Hii! I Hope Your Having A Lovely Day/evening. Could I Be Added To Your Gray Man Tag List?

Welcome Home (01)

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

Warnings: Strong language, blood/gore, etc. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonetheless, Five was still the more stubborn bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cried out.

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

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

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

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

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

How far had he gone back?

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

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

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

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

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

“Five-” Luther said more tentatively. 

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

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

They’d grow. Eventually.

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

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

Figured. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need your help.”

“Are you okay?”

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

“Who is Allison?”

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

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

Welcome home.

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! (:

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.

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. 

Thank you for the tag @thousandevilducks for tagging me in "10 People I'd Like to Get to Know Better"! I have also been waiting for the new season of RWBY forever. I’d at least settle for one last season to wrap things up!

I have never done one of these before, but I'll try my best! (:

Last Song: The Business by Tiẽsto

Fave Color: Yellow, but like a sunflower yellow.

Last Book: The last one I finished was The Emporer’s Edge by Lindsay Buroker but the one that I’m currently reading is The Listener by Robert McCammon.

Last Movie: The Other Guys (2010)

Last TV Show: Squid Game (Season 2)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet

Relationship Status: Single

Last Thing I Googled: The meaning of the acronym RSV (I’m in a medical field)

Looking Forward To: My WiFi box has been broken since last Tuesday and I finally got a new one today, which is what I have most been looking forward to. After that, I’d like to get caught up on some of my WIPs and edit/fix some others, I think, specifically my "Into the Gray" fic. Other than that, finishing Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth (just finished FF16 recently. Absolute heartbreak).

Current Obsession: Final Fantasy 7 Rebirth and a Sherlock and Co. podcast on Spotify.

My tags for people that I thought of for this: @hederasgarden, @torchbearerkyle, @imzi3, @lostinwildflowers, @justaranchhand, @saangie, @winterschildxox, @www-interludeshadow-com, @eva-712, @niobe-loreley

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.”

Into The Gray Chpt. 8 (House Call)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

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

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

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

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

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

“So,” Claire started, trailing off. 

“So?” You echoed. 

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

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

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

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

You doubted that it counted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what exactly do you need ?”

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

“What are you doing?”

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

“You know him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You liked that about her.

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

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

“You haven’t.”

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

“I don’t have any friends.” 

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

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

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

“Is someone telling you to do it?” 

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

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

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

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

“You’re wasting your time looking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wondered if Carmichael had realized that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I do?”

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

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

In comparison, it was much smaller. 

“How bad are the other guys?”

“Worse off than me.” He wheezed.

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

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

“Got anything to drink?”

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

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

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

You raised your eyebrows further. 

He still didn’t move. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I got it,” he insisted. 

“Are you shy?” You teased. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a family trait.”

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

“Just another Thursday,” he quipped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charming.

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

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

“I don’t want to know.” You mused.

“I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later, you promised to no one in particular. 

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

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

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

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

“I want to see her, too.”

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

“And you will.”

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Court Gentry/Reader, Sierra Six/Reader

Words: ~3K

Type: One-Shot

Title: Into The Woods

Six didn’t talk much, you noticed.

Since he’d been assigned to protect you per your father’s very infuriating insistence, he’d never said much beyond simple introductions. Besides walking in circles around your house and looking at his shoes, he’d done as promised and stayed out of your way. Any further attempts at conversation only left you feeling more confused than when you’d started.

You didn’t mind his presence in your life. After all, he did his job, and he did it well. And that’s what you were: A job. What else beyond that were you meant to ask? He liked to chew gum and had a habit of always giving vague, short answers. Beyond that, he was a closed book, bound and wrapped ten times over with a promise that he would never open.

His secrets would stay locked away from you. You didn’t even know if he had an actual name.

One day, when you’d prompted your father about him, he’d only called him disposable. If something happened to him, nobody would notice. However, that wasn’t completely true. You’d notice. You didn’t think that men like him died and nobody noticed. Sickening suspicion suggested that he probably thought that nobody would mourn his passing, and he would be wrong.

Six possessed a sense of humor underneath all of that passive neutrality, and you wondered if he’d find the concept funny; if he’d find it funny that you’d found it comforting having him at your house, just the two of you while your father was away on a business trip. You’d never found peaceful silence anything comforting, always needing to fill it with conversation, but with him, it just worked.

