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On The Run Pt. 3 (Final)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six stifled a sigh. “How much farther?” 

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

Six didn’t answer. 

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

“How much farther ?” He pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he had a lot of self-control.

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

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

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

“What?” Lloyd barked.

“This is it?” Six asked.

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

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

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

“You don’t have a game plan?” 

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

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

He didn’t answer. 

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

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

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

Six didn’t really know what he was expecting.

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

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

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

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

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

And his own sanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, the thing was that Lloyd had fucked up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“-- Your fuckin’ fault–” he choked. 

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

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

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

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

Dammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don't,” he snarled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As though her eyes were playing tricks on her. 

Tears welled in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

“ Yeah. It’s me. ” 

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

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

Now he was about to cry seeing her again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Infected (Leon Kennedy/Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The questions felt even less so. 

How are you feeling today, Subject Four?

Did you sleep well? Did you have any dreams?

What are you thinking about?

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

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

Where were you? 

Why did everyone smell like bleach?

What was your actual name?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you answered, voice muffled.

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

Recovery? You wanted to ask. Recovery from what?

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

Your condition? Were you sick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sunlight,” you answered, almost instinctively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to remember?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

What kind of twisted science project was this? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell had they gotten him into?

On The Run Part 2

On The Run (Part 2/3) "Lloyd Trash-Stache Hansen"

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

Type: Gen, (Multi-Chap) (Part 2/3)

(Requests are currently open.)

Words: ~3.8K

Tags: @lady-of-nightmares-and-heartache, @torchbearerkyle

Six never startled awake. 

With the exception of those first few weeks adjusting to juvie, his dreams–mild or horrible–had never had an effect on how he reacted to it in the waking world. It gave him an advantage as The Gray Man, the ability to process information while no one thought that he was conscious. Sometimes, it was a skill imperative to his survival, and it had become something that he’d practiced to make habitual. As natural as any of the other habits that made him who he was.

So when he woke from another nightmare, Fitzroy’s blood clinging to his hand, sticky and coagulating, he woke quietly, flexing his fingers to remind himself that it was just a nightmare. A reminder of an even starker reality, but regardless, a nightmare. His lashes fluttered, then his vision shifted to his surroundings as his eyes opened, everything blurring into focus one corner at a time. He laid on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped across his stomach. 

Six’s brows furrowed into a confused scowl. He didn’t remember falling asleep. 

His head shot up, whipped around. Claire appeared in the very center of his vision, sat at the table with a bowl of ice-cream, acknowledging him by waving her spoon after yanking it from her mouth. She looked bored, a fist pressed against her cheek, supporting her head.

“What did you do?” He cleared his throat, scratchy from sleep, squinting through the haze. Shuttered eyelids still felt heavy, blinking several times to clear the fog that blurred the living room into abnormal shades of color.

“Slipped Melatonin in your coffee,” she supplied easily, unperturbed. “You looked like you needed a little more than five hours.”

“Claire–”

“Stay ready so that you don’t have to get ready,” Claire dropped her voice a few octaves, an exaggerated mocking to her tone that he guessed was supposed to sound like him. “I have to stay vigilant in case the bad guys come to get us again. I can’t do that if you drug me.” She gave him a droll stare, raising her eyebrows. She went on, deadpan. “Great advice, Six. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

He heaved a heavy sigh. “I was going to say that you could have warned me.”

Her smile was cheeky. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you were doing to say.”

Wincing from the cramped confines of the loveseat that he’d quite literally tucked himself into all night, he rose into a languid stretch. He pushed against his knees to stand, grabbing Claire’s phone from the table to check the clock–that was all it was capable of doing besides running the game she liked to play. 

18:32. 

“Eighteen hours?” 

“It’s more than five.” 

“Yeah, I can see that.” He grimaced at his own lack of awareness, the fact that a twelve year old could drug him and still come up with a retort before he was completely self-aware. “Are you eating ice-cream for dinner?” 

“It’s all we have. We need to go to the store again. I wouldn’t argue against takeout, though.” Before he could speak, she’d already answered the obvious question for him. “Pizza, preferably Hawaiin with some pepperoni on the side. Breadsticks.” 

A pause.

“Yes, you are getting predictable.” She added.

Grimacing, he obliged her by walking into the kitchen, blindly grabbing for his keys on the counter, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. When he moved back into the living room, he found that Claire hadn’t moved, still in her pajamas, standing by the door. She wore slippers on her feet, shifting her weight from the front of her toes to her heels. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going out dressed like… that?” He waved vaguely.

“Are you going out dressed like that?” Claire quipped, a more exaggerated wave thrown over him. “You’ve been wearing the same tracksuit for three days.” She reminded him. “If you can wear that, I can get pizza in my pajamas.” 

“Okay.” He yielded, and victoriously, she moved ahead of him, out into the driveway where his car was parked–not so much his car, but the license plate was legitimate at least. They slid into their respective sides, Six arguing time and time again that she sat in the back with her seatbelt on. Sometimes she listened, and other times she argued until he let her sit in the front so that she could mess with the radio. 

Asking that she keep the windows rolled up often went unheard. 

Air won’t stop a bullet, but a window has a better chance to lessen the impact.

You worry too much. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her hand make waves in the air, the wind from the open window brushing her hair out of her face. Six reluctantly rolled his down too. He’d known what confinement was like, at almost the same age, but he wondered just how different their situations differed. In a way, he acted like her warden, but it was to protect her from the world, rather than the other way around.

