Behind The Curtain Pt. 2

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. 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.”

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. 

Can you please add me to the tag list for Into the Gray? I’m loving it!

Yes! I definitely will! (:

I’m so glad that you’re enjoying it!

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.

On the Run

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

Type: Gen, One-Shot (Two Part-er?)

-> Anon request (Requests are currently open. Other fandoms listed on my profile!)

Words: ~4.5K

Tags: @biblichorr, @ethanhawkestan, @medievalfangirl, @pyrokineticbaby

A/N: Apologies in advance if anyone else wanted tagged. I am still getting used to the tag list thing, and I'm not exactly sure if the people who enjoyed and wanted tagged for the Six x Reader fics also wanted tagged for the Six gen fics and vice versa. Thanks! (: If anyone knows how a tag list works, and how to note specific usernames for specific things, it would be very helpful!

~~~

Every day spent with Claire only made it abundantly more clear that Six didn’t know much about kids. Some days she was happy–ecstatic, and understanding of the things that he couldn’t control–other days, the revelation that anything inside the realm of normal was null and void where he was involved only made her more prone to being angry and spiteful. Most days he could keep up, and most days he was brought back to those first days when she was scolding him for chewing gum in Donald’s house or acting like he was an enigma because his name was filed down to just a digit. 

Six wasn’t Donald Fitzroy. He never would be. He didn’t want to be. 

There were things between him and Claire that he had no hope of understanding, let alone trying to recreate on his own. They didn’t have inside jokes, and he hadn’t known her parents–those were things that he couldn’t talk about like Donald. That kind of connection had never been meant for someone like him, the idea long gone when he’d been served life without parole. 

But she’d said that they were like family, and to him that had meant something. An unshakable loyalty and a responsibility already embedded deep within him when he’d promised Donald that he’d keep her alive. 

Other than that, doing what he knew, he was figuring the rest out one agonizingly slow step at a time. 

And those agonizingly slow steps only felt slower in the humid air of a small, inconspicuous country in Asia. They had something off-brand to a McDonalds from the states, serving many of the same things with different variations of names. It didn’t make a difference to him, either way. Various jobs had taught him to eat whatever was available, and a greasy burger was the same as a steak dinner considering how much he was starving. 

It didn’t embarrass him to engorge himself in front of anyone–food was a means of energy, and it hardly concerned him what he ate to get it. Regardless, he could see Claire watching him out of the corner of her eye, a vaguely nauseous look while she pushed her ice-cream around with a spoon. Sweat beaded her forehead, trailing in thin rivulets and staining a tank-top that he’d bought for her at a small corner shop for a quarter. 

Her eyebrows were raised, mouth slightly parted where she’d hunched over the table, her temple laid to rest against an enclosed fist. The ice-cream had melted, and she couldn’t have looked more miserable than how she probably felt. 

“It’s the best medicine,” he offered in between a mouthful of food, a lame grimace of a smile tugging at his lips while he gestured to her cup. “Ice-Cream.” 

“Yeah,” Claire trailed off, looking down into the soupy mixture with apprehension. “I don’t really think it’s ice-cream anymore.” As if to further iterate her point, she lifted some of it into her spoon, then  let it pour unceremoniously back into her cup. She raised her eyebrows at him, only to shake her head when he offered her a drink, her eyes darting back down. 

Six finished it off, the sound of him slurping through his straw sounding much louder in the sudden quiet that settled between them. He set it back down with a soft tap, the Styrofoam cup scraping as he slid it across the table, then pushed it back a little further. What little bit remained of his lunch was forgotten, the sudden intrusion on his appetite overshadowed by useless attempts to say anything useful. 

He tried to think of something Donald would say, but nothing sounded right coming from him. 

Thankfully, Claire was the one to break the silence first. 

“What are we going to do about money?” She looked at him in a way that ate right through him. He’d been shot, stabbed, tortured, nearly drowned, and yet one single look into Claire’s eyes–a kind of hopelessness that his concerns also had to be hers hurt so much worse. Parts of him thought that he was beyond all that; worrying. He’d built himself over the years to be unusually stoic, sarcastic at the most inopportune times, ready to die if that was something he had to do, but he couldn’t stop his expression from falling at the question, only because she wasn’t wrong.

He’d been forced to take the fall for all of Carmichael’s shit. He was a renowned fugitive, regular work and odd jobs far outside of his list of specialties. They didn’t pay enough. If it was just him, he could live off of a minimum wage, but with Claire, who was used to having so much. It was impossible. Dingy motels and take-out was already too beneath what she was used to. 

Six didn’t have an actual plan. He’d made up one as he went, taunting the enemy forces in Iraq during a helicopter crash that killed several American soldiers. Traversing foreign territory with an entire army at his back, that had been easy. This? He didn’t know why this was so much harder. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he assured her, only because the phrase you shouldn’t have to worry about that didn’t sound right in the moment. 

“Are–are you going to put me in a home?” She asked suddenly. 

“No.” He dipped his chin to meet her eyes, scrutinizing her worried expression with an incredulity so very unlike him. “No, Claire. Why do you think that?”

Claire appeared hesitant to answer, the melted puddle of her ice-cream suddenly more interesting than looking at his face. Her brows creased, her skin taking on a harsher shade of red than what he suspected was from just the humidity. Parts of her voice cracked on every other syllable, as if it was a possibility that she strongly considered before even he’d considered it. “You–you said that we were going to a hos–a hospital. To change my Pacemaker? You said that it could be tracked from anywhere.”

“It can. That’s how I found you.”

She looked up, brows drawn into a harsh scowl, a profound anger betrayed by tears brimming in her eyes. “Are you going to leave? Are you changing it out so that you can’t find me, too?” 

“What?” 

The tremor in her limbs had him angling his body toward her, the instinct to be there in case her Pacemaker were to act up again. He always had a hospital in mind, and an abundance of excuses if any of the doctors were to ask. Fake identities, fake IDs, passports… They moved, and they moved often. She needed direct contact with medical attention, and someone more well-adept at handling things like this. It had been selfish of him to keep her this long, but it was also selfish of him to think that he could have handled something like this in the first place.

“Claire–” He started.

Before he could get a word in, she was already moving from her chair, a harsh scrape against the tile grating against his ears as she shoved herself into his arms. On instinct, he pulled her to him, tilting his chin up to accommodate where she tucked her head. It was a gesture too familiar to fumble, and too brief to question.

Six remembered when she’d treated Donald like that, his own resilience the only thing that had protected him from her desperate kicking and screaming as he’d forced her away. He thought of something similar, doctors who would not have the resilience that he had, the begging and pleading like lead in his ears compared to people who had done the same in the past–for their lives–not his life, or a life with him. The image caused him to squeeze his eyes shut, ignoring the sudden twisting in his gut that felt like a knife. 

It wasn’t fair, but most things in his life weren’t.

“I’m not going to leave you, Kid.” He assured her quietly, but the sudden tension in her muscles suggested that she didn’t believe him. 

