Sierra Six X Reader - Blog Posts

Can we get some Sierra Six/ Court Gentry fics pleassse?

Behind the Curtain Pt. 2

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

Movement entering from stage right forced his eyes forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And it’s good to see you again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” he said abruptly.

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

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire.

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

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

Behind the Curtain Pt. 1

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For your birthday,” she went on. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about your birthday?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have reason to believe your name has surfaced. 

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

Tell no one.

-DM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I find something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hunt was on.

Into The Gray Chpt. 8 (House Call)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

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

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

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

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

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

“So,” Claire started, trailing off. 

“So?” You echoed. 

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

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

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

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

You doubted that it counted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what exactly do you need ?”

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

“What are you doing?”

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

“You know him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You liked that about her.

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

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

“You haven’t.”

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

“I don’t have any friends.” 

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

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

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

“Is someone telling you to do it?” 

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

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

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

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

“You’re wasting your time looking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wondered if Carmichael had realized that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I do?”

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

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

In comparison, it was much smaller. 

“How bad are the other guys?”

“Worse off than me.” He wheezed.

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

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

“Got anything to drink?”

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

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

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

You raised your eyebrows further. 

He still didn’t move. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I got it,” he insisted. 

“Are you shy?” You teased. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s a family trait.”

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

“Just another Thursday,” he quipped. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charming.

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

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

“I don’t want to know.” You mused.

“I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later, you promised to no one in particular. 

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

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

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

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

“I want to see her, too.”

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

“And you will.”

Into The Gray (Chpt. 7)

Secrets (Into The Gray Chpt. 7)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Multi-Chap

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @96jnie

Everything that you’d learned about human behavior and habit had been through careful instruction, nothing ever given to you without intention. There were things that you’d picked up through basic experience and casual observation–people had a habit of writing their name when given a new pen for example, and if you have a plan B, then plan A is less likely to succeed. 

Sierra Six had uprooted the CIA’s plan A and B, and so far, he was already eliminating all expectations for plans C, D and E. Just like with you, interrogations only left the interrogator more exhausted than when they started, and although you found the entire thing entertaining, you reveled in Carmichael’s frustration with coercing any kind of confession and the realization that he didn’t have Claire to use as leverage this time around. He told Six otherwise, but out of many things that The Gray Man was, ignorant wasn’t one of them. 

For once, you could say that you weren’t the only cause of Carmichael’s misery as much as you wished you were. 

Undoubtedly, getting Six’s compliance was going to take more than pulling a few teeth.

You traversed down sterile white hallways in search of his room–the holding cells had been searched already, and he hadn’t been there–so you strongly entertained that he was put in the same room that you had been during your induction. Carmichael had never said exactly, and although he had suspicions about your whereabouts when apprehending Six, he didn’t have the time to properly look into it, and you’d already been covering your tracks just in case he did.

Your list of things that Carmichael didn’t need to know was growing exponentially longer you realized, but you were too far in to consider confessing them all now. 

Watching him spin in circles had also proved to be vastly too entertaining. 

A few winding hallways and empty rooms eventually led you to find him. Sitting in a stationary chair in the middle of the room with his elbows propped on top of his knees, he looked as though he were debating the world. His expression was fixed into something akin to contemplation, tunnel vision on the tile, but you suspected that he was aware of you outside the room. You weren’t trying to be subtle, anyway. 

“You’re here,” he said once you stepped in, looking up. 

“You should go into espionage with those observational skills.” 

You thought that he bit back a smile, but you couldn’t really tell. There were things that he was good at hiding, such as your involvement at his house at all, you’d learned. He hadn’t told Carmichael; he’d acted dumb when Carmichael had asked. Six had knowingly or unknowingly backed your lie, but you didn’t thank him for that. 

It was the reason behind it that most perplexed you, and you couldn’t help but be a little curious. It was only another thing that you’d find out eventually on your own, so you didn’t ask. He did ask the most obvious question however, still traversing on that very fragile line, and risking the plummet. He’d gone outside of his conditioning and learned to care , and a killer with morals was still a humorous concept to you.

You’d noticed that you had a habit of looking at him, a little too much and a little too long. You had never been a creature of habit, but there was something about looking at a book and suddenly not knowing how to read. Your eyes flickered, traveled , over his form in the chair; no particular direction, and no particular reason. 

“I’m surprised they didn’t cuff you to the chair too.” You mused aloud, recalling the number of irritated negotiators that had left the room with you, then with him –they’d never been brave enough to negotiate without restraints, but they had been more afraid of Sierra Six than you. You’d been frustrating, but him ? “They’re scared of you.”

He scoffed. “I don’t think I’m anything to be scared of.”

“I believe you.” You hummed. “But people like you tend to say that.”

“People like me?”

“A total contradiction that somehow balances out.” You said, but didn’t clarify. Even when he looked at you, eyes probing, you didn’t offer an answer. His brows furrowed, first in confusion, but eventually they settled into the neutrality that you were so familiar with. He recognized very quickly that there was no point, that he may as well have backed down instead of pushed forward. You considered that he didn’t care about that much, and he shouldn’t have. Your opinion hardly mattered as much as anyone else’s. 

You were nothing and no one special, not where he was concerned. 

“Do you know where Claire is?” He finally asked the most obvious question.

“Not here,” you answered immediately, walking further into the room, your arms crossed. There was still a reasonable distance between the two of you, several feet that demanded conversation higher than a whisper. You didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if you were passing secrets. He knew that Claire wasn’t here. 

He sounded tired. “Do you know where ?”

“What makes you think that I do?”