Somehow, he found that endearing, seeing her in a completely different light. It was almost like she was an actual kid again, back at Fitzroy’s house. The most she had to worry about was being in bed by a certain time and making sure he wasn’t eating gum in any place that wasn’t outside. It’d put him on the defensive, creating a habit of looking around as he carefully unfolded a piece from its wrapper. Sometimes he swore she had another sense, the way that she would pop up out of nowhere and ask him what he was doing.

And he was the one that was supposed to exist in the gray. 

“You’re doing that thing again.” 

Six’s eyes darted forward, resting his arm against the windowsill. The breeze touching his hand made his fingers flex, then open fully, palm out. “Doing what?”

“I don’t know,” her head pivoted to the side, looking at him critically, furrowing her brows. “It’s kind of a weird staring thing that you do when you’re thinking.”

“Is it weird?”

“For you. You’re usually looking down all the time.” When he didn’t supply an answer, she was quick to follow with: “I know you still think about Uncle Donald.” Her eyes made a trail across the suddenly cramped confines of the car, back to where her hand made arcs out the window. She exhaled a sigh through her nose. “I think about him too. All the time.” 

Six nodded slowly, not completely understanding where she was going with this.

“You think you’re not doing a good job, but you are.”  She continued when he didn’t offer a response. “He wouldn’t have done what he did if he didn’t think that you would be there to take care of me.”

Six’s heart flipped in his chest, somersaulting into barbs at the bottom of his stomach. Outside, he remained stoic and mellow, quiet in that unassuming way that he had. He didn’t know what to say, except: “I think it was more for my sake than yours, kid.”

“Someone’s gotta make sure that you get some sleep.” She agreed. 

“Okay,” his expression scrunched, but he was smiling, subtle but more heartfelt than what he’d given anyone in the last two decades. “Let’s… not do that again, okay?” 

She snorted. “No promises.” ~~~~~

When Six opened his eyes again, he did so silently; the first inclination that he was alive was that his head fucking hurt. The next was a fist colliding with his face first thing in the morning, his head snapping to the left and continuing for the next hour afterward. Pain was at least something that he could concentrate on, the dull throb against his cheek, a piercing sting above his eyebrow. It made it harder to think of Claire, of Lloyd fucking Hansen, and how long it’d been.

Time had passed while he was unconscious, and for once, Six cared a lot about how much. He’d been placed in a small room, brick enclosing him within four walls. Guards were stationed on every side, watching him out of the corner of their eyes as though they expected him to suddenly jump up and start kicking their asses, comforted only by the fact that he was restrained and there was more than one of them. Likely, Six was going to be pried for information, then he was going to die. 

That fact added a little kink in his already shitty day. 

“Look at him. Fuckin’ take a look.” His tormentor snickered, a broad shadow descending on his chair, and a chorus of chuckles erupted around him. He felt the man lean in nearer, Six’s eyes half-closed but his breath a pungent stench in his nose, sweat and perspiration wafting off of him like cheap cologne. “This is The Gray Man?”

“I’m having an off day,” Six answered, refraining from coughing up one of his lungs. He spit a puddle of blood off into a corner, heaving a raspy breath while he shifted into a more comfortable position. Zipties dug into his flesh, grinding a bloody indent that spilled blood down his arms.

He looked up.

His tormentor didn’t back off. The smart one’s did. 

“This has been… something, but can you get Hansen in here? If he’s going to kill me, I’d rather him just do it. If not, I have somewhere else to be.” Maybe it was the evenness in his tone, not a note of bragging despite his situation, just a recitation of facts that made them all quiet. Lips twitched. Eyes narrowed. The smarter ones took a step toward the door. 

“Fuck you.” His tormentor spat.

Six’s eyebrows shot up then settled into his neutral expression. “Wasn’t expecting that one.” The remark earned another punch, but he didn’t retaliate, even if he very badly wanted to.

If they knew about Claire, he would have to be prepared to offer his soul. Whatever was required, he’d pay it. Unaware of whether they were actually ignorant or not, he played the part of a prisoner, acting as if he hadn’t already planned his way out. Staying in his bindings was only common courtesy. All it would take was a single nod that they didn’t know, and he would be gone. Lloyd Hansen’s revival be damned. 

The guards continued to watch him from their positions around the room. Five altogether, wearing blank expressions aside from the one that had been beating on him. He wasn’t fooled. Any time that he coughed or tugged at his restraints, they’d jerk forward, on edge. He leaned his head back, stretching out the kink in his neck from the position that he’d been forced into, somehow still more comfortable than the couch.

Off to his right, the only part of the room that wasn’t brick, instead a harsh and hefty metal door creaked open as Lloyd’s familiar form stepped over the threshold. His sense of style was still enough to embed an expression of disgust across Six’s already dour expression, the trash-stache doing very little favors for his face. He almost made a remark about him shaving it. Actually, his mouth opened to do just that before he was punched again. His neck cracked from the force, and he damn near thanked the bastard for sorting that out for him.

He heaved, another spluttering of blood spat out next to his chair, looking up at Lloyd.

“Come on, dumbasses,” Lloyd tutted. “What the fuck are you doin’? That’s my job.”

“He’s been running his mouth all fucking day,” his tormentor responded. It wasn’t the man from the elevator he realized, but someone who had it out for him all the same. 

“Well guess what? So have you, dumb fuck.” Leaving the door open, the suggestion was there, and some were smart enough to leave. The ones that weren’t were gifted with a harsh gesture thrown at the door, a piercing glare with Lloyd’s loud timber bouncing off the walls. “Read the room and get the fuck out!”