~~~~~

Six traversed several dozen stories with stone-faced seriousness, deadpan against the people who looked at him and Claire as an opportunity. Some heeded the obvious warning, others acting with false bravery before he’d tightened his hand around the gun hidden in his coat and let it slip from its confinement until they made the rational decision to back off on their own. His other arm was wrapped around Claire’s shoulders–catching her wide-eyed stare as she met strangers’ eyes in equal intensity. He burrowed her closer to his jacket, speaking low. 

“Keep your head down.”

The Chongqing building in Hong Kong was renowned for operating outside the law, but even if that was the case, they had no obligation to help him. He was broke, and he didn’t want to sign himself over until he was sure that Claire was somewhere safe. After they’d mocked him for looking like the grungy version of a Ken doll, all it took was a mention of his moniker for them to sober up and offer their services in exchange for a decrease of fees from what they would offer their usual clientele. 

He still couldn’t afford it, but it was more in the realm of believability. 

The Gray Man had a reputation, even operating in the dark. His work across several continents had created ghost stories by word of mouth, and that reputation alone scarcely made anyone question his credibility. They’d asked him to carry out a few contracts with some debtors that they didn’t have the means to deal with, and he’d agreed under the condition that Claire get their best doctor. Hands had been shaken, and his agreement had been signed in blood.

This was more normal. This, he knew how to do. 

“Are you sure about this?” Claire had asked, perched on the edge of one of the examination tables while they waited for a man who had referred to him as a ‘Guizi’ before leaving to prepare the operating room. She fumbled with the hem of a hospital gown, twisting wrinkles in the fabric from her nervous fidgeting. 

Six knew there was no use in lying. She always saw right through him, and he had never tried lying to her in the first place. “No.” He didn’t sugarcoat the fact, the notion that he wasn’t allowed to stay for the operation already tipping a scale in something less favorable for him. “But you know we don’t have a choice.” He would go ahead and fulfill their contracts, then find a place for Claire to rest and recuperate. Close by, preferably, just in case there would be some kind of mishap. The doctor–who had expectedly been an asshole–had just as much of a credibility as a doctor as he did a killer. 

That had to count for something, and he was running out of options. 

Desperation wasn’t a good look for him. 

“I know, it’s just…” Claire looked down, her eyes following her toes where she kicked her legs back and forth. Her anxiety was obvious, the way her breath hitched and she peered around as if there was a threat in every ill-illuminated corner, ready to leap out of the dark. She’d looked less scared when there was an actual threat in her house, but she’d also be alone for this one. “I trust you, but I don’t like this place.” 

“Me either.” Six ducked his head, exhaling through his nose. He stepped on the foothold at the base of the examination table. Familiar with the gesture, Claire moved over to oblige his silent request as he lowered himself down beside her, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. It wobbled from the added weight.

His hand moved over hers where it gripped at the gown, and she reluctantly allowed him to peel her clenched fingers apart. 

Claire looked more tired than usual, more small than how he was used to seeing her. Her playful attitude at Donald’s had been near damn non-existent in the last few months, moving from place to place leaving her jet-lagged and more prone to irritability. It didn’t stop his usual sarcasm, that dry wit that had annoyed her in the beginning, only for her to end up admitting that it was kind of funny. “I think everyone around here kind of looks like a criminal.”

