#courtland gentry

[lostinwildflowers]

also I'm just saying... if anyone wants a pt. 2 about Dubai lmk👀

Trust Me

Sierra Six x Reader

Summary: You and Six have a long history. When things go awry on an unusual mission, rooms are tight and tensions run high.

Word Count: 14K (I am so, so sorry.)

Warnings: very slight enemies to lovers(in the backstory), mentions of pain, injuries(including temporary hearing loss), blood, guns/weapons, mentions of panic/anxiety/insecurities, angst, swearing/kinda harsh language at times, but fluff, lots of pining, hurt/comfort if you will, one-bed trope, dum dum feelings, and my inability to skip a backstory, no beta we die like men

A/N: Hello my darlings! I am here with a fic I have been very nervous and excited to write and to post. This is my first time ever writing for The Gray Man/Sierra Six, but the Ryan Gosling brain rot was too much for me to handle. Please give me feedback on this!! - Birch <3

Important Info:

-Reference #1 - Inspiration for the Croatian house, not exact

-Reference #2 - Six's light blue suit

-Reference #3 - Sunset drive

-Reference #4 - Inspiration for the bed and breakfast

The weight of the gun in your hands was a steady constant as your feet tread noiselessly but confidently over the slate-tiled floor. The laces to your boots were tied down tightly, the pressure on your heels and ankles a comfort when you were at work.

You found solace in the rifle strapped to your back, and relief in the throwing blades tucked into your belt. Skill and years of training have made you adept at weaponry of all forms.

Capable of killing a man with a soup spoon and a shoestring, you were undoubtedly deadly. However, your choice of weaponry always landed on armaments with lethality at a distance.

Being one of the best shots in your division had your name floating around the CIA. Typically working with different groups of people as needed, you were never stuck to just one set of people.

When news started floating around that the Sierra Program was looking for partners for some of their agents, people started wondering as to who would be chosen. You didn't bother with the gossip, instead focusing on honing your craft and getting better.

Thus, when you were first sat down and interrogated about your knowledge of the Sierra program, you were surprised. You knew as much as the next person from the gossip in the office - agents who usually worked alone and got their hands dirty when no one else could.

The officers that questioned you were leaving bits and pieces out of the conversation. You could tell there were gaps in their questions and the answers that they were looking for from you.

Slowly, you were starting to piece it together.

You would be an ideal partner for the infamous Sierra Six. While the CIA recruit was skilled in all facets of, well, murder, it benefitted him to have someone who could watch his back from a distance.

Sierra Six was known to always be about the job. He focused on getting in and getting out. No injuries. No casualties. None of his blood spilled. Just eliminate the target and move on to the next one.

With Six being as skilled as he was, a man who almost always worked alone, you were nervous to accept being his partner. However, you knew this could be your chance to step up a level.

Apprehensively, you agree to a mission with the CIA operative. And frustratingly, the first time you met Sierra Six was in the field.

On your initial assignment with Six, you had asked Carmichael for a general description of the man so you knew who not to shoot at if things got dicey.

Tall. Muscular. Bit of facial hair. Super helpful, right?

You still remember the first words you said to his face. You had thought about getting reassigned.

---

"I'm in position and I've got eyes on the target, Six do you copy?" your voice came out as a quiet whisper. Laid out on your stomach in the dense woods of Croatia, you had sweat dripping down your forehead and chest.

Having your first mission be in the hot, dry summer of the Mediterranean country probably wouldn't have been your first choice with your new partner, but it could have been worse.

Focusing on the task at hand, you could see the target through the scope of your rifle, a wealthy "banker" who was selling drugs across borders in an attempt to disturb government agencies. You didn't really care too much about why you were there, just that you did your job and got home.

As Six's backup for this mission, you were camped out on the edge of a wooded area that had a view of the banker's private house. The target was hosting a large party that would act as a cover-up for business deals and shady operations.

The house was gorgeous, in your opinion. You had seen the open floor plan, the back porch that connected to a gazebo, and the huge deck. Then, it had a two-story pool and plenty of tables full of booze that seemed like a dream vacation for an average person.

And that is why you and Six were to strike at this party. It would be busy with people from all over the world to get in on the banker's dealings, allowing for you and Six to slip away from the property unnoticed.

With your spot in the trees, you had the natural cover of foliage. Six, on the other hand, had to attend the party as if he wanted to partake in business.

You didn't know what he would be dressed in or how you would be able to pick him out. All you knew was that you would have to rely on your instincts and the few words of description Carmichael gave you.

"Repeat, I've got eyes on the target. Six, do you copy?" There was more of a bite to your words this time, a little bit of your nerves peeking through your composure.

Despite having been a part of hundreds of missions, not knowing anything about the man you were supposed to trust to get you out of there was unnerving.

A few seconds go by before you hear his voice slide in through your earpiece. "I heard you the first time, sweetheart," it's deep and ever so slightly, rough. A wave of butterflies tickles your insides at the slight drawl to his voice, as well as the pet name, but you push them away as you try to regain your focus.

At the time, you didn't know he was actually talking to a woman at the party trying to get his attention. Six's response acted as a defense from the Italian woman trying to get him to sleep with her, and that he heard your voice over the coms.

But not realizing this, frustration was starting to well up in your throat, "Well if you heard me, answer. We only have 7 minutes to get out of here once you eliminate the target."

Again, it's quiet over the line until you hear the baritone voice again, "This isn't going to work unless you let me do my damn job."

This time, the anger started to surge red-hot. You knew he was good at his job, he had never failed a job in all of his years at the CIA, but this? He was already a pain in the ass.

You open your mouth to retaliate, but another voice cuts in, "Knock it off, you two. We put you two together because you are both the best at what you do. Play nice and you'll have your 7 minutes in heaven."

Carmichael, you think to yourself as you take a steadying deep breath. Neither you nor Six reply as the banker moves away from the house and out onto the open deck.

"The target is approaching a woman in a black dress," you inform as your eye narrows in through the scope of your gun, "There are only four people outside other than those two."

Six's voice comes quicker than you expected, "Copy that. I've made it to my position." His dialogue is short and overly direct, and you can't help but let your mind wander.

Is this how Six behaves normally? Is he always a man of such clipped words, or is it because I'm here? Does he not like the idea of having a partner?

A snap in the woods behind you makes you pull back from your scope, your eyes flitting from tree to tree, brush to brush. You don't see any large movement, no one trying to sneak up on you.

Instead, you are met with a small blue-rock thrush sitting above you, chittering its song out into the world. A deep sigh falls through your nose as you try to relax your tense muscles at the small animal.

The whole job had you on edge, but seeing the small blue-feathered bird flutter about its day was helping to ease your nerves when your partner seemed to be the one causing them.

Back at the house, Six was positioned in the gazebo, his gun tucked into the waistband of his light blue suit. The woman berating him had finally gone inside, leaving him alone.

Although you didn't have eyes on him, you knew where he was supposed to be. So you let your (colored) gaze return to your gun, a shaky breath escaping you as you aim the firearm back toward the house.

You could see the banker and the woman in the black dress moving closer to the top pool. The man leaned in close to the woman and whispered something into her ear. She turned away with a wide smile and rushed into the house.

"The woman in the black dress is headed back into the house, coast is clear once she passes you," you murmur into the com. A moment later, you see movement to the left of the banker. A man wearing a light blue suit appears from the gazebo, sunglasses covering his gaze.

The first thing you immediately notice is the dark goatee on the man's face. Another rush of nerves fills your stomach as you take in the angle of his jaw, and the curl of his dirty blonde hair on his forehead.

And the gun he was revealing in his hand.

Carmichael's voice cuts in, "Light it up Six, we need to get you out of there." Walking with an already brisk stride, the man in the light blue suit, evidently Six, masterfully gets behind the man, raises his arm with the gun, and lines up his shot.

At the same time, you train your rifle on the target's head, using your peripheral vision to keep an eye out for anyone who isn't supposed to be there.

You don't hear the shot ring out, and you have to assume Six is using a gun with a silencer. The banker didn't stand a chance against Six's deadly aim, slowly falling forward before crashing into the pool.

You see Six immediately take a step back into the gazebo while wiping his fingerprints from the gun, throwing the weapon into the pool after the target.

"Target eliminated," Six's voice comes out gravelly. Carmichael cuts in, "Your 7 minutes have started, get out of there, Six."

The Sierra agent doesn't reply to Carmichael, and you pull back from your gun with a huff leaving your lips. It's go time, you think to yourself as you efficiently collapse the gun stand your rifle was sat on, gloved fingers working with an ever-so-slight shake.

You glance down at your watch as you finalize your belongings, the 7-minute timer on your wrist now counting down. Your eyes widen as you watch the digits rapidly decline and you say, "Six, we're down to 5 and a half minutes. Are you out of the house yet?"

There is no reply.

You curse under your breath as you look back at the house, debating on what to do. You sling the firearm over your shoulder, making sure nothing is left behind from your cover.

You force yourself to take a deep breath as you start to pick your way toward the escape vehicle, aiming for the other side of the woods where you had stashed it. You try the com again, "Six, where are you?"

Again, silence. This time, your internal fears are rapidly echoed by Carmichael's voice, "Six, get out of there now. You only have 4 minutes left before your cover will be blown."

You make it to the black get-away car after another minute of hustling through the thick Croatian forest, ungracefully throwing your rifle into the back seat. You debate getting into the driver's seat and pulling up to the house, but you know that might only make things worse.

After another few seconds of nothing in your ear, you slam the rear driver's side door shut before a grunt crackles through the com. You hear a low moan of "shit" followed by a couple of deep pants.

"Six, we need to go, now!" you harshly whisper through the com, your head on a swivel to make sure no one from the road can see you. This time, you get an answer.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm working on it," Six hisses out. Another curse falls from your lips, and you rip open the door you had just shut, grabbing the rifle you threw down. Just as you start to make your way toward the house, you see a flash of light blue and white.

Six is running toward you, his light blue blazer and sunglasses seemingly missing. It's left him in a fitted white t-shirt, his matching light blue suit pants, brown Redwings, and a watch adorning his left wrist.

"What the hell happened?!" you rush out in anger as he approaches the car, chest heaving and sweat making his tanned skin shine. Six doesn't answer, moving toward the driver's side as he orders, "Get in, we gotta go."

You stare at him in disbelief as you repeat, "We gotta go? You are the one who took forever to get out of here. We might get caught because of you!"

Six stops at the driver's side door, throwing over his shoulder, "Yet you're the one standing outside of the car."

A groan of frustration rips its way out of your throat, and you open and close the rear door for a third time to slam the rifle down. You don't wait to hear if Six has a smart remark, instead, you clamber into the passenger seat and shut your door.

"Is that gun loaded?" Six asks you as he starts the car, not taking his eyes off of the dash as he takes the car out of park. You stare at him incredulously as you remark, "Yes, it is. I thought I was going to have to go in there and save your ass."

Six immediately hits the brakes on the car, causing you to lurch forward. You catch yourself with your hands at the last second, an angry gasp escaping you.

"What the hell, Six?!" you yell as you turn to face the agent for the first time. Now, you can get a good look at him.

His hair is a deep, sandy blonde. The strands seemed to have once been slicked back, but have fallen out of place from the... events of the job.

Next, you see the tan of his skin and the shine of sweat beading down his forehead from both exertion and the heat of the Mediterranean sun. You are instinctively drawn to the dark facial hair surrounding his mouth, and you can't help but think it makes him look tough.

His lips are parted to catch his breath and are a pleasant pink color. Only then do you realize his mouth is moving and is saying words to you. It draws your gaze up to meet his eyes.

Those eyes... such an intense, stormy blue. Sharp and deadly at first glance. Hypnotizing and mysterious the longer you maintain eye contact.

Damnit, he was attractive.

"What?" you state at him, trying to shake the haze from your first view of the Sierra agent from your mind. Six wipes at his face with his free hand, his left hand resting on the steering wheel.

"You don't throw a loaded gun, everyone knows that!" he hisses out as he turns to face the dash again. He is about to say something else, but Carmichael's voice cuts in.

"I said to play nice. Six, get the two of you out of there."

You clench your jaw down to avoid saying anything else, not wanting to get reprimanded for trying to do your job. Six must have thought something similar and moves to shift the car out of park again and begins driving the two of you away from the house.

It's tense in the car, and no one says anything. You have to build some courage up to sneak a glance at Six, who is staring straight ahead, eyes trained on the road in front of you.

This was going to be one hell of a partnership.

---

After the initial tension between you and Six, the two of you slowly developed a working relationship. You eventually realized that you could trust the Sierra agent, even if he was a smartass at times. He was the best, and despite being a man of few words, he was good at what he did.

For Six, his trust wasn't something you earned right away. You worked as his long-range attack partner for countless missions over the last three years, and you still didn't know if you fully had his trust.

You had to believe he had some solid belief in your ability as a marksman. On one mission about six months after your initial meeting, he watched three men stop and fall in their tracks before he had to intercept them, a bullet lodged in each of their chests. He had paused and tilted his head like it may have impressed him.

Now, three years into being partners, a new threat appeared that you and Six were assigned to. One that required you to be one step behind Six and fight hand-to-hand as needed.

It's not that you weren't capable of close-range attacks. You practiced all types of moves and attacks, but you were exceptional when slightly removed from the throes of action with a long-distance rifle.

Now here you were, just a few strides behind Six, the slate-tiled floor beneath you doing a good job of concealing your nervous footsteps.

The tall man in front of you could tell you were uneasy. He could feel a heavy tension lacing the air, more than he was used to. It took every minute of his training to keep his own thoughts at bay at focus on the mission.

The two of you were in the field for a stealth-type mission rather than just a hit-and-run. The plan was to stick to the shadows in tactical gear, rather than blend into the crowd with the sharp suits Six was accustomed to. It was one of the only parts of the mission that you felt fully at ease, donning your usual gear and weapons.

Six's broad figure pausing in front of you rips your attention back to the present. The hallway the two of you were sleuthing down had come to a T junction. You can see Six's head swivel left, then right.

You come to a pause just a pace behind him, and you adjust your grip on your rifle. He rotates his body quietly so his back is toward the wall and so that he can semi-face you.

"I'll go to the left to start toward the target. The right side has one door at the end of the hall, make sure there is no one in the stairwell waiting to ambush us," his voice comes as a low murmur. His gloved hands were loading his gun, his choice a Heckler & Koch USP pistol.

You give him a nod and whisper back, "On you." Six just gives you a silent glance that confirms your words. With his pistol drawn and loaded, Six moves.

You've always been in awe at how such a muscular man could move with such grace, but Six managed to pull it off with ease. As his figure disappears around the corner to the left, you drop in position to cover his back.

Your footsteps have grown more unnerved now that you are on your own. In the back of your mind, you know that Six is behind you, headed in the opposite direction. But now? You were making the calls for yourself.

You force yourself to take a deep breath through your nose, slowly exhaling through your mouth. You bring your pistol into a firing position, the 4th Gen Glock 17 pressed tightly into the palm of your right hand.

There are no doors on either wall in the right-wing you begin to traverse down. There is just a large, tan-colored door at the end of the hallway with a small pane of glass. Red letters spelling "Emergency Stairwell" are printed just below the small window.

As far as you can tell, there are no lights on in the stairwell. You force yourself to pick up your slightly sluggish pace to get this part of the mission over with. You stick to the right wall as you approach the door, your eyes trained on the glass in an attempt to spot any figures hiding on the shadowy stairs.

You don't spot anything as you peer through the glass, no movement, no people. Your gloved fingers try the door handle next, but it is locked. A sigh of defeat slides through your nose, and you pull your arms back to your chest, the pistol pointed toward the ceiling.

As you turn your head back to the direction you came, you are met with an empty hallway. No Six. You can see the endless array of doors, knowing that Six could have easily slipped through any of them as he chased down the target.

You don't hear anything from your com, and you quietly say, "Nothing at the door. Heading to you, Six." You begin to move away from the tan-colored door, footsteps gaining confidence as your mind finally clicks into work mode.

You only make it a few steps before you hear it.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Then a beat of silence.

As you turn back to the door, a loud blast rings out. The door is blown off of its hinges and the explosion from the stairwell sends you flying.

The air is ripped from your lungs as you are thrown into the wall you were following before you land unceremoniously on your back. Your mouth falls open in shock as your nerve endings fire pain signals over and over again.

It starts with your chest aching at the way your lungs are fighting for air, the impact with the wall, and then the ground leaving you breathless. From the stress of it all, your heart is beating erratically, slamming against your ribcage uncomfortably.

Then, the pain travels upward to your throat, where it is burning from the lack of oxygen and the smoke now filling the hallway. A dull throb begins to radiate from the back of your head where you know it slammed into the ground.

You can barely make out the sting of a cut on your cheek, too concentrated on the way your hips and legs shake to add to the overwhelming sensation of pain.

In the midst of your agony, you slowly start to realize the world is too quiet. You can only hear blood roaring in your ears, but not the debris falling from the ceiling where it had been torn open. You can't hear footsteps you know are bound to be heading toward you.

You can't hear anything.

The weight of your realization terrifies you. The pressure in your chest from lack of air terrifies you. The whole mission terrified you.

You can feel panic start to set in as your lungs burn due to the lack of oxygen in your body. I can't breathe. I can't hear. I'm alone. I'm going to die here. Alarm bells are going off everywhere in your body and before you know it, your body forces a gasp out of your throat followed by a shuddery deep breath.

The sudden rush of oxygen makes your throat feel raw and sore, but this time it's more manageable. You blink wearily as dust and smoke start to curl around your body, the air is thick and you can't see much.

As you start to come to your senses, a coughing fit forces you onto your side, your body screaming at you not to move. The force of your coughs makes you dizzy, your head spinning and your vision blurry as you try to make out your position.

You can tell there is a gaping hole to your right where the door used to be, but you can't make out any figures or people moving toward you. Tears start to build up in the corner of your eyes, blurring your already worsening vision.

You swing your head to the left, a sharp pain stabbing at the back of your head from the sudden movement. "Shit!" you hiss out, your now empty right hand reaching behind your head to your hair, shaky gloved hands revealing a dark red liquid oozing onto the black material.

"That's not good," you slur out, your balance wobbling as you shift to get up. Your vision once again tries to focus on the left wing of the hallway, where through the smoke and dust, you start to see movement.

Despite being fairly disoriented, the movement causes your heart to skip a beat and your stomach to drop. You try to stop moving and remain as still as possible as the figure gets closer.

You still can't hear anything, so if the figure says something, you can't tell. Your heart's rhythm begins speeding up as the person continues to get closer, but eventually, you can start to pick out defining pieces of the person.

Tall. Muscular. Bit of facial hair.

"Six!" you try to cry out, your mind willing your voice to work even though you can't tell if sound is coming out. The cry catches and breaks in your throat, only managing to come out as a garbled whisper to the outside listener.

At the faint sound, the figure instantly stops moving. A second passes and you try to repeat, "Six, over here..." but your voice gives out and comes out as an indistinct whimper.

The figure, now identified as Six, catches sight of your limp body sprawled on the ground. "Oh, shit," he states, but you can only see his lips moving as he rapidly approaches you.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his blue gaze flickering over your dirty and bloodied body as he stops next to you. You just stare up at him, watching the dirty blonde through a glazed view as he takes note of your visible injuries.

There's a cut on your cheek, a deep gash on your arm, and some other small scrapes on your exposed skin. It makes his blood boil and he wants to kill whoever did this, but he knows he has to shift priorities.

"Y/n, are you alright?" he repeats, this time kneeling down to get closer to you, his eyes trained on your face. Again, you watch as his lips move soundlessly and the usually stoic look on his face shifts to concern.

You open your mouth to respond, one of Six's large palms coming up to grasp you on the shoulder, and you cry out at his touch. Pain shoots through your body and your eyes snap shut.

This time, the cry comes out more clearly, and you don't hear Six ask you where it hurts. Only when he gently lifts your jaw with one of his hands do you open your pained (colored) eyes.

"Where. Does. It. Hurt?" he asks slowly, each word coming out methodically and calmly to try to minimize your panic. You watch his lips move, and the tears that had gathered at the edge of your vision begin to slide down your cheek as you stutter, "I- I can't h-hear you."

The words are slightly off-tone and garbled as they reach Six's ears, and his eyes widen ever-so-slightly in realization. He gently releases your jaw and looks down for a second, his hand coming up to his ear as he says over the coms, "Aborting mission. L/n is out of commission and I can't get in there without her."

You then realize your com has been knocked out of your ear and is somewhere in the rubble surrounding you. Not that it would help you now. Six drops his hand from his head and regains eye contact with you, blue eyes stormy with an unreadable emotion.