And when the threat had come, twenty to one were stupidly impossible odds that he’d defeated. Then, he’d whisked you away to a safehouse in the mountains that were too damn cold, and the silence he left between you even colder.

You didn’t think he didn’t like you, but you didn’t really know what he thought about you at all.

Next to the window of the cabin, Six sat in companionable silence, arms draped over his knees and appearing none too bothered by the cold. He didn’t look any different after having killed all of those people, his expression always thoughtful, and always contemplative. If you could, you’d crack his head open and see what sat inside, but you very much liked it intact.

Blankets were drawn tight around you, but it didn’t matter. You were still freezing. Your skin felt clammy, reeking of sweat, bruised and miserable about it and he was acting as if ending lives was like any other day of the week. He had his track jacket, thin and probably not very warm, but you didn’t see the slightest trace of a shiver through the tightly wound cord of muscle on his arms.

He glanced over, just catching your eye before you ducked your head. With a fierce blush, you realized that you’d been staring a hole into him.

“You should get into some different clothes.” He said, only sounding a little amused.

The two of you had jumped into a river to escape the house, your clothes further hindering your ability to get warm. When the attack had started, you’d been walking through the halls and Six had rounded a corner, covered in blood–albeit he’d told you later that it wasn’t his blood and that still hadn’t been a comforting answer. You’d just barely managed to get the words out ‘ Oh my God. What are you–’ before he’d moved past you, telling you to follow him, to keep your head down and not to ask until you were both out.

You figured there was danger, and he hadn’t grabbed you, so you’d had no choice but to stumble after him. Outlines of men, bodies , on the floor, tucked back into corners had barely been discernible through the dark. If it hadn’t been for Six knowing the house better than you did somehow, you doubted that you would’ve made it very far on your own.

You had an affinity for scared, lost things that looked tough on the outside–your father had a tough time convincing you to rehome the animals you brought home–but you knew that was stupid. Sitting there with Six as he draped a musty smelling blanket over your shoulders, even after everything that had happened, his hands were steady.

He was a murderer–good at it in fact–and you believed that he should probably be in jail, but you were safe with him. You trusted him and he was probably the only person in the world besides your father that held the honor.

“Did that bother you?” You asked. You looked up as he shifted back to the window. He wasn’t looking at you, and although you were sure that it was part of his job–keeping watch–he was avoiding your eyes for some other reason entirely. “Back at the house?”

His answer was immediate. “Just another Thursday.”

So was yours. “It’s Tuesday.”

Six cracked a smile, the barest upturn at the corners of his mouth, but you took great pride in that.

“I know that you had to kill those people, but when did it start getting easier? I think about it, seeing them like that , and I just can’t imagine…” You couldn’t finish it, feeling as if you put a foot in your mouth already. Your eyebrows drew down. You hugged the blankets tighter.

“I do what they tell me to do.” There was no edge in his voice–never was. He didn’t lean on any of the words. He probably didn’t know anything else. Not anymore. You wondered what his life was like before all of this.

Maybe it’d been so long that he’d forgotten.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized. “I’m sure it’s not something that you want to talk about–”

He shook his head, and once again, his attention was back to the window, at anything but you.

You couldn’t help yourself, the possibility permanently embedded at the back of your mind, suffocating until you got it out of your system and into the open–hoping for an answer that wasn’t as vague as Six himself was. You squinted, scrutinizing his appearance. “If it wasn’t because of me–I mean if you weren’t protecting me, what would you be doing?”

“Prison, maybe.”

“Oh. ”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

You were, but you couldn’t let him know that. You quirked a small smile. “You look the type.”

He scoffed. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He sounded so awkward that you tried not to laugh. It wasn’t that it was funny, but you’ve come to know what hysteria feels like and you’re verging on the edge of whether if you don’t laugh, you’ll start crying.

You wondered if he had a preference.

Six looked relieved to have this aspect of the conversation over, however. It was snowing, heavy, flat flakes coursing through a darkened sky. Wind howled through the trees. It was beyond you how he saw anything at all, the idea that he was looking out for some other reason only further cemented in your subconscious.