Lips pressed together, he waved vaguely, as though it were really a question worth asking. Unlike you, his eyes never lingered on any certain part of you for too long. “I couldn’t really tell where she went because of your friends from the CIA pummeling me, but I’m pretty sure that you were the last person to have been with her.”

“I know. I watched you get pummeled,” you corrected him.

Then he really did look at you, and quirked a brow. 

“Long enough to watch you get a cheap shot on Agent Morrison.”

His brow quirked further.

“I never liked him that much.” You clarified with a shrug, eyes darting elsewhere. “He has an extensive record, but he had enough connections to wipe his slate clean.” A pause. “He’s also a prick.” 

He looked down. “Sounds familiar.”

“Depending who you asked.” You confessed. “If you’re going to be a prick to anyone, I think you’d at least be honest about it.” 

Then, you thought Six really did smile, even if at the floor; an approximation of one, as close to one as someone like him could get. A scoff of a laugh escaped him, and when he looked up again, his gaze was darting, never staying. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in with the popular crowd.”

“You’re not missing much.”

Your eyes followed his to the same familiar sterile white walls, the minimal amount of furniture, parts of the tile and the baseboards still protruding from where you’d tried to pry it apart so many months ago now; not so much a cell as an actual room . 

You wondered what had changed to get you promoted to being on their payroll, earning an inch of freedom at a time, but you’d always been good at pretending. As far as they knew, you’d only wiped out one of Carmichael’s key obstacles, and you contemplated that he kept you close by for the same reason that they kept Sierra Six alive. Blame. Carmichael hadn’t found your record, nor any hint of your past. 

Yet. 

“I’m assuming that Claire went to a safehouse that you showed her,” you went on. “I didn’t follow her, so I can’t say for sure where she went. If I don’t know, then it’s safe to say that Carmichael doesn’t know, either.”

Something akin to relief flashed behind his eyes—he knew the location, but you didn’t. You didn’t ask; you’d said that you’d find her when you needed her, and that was true with or without his help. 

“You said you weren’t with the CIA. Who are you with?”

A smile crept onto your lips, lingering close to the surface. You could have scoffed, could have laughed, but you didn’t. Your head tilted, your expression flat despite your amusement. “You ask a lot of personal questions for someone who doesn’t go by their actual name.” 

“You don’t ask enough.” He retorted.

Then you really did smile, a slow upturn on both corners of your mouth. “I told you the answer already.”

“The truth.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

His brows furrowed, clearly skeptical. “So you’re parading around with the CIA for… what, fun ?”

“The same reason you’re sitting here when you can leave at any time, I guess.” You said. “You want something.” 

“What do you want?” 

“What do you ?” The two of you stared at each other, level but with one more perplexed than the other. It wasn’t you. When he didn’t answer, you shrugged, incapable of supplying the answer yourself. Instead, you asked: “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘supply and demand’?”

He nodded slowly, still with that perplexed expression that you somehow found endearing. 

“You’re demanding, but you’re not supplying.” You explained. “I’ll give you,” you paused, but it wasn’t a critical decision on your part; the choice wasn’t hard. “Six questions.” You caught him resisting the urge to roll his eyes at your choice of amount and smirked. “Whatever you want to know. But only six.” 

Six looked to think for a moment, picking his words carefully. His eyes had a way of darting you noticed, observing nothing and everything all at once. He was acutely aware of everything in the room, from the protruding tile to the resewed lining in the mattress, to you . From an outside perspective, he may have looked like nothing special, but he definitely was as smart as you gave him credit for. The depth of his mind was far from anyone’s reach. “Why did you let Claire escape?”

“First question. She wasn’t my target.”

“Who was?”

“Do you want to use one of your questions for that, or can you work it out on your own?”

His brows pinched. “... Why me?”

“Second question. I needed to see if you had information on Donald Fitzroy. I was going to search his house—“ well, it’d been closed off as a crime scene until the FBI could tear it apart at its foundation, and that was before Six had gotten ahold of it. You shrugged. “There’s not much of it left.” 

“What kind of information?”

“Third question: A program. Not Sierra.”

“Are you going to count every question?”

“Does that count as four?”

Six shook his head. “Fitzroy didn’t have any program besides Sierra.”

You shrugged. 

“He did ?”

You raised your eyebrows, a silent question. Question four? 

He’d deduced it on his own. You could see his mind working, but in a much more delicate process than your mindless interrogators. He sighed. “Fitzroy’s dead.”

“I know.” You shrugged. “It doesn’t change anything.” To anyone else, it would have. The main target had died, and that usually meant the case was closed. Anyone else would have moved on, but you weren’t just anyone and there were still things that you had to do, and still things that you had to find. 

You were stubborn, but that was what had led you to Sierra Six in the first place. 

“Fitzroy had a lot of secrets,” Six said, still sitting in that same position as though he were debating the world. At least, you knew that he was debating his circumstances inside the room. His fists were curled on top of his knees, sitting straight in a demeanor that suggested he could pounce at any moment. There was a relaxed tension in his muscles that you hadn’t noticed before, but that could change in a second. “The Sierra Program hardly had any records.”

“There are always two people to every secret. If not you, then someone else.” 

Six’s eyes searched your face for the first time since you’d arrived, lingering longer than what was normal for him. You held gazes, but then he was standing, suddenly towering over you despite being several feet apart. His build didn’t strike you as intimidating–if he’d meant it to, it would’ve been. He shuffled closer. The two of you could have whispered if you’d wanted to. 

“What about you? Who do you share your secrets with?” 

You looked up, your voice nearly a whisper now as well. “Question four. You , apparently.”  

