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Masterlist

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Fandoms:

The Gray Man (2022)

Into The Gray (Six x Reader) (Multi-Chap)

Link: Ch. 1, Chpt. 2, Chpt. 3, Chpt. 4, Chpt. 5, Chpt. 6, Chpt. 7, Chpt. 8

2. Into The Woods (Six x Reader) (One-Shot)

Link: Into The Woods

3. On The Run (Gen) (3 Parts) (Finished)

Link: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

4. Pawns in the Game (Gen) (One-Shot)

Link: Pawns in the Game

5. Behind the Curtain (Six x Reader) (Snippet/Concept) 2-parts

Link: Part 1, Part 2

Resident Evil

Pull (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

2. Infected (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

Bullet Train (2022)

The Million (Tangerine x Reader) (Concept/Snippet)

The Umbrella Academy

Welcome Home (Number Five-Centric) (One-Shot) (Season 2 Ending AU)

Detroit: Become Human

Detroit: New Beginnings (Post Deviant Connor Route) (Future Multi-Chap/Project)

Star Wars

The Balance Between Us (Post TROS AU/Fix-It)

Link: Like A Light (Rey)

--All current chapters are on my AO3 account under the same username. 29 Chapters and ~110K words.

Peter Pan

As The Days Went By You've Lost Your Mind (Peter Pan Dark AU)

Link: Prologue 1

--All current chapters are on my AO3 account under the same username. 11 Chapters and ~44K words.

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

Yes! I definitely will! (:

I’m so glad that you’re enjoying it!

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.

The Million (Tangerine x Reader)

Fandom: Bullet Train (2022)

Pairings: Tangerine x Reader

Type: Snippet/Concept

Words: 3.9K

Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

Second problem: It was boring. Really fucking boring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who did you hit?” You pressed. 

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

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

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

You blinked. “Guy?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Easy. Snack cake.”

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

“You need help, Mate. Serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Havin’ a good time, boys?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boco?”

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

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

“It’s really sophisticated,” Lemon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You offering me advice?”

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

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

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

“Try me.”

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

“You’re serious–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lemon isn’t really your brother.”

“Adopted.”

Damn. You took a drink. 

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

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

“Bit of a cheapskate–.”

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

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

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

He gaped. “That’s bloody outrageous!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hiding.” He guessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where you goin’ now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shoved the bills into your pocket.

Then you introduced yourself.

Eyes on Target (Into The Gray Chpt. 4)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sierra Six,” you’d confirmed. 

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

“This upsets you?”

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

You found yourself asking. “Should it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m working.” You said, flat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Understood,” you said and ended the call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just you.

And him, with a gun aimed at your head.

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

Words: ~4K

Tags: @pyrokineticbaby , @medievalfangirl , @biblichorr

Into the Gray

Interrogation:

You’d been listening to the clock ticking, every change of a second pounding against your ears like gunfire, for the better part of the last hour. That, combined with the absence of sound and the harsh overhead light positioned to glare directly onto you, made you assume that this was their attempt at pressuring you. If you didn’t tell them what they wanted when time ran out, then something would happen to you. The clock was a symbol of that, a warning ticking precariously close to your fate. 

That didn’t deter you from holding your silence, their attempts to get you to talk pointless, but something that you humored. That little bit of control that they thought they had over you kept them from twitching in their seats, sitting as hazy shadows on the opposite side of the table, continuously asking questions just to hide how uncomfortable you made them feel. 

Your eyes swept from one to the other, the glaring lamp above your head hardly proving any kind of obstacle. 

“Where are you from?” The first, a twitchy man with glasses too round for his face had asked most of the questions thus far, but when you’d looked at him, the thin sinew of muscle visibly tensed underneath the seams of an expensive suit. He was shaking, something telling you that he was more prevalent with computers, office work–he didn’t have experience in dealing with things like you.

“Around,” you answered immediately. 

“Do you have a name? An alias? Are you foreign? American?” The second man was stockier, older and more experienced at this kind of thing–that made him brash, and prone to aggression. That didn’t matter, either. You couldn’t be scared into submission, and something in you suspected that he knew that. It kept him glued to his chair, the urge to lash out at you trapped inside the buttons of a suit too small.

You almost suggested the two of them switch, and you swallowed a smile despite yourself. “That’s subjective.”

The stocky one grimaced but nonetheless bit back a retort. 

Something about that was oddly comforting, that even in your current situation, you could still have that effect on people. The cogs turned, and if you looked close enough, you’d see smoke. The two interrogators exchanged a look, but just like the past hour, they would have no idea how to approach you. After all, they knew nothing. You didn’t have connections or attachments, nothing that they could use to turn the tables in their favor. As far as they knew, they were at your mercy until a trade could be made. 