“Do you think they followed us up here? That they made it through the pass?”

He shrugged. “If they did, they won’t get far.”

You didn’t think that they would. Hours ago, you were driving through it while he hung outside the passenger window and blew their pursuers to pieces. It’d been difficult to manage a car up a bumpy pass while the sound of gunfire raged in your ears. You remembered screaming, high pitched but also guttural and blood curdling; screaming so loud that you nearly took your hands off the wheel and let fate sort itself out. You may have been ready to just let them take you. Kill you. You could have been collateral damage if that wouldn’t hurt Six’s career in the process.

Water had soaked the driver’s seat, your hair and clothes plastered in frost while your teeth chattered hard enough to bounce out of your skull. You’d been shaky and nauseous when you finally made it, but he was ushering you inside before you could find your feet, the squelch of your boots and wet socks following you into the cabin. Your stomach had lurched and nearly vomited up everything you’d eaten, and everything you planned to eat later.

You lost time after that. It could have been hours ago, and yet somehow it felt like lifetimes.

Trying to make conversation with Six had that effect on you.

“Is this your place?” You prodded further, attempting to fill the silence with something.

“Something like that.” He looked at you, really looked at you now. Even after witnessing him put so many people into the ground single-handedly, you didn’t flinch. He’d never had that kind of power over you, and he didn’t want it. In the dim light, his looks hadn’t changed. Same facial scruff and blonde hair that you had come to know so well after the last few months. Six didn’t look soft to you, and you didn’t think that he was supposed to, but he didn’t look any less human either. He also didn’t look tired. Maybe there was some kind of release from mowing your enemies down.

You wouldn’t know, but that didn’t sound like something you should ask.

You gathered the blankets a little closer; looked around. The cabin was small, barely space for one. There was a small dining area, a couch, and shelves stocked with essential supplies that looked as if they had been gathering dust for a long time. There was a sleeping bag though, and a closet that you held a sneaking suspicion was full of guns.

Knowing Six, you were dead certain that’s what it was.

You shivered.

The lamp was lit, but it was dim and barely cast a shadow. You thought that maybe that was all Six could handle for now, too cautious that someone unsavory would see, and would find them, and they’d spend the next few hours trekking in the freezing wilderness again with scarcely anything except his intuition that he knew where they were going.

You just barely caught a glimpse of Six before he was standing in front of you, holding out a stack of neatly folded clothes.

“It’s dry.” He said, his smile dry and a little wan, but you took solace in anything you could get from him. Your heart picked up its pace a little, but you shoved that aside for now.

You took them, looked around awkwardly and saw nothing resembling a private space to go change in. He was still standing there, and you were acutely aware of that. “Can you…” You moved your finger in a circular motion, unsure how to voice the question.

His face switched seamlessly from simple confusion to realization. He nodded, turned and faced the wall, avoiding the reflection in the window before maneuvering off into the small kitchen. You heard the sound of water running, and the wrestling of tea bags. It was startlingly endearing; Six being who he was somehow still polite and understanding how such a thing would be awkward.

Nonetheless, you undressed. The blanket dropped to the floor as you peeled off your shirt; filthy and you begrudgingly realized that it would never take back its vibrant colors again. Next was your jeans, and although you felt awkward, you stopped being childish and removed your underwear. Six wasn’t looking at you anyway, and even if he did, you doubted that you’d be the first woman that he saw like this before. The last thing was your boots. You tossed them off to the side and flexed your numb toes, excitement bubbling in your chest at the sight of socks in the pile. It was the little things sometimes.

Inside the cabin had become quiet and still while you changed, the flurry of snow outside and the tension in Six’s muscles underneath his shirt. You flexed your numb fingers next, wondering how warm they’d be against him, the warmth that was sure to come if you buried your head in between his shoulder blades and absorbed what he had to offer.

You’d shimmied into one of his track suits, a hoodie and some socks: black and red because that had come to be recognized as his colors. Everything was way too big, but it was warm. The material was soft, and it smelled like him.

Your hair was another story, but thankfully you could throw that up if you really wanted.

“You can turn around now.”

He did, albeit slowly, as if he was giving you a final few seconds to cover up, two cups of tea in hand.

