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Chapter 6: Do What You Want Cause I'm Not Gonna Save you.

Summary: You have a curse: you can’t control when or where you travel through time, but you’re always tethered to Remy LeBeau’s life. For him, you’re a mysterious constant—someone who’s been there at every stage of his life, never aging, never changing. For you, he’s the soulmate you’ve loved across timelines, though you never meet him in the right order.

You’ve seen him as a reckless thief, a heartbroken lover, a guilt-ridden outcast, and a hero struggling for redemption—always knowing him, while he pieces together who you are with every encounter. Pairings: Remy Lebeau/Reader, Past!Remy Lebeau/Bella Donna, Past!Remy Lebeau/Anna-Marie. Warnings: Slow-Burn, Swearing, Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff Masterlist

Your head felt heavy, like it was filled with fog, thoughts sluggish as if wading through molasses. The world around you was crisp and vibrant, yet your mind struggled to fully grasp it. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass and the faintest trace of flowers, but it felt unreal, distant, like something pulled from the edges of a dream.

You wobbled slightly as you took a step forward, the grass beneath your feet impossibly soft, almost unnervingly so. It cushioned each movement, grounding you in a way that felt both comforting and alien. The sun cast warm light over everything, illuminating a park that seemed ordinary—too ordinary. A clear sky stretched endlessly above, unmarked by even a wisp of cloud.

Somewhere nearby, birds chattered in the trees, their songs crisp and bright, yet their melody did little to cut through the haze clouding your mind. A voice called out, summoning a dog with a name you didn’t recognize, yet it sounded familiar in some strange, detached way.

Your stomach twisted, a slow, sinking dread coiling its way through your chest, wrapping tight around your lungs. It was like the air had turned thick, suffocating, each breath a struggle against the weight pressing down on you. The world around you—the sunlit park, the soft grass, the distant chatter—felt disconnected, like a scene from a life that wasn’t yours, one you were only passing through.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, restless, itching for something to ground you, something to make sense of this. But there was nothing. No sign of him. No familiar voice, no warmth of presence that always told you where he was, even when he wasn’t near. The absence was louder than anything else, louder than the birdsong, louder than the murmured conversations of strangers.

And then you saw it.

The deep blue letters of the sign, stark against the building's brick facade, stared back at you like they knew. Like they understood the way your heart clenched so hard it felt like it might shatter. St. Mary’s End of Life Care.

Your breath hitched.

No.

No, no, no.

Your body screamed at you to move, to turn around, to pretend you never saw it, never felt the invisible tether between you and Remy pulling you toward that place. The place where he was. Somewhere in there. Your mind raced, grasping at anything, any excuse to step back, to give yourself a few more moments of ignorance. But the truth sat heavy in your chest, burning, sinking deeper with every beat of your pulse.

He was here. Your feet felt heavy as you stepped off the curb, crossing the street with the kind of slow, measured steps that weren’t yours. It was like your body was moving forward while your mind dragged its heels, desperate to turn back, to run, to pretend you had never seen that sign. The parking lot was half-full, cars neatly lined up, their presence so painfully normal that it made your chest tighten even more. How could everything look so ordinary when nothing felt right?

The automatic doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, and suddenly, you were inside. The air was cool, sterile, and heavy with the faint scent of antiseptic and something softer—like lavender or chamomile, something meant to be comforting but only made your stomach churn.

Your eyes swept the room, landing on the posters pinned to the walls, their colors muted but their words sharp: Palliative Care: What to Expect. Supporting Your Loved One Through Their Final Days. Making Funeral Arrangements.

Your throat closed up. You couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Your pulse pounded against your ribs, a frantic, erratic drumbeat that made your hands shake at your sides. You wanted to scream, wanted to tear down those posters and rip the pamphlets to shreds because he wasn’t supposed to be here. This was a mistake.

But the bond between you—the thing that had tethered you to Remy for as long as you could remember—pulled so tight it felt like it was strangling you. He’s here. Every nerve in your body knew it, even if your heart refused to accept it.

A woman in light blue scrubs stopped in front of you, a clipboard tucked against her side. Her smile was kind, soft around the edges, like she had done this before. Like she had seen this same lost, shattered look in too many other people’s eyes.

"Can I help you with anything?"

Your mouth felt dry, your tongue like sandpaper as you tried to find the words.

"I’m—" You barely choked it out, your voice breaking over the weight in your throat. "I don’t even know if I’m in the right spot. But I’m looking for someone."

The nurse gave a small nod, her expression never wavering. "Well, how about you give me their name and I’ll have a look if they’re here?"

You hesitated, every muscle in your body screaming at you to turn around and leave, to pretend this moment had never happened. If you didn’t say his name, maybe this reality wouldn’t solidify. Maybe you could go back to the park, to the hazy uncertainty, to the not-knowing.

But your lips parted anyway.

"Remy."

You forced the name out, your voice barely above a whisper. "Remy LeBeau."

The nurse gave you a small, reassuring nod before turning toward the desk, her fingers moving over the keyboard.

You exhaled shakily, your eyes drifting to the pamphlets again.

End-of-life care.

What happens next.

Your nose burned, your vision blurred, and you clenched your fists at your sides, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

But how could you not?

Because standing here, in this quiet, awful place, surrounded by words you never wanted to read, waiting to hear the confirmation you were dreading…

It felt like the world was ending.

The nurse approached you with a soft, knowing look, her voice gentle but firm as she said, "I think he's been waiting for you to come." Her words hit you square in the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. Waiting for you. You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as she nodded down the hallway.

"Come on. I'll take you to him."

Your legs felt unsteady as you stepped forward, following her down the softly lit corridor. The carpet muted your footsteps, making it feel like you were floating, like none of this was real. Doors stood ajar along the hall, offering glimpses of other lives, other endings. Families sat close to their loved ones, murmuring in quiet voices, hands clasped, eyes full of sorrow and love.

Please don’t let him have been alone. The thought burned through you, heavy and desperate.

The nurse stopped in front of a door and knocked softly before pushing it open just enough to peek inside.

"You have a visitor."

The door swung open wider, and she stepped aside, giving you space to enter. Her smile was warm, but there was something behind it—understanding, maybe even sadness. Like she knew what this moment meant.

You hesitated on the threshold, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst. What if he looked different? What if he didn’t recognize you? What if—

Your eyes swept the room.

Photos lined the walls, some framed, others taped up haphazardly, little glimpses of a life you weren’t part of. A worn deck of cards sat on the dresser next to a small television, the edges of the box frayed from years of use.

And then you saw him.

Not him, not yet.

The man sitting beside the bed moved first, standing so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor. His eyes widened in disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if you were real or just another ghost in this place.

But you barely registered him—because beyond him, lying against the pillows, was the one person you had come for.

Remy.

His frame was smaller, too thin, too fragile beneath the blankets, but the moment his crimson eyes met yours, everything else faded. His lips curled into a soft, tired smile, one that still held all the warmth you remembered.

The tightness in your chest became unbearable.

Your bottom lip quivered as you fought against the tears that threatened to spill, your entire body trembling with the weight of it.

"Mon cœur," he murmured, voice raspy but unmistakable.

And just like that, you broke.

"Rem," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, the sound of it catching in your throat as you stepped closer to the bed.

He looked so small. Too small. His body, once so full of life, so effortlessly graceful and strong, was thinner now, the sharp edges of time having whittled him down. But his eyes—God, his eyes—still burned with that same warmth, that same mischievous, knowing light that made your chest ache.

The tears came before you could stop them. They slipped down your cheeks freely as you all but collapsed into the chair beside him, your legs no longer able to hold you up. The presence of the other man in the room barely registered; the only thing that mattered was Remy. You reached for his hand, fragile but still warm, still his, and brought it to your lips, kissing the back of it before pressing it to your cheek.

"I’m sorry." Your voice cracked as you whispered the words against his skin. "I’m sorry it took me so long."

The sob that had been clawing at your throat finally broke free as you clung to him, as if holding on tight enough could rewind time, could undo whatever had led to this moment.

His fingers moved slowly, brushing against your cheek, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

"Mon amour, you never have t’ be sorry," he murmured, voice weak but steady. "Not t’ me. Not ever."

You sucked in a shaky breath, trying to regain even a sliver of composure, but your grip on his hand remained firm. You weren’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

Movement caught your attention, and for the first time, you acknowledged the man standing beside the bed. He shifted slightly under your gaze, hesitant, unsure.

You wiped your eyes, forcing yourself to offer him a watery smile, though your voice was still thick with emotion.

"I’m sorry, I don’t—" You exhaled, trying to gather your words, but they felt so out of reach. "I don’t think we’ve met."

The man gave a small smile, one that held something almost hesitant beneath it.

"Oliver. I’m uh... I’m his grandson."

You blinked.

For a moment, the words didn’t quite register.

Grandson?

Oliver extended a hand, and you took it on instinct, but your mind was racing, your heart pounding in your chest. He looked familiar. Too familiar. There was something in the curve of his jaw, the shape of his eyes—something you couldn’t quite place, but it nagged at the edges of your mind like a half-forgotten memory.

Your fingers instinctively tightened around Remy’s as you turned back to him, finding him watching you with a quiet amusement, his smile never faltering.

"Keeping him on his toes?" you asked, forcing a grin through the lingering tears.

"Always," Remy replied, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand, the simple motion grounding you more than anything else had since you stepped foot in this place.

Oliver looked between the two of you for a moment, like he was piecing something together, before finally speaking.

"I’ll give you two some space," he said, his voice softer now, more understanding. He reached out and gave Remy's shoulder a light squeeze before stepping toward the door. "I’ll be back soon, Grand-père."

You watched as he disappeared down the hallway, and the second the door clicked shut behind him, more tears spilled down your cheeks.

"Look at you," you whispered, voice breaking. "You had a whole family."

A life you hadn’t been part of.

A life you had missed.

Remy nodded, his grip tightening just slightly around yours.

"I’ve had a good life," he murmured, his gaze never leaving yours. "Not without challenge. But it was good."

He sighed, a slow, content sound, as if he was letting himself settle into the weight of those words.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his, a soft, lingering touch that held everything you couldn’t quite put into words. He tried to shift, to make space for you, but you caught the strain in his movement and quickly stood, helping him adjust before he patted the empty space beside him.

There was no hesitation.

You pinched your nose, inhaling sharply before carefully sliding in next to him, fitting into the space like you had always belonged there. Your fingers instinctively found his again, intertwining with the warmth of his palm, tracing the lines there as if trying to memorize them.

"Tell me about them," you whispered, your voice barely above the hum of the machines. "About your family. Please."

You needed to know.

You needed to hear that he had been happy in the end, that he had been loved. That he had been okay.

Remy let out a slow, measured sigh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he began.

"I got married to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen," he murmured.

Your fingers ghosted over the simple gold band on his left hand. Your chest tightened, your breath catching as your heart clenched so painfully it felt like it might collapse in on itself.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

The words echoed in your head, rattling around like broken glass.

He had found her—the person who had given him the love he deserved, the life he should have always had. And God, you were happy for him. You were. But it didn’t stop the ache, the deep, searing agony that settled into the marrow of your bones.