Her head tilted back to look up at him. “More than you?” She gave a soft mock of a gasp. “No way.”

Six feigned a look of confusion, brows pinching. “Do I look like a criminal?”

“You do have the tattoos.” She chuckled. It was the first time he’d heard it in months. 

“I told you it was a guy's name in Greek.”

She nodded, looking back down where his hand laid over hers. Even with both her hands, his fingers still managed to envelop them, giving them a reassuring squeeze. A wan smile pulled at her lips. “You never told me if he made it up the hill.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Six mulled it over thoughtfully, the next breath he exhaled more forceful this time, dragging along with his words. “Let’s get through this first, then I’ll let you know, okay?” 

Claire pressed her lips together, minimizing the frown that’d slowly begun to spread across her face as her expression fell. “You promise you’re not leaving me?”

He held out his pinkie.

She rolled her eyes, curling it around her own. Her thumb pressed against his in a final declaration: A stamp, she’d explained that it somehow made it more official. There was something too endearing about it for him to question. 

“Just another Thursday.” He answered. 

“You say that every time something bad happens. I’m starting to see a pattern.” 

“If I can get through this without getting in a fight, I think that this will be more successful than most Thursdays.”

“Ha-Ha,” she said sarcastically. 

He quirked a smile despite himself, and her expression was quick to follow. The door swung open as the doctor walked inside, mask and gloves at the ready. Claire inhaled next to him, her arms wrapping around his bicep. He slid off the exam table, practically lifting her along with him

“You can’t be in the surgery room,” the doctor told him, voice flat and uncaring. It only further exceeded to twist a knife deeper into his gut. 

“I’m going to escort her,” Six said. The nature of his tone was enough for the doctor to begrudgingly oblige his request, waving them out into the dark corridor and through the maze of hallways that he’d gotten lost in on the way up. Claire’s nails dug into his sleeve, and he offered what little comfort he could by placing a hand over her arm. “And this Pacemaker is untraceable?” He pressed the doctor.

“It does not have a registered serial number.” The doctor answered. “It cannot be traced on any national database.” 

It offered very little comfort to Six, but they’d run into too much trouble with her current one. It was a big risk for a bout of selfishness, for giving in to Claire’s demands to stay. He did look at homes cross-country, and depending how the next few weeks went, he may have to make some kind of choice. 

He strongly suspected that whether it went well or not, he may have to say goodbye anyway. 

If she were to have any kind of life. 

“I’ll be right here.” They came to a stop outside of the operating room. 

“Six.” 

“I’ll bring you some ice-cream. It’s the best medicine.”

She leapt onto her tiptoes and hugged him tight, with him leaning to accommodate her height. His arms wrapped around her back, never squeezing, but giving a firm enough gesture so that she understood that he meant it. Once they pulled apart, she was ushered into the operating room, sparing a glance over her shoulder.

Her index finger and pinkie raised, her other fingers curling in. 

He copied the gesture as she disappeared through the door.

Six’s expression slipped as soon as she was gone, then despite his promise to Claire, he turned and walked down the seedy corridor. Fluorescent lights flickered incessantly, forcing him to squint underneath their harsh blinking and fight the urge to turn back around and deposit himself outside of Claire’s room. He convinced himself that she would be fine for the time being, especially after she was put under anesthesia. Hopefully, she would never notice that he was gone.

Various stalls lined the narrow bend of the hall, but he didn’t have the time to so much as spare any of the products a glance. His jacket swayed with his shoulders, a strong confidence taking to an equally strong frame. He wasn’t taller than most of the men in the building by any means, but he could say with a cocky confidence that none of them would be that difficult to take. He’d been ready to at any opportunity with Claire, but for the moment, for her sake, he’d avoid it if he could. 

He turned his torso to avoid products being waved at him, at his face, darting around seedy characters that made grabs for his wallet. 

He had an obligation. 

They were paying him for this, and he had to get Claire somewhere safe after. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow split across the wall and dart around a corner. There was a fraction of a second, then it was gone, one glance over his shoulder confirming that it wasn’t one of the stall owners attempting to pressure him for a purchase. 

Someone was following him. 

Shit. 

With a renewed urgency, Six traversed the remaining figures in the hallway, around a disgruntled patron to take his spot in the elevator, pressing his finger into the man’s chest and none-too graciously pushing him back–the man had shouted something at him in Mandarin, something that he only bothered to classify as some kind of insult–but he pressed the button that would take him down without bothering to grace the man with his usual wit. He jammed his thumb to prematurely close the doors, but someone else managed to slip through the narrow crack in the doors. The man pressed a button, then they were being taken down.

77…

76…

75…

Six had stepped to the far left side, his hands folded together in front of him, eyes fixed on a specific spot in an ugly swirling pattern on the rug. He mulled over his options. Unlike most places he’d found trouble in, this place was full of criminals. Unless he was some kind of big whig that had the staff of the entire building under his thumb, Claire was safe if this asshole wound up missing. 

His eyes rolled back up to the ceiling, the light dim and flickering in there, too. 

“And you are?” Six asked, glancing over to a darkened figure who towered over him. Graciously ignored, his only response was a twitch of the man’s muscles suggesting that his day was about to get a hell of a lot harder. 