The room was immediately emptied, no one taking any chances of bumping into Lloyd directly, albeit Six thought that he stood closer to the doorway to evoke the challenge, or as a reason to lash out if they did. “Fucking morons,” he muttered, his hand grappling the back of a chair and dragging it none-too-quietly across the concrete floor. The legs scraped, a piercing screech following its journey from a spot beside the door and in front of Six. 

Lloyd plopped down across from him, leaned back into a slouched position, crossing one leg over the other. “What’s up sunshine? You’ve seen better days.”

“Seen better faces too.” He quipped. 

“Yes!” Lloyd’s hands clenched into fists in front of him, a visible show of excitement as he sat a little taller, leaned a little more forward. His smile was broad, all teeth. “There it is. “You know what I love about you, Six? It’s your sense of humor. It’s got the right amounts of sass and still somehow manages to be annoying. I almost thought that we weren’t friends anymore. Thinking that I was going to have to throw out the bracelet.”

The corner of Six’s mouth twitched, expression folding over. 

“Guess what I’m thinking now.”

“That you’ve overshared.”

Lloyd scoffed a laugh. “I’m thinking–actually I know you’re also a wanted fugitive. I got off easy seeing as everyone thinks I’m dead, but you? You, my friend, are not just wanted in the U.S. Apparently, you took the downfall for Carmichael and are the excuse behind all of the FBI’s bullshit, and for my murder. You’re an international fugitive. So?”

“So?” Six raised an eyebrow. “Looks like I fucked up.” 

He hummed, tilting his head left then right, acknowledging that he was right, but also wasn’t. “You did fuck up, but–” The chair scraped against the ground as it was yanked forward, their knees nearly touching. “Bacon. Dough! Dinero! Millions for your head. Lucky for you, I don’t need money. I have money. I think we can help each other out with something else.” 

“I don’t need your help.” 

“Alright, bad choice of phrasing.” Lloyd held up his hands, backpedaling on his earlier words. “You can help me, and in return, I promise not to put a bullet in Fitzroy’s little scrap.” He raised his hands, palms forward, sounding almost apologetic. As apologetic as this fucking sociopath could be. “I know. It’s not the best news–” As if the idea of killing a kid was a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things, easily excusable. As if Six wouldn’t leap out of his chair and kill him for suggesting it. 

And make sure that he was dead this time.

“You found Claire?”

Lloyd sighed. “Sound advice for you Six, if you’re going to be on the run, don’t bring the only thing that can bring you back with you.” He tsked, a glimpse of Six’s face which, while wasn’t murderous, got the point across all the same. “Don’t be pissed off. It’s not a good look for you. Might make me think you actually care.”

His fists flexed against his restraints, a subtle tug that wouldn’t give. “I want to see her.”

“Oh! Don’t worry about her. She’s got a new ticker and is excited to see you.” 

“Lloyd–”

“Oh, right! Right. I didn’t even tell you the best part!” Lloyd threw his hands out in a grandiose show with his next announcement, a shit-eating grin growing more broad with the anticipation of a confession that made Six’s heart drop into the center of his stomach. 

“I know all about you, Courtland Gentry.” 

It was so much worse. This had to be another nightmare. 

“It doesn’t give me as many chills as Sierra Six,” Lloyd pressed a finger to his forearm, rotating it to assess the lack of goosebumps. “See? Hardly nothing. But!” His lips smacked together, raising an index finger. “What it does give me is leverage. Despite your clear daddy issues that you got goin’ on, you’ve also got a brother. Who the hell would have thought that? Not me.” 

“How do you know about that?” 

Lloyd ignored him, his excitement bordering on juvenile. He sunk in and drowned in this victory while he had it. While he had it. “Isn’t it great to know each other’s secrets, Court? You know I’m alive, and we’re officially on a first name basis. That’s what friends do naturally, which is why I know that you’re going to be more than willing to help me if you want your life to stay under wraps and not crash into flames inside a fucking abyss.”

Six’s lips pressed together in a taut line, the tension in his muscles keeping him from lashing out. His eyes searched Lloyd’s face, devoid of any remorse or reasoning. In this situation, he really didn’t have a choice. There was no other way out.

He immediately regretted asking, seeing Lloyd grin with giddy, childlike glee at the temporary, and very fragile alliance. “What’s the job?” ~~~~~

Lloyd Hansen.

Lloyd fucking Hansen. 

He was underneath the thumb of Lloyd ‘Trash-Stache’ Hansen. 

Not because of his old life, not because of Claire, but because of his own choices; because of his own inability to let things go. He’d become weaker over time; since Fitzroy, since Claire, since Sierra Four–relying less on the upsides of killing and more on the upsides of caring and protecting. It sounded like something straight from a self-care pamphlet for assassins and murderers, and it was that thought that made him want to punch a whole through the goddamn wall. 

It was because of him that everyone he knew, the few that he knew that weren’t dead, were in the sights of a sociopath. A target was painted on their backs unless he did everything that Lloyd wanted, and damn the consequences that would put him in the ground whether he complied or not. The butt of his rifle hit the wooden table with more force than necessary, shaking it at its foundation and threatening to crumble. 

Outside the brick confines of the room was just a dingy safehouse, much more rough looking on the outside than the inside. Lloyd had a habit of maintaining a clean appearance, and noticeably, his choice of torture places followed the same general set of rules. The same guards from before were there, albeit they drunk themselves stupid on cheap alcohol because they didn’t have to keep an eye on him anymore. 

Whatever happened next was ultimately up to him. 

He’d searched the safehouse from top to bottom, checking every small crevice that he could fit into, but Claire was nowhere to be found. Not that he expected her to be. Lloyd was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. 