"She was trouble and chaos wrapped into one," he continued, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

You forced a small smile, nudging him gently.

"Just like you, huh?"

"It was hard loving her. She always broke my heart," he admitted, his voice soft, heavy with the weight of old wounds. "But when I was finally able to love her the way I wanted to, it was magic."

He turned to you then, eyes filled with something indescribable, something deeper than nostalgia, something that cracked you open all over again, "She gave me three beautiful children."

You swallowed hard, bringing his hand to your lips and kissing his palm, your tears slipping onto his skin, "Where did you live?" you asked, desperate for more, desperate to paint the picture in your mind.

"A small house, near Westchester but far enough from people. A quiet existence."

You let out a weak laugh, "Bet it killed you."

His lips curled into a knowing smile, "It was worth it. The pain, the heartbreak. In the end, everything was worth it."

His words broke something inside of you, and you couldn’t stop the sob that tore free from your throat, "I’m sorry I missed it," you choked out, wiping at your eyes. "I’m sorry I never stayed. That I never could. I tried so hard." Your breath hitched, your shoulders shaking. "The ultimate cosmic fuckery, right?" A broken laugh escaped you, but it dissolved into more tears, harder now, unstoppable.

Remy let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he tugged you closer, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, "The ultimate cosmic fuckery," he echoed, his voice filled with something too big to name.

But no matter how close you got, it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Because this was it.

This was all you had left.

And it wasn’t fair.

You had missed it—his whole life. He had stopped waiting. He had pulled himself out of the void, built something real, something lasting. And you hadn’t been there. You weren’t there for any of it.

"I love you," you whispered, voice raw, shattered. "I’ve always loved you. Every second of every minute of every day,” You kissed his hand again, lingering against his skin, holding onto him like you could somehow keep him here a little longer.

Because there was no future for the two of you past this moment.

No kissing under the stars.

No walking down the aisle.

No growing old together.

This was it.

Remy exhaled, his fingers curling around yours as he whispered, "Chérie, not a day went by when I didn’t love you with every beat of my heart,” A single tear slipped down his cheek.

You reached up, brushing it away with trembling fingers, your own tears blurring your vision, “You stared at him, your heart breaking, your soul unraveling, and whispered, "We were always destined for this."

He shook his head, his smile laced with something bittersweet, "You never believed in destiny."

You let out a breathy, tear-soaked laugh, "Because it’s bullshit," you murmured, offering him a smile through the devastation.

And still, you held onto him.

Because even if the universe had never been kind to the two of you—

Even if time had been stolen, moments lost—

This?

This was yours.

The door creaked open, and you looked up just as Oliver stepped back into the room. His eyes flickered between you and Remy, taking in the way you curled around him, holding onto him like you could somehow keep him here by sheer will alone. His lips pressed together, trembling slightly before he dropped his gaze, quickly making his way to the chair beside the bed. He wasn’t trying to hide his emotions—not really—but you could see it in the way his hands clenched and unclenched, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard against the grief welling up inside him.

You turned back to Remy. His eyes were closed now, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow movements. His grip in your hand had softened, but it was still there, still real. "I waited," he breathed, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

Your heart clenched, your grip tightening around his frail fingers, "Like you promised," you whispered, nodding. "And I’m here. And I’m not leaving. Not now."

You glanced at Oliver, and he nodded once, silent but understanding.

"It’s my turn to wait for you, yeah?" You clenched your jaw, trying to hold back the tears.

Remy squeezed your hand, just enough for you to feel it. A confirmation. A final act of acknowledgment.

Oliver sniffled, rubbing his sleeve against his nose, his voice thick with emotion. "They said he didn’t have a lot of time. But he was hanging on," he murmured. His breath shuddered as he exhaled. "For you. He always said you’d come back because you always did."

You swallowed hard, trying to fight the wave of emotions threatening to drown you, "When did I see him last?" Your voice wavered, unsure, almost afraid to know the answer.

Oliver nodded, wiping at his damp cheeks. "About six years ago." He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how much to say, but then he pushed forward. "He just went downhill from there. Mom and Dad tried to look after him, but it was like... he just stopped caring. All he said was that you’d come back because you always did. You’d always come back to him."

Your breath hitched.

"We just thought it was an old man rambling," Oliver added, looking at you now, really looking at you, searching for answers in your face.

Your heart ached as you tried to steady yourself, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Oliver shrugged, his lips quirking into a sad, almost disbelieving smile. "He told us all about you. About what you could do. How you could never control it—popping into his life, pissing him off before leaving again."

You let out a breathy laugh, but it was hollow, broken, "Yeah, that’s me."

Your fingers brushed over Remy’s knuckles absentmindedly, tracing the veins, memorizing the feel of him one last time, "Was he happy?" you asked, your voice barely holding together.

Oliver didn’t hesitate, "He was happy. I promise you."

The words should have been comforting. They should have settled something deep inside you, given you peace. But instead, they twisted the knife in deeper, made it all so much worse. Because he had been happy. He had found a life without you. And while you wanted that for him—had always wanted that for him—it still felt like being ripped apart from the inside out.

Your eyes dropped back to Remy. His breaths were slower now, each one a struggle, a battle you knew he couldn’t keep fighting much longer. His chest barely moved beneath the blankets.

Tears spilled freely down Oliver’s cheeks now, his composure slipping as he held onto Remy’s other hand, his fingers pressing against the fragile skin, "He loved you more than anyone."

The words shattered you.

You brought Remy’s hand to your lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles, lingering there, wanting to freeze this moment even though it was agony. You kissed his skin like a prayer, like an apology, like a promise. Then you leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your tears falling onto his face, slipping down his temple.

"It’s okay," you whispered, your voice breaking completely as you wiped at your own tears. "You don’t have to wait anymore, Rem."

Oliver let out a soft sob, squeezing Remy’s other hand as he whispered something too quiet for you to hear.

You sat back down, guiding Remy’s hand to your cheek, pressing it there as though you could soak up every last ounce of warmth he had left, "We’re gonna be okay." The words were meant for him, but they felt like a lie.

The silence stretched between you all, thick with unsaid things, with memories you’d never get to make, with love that spanned lifetimes but never quite fit into them.

The rasp of Remy’s breathing was the only sound left. And then—

Nothing.

The world stopped.

Your ears rang, your heartbeat thundered in your chest, but there was nothing else. No rise of his chest. No squeeze of his fingers.

Just stillness.

Just silence.

And then the sobs ripped through you.

You didn’t even realize you had fallen forward until your forehead was pressed against his arm, your shoulders shaking violently as the grief tore through you in waves so strong you thought you might drown in them.

Oliver was crying, too—harder now—his face pressed against the back of Remy’s hand, his body curling inward like he was trying to fold into himself.

There was nothing left to do. No fight to be had. No battle to win. No miracle to hold onto.

This was it.

The end of a life.

The end of his life.

And you were left with nothing but the wreckage.

<><><><><><><><><>

The walk down the corridor felt like an endless descent into something far worse than grief—something deeper, more consuming. An ache so vast it swallowed everything else whole. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the weight of what had just happened was settling into your bones, pressing you down with a force you couldn't fight.

You didn’t want to leave him.

Your body screamed to turn back, to stay just a little longer, but there was nothing left to do. The nurses and doctor had been gentle, quiet, understanding. There’s nothing more you can do now. The words rattled in your head, hollow and cold.

Oliver walked beside you, his fingers curled around a small piece of metal, glinting faintly under the fluorescent hallway lights. Remy’s wedding ring.

"Mom was meant to be here, but her flight got canceled," Oliver said, voice rough, raw. He kept his eyes on the ring in his palm, thumb running over the inside of the band. "This was the one thing she asked me to bring home. Everything else could wait."

You swallowed hard, but your throat was too dry, too tight to respond. The words stuck somewhere deep, lost beneath the weight of everything else crashing inside you.

Tears slid down your cheeks again, and you wiped them away almost angrily. They just kept falling, like there was no end to them. As if your body knew something your mind hadn’t fully grasped yet.

Remy was gone.

Not just gone, but gone in a way that was permanent, irreversible. The way he had lived his life without you, built something real, something lasting—something that you had never been a part of—it hurt in a way nothing else ever had. It felt like grief and regret and longing all tangled into something unfixable.

"Thank you,” Oliver’s voice cut through your thoughts, soft but certain.

You turned your head slightly, blinking at him through blurred vision. "For what?"

Oliver leaned against the wall just outside the hospital doors, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, placing it between his lips, his hands steady despite the storm inside him, "For coming."

He flicked the lighter, the small flame illuminating his face for a brief second before it disappeared. The first drag was slow, practiced, the smoke lazily curling around him as he exhaled.

You exhaled too, but it came out more like a broken breath, shaky and unsure.

You studied him in the dim light, your gaze tracing his features—brown hair, hazel eyes, the slight tilt of his mouth when he exhaled. There was something painfully familiar about him, something nagging at the edges of your memory, but you couldn’t quite place it.

"How do I know you?" you asked, confused, your voice quieter than before.

Oliver turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours, "Well, I was always told I looked like Granddad."

You shook your head immediately, something in your gut telling you that wasn’t it. "No, that’s not it."

You tore your gaze away, looking back at the empty street, the way the streetlights flickered, the world outside still moving on like nothing had changed. Your stomach twisted. For the first time in your life, you wanted to leave. To let go.

The universe had never let you stay.

Maybe, for once, you didn’t want to fight it.

Oliver took another drag before glancing at you again. "Where are you going now?"

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back against the wall, sliding down until you were sitting on the cold pavement. "I guess I just... wait."

Your knees pulled up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them as the truth of it all settled inside you like lead, "All he ever did for me was wait."

Your voice cracked on the words, and suddenly the tears were back, hot and fast, "His entire life, he waited for me. Waited for the universe to stop pulling me away from him,” A sob broke free, raw and painful, tearing through your chest.

"It never did."

Oliver hesitated for a moment before he slid down the wall beside you, mirroring your position, his arms resting on his knees, "Granddad used to tell me that he had never known heartbreak the way he felt it when you were pulled away from him," he murmured, voice distant, heavy. "Every time he’d wake up and you weren’t there. Every time you told him you’d come back and you never did."

He took one last drag from his cigarette before crushing it under his shoe, exhaling through his nose.

"He found someone to love eventually," you sniffed, trying to steady your breathing, trying to stop the shaking in your chest. "He had a whole life. Had you there. Your parents. All he ever wanted was family. Something to call his."

Oliver nodded, his jaw tightening, clenching and unclenching like he was trying to push words past something lodged deep in his throat, "He always used to say the happiest day of his life was when—" His voice faltered, cracking mid-sentence. He inhaled sharply, tilting his head back, staring up at the sky like it might have the answer he was looking for.

Then, after a long moment, he looked at you again. His eyes had softened—no longer guarded, no longer edged with wariness. Instead, they were searching, “When you stopped being pulled away from him.”

The words were quiet, yet they struck like a hammer against glass, cracking the carefully built walls around your heart. You turned to him, your eyes scanning his face, searching for an explanation, for something tangible to hold on to.

“What do you mean?” Your voice was tight, raw. Exhaustion settled in your bones, the weight of too many memories pressing down on your shoulders. It felt like drowning in a tide that never receded.