74…

73…

Deft fingers grabbed for the gun in his jacket at the same time his attacker jammed the emergency stop button. The two traded shots, a loud ringing that split through the air in perfect unison, just passing their left shoulders in perfect symmetry. A harsh shudder shook the elevator while it came to an abrupt stop, causing Six’s knee to crumple, stumbling through the small space. 

He’d had his hand on his gun, his index finger grappling for the trigger again as the brunt of the man’s palm knocked the side of the gun’s barrel and sent it careening into a corner. It went off somewhere in the dark, shooting a light out in the ceiling, the other twitching, light and darkness blinking rapidly back and forth.

His eyes darted for the gun, following its flight path, only for a sudden blink of the light to illuminate ringed knuckles that came dangerously close to his face. He whipped back, his spine hitting the grip handle on the wall, managing to grab a hold of it just as another punch made impact with the side of his cheek. 

Red exploded. Scarlet tasted bitter on his tongue, taking a few small but dexterous hops sideways to create distance. 

Grimacing, Six spit into a corner, his words coming in soft exhales as he took that brief reprieve to catch his breath. He wasn’t given much, forced up against the wall with the handle digging into his spine. A knife pressed dangerously close to his throat, the side of the blade creating a sharp line. “Can we not do this right now? I’m kind of in a hurry.”

But there were certain elements that lied dormant until it heeded the call for survival. Dangerous instincts hardwired into his biological systems, tangled between societal standards and cultural acceptance. Suffering from the human condition. A fissure had opened between Six’s past and present, threatening to engulf his future. 

Claire’s future.

“You’re worth a lot of money,” the attacker mused with a heavy timber accentuated with an accent that Six didn’t recognize. His expression twisted, a scoff ripping through his throat. “Two hundred thousand for the Gray Man’s head. I’m not impressed.” 

Six resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that natural nonchalance that this man sported–an attitude with the knowledge that he would win.

“You’re no run-of-the-mill yourself.” He retorted, only to earn a punch that speared him in the gut as a consolation prize. A cough forced itself from deep in his stomach, groaning in irritation. His tongue caught a stray lop of blood on the side of his lip, and without warning, he jerked his knee up, slamming it into the man’s abdomen, darting sideways to one of the corners. 

The man doubled over, spitting a slew of curses in a language that Six didn’t understand before charging him again. The full force of his weight knocked into his side and sent him into the wall. Six’s head hit it first, exploding with a sudden burst of pain at the side of his skull. Trembling fingers gripped hard, his eyes struggling to refocus through the ringing in his ears, a pounding sensation rocking against the back of it while his free hand fumbled for his gun. 

Six pushed himself to stand again despite the disorientation. His free arm wrapped around his stomach, just barely stumbling sideways as a fist collided with the wall. 

He swung at him again then again, the cramped confines of the space only growing smaller and smaller as they moved about.

A boot collided with his ankle. Hard.

Six buckled, his back hitting the floor and yanking what little breath he had from him. His blurring figure hovered over him, drawing his gun. In one harsh movement, he threw his foot up, knocking it out of his unsuspecting hands and sending it careening across the floor with a metal clang. He dove for his own where it lay neglected in a darkened corner, scooping it up into his hand, rolling forward, and propping himself onto one knee.

The desire to survive overpowered any hesitations he may have had.

Two gunshots rang out, echoing into the stillness, only to find his attacker not there.

In one fluent movement, the man appeared behind Six and grabbed his arm. He jerked him forward, one arm wrapping around his throat, another delivering a quick blow to the back of his knee, sending him down. His nails dug desperately at the arm that kept him trapped. The free hand grasping his gun was forcibly held still at his side.

It should’ve been easy. He’d done it so many times in half the amount it would take someone without the proper training. Except this time it was purely to defend himself. Six hadn’t possessed a strong urge to preserve his own life. It'd been all about following orders from the very start, and then he’d remembered Claire, preserving her life—everything the CIA had tried and almost succeeded in destroying in him. 

That had been all that mattered, but now even more than ever, Six wanted to live.

And he would try. 

For her sake.

The man’s towering form wavered just a moment, just long enough for another shot to echo out, grazing past his assailant’s right shoulder.

Missed.

Another passed the left shoulder.

Missed.

Blurred edges framed his vision, body warning him that he would pass out. Having the current upper hand, the gun was wrenched from his hand, placing the shaft against Six’s temple. He scratched at the tight hold around his throat that was restricting his blood’s flow, opening his mouth and breathing in. His nostrils flared, his insistent struggling becoming more weak. 

72.

With a ding, the elevator door opened, and through his blurry haze, he came face to face with Lloyd Hansen

“Hey, Sunshine!” Lloyd–fucking Lloyd–greeted him, waving with fingers replaced by prosthetics. “Ease up on the Ken doll won’t ya? There’ll be plenty of time for foreplay later.” At his demand, Six was released, sent into the floor sputtering and coughing. He strongly contemplated that he was dead, that this was some weird type of hell. 

But Lloyd knelt beside him, startling real, and just as annoying. “Have you met my friend?”