Other than the drunken stupor of the guards, he had no choice but to sit at a table and prep his guns while he listened to the sound of Lloyd fucking some prostitute stupid in an adjacent room. Killing him while he was balls deep in a foreigner was a possibility, but he couldn’t do anything until he knew where Claire was and figure out who he extended the information about his past life to. 

That alone was the only thing that kept him heeled and not yanking on his leash. 

“Could you sound any more pissed off, Court?” Lloyd came out of the adjacent room, dabbing at his face with a towel and clad in nothing but his boxers. The lack of anyone else reacting to it suggested that this was a normal occurrence. Regardless, Six dragged his eyes away. He didn’t take the bait. 

Lloyd whistled as though he were addressing a dog, snapping his fingers directly beside his face. “Hello? Courtland? Courtney? Gentry-Geriatric?” 

“That’s not my name, Hansen.” Six corrected him, running a cloth over the barrel of his rifle, taking the clip from the table and shoving it back in. 

“But it is.”

“Not anymore.”

“I didn’t realize you were going to get your panties in a twist over it.” Lloyd slumped down into a chair sitting opposite, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. He tilted his head to catch Six’s eye, but he was focused on the rifle, prepping it for the mission ahead. “You know the difference between you and I, Court? I’ve come to realize that you hide behind a moniker. At least when I kill somebody, I give them the benefit of knowing my name.”

The rifle hit the table, laying sideways with the barrel pointing directly at Lloyd. Across the room, heads turned, hands moving for guns at sides, but the look that Six fixed them with kept them in place. That razor sharp glare turned on Lloyd, and he went on, deadpan “That’s the only way we’re the same. You’ll know mine when I kill you.”

Lloyd whistled low. “Bite and snark. When’s the last time you’ve gotten laid? You’re stressed. I can give you a round with my girl. Not the best fuck, but she probably won’t be conscious for most of it if that’s your kink.” 

Six’s expression pinched at his bluntness, although even only knowing Lloyd for a few months, he entertained that there was nothing that came out of his mouth that could or should surprise him anymore. Yet, it did. A mold of disgust had settled into a permanent scowl across his face, raising his hand in complete denial of the suggestion. “No. I do not want anything that your dick has been in.” He retrieved the rifle, swinging it over his shoulder as he rose from the table.

Lloyd had the decency to appear surprised. Taken aback. “Why?”

“Because I don’t like you,” he answered flatly without missing a beat. “We’re kind of on the same page with that, remember?”

“Actually, I think you’re growing on me.” Lloyd confessed, and even as Six took that little tidbit as a sign that he should walk away, Lloyd was there, directly in tow. Appearing nearly naked in front of six grown men unphased him, apparently. “You always have a stick up your ass, but I don’t think we’re that different.”

As Six whipped around, it forced Lloyd to come to a dead stop. They weren’t much different in height, and yet somehow, he was still looking down on the bastard. “We’re not the same.” He half-snapped, unable to take him seriously looking like a half-naked toddler with a lip rug. “Go put some clothes on. There’s still a job to do.”

“You’re such a fucking boyscout. How hard did you suck Fitzroy’s dick in the agency?” He was walking away before Six could answer, not even sparing him a glance. “You really shouldn’t spend so much time on your knees, Court. It’s bad for your age.”

Six raised his rifle, aiming the barrel right down the line of Lloyd’s back. He fingered the trigger, back and forth before Lloyd disappeared in the other room, suddenly regretting the consequences of his actions.

A Friend to None (Into The Gray Chpt. 5)

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

Parts of your memories felt like lies, other parts blurring together or not there at all. Faces and voices, names–you hardly remembered your own some days, but you entertained that it was because you had been filed down to a what instead of a who your entire life. Sometimes, you stopped just long enough to think about it, sort through what was real and what wasn’t. More often than not, you ended up with more things being on the fake end, some aspects of your life balancing precariously between the two.

Six was not a victim of prejudice like you were, defined by what he did in the present only. He was moral, and loyal–two things that you didn’t think you were. After all, you’d slept with men that you knew you’d have to kill–blank faces and printed names on a manila folder. You never regretted it, and it wasn’t something that you laid awake thinking about. They weren’t good men, and you’d do it again as many times as you had to.  Lloyd hadn’t been a good man, but you hadn’t killed him. There was something about that; having it mean something, and having a choice. It felt like that semblance of a choice was taken away like most things in your life, except that you didn’t think that you would have done it.

But now you also didn’t have the opportunity to know for sure.

Your eyes rested calmly on Six, his tense and strong outline the most profound thing in the darkened space. A gun was aimed between your eyes, the hand that gripped it steady and practiced from years worth of contracts against people who hadn’t earned the hesitation that you had. His finger didn’t rest on the trigger, but hovered beside it. He hadn’t yet made his choice, but that could change within a fraction of a second.

“You didn’t,” you’d said softly as you toed off your shoes by the door and traversed further into the house, careful against waking Claire. His eyes followed your every move, every languid stride, noticeably taking a step to the left to cut you off from where Claire’s room was. That didn’t stop your curious meander around the edges of the space in all of its emptiness and lack of any expressive or original personality. It was very reminiscent of your own space in some ways.

“Forget to lock anything, I mean.” You clarified before he could answer, picking up an old record– The Yes Album by Yes–before setting it back down on the shelf, more neatly in between a few other records that you didn’t recognize. You didn’t look at him, not at first, too focused on your own natural curiosity about a space you’d mapped, but had yet to test the complete accuracy of. “I can’t read your mind, just your face.”

“I don’t actually have to have to talk to have a conversation with you, do I?”