Oliver shook his head, exhaling sharply. “Mom told me that if I ever saw you, I shouldn’t say a word. Not a damn thing. But…” He paused, his expression twisting in conflict before he let out a defeated sigh. “I can’t just sit here and pretend I don’t know you. Not you. Not the woman who used to read me bedtime stories with all the voices, who made me those stupid cupcakes that Dad used to pretend he was mad about,” He smirked, but his eyes were still serious, still filled with something heavy.

Your heart clenched. You wanted to argue, to dismiss it, to keep yourself tethered to the reality you knew. But something in his tone sent a cold shiver down your spine.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, frustration mixing with fear. “Because this—this doesn’t make sense—”

But Oliver cut you off. “You always told me I looked more like your dad.” His voice was steady, deliberate, like he was bracing himself for impact. “But everyone else? They always said I looked like Grandpa. Because they never met your dad.”

The world tilted.

The breath was ripped from your lungs, leaving you gasping. Your body went still—paralyzed by a truth you weren’t ready for, a truth you didn’t even know existed.

No. No, that wasn’t possible.

“You’re saying—” The words barely made it past your lips, strangled and fragile.

Oliver nodded, his own breath unsteady. And then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, timeworn band of gold. He placed it in your hand as if it were the most fragile thing in the world.

“You stayed,” he murmured. “Eventually, you stayed. I don’t know when. But you do.”

Your fingers closed around the ring before you could think better of it. It was warm, real, solid. And as you turned it in your palm, your eyes caught the engraving inside—small, intimate, familiar.

A slow, disbelieving smirk tugged at the corners of your lips, though your fingers trembled as they traced the small, delicate engraving inside the wedding ring. The metal was worn with time, edges smoothed by years—by a lifetime. Your throat felt tight, constricted, as if you had forgotten how to breathe.

“That house in Westchester…” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. The words tasted foreign, surreal. You weren’t even sure if you had meant to say them out loud.

Oliver nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in his expression—a quiet understanding, the weight of knowledge he shouldn’t have carried. “He made sure it was in the middle of nowhere,” he murmured. “Just like you wanted.”

And suddenly, everything shifted. The past, the present—the weight of what had been and what could be—collided in the quiet space between you. The ring in your palm felt impossibly heavy, an anchor to something you couldn’t quite grasp yet. The truth was there, just beyond your reach, teasing the edges of your mind like a half-remembered dream.

Your voice wavered, unsteady, as you spoke. “So when he was talking about—”

“He didn’t-“ Oliver’s voice was firm, yet tinged with something fragile. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he forced himself to continue. “He didn’t want us to mention it to you if we ever saw you because…” He hesitated, his fingers twitching as if debating whether to reach for you or to pull away entirely. “Because you and him promised to never talk about what you both knew from the future. Something about influencing his shit.”

A dry, bitter laugh escaped him, but it was hollow, exhausted. He dragged a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply, shaking his head. “Don’t fucking tell anyone I told you.” His lips curled into a weak, watery smile, the kind that barely held itself together.

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them, slipping down your cheeks in silent, glistening trails. The ring in your palm burned with an intensity you couldn’t describe. It wasn’t just a band of gold—it was proof. Proof that something had happened. Proof that time wasn’t as unchangeable as you had once believed.

You let out a shaky breath, blinking away the blur of tears, and met his gaze with a small, trembling smile of your own, “Your secret’s safe with me,” you murmured.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t sure whether you were standing in the past, the present, or on the edge of something entirely new.

<><><><><><><><> When you fell next, the impact was sharp, unforgiving. The familiar hardwood floor rose up to meet you, the force of it rattling through your bones. Your breath left you in a sharp, winded gasp, your body curling inward as if trying to shield itself from a blow that had already landed. The yank that had pulled you here was violent, toe-curling, nauseating—a force you hadn’t felt in what felt like a lifetime.

For a fleeting, dizzying moment, you wondered if it wasn’t just the pull that had wrenched you back, but the sheer weight of your grief. The unbearable weight of what you had just learned. Of what you had just seen.

Your hands pressed against the cool wood beneath you, the grain rough under your fingertips as you forced yourself onto your hands and knees. Your muscles screamed in protest, your limbs trembling, and your head—God, your head—pounded with an ache so deep it felt like it was trying to split you open. Each heartbeat was a hammer against your skull.

You barely had time to steady yourself before you felt strong arms slide under yours, lifting you. A familiar presence, warm and steady. You gasped softly, looking up through the haze of pain and disorientation, and there he was.

Remy.

His grip was firm but careful, guiding you to your feet like he had done a hundred times before, like he would do a hundred times again. His touch alone was grounding, tethering you to something real, something solid.

Just beyond him, Anna stood a few steps ahead, watching with quiet concern. Her lips were slightly parted, her smile fading the moment she saw your face. You could see the question in her eyes, the worry. But she didn’t ask.

Because you weren’t here. Not really.

You tried—God, you tried—to hold on to the knowledge that one day… one day, you stay. That eventually, you stop running, stop being ripped away. That in some version of the future, you belong here, in this house, in this moment.

But all you could think about—all you could feel—was that somewhere in the distant, unreachable future, you had just watched him die.

Your breath hitched, and before you could stop them, tears spilled down your cheeks. Hot, relentless, shaking free from the grip you tried to keep on yourself.

Remy noticed immediately.

His expression flickered—something between confusion and concern—before he moved in front of you, closing the space between you in an instant. His hands came up, cradling your face, rough thumbs swiping at the tears that refused to stop falling.

His touch was gentle, desperate, trying to erase the evidence of pain he didn’t understand yet.

“What happened?” His voice was soft but urgent, the rasp in it familiar, grounding.

You couldn’t answer.

You didn’t have the words, didn’t have the strength. Instead, you let out a choked sob and clung to him—like he was the only thing in the world keeping you upright, like if you let go, you’d shatter into pieces too small to ever put back together.

Anna said something. You heard her voice, distant and unimportant, before she turned on her heel and walked away. But you didn’t care. None of it mattered.

Because right now, he was here.

He was here. He was warm, and strong, and alive.

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight, needing to feel the solid weight of him against you. His arms wrapped around you, strong and sure, holding you like he could keep you from slipping away.

You buried your face into his chest as more sobs wracked through you, and he only held you tighter, whispering quiet reassurances that you could barely hear over the sound of your own breaking heart. His lips pressed against the crown of your head, over and over again, as his hand stroked through your hair, slow and steady, like he was trying to smooth out the jagged edges of whatever was tearing you apart.

And for now—for just this moment—you let yourself believe he could.

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 1 day ago

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What people expect when I say I’m a writer: writing a whole novel

What I actually do: get into a fandom or come up with an original idea, go to sleep every night thinking of the story, make imaginary scenarios and Pinterest boards, make Spotify playlists, and finally sit down to write it out 2 months later only to get another idea and abandon the story. Repeat the cycle.

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 1 day ago

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Chapter 5: Camouflage So You Can Feed The Lie That You're Composed

Summary: For five grueling years, Taskforce X was both your lifeline and your torment. Mission after mission, you faced impossible odds with the dangling promise of a reduced sentence. Now, at last, you’re free—no more Belle Reve, no more danger. You’ve put that chapter behind you, determined to leave it locked away in the recesses of your mind.

But Amanda Waller has other plans. When she appears back in your life, she brings a new mission—and a new team. This time, you’re working alongside Rick Flag Sr., the father of your former team leader, and the members of Taskforce M. As the stakes rise, so do unexpected emotions. Tensions give way to an undeniable connection between you and Rick, a bond that deepens with every mission and threatens to pull you back into a world you thought you’d left behind forever. Warning: Slow-Burn, Age Gap, Violence, Swearing, Smut. Pairings: Rick Flag Sr/Reader Masterlist

The room was cloaked in darkness, the kind that pressed heavy against your eyes until they adjusted, turning the pitch black into faint silhouettes and shadows. The faint hum of an air conditioning unit filled the silence, a low, steady rhythm that threatened to lull someone less focused than you into a false sense of security.

You sat on the edge of your bed, the cheap mattress creaking faintly under your weight, and rummaged through your bag by touch alone. Your fingers brushed against various items—your phone, a folded map, a half-empty pack of gum—until they found the familiar texture of the gloves. Black, rubber, thin.

You pulled them out, the material catching slightly on the zipper of your bag, and rolled them between your fingers. They were simple tattoo gloves, nothing special. A box of 140 for $3.99 on eBay. Cheap, effective, and disposable. Perfect for nights like this.

Your thumb absently traced the edge of one glove as you glanced over your shoulder at the door. It was still closed, the faint outline of the frame visible in the dim light filtering in from the tiny crack beneath. You listened for a moment, your head tilted slightly, straining to catch any sound from the hallway beyond.

Nothing.

Satisfied, you turned back around, the gloves still in hand.

You weren’t stupid. You knew the risks. If anyone caught you walking around at 2:01 a.m., especially a certain General whose eyes had been on you more than you liked during dinner, there would be questions. And not the kind you could easily talk your way out of.

That’s why you had a contingency.

Sliding the gloves down the front of your pants, you adjusted them until they were snug against your waistband. If someone searched you, they’d be hidden well enough that no immediate questions would arise. And if someone asked what you were doing wandering the halls at this hour? Well, you’d drunk enough water at dinner to make your excuse believable.

Still, you knew it wouldn’t be that simple. Rick Flag wasn’t an idiot, and if he—or anyone else—caught you skulking around the halls, chances were they’d follow you. Stand outside the bathroom door, maybe even listen in.

You smirked faintly to yourself in the dark. That’s why you planned ahead.

You were good at this—watching people, reading them, anticipating their moves before they made them. It was second nature to you. And tonight, between charming the President and actively avoiding Rick’s sharp gaze, you’d been listening.

Bride had spent most of the evening talking to the head of security. You hadn’t just noticed—it was impossible not to. The way her voice dropped, the way the man leaned in closer, hanging on her every word. And while their conversation was too low to catch outright, you didn’t need to hear the words to pick up on the details.

Bride’s target was clear, and so was yours.

You knew where the head of security’s quarters were. You knew he carried a simple handgun, likely a standard issue. And based on his height, weight, and the way he’d shifted uncomfortably in his chair during dinner, the way he piled food into his mouth like a starving man. That meant he was most likely a deep, heavy sleeper as well. Good for you, not so much for him.

You didn’t bother slipping on shoes. Bare feet were quieter, and the less noise you made, the better. With one last glance at your door, you slipped out into the hall, closing it carefully behind you.

The soft click of the latch echoed faintly in the stillness, but nothing stirred. Across the hall, Rick’s door loomed like a quiet threat.

Earlier, when you’d joked about the proximity of your rooms—“Oh boss, any closer and we’d be sharing. I really wouldn’t mind. I’d even let you have the side near the door.”—you’d earned yourself one of his signature scolding looks. The kind that made you grin even wider just to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. He’d slammed the door in your face after that, muttering something under his breath you hadn’t quite caught, but you didn’t need to.

And now, as you stood there in the dark, you let yourself glance at his door again. For just a moment.

Focus.