Six looked up, his shoulders rising and falling while he caught his breath. He squinted, lips parted in unbelievability, wanting more than anything to wipe the trash stache off of his smug face. With the possibility that he knew Claire was there, it was the only thing that encouraged him to stay on his best behavior until he was sure otherwise. “I’ve had the pleasure, yeah.”

“I paid him extra to choke you out like that by the way. I wanted to reminisce a little about the old days.” Lloyd gently chided. “Before that bitch Suzanne shot me.”

“I remember.” Six said, unable to keep his own version of a smug grin from creeping across his face. “It was kind of funny.” He wiped at his mouth, settling back on his haunches where he could look at Lloyd more fully, relishing in the feeling of just getting to sit down. 

Lloyd lingered. Too close. They were almost nose to nose. 

“What did I do to get graced with your stache now?”

“Oh, you’re going to find out. I’ve got a whole date planned, actually. Just you and me.” At the confession, Six had just blinked the haze out of his eyes, a burst of stars forcing them directly back in. Pain shot through the bridge of his nose, a nausea making him gag as he slumped back against the floor. A low growl rumbled within him, rapidly blinking fluorescent lights and Lloyd’s face swirling around him in those last few seconds. 

Thoughts of Claire came to the surface of it all, praying to whatever God existed that she was safe being the last thing that graced his mind before he was gone.

Behind the Curtain Pt. 1

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For your birthday,” she went on. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about your birthday?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have reason to believe your name has surfaced. 

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

Tell no one.

-DM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I find something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hunt was on.

Infected (Leon Kennedy/Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The questions felt even less so. 

How are you feeling today, Subject Four?

Did you sleep well? Did you have any dreams?

What are you thinking about?

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

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

Where were you? 

Why did everyone smell like bleach?

What was your actual name?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you answered, voice muffled.

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

Recovery? You wanted to ask. Recovery from what?

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

Your condition? Were you sick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sunlight,” you answered, almost instinctively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to remember?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

What kind of twisted science project was this? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell had they gotten him into?

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.

Like A Light (Rey) (01)

Summary: "I was happy when you took your place at my side and raised your saber to fight with me. You saved me, and that has to mean something to them just as much as it does to me." They couldn't be, the two of them, and she constantly kicked herself for that fact. The resistance wouldn't accept him and it was the only place she felt as if she belonged. Well, except for right then.

Pairing: Ben Solo x Rey

Warnings: Cursing, Violence

Words: ~4K

Rey had never imagined what her death would be like before now.

It would not have been a bad idea to contemplate the possibility. After all, she had been close numerous times. The majority had been before her Jedi training had started when she was nothing more than a scavenger in the scorching deserts of Jakku. Never mind her battles with Kylo Ren, with the Supremacy in the throne room, and basically every strike she had made against the first order since.

Naturally, it had to be her grandfather that finally struck her down.

Family drama at its finest.

Regardless of the how, it was likely that the sensation was very much the same-inviting itself to embrace her with open arms. Welcoming, and warm.

It was urging her to rest. To close her eyes and let her journey end there in the caves of Exogol among the dirt, the ash, the blood.

In the end, it was her exhaustion that won, aching and tired muscles practically screaming. The brightly lit sky blurred above her, ships crashing into flames were becoming mere shapes and the sounds of people screaming-some cheerful, others calling out in outrage, and in scorn-deafened in her ears.

The stench of death and smoke grew further away, her broken body left lying there in the remnants of the war.

Except what she had expected of death never came, she realized as she opened her eyes to nothingness. Unless, this is what was meant to be on the other side?

A voice called out to her; called her name.

She whipped around in the darkness towards the soft melody that housed an edge of authority. It urged the barest trace of a smile that overtook any previous fear she had felt of this unknown place, this in-between.

"General Organa." She greeted the translucent silhouette, her heart practically leaping inside her chest. The previous general's life had transcended the force during her fight with Kylo Ren on Endor, when she had given her own life to pull her son back to the light. Was there some other purpose left unfulfilled?

"Did I fail you, Master?" One tentative step forward, if only to prove that she could. Even if it felt as if she were moving underwater, even if she felt detached from her own body. Her previous master may not have been touching her, but she felt the weight of an embrace holding her upright.

Leia shook her head. Transparency softened her features, her movements fluid and without the burden that came with age-unless that was merely another thing that death would offer, a gift that could come from this place. It gave the woman a more youthful look about her, something akin to peace. "Not yet, but there is more that I need from you."

Rey's head swiveled around like a panoramic view, looking through the very depths of the in-between as though what was needed of her would magically make itself known. It didn't. "This is it." She shrugged helplessly, an eerie sense of calm settling over her. "Why am I here if my journey still continues?"

"The dyad is strong. Even death cannot interfere in some cases."

Her brows pinched together, a different sensation tugging at her subconscious. Something lulling her into a sense of security. It began as a scratching in the back of her head, searching for something inside before giving way to a surprising warmth. Usually, such a sensation she'd shut out, ignore it and hope it would go away of its own accord. Only because it meant that she would give more than she intended, would show a vulnerable side of herself to someone that had no reason for seeing it. Someone she never had the strength to so easily shove out of her life.