He reaches down and grabs your empty hand before placing it on his chest. Six ensures you are looking at him as he mouths, "Trust me." You do your best to read his lips, and you feel a small flutter of relief as his words click in your head, and you give him a pained nod.

Six pulls your hand from his chest and wraps it around his neck and shoulders, and you do your best to help him situate you. The quick movement makes you dizzy and your vision gets black spots as Six adjusts you so he can haul you to your feet.

Your arm tightens around his neck and your other hand grabs onto a piece of his bulletproof vest in an attempt to steady yourself. Six murmurs in your ear, "I gotcha, I gotcha," but you are none the wiser.

Carefully and methodically, Six maneuvers you so that he can have his gun drawn in his right hand and his left hand wrapped around your waist. He holds you flush to his side as your right arm wraps around his torso as firmly as you can.

Without dawdling, Six begins to guide you down the hallway you initially came from, his whole body on edge as he tries to get the two of you out of the hellhole you found yourselves in. Thankfully, it seems as though the building has been vacated or never had many people inside to begin with.

He helps you down the few flights of stairs painstakingly slow before you reach ground level, your chest heaving and limbs trying to give out. The two of you approach an exit door that leads out of the building, and a little wave of relief washes over you at the thought of getting out.

As he starts to peer out the door in search of a get-away car, a quiet ringing sounds out in your ears. You try to focus, but the ringing sound grows louder and louder, worsening your pre-existing headache. You close your eyes in an attempt to will it away, but nothing happens.

Six's grip tightening on your waist grounds you, but does little to ebb the pain building in your skull. He tugs you to try to get you to move, but when you don't budge, he knows something is wrong.

He gently pushes a piece of hair out of your eyes, the touch making you shiver and loosen some of the tension building in your face. It makes your eyes flutter open and you see that stormy emotion in his eyes again as your gaze meets his.

"Jump," he mouths and points up, moving to stand in front of you, parting your legs with his boot. You balance yourself on his broad shoulder, your left arm throbbing where the blood is gathering down your arm.

You do your best to jump and wrap your legs around his waist, but Six's hands are right there to guide and shift you as he wraps his arm around your back. He once again draws his gun, and in a fluid movement, pushes through the door and takes off toward a car he spotted near the end of the building.

You know he's trying to be as careful as he can, but each time his feet hit the ground your body is wracked with pain. You can't stop the whimpers you know that fall from your lips, but you try your best to bury them in the junction of Six's neck and shoulder.

The Sierra agent hears every single one, and he internally curses at how poorly the mission has gone. He stumbles to a stop on the passenger side of the random car, placing his gun on the roof while he pries the door open and gently urges you inside.

Once he sees you're safely inside, he grabs the gun, shuts the door, and jogs around to the driver's side. He slides in, setting his gun in the center console, starting the car as he closes his door with a huff.

Through your pain and bleary vision, you can't see any injuries on Six, thankfully. If anything, you think he looks annoyed as he pulls the car away from the building and the failed mission.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, trying to focus on stopping the pain from radiating all over your body. You know the adrenaline that had been coursing through your body is wearing off, making the pain much more real.

Beside you, Six's left hand is clamped down on the steering wheel, his fingers pale from the strength he was emitting from his grip. His right hand sat in his lap, balled into a fist that you interpreted as an anger response.

To Six, his hand twitched with the want to grab your thigh, cup your cheek, to ask if you were okay. He knew you weren't bleeding out, you wouldn't have made it this far if you were. But he could tell you weren't comfortable, and he didn't want to bother you until he came up with a game plan to get you somewhere safe.

Carmichael's voice in his earpiece was another annoyance he was done dealing with, so he pulled the small black com out and threw it out the window. He needed a plan, and he needed it fast.

---

Six was driving as far as he could get with the stolen vehicle. The sky was darkening, the heat of the day lowering to a twinkling, cooler sunset. Tones of orange and pink washed over the dash of the car, drawing his eyes to where you were fitfully resting.

You had fallen asleep about an hour into the drive, initially making Six concerned. But, the blonde-haired man could tell you were still alive by the shaky breaths every couple of seconds.

Despite being covered in dried blood and debris, the rays of the sun made you glow in a way he could have never imagined. Similar to how you had initially thought Six was attractive, he had similar opinions about you.

He could picture you yelling at him on that first mission in Croatia, furious he was late. At the time, he thought you were a pain in the ass, but somehow cute when you were mad. But now, with you toying with death in the glow of the dying sun, you had never been more beautiful.

Locks of (colored) hair were warmed by the orange hues refracted through the car's windshield. Pink tones crept along the edges of your features, softening the hardened and pained look on your resting face.

The car hit a small bump and you shifted, Six's attention snapping back to the road for a second to ensure he wasn't going to run off the side of the highway. Then, he peers over at you, gauging the look on your face. It had contorted in pain, and then your eyes fluttered open.

You had to blink against the harsh light of the sunset, and as you come to your senses, you realize that the ringing in your ears has faded into the rumbling of the car's engine.

Your head wobbly turns to look at Six, who has a pensive but blank expression on his face as he drives. His grip has relaxed on the steering wheel, and he again glances over at you as you start to sit up.

You wince at the tugging in your arm, a gasp falling from your lips. Your reaction is cut off when you hear Six's voice rumble lowly, "Easy there." You turn to look at him, surprise on your face as you ask, "W-what did you say?"

Six glances at you again, surprise also lacing his features as he regards you, "Easy there... you feeling better?" A smile tugs its way onto your lips as the sound of his baritone voice fills your ears. Your headache seems to have dulled with the nap too, and you reply stiffly, "Y-yeah, I think so."

The agent stays quiet for a few moments, his gaze focused on the road as it shifts from a highway to a thin road, a town coming into view. A small, family-styled store appears on the side of the road, and Six murmurs, "Hold on, I'm going to get some stuff."

He pulls the car into the parking lot with an easy, nonchalant look. The car rolls to a stop and the rumble of the engine cuts out as you manage to sit the whole way up. Six turns to face you, his eyes stormy looking again.

Without saying a word, he changes his focus to the center console and pops it open, digging for any loose money. He reaches down into a small cubby within the center console, his fingers fiddling around for a second before they reappear with a wad of cash.

Six nods toward the store as he unbuckles his bulletproof vest and removes his weapons, "I'll be right back." He quickly throws his gear into the back seat, and you give him a nod of confirmation you don't know if he sees. You choose to settle back down into your seat as you watch his figure disappear into the store.

Now that you are alone and awake, you finally can assess your injuries with decent enough judgment. You flick down the sun visor, finding the small mirror you prayed would be there.

You are taken aback by your appearance. There is a thin slice across your cheek, likely from a chunk of the door flying by your head. It has left a trail of dried blood on your cheek, as well as dirt and grime over your other features.

There are some other small scrapes on the edges of your face, but thankfully nothing major. Your gaze flicks down to your torso and arms next, glad to see that your bulletproof vest kept your vital organs safe. You also note that your chest and stomach have stopped hurting from the lack of air, which you are grateful for.

Must have just been because I got slammed against the wall and ground, you think to yourself. Your left arm is then brought to your attention as the dull throb comes back to life. You see the gash that led to blood pouring down your arm, and you grimace. While the gash hurt, the pain was dulled compared to when it first was injured.

No, there was something else that hurt on your left side.

Pulling back the part of your bulletproof vest that was closest to your shoulder, you felt a surge of pain. You could feel a rush of warmth from your shoulder seeping down your chest, and your mouth parts as a pained gasp erupts from you.

Your fingers instantly release your vest, the pressure from the vest helping to stop the bleeding. Shit. Shit. Shit. How do I tell Six? You flip the sun visor of the car back up, and as you pull your hand back to sit on your lap, fresh, bloody fingerprints smeared on the tan interior.

You don't get any time to think as you see Six returning with bags of supplies. He sets them in the rear seats alongside his gear and then joins you in the front of the car, starting the engine without a word.

You watch him carefully and silently, your heart skipping a beat as you watch him swallow thickly. His Adam's apple bobs before he coughs lightly to clear his throat, and he turns to look at you.

"There's a small bed and breakfast just down the road from here," he states blankly. You let out a shaky breath and reply simply, "Okay." Six turns back to the wheel, backing the car out slowly and guiding it onto the road.

It's silent in the car, this time uncomfortably so. There was a shift in the air from where he had seemed so concerned about you, to this reserved, business-type attitude.

It reminded you of when you were first partnered with him, and it made a lump well up at the back of your throat. He hates me now. I've finally failed him after all this time. He thinks I'm a terrible partner and that I've blown his reputation. Fuck!

You try to fight the tears burning at the corners of your vision, but you can't help the few that slide down your cheeks. You hastily go to wipe them away, momentarily forgetting about the cut on your cheek.

A hiss slides past your lips as you rub over the cut, your fingers now slick with tears and dried blood. Six instantly looks over at you, a flash of concern on his face before it returns to stoicism.

"We're almost there," is all he says. His words are enough for now, even though you know they aren't very comforting. Seconds feel like hours until you pull into the parking lot of the cabin-style bed and breakfast hotel Six had mentioned.

The building is old, you can tell. The wooden beams are huge and solid, a historic grace about the building. You can see the cute porch with rocking chairs to view the road, and hanging just above them is a small sign.

H&H's Bed and Breakfast Lodging.

Your (colored) eyes are locked onto the sign when Six once again brings the car to a stop before cutting the engine. The two of you sit there in silence for a moment before you both start speaking at the same time.

"We have to figure out how to get you in-" "I don't think I can take my vest-"

Six continues staring over the dash of the car, mulling over ideas and the words he heard you speak. To you, he looks mad. You had rarely seen Six angry, and it wasn't something you needed right now.

The blonde-haired man finally looks over at you, and he can tell you are scared. There you are, covered in your own blood and tears, running from what was probably the worst day of your life, putting all of your trust in him.

Trust me.

Those words ring loud in Six's head, and he takes a deep breath, sighing through his nose. He unclenches his jaw, relaxing his body to hopefully put you at a little more ease.

He watches your body unlock just a notch, and he knows he's made the right decision. He clears his throat before murmuring, "We need to get you inside. I got some stuff for us."

Six reaches into the back seat to grab the two bags of items he had gotten. He rummages around for a second before pulling out a large sweatshirt that looks like it was probably meant for him.

His azure gaze meets your own, and he offers it to you, "We'll get you cleaned up inside." The words come out a little harsher and more blunt than he intended, but you can see the meaning behind his eyes.

We need to get where no one can see us before we deal with this.

You give him a silent nod, taking the dark gray sweatshirt from his hands. You slide it on with great difficulty over your bulky gear, your arms aching and body sore, but the bagginess of the material hides your weaponry and wounds fairly well.

Six reaches over to you, slowly. His body cages yours momentarily, making your breath catch in your throat. You look up at him, (colored) eyes wide as he pushes that stubborn piece of hair out of your face.

Then, he tugs up the hood on the sweatshirt, situating it so the material covers the cut on your cheek. He leans away and nods toward the building, "Shall we?"

You feel like you can breathe again once he is out of your personal space, but you can't stop the butterflies that bloom in your belly at the gentleness of his touch. You don't bother giving him an answer, instead opting to turn toward your door and open it to cover the flush you sure was covering your face.

You have to bite your lip to keep any groans of pain from pushing through, and you look out across the parking lot to see the sun has sunk below the horizon. The sky is now painted in a blueish-purple, and the stars are peeking through.

You hear Six close the driver's side door, and you turn to face him. You see he has the bags he had gotten in his left hand, and he beckons you over to him with his right.

Clad in a tight black t-shirt and black tactical pants, your throat catches as you walk up to Six. His hair is messily covering his forehead, and you can see a tiredness on his features. Despite the massive failure of today, you can't help but think Six looks good.

You stop in front of him, and you see a small tug of a smile pull at the corner of his pretty mouth before he says, "Okay, I will get our room, you try not to look suspicious. Just follow my lead."

You let a small smile of your own slide onto your lips at seeing the Six you knew start to come back out. You mumble back, "Sounds good."

Before you can register it, Six has tucked you under his right arm, the hood of the sweatshirt falling down into your eyes. You can't really see where you are going, but the feeling of Six pressed up against you is reassuring.

Six guides you slowly through the front doors, passing the intricate wooden rocking chairs to the reception desk. An older lady is waiting and she gives the two of you a warm smile and asks, "What can I do for the two of you?"

Six gives the woman a polite, tight-lipped smile as he replies, "Just a room for the evening, please." The elderly woman gives him a knowing grin and gushes, "Looks like your wife has had a rough day. Let me see what I can get you two that's comfortable!"

Before Six can correct her, the woman has disappeared into the back, likely to get you a key. In her absence, you sneak a peak up at Six. His jaw is clenched down, and there is a slight pink tint running across his cheeks and down the curve of his throat.

You can sense Six shift uncomfortably, the locks of dirty blonde hair falling into his face, adding to his rugged look. You can't bring yourself to tear your eyes away, and he notices you looking up at him.

Six swears his heart jumps to his throat the way you are gazing at him. (Colored) eyes glossed over, lost in some world he can't imagine. There is an intensity there that ruffles him and makes him uneasy. You casually reach up to his face with your right arm, brushing some of the stray hairs off of his forehead with a gentle touch.

Six goes to say something as you pull your hand away, but the two of you are interrupted when the woman returns. The woman, Hilda, her name tag reads, hands Six a room key with a gentle smile.

You tuck your head into Six's right side, your right hand coming up to rest on his pec as you avoid the woman's gaze. You feel the agent tense underneath you before softening, his right hand holding the key coming up to wrap around your waist.

His grip is secure and very, very comforting. You let yourself get lost in the feeling for a second before you hear him murmur down to you, "Darling, could you hold the bags so I can pay?"

Your heart lurches at the pet name, another wave of butterflies swarming your stomach. You just give him a quick "mhm", your fingers sliding down his chest to grab the two bags from his left hand.

They aren't too heavy, but just enough to make your injuries ache. You bite down on your tongue to keep a strangled sound from escaping your mouth, and Six quickly fishes out the remaining chunk of cash to hand to the woman.

She quietly takes the payment and chirps, "There is free hot chocolate in the kitchen. Your room is on the second floor and there is an elevator outside the drink area. Enjoy your stay!"

Six thanks the woman and tugs on your waist with a sweet, "C'mon honey." He effortlessly takes the bags back from you, allowing you to use him as a walking stick to get to the elevator. Your knees were weak from the sudden onset of pet names, but you would blame it on the exhaustion of the day.

Six was warm against you, something that you were unconsciously drawn to. As he pressed the button for the elevator, you leaned into him. If Six cared, he didn't show it. Knowing that Hilda was still watching, Six leaned down and murmured to you, "I'm gonna kiss you on the head. She's watching."

You tense up against him, butterflies jumping from low in your belly to welling up in your throat. Six almost doesn't follow through at the way your body runs rigid, but then you shift against him and position the top of your head toward him.

A smile breaks across Six's face, a genuine one at how much you trust him. A moment later, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head, which was still covered by the hood of the sweatshirt Six had gotten.

The feeling of his lips furthered the dizziness in your head, but the elevator doors opened and you had no choice but to stumble in. Six was right there to steady you, his hand tightening on your waist as he pushed the button to the second floor once situated in the elevator.

As the door to the elevator began to close, he could see Hilda watching them, a look of nostalgia on her face. She gives him a quick wink, and then the door slides shut.

You expect Six to release you now that you are protected from view within the elevator, but his grip remains the exact same. You open your mouth to let him know it's okay to let you go, but you remember how you stumbled and think better of it.

A few seconds later the elevator lurches to a stop, and Six glances down at you and motions with his head toward the hallway. He helps you walk, sort of, as you make your way to the designated room.

You're still unsteady, but better than before, so as you get to your room, you very slowly slip out of Six's grasp. You don't see the flash of emotion that resembles hurt on his face, but he instead fiddles with the key, sliding it into the lock and opening the door.

"Ladies first", he motions, pocketing the key and adjusting his grip on the bags. You grip the wall to help you in, and Six is close behind, silently ushering you forward so he can get the door closed and locked.

As you stumble through the small hallway, your eyes are drawn to the middle of the room.

Oh, shit. The thought comes. You can't even bring the words to form in your mouth and then Six appears behind you, curious as to why you stopped moving.

"Oh, shit," he voices. Six is standing behind you, but towering over the top of your head, it's plain as day.

There's only one bed.

Six sighs and mumbles something under his breath, and you shuffle to face him, embarrassment evident on your face. You motion toward the corner of the room where an uncomfortable-looking chair sits and stammer, "I- uhm, I can, I'll sleep in the chair."

The agent's gaze flits between you, the chair, and the bed before returning back to you. He says nothing but raises an eyebrow.

Six slips around you and heads straight for the bed with the bags. A pang runs through you at the thought that Six doesn't try to fight for you to take the bed, but then you watch as he dumps the contents of the bags onto the quilt overlay, and your eyes drink in the stuff that he bought. You can catch sight of more clothes, some medical supplies, and... snacks?

While he starts to organize the supplies, you start to pull on the sleeves of the sweatshirt you had put on in the car. You struggle to get your left arm out without screaming in pain, biting your lip to the point you can almost taste blood.

Your right arm was much easier, and then all you had to do was pull it up over your head. Your right arm bent easily to start pulling the fabric over your head, but the angle of your left arm made you yelp as you felt a rush of warmth and pain in your shoulder.

To make matters worse, the hoodie was pulled over your head, leaving you sightless, stuck, and in pain. Six turns around at the sound and has to stifle a laugh at how ridiculous you look, but then he remembers the little noise you let out in discomfort.

"Y/n," he mumbles with a small smirk that you can't see, "How did you get this stuck?" He watches your body slump with defeat and then your strained voice, "Can you please just help me get out?"

Six bites his tongue and replies smugly, "Yes ma'am," his digits easing the material over your head, leaving your hair disheveled and the rest of you generally unkempt. A deep groan falls from your lips as your tactical vest shifts over your hidden wound and Six pauses, his brows narrowing at your evident discomfort.

He had noted the cut on your left arm that had been leaking blood before, that was one he knew he needed to stitch up. But that injury wasn't the cause of that groan.

Then, his eyes spot the dark, wet material just a few inches above the cut. Fresh blood. His gaze widens as he looks back to the pained expression on your face.

Six throws the hoodie onto the bed before stalking over to you and growling out, "What the hell is that?" With his words, he points to the edge of your vest where the fresh blood is appearing.

You pant as you look up at him, eyes half-lidded as you snarl through gritted teeth, "It's nothing." Six looks at you in disbelief before responding, "It's obviously not nothing, you're starting to bleed out."

Six doesn't give you time to respond, one arm scooping under your legs and the other resting under your back as he picks you up bridal style. You hiss in pain at his movement, but he maneuvers quickly as he carries you into the bathroom.

It's a rather spacious bathroom for such an old building, and Six sets you on the counter so your feet are dangling and you can lean against the wall for support.

Six pauses as he flicks on the light, his blue gaze adjusting to the brightness after a second. He immediately clocks that your wound is leaking fresh blood and that it needs to be closed now.

He leaves you for a second, going back to the bed to grab the medical supplies he had bought before returning to you. Six sets the supplies down on the opposite side of the sink and returns his stormy eyes back to your slumped figure.

"May I touch you? You need patched up," Six asks lowly, his hands hovering on the outside of your legs. You give him a nod, but that's not enough for Six.

"I gotta hear you say it. Once I start, you're gonna wanna hate me," he urges. You try to focus your eyes on him, and you can see the restraint Six is using to hold himself back. He so desperately wants to help you, to fix your torn skin. But he is waiting for your confirmation.

You nodded your head again and whimpered, "Please help me, Six..." At your words, Six's hands gently part your legs at the knee so he can stand between them. His proximity makes your heart race for the umpteenth time today, your breath catching in your throat.

His large hands start to reach for the buckles on your vest, but your fingers reach out and grab his wrist to stop them. Six halts at your movement, his eyes slowly traveling to meet your own.

The agent again sees that look on your face. The fear etched into your features. It cracks at his heart again, and he simply murmurs, "Trust me."

You let go of his wrist and close your eyes in anticipation. Six's digits work efficiently as they unclasp the buckles of your tactical vest, pulling it off and throwing it in the corner of the bathroom.

The black t-shirt you are wearing doesn't help hide the wet patch of blood oozing from your shoulder, and the cause of the wound.

A piece of metal debris an inch or two long is lodged in the meat of your shoulder. Another whimper rips out of your throat as Six finally gets his eyes on what has been causing you so much pain.