The hallway stretched out before you, long and quiet, the faintest sliver of moonlight spilling through a window at the far end. The house was eerily silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t just empty but expectant, like it was holding its breath.

You padded forward, each step slow and deliberate, your bare feet brushing against the cool hardwood floor. The faint sound of alarms from outside drifted in through the walls, muffled but persistent. Probably perimeter alarms, meant to ward off intruders.

You passed the first door on your left—a guest bathroom, if you remembered correctly. The second door on the right was a linen closet. Your mind cataloged them automatically, your thoughts sharp and focused as you moved deeper into the house.

Every step felt heavier than it should have, the faint creak of the floorboards beneath your weight setting your nerves on edge. You paused at one point, holding your breath as you listened for any signs of movement.

Nothing.

The head of security’s quarters were further down, near the back of the house. You remembered the layout Bride had mentioned in passing, her voice light and casual as though she wasn’t feeding you valuable intel.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, the shadows growing longer with each step. A grandfather clock stood against the wall, its ornate frame barely visible in the dim light. You counted the seconds as you passed it, the faint tick-tock echoing in your ears.

The door to the head of security’s room was just ahead, slightly ajar. Your pulse quickened as you approached, your breath steady but shallow.

This was the moment that mattered.

You stopped just outside the door, your hand brushing against the frame as you angled your head to listen. The faint, steady rhythm of his breathing filled the room, deep and even, like a metronome keeping perfect time. He was asleep, just as you’d hoped.

Now came the hard part.

With one last glance down the empty hallway behind you, you slipped inside, the door easing shut behind you with a soft click. The sound felt deafening in the stillness, but no footsteps came running. No shouts.

The room smelled stale, a mix of old cigarette smoke and cheap cologne that clung to the air like a bad memory. It was dark, save for the faint sliver of moonlight spilling through the heavy curtains, casting a soft gleam across the bed.

And there he was.

Bang smack in the middle of the mattress, sprawled out like he didn’t have a care in the world. The head of security. The President’s most trusted enforcer. A man who was supposed to be the last line of defense.

God, you almost felt embarrassed for him.

Your eyes flicked to the bedside table, and there it was: his handgun. Exactly where you thought it would be, sitting neatly next to a half-empty glass of whiskey and a crumpled pack of Marlboros.

This was too easy.

Where was the challenge? The thrill? The danger? You’d expected more from the President’s top man. Hell, you’d hoped for more. But this? It felt like a bad joke.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped forward, your bare feet making no sound against the worn carpet. The faint creak of the floor beneath you made you pause, but the man didn’t stir. His snores continued, deep and rhythmic.

You reached the bedside table, bending slightly to pull the gloves from your waistband. You slipped them on, the rubber snapping softly against your wrists as you flexed your fingers.

The gun was cold and heavy in your hand when you picked it up, the weight of it familiar and comforting. You thumbed the safety off with practiced ease, the faint click sending a small rush of adrenaline through your veins.

You turned, pointing the gun directly at him, aiming low.

Right at his junk.

The grin that spread across your face was involuntary, sharp and wicked.

You let out a sharp whistle, the sound slicing through the silence like a knife.

He jolted awake instantly, his body twitching as his hand instinctively reached for the weapon that was no longer there. His fingers groped at the empty space on the bedside table, his breaths quick and shallow as panic set in.

“Looking for this?” you asked, your voice low and amused as you waggled the gun slightly.

His wide eyes snapped to you, the whites stark against the darkness of the room. He froze, his hand still hovering in the air.

“G-General Flag,” he stammered, his voice thick with fear and sleep.

You scoffed, your grin growing wider. “Oh, please. Do I look like Flag to you? I’m not here to kill you.”

You tilted your head, your gaze flicking deliberately down to the gun in your hand. “Although I do have this pointed at your most valuable assets, so maybe don’t test me, huh?”

The man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands slowly rose in surrender, his breathing uneven as his eyes darted between your face and the gun.

“Good,” you said, nodding approvingly. “Now, here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re gonna have a little chat, and then you’re gonna take a nice, quiet walk with me. Sound good?”

“I-I don’t—” he started, his voice trembling.

You cut him off with a roll of your eyes, shifting the gun slightly to remind him who was in control. “No, no, no. We’re not doing this. You’re gonna skip over the part where you pretend not to know what I’m talking about. You’re going to show me where the president’s office is. Not the one we all know, but his other one. His personal one. You know, the one with all the President’s dirty little secrets.” You grinned down at him, your tone dripping with mock sweetness. “You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

The man’s face paled, his eyes darting toward the door as though he was weighing his chances of escape. You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, the panic fighting with the instinct to survive.

He shook his head quickly, his hands still raised. “Someone will see you,” he said, his voice shaking.

You laughed, the sound soft but sharp, and leaned forward slightly, lowering yourself to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress shifted under your weight, and the man flinched.

“And that’s where you come in, baby,” you said, your grin widening. “You’re gonna be my escort. After all, I can’t walk around this place on my own without raising a few eyebrows, can I? General’s orders, remember?”

His mouth opened, then closed, his breath coming in short bursts as he stared at you.

“C’mon,” you said, tilting your head at him. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You walk me to the computer, I get what I need, and we both pretend this never happened. You don’t lose your job and probably get executed by the man you’re meant to be protecting; and I don’t get pushed out of a plane on the way home because my boss got pissed off. Easy, right?”

The man hesitated, his hands lowering slightly. “I... I can’t...”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Buddy, let me make this really simple for you,” you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “either you take me to the computer, or I wake this entire house up with a bang. And trust me, you don’t want them to find us like this, do you?”

His eyes widened further, and you saw the exact moment he broke. His shoulders slumped, his hands dropping to his lap in defeat, “fine,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Atta boy,” you said, patting his shoulder with exaggerated cheerfulness. “Now, get up. We’ve got work to do.”

He moved slowly, his legs swinging over the side of the bed as he stood. You kept the gun trained on him, your grin never faltering.

“Lead the way,” you said, gesturing toward the door with the barrel of the gun.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, but your face remained calm, collected. This was what you were good at—control, manipulation, pressure. And as you followed the trembling man out of the room, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction.

The hard part was just beginning.

The man shuffled toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate, every step radiating reluctance. You kept the gun steady, tracking his every move, but your mind was already racing ahead. You’d visualized this moment over and over again before stepping out of your room—every scenario, every possible variable. But now, standing here with him in front of you, your adrenaline was humming at a frequency that neither planning nor practice could replicate.

The room was suffocatingly quiet except for the faint creak of the floorboards beneath the man’s weight. You could hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, as he reached the door and hesitated, his hand hovering near the doorknob.

“Don’t even think about it,” you whispered sharply, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

He froze, his shoulders stiff. “I… I wasn’t,” he mumbled, but the quiver in his voice gave him away.

“Sure you weren’t,” you replied dryly, gesturing with the gun. “Open the door. Slowly. And remember, I’m still aiming at your favorite bits, so don’t get any ideas.”

The knob turned with an agonizing slowness, the faint click of the latch releasing sounding far louder than it should have. He eased the door open, just a crack, before glancing back at you, his eyes wide and pleading.

You raised an eyebrow. “What? You waiting for an engraved invitation? Move.”

He stepped into the hallway, his footsteps hesitant, his shoulders hunched like a man walking to his own execution. You followed close behind, your bare feet soundless against the cool floor. The hallway was just as dark and quiet as you’d left it, the faint hum of the alarms outside still the only sound breaking the stillness.

The tension between the two of you was palpable, a thread pulled so tight you half-expected it to snap at any moment. Your senses were on high alert, your ears straining for the faintest sound of movement, your eyes darting to every shadow, every corner.

The man turned his head slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

You didn’t answer immediately, letting the question hang in the air as you scanned the hallway ahead.

“Because I can,” you said finally, your tone light but laced with a dangerous edge. “And because your boss has secrets I’m very interested in.”

He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing visibly in the dim light.

You nudged him lightly with the barrel of the gun. “Eyes forward. You’re not really in a position to ask questions.”

The two of you moved down the hallway, the quiet broken only by the faint creak of the floor beneath his weight. Your heart was pounding in your chest, the rush of adrenaline sharp and electric, but your expression remained calm, collected. You couldn’t afford to let him see any cracks in your composure.

You passed Rick’s door, and for a fleeting moment, your heart stuttered.

If he were to open that door right now…

The thought twisted in your gut, but you forced yourself to keep moving. Focus. The job wasn’t done yet.

“Left,” the man muttered as you reached the end of the hallway, his voice barely audible.

You gestured for him to keep moving, your grip on the gun firm. He led you down a narrow stairwell, the steps creaking under his weight. The air grew cooler as you descended, the faint scent of damp stone mingling with the ever-present cigarette smoke that clung to him like a second skin.

The office was almost pitch black, the only light coming from a faint, flickering glow at the far end of the room. You could hear the faint hum of machinery, the steady thrum of servers running somewhere nearby.

“Stop,” you ordered, your voice low but firm.

He froze at the base of the stairs, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.

“Where is it?” you asked, your tone sharp.

He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I… I don’t know what you’re—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” you snapped, stepping closer, the barrel of the gun pressing lightly against his lower back. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The mainframe. The server. Where all the files are kept. Now.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might try to lie again. But then he nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“It’s… it’s through there,” he muttered, nodding toward the faint glow at the end of the room.

“Good boy,” you said, your voice dripping with mock approval. “Now, keep moving.”

He shuffled forward, his steps hesitant and uneven. You followed closely, your eyes scanning the room for any signs of movement. The office was quiet, eerily so, the hum of the servers the only sound breaking the silence.

As you approached the glow, the faint outline of a door came into view. It was reinforced steel, with a keypad mounted on the wall beside it. The man stopped abruptly, his body stiff.

“It’s locked,” he said, his voice shaking. “I can’t—”

You pressed the gun harder into his back, cutting him off, “I’m not fucking stupid. You’re going to open it, because I know you can” you said coldly. “Or I’m going to start getting very creative with where I aim this thing.”

He nodded quickly, his hands fumbling as he reached for the keypad. His fingers shook as he punched in a series of numbers, the faint beep of each button echoing in the quiet room.

The lock clicked, and the door eased open, revealing a small room filled with blinking lights and glowing screens. The hum of the servers grew louder, a steady, almost soothing rhythm.

You stepped inside, your eyes scanning the room. Rows of monitors displayed various feeds—security cameras, floor plans, encrypted files.

“Sit,” you ordered, gesturing to the chair in front of the main terminal.

The man hesitated, glancing back at you.

“I said sit,” you repeated, your voice icy.

He obeyed, lowering himself into the chair with a shaky breath.

“Now,” you said, stepping closer, the gun still trained on him. “Let’s see what your boss has been hiding.”

The man sat frozen in the chair, his back stiff, his hands hovering over the keyboard like they didn’t belong to him. The glow of the monitors bathed his face in harsh light, highlighting the sweat beading on his forehead. You leaned against the desk, the gun still steady in your hand, your lips curling into a faint smirk.

“Relax,” you said dryly, tilting your head. “You look like I asked you to defuse a bomb. It’s just a computer. Even you can handle this, right?”

He swallowed hard but didn’t move. His hands twitched slightly, his fingers curling and uncurling like he was trying to psych himself up.