Like a voice in the back of her head, he was always there.

Ben.

"It is Ben." Leia voiced her thoughts aloud, echoing into the void. Into nothing. "He is giving you his life force. Destiny speculates that he should come join me and his father, Luke and his grandfather, but the force is demanding otherwise it would seem." She laughed at that, a small dry laugh that didn't quite match the otherwise stoic expression on her face. "There are still plans for you. Both of you. Don't give up on him, Rey."

Rey smiled fighting back tears of joy. A sense of relief welled inside of her. Ben was okay, and Rey-she'd get to go home. To the resistance, to her friends and newfound family that she had found on her own. And to Ben who had every reason to be given a second chance. "I won't." She promised. "I won't let your sacrifice be in vain."

Leia's lips had moved once again, but this time it was inaudible, and no extent of squinting could make out her words. Her transparent figure faded into fog, sweeping away into the non-existent wind and throwing itself into the never ending darkness.

The tugging sensation that she had felt previously yanked her backward into the dark. Then, her back hit nothing. The force knocked the breath from her lungs, and as her eyes flew open, she gasped inward attempting to breathe. It tasted like ash, like smoke, and like death but she was alive. Back in the caves of the Sith.

Above her, fleets of ships plummeted toward the earth, lightning streaked across the sky clad in a red and orange hue, splitting through the clouds of smoke and splitting them apart. Like a light, it burned.

It was beautiful.

Making an attempt to speak had at first been fruitless, her lips parting but no sound coming out. Her throat felt dry, constricted, and flexing her fingers was met with resistance. One hand having grasped around her lightsaber, the other bunching the fabric at someone's waist. Through the damp cold that settled within the cave, warmth radiated through the clothing into her hand.

"Rey," The breathless whisper of her name and Ben was looking at her. Really looking at her, one hand braced around her back, the other coming to rest on her hand.

He helped her to sit up, and her eyes found his face at last.

Silence hung in the air between them only briefly.

"Ben," Came her whisper of response, a brightly lit smile etching itself on her face. "We did it. We won."

Hand coming to rest on his cheek, it tangled in the damp strands of his hair looking into dark but hopeful pools of brown. Tears held in his eyes, settling over a gratified expression.

Drawn in by a sense of longing, a sense of want, of a connection, Rey closed the little distance that filtered between them until their lips met.

Their kiss lasted only a second, lips against lips, his breath on her cold skin, the stench of war surrounding them, threatening to grab hold. At that moment however, nothing else mattered. Nothing except when they parted, and Ben actually smiled, a longing grin followed by a laugh of pure relief, pure hope. Something akin to a genuine happiness Rey hadn't been sure if Ben would ever feel.

He could only nod. His arms around her were tight. "You won." He whispered then, his forehead coming to rest against her own, breathing her in and reveling in the moment as though afraid she would disappear.

Rey didn't let him go.

Around them, the caves of Exogol were lurching, the cracks in the ground opening into bigger indentations that split into chasms. The bodies of their enemies fell through, colliding with the caves walls and disappearing into the endless depths below. Rubble hit the ground and shattered, aiding in the ground's dilapidating state.

It urged Rey to her feet, and although it was a gesture she regretted it was one that had to be done. Untangling herself from Ben, she pulled him upward, catching his slight stumble and the weight he was refusing to put on his right leg. Draping one of his arms across her shoulders, her other hand wrapped around his waist and ushered him forward.

He was hesitating, keeping the majority of his weight on his own. Being much bigger than she was, his weight in his current state was not something she felt he could handle.

"Just lean on me!" Rey ordered, adjusting him on her own. The pair caught each stray stone and crack that happened in their path, and she had to adjust him every few feet, but they pressed on to the only exit that hadn't been blocked by debris or stone walls as the world quite literally fell apart.

Thankfully he listened, even if his eyes stole a glance up at the ceiling caving in. How the crashing ships only aided its impending threat. Briefly, Rey wondered if he was thinking of Luke's betrayal, how he had used his connection to the force to pull the ceiling in on them both…

No, no. Now was not the time to think about that.

They were so slow. So agonizingly slow.

Ahead, a light signaled an exit and she pressed on at a faster pace, even if the effort of supporting his weight warned her against it and her rapidly growing exhaustion. Ben nearly buckled at her side but she forced him upright as the ground continuously opened up behind them, and with every shake it forced her balance to readjust. Rey feared that they would be swallowed up and sent to a fate of nothing, to drown in the neverending darkness opening up…

"What do you want to do when we get home, Ben?" Rey was careful in putting emphasis on the word "we". Of course she wouldn't go home without him. If fate so willed it, she'd likely sit in the cave forever with him even if to rot. Only because if fate would deal him an unfair hand, she would share the burden.

"What?" Ben asked, breathless at her side.

"You can do anything you know," She mused, soft tired gaze fixated forward as she tugged him along. "We could go hunting. I could use a break from training courses for a while, I think." While a lame attempt to keep their focus on something else, Rey ever the positive one still took an attempt to try. To get him to see her, or at least see that he had her. He always did. She had wanted to grab his hand, and in the end she'd taken it. After the end she continued to hold it.

Right now it was one of the few things that made sense.