“I still feel like I don’t know anything.”

“Maybe you’re not asking the right questions.”

“You still owe me three.”

“ Actually , I owe you two, and I’m done answering them for now.” You were leaning up, leaning toward him, bare inches of space that had become familiar for you to invade. He didn’t lean away, even if the coil of his muscles suggested the urge. You’d turned to walk away, but his voice stopped you.

“Wait.”

You half-turned; waited.

Your arms were still crossed, but his were at his sides, two completely different barriers shoving against the same wall. “Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re looking for; uh, be careful.”

“We share secrets, remember?” You laughed at what was probably the most genuine one in a long time. “I can’t let you out of my sight just yet. I’m not going to make that mistake twice.”

Incarceration (Six) (Into The Gray Chpt. 6)

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

Running had become instinct, hiding second nature, every step taken in the last few months planned down to the smallest detail to ensure that he could keep running and keep hiding. Six played his part, did what he was told, and ensured that nobody knew the truth about Courtland Gentry. For years, he obeyed the idea that he was replaceable; at any given moment, if his handlers decided that he had outlived his usefulness, he would kneel down and let them shoot him in the back with only gratitude given for the opportunity. 

Now, they had never outright said that, and it wasn’t in tiny print on any contract that he’d ever signed–that he knew of–but he wasn’t foolish enough to think that everything would be cut and dry. He’d only assumed that what he’d been doing over the years had made up for things, and that he was working toward something. Not to end up being the CIA’s scapegoat.

Not to once again be reduced to the convict that had been incarcerated for the same exact damn thing–being the blame because there had to be someone to blame. 

 When Six was hired by Donald Fitzroy to protect his niece, tunnel vision on the ground and breaking every rule on day one, Claire taught him about normalcy and routine in his world–one that didn’t have those things–and she had successfully enacted a strictness on him that the toughest agencies in the U.S. government could not. It wasn’t a trait inherited from Donald, but one completely her own. 

He was not allowed to lock the doors. 

He had to ask about her day at least once and act interested about it even if he wasn’t. 

No chewing gum in the house. Period. 

Ice-cream was a suitable dinner choice and he wasn’t allowed to argue. 

At the first instinct to run, he had to ignore it.

Claire didn’t like running, or hiding. It guaranteed his freedom, but to her, it may as well have been prison. Living life watching your back constantly thinking several steps ahead wasn’t living, not to her, but he had come to enjoy having his own terms since becoming a fugitive. 

Again.

It beat waiting to be stabbed in the back, his old life that he’d willingly let them burn suddenly reignited because they needed it to be. Claire had unknowingly given him a new purpose, and even after everything, no amount of training or experience taught him how to exactly explain that to her. He spoke several languages, had learned tactics to approach every social encounter imaginable, and he could spot a lie in literal masters of deception.

Yet, he wasn’t sure how to tell a pre-teen ‘ thank you ’. He’d come close, on days that she was understanding of their circumstances, only to clam up on days that she was angry and spiteful, reminded of what he couldn’t give her. 

Like her rules, he was struggling to keep up. 

Ignorantly, he’d chosen to spend a few weeks closer to his hometown so that she could get some grasp of normalcy, and it was because of that they’d finally caught up. His downfall was because of an agent with a ‘come hither’ smile and a whole lot of bad luck. He could have scoffed at his own stupidity had it not been well-deserved.

So, Six was left with not knowing where Claire was again , and waiting until he could confirm that she wasn’t in the CIA’s custody before he made a break for it. The number of bodies stacking up hadn’t made a difference before, and Claire wasn’t there for it to make a difference now. His one viable clue was unfortunately, as far as he knew, on the enemy’s side.

Harsh overhead light washed Carmichael’s face in deep shadows, pulling it back into darkness with every flicker and sudden dim from a failing bulb. It didn’t matter. Six knew that he was the most terrifying thing in this room. The handcuffs were uncomfortable and dug into his wrists every time he shifted, but he could have it around the prick’s neck and have the job done before anyone knew what was happening. 

His pensive stare bled through the man around a wad of chewing gum. It was a previous attempt at winning his favor several hours ago, only for more frustration to succeed when it fell through. Nobody had proved brave enough to take it from him, either.

He slouched back against his chair, his index and middle fingers tapping no particular beat on the metal table. He had yet to look up, questions and demands shifting into the background in one hazy, drowned out sound. His patience with all the shit was thinning considerably. He glanced at the one-way mirror, wondering if you were watching, if you were mocking him just on the other side. ‘ This is the Gray Man?’

And whose side are you on?

Nobody’s.

Clearly somebody’s or he wouldn’t even be here. You’d said your name, and now as much as back then, he hadn’t expected an honest answer. He may as well have driven himself crazy thinking about it, but it did distract him from Claire, what little bit of time that he didn’t think of her; that he didn’t think that she would be better off in the long run without him. 

He drove himself crazy thinking about that too.

A manila folder was shoved into the center of his vision, breaking his concentrated focus. His eyes flicked over, the beat that he’d been making on the table finishing its chorus with one more resounding tap. It bounced across the emptiness of the room, and echoed off the silence burying itself into the walls. Carmichael had been quiet so far, waiting and attentive but still putting out a tough farce. Six had since become disinterested in him about an hour ago. 

He’d watched multiple trained officials come and go already, several making obscene gestures as soon as they made it out of the door. This one would prove no different. Carmichael was the man behind the scenes–the intelligence, but not the skill. It was Lloyd and Six that had fought in the war, tumbling through the trenches spilling blood. He never saw Carmichael there to finish the job that he’d started when Lloyd failed. This was his first time seeing him at all.