He swallows thickly as he turns to his supplies, grabbing a pair of forceps and gauze. Six prompts you, "Hold tight, this is going to hurt." At the end of his words, he grabs the shrapnel with the forceps and pulls it out at what seems to be an agonizing pace.

Your body writhes in pain as he clamps gauze over the wound, fresh blood staining the white material a deep red. Tears well in your eyes and begin streaming down your face, your hands reaching to clutch onto anything to stabilize you.

Your left hand weakly grips the edge of the counter, but your right one finds its place on Six's bicep. Your fingers dig into the large muscle there, holding on for dear life as you go through waves of pain.

"S-Sorry," you sob out as Six holds pressure on your shoulder. He smiles lightly at your sweet apology and he replies easily, "Don't worry about it, darling." His words distract you just enough to form a thought that's not focused on your pain.

I'm not sure if he meant to let the pet name slip out... We aren't in front of Hilda anymore.

Six uses your distracted look as a chance to cut through the material of your shirt with a pair of medical scissors. He only cuts through the left sleeve and a little further past where the wound is to give him access to it.

Once your shirt is out of his way, he readies the needle and suture thread before ripping open a packet of alcohol wipes. The blonde-haired man continues to hold pressure on your shoulder and lets the other hand rub on your thigh just above your knee.

"This is going to sting like a bitch," he reminds as he holds up the alcohol wipe. You nod and preemptively grab a hold of his bicep again, bracing yourself for the biting pain.

Nothing could have prepared you for the utter burn the alcohol wipe sends through your body. It takes everything in you to not scream at the top of your lungs, and your fingers dig so far into Six's arm that you're sure you are ripping his flesh.

Six holds steady, though, and continues to clean your wound as you wriggle and writhe under his touch. He feels terrible inflicting pain on you, but he knows you need these wounds cleaned and closed.

"You're doing great, honey," he vocalizes as he leans over to grab the suture. When he looks up to your face, he's almost taken aback at the intensity there.

Your face is grimy, bloody, and wet. There are tears rolling down your cheeks, mixing and pooling with the dried blood, dripping down your chin. But your eyes? They seem to stare right at the core of him. They see right through his tough exterior, right through all of his training.

They are seeing the gentle touches, the firm embraces. They are seeing the protector he so desperately wants to be. You are seeing Sierra Six as a man, and not just a weapon.

Six's breath catches in his throat at the thought and has to look away from the heat of your gaze. He turns his attention back to your wound and mumbles, "Time to sow this up."

You sit still at his words, waiting for the tug of a needle through your skin. A split second later, you feel the first bite. You clench your jaw down tight, a moan grumbling up from deep in your chest.

Six does his best to work quickly as he pulls the needle and suture through your skin, row after row after row. Eventually, you feel him tie the knot off as exhaustion starts to creep over the edges of your body.

Your body is starting to slump against the wall rather than brace away from it, and your eyes are beginning to burn from crying and from the debris from the carnage. You know you will pass out the second your head lays to rest.

"Stay with me," Six murmurs lowly, "We got a lot more to fix up." Six moves to work on the cut on your arm next, going through the same methodic steps as he did for your shoulder. It still hurts like a bitch, but the exhaustion helps dull it.

Six finishes tying off that suture and then pauses, setting the medical supplies back on the counter. He makes eye contact with you, his gaze softer than expected as he rests his hands on his hips.

"Let me see the back of your head, then you can get a shower and we'll finish packing these wounds, hm?" he poses it as a question, but you know it's a low-threat order.

You take a shaky deep breath and huff out, "Yes sir," jokingly before slowly pushing your way to the edge of the counter. You push off the edge and your feet land on the ground firmly, but your knees wobble and start to buckle.

Six is right there, catching you around your waist with ease. His large hands stabilize you, and are pleasantly warm, as he unknowingly pulls you closer to him.

"Easy there," the words sound out for the second time that day. You are a little dizzy from the sudden movement, and your head falls forward to brush your forehead against his chest.

You feel a wave of embarrassment at how weak you are from being knocked flat on your ass. Since Six turned left down that hallway, you have needed him every second.

"Sorry, I just felt a little lightheaded," you whisper, your voice hoarse from muffling groans. Six rubs one of his hands on your waist reassuringly, "Like I said, don't worry about it. I've been banged up worse than you before, it's not easy."

A comfortable moment passes but then Six pulls back, one hand releasing your waist to brush that stubborn piece of hair out of your eyes. He still has that soft expression on his face when he tells you, "I'm going to look at your head, alright?"

You give him a tight-lipped smile and shuffle 180 degrees so he can look at the back of your head. It's the first time you've seen what you've looked like since being in the car.

You're an absolute mess. Self-depreciating thoughts try to flood your mind, and you will them away with Six standing behind you. He's gently running his fingers along your scalp, looking for the source of the dried blood.

He finds it a second later, and upon closer inspection, he coughs out, "It's just a small nick. Go 'head and get cleaned up and I'll take a look again after. I'll grab you some clothes."

Six takes a slow step back, releasing his hold on you, the touch of his fingers lingering in your mind. He's only gone for a minute, returning with the clean clothes he bought at the small store in town.

You quietly thank him and hastily chuckle, "This is kind of like that time in Dubai." Six's hand comes to land on the door handle, and he pauses for a moment as the memory washes over him. A smile tugs on his lips and he replies lightly, "I gotta say this is probably worse than Dubai."

A moment of silence passes and he throws his head toward the main bedroom area and tuts, "I'll be out here. Take your time, and uh, just let me know if you need any help or anything." At that, Six clicks the door shut, the pink flush returning to his cheeks.

You watch the door close and you pause for a moment, letting the silence swarm over you. It takes a second, but you turn to face the mirror, letting the emotional weight of the day lay on your shoulders.

I should have been better today. I could have been so much better. Because of my inabilities, I almost got killed. I made Six abort a mission for the first time - ever. I am ruining the infamous Sierra Six.

You don't realize silent sobs are wracking your body until you go to pinch your brow and run your hand down your face.

You are such a failure.

The words had crept into your mind before you could stop them, and you push off the counter to try to stop the spiraling train of thought. It lingers in the back of your head, but you try to focus on turning the water to a comfortable temperature.

You unlace your boots, setting them off to the side by your bloodied tactical vest. You manage to strip out of your pants and underwear with minimal difficulty before starting on your shirt.

It's easier to shimmy out of because Six took care of the sleeve you had struggled with before. However, you were trying to not bust the stitches he had worked so diligently on. After a minute or two of shuffling and trying to not hurt yourself, you were finally bare.

Stepping into the shower, you took a deep breath as the water began to rain down on you. You could see the grime and blood start running toward the drain, the water turning a murky greyish-pink color as you started to clean your skin.

Your wounds were sore as they were touched by the water, so you did your best to clean the surrounding blood off with a gentle washcloth. Then, you let yourself stand under the water for a moment. You let the warmth soak into your muscles, into your bones.

You needed that moment. You needed the water to remind you that were human. You needed those wounds to remind you that you were alive.

But you must have been in the bathroom longer than you realized because there are a few knocks on the door and then you hear Six's voice.

"Y/n? You alright in there?" you can hear worry in his voice, and it makes you smile. You realize he can't see you, so you turn off the water and call back, "Yeah, I just need to get dressed."

You don't get a response back, so you assume he heard you and was leaving you to your privacy. You grab one of the towels hanging outside of the shower and dry yourself off carefully, taking care to pat your wounds dry.

Exhaustion is still crawling at the back of your mind, but the shower seemed to rejuvenate some part of you. You make your way over to the clothes Six picked out for you, and you can't help but let a dopey grin onto your lips.

He left you a pair of black sweatpants, in your size, by the way, a clean pair of women's underwear, and then a choice between a light blue women's long sleeve that resembles a crewneck or a men's sized black t-shirt.

You want to put the women's crewneck on. It's one of your favorite colors and the piece looks devastatingly comfortable. But you know you aren't going to be able to get in it yourself and Six won't be able to finish patching you up.

You slide into the large black t-shirt easily, the article definitely chosen with Six's size in mind. You slowly open the door from the bathroom into the bedroom, peering around the room curiously.

Six is nowhere to be seen, and you feel a rush of panic. He's not on the bed. He's not in the chair you said you would take. He's not on the balcony overviewing the street. He's gone.

You start to pace the room, looking for any sign of where he could have gone when you hear the door jingle. A second later, he reappears with two cups in his hands.

You dart at him, wrapping your arms around his torso before you can stop yourself. Six is taken aback by the sudden display of affection, holding both cups away from your body so that neither of you is burned by the seemingly hot liquid.

"I thought you left," you croaked out, your hands fisting at the dirty black t-shirt he was wearing. Six leans back to get a look at your face and his heart further splinters at the look he sees there.

"I was just getting some hot chocolate. You looked like you might need it," he says slowly, setting one of the cups down on a side table and offering one to you, "I'm right here."

You nod shakily as you internally scream at yourself to get it together. You take the warm cup from his hand, your fingers brushing for a moment. You force yourself to move to sit on the end of the bed, mumbling, "I- I'm sorry."

Six frowns at you, tired of hearing those words from your mouth. He takes a couple of steps closer to you as he delicately retaliates, "Look, I already told you, don't worry ab-" "I'm sorry about everything!" you yell out.

The Sierra agent is alarmed by your change in tone, and he remains quiet as you start to talk.

"I'm sorry about rushing you at the door because I thought you were leaving. I'm sorry I have to wear this shirt that's so obviously yours because I can't get in the other one you got me. I'm sorry I was so out of sorts while you were patching me up. I'm sorry I blew the mission today and ruined your reputation," you gush out, fresh tears lining your eyes as the words tumble out.

A whimper falls from your lips as the words blurt from your mouth, "I'm sorry for being such a terrible partner," your free hand coming up to cover your face as you start to cry. Your hand holding the hot chocolate wobbles and you can't keep it together anymore.

Tears of anguish race down your cheeks, your body heaving as your world comes crashing down on you. Six had moved closer to you as you spoke, and now gently pries the drink out of your hands as you weep.

He sets it on the table next to his before kneeling down in front of you on the bed. His lengthy fingers delicately wrap around your wrists, slowly pulling them away from your tear-stained face.

You initially resist him, sputtering out, "D-don't look at me while I'm like this, I look-" "Beautiful," he voices profoundly.

You stop crying for a second to look at him as you repeat, "Beautiful?" Six looks up at you apprehensively, a look of nervousness passing over his angled features. He slowly pulls your wrists down, and this time you let him.

Six shuffles closer to you, now parting your thighs to get closer to you. His right hand comes up to cup your left cheek where the small cut is. He swipes away the tears there, his blue gaze stormy and complex.

His gaze trails over your face, openly and unashamedly looking at you. When he finally makes eye contact with you, he reaffirms with a slight nod, "You look beautiful."

He smiles at you tenderly as he starts, "Seeing you run toward me at the door is something I've dreamed of countless nights." You blink in surprise at the confession, but you don't interrupt him.

"For the record, I think that shirt looks great on you. If you feel more comfortable in the other one, I'll help you get into it," he whispers. You can feel the intensity of his words, and you feel heat creeping toward your face.

"I never, ever, wanted to have to patch you up again after Dubai, because I think a part of me dies seeing you in these volumes of pain. But today, seeing you lying there in the debris, calling for me?" Six takes a deep breath and looks away before muttering, "That is my worst nightmare."

He pauses for a second, letting his words sink in. The blonde-haired man shrugs his shoulders once and continues, "And yeah, you did kind of ruin the mission," and your gaze falters at that, shame covering your features.

But Six is one step ahead of you, tilting your chin back up to meet his blue gaze. "You could have checked that door differently, looked for some other indicator," he states matter-of-factly.

"It was just a door," you mumble, tears threatening to spill again. Six holds you delicately as he says, "It was just a door. It was a door that you never should have been next to. You never should have been a part of that mission in the way that you were."

Hurt flashes rampantly across your face, but before you can reply, Six cuts you off, "You should have been where you work best," and he gives you a smile, "Watching my back and blasting goons from hundreds of yards away."

That comment makes you smile, and Six sighs as he murmurs, "There she is." That comment makes you blush, and you go to wipe at your cheeks before wincing as you agitate the cut there.

Six notices right away and pushes away from you, disappearing into the bathroom for a moment. He returns with the medical supplies and a damp washcloth.

He offers you the washcloth, letting you wipe your face to remove both your wet and dry tears. Six turns to face you with that tender look in his eyes again and he murmurs, "Let's finish getting you patched up."

You nod and heat runs up your body as you ask shyly, "Will you help me get into the other sweatshirt afterward?" Six smirks as he replies with a quip of, "Only if you'll sleep on the bed and not on that god-awful chair."

You let out a playful groan, "Fineee, I guess we have a deal." Six lets the smirk fade into a kind smile at the corner of his mouth, getting to work on putting patches over your shoulder wound and the slice on your arm.

His gentle fingers help place a bandaid on your cheek, leaving him lingering in close proximity. Six can't help the way his eyes flit down to your lips before returning to your (colored) gaze. You were simply intoxicating to him.

He forces himself to pull away with half-lidded eyes and instead says, "Let's get you into that other sweatshirt." You could have whined at the loss of contact with the tall blonde-haired man, but you do as he says, heading to the bathroom where the other shirt lay.

You grab it and walk back out to the bedroom saying, "So if I turn around and pull this shirt off, can you just help guide my arms and head through this one?"

Six just nods like the gentleman he is, turning his back to you as you take off the large and very oversized black shirt meant for him. You feel a wave of self-consciousness as you call over your shoulder, "O-okay. I have my arms through the holes, I just need help lifting it over my head."

Six slowly turns around, letting you know his intentions with every obvious movement he makes. Keeping his eyes fixed on the light blue material, he makes every effort to ignore the curve of your body so close to his as he reaches over your shoulder, pulling the hole in the material toward your head.

He hears you hiss in pain at one particularly awkward angle, but you mumble, "I'm good." Six finishes pulling the shirt down to sit around your waist, delicately pulling your hair trapped on the inside of the shirt out to lay against your neck.

You turn around to face him and offer him the black t-shirt with a shy smile, "I only wore it for those few minutes if you still want it."

Six just huffs at your shyness and he smoothly tugs it out of your hands before throwing it over his shoulder. He motions over to your hot chocolate, "Better drink that before it gets too cold. I'm hopping in the shower."

At the end of his words, he ducks around you, grabbing the remaining clothes off of the bed and slipping into the bathroom. You don't know that he leans against the bathroom door, cursing himself for not being able to just lean in that extra inch...

But it doesn't matter. He needs to get a shower and you need to get rest.

In the bedroom, you find yourself sipping on the hot chocolate you know Hilda must have made. You throw the extra medical supplies back into one of the empty bags and dig through the snacks that Six had gotten.

You find a pack of Skittles and snicker, knowing that the man just on the other side of the door has the biggest sweet tooth, other than you. You rip the packet open and toss a couple in your mouth, thankful for the candy as you place your empty cup of hot chocolate in the trash.

The comfort of the crewneck and sweatpants starts tearing at your exhaustion again, and you find yourself crawling toward the headboard to slide under the covers.

A moment later, Six appears fresh out of the shower. He dons the black T-shirt you gave him back, as well as a pair of loose-fitting grey sweatpants. You swallow thickly as he makes his way over to the uncomfortable-looking chair.

"W-wait," you call out, causing Six to pause and look at you. His blonde locks are dark with water from the shower, and your mind short-circuits for a second with the way he is looking at you. You astutely point to the bed, "We can share," you blurt out.

You curse yourself internally for being so clumsy about the situation. Especially when you see Six frown and start to shake his head, "I don't want to bother y-" "Six, please," you practically beg.

This makes him pause his movements at the desperation in your voice. He looks over at you, waiting in bed for him, and then back to the brown rickety chair.

He sighs in defeat and runs a hand through his damp hair, moving to sit on the edge of the bed near your feet. Six takes a moment to look at you. You're sat up in the middle of the small bed, your back leaning on the pillows as you watch him back. Suddenly, he wonders what position will be the most comfortable for you.

Would it be best if you each took one side and laid on your backs? Do you typically sleep on your side? Would you be weirded out if he accidentally touched you unknowingly while you slept?

You could see Six's mind running a mile a minute, and you grab his hand as you throw his words back in his face, "Trust me."

Six cracks a smile at your words and shuffles to face you. You can't help but fight off a wave of heat that crosses your face as you take a good look at him.

He's basically unscathed, clad in that black t-shirt that clings to every contour of his body. His well-trimmed goatee frames his pretty mouth and those eyes. Those stormy, stormy eyes.

They are staring at you with that undetectable emotion. Six shifts again, moving closer to the headboard and toward you, the air in the room crackling with tension. He stretches his body out over the top of the covers as he positions his body in line with yours.

Propping himself up on his right elbow, he leans over you, cupping your uninjured cheek in his left hand. Slowly but with confidence, he brings your face up to his. Your foreheads touch, and a shiver runs through you at his warmth.

You want to lean forward, to capture his lips for yourself, but you wait. Six is taking the moment in fully. He will only get to experience this once, and he wants it to be engraved in his mind forever.

His stormy gaze pins that undetectable emotion on you with such ferocity that you want to look away, but you don't. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and then he whispers, "May I kiss you?"

You nod and murmur back, "I want nothing more." At your confirmation, Six slowly leans in, still giving you plenty of time to back out.

Instead, you lean forward to meet him, his mouth crashing on yours in a dizzyingly slow and languid kiss. A groan of satisfaction crawls up the back of Six's throat, and his hand moves from cupping your face to sliding into your damp (colored) locks.

Every movement is slow and thought out as his lips dance across your own. Your nose brushes against his in a comforting way, and the tickle of his goatee is surprisingly pleasant.

You could live in this moment forever. Six was pouring every ounce of himself before you, you would gladly drink every last drop of his affection up.

Six slowly pulls away, nuzzling his nose against yours before letting his eyes flutter open. You're not in much better shape than he is, and when you meet his gaze, the two of you know everything has changed.

Six tightens his grip on your hair ever-so-slightly before murmuring with conviction, "I love you, Y/n." A watery smile begins to tug at your lips as you reply, "I love you too, Six."

He gives you that tender smile and leans in one final time, leaving a chaste but sweet kiss on your waiting mouth.

You whine when he pulls away, making the Sierra agent chuckle as he mumbles, "Don't worry, there can be more where that came from later. You need to get some rest, you Skittles stealer."

Your ears burn in slight embarrassment that you were caught, but not for long when Six shuffles to turn the lights off and slide under the covers with you. The large man shuffles onto his right side, gently pushing and pulling your body until he is spooning you.

With his heavy arm locked around your waist, you finally feel comfortable enough to give in to your exhaustion. Before you know it, the two of you are out cold. Maybe a little beaten up, maybe a little lovesick, but definitely content.

Tagging: @proper-goodnight (@bluebellhairpin @xxpadfootxx @anlian-aishang just b/c y'all sat through this brain rot both knowingly and unknowingly)

[the-marshals-wife]

Refuge (Sierra Six x Reader)

─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 𝐑𝐘𝐀𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⋅☆⋅ 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─

A/N: It's official: I'm obsessed with The Gray Man. I've watched it 3 times so far in under 2 months, and I really wanted to write something sweet for my current favorite Goose character.

Description: Sierra Six/Courtland Gentry x Fem!Reader, established (secret) relationship; flirty, steamy fluff + angst if you squint | Warnings: suggestive themes, kissing, alcohol | Setting: post-movie | Word count: 1,746

Gif credit: user magnusedom

Imagine Six returning to you, his best kept secret, and asking you to come away with him

There was only one thing in the world that could make you open the front door of your apartment after midnight. The instant you recognize the familiar, distinct sequence of knocking, you shoot upright from your slumber and scramble off of the sofa, the book on your chest flying across the floor from where you had dozed off. Having almost tripped on the rug, you release the dead bolt and frantically fumble with the chain lock. Heart pounding, you slide it loose and jerk open the door.

Waiting on the other side like an apparition was a smiling face you weren't sure you'd ever lay eyes on again.

"Sorry for the late hour, ma'am. Could I trouble you for a cup of sugar?"

"Court!"

You couldn't help it. His name, the name only you could use, escapes your lips like a cry.

"May I come in?" he gestures.

You grab his arm and usher him inside.

"Where have you been?" you asked in a hushed voice, looking over him.

"Here, there, everywhere," he answers, leaning back against the closed door. "Spent a little time in nowhere too."

"I've been so worried about you! I haven't heard from you in months. I know that's the job, but it's been so long without a sign or anything. I was afraid something happened to you. I didn't know what to think," you say all at once.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'll explain everything, I promise. Just, let me look at you first," he says, gazing on you softly, "Wow. How is that possible?"