You hadn’t said anything in response—and only then did you give him that warm, soft smile. It was the heart of that double-edged sword that you did so well. You read people, not because you had to—that part didn’t matter to complete a mission. It wasn’t about violence and calculation.

Not all the time.

You liked people just fine, and you liked Six, some part of him expressing something to you that he was someone that could be likable, but the rarity was you expressing it. You’d consider that much a privilege to whoever ended up on the receiving end of it.

“I thought for someone as smart as you, you wouldn’t try to settle.” You mused, taking another sweeping glance around the house. You didn’t have time to appreciate its simple architecture, but you appreciated the concept. “I’m assuming that after you grabbed Claire, you tried to move closer to your origins.”

Six’s expression changed, while to him may have been indiscernible, to you , you knew that you’d hit close to home. “How much do you know about me?” He asked, cautious, afraid to give away much else; anything else–he’d already given away more than he meant to.

“Nothing,” you said simply with a vague shrug of your shoulders. “Like everyone else. That’s why I think this particular move was very intelligent on your part.”

He glanced behind him, quick, then looked back at you just as quickly. You saw his urge to back up and peek through the blinds, to search for anyone else, but he didn’t take his eyes off you. He was smart. As smart as you gave him credit for. “Am I surrounded?”

You quirked a smile at one edge of your lips, tilting your head. “Just you and me.”

Six remained wary. “And who are you?”

You told him your name, matter-of-factly.

“Are you here to kill me, because if you know anything about me, you know they’re not paying you enough to do this.” He scrutinized your expression, and you didn’t think there was anything on your face that he could decipher from it, nothing that you didn’t want him to see. “But something about you tells me that it won’t make a difference.”

“I’ve been throwing Carmichael off your scent, but now I’m going to need you to come in.”

“What if I say no?”

You didn’t watch where his finger lingered by the trigger, twitching between a lethal decision, but you saw it out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t shoot you for the sake of keeping Claire asleep, if subjecting her to more carnage could be avoided. You hadn’t proved yourself an outright threat, either. Not yet.

“If you say no,” you shrugged again, less subtle. “Then you’re right. It won’t make a difference.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I’m not here for Claire, and you’re very attached to her.”

“You wouldn’t get very far if you were.” He answered, blunt.

“Oh, I know that.” You smiled. Your feet had lingered at the border between the living room and the kitchen, then you finally crossed from tile to plush carpet directly into his space. Only then did his finger move to the trigger, and you raised your hands, turning them around so that he could see you weren’t armed. “Just like I know that you would rather shoot your way out of a problem.”

“I’d rather not shoot you at all if I don’t have to.”

“That’s your first mistake.”

One of the many things that you’d learned while studying Six were a few of his mannerisms, his quirks, the subtle little movements telling you whether or not he would be a threat. He wouldn’t. Not unless you attacked him first–he fought honorably one-on-one–and not until you proved a threat to Claire. With that knowledge, you pursued him.

Six retreated as you persisted. Your feet were in tow with his own, nearly stepping on his toes with every backward stride that he made across the living room. His back hit the opposite wall, and you were there, looking up at the slope of his chin and the way he tilted his head up to get away from you. Your own head pivoted to the side, eyes narrowing in a casual curiosity.

“Your morality is going to get you killed.” You chided, even with the muzzle of his pistol pressed against your temple.

“It hasn’t yet. I try to be optimistic.” He huffed.

There was hardly an inch of space between the two of you, chests nearly brushing, voices lowered to a whisper as though sharing a secret in a crowded room. Secrets were the only thing that the two of you had, things that you both hid well from a world that you were no longer a part of. Ideas of domesticity and something akin to normal were lost to the both of you, and you believed that maybe, they always had been.

“Optimistic.” You mused aloud with a smile, shaping the unfamiliar word over in your mouth. “For you, or for Claire? It’s been a while since her last incident, and I know that you don’t want to break that streak.” You leaned up, rising onto your tip-toes, your voice a low silkiness that you were sure made him tense, rippled goosebumps along the flesh of his biceps and his throat where he swallowed.

But you knew that somewhere, you’d hit a chord, a harmonious tune that only spoke the harshness of the truth. It wasn’t anything that he hadn’t thought of already, his own insecurities spilling from your mouth in the only place they’d been able to consider a home since Six’s breakout from the hospital–the result had been bloody carnage, special forces wiped out by one injured man.

Six’s skill and morality were a strong and weak point that bounced off one another like two charges at the receiving ends of a battery. Both dependent on the situation, but held steadfast to his value that some people in the world deserved to die. Six may have been something akin to a machine in the past, taking orders and following the demands of his master, but his self-preservation for someone else’s sake and his complete refusal of orders if something immoral happened to get in the way of him and his goal would be his downfall.

Eventually, if not right now.

“Is that what you know?”

“I know that even Dani Miranda wanted to use Claire against you.” You didn’t blink as you listed off the familiar set of names. “Denny Carmichael. Donald Fitzroy. Lloyd Hansen.” You shrugged. “They’re all two sides of the same coin. With Claire involved, that’s one fight you won’t ever win.”

Six looked down at you, but his was an easy gaze that you met with equal force. In the silence that neither of you disturbed, you heard the steady pitter-patter of rain off the roof, the storm sweeping in too late. You’d already proved to be an unstoppable force on your own, the tension in the room too thick to cut through, and yet comfortable all the same.

“And whose side are you on?” He asked, quiet.

“Nobody’s.” You answered, and somehow that was still the truth even in the few months spent in the service of the CIA. Your loyalty never belonged to them, and you’d come from a different set of rules. “Not anymore.”