If there was a definition of a corporate prick, Denny Carmichael would be the example picture directly beside it.

The folder was slid in-between them, opened with precision, then flipped across the table. Every action was taken with practiced restraint, Carmichael’s hands moving to fold on top of the table, leaving the folders' contents exposed in their macabre glory. It was all a show, he knew. They needed this for records, to say that it had been investigated and closed. The cuffs on Six’s wrists were placed there for the CIA’s own peace of mind. 

He dared think even Carmichael’s peace of mind, seeing as the door was probably locked.

“If you’re going to charge me anyway, can’t we just…” Six waved a vague hand gesture over the table, suggestive, one brow taking on a high arch, the movement of his hands limited within his restraints. “Skip this part? I’ve played this game several times and it's never worked out.”

Carmichael tilted his head, vague amusement flickering through his expression behind his glasses. The reflection of the lamp glared just inside the lens, making him harder to read, but he had hardly been hiding his intentions this whole time. He’d expected a confession and a closed case as soon as Six had been apprehended. “What makes you think it won’t this time?”

“Because you don’t care what I have to say.” 

A scoff of a laugh from the man followed Six’s bluntness, exposed to the truth and unable to deny it in all of its honest sincerity. His posture mirrored Six’s, the brunt of his shoulders pressed back against the harsh metal of the chair, arms crossed. He shrugged. “If you have something to say in your defense, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

“I’m going to guess ‘I didn’t do it’ isn’t convincing enough?”

Carmichael’s amused smile grew broad, the signs of a man knowing that he’d already won before an argument could be started. “The accusations against you are stacking up the further we look into your background. You’ve never had a clean history. I can pull records before your time in the Sierra Program just as easily if you want to put your old life back into the public eye. Or, we can keep this private. It’s up to you.”

Six nodded solemnly, as though suddenly understanding his position, and the lack of having a way out of it. He would have no other choice but to agree eventually–whether willingly or not, but that didn’t stop him from fighting it in the meantime. He was not foolish enough to not realize that they had ammo stacked against him since the beginning, all of the assignments they’d sent him on further fuel for when their secrets finally slipped, but for someone used to running, he guessed he never expected it to catch up.

“I see where this is going.” 

“Then confess.” He invited. “You’ll take the fall either way, but it makes my job a lot easier if I get it in words.”

“I’ll confess to my fuckups.” Six’s eyebrows furrowed, and only then did he cast a glance at the folder. “Not yours. And that ,” he pointed down at the file. “Wasn’t me.”

“You didn’t kill Lloyd Hansen either, I take it?” He pushed against the edge of the table, his chair grinding against the floor with an audible screech. It didn’t deter either man inside the room. 

“Actually, I didn’t.”

While Carmichael rose, he circled around the table to stand beside Six, circling a man without realizing that he was the one in the shark tank. He had an ominous look about him, his hands braced on the table beside Six, leaning in, leaning down so that they were barely inches apart. “You’re a dead man to the world and nobody will be able to argue in your defense. If I jump, you need only ask ‘how high’, because that is what we made you to do. Other than that, you’re a rogue agent. What advantage do you think you have?”

“The one that makes your job a little bit harder, I guess.” Six answered without missing a beat, meeting his glare with a level look of his own, smug despite his position in it all. “You should probably get started on that paperwork. It’ll take you a while.” 

Carmichael pushed off against the edge of the table, putting some much needed distance between them. He hummed thoughtfully, his nostrils flaring but his rage staying contained in its most primitive form. When he moved, it was stiff, and slow, his gaze sweeping over Six in the chair one last time.

“And what about Claire Fitzroy?”

Six looked up.

“We’re not privy to Hansen’s methods, but we do know people who are. If we have to elicit a signed confession from you with less than tolerable means, then we will.” Carmichael’s hands folded behind his back, his tone even despite what he was suggesting. Six could have moved from his chair right then, but retaliation was what they were wanting, more evidence stacked against him in an ever-growing list. “I don’t want to have to do that. Especially to the family of a colleague.”

Six could have scoffed, considering that colleague was dead because of him. It didn’t matter. Claire wasn’t here. The last place that he’d seen her was with you . “Where is she?” He asked, not so much meaning Claire as he was you. He expected that you would have come to talk to him yourself, negotiating Claire’s well-being if she was in your custody. 

Yet, you were nowhere to be found.

“Safe.” Carmichael was lying.

Six’s gaze slid to the mirror, but it didn’t grant him any kind of answer. He could have been meeting your eyes for all he knew, that come-hither smile that was innocent but simultaneously lethal flashing in his direction on the other side of the glass. He was met with his own reflection, frowning at himself while he tried to picture your face, but he couldn’t imagine your expression; your reaction to everything had been perplexing to say the least.

He couldn’t figure out your angle.

“I want to talk to Claire. If I know she’s safe, I’ll sign whatever you want.” He decided.

Who’s side are you on?

Nobody’s.

The CIA would have been the obvious answer, and yet it was your complete dismissal of the idea that gave him pause at all. He needed to talk to you. 

“I don’t think you recognize the position–” Carmichael started. 

“Claire,” Six’s gaze once snapped to him, gradually losing his already thin patience. He ground his teeth, unable to hide just how exasperated he was anymore. He was tired, and the day had been too damn long already. “She’s here isn’t she? I couldn’t tell exactly because of your guys. If she was accidentally killed in the crossfire, just tell me, then I won’t waste my time sitting here.”

“She’s safe inside the facility.” Carmichael said, flat.