"What?"

"How are you more beautiful than the last time I saw you?"

You feel your cheeks turn red, but it doesn't keep you from pointing a finger to his chest.

"If you think being a smoothie is going to get you out an explanation, think again, buster."

He wraps his arms around your waist.

"Fair enough," he nods, "It's still true though. You're even prettier when you're angry."

"I must be stunning then," you smirk.

He brings his hand up to lift your chin, leaning in close, "Incredibly."

The waning space between you vanishes as he captures your lips. You lean into his touch, savoring every sensation you'd missed so much. From the warm, smokiness of his scent to the gentle scratch of his beard on your skin. When he finally pulls away, you're nearly breathless.

"Why don't you make yourself at home, stranger?" you propose, composing yourself, "You want a drink?"

"I wouldn't say no to a beer," he replies.

"Coming right up," you say, turning towards the kitchen, "They feed you in 'nowhere'? I got half of a leftover sub here, and some really leftover pizza I can nuke in the microwave."

"Tempting, but I'm good for now, thanks. Just the beer," you hear him say as you grab two bottles from the fridge.

"Good call, honestly. We can just order take out or something."

He doesn't respond, and it immediately catches your attention. You grab the bottle opener from the drawer and make quick work of the caps. With a faraway look in his eye, he stands on the other side of the modest island that separates the kitchen area from the living area. You extend the bottle towards him, and even when he takes it from your grasp, he's barely shaken from his silent reverie.

Too worried to imbibe, you set your own drink down on the counter. "Court, what's wrong? I can tell something is bothering you."

He takes a drink, which is followed by a long pause.

"Do you remember Fitzroy's niece, Claire?"

You nod. "Of course. Is she alright?"

"She is now," he sighs, setting his jaw, "Fitzroy is gone."

"What?" you say, rounding the island to be at his side.

"It's a long story, but some bad people got ahold of Claire to get to him, because of something that I did. We took care of it in the end, but...he didn't make it."

He takes another hefty drink and puts down the bottle.

"Court, I'm so sorry," you say, touching his arm, "I know how much he meant to you."

He turns to face you. "He did. Now Claire has no one, except me. And that's what I came here to talk to you about."

Your pulse quickens at the seriousness in his voice.

"Her and I have been on the run the past couple weeks. Staying ahead of Carmichael and his goon squad."

"Wait, you escaped the agency?" you ask, shocked.

"Didn't have a choice after they tried to use her as leverage to get me to keep doing their dirty work. I got her out, which means I'm out too, for good," he confirms solemnly, "I've found a place for us where we might actually have a shot at a normal-ish life."

You stare at him wide-eyed.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying...I'm all she has left. She needs me. And I need you," he says, gently rubbing your upper arms, "Before, I couldn't give you the life you deserved. But this could be my second chance. I think I might have finally gotten to the top of the hill, and I want you there with me."

"Oh Court, I don't know..." you hesitate, mind reeling, "I don't know anything about raising a kid."

He grins. "Neither do I. We can figure it out together. I mean there's gotta be a manual or something, right?"

You can't help but snort at the idea. Just as more protests are forming on your tongue, he gives you a look so disarming that you forget the words entirely.

"Come away with me, Y/N."

He takes your hand in his.

"It won't be easy, and it definitely won't be perfect. I know I've got no right to ask you to leave everything behind. But I've loved you from the very beginning, and I will protect you with everything I have."

His vow brings tears to your eyes. He laid his heart bare, and in doing so, he'd banished the last of your meager doubts.

"Well, when you put it that way," you say.

You grab the collar of his jacket in your fists and pull him into a kiss. He hums in pleasant surprise and laces his fingers through your hair. After another heated moment of rediscovery, you at last loosen your grip and surface from the embrace.

"Is that a yes?" he chuckles.

"It is," you answer, your smile becoming nervous as your thoughts turn to the future, "Do you think Claire will like me?"

"Oh, don't worry, she's going to love you," he smirks, letting you go and walking over to the window. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'm going to survive you two. This was probably a bad idea."

"Now I really I can't wait to meet her," you tease.

Your amusement fades, however, as you watch him part the curtain and cautiously peer up at the surrounding rooftops.

Dread stirs in the pit of your stomach.

"How much time do we have?" you ask.

"We should probably get you packed up," he says over his shoulder.

"Really? I thought we'd at least have tonight. Are you being followed right now?"

"Not yet. No one knows about this place. But the longer I'm here, the greater the possibility that changes," he frowns, "I need to get back to Claire. I took a risk coming here. She can't be alone for long."

You mind begins to race as your gaze darts around your apartment and belongings. The framed pictures scattered across the walls of old friends and family you hardly see suddenly meant more than anything tucked away in the safe beneath your bed. But could you even take them? Would having any ties to your old life be too dangerous?

Old life. The thought makes your head spin.

"This is happening so fast," you say as you rub your temples, "I never thought I'd just leave everything. I don't even know what to take with me."

"Hey," he says, stepping back over to you, "It's alright. Listen, I know I got caught up in pouring out my dumb old heart a minute ago, but you don't have to do this, Y/N. If you want to stay, I understand."

"No, I'm coming with you," you deny, "I want to be with you, no matter where we have to go. I've never wanted anything more. You have made it to the top, Court, and I wouldn't miss the view for anything."

All this time, you had been the only refuge in the world for "Sierra Six". Now, more than ever, he was becoming yours.

He kisses your forehead softly and smiles down on you.

"How about we just start small, and go from there. Baby steps. Like, maybe a suitcase?" he suggests.

"Sounds good," you agree, "Guess I don't need to pack the kitchen sink for wherever we're going?"

He snickers, "No, we have one of those. Got one in the bathroom too. We even have a toilet."

"I wasn't expecting such luxury," you smirk.

"I mean you have to hold the handle down a little to get it to flush, but other than that," he quips.

"Well, I suppose I'll survive," you say in mock exasperation.

"We do have a TV, so that kinda makes up for it. Plus, I got queen bed all to myself. I might could be persuaded into sharing, though."

You cross your arms, eyeing his suggestive look.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, but you'll have to sleep on top of the covers. I don't wanna get your girl germs on my sheets."

"Courtland Gentry," you grunt, smacking his arm.

You take off down the hall to your room, and he follows after you laughing.

"What? What'd I say?" he asks, knowing full well.

"Why don't I just sleep on the floor?" you pose.

You bolt over to your dresser and start rummaging through your clothes, keeping your back to him.

"Okay, you're right. That was unfair of me," he concedes.

Biting your lip, you spin around with your eyebrows raised.

He stands in the doorway, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket and unwrapping it, "You can get under the comforter."

You throw a shirt at him, shaking your head.

"Shut up and help me pack."

He pops the gum in his mouth and smiles.

"Yes ma'am."

[zsuo]

Ryan Gosling as SIERRA SIX in The Gray Man

[drivinmeinsane]

Witness in the Dark

※ Sierra Six x Claire's Older Sister!Reader ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { requested fic }

※ Summary: Don't we all just want to feel the companionable reassurance of another human being?

It only takes a single tragedy to tear your life to shreds and make it to where you're unable to sleep through the night. You tell yourself that you will never trust a bodyguard again, but things don't go according to plan when a man with a number for a name is assigned to the Fitzroy household while your uncle is away

※ Rating: T for suggestive themes and canon typical violence.

※ Content/Tags: Slow burn, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Night terrors, Pining, Unspecified age gap, Movie based - Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Obsessive behaviors from both parties, Descriptions of injuries, Mentions of parental death, Mentions of past kidnapping, Mentions of past torture, Implied death of minor character(s)

※ Word count: 12,637

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

※ Author's Notes: I don't know what came over me. This really got uncontrollably out of hand and ended up being wildly self indulgent. Huge thanks for @danime25 for proofreading this. I owe you my life.

"Ladies!" Your sister's nurse calls as she walks into the room. "I want to introduce you to Six. He'll be looking after the house while Mister Donald is away."

You look up from your position next to Claire on her bed only to meet the eyes of the man following the nurse. They're startlingly blue. His face is impassive as he turns away and surveys the room. He carries himself with an easy grace that hints at the violence that his body could produce. He reeks of danger. You instantly don't appreciate his presence. You had fought with Uncle Fitz tooth and nail over hiring a bodyguard for the duration of his trip away from the home. This man’s presence here means you have clearly lost that argument.

"Only the two exits?" He questions, moving past the bed to stand at the ceiling to floor windows. 

"Yeah." Your tone is hard, biting. The nurse gives a small gasp at your rudeness and says your name disapprovingly.

The man, Six, turns away from the window to look at you with a raised eyebrow. You stare at each other silently, sizing the other up. There’s a flicker of some emotion that you might label as respect in his eyes before Claire, picking up on your hostility, throws her hat in the ring.

"We don't chew gum in this house." You've never loved your little sister's faux-snob act more than in this moment. She snaps a photo of him with her Polaroid, staged records forgotten. He doesn't look particularly pleased about it. It’s more exasperated acceptance than anger though.

He's silent for a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry. I wasn't briefed." 

There’s a trace of a smile on his face. It’s irritating and you have to look away from him. You stare at a record sleeve like your life depends on it. He asks for the photo and picks it up. You see a flash of a tattoo on his hand as he plucks the Polaroid off of the bedspread. Poorly done and worn with age. He’s definitely one of Uncle Fitz’s prison recruits then. One of the most morally dubious options he could have saddled you with in his absence. Perfect.

He says his goodbyes to you and Claire before leaving the room. Your heart is beating irrationally rapidly and your mouth is dry. The man with a number for a name is stirring up nothing but bad memories. You know you won’t sleep well tonight. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

“What kind of name is Six anyway?” Claire asks first thing in the morning after she tosses herself into a chair at the kitchen table. The man in question gives her a long look. 

"007 was already taken so…" He says with a relaxed shrug, coffee mug in hand. He's leaning against the kitchen counter in the same suit as yesterday.

You choke back a laugh at the sight of your sister's expression. You accidentally meet Six's eyes over her head. There's warmth in them that douses your amusement immediately. You sober up and turn back to your breakfast. Softness in someone doing his line of work felt… wrong. He isn't trustworthy, you decide, no matter how kind he acts. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up with a start. The coppery tang of blood mixed with the dry powder of concrete lingers in your subconscious. It takes several heaving breaths to clear your airway and bring you back to the present. You shakily sit up. You press your palms into your eyes. You try to forget the sensation of a knife in your skin. You're here. You're safe . You're one of the last people your sister has. You're the stable one.

You get to your feet in the dark bedroom and open your door to step out into the hall. You trail unsteady fingertips down the plaster and paint as you make your way to the kitchen and living area. 

There's a barely audible scuffle and you peer through the gloom to see Six stalking you. You catch the barest glimpse of his face in a strip of moonlight. It's intent. Predatory. There's no hint of recognition, not while you move through the darkest parts of the room.

You feel cold. Your pulse starts to hammer in your veins. Your throat works uselessly. Words won't come out of your mouth. You forge along to the kitchen and fumble for the light. The kitchen is awash in a blinding glow right as you feel heat against your back. It immediately withdraws as the bodyguard removes himself from your personal space. You don't turn to face him while you get a glass from the cupboard and fill it with ice and water at the fridge's dispenser. You stare blankly at the burnished steel while you take sip after sip.

You refill your glass. You blink. You take a drink. You pretend like your mind isn't shattered. You pretend like the man your uncle hired hadn't been about to…

"Are you alright?" Six's voice cuts through the fog in your mind. It's like a lantern has been lit to guide you back into the waking world.

You find yourself then and turn to look at him. You study him. He looks slightly rumpled and tired. There's tension around his eyes and his mouth is set in an almost apologetic frown. 

"Just another nightmare. Sorry for disturbing you."

The frown deepens. "You didn't. I was caught by surprise, that's all."

"Fair warning, me out here like this is probably going to be a regular occurrence." You smile wanly. "I know you want us in bed, but I don't do the whole staying put thing so well most nights."

He just nods. He's accepted your words without protest. The frown fades away.

You gesture with your glass in the vague direction of your bedroom. "I'm going to go ahead and excuse myself. Goodnight, Six."

"Goodnight." 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Weeks go by. The household falls into a comfortable enough routine. Claire ribs him good-naturedly every chance she gets. He's always got a faint aura of amusement every time she takes a shot at him. You hadn't yet seen him get angry. Pretending to be annoyed? Yes, but never actually expressing any negative emotion beyond mild exasperation. Not yet, anyway. 

He sends the both of you to bed every night after Claire's nurse takes her leave. You inevitably get up in the middle of the night after another vivid nightmare. Six is always either watching the camera footage or doing his rounds. He's stopped being surprised by your presence after the night he hunted you. You linger in the kitchen doorway night after night, watching him keep vigil. He's got a soft face, you've decided. There's tension there, likely from worry and lack of sleep, but not cruelty. You've begun to wonder if he has the capability for it. You know he must. Uncle Fitz has kept you in the dark about a lot of the work he does, but you know a kind man wouldn’t have been a candidate for whatever program your uncle runs. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You're woken up a few nights later by the sound of hands scrabbling on your door. Your eyes snap open and you remain frozen for a second before you hear Claire's muffled voice. You're immediately out of bed so fast you stumble and twist your ankle painfully. You fling the door open and next thing you know, your little sister falls wheezing into your arms. "Something's… Something's wrong." She gasps out.

She can't breathe and is clutching at her chest with weak hands. Horror races down your back and you're pulling her into your arms in a clumsy embrace, desperately trying to keep her upright.

"Six!" The name is torn from you in a shout. You never thought you would be screaming for a man you'd told yourself you couldn't trust.

He's there in an instant. He puts a steadying hand on your back before he gently pulls Claire away and lifts her up into his arms. She wheezes again and both you and Six freeze.

"I'm okay." she whispers. She looks so small and breakable in the bodyguard's thick arms. Like a bird plucked from the sky, held the mercy of a giant's hands.

"Can you get the keys for the car and unlock it?" His voice washes over you. Its steadiness anchors you to reality. You manage a "Yeah." and take off through the house to the garage, making a pit-stop to snag the keys from their bowl. Your ankle is throbbing. Six is close behind, his brisk stride and long legs keeping time with your hurried scrambling. You mash the unlock button on the fob and throw yourself into the backseat. Claire is gently deposited in after you. Her head is resting on your lap. You comb through her brown hair with shaky hands. 

"Mount St. Mary's." You tell Six the moment he's halfway into the driver's seat. "They're the ones who put her pacemaker in."

He grunts in response, backing out of the garage. You don't remember when you handed him the keys or when the garage door was opened. You don't think about anything other than your little sister. You can't lose her too. You've already lost so much of your family and of yourself. The ride passes in a blur. You're only fleetingly aware of the passing lights. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it's beating for Claire and you both. You whisper pleas and promises to her, stroking her forehead with shaking hands.

You're pulled out of your trance by Six yanking the passenger door open, and you help guide your sister into his capable arms. The medical team whisks Claire into the back immediately the moment he has her on the stretcher. You're left in a stiff, vinyl chair in the waiting room. Bodies haven't been in it long enough to soften the material. You're filling out intake paperwork on your sister's behalf. Six stands next to you, hands clasped in front of himself. You glance over, checking his watch every few seconds, your leg bouncing in place. Nervousness and fear wash over you in all-consuming waves. 

He catches your glance as your eyes dart over yet again.

"You holding up alright?'' His questions surprise you. He rarely is the one to initiate conversations. His gaze is steady, grounding, blue eyes watching you intently.

"Not really." You admit, inhaling and exhaling jaggedly. He nods. There's tension around his eyes. Is he worried too? You have to look away from his face and instead talk to his watch. "She's my sister. I need to keep her safe. I can't lose her too."

You hear him make a noise in response. You watch the seconds tick by one by one on his watch. The two of you are silent for approximately thirty-seven of them before Six breaks the moment by undoing the metal clasp. He pulls the watch away from his skin, revealing a bar of ink across the underside of his surprisingly delicate wrist before he's handing it to you.

"Here."

You stare at the dangling watch blankly before looking up at his face. "What?"

"Keep it safe for me for a while." His tone leaves no room for argument. You reach out with hesitant fingers and take it from his grasp. The steel is warm in your hand. You swallow thickly and drape the watch over your wrist, waiting for the sickening feeling of having your hands bound to hit you. It doesn't. You clumsily latch the buckle. It's sized perfectly for the man diligently standing at your side, no possibility of tightening it without it being resized altogether. It hangs off your wrist like a loose bracelet and you realize then just how big Six is. 

He hides his mass well. His muscles are concealed discretely enough underneath blazers and tailored trousers. He simply doesn't take up space in whatever room he's in, always the expert at being unremarkable, unobtrusive, and not worth remembering. But this… this is a dead giveaway. You cast a sideways glance at his hands and, for a dizzying moment, you wonder how your hand would look pressed palm to palm with one of his.

"Miss Fitzroy. Your sister is cleared for visitors now if you would like to see her." A nurse's voice cuts into your illogical musings.

You stand up so abruptly that the chair you were just sitting on screeches agonizingly loud on the polished vinyl flooring before it thuds into the wall. The nurse flinches slightly, but Six is steady at your side. He falls into step behind you as you follow the man through the winding hallways to Claire.

The doctor stops you at the door, arm barring you for a moment before letting it drop. "She's stabilized. Tell your uncle there was a programming glitch. We were able to repair it. Non-invasive." She pauses for a moment, giving the man hovering behind you a hard look before continuing. "The remote system flagged it ten minutes before he pulled up."

"You're able to monitor from that distance?" You interrupt. 

"We can keep track of her pacemaker from just about anywhere. You may see her. She can be released later tonight after we have her under observation for a while longer.” The doctor catches your pinched expression and adds. “Just to be safe.”

You nod, gaze bypassing her to focus on Claire. She’s been watching the exchange and, at your attention, she pulls a weak smile under her oxygen mask while raising a pale hand to flash the rocker sign. The doctor finally steps aside but not before blocking Six as he makes to follow you into the room. “Only family allowed.”

You look at her incredulously and open your mouth to protest before Six cuts you off. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.” His tone is bland, unemotional. He arranges himself to stand with his back to the inside of the open door. He’s obnoxiously in the way of anyone that would need to come or go. He spends the passing minutes as they bleed into hours standing there like a steadfast sentinel. Back straight, hand clasped over his right wrist, left wrist startlingly bare, head lowered in waiting supplication; he’s the very image of patient servitude.

You sit at your sister's side in your own vigil. The three of you wait in tired silence until a nurse finally announces Claire is free to be discharged. 

She fusses as she's helped into a wheelchair. You and Six stand aside, letting the staff fight the battle. They win, but as soon as everyone spills out of the automatic doors, she's pulling herself out of the mobility aid. She gently slaps away yours and Six's reaching hands when the two of you try to steady her. "Don't you dare."

"But-" you start to protest before you're immediately shut down. "I can walk to the car. I'm not that much of an invalid."

Six doesn't even try to say anything, just forges ahead through the parking lot like nothing happened. He's learned by now that there's no arguing with your little sister. The traitor. You and Claire make it to the vehicle after him and you move to slide into the back seat with her but she pulls a face.

"You're smothering meeeee." she exaggeratedly whines. You give her a flat look. "Smothered." she insists. She dramatically points at the front of the car and raises insistent eyebrows.

You end up buckling yourself into the front passenger seat with an exasperated sigh. You look over at Six. The tension has bled away from his face. He looks more relaxed, relieved even. He notices your stare and the two of you make eye contact. You roll your eyes pointedly at your sister’s antics. Six maintains a serious expression until it cracks and you’re rewarded with the bodyguard's smile.

Six's arm brushes ever so slightly against yours when he puts the vehicle into reverse and then into drive. The feeling of his warmth lingers like a brand on your skin. His watch hangs heavily around your wrist. You fight the urge to gently touch the gleaming metal and instead interlink your own fingers together hard enough to hurt.  

You spend the car ride sagged against the leather of the passenger seat, desperately trying to focus on the passing scenery and not the man seated next to you. Not his kindness, not the way he had kept you grounded. You tell yourself he was just doing his job. Any bodyguard would have been tender and careful with your sister…  and with you. You try to not read into what Six offering his watch to you for "safe keeping" might possibly mean.

Soon you're back at the house, waiting in the garage with your little sister while the hired man does a sweep of the building to make sure no one has breached the perimeter while it lay vacant. Claire is tucked against your side. She's bleary eyed with exhaustion. 

"Clear." Six's voice cuts into the silence of the garage.

You tow Claire along with you and sit her down at the table. She slumps with her cheek resting in her hand. You busy yourself with getting a bowl of ice cream set in front of her.