“Any day now,” you said, your voice light but sharp. “I mean, I don’t have anywhere to be, but you? You’re one wrong move away from singing soprano.” You gave the gun a little wave to emphasize your point, aiming it lower for good measure.

That got him moving.

His hands darted to the keyboard, his fingers clumsy but quick as he logged in. You watched over his shoulder, your eyes flicking across the screens as one by one, the security layers fell away.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you teased, leaning in slightly. “Now, let’s get to the good stuff. I want the dirt. The juicy secrets. You know, the kind of things that make world leaders sweat through their suits. Where’s the President’s private stash?”

The man hesitated, his fingers pausing mid-typing. He glanced up at one of the monitors, then back at you, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, his voice barely audible.

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk widening. “Oh, buddy, come on. Don’t insult me. You’ve already unlocked the door. You’re halfway to being my favorite hostage of the week. Don’t ruin it now.”

“I swear,” he started, but you cut him off with a sigh, stepping around the chair so you were directly in front of him.

“Look,” you said, crouching slightly so you were at eye level. The gun dangled loosely in your hand, but the threat in your gaze was unmistakable. “I get it. You’re scared. You think if you help me, the President’s gonna put your head on a spike or whatever it is he does to people who disappoint him. And you’re probably right.”

His eyes widened, and you shrugged, the smirk never leaving your face.

“But here’s the thing,” you continued, your tone dropping to something colder. “Right now, the only person you need to worry about disappointing is me. And trust me, I can make your life a hell of a lot worse than the President ever could. So why don’t you save us both some time and tell me what I want to know?”

The man’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath coming in shallow pants as he stared at you. The silence stretched for a moment, heavy and suffocating, before he finally nodded.

“There’s… there’s an encrypted folder,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “On the central drive. It’s where the classified files are kept. But it’s triple-locked. Even I don’t have the access codes.”

You straightened up, your smirk turning into a grin. “Triple-locked? Ooh, fancy. Guess the President does have a few brain cells after all.”

You gestured toward the keyboard with the gun. “Alright, let’s see this folder. Bring it up.”

The man hesitated again, but a pointed look from you sent his fingers flying across the keyboard. Within moments, a new window appeared on the central monitor, a sleek black interface with a single blinking cursor.

“There,” he said, his voice trembling. “That’s it. But like I said, I can’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, you can’t access it, blah blah,” you interrupted, waving him off. “Don’t worry. I didn’t come all this way to let a few pesky access codes stop me.”

You reached into your waistband with your free hand, pulling out a small USB stick. You twirled it between your fingers like a magician showing off a trick before leaning over and plugging it into the terminal.

“See, the thing about people like your boss is they think they’re untouchable,” you said conversationally, your eyes on the monitor as the USB drive’s program began to run. “They build all these walls and locks and security systems, thinking it makes them safe. But all it takes is one person—just one—with the right tools and a questionable moral compass, and poof.” You snapped your fingers for effect. “Everything comes crashing down.”

The man watched in stunned silence as the program worked its magic, bypassing the first layer of encryption in seconds.

“You’re insane,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

You grinned at him. “Probably. But hey, insane gets results.”

The second lock fell, and the tension in the room grew thicker. You could feel the man’s fear radiating off him like heat, but you ignored it, your focus entirely on the monitor.

Finally, the third lock broke, and the folder opened, revealing a list of files with names that practically screamed classified.

“Bingo,” you murmured, your grin widening.

The man shifted nervously in his chair, his eyes darting to the door. “You… you can’t take those. If anyone finds out—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, cutting him off as you began transferring the files to the USB. “No one’s gonna find out. Unless, of course, you decide to grow a spine and tell someone. But we both know you’re not that stupid, right?”

He didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as he stared at the screen.

“Good talk,” you said, patting his shoulder lightly.

As the files finished transferring, you leaned back against the desk, twirling the USB stick between your fingers once more.

“Well,” you said, your tone light and almost cheerful. “This has been fun. But I think it’s time for me to go before your boss realizes his top security guy folded like a bad poker hand.”

The man glared at you, but the fear in his eyes dulled the effect.

You stepped behind him, the gun still in hand. “Now, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna sit here for the next ten minutes and pretend this never happened. You don’t move, you don’t make a sound, and you definitely don’t think about following me. Got it?”

He nodded stiffly, his hands gripping the edges of the chair.

“Good boy,” you said with a smirk, tapping the back of his head lightly with the barrel of the gun. “Remember, I’m watching. See you at breakfast baby.”

With that, you turned and slipped out of the room, the USB drive secure in your pocket and your grin firmly in place. The hard part was over.

Now came the fun part.

The hallway swallowed you whole as you stepped back into its dark, silent embrace. The door to the hidden office clicked softly behind you, a sound so faint it was almost lost in the low hum of the house’s systems. But to you, it rang loud in your ears. For a moment, you stood still, letting the adrenaline settle just enough to keep your hands steady, the USB drive a reassuring weight in your pocket.

The hard part was over—or so you told yourself. But if there was one thing you’d learned in this line of work, it was never to celebrate too soon. The real danger wasn’t in getting the files—it was in getting out with them.

You started moving, your bare feet whispering against the cold floor. Every step was calculated, deliberate. You didn’t need to look back to know the head of security was still sitting in that chair, too terrified to do anything but obey. You’d read him right—soft under the bluster, more loyal to his own survival than to the President.

Still, you didn’t trust the silence. It felt heavier now, like the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for you to slip up.

As you passed the staircase, you paused for a moment, your head tilting slightly as you listened. The faintest creak echoed from somewhere above. It could’ve been the old wood settling, or it could’ve been someone moving. Either way, you weren’t about to take any chances.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your heartbeat to steady itself. Stay sharp. Stay quiet.

You continued down the hallway, retracing your steps toward your room. Each shadow seemed deeper now, each corner a potential ambush. The alarms outside were still humming faintly, their rhythm steady and unchanging. No one knew yet.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching.

Rick.

You could almost feel his presence, like a ghost at your back. His room wasn’t far—just a few steps from yours. You’d passed it once already tonight, and now the thought of it sent a ripple of unease through you.

Rick Flag wasn’t like the head of security. He wasn’t soft. He wouldn’t freeze or stammer or fold under pressure. If he caught you now, there’d be no bluffing your way out of it. He’d see right through you—he always did, or at least he came damn close.

The image of him standing in the hallway flashed in your mind, arms crossed, his eyes narrowed in that way that made you feel like he was peeling back your skin and looking straight at your bones.

You swallowed hard, shaking the thought away.

Focus.

You reached your door and paused, your hand hovering over the knob. For a moment, you just stood there, listening. The hallway was still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

Your hand tightened on the knob, and you turned it slowly, easing the door open just enough to slip inside. The room was exactly as you’d left it—dark, unassuming, the faint scent of your soap lingering in the air.

You shut the door behind you, the soft click of the latch sending a small pang of relief through your chest. You leaned against it for a moment, your head tilting back, eyes closing briefly as you let out a slow breath.

The USB drive felt heavier now, its presence a constant reminder of what you’d just done. You reached into your pocket and pulled it out, holding it up to the faint light filtering through the curtains.

Such a small thing. So unassuming. And yet, it held enough information to burn the President’s empire to the ground. You smiled faintly, the thrill of victory creeping back in.

But the moment didn’t last.

A faint knock on the door shattered the stillness, and your stomach dropped.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a second, you thought you’d imagined it. But then it came again—soft, deliberate, and far too polite to be anything but intentional, “fuck,” you breathed.

It had to be him.

You slipped the USB drive into the lining of your pillowcase, your movements quick but precise, and straightened up. Your mind raced as you tried to come up with an excuse, an explanation, anything that would get you out of this.

The knock came a third time, sharper now.

“Open up,” his voice called, low and firm.

There it was. That tone. The one that left no room for argument.

You swallowed hard and crossed the room, your hand hesitating on the doorknob for just a second before you pulled it open.

Rick stood on the other side, his expression unreadable. His arms were crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes scanning you like he was cataloging every detail—your bare feet, the very faint flush of your cheeks.

“What, Flag?” you said, leaning lazily against the doorframe, forcing a smirk onto your face. “Couldn’t sleep without saying goodnight? Or are you going to finally take me up on that offer of sleeping in here with me?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening. “Funny. I was about to ask why you’re awake at this hour.”

You shrugged, keeping your posture relaxed even as your pulse raced. “Bathroom break. You know me—tiny bladder loads of water at dinner.”

Rick didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at you, his gaze heavy, unrelenting. “you’ve been busy,” he said finally, his tone low and even.

Your stomach tightened, but you kept the smirk in place. “Not sure what you’re talking about, boss.”

He stepped closer, his presence filling the doorway, “Your cheeks are flushed, you’re breathing is laboured.” Mother fucker. Your breathing was barely laboured and you know for a fucking fact that your cheeks weren’t even flushed. This fucking asshole was trying to get you to talk.

You tilted your head, your smirk widening. “What can I say? The space between my room and the bathroom is long and I really don’t like walking around in the dark, so I did that weird long step half run thing. Would you also like to know how long I was in there for or is that where we’re drawing a line?”

Rick didn’t laugh. Of course he didn’t. Instead, he took another step forward, his eyes narrowing further. “You want to know what I think?”

“Not really,” you shot back, your voice light and teasing.

“I think you’re hiding something,” he said, his voice dropping to a near growl.

The tension between you was suffocating, thick and alive, like static electricity building in a storm cloud just before the lightning strikes. The air felt heavy, charged, like your next breath might ignite it. His eyes bore into yours, sharp and unrelenting, the kind of gaze that stripped away pretense and left nowhere to hide.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, each second dragging like hours.

Your heart was pounding, too loud in your ears, but you forced it down. Forced the adrenaline into a tight, controlled coil, and did what you did best—deflected.

You laughed, light and mocking, shaking your head as if this was all some big joke. “Boss, if you wanted to spend the night together, all you had to do was ask.” You leaned casually against the doorframe, your grin widening. “I do love my men older, after all. And hey, I still remember how much you like to fuck on the job.”

His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching as his eyes narrowed further. You could tell you’d hit a nerve, but you weren’t done yet.

“Bride, wasn’t it?” you added, your grin sharpening, cutting. “Am I close? Or was it someone else this time? You do have those quiet, brooding vibes—bet it works wonders in a broom closet.”

His expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted, a subtle drop in temperature that made your skin prickle. “I’d be real careful right now,” he said quietly, his voice low and dangerous, the calm before the storm.

Your grin faltered for half a second—barely long enough for him to notice, but long enough for you to feel the weight of his words settle in your chest.

“You can play this game all you want,” he continued, stepping just a fraction closer. His voice was steady, unnervingly so, and it sent a chill down your spine. “But I’ll figure out what you’re up to. And when I do…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to.

The unspoken threat hung between you, heavy and suffocating, its edges razor-sharp.

You held his gaze, refusing to flinch, even as your pulse thundered in your ears. Every muscle in your body was coiled tight, ready to spring, but you forced yourself to stay still, to hold your ground.

“Goodnight, Rick,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you.