“Great.” He said sarcastically, lips pressed tightly together When he leaned forward, he angled himself toward Carmichael, brows drawn. “You want my cooperation? Then go get her.”  He jerked his chin toward the door. “ Now .”

Carmichael’s expressions flitted between several different emotions, not too quick for Six to read, but not important enough for him to care. It was somewhere between annoyed and unnerved. When he slid away, his body followed his trek to the door.

It slammed with more force than necessary. 

Six looked at the mirror, still unsure if there was a possibility that you were there or some regular observer with only half the intelligence. He asked no one in particular, shaking his hands inside the cuffs: “Can someone come take these things off? I really have to piss.”

Nobody obliged his request, taking Carmichael’s exit as their own.

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.

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.

Pot Roast and Power Plays (Into the Gray Chpt 3)

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: 1.5K Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @my-tearsdryontheirown, @96jnie

It became apparent very quickly after your induction that you made Dani Miranda very uncomfortable.

A quick sweep through her house had told you everything you needed to know about her versus what she needed to know about you; which as far as you were concerned was the bare minimum only. You’d noted the distinct lack of luxury, the furniture kept to the bare minimum of what she’d needed–and you’d already perused her closet to get an idea of her personality when not wearing a suit. 

She didn’t need to know that much. 

The contents weren’t anywhere outside the realm of ordinary, anyway. In fact, they were more normal than what you’d expected. A quick search through the drawers and the space told you that it was clean, almost abandoned if not for the few sentimental objects that you’d found and promptly left alone. Her personal life didn’t matter to you as much as her temperament in the field, but you convinced yourself that anything in her personal life could come back to bite you if her head wasn’t on straight. A glimpse through her contacts told you that she didn’t have any kind of romantic attachment; potential messages with anyone matching that kind of description were too mundane for further pursuits, and you’d noticed that she hardly replied back if further pursuits were attempted. She had a history with a dating site though, as brief as it was. 

In conclusion, Dani’s life was dedicated to work, tediously rising through the ranks with the promise of a position on some similar level to Carmichael. She ran on a set schedule, hardly ever straying away from her fixed pattern. There weren’t many things concerning–at least to you–that could get in the way. Regardless, you’d had to be sure. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dani’s inquiry bordered somewhere between incredulous and annoyed, the rise in her tone tipping precariously between the two. 

“Making dinner,” you replied, your voice nonchalant as you stirred the simmering pot on her stove. The aroma of garlic and sauteed vegetables filled the air, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere of her meticulously organized home. 

Dani crossed her arms, her stance solidifying into a defensive posture. You kept your back to her as she kicked off her shoes and shut the food with more force than necessary. “This is my house.” 

“You act as if I don’t know that it’s not mine.”

Dani closed her eyes, her face pinching into a soft grimace. The hand that she’d balled into a fist uncurled, hovering between the two of you, as if whatever argument she’d been about to make was snuffed out by the immediate truth as opposed to some half-assed excuse. A harsh exhale through her nose preceded her next words. “Why are you here? I thought you were still on assignments overseas.”

You tossed some herbs into the pot, having ground them by hand, much like everything else. You’d always liked the thought of a kitchen, but you wouldn’t ask for one because that would be admitting too much about you. Something that you didn’t want to do in front of Carmichael. Or anyone else for that matter. “Debriefing. I need someone to give my statement to. No one’s at the office.”

“So you came all the way here instead of waiting until morning?”

“I made a pot roast.”

You knew without turning that the usually confused pinch in her eyebrows were evident, the slight shuffle of her feet forward as she was still coming to grips with you. She didn’t trust you, but her trust wasn’t something that you were looking for so much as seeing if you could trust her. “You’re supposed to give your statement to the DCI.”

“If I wait, there’s a chance I’ll forget, and my word hardly matters if I omit key details.”

“You? Forget?” Her eyebrows shot high, and she laughed. You could have laughed too, if Dani weren’t so unaware of the truth, how much of your own life you hardly remembered as much as what felt like somebody else’s. Dani only bobbed her head, the thought still ridiculous to her. “Right.” Her lips smacked together. “Well, I doubt how much credibility that I could give you. I’m still on Carmichael’s shit list.”

“Because of the failed mission in Bangkok involving the last Sierra agent.” You didn’t say it like a question, but you hadn’t intended to. 

“You know about that?” She was still staring at your back, but you could hear her more urgent steps across the apartment, her voice lowered to a hushed sense of urgency as though someone else would hear you. They wouldn’t. You’d checked for any trace of cameras or hidden surveillance systems already. Only then did you turn. Dani had planted her palms face down on the kitchen island, leaning to fix you with an incredulous stare, suddenly bewildered. She bristled, distrustful. 

“Yes,” you said without missing a beat. 

“How? Carmichael is keeping that under close wraps until he’s apprehended.”

“I don’t trust him.”

She snorted. “You have a funny way of showing that. Working for the one guy that you don’t trust.” She leaned forward, and her arms draped across the counter’s marble surface, hands folded together. “What’s in it for you? They think that you’re a double agent, which is why they never let you go anywhere without surveillance.” She shrugged helplessly. “That was Lloyd before he left–”

You raised an eyebrow, harboring a smirk that you kept to yourself. “You’ve done your homework, too.”

Dani pursed her lips, clearly not appreciating the turn of the conversation. “That’s different,” she insisted, her voice sharp but unwavering. 

“I owed Lloyd,” you went on, your expression falling flat again. “I don’t anymore.”

She gaped. “You owed Lloyd Hansen and his perv stache? I doubt that subjecting you to serving under Carmichael would make you owe him as much as him owing you.”