"I'm… not sure." He answered, breathless. "It… isn't on my list of concerns at the moment."

They burst through the cave's exit, the world outside coming into focus more clearly now. Around them, their world was crumbling, pieces tumbling through the brightly lit sky. When she turned to Ben, he didn't blink, instead gazing upon her as if she were the only important thing to him in that moment. His lips trembled, words forming in his throat but nothing coming to light. It stayed in the back of his complicated mind.

Their urgency remained the priority despite both clearly wanting to stop for rest. Whatever it happened to be was a conversation that had to wait, everything still descending into chaos and the ship that she had driven to Exogol was thankfully intact.

The hand that braced across her shoulder had curled into a fist.

"Come on." Ben said. "We have to go."

Pieces of shattered Star Destroyers and X-Wings crashed nearby, followed by another, and then another. Being in the direct flight path of remnants from the battle, the cracked earth swallowed up the majority of the debris, but she would not let it swallow them up as well.

Readjusting their weight once again, her hand clutched tightly at his own, the other coiling tighter around his waist as they hobbled on to the X-Wing that she had taken there, old but thankfully unscathed. She caught Ben looking around with vague confusion as though something were missing, but for the moment Rey decided against asking him the reason.

Luke's X-Wing should not have made the trip, being submerged in the ocean of the isolated island as long as it was, but Rey was hopeful that it could make the return trip home. Truly, they didn't have much more banking on them than that. "I'm going to have to squeeze you behind the cockpit." She mused aloud much to Ben's distaste as she left him leaning against the rusted metal to climb up one of its wings.

It would be a tight fit, but it had to work. It had to.

Adjusting the pilot's seat forward, unfortunately in Ben's position he wouldn't have enough leg room to stretch out comfortably, but leaving him behind was not even an option she would entertain.

Activating the inner computer, it beeped rapidly as it activated its core systems. The control panel's switch lights turned on one by one, the ship shuddering to life before it was ready for take off.

Behind her, a loud crash forced her to whip around, her gaze catching Ben whom had darted to the side of a flying piece of shrapnel that tumbled into the abyss at their side. She smiled sheepishly at his vaguely irritated expression, climbing down the ship once again to help her companion inside.

To say that she had ever seen Ben annoyed was an understatement. Watching him squeeze behind the cockpit of the X-Wing had been an amusing enough experience as it was, his knees pulled against his chest and squeezed into a corner. It had ushered a laugh from Rey-one that was met with a gentle glare-but she didn't wait around to hear any complaint, settling into the pilot's seat and fumbling for the controls.

With practiced precision, her hands flew over the consoles flipping switches and pressing buttons until the hatch closed over their heads and the hum of the ship drowned out any attempt at conversation as debris pounded relentlessly against their glass cover. She could feel Ben behind her though, his labored breathing, his soft intake of breath as he struggled to deal with his injuries. She couldn't look now, instead focusing on pulling the ship into the air. The communications buzzed as signals attempted to make it through the chaos.

As they ascended into the atmosphere, a signal finally managed to come through. Excited. Cheering. Genuine happiness and celebrating victory.

The resistance.

She jumped as a voice boomed over the comms, filling the empty space in the ship with demanding insistence.

"Rey?! I see the X-Wing. Tell me that's you!"

"Poe, we-" She froze, deciding how much was too much to tell him at that point in time. Already imagining the outrage, the hatred, the demand for answers if they knew the infamous Kylo Ren was on her ship and on his way back to the resistance base. "I'm okay." She assured him, steering directly past the mass of other ships crowding the sky. All resistance, all numerous than what they had originally started with.

So they had heeded their call…

Her heart sank.

"Do you need assistance? We're rendezvousing back on Crait-"

The comm was flipped off with an insistent click and silence settled inside of the cockpit once again. There was nothing. Nothing other than the inner mechanics of the ship and its engine.

Out of the corner of her peripherals, she just caught tousled dark hair propped against the wall, head leaned back with an expression of passiveness. If his pain tolerance was not very high, she may have just heard him gasp, wince, groan, something. Instead, the only sounds that escaped him was his labored breathing and one last tired sigh.

They had made it. Rey had made it. And it was finally quiet.

She was relieved, too.

Until Ben finally spoke.

"I doubt your… friends… the resistance will be happy to see me." She heard him muse from behind her, his words raking her own fears down her spine.

"I know."

"They're only going to see me as Kylo Ren."

"I know."

Rey could feel it, his eyes burning into the back of her head, tense and with a mock anger marking his soft features. Some sort of spark suddenly lit in him, and she didn't have to look back to know that he was frowning, mouth pulled into that usual tight line. "They won't understand. I'm not like your resistance friends. Kylo Ren is still a part of me, even if you refuse to see it. I killed their friends." She heard him inhale sharply. "Their families. Me."

The ship lurched upward with Rey's growing irritation, her motions on the controls becoming more agitated as the ship flew at a much unsteadier pace, away from the resistance fighters, further and further until they were nearly hitting the atmosphere at lightspeed. The ship groaned in protest, but she pushed it harder, even as it quaked fighting against gravity, even with the diagnostics flickering across the screen and warning her against it.