She gulps it down in huge mouthfuls. Six sits to your right at the head of the table while she eats. His eyes are focused on the screen of his laptop. You're sitting across from your sister, half curled up in the dining chair. The adrenaline has long since left your body, leaving you feeling heavy with exhaustion.

"You feeling better?" Six directs at Claire.

"Just another Thursday." She says with a shrug. "Uncle Donald and my sister say this is the best medicine. Ice cream. I tend to agree."

"They're smart people."

"Only family I got." 

Six’s response is instant, like he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t get them out of his mouth fast enough. “Fitz’s the closest thing to family I’ve had in a long while.”

"Maybe that kind of makes us family." 

You catch the way that he smiles. He ducks his head to hide it, but you see the hopeless spread of it across his face. There’s something so tender and vulnerable in his eyes that you get stung by a pang in your chest. Your heart aches for the people sitting at the table with you. Claire for carrying the loss of your parents and Six for whose closest hint of a familial tie is his boss. You get pulled out of your spiraling thoughts by Claire yawning. 

"You should go to bed." His voice is soft.

You haul yourself to your feet, exhausting hanging on you like a blanket. You whisk Claire’s empty bowl away and gently touch her shoulder. “C’mon, you heard the man.” 

She grumbles a little and stands up with you. You’re about to guide her to her bedroom but she pauses and turns. “‘Night, Robot.”

“Goodnight, Claire.” He sounds exasperated with an undercurrent of amusement.

He doesn’t look away from the screen as you and your younger sister retire for the night. You fall into bed, wrung out from the hospital trip. It’s not until you’re firmly under the covers and settled into bed that you realize you’re still wearing Six’s watch. You stare at it, warring with yourself on if you should scrape yourself off of the mattress to go give it to the bodyguard keeping vigil at the table or to just set it aside to give to him in the morning. You do neither of those things. You fall asleep watching the silver metal reflect the moonlight peering through the shivering curtains. You do not dream of your past captors and their leering smiles that night. Instead, you dream of a comforting hand on your wrist, the gentle hum of a deep voice. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

The three of you settle back into routine following Claire’s hospital visit, but things have shifted slightly following that night. You gave Six his watch back the following morning before your sister got out of bed and before her nurse arrived for the day. He took it from your hesitantly offered hand. His thick fingers gently brushed your palm as he lifted the piece from it. Your wrist has felt desolate, too light ever since you took it off. You try to ignore it all, try to regain the distance you had before. You don’t succeed. Something about Uncle Fitz’s hired man keeps eroding the walls built from mistrust and agony. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You snap awake, soaked through with rapidly cooling sweat. You’re certain you didn’t scream out. Your throat isn’t sore, but your face is wet, moisture clinging to your lashes. You must have been silently sobbing through your nightmare. You uncurl yourself from your tensed position and drag yourself out of bed. You walk through the darkened hallway to the kitchen. You make sure to roughly trail your hand along the wall and clear your throat. It won’t do anyone any favors to startle Six. 

You get your glass of water and make your way into the main sprawl of rooms. The bodyguard is sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, as he is most nights. You pull out a chair and sit down with your glass. You look at it hollowly, trying to ignore the lingering terror from your nightmares. You can't but notice Six’s eyes flickering over to you now and again. There’s a concerned crease between his eyebrows.

“Rough night?”

“The usual. As Claire says, it’s just another Thursday.” Your voice comes out more bitter than you intend. You tighten your grip on your cup until it feels like it might shatter in your hand. You force yourself to loosen your clenched fingers. 

The man seated at the table with you gives an acknowledging hum, sedately chewing his gum. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force any explanations out of you. You relax a little in your seat. Having another human being awake and nearby is a comfort. You rest your cheek on your hand and observe him. He looks tired. The light coming from the screen serves only to highlight the weariness weighing down his face and stooping his usually rigid shoulders. Looking at him like this reminds you of the night you watched this man and your sister interact after he drove you both home from Mount St. Mary’s. 

“She’s happier with you around, you know.”

There's such a long silence following your unprompted comment that you don't think he'll respond but he finally does. "She's a good kid."

"Yeah. Yeah she is." You don’t think you could have clung to life in the wake of the incident without her there to be strong for. Most weeks, she was the only reason you bothered to try to function.

You drain the rest of your glass and stand up. The ice clinks. You dump it in the sink and put the cup in the top rack of the dishwasher. You felt wrung out enough to attempt sleep again. You pause in the doorway and look back at the man at the table. "Six."

He looks up, eyebrow raised. His lips are slightly parted. 

"'Night."

"Goodnight." You can’t decipher his tone.

Your nightmares don’t return that night. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

About a month later, you’re screaming and thrashing in your bed. You’re choking under your captor’s hands, the sensation of soaked cloth over your face. You feel the pressure of those cruel fingers on your throat, over your mouth. Water moistening every ragged inhale. You can’t breathe.

Six’s response is all but instantaneous from the moment he hears your first scream. He pushes your door open, one hand on the knob and the other wrapped around his drawn gun. He’s sweeping his eyes across the dark room, There’s no attacker to find, there’s only you writhing on your bed, plagued by your own mind. He holsters his weapon and goes to your side. He tries calling your name, but there’s no acknowledgement, only your panicked wheezing. He puts one knee on the mattress for stability and grabs your upper arms. He tries to shake you awake. That gets a reaction. You start fighting him. Your hands claw and hit at him. He ignores it and repeats your name, asking you to wake up with an edge of desperation to his voice. He’s wildly unprepared for this. A physical enemy he can handle, but this…

You come out of it, going limp in his hold. Your chest is heaving. You blink away the lingering horrors of your dream and look up at him, horrified. For a split second your panic flares anew until you focus on his face. You remind yourself that you know this man, that you trust him with your sister’s life. He releases his grip on you and leans to turn on your bedside lamp. You wince against the explosion of light before bolting upright to reach towards his face. He’s scratched and you wonder if he’s going to be sporting a black eye. He lets your fingertips rest on his cheek for a heartbeat, something unreadable in his eyes before he’s withdrawing his knee from the mattress and standing at the side of your bed. He’s the picture of composure.

“I’m so sorry.” Guilt is suffocating you almost as much as the man in your nightmare. 

"You don't need to apologize. I should. I wasn't briefed about how to handle it." He sounds genuinely sorry, a touch of distress bleeding into his tone. It twists the knife of guilt deeper. You feel your eyes start to well. 

"No, no it's not your fault.. I don't want to be like this, I'm sorry." The tears spill over. You turn your face away and scrub your hands over your cheeks.

He hesitates and sits down on the bed next to you. There's a yawning span of distance between the two of you. There's not a hint of anger or frustration coming from him, not even pity. just.... sorrow. Understanding.

"Fitz briefed me on your history." It's blunt. matter of fact.

"Then you know about the...." You hesitate. 

"Yeah.” He answers before continuing. “Does he know how bad it gets?"

"No… I never told him all the details. I didn't want to burden him. He's got enough to worry about." You shrink into yourself. Your eyes focused on the items cluttering your nightstand.

"Your wellbeing isn't a burden." There it is. There’s a taste of the anger you’d been waiting for in his tone. You squeeze your eyes shut.

"I'm the stable one, Six. I can't let everyone down again ." You laugh a little, self-deprecating. You press your palms against your eyes. Baring down until stars explode behind your closed eyelids. 

He hums, and you feel the shift of the mattress as he stands up. You think he’s leaving, disgusted with you and your emotions, but the heat of his presence doesn’t go away. The warmth of him bleeds through your sleep clothes. You can feel him looking down at you. You nearly jump out of your skin when he nudges your arm. You look up at him, startled. He quirks an eyebrow.

“Come on.” He says, offering his hand to you. You take it. He easily guides you up onto shaky legs.

He has you follow him down the hallway and to the dining table. A path as familiar as an old friend by now. He motions for you to sit at the table, and you mutely follow his direction. You hear him move around in the kitchen. He returns with a bowl of ice cream and a full glass of water. He sits both in front of you.

"I have it on expert authority that this should help. All the smartest people I know support it." He's so serious sounding. You look at him flatly. He holds his grave expression for a beat before he winks. You crack a teary smile and lay into the ice cream like it personally insulted you.

He settles into a chair across from you while you eat. He occasionally glances over at the open laptop’s screen to check the security footage, but his main focus is on you. You feel a little self conscious under his gaze. You scour your mind for something to say, anything to lessen the intensity he’s directing towards you.

"Do you ever sleep? Like… go to bed sleep?" The question comes out of nowhere. a flash of surprise crosses his face. You'd seen him cross his arms in his chair and tip his head back. Caught him leaning  against the wall, hands in his pockets, hip cocked for stability. But the thought of him actually dressing down into pajamas and tucking himself under the blankets  seems.... implausible. too soft for this man who is alert and buttoned up into his crisp slacks and fitted shirts no matter the hour of the day. You half supposed he showered in the damn things.

"Not as often as I should. I don't sleep easy either." The honesty surprises you. 

"Why?" It's probing but you're too exhausted and raw to care.

"Too many memories. My line of work isn't exactly conducive to pleasant dreams." You wonder if he would have been willing to be so open this entire time or if something changed between the two of you. When would it have changed? Were the moments you found significant also important to him? Was he starting to crave your company in the inexplicable way as you’ve begun to crave his?

You almost apologize to him for prying, but you stop yourself. You nod instead. You understand how it is to have a beast pacing the maze of your sleeping mind, pulling out the threads of your worst memories like entrails for you to witness over and over again. 

"I still think about it… About them." You admit. Your eyes skitter across the table like a frightened mouse, focusing on Six's watch face before darting away. You can’t tell the time from this distance. There is a pressure welling up in your throat. Something is clawing its way out into the open.

“Talk to me.” His request is firm, paving the way for your words. He takes his watch off, a mirror of the other night. It slips free of his arm in the same way, inky black revealed on the underside of his wrist, tendons shifting, the movements delicate. He sets the watch on the table in front of you. The metal links clatter on the polished wood surface. You glance up at his face, shadowed in the dim light. “For safekeeping.” He remarks.

You reach out and lift it from the worn surface, running your fingers over the band. The weight is soothing in your grasp. The seconds tick by and it feels as though your heart is trying to race them. You finally open your mouth and release your burden.

“Claire had her birthday party that day. It was the last good day we had with our parents. It was hard to keep the security straight since there were so many people in the house. I didn’t think anything was wrong when two men came up to me and introduced them as part of the security detail. I still didn’t think it was weird when they asked me to come with them. How could I have been so stupid ?” Your breath catches, anger palpable in your voice. Six twitches like he might reach out, but he stills and you continue.

“They got me out of the house. I wasn’t strong enough to fight them off when they put me in the back of the SUV. They… they kept me for days asking questions I didn’t know the answers to. They didn’t like that I didn’t know anything. They tried to be more persuasive… so I started making up things. I just wanted them to stop but they wouldn’t. The wrong answer or the right answer, it didn’t matter. They offered me in exchange for a ransom and eventually they pulled me out of the basement. My parents were there to do the handoff. The guys wouldn’t let anyone else do it. We made it about three miles down the highway before they caught up with us and shot out the front tires. I don’t think they expected anyone to live after we went through the guardrail, so they just.. drove off. Left. I don’t know how long I was in the car staring at my parents. Claire was too young to understand that I ruined her life. I’ve been waiting for her to realize what I did. She hasn’t yet but she will.”

“How did you ruin it?” Quiet, disbelieving.

“I got our parents killed. I shouldn’t have gone with those men. I should’ve known better.” You hear a noise like a wounded animal. A creature left for roadkill, great heaving breaths rattling in that damaged chest. It’s you, you realize dully, you’re the animal. There’s a large hand enveloping your wrist. It’s Six and he’s holding onto you. 

“How could you know?” He asks. You shake your head, a sob escapes you. You feel shame. Grief. Six’s hand squeezes almost tight enough to hurt. It grounds you, you can’t escape into your own mind. Not with that insistent pressure to stay . You feel the metal of his watch biting into the skin of your palm. It’s a good kind of ache.

“It wasn’t your fault. You trusted people you were meant to trust. Who could blame you for that?” he insists. His eyes are too soft, too kind.

“Uncle Fitz.” It slips out, involuntary. You would bite your own tongue off if it could take back the betrayal. You don’t dare to look at the man seated across from you. You had all but swung a bat at the person who he said was the closest thing he had to family. 

His hand withdraws from your arm, and for a moment you’re certain that he’s going to walk off and leave you sitting here by yourself. He doesn’t, he surprises you once again. He simply leans further over the table, capturing your hands with his before plucking his watch from your ironclad grasp. He lays it over your much smaller wrist. He handles you with so much gentleness it almost hurts. He secures the clasp and simply… holds your hands. He says your name and you look up 

“Your family loves you.” He states simply. He says it like it’s an indisputable fact. Like it’s something as true and honest as the rotation of the Earth. You nod mutely. You can’t argue, not when he says it with so much assurance. He gives your hands a final, comforting squeeze and stands up. He gathers up your dishes, bowl, spoon, and glass. The bodyguard makes a soothing gesture to stay seated when you make a motion to rise and help him. You listen to the domestic sounds of him running the sink and loading your used dishes into the dishwasher. Your eyes start to drift shut. There’s a weight off your lungs, your burden has been dispersed, even just for a little while.

There’s a soft touch to your shoulder. It’s Six and he wants you back in bed. You get to your feet and let him escort you to your bedroom door. You feel oddly nervous, fidgeting with your fingers and avoiding meeting the hired man’s eyes. It feels like the awkward end of a weird date where everyone was too uncomfortably honest.. No matter how delusional that sounds even to yourself.

“Goodnight.” he’s the one who breaks the silence first. You feel relieved. 

“‘Night, Six.” is your response as you put your hand on the doorknob and slip into the room, away from his unreadable gaze. When you fall asleep for the second time that night, you dream of steady hands marked with prison tattoos.

───※ ·❆· ※───

The morning dawns without preamble. It feels like you have barely laid your head on the pillow. You check the time on the watch hanging loosely around your wrist. Less than four hours have passed since your night terror and subsequent comforting via the household bodyguard. Your morning routine feels more laborious than usual. Every movement feels like crawling through tilled soil. 

You’re dressed for the day and walking into the kitchen when you hear your little sister badgering Six. 

“What happened to you, Robot?” she asks.

You pop your head around the corner to take a look at the man she’s addressing. You stop cold. It’s a mess. He’s a mess. The skin around his left eye is puffy and bruised. There's clear nail marks on his cheeks and down to his neck. Any exposed skin had taken the brunt of your panic. You can even see some redness through his facial hair. You feel sick, betrayed again by your body. Your own hands had tried to tear him apart. 

"Well..." he starts and shrugs his jacket off. He folds it and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs.

He's about to go on his outdoor rounds, which you and Claire have secretly dubbed ‘enrichment time’, and continue wearing a trail into the yard. If he’s feeling particularly comfortable, he might sneak a nap in one of the lawn chairs now that the sun is up. Provided that he’s sure the two of you are secure and can survive without him awake for an hour or so. 

"Your sister beat me in a fight. I'll have to hand in my championship belt." It's relaxed and easy. He gives you a conspiratorial wink when Claire rolls her eyes with a scoff.

You match his earnest tone with your own. "You should have seen it, I was about to get the folding chair and everything."

“Ooh-kay, I’ll just assume it was a weird sex thing,” she comments, turning back to her breakfast. “Looks like you already won his watch though. Congrats.” 

Silence follows. Claire smugly scrapes her spoon around in her bowl, capturing every last shred of cereal. There’s a self-satisfied smile on her face. Neither of you protest. Either you let it go and hope she loses interest in the bit, or you launch into a defense that will only get her to double down. No matter what, you’ll be the losers. 

Six pushes a heavy exhale through his nose and walks out of the room. You follow him right out the back door and onto the deck. The two of you stand there for a moment in companionable silence. It’s beautiful out here. The sun is a sedate creature in the sky. She's lazily casting her rays over the yard. The water in the pool is sparkling in it, lapping playfully at the concrete walls. Six’s shoulders are still tense in your field of view. He looks as though he’s holding himself up through sheer force of will.

“I’m sorry again about last night.” You say to his back.

“Please don’t be. Things happen.” He says with a sigh. You falter. He sounds as exhausted as you feel.  You don't want to push the issue. 

He gestures for you to sit in one of the deck chairs by the pool. You don’t, instead choosing to trail him as he does his rounds. He’s lit by the sun. You’re in his shadow. His hair looks like a field of golden wheat. You almost want to run your hands though it in order to feel the softness for yourself. You instead soothe the urge by toying with the band of his watch still loosely encircling your wrist. He looks back at you every once in a while, eyes dazzlingly blue in the bright sunlight. You had never noticed the angles of his face before, the curves of his nose with its distinctive bump, the set of his cheekbones, how his facial hair is darker than the hair on his head. You hate that you're noticing these details now. After the events of last night, any tentative bond feels tainted.

The morning grows warmer as you drift behind him like a ghost. Eventually he rolls his sleeves up to reveal his forearms. You start to understand why people in bygone eras got so flustered at the sight of a lady's ankle. His wrists are bodice ripping enough, you suppose, but the space from his fingertips to the crook of his elbow? That is home to so much previously unseen skin. Had he been rolling up his sleeves every morning? If you had simply looked out one of the windows, would you have seen the sight that you’re witnessing now?  Would you have seen the distinct veins trailing up the insides of his muscular arms? What about the tattoos whose mere existence beg to have a finger trace along his skin? You avert your eyes, not wanting him to notice you staring. You tell yourself that it’s just the novelty of it all, that the surprise at seeing him less buttoned up will wear off.

With the rounds done, the two of you are back at your starting point. The bodyguard settles onto one of the deck chairs. He lets out a borderline obscene groan as he lets his body relax against the wood. His eyes flutter closed. He shifts slightly, another noise escapes his throat as he does. You make your way to the chair next to him on shaky legs, and drop into it. He doesn’t stir. You debate on standing up, you don’t, the thought of leaving his side makes you anxious. You make yourself comfortable in your seat. 

Through the open window, you can hear Claire’s record player. You hear the notes of Feel the Warm. She’s playing Mark Lindsay again. You let it wash over you. The sunlight is dappled across this part of the patio. You cast a glance over at your companion. His arms are crossed and he looks dead to the world. Your own eyelids are drooping, He’s the last thing you see before you drift off.

You wake up gradually, it’s an easy kind of waking. No wild jerk of consciousness, just the soft trickle of awareness. You’ve managed to curl on your side in the deck chair. You squirm upright and feel cloth slide down into your lap. It’s the hired man’s jacket. He must have gone back inside to get it. You touch it with hesitant fingers and look up, scanning for him. He’s currently out of sight, but you do see Claire in the hammock chair across the way. She’s engrossed in her phone and frantically tapping at the screen. You check the time on the watch in your possession before you catch a glimpse of Six coming up the patio steps from the lower yard. He’s got a sandwich in one hand and his own phone in the other. He’s intent on the device. He glances up and accidentally meets your eyes. He jumps slightly as if startled you’re awake. He recovers and gives you a nod.

“‘Morning.” His mouth is full. You know Claire will give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime if she notices.

"It's after twelve." You playfully retort, watching unimpressed as he fights to swallow the bread in his mouth. He’s really struggling for a second before he gets it down, his throat working roughly. You get to your feet, carefully folding his jacket over your arm. You approach him with it. 

"Good afternoon then." He says quietly. You swear you catch the ghost of a smile on his face as he looks at you. 

“Thanks for the blanket.” You say, offering it to him. He takes it with his unoccupied hand before shrugging it on, doing a quick change of hands with his lunch. 

You move to take off the watch and return that as well, but he stops you with a disapproving noise. “You’re keeping that safe for me, remember?”

You pause for a moment, mind racing wildly with the effort to make sense of his words. To find meaning in them. Your hand falls away from the metal and you surrender with a mute nod. If he wanted you to keep it for him for a while longer, who were you to protest? It’s a strange kind of comfort to have it. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Things come to another disastrous head some weeks later. It happens after the nurse sees Claire tucked into bed before heading home for the evening. It happens after you give your sister your own goodnight wishes. You had gently brushed her hair from her face and gave her a kiss on the forehead even if she scrunches her face in mock disgust each time you do. There’s no telling which moment between the two of you will be the last. You hadn’t had the luxury of knowing that your mom’s wet pleas for help would be the last gift from her in that twisted hunk of metal. You wanted your little sister to have a happy memory of you if a goodnight ever turned into a goodbye. Less nightmares that way.

You had stood up from your seat on the edge of the bed, made sure to smooth her blanket out. “Sweet dreams, Claire.” you said before you extinguished the slow glow cast by the lamp on her nightstand. 

