Can You Please Add Me To The Tag List For Into The Gray? I’m Loving It!

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.

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

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

Last Song: The Business by Tiẽsto

Fave Color: Yellow, but like a sunflower yellow.

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

Last Movie: The Other Guys (2010)

Last TV Show: Squid Game (Season 2)

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Sweet

Relationship Status: Single

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just to confirm, requests are open right?

Thanks ;))))

Hello! (:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Infected (Leon Kennedy/Reader)

Fandom: Resident Evil

Pairings: Leon x Reader, Leon x You

Type: Snippet/Concept

Word Count: 3.4K

Snippet/Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The questions felt even less so. 

How are you feeling today, Subject Four?

Did you sleep well? Did you have any dreams?

What are you thinking about?

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

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

Where were you? 

Why did everyone smell like bleach?

What was your actual name?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you answered, voice muffled.

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

Recovery? You wanted to ask. Recovery from what?

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

Your condition? Were you sick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sunlight,” you answered, almost instinctively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to remember?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

What kind of twisted science project was this? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell had they gotten him into?

On The Run Pt. 3 (Final)

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six stifled a sigh. “How much farther?” 

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

Six didn’t answer. 

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

“How much farther ?” He pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he had a lot of self-control.

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

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

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

“What?” Lloyd barked.

“This is it?” Six asked.

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

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

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

“You don’t have a game plan?” 

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

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

He didn’t answer. 

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

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

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

Six didn’t really know what he was expecting.

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

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

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

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

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

And his own sanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, the thing was that Lloyd had fucked up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“-- Your fuckin’ fault–” he choked. 

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

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

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

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

Dammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don't,” he snarled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As though her eyes were playing tricks on her. 

Tears welled in her eyes.

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

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

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

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

“ Yeah. It’s me. ” 

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

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

Now he was about to cry seeing her again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Run Part 2

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

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

Pairings: N/A

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

(Requests are currently open.)

Words: ~3.8K

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

Six never startled awake. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Claire–”

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

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

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

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

18:32. 

“Eighteen hours?” 

“It’s more than five.” 

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

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You worry too much. 

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

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

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

“You’re doing that thing again.” 

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

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

“Is it weird?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snorted. “No promises.” ~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

He looked up.

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

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

“Fuck you.” His tormentor spat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Seen better faces too.” He quipped. 

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

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

“Guess what I’m thinking now.”

“That you’ve overshared.”

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

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

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

“I don’t need your help.” 

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

And make sure that he was dead this time.

“You found Claire?”

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

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

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

“Lloyd–”

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

“I know all about you, Courtland Gentry.” 

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

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

“How do you know about that?” 

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

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

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

Lloyd Hansen.

Lloyd fucking Hansen. 

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

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

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

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

Whatever happened next was ultimately up to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But it is.”

“Not anymore.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

Important Information: 25 | F | Multifandom Blog/Fanfiction Account

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Fandoms:

The Gray Man (2022)

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

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

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

Link: Into The Woods

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

Link: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

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

Link: Pawns in the Game

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

Link: Part 1, Part 2

Resident Evil

Pull (Snippet/Concept) (Leon x Reader)

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

Bullet Train (2022)

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

The Umbrella Academy

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

Detroit: Become Human

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

Star Wars

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

Link: Like A Light (Rey)

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

Peter Pan

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

Link: Prologue 1

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

Welcome Home (01)

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

Warnings: Strong language, blood/gore, etc. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonetheless, Five was still the more stubborn bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He cried out.

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

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

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

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

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

How far had he gone back?

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

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

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

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

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

“Five-” Luther said more tentatively. 

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

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

They’d grow. Eventually.

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

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

Figured. 

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t need your help.”

“Are you okay?”

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

“Who is Allison?”

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

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

Welcome home.