of his suit pants until he brandished a few crumpled bills–hundreds–onto the table in between you. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You paying for more of my time?”

“Paying for the time that I did take.” He corrected. “I’m not always a right arsehole.” 

You picked up the crumpled bills gingerly between your fingers, counted them out. There were three one hundred dollar bills there, an incentive, you figured. “You want to know what I’m hiding from?” You guessed.

“I want to know your name,” he corrected. He was rising as well, and you noticeably barely came up to his chest. There was a certain proximity between you, but the little distance never became so apparent until you actually stood up. You looked up at him, suddenly wading through a different kind of beast, shifting its shape and swallowing you up. 

You scoffed some kind of incredulous laugh. Three hundred dollars for an introduction seemed like a scam that even you felt bad about taking advantage of, even with all the dickheads that crowded The Million.

You didn’t see this guy as a dickhead. Not entirely. Not yet. 

But you knew how to hold up your end of a deal.

You shoved the bills into your pocket.

Then you introduced yourself.