“He could have left me to die.” You shrugged. “He didn’t.”

“Well, I hate to be the one to tell you, but Lloyd Hansen has an alternative reason for everything he does. Mostly, it’s so that he can get a good fuck out of it later.” Dani’s eyebrows pinched together, looking at you with vague concern. You didn’t need that from her, but you didn’t tell her, either. “You never owed Lloyd anything. He made his own choices.

“So did I.”

The next few moments passed in silence, and you’d taken the opportunity to pour some of the roast into a bowl, then a second that you’d passed over to Dani. She took it with less hesitation than before, the idea of you being inside her house less discomforting seeing as you weren’t proposing yourself as a threat.

You could see Dani mulling over questions while you ate. The way that she pushed her food around suggested that it was something akin to working through her thoughts, devouring one at a time until she found one that made sense. You didn’t press for conversation in the meantime. Pot roast wasn’t your favorite food–not that you were a picky eater by any means–but there were a lot of limitations in Dani’s house, and you did what you could with what you had.

Dani pushed her bowl away, leaving most of her food untouched.  “Why did you go out of your way to wipe out the Sierra Program?” She asked the most obvious question, of course, the reason that you’d been filtered into Denny Carmichael’s custody in the first place, put under surveillance, followed around by Lloyd, and forced onto a team. “What did they do to you?”

“Carmichael tell you to ask that?”

Her scrutinizing stare didn’t pressure you, the way that her eyes pried over your expression, attempting to gage something. You didn’t relent. “I should’ve figured.” She sighed, her tone suggesting some sort of plea for honesty. “What was it about? You figured out that you missed one and came back to finish the job?”

You remained silent for a moment, studying her face as she wrestled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. It was a question laden with unspoken implications, and for the first time since stepping into her space, you felt the weight of her gaze. Dani wanted answers, but more importantly, she wanted to understand—understand you, understand the world you inhabited, the choices you made, and the chaos that had led both of you to this point.

“It wasn’t personal,” you finally said, your voice steady yet evasive. It was an easy assertion—one that dissolved any deep exploration into your motives. “Not in the way you think.”

Her brows furrowed. “So it was just business?”

“Something like that.”

The tension in the air shifted, her disappointment palpable. “You wiped out an entire program of rehabilitated operatives because it was just business?” Her incredulity propelled her forward in her line of questioning, fists tight against the countertop again as if bracing herself for whatever answer lay ahead. “That’s a big gamble considering you missed one.”

“I had my reasons,” you said carefully, your tone calm but dripping with an underlying tension. The line dividing personal vendetta from strategic decisions had always been thin for you, often blurring into something that felt undeniably complex yet simple to navigate in your mind.

“You don’t have to worry about it.” You went on when she didn’t answer. “I don’t plan on killing Sierra Six.”

She didn’t believe you. “You don’t?” Her eyebrows quirked up.

“No.”

“So, is it regret, then? You’re looking to make amends?”

“No.”

“Right. I often forget that this is you that we’re talking about, and that would be way too easy.” Dani couldn’t have appeared more perplexed, but you had that effect on her since the two of you had been introduced.  She ran a hand down her face, exasperated at what she couldn’t understand. “You killed the majority of the program before he even dissented. Why leave one?”

“Sierra Six has connections to Donald Fitzroy. He has information that I need.”

“You mean Senior Officer Donald Fitzroy? He’s been retired for years.”

You hadn’t known that in the beginning, Fitzroy having nearly disappeared off the map altogether after he adopted his niece. You shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the Sierra program’s specialty–the reason that they were created was to place blame should the CIA ever find itself cornered. It was easier to place blame on convicts after all. Sierra Six was a failsafe. Nothing else. He was hardly worth value to you on his own, at least not now, not anymore.

“Are you going to bring Sierra Six in?” You asked her instead, diverting the conversation. She blinked at you, then you clarified. “Your reputation is shot, otherwise.”

Dani’s smile was forced, and you suspected her words were more sarcastic than sincere. “Yeah. Thanks for that.” She leaned back in her chair, busying herself by pushing her food around with her fork, again picking for an answer that you suspected you already knew. “I don’t know,” she decided. “It feels wrong. Sierra Six had a reason for going rogue all of a sudden. We never had cause to question his loyalty before now.” Another shrug, this one more subtle than the others. She averted her eyes away from you, refusing to look up. “I can’t help but wonder why, and why now?”

“I don’t know.” You said, and you didn’t.

“You’re telling me that there’s something you don’t know?” Dani mocked a gasp. Only then did she look up, giving you a droll stare that you didn’t feed into. You stared at her, and she shook her head. “I don’t think it matters. If I’m given the order, the decision is made for me.”

“If you want to keep your job,” you agreed, blank. “Being one step underneath Carmichael must have its perks.” Dani scoffed, brows furrowing. “When we kill him, what does that mean for you? Doesn’t that beat the purpose of whatever reason you have for coming into the CIA in the first place?”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“Shouldn’t you be?”

“I have eliminated every agent in the Sierra Program. I missed one.” You said, tossing all attempts at subtlety or propriety to the wind. Six had become something of a star in the world of private operators, and a legend amongst covert operators and the rest. His personal ethic had been to only accept contracts against targets that he felt had earned the punishment of extrajudicial execution. It was a small post-it-note in an otherwise empty file, a thin manila folder that held no confidential information worth locking up.

That much about Sierra Six was public, and as far as you knew, that was all that ever would be. A killer with a conscience was a humorous concept to you, but the morality of it didn’t matter. You knew what people like him did to survive, had seen it and experienced it firsthand with plenty of other desperate Sierra before him.