In the beginning, you supposed that you owed Lloyd, but you couldn’t owe somebody that was dead. You were more practical, and had no intentions of preserving his memory, or living in his name. You didn’t end up a pawn to the CIA because they wanted you to. You were with the CIA because your intentions happened to lie within the realm of their convenience.

“So a friend, then?”

“Is that what you want me to be?” You raised your eyebrows. “Because you’re in the wrong business for that.”

“I’m not in that business anymore.”

You almost laughed at the irony–the both of you still very much a part of that business. It was what you knew best, cozy fairytale endings and white picket fences far outside your reach. You had to give him credit for trying, but you knew that he was in the same mindset that you were–a life like that was never meant for people like you, tools like you.

And it was terrifying. Caring about people. You’d learned not to.

You nodded, only once. “That’s right. You’re in the business of menial labor.” You clicked your tongue. “And you’re terrible at it.”

Six snorted.

Down the hall, the tired shuffling of feet over carpet split between the two of you, the small crack in the door opening wider. “Six?” The voice of a young girl– Claire –called out into the darkness of the house, the only light from the lamp illuminating both of your shadows across the wall, and hers, growing closer, a small blob spreading wide into a silhouette.

The two of you didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

You glanced at him, but he was no longer looking at you. His raging focus was on the hallway, a concern taking to a placid expression. You started to move away, and the barrel of his gun began to lower, but there was another sound too. A quiet shuffling at first until the source of the new noise became clear, a plethora of footsteps in rapid sync, the sound of a hiss as something smashed through the window behind you.

Gas.

All sound was suddenly muted, a dense mirage crawling over the enclosed space. Claire’s further calls drowned in your ears, as well as the sound of sudden gunfire–the embrace of death did not come from a swift bullet to the head as you expected. Six was shoving you to the floor, glass shattering overhead from the windows that had been behind you moments earlier. You thought that you heard him grunt, a sudden string of scarlet running down the crown of your head.

But not from you.

His weight was off of you within seconds, the loud thumping of combat boots and rushed orders signaling the arrival of the CIA–Carmichael was closer than you’d thought. You moved to your knees and crawled the length of the living room, the flurry of bodies nothing but distorted movement in your peripherals. You didn’t go for Six and finish the job for yourself, and you didn’t go for the exit as you should have.

You went for the hallway. For Claire.

She’d backed away at the sudden invasion of smoke, the scene becoming too much of a familiarity for her to start crying, to start screaming. She called Six’s name and backed toward her room. When she saw you, she pivoted back on her heel to run, but you were on your feet and grabbing her arm before she made much distance, yanking her back in the direction that she was already going.

“What are you doing? Let go!” She hissed, her nails digging deep arcs into your arm with violent, terrified desperation.

You yanked her into her room and slammed the door shut, ignoring the ache that split down your forearm. You were sure that if you’d looked, you were probably bleeding. She continued backing away, backing into a corner, instinctively moving for the window.

“Did Six give you directions to a safehouse in cases like this?” You said as you retrieved a backpack by the bed, shoving anything inside that looked relevant plus a few things that you’d quickly noted as sentimental. Through the dark, most things were guesswork, vague outlines of familiar objects, but you were suddenly working against the clock–more akin to a ticking time bomb, you supposed given the circumstances.

“What?”

“A safehouse? Like a–”

“I know what a safehouse is.” She scowled.

You didn’t bite back at the retort. “Okay. You’re going to go there. I’ll find you when I need you.” You’d turned–unable to gradually lose your patience because at the moment you didn’t have any–shoving the backpack into her arms, shuffling her back a few steps. Her bewildered eyes followed you as you moved to lift the window up. It stuck, but with a few forceful tugs, it finally gave way. You were immediately met with an onslaught of rain, the sandy terrain morphing into a muddy sludge sliding downward around the edges of the house.

Claire was looking at the door, at the commotion happening just on the other side.

They were coming.

“Claire.” You said, and she jumped and turned toward you, eyes wide. Dark tendrils of hair stuck to her sweat soaked face, her shoulders rising and falling in rapid succession. Her eyes flicked warily to the door, then back to you.

“Who are you? What’s… What’s happening to Six? Are they going to hurt him?”

You ignored her, standing in front of her, looking directly into her terrified eyes as you spoke just to make sure that she understood. “You’re going to stick to the right side of the house, head toward the crest of the hill, then go where you need to go. Understand?”

“Are–are you one of Six’s friends?”

You didn’t possess the moral compass that advised you to lie in order to comfort a kid. There wasn’t any point, seeing as you were certain that she already knew the answer. “No. I’m not.”

“Okay.” Claire nodded numbly, swallowing the tears that she desperately tried to keep at bay. Her arms tightened around the backpack, growing progressively more unsure. Her feet had slid into ratty tennis shoes, absent of any socks. She was smart. Between the gunfire and the yelling from what was likely a similar group of people that had taken you, she knew which was the more obvious option in her case. She didn’t run for Six even though you could tell she wanted to. “Is he gonna be okay?”

“He’ll be fine.”

She didn’t believe you, but in that regard, you hadn’t lied. Instead, she turned, and only when she’d turned away did the tears begin to fall as she lifted herself out the window. You listened for the sound of her tennis shoes landing in the sludge, the squeaking slide as she narrowly avoided falling, then the rapid, clumsy steps as she retreated.

Once her footsteps faded into the background of the storm, you followed her out, however when your feet touched the sludge with more grace, you ran in the opposite direction.

Behind the Curtain Pt. 1

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For your birthday,” she went on. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about your birthday?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have reason to believe your name has surfaced. 