Your tone was light, dismissive, like he was just another obstacle to step over. But the way his eyes darkened told you he wasn’t buying it.

For a moment, you thought he might push further—step closer, say something, demand answers. But then he nodded once, sharply, like he was filing this moment away for later. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on you for a second longer before he turned and walked away.

The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall, but you didn’t move. Not yet.

When you finally shut the door, the click of the latch felt deafening. You leaned back against the wood, your breath coming faster now, each inhale sharp and shallow.

Your heart was racing, your chest tight with the effort of keeping it all together. The confidence you’d worn like armor just moments ago was gone, stripped away the second the door closed.

Rick Flag was dangerous. Not because he was smarter than you (though he was sharp, you’d give him that), but because he knew you. Or at least, he thought he did. He saw through the surface-level bullshit, saw the cracks you tried to hide, and that made him unpredictable.

You pressed your palms against the door, grounding yourself as you tried to slow your breathing.

You’d gotten away with it—for now. But the way he’d looked at you, the way he’d spoken, made it clear that he wasn’t letting this go.

The hard part wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

You glanced toward the pillow where you’d hidden the USB drive, its presence a quiet reminder of everything that was at stake. You’d gotten what you came for, but the real danger wasn’t behind you. It was ahead.

Rick wasn’t going to stop. You knew that. And if you weren’t careful, he’d unravel everything.

You pushed off the door, your hands still trembling slightly as you crossed the room. The shadows felt deeper now, the silence heavier, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that every move you made was being watched.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, your elbows on your knees, your head in your hands. “I swear to god Waller better give me something good for this,” You mumbled as you ran your hands through your hair and looked at the door. <><><><><><><><><> Rick sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tight in front of him. His knuckles were white, his grip firm, like he was holding himself together by force. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the thin curtains. The silence pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, but his mind was louder than ever.

He knew you were hiding something. He’d known it before tonight—hell, he’d known it from the moment Waller had dropped you into his lap with some bullshit excuse about ‘consulting.’ Because Waller never planted anyone unless they were doing something for her specifically. But tonight confirmed it.

Rick’s jaw tightened as the pieces fell into place, one by one, like a puzzle he didn’t want to complete but couldn’t ignore.

The way you were with the President over dinner, all smooth charm and sharp wit, weaving your words like a damn artist. You didn’t miss a beat, didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. You had the table eating out of your hand, even the ones who didn’t trust you. Especially the ones who didn’t trust you.

And now? Now you’d been sneaking back to your room at almost 3 a.m., your movements just a little too careful, your expression just a little too composed. Rick had the subtle rise and fall of your chest like you’d been running—or, more likely, doing something you weren’t supposed to.

He didn’t want to think it, didn’t want his mind to go there, but it did anyway.

What the hell were you doing?

Because there was no other explanation. It wasn’t like you’d suddenly developed a fondness for late-night jogs or insomnia-induced pacing. And you sure as hell weren’t stupid enough to be doing anything reckless for no reason.

No, this was deliberate.

Rick let out a slow, controlled breath, his hands unclasping just long enough to rake a palm over his face. His gut was screaming at him, that familiar pull in his chest that had saved his life more times than he could count. Something was off, and his gut was rarely wrong.

He couldn’t ignore the signs anymore—the way you’d been acting, the way you seemed to slip in and out of situations like a shadow, always leaving just enough doubt to keep anyone from calling you out directly.

And then there was your skillset.

Rick’s lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw flexing as he thought about your file. It was burned into his mind, every word, every detail. You weren’t just good at what you did, you were the best. A spy, an infiltrator, an assassin—you were built to dismantle, to steal, to kill. Waller hadn’t just handed him a consultant. She’d handed him a damn weapon, and one that didn’t come with an instruction manual or a safety switch.

And yet…

It wasn’t just your skillset that had him on edge. It was you.

The way you carried yourself, the way you always seemed to know exactly where the line was and how to dance right up to it without crossing over. The way you could charm your way out of anything, or piss someone off just enough to throw them off their game.

And, of course, the way you managed to claw your way under his skin, digging in deep and rubbing his nerves raw every damn time you opened your mouth.

Rick leaned back slightly, his hands unclasping and falling to his thighs. His fingers drummed against the fabric of his sweatpants, his mind replaying the conversation you’d just had, each word sharper than the last.

It was always the comments with you. Always.

“Boss, if you wanted to spend the night together, all you had to do was ask.”

He could still hear the way your voice had lilted, playful and mocking, like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like you weren’t standing there at 3 a.m., caught red-handed in something you couldn’t explain.

“I do love my men older, and I still remember that you like to fuck on the job.”

His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You knew exactly what to say to get under his skin, and God, did you enjoy doing it.

And then you’d gone for the kill, your grin razor-sharp, your voice dripping with that signature mix of venom and charm: “It was Bride, wasn’t it? Am I close?”

Rick had felt his blood run hot, a flash of anger sparking in his chest before he’d shoved it down. He’d clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and stared you down, refusing to give you the satisfaction of a reaction.

But you’d known.

You’d always known.

Rick exhaled sharply, leaning forward again, his elbows resting on his knees. His hands clasped together once more, his fingers tightening as he tried to focus.

The worst part wasn’t the comments, though. The worst part was that you were hiding something, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it was going to bite them all in the ass.

You weren’t just some loose cannon. You were a guided missile, aimed at something—or someone—and Rick hated the fact that he didn’t know what your target was.

He stared at the floor, his mind racing.

He didn’t trust Walle, and that made this whole situation even worse. Because she had put you here, had used his sons trust in you to manipulate him into agreeing to it; but you weren’t here out of the kindness of your heart, you were here because you needed something, and Waller needed something. He didn’t give a fuck about what you needed, all he gave a shit about was that you were playing something off the books and he had no idea what.

Rick leaned back against the headboard of his bed, the faint creak of the old frame barely registering in his ears. His hands fell to his lap, fingers twitching slightly in a show of restrained frustration. The room was still dark, the faint glow of moonlight spilling across the floor, but it didn’t offer him any comfort. He let out another slow exhale, dragging his palms down his face like the motion might somehow wipe the thoughts from his mind. It didn’t.

His head was stuck on the way you’d looked at him when you said goodnight. Too calm. Too collected. Smirking like you’d already won some game he hadn’t agreed to play.

Rick hated games.

And you? You lived for them.

That grin on your face, sharp and mocking, had been the same one you always wore when you were baiting him—when you were pushing just enough to get a reaction, but not enough to cross a line. It was infuriating in its precision, the way you could make every word, every look, feel like a jab. Like you were testing the limits of how far you could go.

Rick clenched his jaw, the muscle in his cheek flexing as his mind raced. He couldn’t shake the image of you standing there in the dim hallway, all cocky confidence and thinly-veiled defiance. You’d practically dared him to call you out, and that was what had him grinding his teeth now. You knew exactly what you were doing, and you were too damn good at it.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, the word slipping out like a quiet promise. His voice was low and steady, but there was a sharp edge to it, a determination that cut through the stillness of the room. “You want to play? Fine.”

His jaw tightened further as he stared at the door, his eyes narrowing like he could see straight through it—straight to you, sitting on the other side. He could imagine it perfectly: you, lounging somewhere in your room, probably still wearing that same smug expression. Maybe you were already planning your next move, working out how to stay one step ahead of him.

He could practically feel it, that tension between you, the unspoken challenge that had been building ever since Waller had assigned you to his team.

“I’ll figure you out,” Rick said quietly, his voice a low rumble in the dark. “One way or another.”

Because he would. He always did.

His gut told him you were trouble, and Rick Flag trusted his gut.

But the real question wasn’t whether or not you were hiding something—he already knew you were. The question was what he was going to do about it.

Rick’s eyes flicked back to the door, his mind running through the possibilities.

He could toss your bag. Go through every inch of your belongings, tear apart whatever little sanctuary you’d built for yourself in that room until he found what he was looking for. He could force your hand, strip away the privacy you clung to so tightly and see what you did when your back was against the wall.

But you’d probably make a game out of that too.

You’d laugh it off, crack some joke about him being obsessed with you, and somehow twist the entire situation to make it seem like he was the one overstepping. That was the thing about you—you always found a way to turn the tables, to make everything seem like it was going exactly the way you wanted it to.

Rick’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his next option.

He could corner you. Force you to give up whatever it was you were doing. Call your bluff, act like he already knew, and see how you reacted. Maybe that would finally throw you off your game, make you slip and let something real show through that carefully constructed mask you wore.

But even with that idea, he hesitated.

You weren’t stupid. If he pushed too hard, too fast, you’d just dig in your heels. You’d double down, spin some story, and make it harder for him to get the truth.

Rick leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers lacing together tightly as he stared at the floor.

He could force you to stay by his side at all times. Make his bed on your floor, shadow your every move, and make it impossible for you to so much as breathe without him noticing.

But that wouldn’t work either.

You’d find a way to turn it into another game. Another opportunity to needle him, to push his buttons until he was too irritated to think straight. That was your specialty—keeping everyone around you off balance while you stayed perfectly composed.

Rick let out another frustrated sigh, his fingers tightening around each other. His eyes flicked back to the door again, his jaw tightening further. He didn’t need to see you to know you were trouble.

Because it wasn’t just your skills that had him on edge—it was you.

The way you carried yourself, the way you always seemed to have the upper hand, like you were two steps ahead of everyone else in the room. The way you managed to get under his skin with just a few words, digging in deep and leaving a mark that lingered long after you were gone. “Alright,” he muttered again, his voice firmer this time, like he was solidifying the thought in his mind.

He wasn’t going to let this go. Not until he figured you out. Not until he knew exactly what game you were playing—and how to beat you at it.

Because Rick Flag trusted his gut.

And his gut told him you weren’t just trouble.

You were a goddamn storm waiting to break.

#rick flag sr x reader #richard flag x reader #rick flag sr fanfiction #rick flag x reader #creature commandos #creature commandos fanfiction #general rick flag #richard flag #general flag #general flag x reader #Amanda Waller #dr phosphorus #Bride #Weasel #GI Robot #Reader Insert

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 1 day ago

Text

Chapter 4: Throw On Your Dress And Put On Your Doll Faces.

The hallway outside was long and dimly lit, the polished wood floors stretching out in both directions. The walls were lined with more paintings, most of them portraits of men in military uniforms, their stern faces frozen in time. You noticed the faint hum of air conditioning, the way it didn’t quite mask the distant sound of footsteps echoing somewhere deeper in the building.

The man in the suit walked briskly, his shoes clicking against the floor with military precision. He didn’t speak, didn’t look back to see if you were following. He clearly didn’t care.

Finally, he stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors near the end of the hall. He pushed them open with a practiced ease, revealing a smaller hallway with several identical doors lining the walls.

“These are your quarters,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of any warmth. “You’ll each have your own room. If you need anything, there’s a call button in each one. Dinner will be served at seven.”

And with that, he turned and walked away without waiting for a response.

You stepped forward, your boots muffled by the thick rug that stretched down the hallway. The doors were all the same—dark wood, simple brass handles, no signs or markings. You picked one at random, pushing it open and stepping inside.

The room was... adequate.