The atmosphere in the kitchen felt heavy, an unspoken tension coiling between you and Dani as you sat there, merely a pot roast dividing your two worlds. You could sense the myriad of unasked questions hanging in the air, but you opted to let her stew in her thoughts. Dani was no stranger to the dark recesses of the intelligence world, but there was still a palpable innocence to her approach—something about her moral compass that made her vulnerable to this life, while you had long since abandoned yours as being too cumbersome.

“I don’t understand why you’re taking this approach,” Dani finally said, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. Her eyes were narrowed, scrutinizing you as if she hoped to peel back layers you had spent a lifetime building. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t owe anyone anything and that you’re capable of dealing with things on your own terms… so why not just finish the job?”

“It’s not that simple,” you replied, leaning back slightly in your chair, the tension in your shoulders easing a fraction.

Dani huffed, her gaze a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. “So you expect me to believe that after everything you've done, you're suddenly looking for answers instead of blood?”

“You should know better than to assume anything about my intentions.” The words slipped from your mouth, sharper than you intended. But the truth stung; you had long taken the path of blood, and yet here was the contradiction unfolding before you.

“This isn’t personal.”

“Why do you want him alive?” Her question was there, lingering as firmly as the scent of garlic. “He’s just as dangerous, if not more, than the others.” You couldn’t help but shake your head. “It’s about the information he might have.”

“Information that could lead to Carmichael or… whoever?” Dani asked, the challenge evident in her voice.

Your gaze steadied with hers, and something flickered at the edges of your mind, a momentary flash of tension that you had not often shared with others.

“I’m keeping my options open.” Your fingers tightened around the wooden spoon. “Getting to Sierra Six is an opportunity. It positions me to control what information gets out to the wrong people.”

The challenge in Dani's eyes softened, a flicker of understanding threading through the layers of doubt that she wore so comfortably. “And if he doesn't want to talk?”

“He won’t have a choice.”

Carmichael was a monster, but even monsters had a hierarchy. Getting to Sierra Six wasn’t just about revenge or even justice for you.

He was a key to something bigger.

Intimacy (Into the Gray Chpt 2)

Into The Gray Chpt 2 (Intimacy)

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: 2.8K

Tags: @medievalfangirl, @biblichorr, @pyrokineticbaby, @lxvrgirl, @asiludida164, @torchbearerkyle, @jasmin7813, @comfortzonequeen, @my-tearsdryontheirown

Intimacy

While your intrusions may have paralyzed Lloyd in the recent weeks since you had gradually gained new freedoms, it was now made obvious by his complete lack of reaction that he had acclimated himself to them. No rhyme or reason could be made of your quiet alliance. It simply was. It existed. He thought that knew how to read intentions, thought that he could read yours , and he had since labeled them as consistent–harmless. You considered the idea that he enjoyed the concept of harmlessness within these walls. Perhaps he even considered it a luxury.

Easier to manipulate.

With eyes closed, breaths slowed in an imitation of sleep, you could see the way his face ran down a few cluttered hallways in his mind to search for the proper approach to his natural curiosity. In typical Lloyd fashion, he took the impatient route. Those eyes then opened, blue-black pits in a blue-black room. His mouth, ravaged by what Dani had often referred to as a ‘perv stache’ broke into a smile. 

Part of you wanted to shave it. That same part of you could have. 

Compared to his room, yours might as well have been a maintenance closet. The space, overall, was fit for a man of his stature–the sheets smelled like fresh detergent and were cleaned religiously. You never noticed a thing out of place, a man who took so much care in his appearance constantly aiming for some semblance of perfection. A flowery smell lingered in the air, and your own space kind of embarrassed you–the absence of any personality, blank white walls in a blank white room. There was nothing in your space that gave a peek inside as to who you were, and even after the few months since you’d been here, you hadn’t worked to correct it.

Some habits never changed, even when given enough time.

That didn’t matter to you after the fact. It was a slice of privacy to return to at the end of a long day. You’d slept in worse, places that smelled of mildew and covered in mold, dark and damp. Compared to that , your empty space was on a similar level to the highest luxury. 

“I know this isn’t a social call.” He chided. 

You’d settled at his side, legs tucked in, your head pillowed against your forearm. Your fingers gingerly scraped against the buzz at the nape of his neck, the ends of your fingernails dragging in random arcs to the top of his skull. It felt different without product, but the motions remained strangely casual, the only familiarity that you’d given anyone here. Lloyd’s head tipped back, following the motions of your hand until you heard a low, soft noise rumble in his throat. His eyes fell half-lidded, his expression running in the same similar motions as before. 

“You were awake when I came in. Can’t sleep?” You asked.

“Not with you doing this, I can’t.”

Your eyes wandered, even in the dark, resisting the urge to roll. The pads of your fingertips had moved to brush against the bare skin of his torso without a shirt, tracing the lines of hard muscle with innocent interest. Lloyd’s face, a canvas bound over knife-sharp bones, settled into passive neutrality at your touch, some semblance of satisfaction that begged a silent request for more. 

The casual affection had been something that he’d had to get used to in the beginning. Lloyd had settled like a hostage, frozen, trudging through the long minutes while pretending to play dead so that he didn’t succumb to the urge to roll you over and risk a knife to his throat. You took the opportunity to learn about him, test his limits. In a way, it was similar to how you had decided to learn about Dani, except that Lloyd had no connections. He had partners–numerous–but none that lasted beyond a night. He didn’t have family, or anyone that you thought he could or would ever care about. 