It was a chance at a distraction, focusing all of her attention in keeping the ship in the air. His words stuck with her, each a thread weaving in her mind and forcing her to come to terms with the fact that Ben was right. He was absolutely right, no matter how much she wanted to run from the truth.

The resistance would cast him out to the deepest parts of the galaxy. Alone. They would sooner see him dead than welcome him as their own. He'd taken so many of them, had wreaked havoc amongst the resistance fighters, and they would want to see their vengeance answered. On Kylo Ren, Ben Solo, either way to them, he would always be the same person.

Except, she had promised Leia that she would look after him. That stayed with her, etching itself in the very deepest parts of her being, and she hadn't any intention of breaking it. And Han. He'd given his life in proving that Ben was still inside of Kylo Ren somewhere. It had only taken enough sacrifices to finally pull him back. Their sacrifices couldn't be in vain.

"I know." Rey found herself whispering.

Another sharp intake of breath, and he was gritting his teeth. "Do you remember how you looked at me when we talked back on the island? About how I killed…" He hesitated, and for a moment she almost turned around to see if he hadn't suddenly killed over on her. But then he continued, attempting to form sentences that couldn't quite piece themselves together, or rather trying to pick a certain word. "Han. It's exactly how they will feel, and how they should. They'll remember."

Perhaps it was ridiculous to think that he could wedge himself in with the resistance fighters and attempt to make something of his life. Some things simply didn't heal with time. The legacy of Kylo Ren was one of those things.

But there had to be a way. Had to.

"I will see them all every time I close my eyes. I'll hear them plead and cry before I took their lives from them."

Once more, he paused.

"And I'm sorry."

His apology came so softly, at first she hadn't been sure if she'd heard it. She'd felt it however, that sorrow. His despair, and his grief connected them by a thread through their dyad. His doubt and regret had been kept at a distance, overshadowed by the rage that had pulled him to the dark side because he had been abandoned in a world that didn't make room for him. Because the people closest to him hadn't been there.

The vulnerability she'd felt had initially opened her mind to him. Their shared visions, and with those shared visions, she'd been able to label him as something other than a monster that so many others saw him as.

And Rey wanted to reach for him, wanted to pull him close and break the ocean of emotions constantly threatening to pull him away from her and drown him.

Except, she had her own demons to face first, the truth of her lineage having come to light. It'd been easy at first to push away when she was dying, only because then it hadn't mattered. It'd been easy to pretend the truth wasn't there in her attempts at pulling Ben from the caves. Now that they were there, alive, she had nothing else to do in the uneasy silence than to reflect.

Kylo Ren had been honest with her about the darkness that plagued her bloodline. Coming face to face with her grandfather had slapped the truth in her face, and suddenly the constant pull to the dark side had made so much more sense. It's unwavering enticement, the magnification.

Setting the coordinates, the ship lunged into hyperspace rattling them in their tight confines. Rey turned in her seat just enough to catch Ben in her peripherals, how very human he looked right then in the unwavering solemnity. His walls were gone, his guards shut down. Whatever biting remark she could find died before it could leave her lips and instead she raked a soft glare over him, her lips moving with uncertainty.

"I don't care. I'm not going to leave you." She had promised Leia, and the resolve in her voice was steeled by that. At least, that's what she assured herself it was. It didn't have anything to do with genuine feelings tugging at her heart. No, it was just a promise.

"I was happy when you took your place at my side and raised your saber to fight with me. You saved me, and that has to mean something to them just as much as it does to me." They couldn't be, the two of them, and she constantly kicked herself for that fact. The resistance wouldn't accept him and it was the only place she felt as if she belonged.

Well, except for right then.

She shook her head willing the thoughts away and turned to face forward again. Stars sped by them in burning streaks of light, illuminating the dark vastness of space.

"I don't know if they will see it the way you do." Ben attempted to convince her. "One act of kindness will not atone for several years worth of damage. Several million lives over just one." He reached forward through the cockpit, his fingers brushing against her arm and sending chills down her spine. "Please, Rey." He sounded so soft, so defeated. "I didn't save you to lock you in any sort of debt. I did it…" Again, that hesitation as he picked for the right words. "Because I wanted to. I was worried about you, and I knew that I could."

All at once, his hand retreated, leaving a cold uninviting space between them. The burning sensation left her as he shifted away, instead diverting his attention elsewhere. Not that there was very much to look at in the first place. He must have taken her silence as a well enough answer, as he spoke no more instead leaning his head back with a soft exhalation of breath.

Perhaps he would finally attempt some sort of rest, and her thoughts came true as he requested she wake him up when they arrived, his voice no more than a whisper now as sleep willfully took him over, pulling him into the realm of dreams and nightmares all at once.

She could hear it. His head sliding sideways until it embedded itself in a corner of the ship, labored breathing becoming more soft, his tousled hair draping in front of his eyes like a curtain. Rey spared another glance, and for once he looked at peace within himself, less worried, less alone. A sort of content rested upon his sleeping face, his hands tucked into his lap until the rest of his body followed suit into the corner, a slight arch in his spine.

Turning away and leaning her head back against the cockpit, Rey silently prepared for the worst when they returned.