You earned a little half-smile when he saw how badly his clothes fit, his absence of words expected but still a little disappointing. You settled onto the couch–It smelled musty and wet and completely and utterly disgusting, but it was comfortable–while he brought the tea over and handed you one.

He leaned back against an end table to drink his own.

You looked down at your reflection in your cup, fingers skimming around its circumference. “Why do you think that they tried to take me instead of going after my father directly?”

He hovered by the couch, more focused on his own tea than your questions. “Leverage most likely.”

“So, if not for me, then they’d have no leverage against him.” You sipped, the tea scalding your tongue. Both of you had an understanding about that. You knew by his sudden change in expression. He got it. You’re a liability.

“It wouldn’t matter either way, I think.” Six said earnestly.

“Why not?” You asked. “Because without me, they would find a way to hurt my father anyway?”

He frowned, looking as if he wanted to say something, but stopped. He looked down at his mug.

You drew the blankets tighter around yourself, feeling more secure within your little barrier. The little heater was trying its best to warm the place up but between the weather, and Six’s silence, it was failing miserably.

“You can sleep if you want.” For the first time, he sounded uncomfortable.

“I don’t think I could.”

He didn’t tell you that you should, or it was what was best for you, or how he’ll watch out for you. Instead, he grabbed the remaining sleeping bag and sunk down on the couch himself, long legs splayed out in front of him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, through his hair, closed his eyes for a long moment and you’re almost certain that you heard him humming the first few notes to an old record–one your father played a lot in his study. You wondered if there’ll ever be a time when Six no longer surprised you. If you’ll ever come to understand why he is the way he is.

“You know, I care.” You said and that edge was back.

He opened his eyes and glanced at you, raising an eyebrow.

“Whether you were safe.” You clarified. “My father called you disposable, but you’re not.”

“That’s the whole reason that I’m here,” he said, and you could hear the certainty in his words, how strongly he’d meant them. “Because I am.”

“I meant to me.”

He didn’t say anything, and you were grateful. Things were fucked up for the both of you; complicated and you weren’t completely sure what you wanted him to do with that information anyway. You thought that maybe people like him didn’t have the capacity to think outside the current. “I guess … I guess I’m just glad you were there. That you’re here .”

You shivered violently then, the heat doing nothing to warm you and the copious amounts of blankets even less. You’re freezing, whether from the snow outside or the emotions you’re just expended you don’t know, but you were moments away from turning into an icicle.

He looked you up and down, and then he extended a hand across the couch.

You’d think about the consequences of it later, giving up the cold safety of the couch for the reckless warmth of him. Teeth chattering, you moved over and sunk into his side, laying your head against the crook in his shoulder. He shifted to accommodate you.

You don’t talk. Not for a long time anyway. You bundled under the blankets and sleeping bags and he held you close with his cheek against your head, and you listened to the wind outside, the cracking of trees in the distance.

He sighed out through his nose, and you hoped that meant that he was relaxed.

“You feeling better?” He asked eventually.

You nodded. “Much.”

You felt his smirk more than you saw it, imagining how his mouth twisted slightly at the edges. It would be gone before you looked.

You didn’t turn; didn't want to ruin the moment. For the first time that day, you felt content. You pressed closer, breathed gently into his neck, felt his pulse jump.

“They didn’t choose you because of your father.”

You let the moment stretch, refusing to give much thought to where it was going or why. You allowed yourself the time to absorb this new revelation, to understand it. You guessed it changed everything, but nothing. You didn’t know what to do with it either way.

He looked like he might say something, like he was searching for the words in his head but couldn't find them, locked somewhere else. Six was violent in most aspects of his life, and you wondered how this could be any different.

You looked up at him, fully expecting him to say something about needing to go back to work instead of talking to you. You waited for it, steeled yourself for the disappointment that was sure to come your way. He didn’t move. Instead, he leaned into you, closed his eyes, covering your hand at your waist with his own. You waited for him to part his fingers so that you could slide yours between them.

“So what you’re saying is that there are a lot of people pissed off at you?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess it’s good you’re like a super soldier, then.”

“After expenses, I’m more like a soldier of the middle class.”