“‘Night,” she had said to you before yelling. “‘Night, Robot!” in the direction of the door. 

You heard a weary sounding response from the ‘robot’ in question. Six was hovering in the hallway, patiently waiting to escort you to your bedroom door. He’s been diligent in performing the action every single night without fail since your impromptu wrestling session with him. He also hasn’t let you return his watch to him yet. You closed the bedroom door behind you, stepped into the hall and nearly brushed against the tall man. He moved back only enough to give you the barest clearance to get past him so he could trail after you for the scant few steps to your own door. It seems lately that he’s been standing closer to you. It also seems like his eyes have been lingering more on your face than the surveillance feeds at night when you emerge from your room, wide eyed and shaken from whatever terror that had gripped you. Your exchanged goodnights haven’t been anything out of the ordinary though, even if his voice was lower… more intimate than it used to be.

The bubble officially bursts for you when you abruptly jerk awake. You assume it was a nightmare you can’t remember, though you don’t feel any of the usual symptoms. There’s no tremors or wild breathing. You’re just… awake. You think about laying in bed and trying to drift off, but there’s a sense of unease you can’t shake. You make up your mind and shuffle over to the door. Like any other night, you turn the knob and walk out into the hall.

Like a snare snatching a rabbit, rough hands seize you. Your mouth is covered, fingers digging in harshly. And with a sudden drop of your stomach, you register the sensation of a gun pressing into your side. The metal’s coldness burrows though the thin layer of your sleep shirt. You’re frozen in shock, mind racing. Where's Six? Where's the bodyguard uncle Fitz had hired? He was supposed to protect you and your sister. Keep you safe. Why wasn't he doing his job? Why was this man in the house? 

Tears start running down your face without your permission. Your sobs are broken off against the inside of your mouth. They can’t escape the crushing pressure. A scream you can’t release is building in your throat. What if this man did something to Claire?

The gun digs in deeper, grinding against your ribs. He drags you down the hall and into the living room. It’s dark and you flinch as you feel something sharp dig into one of your feet. You whimper. The floor is littered with broken glass. The sound of it shattering must have been what woke you up. 

“Shut up.” the man holding you hisses, giving you a tooth rattling shake while he leans over your shoulder to see where he’s steering you. His breath is sour. “Where is he?”  He must mean Six. 

The bodyguard must still be able to present a problem if this man is asking about him. You’re not completely alone in this. It’s enough to sharpen your mind. To direct your focus. Your eyes are straining to make out anything in the darkness. It’s a mess of shapes that are so familiar in the daylight, but they look like strangers in the darkness. You manage to recognize the coffee table before the attacker does and you pull your leg out of the way. He slams into it and stumbles. He curses loudly through the pain of hitting his shin on the corner. You see your opportunity and savagely bite the hand covering your mouth. The saltiness of blood washes over your tongue but you bury your teeth in deeper. The tendons and nerves give way beneath your teeth. You go until you hit bone and hang on. Even if you don’t make out of this alive, you’re going to make damn sure this fucker doesn’t get to keep full use of his fingers.

He’s groaning, blinded by the shock of pain. You dare to release your hold on him in order to slam the back of your head into his face as hard as you can, throwing yourself into a backwards jump to do so. He lets out a wounded noise and clutches his face. He’s completely let go of you to do so. The gun is on the floor now, dropped in the surprise of your retaliation. You skate awkwardly on the glass as you make a run for it. The floor feels wet under your feet as you sprint for the hall. You’re leaving a trail of bloody footprints in your wake. The scream you’ve felt building weakly escapes. It’s a too quiet utterance of Six’s name. You can’t find the ability to yell as loud as you need to. You’re nearly sightless from a lack of light and terrified tears. You’re battering against the walls and furniture like a moth around a lightbulb. You make it halfway down the hall to Claire’s bedroom when you feel it. A brush of the assailant’s hand against your back. He shouts when he misses you, and you jitter to the side, making contact with the wall right as he slams into the floor. You put your back to it and look down, eyes wide enough in terror to make out the shapes of two struggling men. 

Six is on top of the man who had grabbed you. His silhouette is identifiable even in the murky dark. Relief turns your legs into jelly. He’s come for you after all. You allow yourself to go limp and slide down the wall, curling up on the floor. You squeeze your eyes closed so you don’t have to put a visual to the violence you’re hearing. It’s wet, crunchy. Eventually you only hear the heaving breathing of one man. You don’t know how long you sit there shaking. 

You’re coaxed into opening your eyes by Six’s voice saying your name. Your bedroom door is ajar and the light is on, illuminating the hallway enough to comfortably see, but not enough to where you can’t pretend the dark smears and streaks are shadows. The attacker isn’t in the hall any more. Six is kneeling in front of you. He’s got a cut on his cheek but otherwise looks unharmed.

“Are you with me?” It’s said with aching concern.

"Yeah… Yeah I'm here." You’re all too aware of your stinging feet, the ache of your muscles, the pain in the back of your head. 

Relief floods his face at your words. He reaches out but stops himself before making contact with you. You notice that his knuckles are split open and already bruising. His hand hovers in the space between your bodies, trembling slightly like he can’t bear to touch you but withdrawing is equally torturous. You rock onto your knees and shove yourself into his arms instead. They’re instantly around you. He holds you to himself. It’s all you can do to cling to him in kind. If you could nestle alongside the lungs in his chest, you would make a home in his rib cage. 

"You did well. I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep him from you. His pals kept me busy." His voice is full of bitter frustration. 

You shake your head and speak against his collarbone. “Is Claire okay?”

"She slept right through it. She's still asleep. I just checked on her." He soothes, running a hand up and down your back.

“Good…” you respond, unspeakably thankful. You could cry.

“Do I have your permission to pick you and take you to your bed? I don’t want you walking with your feet like this.” 

“Yeah, but I’m too heavy?” You’re surprised and uncertain. Sure, he had slammed around a grown man like a rag doll, but what if….

“Believe me, you’re not.” He sounds almost amused.

He eases you up onto your knees and over his lap. He encourages you to put your arms over his shoulders. It’s startlingly intimate. You can easily see the fine lines around his eyes at this distance. His breath is warm and against your face, smelling faintly of the watermelon gum he chews. You have just a second to try and process it before he’s gaining a foothold. He stabilizes you with one thick arm under your thighs and his hand on your back. You reflexively gasp and clench the back of his jacket in your hands. Each of his steps is steady. There’s no sign of strain even as he navigates your bedroom doorway. He carefully lowers you to the edge of your mattress and withdraws his arm. Your thighs release their death grip against his hips and you settle into place, feet off the ground. You avoid looking at his face, you know yours feels like it’s on fire. 

You notice that he had already moved your trashcan to your bedside and collected the first aid kit and a roll of paper towels. He must have known you’d cooperate with him. He drags your desk chair over and takes a seat. He pats his thigh encouragingly, and you place your heel right above his knee. He steadies you with a firm hand around your ankle. He removes the shards of glass. He doesn't let you jerk away, not with the grip he has on you, even when the tweezers catch on a particularly deep piece. He works in silence and you eventually allow yourself to lay flat on the bed while he does his task. You don't ask what happened to the man in the hallway. You don't ask how Six got detained in the first place. He doesn’t volunteer the information. The time passes and you’re halfway asleep by the time he’s tying off the wrap securing the bandages on your other foot and carefully easing your leg back down from its elevated position on his thigh. 

"Please stay." You ask the ceiling. You feel more than see Six freeze in response to your question.

“I shouldn’t.” He sounds conflicted. You prop yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at him.

“Do you not want to?”

“It’s not that. It’s anything but that.”

You bite your lip and decide to throw all your cards on the table. “I sleep better when I'm around you. You keep the nightmares away.”

He looks surprised, devastated even. His demeanor couldn’t have been any different than if you had asked him to bare his neck and slit his own throat. Resigned, but he would still pick up the knife for you.

"Give me a minute," is his response. 

He gathers up the supplies and turns off the light on his way out of the room, plunging you into the familiar dark of your room. You're not sure what exactly he does while he’s away, but he comes back sans jacket and with his sleeves rolled up. He carries the acidic tang of cleaning chemicals. He settles back into your chair after tossing the laptop on the desk. The two of you watch each other for a moment 

"Are you okay?"

"Emotionally? I've been better. Physically? I'm fine. Just a few scratches and a bruised ego. " He's soft. You nod, reassured.  

You keep your eyes on his face. It’s lit by the soft glow of the screen. It’s become an unhealthy habit, observing this man. You drift off to sleep facing in his direction. He's there when you wake up. He's clearly gotten up at some point to shower, but he did come back to resume his sentence at your side. You greet each other and he excuses himself back to the common areas of the home.

───※ ·❆· ※───

It becomes a thing, you spending time in his presence outside of what follows your nightmares. Something changed in you after the attack. It has culminated in a strong desire to be near him, to be within the frame of his reassuring gaze. Most of the time but not always, you go with him on his surveillance rounds. You walk with him through the yard. It always feels a little like you’re two society members having a chaperoned walk, but it’s soothing. Routine. You’ve also begun sitting with him in the hours before bed. At the table or on the couch while he watches the TV. The two of you simply exist together. 

You rarely return to your room most nights, choosing instead to make your bed in the living room. If you lay just right on the couch, you can spot the bodyguard keeping watch throughout the night. His presence in the room eases your mind enough to allow you to peacefully sleep. You wish that he hasn’t become so essential. You don’t want to think about what your uncle’s return will mean.

He accepts your new routine without question. You notice that he always has the throw pillow moved from the armchair to the couch on the nights you don’t tell him you’re going to bed. There’s no blanket in the living room, but you usually wake up with his jacket of the day draped over you in lieu of one. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

One night, you and Claire manage to bully him into a game of monopoly after the nurse leaves. You’ve been made the banker because Six doesn’t trust your sister and she doesn’t trust him enough either. 

“You just landed on my boardwalk. That’s fourteen hundred bucks.” Claire announces.

Six takes his hand off the game piece and gives her a look . “I thought you owned the brown properties, not the blue ones.” 

She picks up the deeds for Boardwalk and Park Place and waves them pointedly in his direction. “Nope, fourteen hundred. Fork it over.”

Six lets out a genuinely flustered growl. You have to smother your laugh. He counts out the remainder of his money and tosses it in front of your sister. He’s woefully short and out of assets. You and Claire had run him ragged the course of the game until she managed to bankrupt you with some suspiciously underhand tactics. Looks like she got to Six as well. 

“I’m out.” He says, resigned. 

Claire stretches her arms over her head and lets out a satisfied sigh. She then slumps back into her chair in smug victory as the bodyguard extracts himself from his seat at the table to do his nightly check of the doors and windows. She leans over and taps the watch on your wrist. 

“He hasn’t won this back yet?”

“Oh… uh. No.” Your answer sounds flustered, even to you. 

Your little sister raises her eyebrows. There’s a mischievous gleam in her eyes and she opens her mouth to say something before pausing. She instead gets up and gives you a squeeze around the shoulders. You return it with a one armed hug. “‘Night, sis.” 

“‘Night. I’ll see you in the morning.” You return affectionately, letting her go. 

“‘Night, Robot!” She cheerily shouts. There’s a responding grumble from the direction of the garage. Claire flashes you a grin and a thumbs up. 

She’s in her room by the time Six finishes his checks. You’re in the middle of putting up the game when you feel the weight of his eyes on you. It’s just the two of you alone.  He sits back down at the table to help you with it. He’s like a fire against your left side. You’re surprised he didn’t sit in his usual spot at the head of the table.

He lets out a yawn that he can’t suppress. He’s more undone tonight than you’ve seen him yet. He’s wearing a t-shirt tucked into slacks today. No blazer. His hair is tousled, not smoothed into place with product like usual. You think he looks more approachable like this. Your hands touch when you both go to scrape the same pile of deeds off the table. You both freeze. You hear your heart pounding in your ears and with it muffling every other sound, you trail your fingers over the top of his. He shudders when you brush over his knuckles and skim over the dots tattooed into the meat of his thumb. He doesn’t move, staying perfectly still for your exploration. You reach the horse on his forearm and you think his breath hitches in response. You linger on the horse, using your pointer finger to trace its outline. You follow the swoop of its tail, down the outstretched hind leg. 

A soft groan from the man you’re touching makes you remember yourself. You withdraw your hand like you’ve been burnt. He twitches and jerks his own hand towards you like he’s about to reach out and stop you, but he doesn’t. You can still feel the sensation of his skin under your fingertips even as you glue your eyes to the remaining monopoly money and sort it into the tray with unsteady hands. You finish putting up the game in silence. You sleep in your own bed that night. He escorted you to your room. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

You wake up weeping the next night. You lay on the couch staring at the living room ceiling while tears involuntarily run down the sides of your face. The imprint of spider webbing glass still swirling around in your mind. You must have made some kind of noise, because Six is making his way across the room. 

You sit up and take a swipe at your face. “I’m sorry.”

"You have to let it out somehow. May I?” He asks, gesturing to the space next at your side. You nod and scoot over to give him slightly more space.

He puts the ever present laptop with its surveillance feed on the coffee table before sitting down. You feel your cushion dip. Against your better judgment, you lean against him. He’s solid. He relaxes underneath the pressure of your body. You instantly feel better. You watch the cameras with him for a while, sighing along with him as the local monkeys throw the lid off the trashcan at the curb in search of a meal. You’ll have to clean up after them after the sun rises. It’s one of the downsides to living in Hong Kong. 

You stay leaning against him for a while, but a stiffness in your neck gets you to change position. Moving slowly so he’s fully aware of your movements, you carefully lay down. He’s taken the place of your improvised throw pillow cushion. Your head is resting on his thigh. He puts his hand on your upper arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He leaves it resting there, heavy and warm. 

You wake up a few hours later. The sun is cascading through the living room, throwing rainbow hues on the floor thanks to the decorative glassware. You’re comfortable, too comfortable you realize. Your eyes widen in horrified surprise. You’re still using the bodyguard as a pillow. He's shifted slightly through the night, more slumped and relaxed. He's slid down further, and your face is firmly pressed against his hip now instead of his thigh. You know that you’re going to have the imprint of one of his belt loops on your cheek. His arm is loosely draped over you with his hand tucked underneath your side, a bastardized attempt at spooning. You crane your neck to catch a glimpse of his face. He’s sound asleep. 

You try to sit up without disturbing him, but his arm tightens around you and applies pressure. You’re locked into place. Your mind races. If the nurse or, worse, Claire comes into the room and sees you and Six like this… You have to get up. You put a hand on his thigh and use it as a support to push yourself up. He’s instantly awake from the overt movement. He lifts his arm off your body and lets you sit up. You turn to say something, but find him already staring. His blue eyes are focused on you, they’re sleepy and confused but quickly sharpen to alertness. He looks vaguely distressed. All you can do is offer him a smile and squeeze his leg. You stand up and he follows. Your day goes as usual.

───※ ·❆· ※───

Your nights are largely the same, except that Six seems more distant. He doesn't linger as closely or as comfortably as he did before. Your interactions with the man are more professional. It’s as though weeks, months , of getting to know each other have been erased and you’re back at the beginning. Strangers again. It hurts. You miss him like hell even though he’s right there. Your sleep is worse. It’s almost as bad as in the weeks following the incident that started them in the first place, but they’re different. Amongst the disjointed scenes, there’s a broad shouldered man with dirty blond hair walking away from you in your nightmares now. You scream for him but no sound ever escapes you, just noiseless air. You never see his face. 

You finally have enough when he escorts you to your room one night. You haven’t slept on the couch for over a week, and he’s taken that as his cue to resume seeing you to your bedroom door. You turn to face him as always in the doorway. Instead of saying goodnight like you do every night, you confront him. It even catches you by surprise.

"You're avoiding me.” He doesn’t deny it and you think that hurts more than the newfound distance itself. 

“Why?” You ask only to get more silence. He won’t look at you. 

”What did I do wrong?” Your voice trembles and you hate it. You fumble to take off his watch, to return that final tie between the two of you. He reflexively clamps down on your wrist before you can undo the clasp, pinning your hand to your own wrist. He releases his near crushing grip almost immediately, but the ghost of it lingers. Point taken. You let your arms fall to your side in a clear display of frustration, willing him to talk.

“It wasn’t you. I  overstepped. Your uncle hired me to do a job and I've stepped beyond my purview. " The confession is rough. Torn out of him. The corner of his mouth pulls down in a grimace.

You stare at him blankly. "What?"

"I allowed myself to be too close with you. I apologize. I was unprofessional." He explains, but he won't quite meet your eyes. He hasn't for a while. Not since the morning following the night you fell asleep on him.

"You were... unprofessional?” You question, absolutely lost.

"Yes. I let my feelings about you affect me and my work.. I’ve become… compromised." It's matter of fact. It’s said like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

You reach out and grab his jacket lapels. He looks at you like a beaten dog might, as though you might strike him. He makes no motion to pull himself from your grasp. You swallow hard and let out a breath.

"What about my feelings for you?" You ask. His breath catches and he shakes his head, disbelieving. 

“It would be better if you didn’t feel anything for me.” There’s heartbreak in his blue eyes even as he looks at you like there’s nothing else in the world he would rather be seeing. 

“Better for who?” Your mouth is unbearably dry as you ask the question.

“You. I’ll only jeopardize you.”

”Six…” 

You pull him down and you press your mouth against his. He's rigid and unmoving for a moment before he's kissing you like a dying man who has just been offered immortality. His hands come to rest on your back. He grips your clothing like it’s a lifeline keeping him from going under. You gently nip at his bottom lip and he gasps against your mouth, a broken little noise. He tastes like watermelon gum.

 You pull away. “Jeopardize me then.

That forces a quietly helpless laugh from him. "Now that was unprofessional." His voice is hoarse.

"I had to give you a proper example." 

"Good job. I feel exampled.”

" Good ." You say and kiss him again. He's ready for it this time. He keeps it slow. His hands gently trace your body. He's slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth against your side. You step back, walking him into your room. His breathing is ragged and he's gripping you with a desperation you can’t put your mind around. You stand there, intertwined in each other. His facial hair is rough against your skin but the burn feels good. Your hands make their way around his neck and you gently card your fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He makes a wounded sounding noise in response before he pulls away. His hand is cradling the side of your face to keep you in place while his eyes roam across your face. It's as though he’smemorizing you, imprinting the fine details of this moment into his mind. As though he’s preparing to say goodbye. He trails his fingers gently down your jaw before he lets his hand drop.

"Will you stay? Can we sleep?" You ask before he can make up a way to excuse himself.

There’s a dizzying moment of silence before his face softens. “Okay. Yeah.”

The two of you are left to navigate the awkwardness of getting ready for bed. You spin your finger around in a circle and Six immediately gets the idea. He puts his back to you while you change into your sleepwear as quickly as you can. You turn around after giving him the verbal ‘all good’ in time to see him pull off his jacket and toss it onto the desk chair he had occupied when you first realized how addicted you were becoming to him. He pulls his belt off, coils it around his hand before setting it aside. You watch him unbutton his dress shirt. His fingers work deftly to slip the buttons through the holes. He shrugs the shirt off and lays it over the jacket. He’s in his undershirt and slacks. He bends down to untie his shoes and sets them aside. He straightens up and there’s nervousness on his face. You’ve never seen him nervous before. Worried? Yes, but not nervous. 

You slide into the bed and fold down the other side of the blanket for him. You gesture for him to come lay down beside you. He approaches warily and settles in stiffly at your side. His head is on the pillow, hands overlapping on his stomach. He looks like a body in a coffin. You gently touch his hands. He jolts.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, letting your hand rest on top of his.

“I haven’t slept in the same bed as someone since I was a child,” he admits.

“Oh… and that was…?”

“Over twenty-five years ago.”

You allow yourself a moment to grieve for this man before you pull away to shut off the bedside lamp.. You roll onto your back and flop your arms to the side. “Come here then. I’ve used you as a pillow. It’s time for me to return the favor.”

You feel the mattress shift under his weight and he hesitates, hovering over you with arms braced on either side of your body. It’s intimate, having him over you in this way. It’s enough to make you want to kiss him again.You hear him draw breath to raise some kind of concern so you just wrap your arms around him and pull him down on top of you. The weight of him pins you into the mattress. It’s comforting. He’s heavy and warm, akin to a weighted blanket. Granted, a weighted blanket wouldn’t have a muscular thigh wedged between your legs or be breathing against your neck in a way that makes you want to shiver. You fight to ignore your body’s response to him and work on easing the tension that’s holding him rigid against you. 

