Masterlist

Hii! I hope your having a lovely day/evening. Could I be added to your gray man tag list?

Yes, of course! (: I will add you!

Welcome Home (01)

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

Warnings: Strong language, blood/gore, etc. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonetheless, Five was still the more stubborn bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cried out.

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

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

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

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

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

How far had he gone back?

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

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

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

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

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

“Five-” Luther said more tentatively. 

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

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

They’d grow. Eventually.

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

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

Figured. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need your help.”

“Are you okay?”

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

“Who is Allison?”

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

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

Welcome home.

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

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

And just to confirm, requests are open right?

Thanks ;))))

Hello! (:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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!

Detroit: New Beginnings

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

Pairing: N/A

Warnings: Violence, Strong Language

A New Start: Partners (01)

Detroit Police Dept.

August 30, 2039

12:30 P.M.

Tuesday

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

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

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

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

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

God, if the kid heard him say that…

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

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

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

No, they couldn’t be that lucky.

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

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

Typical Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t offered.

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

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

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

That made it unavoidable.

Goddammit. 

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

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

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

Even after finally closing the deviancy case. 

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

Who the fuck was he kidding?

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

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

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

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

At least he kept his mouth shut if he was.

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

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

Of course he’d kept up to date.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For them.

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

He waited.

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

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

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

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

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

“That is a personal opinion.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grimaced. 

Fucking asshole.

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

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

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

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

"Hello, Detective Reed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gavin was shoved back a few steps.

Connor didn't budge. 

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

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

Hank scoffed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Like A Light (Rey) (01)

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

Pairing: Ben Solo x Rey

Warnings: Cursing, Violence

Words: ~4K

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

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

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

Family drama at its finest.

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

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

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

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

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

A voice called out to her; called her name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben.

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

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

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

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

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

It was beautiful.

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

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

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

Silence hung in the air between them only briefly.

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

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

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

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

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

Rey didn't let him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were so slow. So agonizingly slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The resistance.

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

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

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

So they had heeded their call…

Her heart sank.

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

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

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

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

She was relieved, too.

Until Ben finally spoke.

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

"I know."

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

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

"I know." Rey found herself whispering.

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

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

But there had to be a way. Had to.

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

Once more, he paused.

"And I'm sorry."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, except for right then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Court Gentry/Reader, Sierra Six/Reader

Words: ~3K

Type: One-Shot

Title: Into The Woods

Six didn’t talk much, you noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His answer was immediate. “Just another Thursday.”

So was yours. “It’s Tuesday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Prison, maybe.”

“Oh. ”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

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

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

You wondered if he had a preference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shivered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can turn around now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think I could.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I meant to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You feeling better?” He asked eventually.

You nodded. “Much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

As The Days Went By You’ve Lost Your Mind

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

Pairing: Killian x Wendy, Peter x Wendy

Warnings: Violence, strong language, eventual gore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost gentlemanly. 

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

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

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

That thought alone proved alarming. 

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

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

Perhaps it was his charm. 

His looks. 

No. 

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

Something indiscernible and undecipherable stirred inside her. 

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

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

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

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

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

It touched her too.

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

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

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

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

Wendy tried not to appear disappointed. 

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

Or enough to satisfy whatever current urges lingered there still. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her brows furrowed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why wasn’t Killian angry?

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

Do not fall for a criminal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comfort. 

Confidence.

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

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

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

But she couldn’t look.

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

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

"Luckily they did." 

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

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

Losing Killian Jones. 

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

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

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

But none quite like this.

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

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