You smiled, laughed for the first time in what felt like ages. The silence in the cabin didn’t seem so strained. It was you, and him, suddenly much warmer than you ever thought possible. You still felt as if you didn’t know much about Six, most certainly not, but something about the moment made you believe that you were headed in the right direction to figuring it out.

For now, that was all that mattered. Once the two of you made it out, alive and well, then… then you would see.

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.

Pawns in the Game

Anon Request

If you would like a Faceclaim for Sierra Seven, my anon suggested Bill Skarsgard!

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

Type: Gen, One-Shot

Words: ~3.4K

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence

Six had spent years in covert operations. He’d studied faces and evaluated threats for a living; he knew what an operator looked like when a fight was over, and what they looked like when a fight was about to begin. His survival depended on thinking ahead, and through pure expediency, he’d thrived. Long distance sniping, close quarters fighting, edged weapons, Krav Maga, long guns, short guns, explosives, poisons… 

But God, he sucked at Chess. 

With a renewed irritability, he watched as Chief Cahill knocked his King off the board–an unnecessary amount of force sending it careening underneath the dusty couch that he’d taken residence on the last few weeks. Something about that was oddly poetic, as if she was continuously reminding him of his place while she took the only other room in the safe house that wasn’t the bathroom. His face attempted a smile, but it morphed into an awkward little grimace as Cahill maintained eye contact with yet another victory. 

Her chin settled on her palm, raising her eyebrows.

“You do realize that you’re above Special Forces? Strategy is supposed to be your specialty.”

“Chess takes two people.” Six replied easily, glancing down at the stark difference between their remaining pieces on the board. He would have suggested a two out of three, except that it would require him to have a point to barter a tie with. “And nobody is going to bring a Chess board to a gunfight, so.”

Cahill rolled her eyes at the quip, but Six could see the start of a smile before she’d turned away and left the table. The rickety legs shook from the force and the last of his pieces made a home on the equally unsteady floor boards. It wasn’t the best of safehouses, but it was a means to an end until the heat on her died down.

“I’m going to call Fitzroy in the morning and tell him to close the contract,” she went on absently, fishing a cigarette from a pack in her suit jacket. 

“Close the contract?” He echoed. 

“Fitzroy has reason to believe that my trail’s gone cold, and he’s already forwarded the compensation to your bank account,” she turned to him expectantly, lighter in hand. The sparks snuffed out with the confession, and she covered the flames with her hand to shield it from the sudden draft. “You’ve done your job and Fitzroy has another job laid out for you.”

Six should have expected that. So many days with nothing and the clear indication that Chief Cahill was itching to get out of the safehouse and back to some semblance of normalcy–he hadn’t personally thought about what would come after. He’d spent plenty of time moving around between places similar to this one, and most even worse, figuring it out as he went. 

The idea left him unsettled.

“Does he know who ordered the hit?”

“A third party not worth my time, trust me.” She took a drag from her cigarette. One flicker of her eyes up to his face sent her reprimanded him before he had the chance to respond. “They’ve been given a phone call and a financial incentive, and since there’s been no sign of the assassin, it’s safe to say they took their payment and ran.” 

Six didn’t believe that, but maybe it was his own bent moral code and too many years on the job.

“Did Fitzroy look?” 

“One man is not worth our time.” 

“He’s worth mine.”

Cahill sighed, fixing him with a glare that would have brought any other inferior to their knees. If anything, it only made him more determined to go against her orders.

“Your job was to protect me, nothing else. You are not to pursue this.” She pointed an accusatory finger in his direction. “Tomorrow you’re going to be on a plane bound for Europe. Understood?” 

Six worked a tick in his jaw, nodded, only to answer with a flat: “Understood.”

“I’m serious, Courtland. You’re going to be facing disciplinary action–”

“I hear you.” 

Cahill was unconvinced, but for the sake of a headache that only he could cause, she dropped the subject in favor of taking her cigarette out into a less confined space. He wasn’t far after her, but she was beyond conversations about Chess and his lack of social etiquette. 

She dropped her cigarette to the ground shortly after, snuffed out by snow and ice. One last slithering string of smoke drifted up from its tip and disappeared. Any arguments about the possibilities of her would-be-assassin were drowned out in that last puff of smoke. ~~~~

Six’s life had been dedicated to killing men, and there was one out there that he’d missed. If he was going to break the tie with something, it may as well have been something that he was good at. 