He gradually relaxes as you trace your hands over his back. You feel more than hear him groan when you pass over a particularly sensitive spot. The rumble feels almost like a purr against your chest. You narrow in on that location, working your fingers into the tight muscle. He allows himself to go limp on top of you, no longer stiffly trying to spare you the brunt of his mass. You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp as a reward for letting himself relax. It earns you a low moan and an involuntary shift of his hips. You’ll have to keep that reaction in mind for later. 

Six’s breathing soon evens out. Years of exhaustion and sleep deprivation have him rapidly sinking into the oblivion of sleep when offered such a precious comfort. You fall asleep with your hand still in his hair. You have the most peaceful rest of your adult life. There’s no night terrors, no pain, no fear, no longing, you just sleep .

The bodyguard is still asleep on top of you when you wake. His breath is whistling slightly through his nose. Not quite a snore, but it’s a sound that gets a fond smile out of you. You wish you could wake up like this every morning. Just this once has given you an insatiable longing for more. You bite the inside of your cheek at the thought of the future. Uncle Fitz is due to return from his trip soon, which means the dismissal of Six from the Fitzroy home to complete whatever assignment is next on his task board. You don’t figure him for the abandoning type though. That way of thinking about him doesn’t fit in with the loyalty and thoughtfulness you’ve seen him exercise in his time spent with you and your sister. You’re sure that he’ll find a way to stay in contact after this job ends. 

You gently smooth down his hair. He shifts and buries his face against the hollow of your throat more firmly. You pause, hoping you didn’t wake him, but then you hear a sleep roughened voice say, “Don’t stop on my account.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[sixyphus]

[comabite]

Six

twitter: comasuart

[hederasgarden]

Just Pretend

Summary: For a moment, Six thinks about how his life could be different.  Paring: Sierra Six (Court Gentry) x F!Reader Word Count: 700 Rating: 18+ only. Mild violence. Six does watch the reader without her knowledge but it's all above board. A/N: This is based on my thoughts about how Sierra Six would 100% have a housewife kink. Thank you to @a-reader-and-a-writer for looking over this story. 

Masterlist ♡ The Grey Man Masterlist

Six doesn’t mean to watch you. 

He knows it’s wrong, a violation of privacy, but after all the awful things he’s done, it seems small by comparison. Each time he finds his eyes drawn to you he promises himself it’s the last. It’s a lie of course because being stuck in a safe house for weeks on end, there isn’t much else to do. You live in the apartment next to the mark he’s collecting intel on. The blinds to your living room and bedroom are always drawn but he can see clearly into your kitchen where you spend most of your time.

It’s oddly relaxing to see you do mundane things like cooking dinner or baking cookies. You spend your mornings before work reading from your tablet and drinking tea at the little table you’ve wedged under the large window. Sometimes you’ll do the crossword there on Sundays, nose scrunched up as you solve the riddles and pencil in your answer. There’s a row of potted plants on the shelf that you take meticulous care of, watering them and cleaning the dust off their leaves with a damp cloth weekly. 

He loves the cooler days the best when you’ll throw open the window and he can hear the soft music you play and catch the smell of whatever you’re cooking. You’ve been baking more recently, experimenting with decorating cupcakes and cookies. Six admires the concentration it takes to sit, bent over a table to painstakingly create intricate designs for long stretches of time. He imagines you giving treats to your coworkers and friends. He knows they'd taste good, infused with the love and dedication you pour into them.

As far he can tell you don’t have anyone important in your life, at least that lives close by. You’re home every day by 5:30 pm on the dot and on the weekends you only seem to leave for groceries, although he’s seen two different men walk you back to your apartment in the evening. You never kiss or invite them up but you wear pretty sundresses that cling to all the right places on your body. Six is quick to push away that kind of thought. That’s dangerous territory. It’s bad enough he’s spying on you without your knowledge. 

This afternoon it looks like you’re making pasta and homemade bread. His stomach growls at the thought of warm, buttery bread. For a moment he lets himself fantasize what it would be like if he could share a meal with you, to be the person you spent hours cooking for. He likes to think you’d be the type to watch him take the first bite, anxious to see if he liked the new recipe. You’d probably smile and shyly look away when he complimented you, secretly pleased. 

Six thinks about cleaning up after dinner with you, the quiet, comfortable way the two of you would move around the small kitchen together. He'd wash and dry the dishes while you put away the leftovers. Afterward, the two of you would curl up on the couch and watch a movie. Six is willing to bet money you have a collection of soft blankets to burrow under. You'd probably fall asleep before the movie ends, head pillowed against his shoulder, and sleepily protest when he says you should go to bed. 

Before his thought can go further, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye has him swinging the scope sharply to the right. It's the target, emerging from his apartment for the first time in weeks. The older man yawns and stretches, unaware he's being watched.

Six sighs, and flips open the shitty old Nokia phone he was given for the mission. 

"Target confirmed."

"10-4. Execute. Exfil will be waiting in the south alley," the faceless voice on the other end of the line commands. 

"Understood," Six replies, dropping the phone and grinding it under the heel of his boot. 

Before he can help himself, he looks back at your open kitchen window. You take a sip of wine and bite into a piece of bread, eyes closing with a smile as you savor the taste. His gaze lingers, longer than it should before he forces himself back to the task at hand. 

He takes slow, even breaths and leans his shoulder into the butt of the rifle, squeezing the trigger. The man topples back into the apartment. Below, the street traffic continues, unaware of what just occurred. The urge to look back at you is strong but Six buries it and disassembles his weapon. 

That isn't his life.

 This is and there's no amount of pretending that will change that.

♡

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[anitalenia]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝔂 𝓶𝓪𝓷 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑜𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑡𝑦𝑝𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑦'𝑑 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 . . . 𝙥𝙡𝙨 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 ₊˚⊹♡

— 𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍 ౨ৎ ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙ 𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔, always feeling the need to show off and showcase his winnings and scores. He was egotistic and sadistic, finding pleasure in the gory details and intricate, bloody intertwining of a persons biological makeup. He was such the opposite of six in every way possible.

Loud, dramatic, unreasonable.

He didn’t care about anything… He didn’t care about anything except you, you and him and the twisted lovesick bubble you were entrapped in together. He was selfish and cruel, mean and downright psychopathic yet with you he was… mush. Just a lovey-dovey pile of hearts pooled around your feet that worshipped your every, perfect step.

You saw his more sweet, romantic side reserved quite literally just for you and it truly made you feel special. You knew he wasn't a good man yet he was the best man for you, and that's all that mattered. He was sweet to you, cherished you, protected you, worshipped you, doted on you and hung off every sweet wish that escaped your glossy lips.

This was a fact known amongst anyone who spoke his name, that yours was just a faint whisper behind it. You were his other half, the Queen of his hellish kingdom, the better part of him symbolized in the uncharacteristic love he had for you. You were off limits, untouchable, his and only his and... you loved it that way.

Lloyd, as so in touch with his bold personality, loved to shower you in rather extravagant bouquets and gifts more lavish than necessary. He was dramatic and exemplary in his own right yet there was one simplistic tradition he couldn’t stray from… roses.

Lloyd loved roses; pink roses, white roses, blue roses. But he especially loved the deep red ones, the rich color and smell of the most perfect flower that personified love and loyalty like no other and you deserved no less. Roses were classy, beautiful, timeless such as you.

He would buy you those teddy bear shaped roses wrapped in delicate red bows, the overly large bouquets wrapped in delicate pink paper and ribbon you needed two hands to carry. He would even leave that morning with a sweet kiss on your lips and an impish smile under his mustache, knowing he had left you 100 bouquets to wake up to just downstairs, each with a note saying one reason why he loved you.

There was absolutely nothing simple about this man. Spoiling you was a love language of his, a way he portrayed his undying love for you in the expensive roses and exotic flowers he gifted you with. He was extravagant and ensured his devotion to you was just as such to anybody who dare pry.

He wanted you to have the best of the best, spoiled you with the grandness of things in every aspect of your life so why should flowers and bouquets be any different? You only got the prettiest of flowers, the finest of tissue paper and ribbon, from the best flower shop he imported them from.

Really, you knew his showboating was just a sly scheme of his to show his goons that you belonged to him and that he was yours. You didn’t mind his possessiveness though, your shared mansion littered with the finest of glass and marble vases to hold all the roses he’d give you. Anyone could walk in and see that you were well taken care of.

Every room in every hall carried a pot of flowers, the prettiest of flowers, the prettiest of roses, and yet to him you were always the most beautiful thing amongst them all. You were delicate and gossamery, so fine and enchanting just like the roses he’d give you. And, just as with every rose comes its thorns, or in other words, Lloyd Hansen will always be right behind you in case anyone dare try and pluck your pretty petals.

He’d always be there to save you, protect you, keep you and your beauty safe from anything that try and take you from him. He gifted you with all the prettiest of roses but for him you were his rose, his pretty flower, his pretty girl.

Now, Lloyd Hansen wouldn’t be Lloyd Hansen if he didn’t gift you with a backyard full of your very own rose bushes now would he? So, that’s exactly what he did. A whole garden dedicated to you, pristine and pampered with the best gardeners so he could give you roses anytime he wanted. Not a moment went by when you weren’t being smothered with red red roses in the safety of his castle; the belle to his beast in all the best ways.

Yes, Lloyd Hansen was evil incarnate, ripping at the seams a hellish, bloodthirsty beast stuck in human flesh but with you… not with you. You were his humanity, his princess in the twisted fairy tale he orchestrated for you. You loved him and all his murderous tendencies, and he was completely, irrevocably, irreversibly in love with you.

As every hundredth rose could tell anyone who dare ask.

— 𝐒𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐗 / 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓 ౨ৎ ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅, never one to spare a smile unless it was sarcastic and mean. But with you, his stony face and rigid exterior could never deter you. You had been with him for far too long now, too adept in his several complex mannerisms to be able to differentiate the good ones from the bad ones. You took him as he was, as he is, his blank faces and longly trauma and everything he came with.

Yes, he was usually so withdrawn and cold to anybody else, quick to leave and utter an irritated grievance but never with you. With you, he was warm and bright, soft smiles and loving eyes. With you, he was right where he was meant to be, by your side and protected by the impenetrable confines of your endless adoration.

Six gets you flowers randomly and sporadically, and it was such a sweet surprise to you each and every time he did. He rarely ever got you a bouquet unless it was something you explicitly wanted, something he’d really only purposely get on days that were really special — holidays or anniversaries.

He doesn’t do roses and old fashioned bouquets he felt every guy did for their lady, he figured you deserved more than tradition, something better. So, he likes to be unique and tries to make an effort in getting flowers specifically tailored to your tastes.

He was a gentleman even if he didn’t believe so, always overcompensating for something you weren’t sure what; maybe because he believed himself to be a difficult man to love, a difficult man to be with, something lesser than you so he’d try and make up for it.

He’s the type of man to bring you a flower he had seen one afternoon that he thought you might like, always taking note of the favorable flowers you’d mention days before and the excitement in your eyes as you talked about them. He remembered little things like that, things that you didn’t think he’d pay attention to.

He was a man to notice the small things as he’d walk into a front lawn or small garden, pluck the prettiest flower he could find and then tenderly place it in his pocket until he found his way back to you.

Most times it was just a simple daisy, a simple petunia, a simple stem, a simple little flower he had thought you would like. But for you it wasn’t about the lavish bouquets and dramatic proclamations of love anyway, it never was. Each simple flower was anything but simple to you, each one’s significance went beyond its pretty appearance and found in the gesture of what that flower represented.

Six’s love was subtle but fierce, strong and all encompassing. With each flower he gifted you it was just another sweet, meaningful anecdote in your budding love story. He’d leave it on the countertop before a mission, your bedside table, his pillow on the days he’d have to disappear for weeks on end. You were thankful for them, his subtle strokes of devotion bundled into a simple, little flower that meant the world to you. It was never about the money to you, and it was only ever the thought that mattered with Six.

You always loved his flowers, the small ones and the simple ones and the pretty ones. Whenever he would leave you on those stupid missions of his, the only thing you’d be left with is his sweet smell imbedded into the sheets and the flowers tucked under your bed in that precious pink shoebox. They’d be the only things left to remember him by until he came back, and in certain ways a guarantee that he will be.

Six will be gone when he thinks of you, missing you desperately, wishing to be back with you again. But even in the midst of gunfire and smoke he’ll still find your pretty flower sticking out of the cracked, bloodstained concrete and delicately put it somewhere safe, somewhere it can wait until it finds its way to you. It was his own way of ensuring himself that he will find his way back to you, back into the warmth, back where he was meant to be.

Each flower was a token of his love to you, each stem a stronger bond, each petal an unspoken promise. Whenever he was gone too long and you were left alone and sulking you would open up that shoebox of withered and fresh flowers. Whenever Six was sitting on an alley wall tending to his own bloody wounds halfway across the country he’d take that flower out of his pocket and twirl it in between his dirty fingertips.

No matter how far apart you two were the flowers were always there, stagnant and reassuring, as you both would look at that flower and find comfort in the words it symbolized.

He will always come back to you.

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙TAGGING , @ghostslillady hope you enjoy bestie, it’s just a small thing 💕💕 & @little-miss-chaoss

[j4desblurbs]

sierra six hcs

i still have no motivation to write actual fics so here we are! enjoy :)

these are mostly concerning romantic relationships but also just some abt him too!

sfw

• this is canon but his hands are fucking huge. they basically drown yours whenever you hold hands. they also feel really nice on your hips.

• six is not the type of person to give a fuck about the way his partner looks. stretch marks, hair, weight, any of that doesn’t matter to him.

• he’s a surprisingly decent cook. there are many times where he takes care of dinner. he’s only burned it once.

• he’s got a special interest in cars (drive 2011 tease)

• he’s not big on petnames, but he uses baby, sweetheart, and honey the most.

• six is hesitant to teach you anything related to self defense or weapons because he doesn’t want to link you to his life as an assassin.

• he’s definitely touch starved. most of the physical touch he experienced was violent, so loving forms of it are new to him.

• he’s got his arm around your waist 99% of the time.

nsfw

• little bit of a breeding kink….just a little.

• calling him court makes him go absolutely feral.

• he’s bruised your hips before because of how hard he gripped them while fucking.

• he loves missionary, but also loves to bend you over.

• six likes when you tug on his hair.

• the shower is one of his favorite places to have sex.

i think that’s all i got for now….. stay tuned for a fic coming out sometime in the future :)

[heresthestorymorningglory]

Unfinished Business

Summary: Our boy has some unfinished business

A/N: Listen y'all this NSFW 18+ should be par for the course at this point. So like….just don’t okay?

As always, the inspo is thanks to the Goosecord and my beautiful partner in crime @ken-dom who constantly receives messages from me in the dead of night needing reassurance or "Hey what about if THIS happened?!"

Bless you my new found chosen sister for putting up with my antics!

This is a continuation of the first part Hello Nurse which you guys absolutely raved over and I am SO flattered (no really some of your messages really had me tearing up)

Like I said last time, this won't be the last you see of SIx

Enjoy my loves! <3

You let out a heavy sigh massaging your temples as you sat at the nurse’s station; the fluorescents were giving you a migraine and the phone had been ringing off the hook all night long. It rang again for the four hundredth time and you picked up the receiver 

“Fifth floor nurse’s station” 

“Hey, you” 

Your face broke out into a grin and you sat back in your chair twirling the phone cord around your finger recognizing his voice immediately. “Hi” 

“You on a secure line?” 

You scoffed with a small laugh “You know I’m not” you went through this every time he happened to call, and yet, he always asked. “Where are you?” 

“Somewhere cold” he always kept his answers vague. 

“Being safe?” you asked, reaching over the desk to take a clipboard from a coworker 

“Course” 

“Are you lying to me?” You asked, with a smirk cradling the receiver on your shoulder as you typed the information on the clipboard into the system. 

“Never” 

You stopped typing paying more attention to your call “You better come back to me” you said with an air of seriousness to your tone. “In one piece” 

He laughed softly on the other end 

“I’m not kidding, all your fingers, toes and…appendages” 

This caught the attention of your coworker who tilted her head curiously with a raised eyebrow; you just shook your head, hoping she’d get pulled away before you’d have to answer questions. 

“Hmm, well I’ve got some bad news sweetheart…” 

“You better be joking” you dropped your voice to a whisper 

“Would you love me any less if I weren’t?” 

You huffed with annoyance rolling your eyes “No, you idiot; now come home…I miss you” 

A page overhead for you caught your attention and you sighed “I gotta go, be careful, please” You knew better than to hope for that, he was never careful, everyone else came first. “I love you” 

“Me too, sweetheart” 

You hesitated holding up a finger to a coworker motioning overhead “Court”

He sighed and you could practically see the look on his face

“I’ve got all day” 

“No you don’t” 

“Then I guess you’d better hurry up” 

“I love you too” 

“I’ll see you soon?” you asked, knowing he wouldn’t give you a concrete answer 

“Soon” he confirmed before the line disconnected. 

You swallowed hard, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding as you pushed up from your chair. You had signed up for this, you knew that, but the knot in your stomach never untwisted itself completely until he was standing in front of you; admittedly usually covered in blood and bruises, but here and alive. 

***

It had been six months since that fateful night on the staircase; and Six had been gone for three of them. Thankfully you had managed to keep yourself busy with work, keeping your mind off of it, most of the time. 

Then you crawled into bed, alone, or he called to check in and that knot in your stomach just tightened. 

You did have to admit that when he was just a fleeting stranger who had saved your life once, and occasionally darkened your doorstep it had been a lot easier and you worried significantly less, but you wouldn’t trade that man for anything. 

You had to keep it relatively secret; it was safer that way Six had said, you were in less danger. You disagreed but he would rarely listen to reason on the topic; or he had fallen asleep before you had gotten the chance to broach it again. 

You laid in bed that night after work, wondering for the first time in a long time about Six’s past. Even though you had convinced him you didn’t need a 24/7 bodyguard and could in fact take care of yourself on occasion, and you had been….”together” for the last six months; the personal details you knew about the man were very few. 

You knew that was by design, but the thought of your parents immediate disapproval made you giggle to yourself; would be just like you ending up with the ex-convict who would end up on the wrong end of a gun one day because he showed up on your doorstep one night looking like wounded puppy.

Not that Six would even entertain the notion of ever meeting your parents so it didn’t really matter. 

***

He unlocked the door before putting the key back and quietly slipping inside before locking it behind him. 

He stumbled up the front steps, weak with exhaustion; the house was dark, but your car was in the driveway. Checking his watch, it was creeping into the one o’clock hour.

He shook the spare key out of the bottom of the ceramic goose you kept on the front porch; he had told you at least a hundred times that was an awful idea and you had reasoned if someone was going to break into the house, they weren’t going to use a key to do it. 

He slid his boots off, shedding his t-shirt as he climbed the stairs. You were curled up in bed sleeping peacefully, on his side. 

He smiled to himself, stripping off the rest of his clothes before gently shifting you to your side, you hadn’t even stirred until he climbed in behind you; arms wrapping tightly around you as he kissed your shoulder. 

“Hey,” you turned over, voice thick with sleep as you wrapped your arms around his neck “You’re home” 

He kissed you properly before you nestled against his chest “I missed you” 

He kissed the top of your head, pulling you against him as you drifted back off almost immediately and he followed suit. 

The next morning he stirred awake, the sensation of your lips across his bare chest  and up the side of his neck to his face and finally landing on his lips; your weight heavy on his midsection. 

"Good Morning," you smiled kissing him again 

He smiled, reaching to tuck a chunk of loose hair behind your ear, his large hand cupping your cheek. 

"All in one piece" you smiled, your cheeks had started to hurt from doing it for so long. 

"Satisfied?" 

"Not for months" your lips moved against his as you deepened your kiss. 

With minimal effort he flipped you on your back, pinning you to the mattress underneath; wrists on either side of your head. 

“Let's fix that then” 

Before you had a chance to respond, his lips were pressed firmly against yours, strong hands gripping your wrists as his hips made languid movements, his hard cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, your legs dropping open with ease. 

You hummed into your kiss as his tongue tangled with yours before kissing down your neck and chest. 

A small gasp escaped as his warm wet mouth enveloped your nipple. Your back arching off the bed, needing more, wanting more. 

He sucked gently, tongue grazing over the hard bud, making you shiver before trading sides and administering the same treatment to the other side. 

His hands slid from your wrists, over your sides and came to rest on your hips momentarily as he dipped lower, settling between your thighs. Your fingers pushed through his thick blond hair as he kissed the inside of your thighs. His breath hot against your core made you moan, leaning back into the pillow. 

“Court…please “ you breathed. 