There was nothing that you wanted. Not from them. 

The thin one adjusted his glasses, straightening papers on the table that they’d given up referring to shortly after the interrogation had started. You suspected that it was some kind of outline, a list of questions that would detain the most pertinent information. There’d been nothing to write, and the neat print from a computer was glaring out at them, a lack of handwriting to meet it. “You killed several of our operatives when we tried to bring you in. Something tells me that wasn’t your first.”

“It wasn’t.” You didn’t remember his name, but you remembered that your first was a Don of sorts. He’d breathed out a warm, slimy puff of air against your neck before he’d collapsed back against red, satin sheets. Your hands had pressed over his mouth to muffle the sounds as he’d choked, his blood seeping through your fingers, thick and coagulating.

Most of all, you’d remembered his expression of slack surprise, his dead eyes holding a fading look of doubt that someone at the tender age of fourteen could have accomplished such a feat. If you had thought long about it, you thought it may have been considered poetic. So much red in a space that was once white with purity. 

“My first was a practice target.” When their eyebrows raised, a moment passing too long with questioning silence, you clarified: “Someone manageable if they tried to fight back.”

“Why?” The psychologist you suspected, the twitchy one, might have been interested in the mental implications, but it wasn’t personal baggage that you were willing to unload against men that you obviously didn’t trust. 

You turned your head to the interrogator, tilted it, and you noticed him flinch. 

“Maybe they thought that if the first kill was easy, then the rest would be too.”

“Mentally?” Came the psychologist's hesitant question, sitting up a little taller, leaning his body toward you. “Or physically?”

You leaned back, ignoring the subtle pinch of discomfort in your wrists where the handcuffs rubbed them raw. It was nothing compared to the protest that the rest of your body made, a pained gasp shoved to the back of your throat. You refused to let them believe that you were at their mercy because you weren’t.

You smiled, small and barely distinguishable, but it was there in the dim light of the interrogation room, like a shadow across the wall. The psychologist straightened his glasses and turned his focus down, an audible clearing of his throat signaling the other to speak. 

The interrogator however looked at you with a renewed curiosity that replaced his nervous anxiety, and the other’s cautious twitching. If he believed that you laid awake thinking about it, he was wrong. They were interested because they had reason to be, and they treated you as what you were:  

A threat. 

“What were the others? The other kills?”

“Sierra.”

His expression cracked as soon as the words left your lips, and beside him, the psychologist nearly choked on his own spit. He leaned forward, hands clasping together. When he spoke, he kept his voice low and even, as though the two of you were sharing a secret. “There aren’t many people who know about them.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“It’s tightly classified information within the CIA.” He clarified. 

“Hardly,” you retorted, leaning forward with your hands clasped, matching his posture, and his tone. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

“What can you tell us about them?”

“What do you want to know?”

Despite Lloyd’s earlier suggestion that you cooperate so that the two of you could have a conversation without bars getting in the way, you were beginning to regret it. You weren’t going to negotiate for privileges, not to them. They weren’t worth anything to you.

“If you’re telling the truth, they are arguably the world’s most successful assassins,” the interrogator said, a dryness creeping into his otherwise scratchy baritone, clearly sounding doubtful of your claim to their sensitive information. You were doubtful of his use of the word “successful” considering where you stood, and where they were buried. “They’re rehabilitated convicts that we exchanged loyalty for freedom to. Whatever you can tell us, what you know outside of that, we might find very valuable.”

“I don’t think that any information I give you would matter.”

“And why is that?” The interrogator asked.

You looked over your shoulder, towards the one-way mirror where you were sure their director was watching. When you answered the question, you directed your words to him—the only person you cared to hear. “They’re all dead.”

“How do you know that?” The psychologist asked quickly, perhaps a little too eager, earning a glare from the interrogator. He sunk into his seat, and even out of the corner of your eyes, you could see the subtle contempt flash between the two. It was an observation you noted for later should you need it. 

Your mouth was dry from lack of hydration, but you didn’t work to correct it, refusing to betray any sign of discomfort. You pressed your mouth together in a tight-lipped smile that made the other two tense, appearing ready to leap out of their suits at any time.

“Because I killed them.”

There was a moment of silence after that, then just as you’d wanted, the door to the interrogation room opened. 

But it wasn’t who you wanted. It was another man, younger but someone that gave you the idea that he was some corporate asshole with too much time and too much authority for his title. He waded in with a smugness that brought an undeniably static air, the kind that snapped the lackeys into submission with no effort at all. You supposed that you were expected to do the same, but you didn’t. 

Your disappointment outweighed your resourcefulness. 