Threats of penalties to his paychecks and future support likely awaited him when he got back because he had decided to run off and play the patriot. He didn’t mind, he guessed. He took the time to think about the contract, about the assassin. Someone that worked in service to someone easy to pay off, and that much made it a little easier to narrow down. 

Looking a little closely into Fitzroy’s personal accounts had handed him leaps and bounds as well, backtracking until he found the third party, and then backtracking through the third party to find the culprit. Not a name, or a face, but a general location at the very least. It brought him to the heart of the states, just West outside of D.C. 

West outside of D.C. and directly into a trap that had flipped his car over and turned it to ash. 

Snow had piled onto the roads, but he hadn’t run into much trouble with the car so far. It was finally warming up, the death grip on the wheel loosening to a more relaxed handle as he steered around a corner. Angelic, feathery ice crystals kissed the windshield, and rubber blades squeegeed them away, melted water streaking along their tips. The car passed under the streetlights, illuminating the inside of the cab and casting soft shadows over his face, pulsing and fading, brief but alert all the same.

His hair was damp, frizzled strands out of place while his fingers tucked around the damp ends of his jacket. Six molded over what had exactly led him to this point, but they were moving too fast for him to keep up with. His solution was to grab one and hold onto it. 

Suddenly there was plenty to distract him from. 

Bright lights flashed somewhere to his left. Car brakes desperately needing changed squealed, and with a curse that lost itself under a breath suddenly yanked from him, the tires slid and the wheel whipped to the side and locked. His seat belt snapped into place and his spine bounced against the seat. 

The next thing he could make sense of was that he was suddenly upside down. A crash reverberated against his eardrums, shards of broken glass pelting none too gently against his face. He tasted blood in his mouth. 

Six took a breath of thick and rotting air to rocket forward, to shove up in defiance of impending death. Unbuckling the seatbelt, he fell against the car’s roof. A fierce kick and the door shot open, landing on frozen concrete. It wobbled, metal grinding on ice, then it settled into silence. 

When he’d dragged himself from the car, he’d landed right on one of his wounds, of course. Dark blood squelched upon impact, his breaths ragged as he flipped and sat up, the sound of people nearby soft and muzzled by distance. Six didn’t want to deal with the passersby quite yet. It risked a scream at least; a forcible visit to the hospital at worst. 

A filthy hand dragged down his face. He sat against the car he’d clawed his way out of and took a moment to breathe, one leg folded in, the other stretched outward. A glass shard embedded loosely in his stomach earned a look of utter contempt.

Unconsciousness was taunting, fluctuating, and smug. It left as it desired, only to return before Six had any chance of jolting up and identifying his surroundings. He seldom made it past opening his eyes before they rolled back and flickered shut. 

This was the closest he’d been to death in… he didn’t know how long. Long enough. It was an inconvenience, either way.

A man strode forth through the glare of the hazard lights blinking on and off. His pointed shoes crunched against bits of car, and the Sierra learned very quickly that it was not a good Samaritan coming to help, rather someone with purpose–one that likely ended with his brain matter all over the concrete. 

Six shoved his hand into the folds of his jacket and noiselessly withdrew a pistol–the attached silencer longer than its barrel. He then rolled, prone and locked into a cramp that seized his entire body. When his stubbornness ran its course, and Six finally surrendered, the horrific pressure waned. He sank into crushed remnants of glass and car parts. 

His shoulder shrieked, but not so mind-splittingly as the wounds beneath his chest. Nausea licked up his throat, though he kept the acid down. His hip and leg weren’t doing so hot either, and with exploring fingers he investigated each source of pain. 

Once he was sure that he would live, his forearm braced against the side of the burning metal, attempting to find the strength to pull himself up. 

“Hey, big guy.” A sharp pain behind his knee sent Six buckling with a quiet grunt. His hands slammed into a patch of black ice, saving his face from impact, but he lost his gun. The air dropped into a vicious chill. Snow fell harder, but even it could not bring a quiet serenity to the chaos of the flames and Six’s irritation speaking louder than his words could. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to answer some questions for me, could I?” The voice was like silk. “I’ve been told that I can be very persuasive.” 