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

Tell no one.

-DM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I find something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hunt was on.

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.”

Hiloo!! Big fan of your work, especially ‘into the gray’, it’s been a great while since you last updated it.. is everything okay? Are you busy? Could you update us ?

Hi there! (:

College started back up a couple months ago, and I’ve also been working, so I haven’t had as much time to work on it. However, I’ve been taking the last week or so to get ahead with school related things and actually opened it back up a couple of days ago.

The new chapter is coming along well, and I promise that I haven’t abandoned it. Unfortunately, I don’t have an exact ETA, but I can tell you that it is soon.

I’m really glad that you’re enjoying it and thank you for reaching out!

Behind the Curtain Pt. 2

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

Movement entering from stage right forced his eyes forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And it’s good to see you again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” he said abruptly.

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

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire.

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

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

Pull (Leon x Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You definitely weren’t here looking for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regardless, Chris had a point. 

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

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

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

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

Maybe he was hiding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “You said it, not me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leon didn’t waste a beat. “No.”

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

Leon considered the suggestion. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Leon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

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

It was you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was an order from–”

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

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

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

“I’m–” Leon exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

You raised your head a little higher. 

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

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

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

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

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

Eyes on Target (Into The Gray Chpt. 4)

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

The Gray Man’s moniker stemmed from his ability to keep a low profile. The entire program was built with that conception in mind. Donald Fitzroy may have been the first, and he had slipped past your notice until his untimely death in pursuit of a drive filled with Carmichae’s baggage, but you had been right when you told Dani about cornering Sierra Six. Fitzroy and Lloyd had been the one’s unfortunate enough to end up in Six’s corner, whether willingly or not. That was your own personal baggage that you pushed aside for later, your feelings about the two not consistent with each other at any given time. 

Carmichael basked in the victory, and the skeletons in the CIA’s closet were far outside your area of concern, but you did find it rather humorous that all it had taken was a long list of resources that Sierra Six had single-handedly upended at every turn. Single-handed if not for Dani Miranda’s involvement, but that was another secret put into the ground along with a busted drive and the truth about Lloyd Hansen’s death.

You had never met Sierra Six personally, but when he’d been brought into the CIA’s custody–bloody and beaten, but still able to address the corporate assholes with witty remarks and sarcasm–you thought that you got a better understanding of his quirks and his mannerisms. He didn’t pretend to be anything, or anyone when it best suited him–a measure of himself that was as infuriating to everyone else as it was intriguing for you.

You could see why Fitzroy would employ him. Where you lied and manipulated to survive, he endured on skill alone. So when you’d learned that he’d broken free of his restraints and executed a number of their best operatives on his way out after the shitstorm with Carmichael’s drive, you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you was that he didn’t care about using the information from the drive for his own gain. He’d just wanted to be left alone.

“You’re punishing yourself,” you’d said to Dani shortly before you’d left to pursue his contract alone, resorting to stark statements if you weren’t allowed to ask questions. She couldn’t handle your ‘answering a question with a question thing’ but you thought that she asked a lot more questions than you did, even when she wasn’t trying to pry. 

“The Sierra agent,” she’d said by way of explanation.

“Sierra Six,” you’d confirmed. 

“He escaped the hospital,” she’d huffed, breathless, a fierce punch landing a definitive and resounding tap against a punching bag, echoing across the abandoned silence of the gym and nudging you back on your feet where you held it steady for her. It wasn’t often that this space was empty when she was here, but you’d associated it with Dani’s easy frustration and lack of remorse to whoever ended up on the receiving end of it. “He’s on the run. Probably going to find Claire.”

“This upsets you?”

“But not you?” Another tap, then another. Part of you was glad that you hadn’t decided to practice one-on-one this time around if an escapee was enough to get her fired up. Strangely, you didn’t feel anything when the news broke out, even if you had considered it your chance to talk to him. Being on grounds that would be considered your territory would have been preferred but you were nothing if not adaptable.

You found yourself asking. “Should it?”

Dani slowed down, then stopped altogether. You’d let go of the bag, the resistance of holding it still the last few hours made your palms feel raw, a tingling sensation traveling from your palms to your fingertips. She turned around to grab a bottle of water, wrapping a towel around her shoulders. 

“You can never give a straight answer, can you?” Her words were lost on a long swig of water, shoulders rising and falling with the continued adrenaline rush, slowly filtering down until she only looked exhausted. “I was using Claire as leverage to keep him safe from Carmichael. Now he’s going to shoot up the countryside until he finds her.” She shook her head. “That might seem okay to you, but it’s not."

“It’s not okay,” you’d corrected. “To him, it’s probably necessary.”

Dani’s low-browed stare only further cemented the confusion behind your support or disapproval of the asset. You hadn’t needed to explain. Carmichael had grabbed the two of you for busywork immediately after that, and as soon as you’d had the chance, you’d slipped out.

There were many things that Six could run from, but time wasn’t one of them. It’d taken you a few weeks, but you’d found him. You’d thought that he would have a more sporadic schedule, or be constantly on the move, switching hideouts and being like other typical textbook deserters that you had pursued before. He proved to be the rare exception.

Having settle in a small neighborhood in the outskirts of Tallahassee, Florida with deceased senior CIA official, Donald Fitzroy’s daughter: Claire Fitzroy–Claire–you’d spent some time before advancing on the target to map out his schedule, only to come to one conclusion:

His schedule was very mundane, and you would even consider it domestic.