It wasn’t luxurious, but it wasn’t a prison cell either. The bed was large, covered with crisp white linens and a dark green blanket folded neatly at the foot. A single nightstand sat beside it, holding a brass lamp and a small clock. There was a desk against the far wall, its surface bare except for a notepad and pen.

The floors were wood, polished like the ones in the hallway, and a thick rug covered most of the space near the bed. The walls were painted a neutral beige, unoffensive but utterly forgettable. A single window sat on the far side of the room, its heavy curtains drawn shut, blocking out the late afternoon light.

The air smelled faintly of cedar, clean and sharp, but there was something else too—something faintly metallic, like the scent of a room that had been scrubbed too many times.

You set your duffle bag down on the bed, the weight of it sinking into the mattress. For a moment, you just stood there, staring at it, your mind a swirling mess of thoughts.

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

You moved to the window, pulling back the curtains just enough to peek outside. The view wasn’t much—just a manicured courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. A few guards were patrolling the perimeter, their movements methodical, their rifles slung across their chests.

You let the curtain fall back into place, stepping away from the window.

This was it.

This was where you’d be staying while you figured out how to carry out the mission. While you figured out how to kill the President of San Sabor in a way that wouldn’t get you caught, wouldn’t blow your cover, and wouldn’t interfere with the team’s objective.

You moved back to the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight as you sat down and unzipped the duffle bag. Inside, you found the usual—a few changes of clothes folded tightly to take up as little space as possible, weapons carefully packed for easy retrieval, and a few other essentials.

You pulled out the clothes first, setting them to the side in a neat pile. Then the weapons—a compact pistol, a knife, and a few other tools you’d smuggled in under the guise of ‘team preparedness.’ You handled each one with practiced efficiency, checking them briefly before setting them aside.

Once the bag was empty, you smoothed your fingers along the bottom, feeling for the hidden pocket you knew was there. The fabric stretched taut under your touch, your fingers searching for the faint ridge where the seam was just slightly uneven. It took a few moments—long enough for a faint flicker of anxiety to creep in—but finally, you found it.

The pocket was almost invisible, stitched into the lining of the bag with such precision that even a thorough search would’ve missed it. You slipped your fingers inside and felt the cool glass of the vial.

You shimmied it out carefully, holding it tight in your palm as you lifted it free.

The vial was small, no longer than your thumb. Inside was a fine white powder, clinging to the glass walls in soft, delicate streaks as you tilted it slightly. 3.8 grams. That’s what it weighed in at. Just enough to kill an adult. Or, depending on how it was introduced, enough to kill several adults.

Ricin.

The weapon of choice for someone who needed to be precise.

You stared at it for a moment, the weight of what it represented settling onto your chest like a stone. This little vial had cost you a lot—a favor owed here, a bribe paid there. It had been expensive, back when you were still running the streets. Back when you were the person people went to when they didn’t want to get their hands dirty.

You thought about those days The dark alleys, the whispered exchanges, the signatures of death you left in your wake. People didn’t just hire you for your skill—they hired you because you never got caught. Because you always got the job done, clean and quiet.

Those days had made you infamous. They’d also destroyed you.

You thought about the betrayal that had landed you in Belle Reve. About the people you’d trusted—the ones who’d sold you out to save themselves. About the years you’d spent behind those cold, gray walls, wondering if you’d ever see freedom again. The years spent on suicide missions trying to fight your way back to being able to breathe air without the chokehold Amanda Waller had on your neck.

And now you were here, holding the same vial you might’ve used back then, back in that same fucking chokehold. The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You stared at the ricin for a long moment. You had a way to kill the President now. A half-baked plan on how to kill him. And now, all you needed to do was lay the foundations.

Starting with dinner.

7 p.m. That was when you’d sit next to the President, feigning interest in whatever insipid thing he was talking about. You’d laugh at the right moments, ask the right questions, pretend to be engaged. You’d make him think you were charmed, that he had your attention.

And maybe, if you played it just right, you’d also figure out where to find the drive, the one with the files you needed. The real reason you were here.

You frowned, turning the vial over in your hands.

The timing had to be perfect. The execution flawless. You couldn’t afford a single mistake. And you had to do it all without drawing attention, without letting anyone on the team notice what you were doing.

This was going to be a fucking logistical nightmare.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts.

Your grip on the vial tightened instinctively as your head jerked up, your heart giving a single, sharp thud.

Don’t panic.

The mantra echoed in your mind as you forced yourself to take a slow, steadying breath. Don’t panic. Tell them to come in. Let them come in while you hide the ricin. As soon as you panic, as soon as your movements become fast, they’ll know.

“Yeah?” you called out, your voice calm, casual.

You slid the vial back into the hidden pocket, your movements measured and deliberate, as the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

You could feel his presence—the weight of it, heavy and unyielding, like the air had thickened around you.

“Can’t keep away, huh?” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a smirk. Then, just as quickly, you turned back to your bag, slowly repacking it.

Rick walked into the room, his boots thudding softly against the wood floor as he moved closer. “You were suspiciously quiet down there,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

You chuckled, the sound low and dry, as you zipped up one of the bag’s compartments. “Suspiciously, huh? Anyone would think you’re paying special attention to me, boss.”

Rick crossed his arms, his gaze sharp as he watched you. “Considering you never shut the hell up, I was expecting a few comments.” A grin tugged at your lips as you placed your weapons back into the bag, your movements slow and deliberate, the weight of his presence thickening the air between you. “Maybe I was just appreciating the artwork,” you said, your voice light, teasing, as though there wasn’t a vial of poison carefully tucked away in the lining of your bag, “I like to think I appreciate the finer things.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression tightening in that way it always did when he wasn’t sure if you were joking or about to cause trouble, “do you now?” he asked, his tone flat, but there was a flicker of something else there, something you couldn’t quite place.

You shrugged, leaning back against the side of the bed as you turned to look at him fully. “What can I say? I like to keep people guessing.”

His gaze lingered on you, longer than it should have. Not in the way that the President or any of the other lecherous men you’d dealt with did, but in a way that made you feel like he was peeling back layers you didn’t want him to see.

And for a brief second, a thin, unwelcome thread of doubt tugged at you.

Could he tell?

Could he sense the weight of the vial hidden in the bag, the weight of the mission that had nothing to do with the team’s objective? Did Rick Flag—stoic, sharp, maddeningly perceptive—know you were planning something?

Your chest tightened as his eyes stayed on you, the silence stretching a little too long, the air becoming just a little too heavy.

But then he looked away.

His expression shifted, hardening back into that familiar unreadable mask he always wore. Whatever flicker of curiosity or suspicion had been there was gone, buried under the professional exterior he never let slip.

“Don’t let yourself get distracted,” Rick said finally, his voice low and firm, carrying the kind of weight that made it clear he was speaking as your commanding officer, not as the man standing in your room. “We’re here for a job. We get it done; you go.”

You crossed your arms, leaning your weight onto one leg as you cocked your head at him. “And how long do you think we’ll be here for?”

Rick’s expression didn’t change. He was always so damn composed, so damn sure of himself. “I wanna say three days,” he replied simply. “Tomorrow we make the plan to hit the compound, leave here at nightfall, hopefully back by the next night.”

You nodded slowly, letting the words settle. Three days. That wasn’t a lot of time—barely any, really—but it was enough. Enough to lay the groundwork, enough to figure out how to execute your plan without anyone catching on.

“Seems like you have it all figured out,” you said finally, your voice calm, even, though your mind was already working, already calculating.

“I know how to do my job,” Rick countered, his tone sharp, almost defensive.

You gave him another smirk, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. “Well, don’t let me stop you from doing your job, General.”

The title rolled off your tongue with just enough edge to make it clear you were teasing, but not enough to cross a line.

Rick’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait, his arms still crossed over his chest, his stance steady and unyielding. His presence filled the room, a weight that pressed against you as if daring you to break eye contact. He looked down at you, his gaze sharp and unrelenting, like he was trying to dismantle you piece by piece. “Can I help you with anything else? Or are you just happy to keep looking at me like you’ve been waiting your whole life for me?” You grinned. Don’t let him see, don’t let him notice the way your blood was rushing in your ears, the way your pulse was thrumming. You had stared down bigger men without faltering but having him look at you like that? Like he was peeling back every secret, every layer you had ever tried to hide. It unnerved you in a way you hadn’t really felt before.

Rick didn’t reply right away. He just stood there, his gaze steady, unwavering, like he was waiting for you to crack, to let something slip, to give him even the smallest sign that you weren’t as unbothered as you pretended to be.

But you didn’t.

You held his gaze, your smirk returning just enough to keep up the facade.

Finally, Rick nodded once, a small, sharp motion, his posture relaxing just slightly. “Keep your head in the mission,” he said. “Sooner this is done the better.”

Then he turned, his movements deliberate, his stride purposeful as he walked toward the door. You watched him go, your arms still crossed, your expression still carefully neutral.

But just before he reached the door, he paused. His hand rested on the doorknob, his shoulders stiff as he glanced back at you.

“Dinner’s at seven,” he said, his tone neutral again, all business. “Try not to start any bullshit before then.”

You rolled your eyes, although the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth came more naturally this time. “When have I ever caused trouble, Flag?”

Rick didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gave you a look—a look that said everything without saying anything at all. A look that said you know exactly when.

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting the urge to comment, but he just shook his head and stepped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, the smirk dropped from your face, and the tension you hadn’t realized you were holding in your shoulders eased. The room felt bigger without him in it, the air easier to breathe. But that didn’t stop the weight in your chest from pulling you down like a stone.

You turned back to the bed, your fingers brushing over the zipper of your bag as your mind raced. Three days. That was all you had.

You glanced toward the clock on the nightstand, the soft tick of its hands suddenly louder in the quiet. 6:15.

Dinner was in forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes to pull yourself together. Forty-five minutes to push down the unease coiling in your stomach. Forty-five minutes to put on the mask you’d need to wear tonight—the mask of someone who wasn’t planning to kill the man hosting this dinner.

You ran a hand through your hair, letting out a slow, steadying breath as you stared down at the bag. Your fingers tightened on the zipper as you stood up, pulling it closed with a sharp motion. The sound broke the silence, snapping you back to the present.

This was your job. You’d done worse than this before. You’d gotten your hands dirtier, your conscience bloodier, and you’d survived. You’d always survived.

And no matter how much this mission made your stomach churn, no matter how much you hated yourself for the plan forming in your mind, you would survive this too.

Because that’s what you did.

With one last glance at the clock, you straightened your posture, smoothing your hands over your clothes as though it might help settle the storm brewing inside you.

Forty-five minutes.

You could do this.

Because no matter how much you hated it, no matter how hollow it made you feel, you had a job to do.

And you always got the job done.

<><><><><><><><> Rick realized, as the night progressed, that you were the worst type of wildcard. The kind that didn’t just disrupt plans but reshaped them without anyone noticing until it was too late. Every time he thought he had a grip on who you were—or at least who his gut told him you were—it slipped right through his fingers like sand.

He prided himself on being able to read people. It wasn’t just a skill; it was a necessity in his line of work. And you? You were an enigma wrapped in smirks and snark, your sharp edges hidden behind layers of charm and indifference. You weren’t just hard to figure out; you were deliberately hard to figure out. And it pissed him off more than he cared to admit.