“I’m convinced.” A wheeze pushed from him, lungs struggling, burning as he took in the frost. One hand lifted, drained even further of color. Six attempted to rise, soon lifting his other hand to show they were both empty.

Darkness concealed only half his features now as he stared up into the unnerving mug of an old comrade’s face. They’d all visited him in the form of the word ‘DECEASED’ in bright red print on a file. He saw their fleeting shadows, their drowned bodies in the rivers and lakes. And after all this time, one wandered down the side of a street in D.C. with an incentive to kill him.

They’d all had it coming eventually. Every last one of them. It was easier on his conscience to call the extinction of the other Sierras an act of due justice, and his own survival an act of his stubbornness as well as luck. It wasn’t as though Six grieved any of them, but he remembered. 

Especially this asshole.

“You remember me?”

Six squinted, not a single protest leaving him as he analyzed his face. He’d always been a deathly looking man, wearing the lives he’d expunged on his sleeve and shown bare to the world. 

“Sierra Seven?”

“You’re worth a lot of money,” Seven mused. “I won’t need any work for the next few years.”

“You had the lowest contract completion rate.” Six spit through grit teeth, a sudden boot coming down on his hand making him cry out. He clenched it into a fist, hearing a loud snap. Through the pain, he carried on through grit teeth and a breathless gasp. “I’m not surprised you need it.”

A combat knife gleamed in Seven’s right hand, twirling before it came to rest in his palm. 

Six maneuvered onto his hands and knees, wiping a grimy hand over his mouth. “How much do you weigh? One-sixty?” He extended his arm, waving a finger up and over the man’s torso. “The jacket with the–with the blue cuffs. I like it.”

Begrudgingly, but not unexpectedly, the other Sierra sprang toward him just as Six grappled for his gun. Deft fingers raked through his hair then clutched. Not a heartbeat to spare. Seven dove the knife forward in an attempt to stab a jagged gash through Six’s jugular. A pistol fired, grazing Seven’s right calf. Another shot missed, landing squarely in the car’s side.

Six caught the agent’s wrist after a third bullet went flying, the knife slicing his hip. An airy grunt left him. He wrenched the knife away, sending it across the concrete and glass arena. Fists flew and collided while they quietly wrestled for control. They were taught not to go at each other snarling like animals, rather similar to a dance where the two opponents knew the steps of the other quite well. Six managed to catch the agent’s arm and snap it clean at the elbow. A sickening crack reverberated through the open space. 

Another crack. A groan, wet with agony. Six shoved forward, busting the agent’s face into a glistening red pulp. While he struggled for another breath, one hand unhooked itself from Seven’s coat to tear his pistol out of its leather cradle and shove the barrel against his abdomen. A few derogatory clicks followed the realization of an empty chamber.

Six’s face scrunched into a grimace, then he sighed. “Shit.”

A fist sailed directly into his nose, a sickening crack sending him slumping with his spine against the remnants of his car.

Another, softer grumble. 

Six ran a thumb over the middle of his face, the broken bone and the stench of blood square in the center, shoulders stretching back in some pitiful attempt to regain his senses. He half-ducked half-fell to the ground. A thud above him reverberated against the metal, a sudden weight on his back that kept him pinned down, writhing underneath him like a cornered animal with no viable chance at escape. His breathing became labored, but not panicked.

His fingers grabbed blindly for his ankle, grabbing his knife that he twisted around and drove directly into Seven’s calf. A garbled yell deafened in his ears, one of his arms grabbed and shoved up against the car, his arm repeatedly beaten against it until he was forced to drop his knife. It skittered across the concrete with a resounding clang. His hair was a grimy mess of scarlet tufts, one eye shut and bleeding from an open wound at his eyebrow. When he breathed, he spit up blood.

A quiet, displeased grumble shook Six’s chest. The reflexes to follow were sharp, cruel, cold. A large hand lashed forward, gathering the collar of his coat in a row of deadly fingers to jerk him forward and lift. Seven leveled their faces. It was with one, the other dangling at his side in two awkward pieces connected by flesh.

The resistance eroded. Seven set his jaw and gave him a single, very harsh, shake.

“One reason,” he growled. “Give me one reason not to pop your head off like a fucking cork.”