Unlike Dani, you learned that Lloyd wasn’t the type to be the team player. He looked out for himself. Anything with Lloyd was brief and fleeting. You used the arm tucked underneath your head to prop yourself up on your elbow, your eyes still wandering, roaming along with your hand. Maybe this was what people did when they didn’t have sex, forming their bizarre little rituals of physical touch. It was new to you. 

“Fuck, you’re killing me.” Another tug had Lloyd easing himself nearer to oblige the wordless request. He kept his arms limp, hands close to his abdomen even though his fingers twitched. They lay arrested to the sheets, slowly curling into fists. 

You were an enigma. A relief, incorrigible, impossible to define. Beautiful, in that perilous sort of way that sent the eyes darting elsewhere. He’d learned shortly after meeting you to receive and never return these odd, tender gestures that you brought. Your touch soothed, and confused, and stung all at once–both needle and feather, warmth and biting cold.

“I have to ask you something.” You crawled over his side, using your knees to push him onto his back so that you could straddle him. Your nails grazed his chest, using the solid surface to hold yourself there. 

A soft groan rumbled in his throat, and he sighed in defeat. “I may or may not be able to answer you.” 

“It’s about Sierra Six.”

“You picked one hell of a time to ask about another guy.” He tensed as you moved, seconds teasing by, trickling past like the clock during your interrogation. He waited and waited, but you wandered wherever you so pleased until he laid beneath your fixed gaze with little more than his own underclothing between you. He wasn’t any different from the men you’d killed. You knew that without having to look too hard. 

You felt him against you, throbbing. The heat that emanated from in between his legs betrayed him entirely. The look on his face could be defined as strong starvation, his fingers skirting up your thigh until it rested just underneath the waistband of your pants–you’d finally taken the initiative to wear the clothes they’d given you, only after they’d been thoroughly searched. His other hand hadn’t moved, pressed against his chest. 

He was getting brave. His breathing picked up. 

Lloyd tried to read you, but it only infuriated him that he could never get anywhere. Locked eye contact kept him level-headed, but even you knew that had its limits. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm, wildly out of control. 

“Do you know Six?” You asked him. 

“Mmn,” he mumbled, closing one eye first, then the other. His answer came out a little ragged. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” He breathed. “I know that he’s got credibility, but I try not to involve myself with Fitzroy’s pets.” A grin flashed at you, and you could see his perfect white teeth, even in the dark. “You thinking about asking him to join?” He chuckled, only to wince when you dug your nails in. 

You thought that only excited him more, and a slight twitch beneath you told you that you were right.

“Why do you give a fuck about the Ken doll?” He went on.

“I’m… curious.” You said and Lloyd listened, not risking another word, not another breath too deep. His fingers relaxed against your waist, aching. Shadows blanketed the two of you through the silence you disturbed. You looked away. 

“You have an alternative reason for everything. I can’t buy your bullshit.” His fingers reached up, catching a rebellious lock of your hair and returned it behind your ear. That same hand trailed the ridge of your jaw and turned your head back to him, his expression more amused than irritated. He smirked. “You know, normally I would have found a really desperate chick looking for a good fuck. We’re not going to get a lot of opportunities like this once I go to the private sector.”

It wasn’t that you were immune to that feeling. How you were trained, how you were raised , that couldn’t combat natural instinct. The heat that buried its way in between your thighs was a natural inclination that a part of you wanted this, all of your taught instincts combating against it. Not without an alternative reason. 

Having it mean something and having a choice. That had been beyond you years ago. 

You leaned down, the space between your faces marginally smaller. Your voice dropped to a low whisper, heat creating ripples of goosebumps up the side of his neck. “I can take care of that myself if I have to.” Intimacy had always been a job, a chore , and never did you want any of them to want you before you’d watched their life bleed away underneath your hands. 

“Why would you want to when I could do it for you?”  His hands gripped your waist, flipping the two of you over until he pressed into you. His body screamed, a want so overwhelming that you nearly succumbed to it too. He breathed down your neck, fingers trailing to the waistband of your pants before dipping inside. “You’re giving yourself away.”

You twitched, earning a soft smirk from Lloyd in turn. “You never know. It might be my funeral you’re going to next.” His lips trailed up your neck in soft pecks, facial hair brushing against your skin. You shivered underneath him, fingernails scraping against the rigid muscle of his back. He let out a guttural groan against your neck, pressing into you harder. 

You gasped, breathless. “It might be because of me that you have a funeral.”

With one practiced tug, the waistband of your pants were pulled down, and just like when you were exploring him before, he explored you . Perfectly manicured fingers danced their way across your skin, tracing the lean muscle of your stomach before following a trail along the bone at your hips, up your sides until it was your shirt that came next, tossed off into a meager pile on the floor. 

You reached down and cupped him, and he bucked against your hand. You scratched him in your attempts to yank down his underwear, feeling him against you, throbbing and hot. The pain only further spurred him on. Lloyd nipped at your neck, leading a trail down toward your chest. Deft fingers trailed up your forearms before grasping your hands, stretching them above your head. “Sorry, Sweetheart. I’m going to take control here.” 

You didn’t tell him that it didn’t matter. In the end, you’d always be in control. 

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. 

Fandom: The Gray Man

Pairing: Court Gentry/Reader, Sierra Six/Reader

Words: ~3K

Type: One-Shot

Title: Into The Woods

Six didn’t talk much, you noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His answer was immediate. “Just another Thursday.”

So was yours. “It’s Tuesday.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Prison, maybe.”

“Oh. ”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

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

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

You wondered if he had a preference.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shivered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can turn around now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think I could.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I meant to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You feeling better?” He asked eventually.

You nodded. “Much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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