Both the psychologist and the interrogator scrambled up to greet him. He motioned for them to leave, and they did so, practically stumbling into the door upon their exit. You looked at him, and his full attention was on you. He didn’t say anything, not at first. Then: “Why don’t you start at the beginning.” It wasn't a question, but you didn’t take it as one. 

You looked up, the edges of your mouth holding steadfast, albeit with a razor sharp edge. “That may take time that you and I both know you don’t have.”

“This may be a new concept to you, but you’re wrong. You see, I think that you and I can come to an agreement.” He pulled out a chair, the legs scraping the floor. He settled into it, straightening his tie. “You tell me who you’re working for, what that has to do with the CIA and more importantly, your involvement with the Sierra program, and I can grant certain immunities, within my jurisdiction of course.”

“Use your jurisdiction to give me who’s above you.”

“And who exactly is it that you think is above me?” Both of his forearms settled against the table, and when you didn’t answer, he merely hummed his assumptions, bobbing his head. “So far you’ve told us nothing that gives you value, and I can’t go off a pretty face as a willing enough trade, so —“ he waved his hand through the space between you. “You give me something, I’ll give you something.” A shrug. “Sound fair?"

Nothing was fair where the CIA was concerned, valuing self-preservation only. You didn’t have to slip him the specifics—he didn’t need to know everything—but just enough to satiate, and get you closer to what had convinced you to get apprehended in the first place.

They confiscated your clothes during your medical exam after that. 

The CIA reveled like smug children, and had purposely voiced no outright promise that any of your belongings would be returned. You’d spend the last several hours sitting in a room–not a cell finally, but a room–picking at the bandages that had replaced them. You were given a stack of folded replacements, but they sat undisturbed on the edge of the mattress. Such little pleasures were tempting, but you didn’t trust them. 

You’d been cornered and brought here. Sleep was a possibility, but a vulnerability that you didn’t want to pursue. Even your eyelids fluttered and your injured limbs begged for that momentary reprieve, but you didn’t succumb to their prodding insistence. Better use of your time had been secluded to looking for cameras. Carmichael–the corporate asshole that had finished your interrogation–and a woman–Suzanne, you thought her name was–had promised there weren’t any. 

That didn’t stop you from looking. Every small crevice did not go unnoticed, every nook that you could manage to squeeze a hand into, you did. It didn’t take long. It wasn’t as if it was a penthouse suite with everything you would need. The foundation of the room had been carefully molded to avoid the possibility of escapes, but even with that knowledge in mind, your hand dove into vents, and you checked for cracks and small holes in the tile. You’d climbed onto a chair and checked the ceiling trim, the floor, then you’d spent the better part of half an hour trying to pry it apart with your nails. 

The only thing at your disposal, your bag, had been searched and emptied. Now a sad pile of leather fabric on the floor, the seams cut and tore apart, the only thing left was a few toiletries from a hotel that you’d taken for the road, and further examination told you that nothing had been stashed inside it for surveillance, either. 

Ultimately, you’d settled on the floor, your back to the wall and staring a hole into the mattress and the clothes across the room–the only things that you hadn’t checked. You only hoped that they hadn’t put anything inside you. All food given to you had been properly examined before you’d so much as tasted it. 

You shifted, eyes darting back to the door. It was a sterile white, a continuation of the clinical ambiance that made up the room. The clock mounted above ticked on mercilessly, reminding you of the time that was not on your side. Though the hands marched inexorably forward, you were not ready to make your move. 

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

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

Last Song: The Business by Tiẽsto

Fave Color: Yellow, but like a sunflower yellow.

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

Last Movie: The Other Guys (2010)

Last TV Show: Squid Game (Season 2)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet

Relationship Status: Single

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

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

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

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

Pull (Leon x Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

You definitely weren’t here looking for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Regardless, Chris had a point. 

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

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

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

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

Maybe he was hiding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “You said it, not me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leon didn’t waste a beat. “No.”

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

Leon considered the suggestion. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Leon.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck?

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

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

It was you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was an order from–”

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

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

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

“I’m–” Leon exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

You raised your head a little higher. 

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

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

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

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

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

On the Run

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

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

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

Words: ~4.5K

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It can. That’s how I found you.”

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

“What?” 

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

“Claire–” He started.

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

“Keep your head down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desperation wasn’t a good look for him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He held out his pinkie.

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

“Just another Thursday.” He answered. 

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

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

“Ha-Ha,” she said sarcastically. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

If she were to have any kind of life. 

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

“Six.” 

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

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

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

He copied the gesture as she disappeared through the door.

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

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

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

He had an obligation. 

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

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

Someone was following him. 

Shit. 

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

77…

76…

75…

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

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

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

74…

73…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire’s future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A boot collided with his ankle. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he would try. 

For her sake.

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

Missed.

Another passed the left shoulder.

Missed.

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

72.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.