“I’ve been told I have that effect on people, but I’m going to have to ask you not to do that.”

The bitter irony was lost in their heated space as he shoved him hard against the driver’s side. Pain exploded through his back, but his defensive demeanor never waned. The angle of his arm narrowed against Six, adding pressure to his windpipe. “Where’s Cahill?”

“Who?”

His elbow sailed into Six’s nose, making him wheeze. Irritation pinched at his eyebrows, tucking his head back against the man’s bated breaths. “What do you want? An apology?” Six choked. “Catch up over coffee and talk about it?” 

Seven chuckled, amused by the defiance but not any less inclined to change his mind about killing him. He enjoyed the pain that he inflicted, the pressure added gradually and with no other intention except to make him suffer. 

Six took it in stride, between one wounded animal to another, a message had been relayed–his, more clearly. He was going to die, left in the streets without a name attached to his face. A ghost. His vision twisted and distorted, black fringing the outside corners and moving in.

In what would be the few remaining moments of his life, a faint glint flickered at his vision’s edges, then a cloud of red mist exploded from Seven’s head, body collapsing forward and releasing his death grip on Six’s throat. Six slid down until he was sitting, looking over at the corpse that he felt a weird urge to apologize to.

The pitter-patter of light footsteps sounded from his left. Six’s head snapped to the side, lips parting for a moment until he recognized Chief Cahill. She bounded over the wreckage, the ice and debris hardly proving a worthy obstacle. He waved, his other arm tucked against his chest and aching.

“Boy,” she sighed, her irritation and disappointment obvious, even in his nearly comatose state. “Look at me.”

Her orders were answered only by an awkward peering through half-lidded eyes, blood pouring from every orifice of his face. Sounds had been secluded to white noise, his vision swimming in a mixture of red and purple while he struggled to keep his head up. There was an alertness in his distant expression, but he figured that if she asked him any direct questions, he might not have been cohesive enough to answer them. 

“You should have told me that you were leaving,” she scolded, removing her jacket to press it against a spurting gash in his leg. Her eyes were fixated on his face, being none too gentle in her prodding at his more life-threatening injuries. 

The corners of his mouth twitched. “You said not to, so.” 

“I told you to head to Europe.”

“Missed my flight.” 

Cahill rolled her eyes, disappointment, as well as some vague sort of nausea evident as she took in the state of him. He could only imagine how bad he looked, sitting amongst the remnants of carnage and his safe drivers discount. 

“I warned you. You might be a Sierra, but you’re not invincible.” 

“I’m disposable.” Six corrected, shrugging and grimacing at the pain that shot up his spine. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Cahill narrowed her eyes. “Disposable, fine. You’re not replaceable.” He hissed at the harsh shove against a spot on his calf, strongly suspecting it was on purpose.  “You’re a valuable asset, Six. We can gladly pick any idiot to do your job, but nobody will do it as well as you.”

Through one open eye and a vision of red, he mulled over the confession. The sincerity in her gaze did not hide anything other than genuine honesty. It put him off giving up the ghost for at least a while longer, but the hand that she extended to him almost made him forget that he was injured at all. “You’re still an idiot, though.” She didn’t sugarcoat that. “And you’re still bad at Chess.”

Six laughed, then immediately coughed. God, that hurt. “It still takes two people.” He sighed. 

“Are you ready to go?”

He waved his good arm dismissively. Even his good arm felt as if it would pop out of its socket. “I’m good. I think I might sit here for a while.” 

“You’re going to bleed out.” Cahill mused. “You might go into a coma.”

“I’m hoping so,” he smirked, leaning his head back, allowing his eyes to shut. “It’ll be the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.” 

“It doesn’t look like he hit anything vital. You’ll be alright.” She clapped a hand against his shoulder, and he winced at the sudden contact, hand coming up to grasp the abused area. One eye opened to fix her with a gentle glare, but she’d already turned away, calling who he assumed was Fitzroy and advising him to bring several bags of AB and a new suit–he’d mentioned 42 regular, but he suspected that she ignored him on purpose and told Fitzroy to bring what he had. Once the phone call ended, she’d turned, only to say: “This isn’t getting you out of Europe, by the way.” 

Six offered a meager thumbs up in response. He hadn’t counted on it.