All of his time was spent keeping up with Claire, who floated around him like a sunbeam, blissfully unaware of the dangers looming outside the safety of her domestic sanctuary. Her laughter rang out like a melody, high and sweet–and that urged Sierra Six into behaviors that you thought had been beyond the program’s realm of teaching. Aside from cooking, he did relatively well for himself, having adopted a new identity with a steady supply of odd jobs to keep him stable financially.

Six, who was renowned for being characteristically stoic, stone-faced, and having a preference for dry-humor, looked the complete opposite now; an approximation of happiness that only someone like him could get. It was a perfect picture from an outside perspective, but that would never get rid of what he was. A weapon. You could use a spear as a walking stick all you wanted, but that would never change its nature.

You’d never been much of a poet, but you suspected Six traversed along that fragile line somewhere. He’d fallen victim to the easiest mistake someone like him could make: caring. The agency had said that Claire was the leash to bring the wolf to heel, but you weren’t morally unethical enough to consider kidnapping a kid, let alone using one for your own personal agenda. You remembered what you’d told Dani: His actions following his escape had been necessary. If you were in his position, were you more foolish, you strongly entertained the idea that you would have done the same.

For now, you considered a different approach, combatting natural instincts that begged you to satiate your natural curiosity, positioned at the peak of a hill with binoculars and taking note of his day-to-day. The safe way. Also the boring way. Regardless, you didn’t send in any of your notes. A location was enough to bring in a whole team–albeit as many as the agency had wouldn’t be sufficient, considering they were still recovering after his initial escape.

Until you could find an adequate approach to the Sierra agent, you were left reverting back to the stone-age of personal recon.  Observation cameras, GPS trackers, public information, drones, social media–all would be naturally ineffective against someone as familiar with watching his back as you were. 

You’d counted day fifteen when Carmichael finally caught on to your absence–the timing couldn’t have been better. You’d settled down on your stomach on the hill, binoculars having become a permanent fixture to your eyes, and draped in a poncho because of an inconvenient storm–knowing Florida weather, you knew it would be clear in a few minutes anyhow. A resounding buzz emanated from your pocket. Wiping your hands dry on your poncho, you grabbed your phone, knowing the caller without having to look.

“I’m working.” You said, flat.

“I’ve got another job for you,” came Carmichael’s calm baritone over the phone. If you didn’t know him and his less than endearing quirks, you could almost see him in an 1800 Regency Period romance drama. He had the voice and the looks for it if he didn’t talk so much. “How do you like the beach?”

“I don’t,” you answered absentmindedly, binoculars still held in one hand, hovering just over your eyes. “What’s the job?”

There was a moment of pause, as if he genuinely considered your likes and dislikes, or that you had told him that you disliked something in the first place before settling with pointing out the obvious. “I don’t remember you mentioning that you were pursuing another job. Aren’t those supposed to be approved through me?”

You looked through the windows where Sierra Six had disappeared into the bedroom, panning over to the adjacent window to watch him rifle through some drawers, yanking his shirt over his head in favor of another one. You noted his well-muscled frame, his shirt catching on the bulging muscle riddled with deep scars–his own private collection of imperfection. “I’m making progress.”

“I expect a full mission briefing, but I’m going to need to pull you out. We’ve located our target, Sierra Six.”

“Have you?” You managed to keep your voice level, but the amusement rumbled just underneath the surface. “I’m surprised. I thought it’d take you a little longer.”

“He is our highest priority until he’s brought in.” Carmichael went on. If he had any tips on your sudden change in demeanor, he didn’t mention it, but you knew that he was marking your exchange in a private file for later. “He’s been filtering between the border of Florida and Georgia, but there’s a middle point that we believe may be a safe bet to where he’s hiding. I’ll send you the location. Meet me there ASAP.”

“Understood,” you said and ended the call.

With no other choice, you rose to your feet. There would be enough suspicion against you already if you didn’t meet Carmichael, but approaching the target was your first priority. With less urgency than you likely should, you traversed down the slope, your feet slipping in the mud during your descent. Compared to your training the first few months, it was basic child’s play, a trail winding downward guiding you the safest route for the most part.

Once you arrived, you picked the lock with relative ease, slipping through the front door with a silent grace that you’d been taught in your youth. Efficient study of the house and mapping out its interiors led you to be able to traverse through the dark with little difficulty, noting the minimal furniture, and the lack of pictures on the walls. Even after the last few months since his escape, Six wasn’t getting comfortable. He was ready to run at any time.

As you crept through the living room, every step softened by the layered dust of the neglected abode, your thoughts circled back to the mission–your mission. Sierra Six had somehow managed to create a semblance of life amid the chaos spiraling around him. You could almost hear the gentle sounds of Claire's breath from the bedroom, the rhythmic rise and fall that suggested a kind of serenity rarely afforded to people like him—or like you.

A soft hum of the ceiling fan punctuated the stillness. You navigated around a jagged coffee table, careful not to disturb anything.

Sierra Six, a man notorious for his lethal skills and refusal to bow to anyone—turning his back on a life built on violence and chaos. And here, scattered about his so-called sanctuary, were remnants of a life he seemingly wanted: a crumpled grocery list on the counter, the faint scent of something home-cooked lingering in the air, a couple of worn-out sneakers by the door that showed the most sign of wear. 

You’d turned as a light to your left flicked on. Six’s stark outline stood in the entryway to the hall, and the light that illuminated his face almost made him look soft if his neutral expression didn’t appear so deadly, lethal. His eyes were focused and searching but not showing any sign of the suspicion and sudden security that you were sure he felt. He’d glanced around, but there was no one. 

Just you.

And him, with a gun aimed at your head.