Like an answered prayer, he licked a hot stripe up your centre, making you cry out, pulling hard on the hair trapped between your fingers, making him grunt against your clit before sucking you into his mouth.  

You writhed in the sheets, heels digging into the mattress. 

His hand sliding from your hip, two thick fingers pushing inside you with ease, pumping slowly as his tongue teased your clit. 

Your sighs and moans were like music to his ears. A glance up from between your thighs, your eyes were closed, face contorted in sheer pleasure, mouth open as you whined to the ceiling. 

Your entire form shuddered under the hand holding your hips steady. 

Your breathing came more laboured and shallow as he watched the flush creep over your naked body, his tongue flicking a little harder, fingers pumping a little faster, hand pressing firmer on your hip, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he kept you from twisting out of his grip. 

Your muscles clenching around his calloused fingers coated in your arousal as your orgasm tore through your body; pulling his fingers from inside you, tongue lapping up everything you had to give. Shudders wracking your entire form, your clit sensitive and overstimulated. 

You collapsed, completely spent as Six crawled back over top of you, kissing you deeply as you panted against his mouth. 

“My turn” you smiled breathlessly as you shifted, Six propping himself against the headboard as you put yourself between his knees. 

Without hesitation, you swallowed down his length, slick with precum. A loud groan of approval over your head as you bobbed slowly, sucking gently as you felt his hands find their way into your hair. 

A loud thud, what you were certain was his head making contact with the headboard. 

His hips bucking up, forcing him further down your throat. 

The soft “Fuck” assuring you, you were doing something right. 

You moaned around his shaft, relaxing your throat to take as much down as you could manage. You let him take control as much as his position would allow letting him fuck your mouth hard and fast. 

Grunts a mixture of effort and pleasure as he slid with ease between your lips. 

His massive form twitched and he stopped abruptly, the hot, thick rope hitting the back of your throat, swallowing what you could before it became too much to handle, the excess spurting from the throbbing tip as you released him to take a breath.

You moved to wipe your mouth on the back of your hand and Six’s hand snapped out, closing around your wrist. 

You looked up and he was shaking his head. “Don't”

You tipped your head curiously with a smirk as he pulled you closer, you climbed in his lap, arms draped over his neck as he kissed you harshly, tasting his release on your tongue as he was sure you could taste yours on his. 

He scooted back down, lying you on his chest as you sighed with a satisfied hum. “God I missed you”

He chuckled softly, taking a deep breath, breathing you in, your scent invading his senses, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I missed you too sweetheart” 

He sighed, your eyes saying the things your voice wasn’t. 

Six’s time at home had been fleeting this time around; he had been here and gone again within a day and a half.

A quick kiss and he tried to fly down the stairs, unsuccessfully because of the hold you’d had on his wrist. He stopped turning to look at you. 

He pulled you against him, burying his nose in your hair as he kissed the top of your head; your arms wrapped tightly around his back as you fought to keep your composure. 

“Two weeks, tops” he whispered into your hair; you only hugged him tighter, knowing he couldn’t possibly know that for sure. 

“Make someone else go” You muttered against his chest “You just got back” 

He laughed softly, big hands rubbing up and down your arms. “I can’t…”  he pushed you back gently so he could look into your eyes “This one is personal” 

Your brow creased as your frowned “What do you mean personal?” 

His shoulders dropped as he let out a heavy sigh and it clicked “Lloyd…” you sighed

He nodded “He won’t stay in one place very long”

A strong finger under your chin lifted your head and you sighed looking up at him, the worry clear as day on your face. 

You let out a slow breath swallowing the lump that had formed in your throat; eyes  dropping to look at your shoes.

You had never met this man, but the stories were enough to never want to and even those weren’t many. He had injured someone in Six’s care, and was the reason the only person Six had even remotely considered family had died. He was a monster. 

“Please be careful” you whispered softly 

He nodded dropping his hand “Always” 

You scoffed “Not always” You reached up to cup his cheek “You better come back to me” 

He didn’t answer, just leaned forward, claiming your lips in a gentle kiss as the tears you had been fighting to hold back slid silently down your cheeks. 

He pulled back and you sighed with a sniff, wiping the tears from your face. “Promise me” 

When he didn’t say anything you closed your eyes taking a breath “Just this once, promise me, if it goes sideways, you will get out…please” 

You stood eyes locked with his, seeing that emotionless mask crack for the briefest moment before he nodded. “I promise, just another Thursday.” 

You huffed pulling yourself against him, burying your face in his chest. “No it isn’t, and you know it” 

He pulled away then and you let him go; you knew if he was going to catch this bastard he had to leave and he had to leave now. 

“Here,” he undid the watch around his wrist, holding it out to you 

You shook your head “I can’t take that; it’s too important to you” 

“Then keep it safe for me” he wrapped it around your wrist, having to do it up on the last available hole in the band so it would fit around your wrist. 

He took your face in both hands, giving you one final bruising kiss; whispering a barely heard ‘I love you’ against your lips before he was down the stairs and gone. 

You turned, going back inside, the door closing heavily behind you as you locked and leaned against it. A flurry of emotions bursting through the dam in your chest as you finally let yourself cry. You slid down the door, settling on the floor with a hard thump covering your mouth with your hand as the tears streamed freely down your cheeks. The fear, the sadness, the sliver of hope that he hadn’t just walked down those stairs to wherever, and you’d never see him again. 

You cried so hard you nearly made yourself sick before you got yourself under control and pulled yourself to your feet. 

You took a deep breath, wiping the tears out of your eyes and off your face as you made your way to the kitchen. 

You stopped halfway through the threshold, breath catching in your throat seeing the man you didn’t recognize sitting on top of your counter with his arms folded and ankles crossed in front of him. 

“Hiya Sunshine,” he smiled in a way that made your skin crawl as he hopped off the counter and your heart slammed in your chest.  

“Can I help you?” You fought to keep your voice even as a thousand thoughts raced through your mind one after the other; trying to place this man. 

“You really are easy on the eyes, aren’t you?” he asked, ignoring your question, advancing forward and you instinctively took a step back, 

“Do I know you?” you asked, mentally cursing yourself for never counting how many steps were between your kitchen and front door, but not daring to turn your back and bolt. 

“Your boy certainly does” 

Lloyd.

Your blood froze, you were sure all the colour had drained from your face then. 

“Based on the doe eyed bambi look on your face, I’m gonna take a shot in the dark and say you’ve heard of me” 

“I don’t know-”

“Oh please,” he rolled his eyes with a dismissive wave of his hand “Don’t pull the ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about’ card, it’s just disrespectful”

You didn’t answer, just kept moving slowly backward into the living room as he moved closer across the kitchen. 

Your eyes scanning his form, not seeing any blatantly obvious weapon easily within reach. 

You took your opportunity and turned swiftly on your heel and raced for the door. 

In a flash your hand gripped the doorknob and had it been unlocked you would have been free. Instead, Lloyd shoved you against the door, his body pinning you to the unforgiving surface as he laughed maniacally next to your ear; a fistful of your hair in your hand as he pulled your head back hard, making you grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut briefly 

“Oh no, no, no, no, no” he shook his head “We’re gonna get more acquainted; see if I can figure out what it is about our boy that you like so much” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” you asked, voice strained as you turned your head as much as his grip in your hair would allow; he was watching you with a raised eyebrow waiting for you to finish. “He’s got a massive-”  Before you could finish, your head banged hard against the wooden door and Lloyd scoffed with disgust. 

“Don’t be gross, it’s unladylike” 

You scoffed with a laugh trying hard to ignore the instant throbbing headache “That’s your mistake for thinking I’m a lady Lloyd” 

Your composure was quickly slipping away as you were running out of ideas for an escape. 

“And the lady has me at a disadvantage,” Lloyd spoke slowly, his breath hot against your ear making you cringe. “I don’t really need to know your name anyway, doesn’t matter much, you’ll scream all the same” 

You scoffed “He’s gonna kill you”

“Oh sweetheart, not if I kill you first”

That was the last thing you heard before it all went dark.

[the-purest-wolf]

Those long blonde hairs and the suit are driving me crazy

[proper-goodnight]

Behind the Curtain Pt. 1

Fandom: The Gray Man (2022)

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

Type: Snippet/Concept (2-part)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For your birthday,” she went on. 

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about your birthday?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have reason to believe your name has surfaced. 

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

Tell no one.

-DM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I find something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hunt was on.

[nobrain-onlysteven]

Will Ryan Gosling every play a character who is not babygirl?

[zsuo]

i dont think ppl talk about these scenes enough

[drivinmeinsane]

Snow ※ 12 Days of Goosemas

Day Four ※ Sierra Six / Reader

{12 Days of Goosemas Masterlist} ※ {Regular Masterlist} ※ {ao3}

※ Summary: You expected a quiet night in, but that changes when you follow a trail into the trees.

※ Rating: No mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Pre-relationship, Treatment of injuries, Caretaking

※ Word count: 1920

※ Status: Oneshot/Complete

Of course you notice that the log basket by the fireplace is empty when you’re already sprawled out on the couch, remote in hand, Christmas tree plugged in, and fully prepared to settle in for the night. You grumble as you get up and pull on your boots and your coat. Grabbing your flashlight, you open the back door and step out into the cold. You’re nearly to the shed when the beam of light picks up something unusual in its field. You come to a complete stop and examine the ground with a growing sense of horror.

The snow is churned up, something had clearly come through here recently enough. Probably within the past hour or so while you had been snugly tucked into your remotely located home. You can make out footprints. Human, likely belonging to a tall male judging from the size and the distance apart. They’re messy like the maker had been stumbling along. Your flashlight picks up dark blotches on the white. Blood. You look up, frantically scanning your surroundings for a sign of who might have left this path across your yard. There’s nothing other than the trail that leads off into the woods. 

You silently backtrack to your home to grab the hunting rifle leaning against the wall in the coat closet, an assurance for living out in the middle of nowhere in the wooded hills. Feeling like a side character in a cheaply stereotypical horror movie, you go back outside to follow the trail. Flashlight off now that you’re in pursuit. You desperately want to nope out of the situation, but there is no one else around for miles to handle this. You push follow the path into the thicket. There’s a shape huddled at the base of a tree not far into the brush. 

The moonlight is blocked by the branches, so you resignedly turn your flashlight on to illuminate the figure. It reveals a man dressed in bloodstained street clothes. He’s slumped forward so you can’t see his face, but his jeans are covered in a mixture of blood and snow. Some of the blood is glossy, fresh, but most of it is frozen. He is only wearing a thin windbreaker for warmth. There’s a gun resting on his lap. His fingers are slack around it, not even holding onto the weapon. They look waxy and stiff. Only his labored breathing lets you know that he’s alive. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t respond to your slightly hesitant yell so you nudge his foot with the tip of your boot and try again, louder. “Hey!”

No movement, or any awareness of you at all. He just continues breathing like each exhale might be his last. Emergency services are at least forty-five minutes away, if they are even able to get through the snow at all tonight. 

Gritting your teeth, you inch forward to kick the man’s outstretched leg. “Hey!”

That finally gets a response. The stranger groans and lifts his head up. He squints against the bright light you have pointed at his face and raises a shaky hand to block it. You shift so you’re pointing the rifle at him in case he gets it in his head to make any sudden movements. 

“Put your other hand up too,” you order him. He complies, leaving the handgun on his lap. You can barely hear your voice over the pounding of your own heart. “What are you doing out here? You’re on my land.”

His mouth works a couple of times before he’s able to speak. When he does, his voice is hoarse. “Sorry. I got turned around.”

“Yeah? Why are you so messed up if you just ‘got turned around’?”

“Had to jump out of a moving car. The people I was with didn’t appreciate that much.” He sounds so serious that you raise your eyebrows in disbelief. 

“Are you going to be trouble for me?”

“Probably not.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, out of his mouth before your question has the chance to linger in the air.

Against your better judgment, you take his word at face value and tuck your rifle under your arm, pointed away at him. His handgun gets stowed in your waistband before you help him to his feet and sling his arm over your shoulder. The arm not occupied by your own gun gets wrapped around him. Your knees nearly buckle under the weight of him. It’s slow going to your back door. He seems to be intermittently losing consciousness. On the second of the three steps leading to the small porch, his foot drags and slips out from under him. He nearly takes the both of you down. 

“C’mon,” you grit out and bodily haul him up the final stair.

The stranger slumps in your hold as you get the door open and all but drag him into your kitchen. He comes to enough to stagger through to the living room. You more or less drop him onto the couch. He sags limply into the cushions like a puppet with its strings severed.

“Can I call for medical help or do you need me to try to do a patch job?”

“Please don’t call anyone. I’ll be fine.”

You exhale hard, nerves jangling. Patch job it is. “Sit tight.” 

Leaving him alone and dripping melting snow all over your couch, you gather a couple towels and the medical kit that you keep well stocked for emergencies. He is exactly as you left him when you come back in the room laden down like a pack pony. You put the supplies on the seat next to him. 

“What’s your name?”

“Six.”

You want to comment on how that’s obviously not a real name, but you bite your tongue and swallow the words down. It’s not your business. Keeping him from dying on your couch is your business. 

Without any further preamble, you wrestle him out of his wet clothing, leaving him in just the underwear you don’t dare to touch. Once he is stripped naked, you start examining his body to find the source of the blood. You find it immediately, but your eyes can’t help but take in the rest of him. Six, as he calls himself, is muscular, but you knew that from how heavy he was over your shoulder and in the circle of his arm, but it’s the expanse of his injuries that is more notable. It’s unsettling. He’s marked with old scars and fresher ones that are still uncomfortably raw and pink. You don’t think you want to know what this strange man does for a living. It looks as though several people have tried to kill him over the years, admittedly with limited success if his presence in your home is any indication.

Ignoring the rest of his body, you focus on the sizable gash in his size. A bullet must have burned its way across his side at a close range judging from the singeing around the edges of the wound. It’s still sluggishly bleeding, but it’s thankfully shallow enough to not be fatal in the short term. You wet a piece of gauze with disinfectant and press it against the wound. Six does not so much as flinch. He looks resigned to the pain when you glance at his face to gauge his reaction. You pinch the sides of the injury together and secure it with several meticulously placed butterfly bandages to keep it closed. Holding a thick gauze pad on the wound with your hand, you wind vet wrap around his abdomen to hold it in place. It should serve to put pressure on it to restrict the chance of bleeding and further trauma to the sight.

You’re relieved to discover that the rest of his injuries are minor in comparison. He has a slightly sprained wrist that you stabilize with more vet wrap. Unfortunately, he is covered in scrapes and abrasions. All you can do for them is to put a large band-aid on the worst of the road rash. It’s next to a tattoo that says something in Greek. Your stranger appears to be more well-versed in literature than you might have expected, not just a thug despite the obviously prison quality tattoos. 

Injuries aside, the man feels concerningly cold due to the exposure to the freezing temperatures and not insignificant blood loss. You realize that if you had been more prepared and hadn’t needed to restock your log barrel, he would have likely succumbed to the elements right outside of your home. The thought of finding his body in the morning makes you shiver reflexively. You push that line of thinking aside and pick up one of the towels. You hold it in both hands and rub his extremities in between your cloth covered palms, trying to encourage circulation back into his body. It works. His fingers lose their waxy appearance and his body temperature seems to level back out. He starts shivering, a good sign that means there is no more need to worry about hypothermia. You take the fresher towel and dry his sodden hair before wiping his torso clean. His shivering gradually subsides as you work. He’s dozing off, breath whistling through his nose. Some of the tension has left his face. 

Once you’re finished with him, you finally fetch the logs from the shed. On your way, you take the time to disturb the tracks. Even though it’s still snowing, you do not want to take the chance that they will be discernible by a hostile party. Knowing that you will be cleaning up anyway after you put your unexpected guest to bed, you don’t take any great pains to avoid tracking more snow into the house. 

You drop your armful of logs into the basket and put a couple of them into the fireplace. They should last a while. You approach the couch, catching Six awake but not alert. He’s staring blankly at your Christmas tree, seemingly captivated by it. His eyes redirect unsteadily to you when you’re close enough to touch him. The man squints like he’s having a hard time seeing through his exhaustion.

“You an angel?”

You almost laugh, but he sounds so tired and so sincere. “No,” you tell him gently. He mumbles something unintelligible in response.

Crouching at his side, you take hold of his legs and guide him until he’s laying down, curled on his non-injured side on the cushions. Six manages to lift his head enough for you to shove a decorative pillow under it. His eyes slip closed when you cover him with the throw blankets that you always keep in the living room. You practically tuck him in. Just before you withdraw, you impulsively smooth his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. Something in your heart tells you that he could use the comforting gesture. 

You pull away, satisfied that he’ll make it through the night and that you will be able to get some food into him in the morning. Just as you turn to leave to start cleaning up the mess that has been left in the wake of his arrival, you’re brought to a halt. Six’s fingers are wrapped around your wrist just long enough to make you pause before he lets go. 

“Thank you,” he says, muffled against the pillow.

Your face softens and you feel the corners of your lips rise in a smile. “You’re welcome."

[dietcokeangel2004]

Sierra Six x Reader *smut*

“Are we ready to begin?”

His voice, deep and strong, reverberated off the walls and echoed into my mind. My legs shook from my nerves, anxiety through the roof at this point. He was dressed in a simple black shirt with a relaxed fit grey suit jacket and grey dress pants. A downright daddy, perfect for the part I guess.

I softly nod my head yes. This is an awkward situation I’ve gotten myself into and now I don’t even know how the hell to get out of here. He raises his eyebrow at me like I’m supposed to guess what’s up. “Words, use your words.”

Fuck. Fuck. “Yes I’m ready to begin.” My voice is quiet and I’m scared you can hear the tremble in it. He doesn’t seem to pick up on it, which I’m thankful for. “Why don’t we start off with something simple, I would like you to sit on this pillow beside me. Then you’re going to pass me the remote for the TV okay.”

At first I am shook, what the hell! Am I a slave? I don’t know but I also sort of enjoy it. I slink over as sensually as I can and plop down on my knees. “Being a sub, means always thinking about what could benefit or make your dom happy.” He speaks these words to me calmly, like this is an everyday sort of conversation. I feel my face on fire as I hand him then remote, my ears burn and I’ve never been happier to not be able to see myself. Thinking back to his words I proportion myself so that when he looks down at me he’ll get a great view of my tits. He gently grabs my chin all of a sudden causing a short breathy moan to fall from my lips.

“Perfect. See you’re a natural, you just need a little help getting there.” He is pulling my head into his lap, I try my hardest not to get as close to his cock as I want to. This meeting isn’t supposed to have any sexual contact in it, however I find myself craving it. I want to make him feel as good as he wants, I want him to order me around. His dick is pressed against the fly of his dress pants, I will not touch it unless I’m told to though. A sudden groan drags me out of my daze, causing me to realize I’ve been heart-eyeing his crotch the whole time. “Mmm baby girl you’re staring at my cock like it’s candy. I know we’re not supposed to be doing sexual contact until a few more meeting but would you like to have your first fully controlled blowjob?”

My small gasp is all the confirmation he needs however he waits until words seal the deal. “Oh god, yes Sir I would love to!” Ugh I’m desperate, but I can’t help it. My hands shake with nerves and fear of fucking up as he sets my head in his lap and goes to work with his pants.

It’s beautiful, red and raw. Just waiting to be loved by someone other than his hand. He takes hold of my head by using my hair, I moan with need for him at this. He pulls me to his cock and his warmth fills my mouth, as quick as it went in it was gone. Closing my eyes I let myself fall into the feeling of being degraded. He was rubbing his cock around on my face, tapping my cheeks and forehead with his thickness. To make it even more disgustingly hot, his cock had a sheen of my drool on it, smearing my face. “Why don’t you take off your shirt and bra?” I sighed at the loss of contact but did as I was told. He tells me he loves my perky breasts as he shovelled his manhood back into my mouth. Praises fell from his lips as I ate him, he told me that I was a good sub, a good girl, we were going to have so much fun together. I didn’t even pay attention to my own wetness, just focused on sucking, licking and rubbing his dick all up. He let me get messy and I let him tell me to. I had spit dripping down my chin, saliva and pre cum smeared on my cheeks and here I was rubbing his dick in between and all over my tits. They were completely soaked and oiled up from my spit and pre cum. He called me his good dirty whore while I did this and I mewled. He ended finally by calling me daddy’s filthy little girl and came right on my tongue. I swallowed some and then let the rest drip down onto, what are now, daddy’s breasts. He grabbed me by the hair and had me rest my head face to face with his soft red cock and we watched TV. I honestly wasn’t paying attention, I was thinking about how hopefully next time my daddy would pound my little pussy and make it his.