Now, sitting across the room, quietly nursing a glass of water and pretending to listen to one of the President’s advisors drone on about supply lines, Rick found himself watching you.

You were seated next to the President himself, leaning just slightly toward him, close enough to feel intimate without crossing any lines. The lighting in the dining room was dim, the golden glow from the chandelier above casting soft shadows across the polished wood of the table and the rich fabric of your dress. You looked comfortable, natural even, as if you belonged in this world of wealth and power.

And the President? The man looked utterly captivated.

Rick’s jaw tightened slightly as he watched the exchange. You were smiling at something the President had said, a genuine smile—not the smirk you used as armor, but something softer, something that felt almost... real.

He hated how good you were at this.

The conversation, from what Rick could gather, was about books. Not just any books. The classics. Dickinson, Orwell, Brontë. The names floated through the air, punctuated by your laughter and the President’s enthusiastic replies. The older man seemed both delighted and surprised to be talking about something so far removed from politics and military strategy.

Rick couldn’t help but notice the way you carried the conversation. It was seamless, effortless. You weren’t just playing along; you were actively engaging, throwing out references and opinions with a wit that made the President chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

And it wasn’t your usual banter, the kind that made Rick grit his teeth and want to throttle you. No, this was different. The smirk wasn’t there, the sharp, teasing edge dulled into something gentler. You weren’t trying to provoke or deflect. You were... present.

Rick shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took another sip of water.

He didn’t like this.

Not the conversation. Not the laughter. Not the way the President was looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the world.

And certainly not the fact that Rick was learning more about you in this one conversation—a conversation that didn’t even involve him—than he had in the last twenty hours since you’d been thrown into this operation.

He watched as you leaned in closer to the President, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the table as you made some offhand comment that had the older man laughing again. There was a warmth to your tone, a sincerity that Rick didn’t trust but couldn’t quite dismiss either.

It wasn’t just the President who was hanging on your every word.

Rick hated that he was too.

His jaw clenched as he forced himself to look away, his gaze briefly sweeping the room before inevitably landing back on you. He told himself it was because he needed to keep an eye on you, to make sure you weren’t overstepping some invisible line that might jeopardize the mission.

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the full truth.

The truth was, Rick didn’t know what to make of you.

You were an asset, sure. A damn good one if anything he read on you was anything to go by. But you were also unpredictable, and that made you dangerous. Not just to the mission, but to the team. To him. Because every time Rick thought he had you figured out, you’d pull something like this. You’d sit there, talking about Brontë and Orwell like it was second nature, like you weren’t also capable of cutting a man down with nothing more than a knife and a smirk.

That duality of yours—it unsettled him.

It wasn’t just the sharp contrast between the intellectual and the deadly that got under his skin. It was the effortlessness of it. The way you moved between worlds, between personas, without a single misstep. One moment, you were cracking jokes with Bride-the hostility between you both earlier having eased somewhat-the next you were matching wits with the President of San Sabor, and neither interaction seemed to cost you a thing.

Rick hated it.

And yet, as much as it unsettled him, as much as it made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t care to examine, there was another feeling buried beneath the unease.

It intrigued him.

And he hated that even more.

He forced himself to focus on the other conversations happening around the table. There were plenty of them, after all. Bride was deep in conversation with the head of security, her tone low, her expression serious. Phosphorous, on the other hand, was leaning in close to the President’s daughter, his voice loud and animated as he gestured with his hands. The poor girl looked equal parts amused and horrified, though she was doing a decent job of hiding it behind a polite smile.

Weasel and G.I. were predictably quiet. Weasel had his head down, shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, while G.I. was nursing what looked like a glass of diesel fuel. Rick didn’t even want to know how he’d gotten his hands on that here.

It was all normal, all predictable, and yet none of it was enough to hold Rick’s attention.

His eyes flicked back to you, almost against his will.

You were still sitting next to the President, your posture relaxed but engaged, your head tilted slightly as though you were hanging on his every word. The older man was speaking now, his voice animated as he recounted some story from his younger years. Rick wasn’t listening closely enough to catch the details—it was something about a college debate team, or maybe his time in law school—but you were.

You were nodding at all the right moments, your smile never faltering, your responses perfectly timed. And yet, Rick noticed something most people wouldn’t have.

Your eyes.

There was something in them, something faint but undeniable. A flicker of... what?

Calculation.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and his jaw tightened as he leaned back slightly in his chair.

What the hell were you calculating?

Why did you need to calculate something?

Rick’s grip on the glass in his hand tightened as his mind started running through every possibility. You weren’t just sitting there charming the President for fun. You weren’t that kind of person. Everything you did—every word, every smile, every laugh—served a purpose.

So what was your purpose now?

Rick didn’t believe for a second that you were genuinely interested in the President’s stories or his thoughts on Orwell. No, this was something else. You were working an angle, laying groundwork for something.

And that something was starting to feel dangerously close to whatever the hell it was you weren’t telling him.

Rick’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to pick apart your performance. It was good—too good. If he hadn’t spent years working with con artists, informants, and undercover agents, he might’ve believed you were genuinely enjoying the conversation.

But Rick knew better.

He could see the subtle shifts in your body language, the way your smile tightened ever so slightly when the President leaned in too close, the way your laughter didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You were playing him.

And you were playing him well.

Rick forced himself to look away, his jaw clenching as he stared down at the table in front of him.

This wasn’t the first time he’d had doubts about you. Hell, he’d had doubts about you from the second you walked into this mission. But this? Watching you now, seeing the way you handled yourself with the President?

This was different.

This wasn’t just you being unpredictable or difficult. This was you actively keeping something from him.

Rick’s eyes flicked back to you again, despite his best efforts to focus elsewhere. The President was laughing now, his voice booming across the room as he gestured toward his glass. You laughed too, a light, melodic sound that made the older man’s grin widen.

Rick didn’t believe it for a second.

What bothered Rick most wasn’t just that you were lying—it was that you were doing it so damn well.

He’d seen liars before—politicians, criminals, even operatives trained to deceive under torture. Most people gave themselves away eventually, no matter how skilled. A slip of the tongue, a shift in body language, an inconsistency in their story. But you? You wore your lies like a second skin, natural and seamless, so perfectly woven into who you were that even Rick, with all his years of experience, couldn’t tell where the truth ended and the lie began.

For a moment, his mind wandered to his son. To those damn notes scribbled in the margins of his reports, the ones that always mentioned you with a strange mix of admiration and trust. His son had believed in you—believed in your abilities, sure, but more than that, he’d believed in you.

Rick hadn’t understood it then, and sitting here now, watching you laugh and banter with the President of San Sabor, he understood it even less.

Because the person sitting across the room, charming a man who wielded power like a weapon, wasn’t someone you trusted. The person sitting across the room, smiling so warmly and speaking so eloquently about classical music while calculation flickered behind those sharp eyes, wasn’t someone you let in.

That person was someone you watched.

Carefully.

He didn’t trust you.

Rick’s fingers tightened around his glass as he leaned back slightly in his chair, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral. Outwardly, he looked calm, composed, every bit the professional soldier. But inside, his thoughts churned like a storm.

You were an asset. That’s all you were supposed to be. A means to an end. A tool to help accomplish the mission. And yet, here you were, disrupting every plan, every assumption, every instinct he had.

Because you weren’t just good at what you did—you were too good. Too adaptable. Too controlled. Too deliberate.

Rick’s eyes narrowed as he watched you lean a little closer to the President, your laughter ringing out softly as the older man said something in return. The two of you looked comfortable, like old friends sharing a private joke. But Rick knew better. He saw the subtle shifts in your body language, the slight tilt of your head, the way your eyes flicked to the President’s hand as he gestured with his glass.

You weren’t just engaged in conversation. You were studying him. Every movement. Every word.

Calculating.

Rick didn’t know what your angle was, and that was what bothered him most. You weren’t the kind of person who did anything without a reason. Every smile, every laugh, every carefully timed nod had a purpose.

So what the hell were you after?

The President, oblivious to the layers beneath your charm, was eating it up. Rick could see it in every subtle detail—the way the older man’s shoulders relaxed, the way his posture leaned ever so slightly toward you, breaking the invisible barrier of personal space without even realizing it. His expression, once guarded and calculating when the dinner had begun, now opened like a book, his eyes crinkling with the kind of trust that someone in his position should never give so easily.

You had him. Hell, you’d had him from the moment you sat down.

Rick’s jaw tightened as he watched the way the President’s hand moved, gesturing with his glass, his words flowing freely now as if he were speaking to an old friend. It wasn’t just the man’s posture that gave him away—it was his tone. Gone was the clipped, precise cadence of a politician used to weighing every word. Now, there was warmth, even admiration, in his voice.

And you? You played it perfectly. It was a performance, Rick thought, and a damn good one.

But it wasn’t just the charm that got under his skin; it was the subtlety. Most people trying to manipulate someone like the President would overplay their hand—flatter him too much, laugh too hard, lean too close. But you? You did none of that. You didn’t need to.

You weren’t trying to convince the President that you liked him—you were convincing him that you respected him.

Rick could see it in the way you spoke, in the way you challenged the President’s opinions just enough to make him feel clever for defending them. You weren’t just pandering to him; you were engaging him. Making him feel valued.

And he was eating it up like a starving man at a feast.

He didn’t trust you.

Couldn’t trust you.

But that didn’t mean he could ignore you either.

His gaze stayed locked on you, his sharp eyes tracking every movement, every shift in your expression, every calculated pause in your words. You were good—too good. And that was what unsettled him the most.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, forcing his body to look relaxed even as his mind raced.

What were you doing? What was your angle?

Rick didn’t believe for a second that this was just about winning over the President for the sake of the mission. No, you were playing a deeper game, one he hadn’t figured out yet.

And that infuriated him.

Because no matter how good you were at lying, no matter how convincing your performance, Rick Flag had built a career on seeing through people like you. He’d spent years dealing with spies, informants, and double agents. He knew how to spot the cracks, how to recognize the signs that someone was hiding something.

At least, he thought he did.

But as he watched you now, he couldn’t find a single flaw in your act.

It wasn’t just the President who was falling for it. It was the room.

Bride, seated further down the table, glanced over at you once or twice, her usual sharp skepticism softened into something closer to curiosity. Even Phosphorous, who was too busy trying to charm the President’s daughter to notice much else, seemed to give you a nod of approval when he caught snippets of your conversation.

Rick hated it.

Hated how easily you fit into this environment, how natural you made it look.

He told himself it was because you were dangerous. That your ability to manipulate people so effortlessly made you a liability. And that was true—he didn’t trust you, not for a second. But there was something else, something deeper that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Maybe it was because, for all his instincts, for all his training, he couldn’t figure you out.

You were a mystery, one he hadn’t been able to solve.

And Rick didn’t like mysteries.

He liked facts, certainties, things he could rely on. People he could rely on. And you? You weren’t any of those things.

He didn’t know what you were up to. Not yet. But he’d figure it out. Because no matter how good you were at lying, no matter how well you played your part, Rick Flag wasn’t someone who got fooled easily.

At least, he hoped he wasn’t.

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